Page 63 of The Grave Artist
Heron blew out a sigh that reflected her own relief.
“There’ll be some officers arriving soon,” she told Zebrowski. “They’ll be discreet. They won’t bother your guests. They won’t even be seen. And my associate and I will be there in a half hour.”
They disconnected.
Heron regarded her thoughtfully. “We could get them out now if you really wanted to. But you don’t, do you?”
She fired a look his way.
He continued, “You’re using them as bait.”
This was the third reason for keeping the operation on the down-low. True, she did not want to ruin their day if it turned out to be a false alarm, but mostly she wanted this son of a bitch.
Wanted him bad.
“Say we get them out,” she snapped. “And HK sees and gets even more pissed off that we’re fucking with his plans. He changes his plans, follows them home and stabs both of them to death for the hell of it.”
Silence between them. Finally he broke it with, “That’s the way you want to play it, Sanchez, okay. It gives me an idea.”
“Good.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“What’re you going to hack, Heron?”
“Nothing to do with that.”
“Then why wouldn’t I like it?”
“You’ll see.”
Chapter 30
Jake Heron hated suits. He didn’t own one.
As for ties? He believed he had one he’d been given as a present once but had no clue where it was. And, needless to say, bow ties did not even enter into his universe.
He had to look the part, however, so he forced himself to cinch the strip of black polyester tightly around his buttoned shirt collar.
He stood beside Sanchez in a small windowless room off the lobby of the Chinampas Grand Resort in Bel Air, one of the posher sections of posh LA.
“I’m only doing this for the investigation, Heron,” Carmen said. “I’m a walking stereotype.” She made a sweeping gesture up and down her body.
He took in her maid’s uniform and privately admitted that she’d gotten the worst of the deal.
He’d warned her that she wasn’t going to like his plan. “I do this all the time. Pen testing. Camo and disguises. Playing a role. You do the same thing, don’t you? Undercover?”
She made no reply.
During their drive from headquarters to Bel Air, Declan had forwarded them photos of the Chinampas Grand Resort—including the floating gardens in the huge lagoon. Only accessible by boat, thehoneymoon villa was every bit as isolated as Zebrowski described. With the water surrounded by a rainforest, the resort would have huge appeal for those wishing to get away to an exotic location without the time or money to jet to Mexico or Costa Rica.
They walked into the lobby proper and looked over the expansive lagoon shimmering in a slight breeze and reflecting colored lights into fractals.
“The chinampas in Xochimilco are the most famous,” Sanchez said. “Mexico City. There used to be thousands, precolonial portable farmland. Now they’ve kind of grown together. Still about two hundred. Tourist and eco thing these days. You can take gondolas around them.”
