go in there and—” Curtis started to say.
“Be nice?” She tried to joke around, to lighten the heavy air in the van.
“Well, that’s a bit of a stretch.” Curtis grinned and Maggie didn’t take offense. She often wasn’t nice—it wasn’t part of the job.
“He was going to say shake your ass. Gomez has got to be lonely—”
“Shut up, Gordon.” Curtis yelled over his shoulder. “I was going to say just try and get the job.”
Maggie nodded, opened the door and blinked in the bright California sunshine.
She stepped down from the van and the door slammed shut behind her, somehow putting a special emphasis on how alone she was at the moment. Those guys in the van weren’t going to have to look Gomez in the eye and lie to him. This case hinged on her performance.
Fine by me, she thought. She did her best work alone. Always had. Always would.
She crossed the narrow residential street to the small hatchback that was her car or rather, Margaret Warren’s car.
Margaret Warren, a single mom who wanted nothing more than to raise her son away from the crime and congestion of Los Angeles.
Margaret Warren who had recently moved to Summerland and signed up with a local housekeeping service.
Margaret Warren who knew nothing about the seedy underbelly of the largest Los Angeles crime syndicate other than what she saw on the ten o’clock news.
And she had no idea that Caleb Gomez was the key to bringing it down. That was the bait in a complicated mousetrap.
That’s all. Margaret Warren, housekeeper.
Maggie checked the camera/microphone hidden in a tiny gold and rhinestone angel pin on her collar.
A housekeeper with a superstitious belief in guardian angels.
“You boys there?” she asked.
“Loud and clear.” Curtis’s voice was in her right ear thanks to an imperceptible receiver. The guys in the van would be able to hear everything she said and still give her instruction. She could do without the voices in her head, but Curtis was good and tweaked about this case, so she made the compromise. For today. If she got the job, there would be no camera and definitely no receiver. She couldn’t work this way.
“All right, just try and keep it down,” she told them.
Maggie drove up the hill toward Gomez’s house. He was nestled in the foothills, away from the more popular properties closer to the beach.
I bet he’s got a great view, she thought. She was able to catch glimpses of the wide blue ocean on her left between the flowering mountain laurel. On her right, wild sage and yellow wildflowers crawled up the mountain. She thought for a brief moment of her apartment and her view of Mr. Sayer’s garbage can.
The views of the middle of nowhere sure beat the views of city living.
The road ended in a cul-de-sac and Maggie pulled into the only driveway, between two large jasmine bushes that provided nearly impenetrable privacy.
His house was a one-story ranch with a typical stucco exterior. She faced a garage and a nondescript back door. There were no windows on this side of the house. Just cracked white stucco and red bougainvillea growing wild.
The lawn, what there was of it, was neglected and turning brown in the heat.
Reports indicated Gomez had a dog. A big one. The last agent who supplied surveillance information said the dog was a “freaking monster.”
Maggie looked around for the freaking monster but there was no sign. Hopefully, Gomez had the good sense to lock him up for their interview.
“What’s the holdup, Fitzgerald?” Curtis asked.
“Looking for that dog.”
“Forget the dog and let’s get the show on the road. Your appointment was for one, it’s now five after.”
Maggie rolled her eyes and got out of the car.
She took a deep breath, adjusted the pin on her lapel and rang the doorbell. From inside the house she heard the deep bellowing of a dog.
She could also hear a distinct slide and thump sound that got louder as it got closer to the door.
She closed her eyes and sent a quick promise heavenward.
I swear, Patrick, I’ll make good on everything that was done to you.
Maggie wasn’t sure how to react when Gomez opened the door. Margaret Warren would have no idea that the man whose house she had been sent to by the agency had been disfigured in a fire.
Maggie Fitzgerald, of course, had seen the Army medical reports.
The door swung open before she had a chance to decide her course of action.
“Margaret Warren?” A man, a big man wearing blue jeans and boots, stood in the shadows. She couldn’t even see the top half of his body thanks to the dark hallway and the very bright glare from the bay of windows twenty yards behind him.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” Gordon said in her ear. “We need a better picture than that.”
She blinked and shielded her eyes. “Yes, I’m—”
“Late.” Gomez took an awkward step back with the help of his metal cane and waited. Perhaps it was because she couldn’t see his face, but there was something about Gomez, an energy—her sister would call it an aura. Whatever it was it knocked her off her stride and she hesitated at the doorway.
“You can come in,” he finally said, his deep voice laced with humor. “I only eat people who are early.”
She smiled and stepped into the tiled foyer. The foyer was shadowed but the great room and the kitchen—visible from where she stood—were bathed in light from the floor-to-ceiling windows that faced the ocean.
“Mr. Estrada—” She called him by the name he’d registered with the agency. It was a fake and a bad one at that, but she could hardly tell him that.
“I’m telling you the guy is nuts. Who uses a fake name like Estrada?” Gordon said in her ear.
“Shut up, Gordon,” Curtis said.
Maggie bit back a smile.
Gomez laughed, apparently very entertained with his little inside alias joke. “You can call me Caleb. Caleb Gomez.”
So far so good, she thought. “It’s a lovely house.” She turned as if admiring the view and used the chance to case the place.
Phones. Two units. One in the kitchen beside the refrigerator. Another cordless beside the couch, facing the windows. The hallway, directly across from her and through the great room, led to three shut doors.
