Rosarito Beach (25 page)

Kay knew that Caesar Olivera had homes all over Mexico. She also knew his primary residence was in the state of Sinaloa and it was a virtual palace containing every luxury a man with Caesar's vast wealth might desire. His place in Rosarito Beach in the northern Baja wasn't quite so grand, but it was still a multimillion-dollar home. It was surrounded by a high wall and had expansive views of the Pacific Ocean. Roman had once told her that Caesar bought out—or forced out—three neighbors and razed their homes so he could have more space. Kay figured that Caesar had come to Rosarito Beach because it was only twenty miles from the U.S. border, and he was waiting there now for Tito.

“I want you to take me to his place in Rosarito so I can see his security for myself,” Kay said.

“What do you think you're going to do? Break in?”

“I don't know. Maybe I can find a way to make him invite me in.”

Roman cocked his head to the side and repeated, “Invite you in. Maybe there is a way.” Then Roman looked at her, his eyes moving up and down her body as if he was making some sort of appraisal. “Yes, there might be a way,” he said again. Then he smiled and added, “But not looking the way you do.”

Kay was still wearing the blazer, T-shirt, and jeans she wore when she visited Camp Pendleton—and she looked exactly like a woman who'd been up all night moving a corpse around. She didn't understand, however, what her appearance had to do with invading Caesar's home.

Roman took out his cell phone, and when someone answered, he said, “This is Colonel Quinterez. I need to speak to Claudio.” There was a brief pause, then Roman interrupted whoever was speaking and said, “I know what time it is. You find that pimp and tell him to call me. If I don't hear from him in the next fifteen minutes, I'm going to put him in a cell with two diseased queers and let them play with him for a couple of days.”

“Who's Claudio?” Kay asked.

“Just what you heard me say: He's a pimp. Now let me tell you a little secret about Caesar Olivera, although it's not much of a secret since so many people know. I suspect even his lovely wife knows.”

—

C
aesar Olivera,” Roman said, “has a strong sexual appetite.” Roman laughed. “In fact, he may be the horniest man in Mexico, present company not included, of course.”

“You mean he likes hookers,” Kay said, thinking of Claudio the pimp.

Roman made a Latin gesture with his right hand that Kay interpreted as
Not exactly.
“I'm not sure
hooker
is the appropriate term. Caesar has a, ah,
fantasy
he likes to reenact. Or maybe fantasy isn't even correct. It's more of—”

“Goddamnit, Roman, just spit it out! What does he do? Tie them up? Whip them? Does he like twosomes, threesomes, sex with ten-year-olds? Just tell me.”

Roman laughed. “No, no. You misunderstand. Caesar likes to have a
date
.
An
agreeable
encounter
. The women he sleeps with are sophisticated, intelligent, quite often university educated—”

“You mean young coeds?”

“Please, Kay, let me finish. He likes, as I was saying, beautiful, sophisticated women. These women are sometimes married; some are professionals, like lawyers or teachers. Most are high-class call girls who can pass themselves off as belonging to some other profession.

“At any rate, the woman is invited to his home, or wherever Caesar might be at the time—his yacht, a hotel, wherever. They are introduced, they have dinner together. They converse. Caesar insists on a woman who is capable of carrying on a conversation. After dinner, they go to bed and, from what I've been told, Caesar acts in a normal manner. No sadism, no kinkiness, just enthusiastic sex.

“After they're finished, the woman—never Caesar—says I'm so sorry but I have to leave now. I'm catching a plane to Paris in the morning, or I must fly to L.A. for an audition. In other words, the sort of excuse a desirable, sophisticated woman might give her lover if she's unable to spend the night. The woman leaves, money is sent to an account or mailed to her, and Caesar never sees her again. He likes variety.

“I suspect that most of these women go to bed with Caesar for the money, but some of them must think that Caesar might become so smitten that he'll leave his wife—which Caesar would never do.”

“But
why
does he do it?” Kay asked. “If he wants to get laid, why not just call an escort service, get his rocks off, and get back to work?”

“I think it's because Caesar wants to be thought of as a man who wants more than sex from a woman. He wants to do more than ‘get his rocks off,' as you put it. I think he wants a lover, even if it's only for the night. I also think he would consider visiting a brothel or calling out for a hooker beneath him. It would make him feel crass, shallow . . . ordinary. But I don't really know. I'm not a psychiatrist.”

“How often does he do this?”

Roman shrugged. “Not every night, and never when his wife or his daughters are with him. But frequently. And since his wife was with him for almost a month down in Sinaloa, I would say he's overdue.”

“And this Claudio person can tell you if he's ordered a girl for tonight?”

“Yes. But you need to understand something, Kay. You might be able to get into the house posing as one of Caesar's dates—you're certainly attractive enough—but you won't get in there with a weapon, and you won't get out if you do something to Caesar.”

“I'll figure it out,” Kay said. A plan was already beginning to form in her head.

Ten minutes later, Claudio called Roman back and Roman ordered him to come to the laundromat. When Claudio knocked on the office door, Roman gestured for Kay to go into a closet. She'd be able to see and hear if she left the closet door cracked open.

Claudio was a large, soft man who was dressed as fashionably as Roman. His head was shaved and he had no eyebrows; Kay thought he looked like one of Cleopatra's eunuchs. He was wearing a double-breasted black suit with pinstripes, a bright white shirt, a cravat, and ankle-high black boots. The first thing Roman said to him was: “Where did you get those boots, Claudio?”

“England,” Claudio said. “Would you like the shoemaker's name? But you should know that you have to go to London so he can personally measure your feet. It's the only way he works.”

“Yes, give me his name,” Roman said—which infuriated Kay, as Roman took the time to write down the name of the shoemaker.

“Sit down, Claudio,” Roman said, and Claudio took a seat on one of the wooden chairs while Roman remained standing, resting his butt against the desk. “I want to know if Caesar Olivera has ordered a woman for tonight.”

“Really, Colonel. Would you expect me to tell you if he did? My clients rely on my discretion.”

Roman took out his gun, a nine-millimeter Beretta.

“You're going to shoot me?” Claudio said, smiling, obviously thinking Roman was bluffing.

“No,” Roman said, and hit Claudio in the face with the Beretta, knocking him off the chair.

“Get up,” Roman said.

Claudio struggled to his feet, holding his hand against the left side of his face. Roman hadn't drawn blood, but Claudio was going to have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.

“Listen to me, pimp,” Roman said. “I won't shoot you but I will hurt you until you tell me what I need to know. So does Caesar have a woman coming tonight?”

“Yes,” Claudio said. “What's wrong with you? Why are you acting this way? I think you've broken my cheekbone.”

“Who is the woman?”

Claudio said she worked for an escort service in L.A., but before that she attended UCLA.

“What did she take in school?”

“Art history. Film. Drama classes. That sort of thing. She wants to be an actress. They all do.”

“Where is she now?”

“She's still in Los Angeles. She'll be flying down this evening.”

“What's her name?

“Sandra. Sandra Whitman. But really, Colonel, if this is another one of your schemes to get recording equipment into Mr. Olivera's house—”

“How old is the woman?”

“Twenty-nine. Or so she says. She's probably in her early thirties.”

“What have you told Caesar about her?”

Claudio's fingers gently probed the spot where Roman had hit him. “Do you have any ibuprofen? I'm really in a lot of pain.”

“Answer my question. What have you told Caesar about the woman?”

“Nothing. He doesn't want to know anything. He relies on my judgment to find him suitable companions, but he likes to learn about them himself. All he knows is that she's a beautiful young woman from Los Angeles.”

“Is she white?”

“Yes, but Caesar doesn't care about their ethnicity. He prefers, however, that they speak Spanish.”

“What time does he expect the woman?”

“Eight p.m. As usual.”

“Call the woman, Claudio, and tell her that Caesar has changed his mind about seeing her this evening.”

“I can't do that,” Claudio said.

Roman pointed the Beretta at Claudio's left foot. “Claudio, would you have to go back to London for another fitting if I shot off some of your toes?”

Claudio took out his cell phone and made the call.

“Thank you, Claudio,” Roman said, then he raised the Beretta and shot Claudio in the heart. Kay immediately came out of the closet. “Jesus, Roman! What did you do?”

“It was necessary, my dear. If I had let him leave here, he would have called Caesar and told him about this meeting. He was always more afraid of Caesar than he was of me.” Roman looked down at Claudio's boots and muttered, “I wish he didn't have such small feet.”

“Forget the damn boots, Roman. Goddamnit! Why didn't you ask him about Caesar's security before you killed him?”

“I didn't need to ask him. I already know everything there is to know about Caesar's security. Which is why I know that whatever you're planning is suicidal.”

—

R
oman went to one of the bedrooms down the hall from the office, pulled a blanket off a bed, and tossed the blanket over Claudio's corpse. He took out his cell phone and said to whoever answered, “I have an item to be disposed of. I'm at the laundromat.”

He hung up and said to Kay, “Now, when you arrive at Caesar's house . . . Please, Kay, sit down and quit pacing. Try to relax. So, as I was saying, when you arrive at Caesar's house, your handbag will be searched and you will be patted down by a woman.”

“Will they ask to see ID?”

“Yes, but that's not a problem. You have your passport and driver's license with you, don't you?”

“Yes. I needed ID to get across the border.”

“Give me your driver's license, and I'll have a California license made for you in the name of Sandra Whitman with a Los Angeles address. The ID check performed by Caesar's security people is perfunctory. They'll simply confirm that your ID matches the name Claudio has given them. Claudio has provided many, many women for Caesar over the years, and Caesar's security people trust him. They don't do background checks on the women. But has Caesar ever seen you?”

“I don't know. I'm assuming Mora researched me before he kidnapped Jessica, and maybe he showed my picture to Caesar. I was also on TV when Tito was arrested, but that was five months ago. The only one who's seen me up close recently is Mora.”

“Your boss told me they're going to put your picture on television this morning. I don't know how many people here watch American news stations, but—”

Kay didn't want to hear it. “I'll cut my hair shorter, I'll dye it. I'll wear glasses. That's the best I can do. If my hair color doesn't match the color on my ID, Caesar's security people won't think twice about that. Women dye their hair all the time.”

“I don't know if that will be good enough,” Roman said. “You're taking an incredible risk that someone won't recognize you. If Mora is at Rosarito Beach—”

“I don't have a
choice
, Roman!” Kay shouted. “Don't you understand? They have my daughter. How long will it take for you to get the ID made?”

“Just a couple of hours. As you might expect, we have several people here in Tijuana who provide identification for Mexicans going to the United States. You might say it's a growth industry.”

“You said a woman will pat me down. Will she do a cavity search?”

“No. Caesar would never treat a guest that way, any more than your president would treat one of his guests that way. His security people will, however, pass devices over you and everything in your handbag, looking for weapons and surveillance equipment, anything with a power source or a transmission source. If you have a cell phone, it will be taken from you and given back when you leave. So don't even bother to take a phone.

“But, Kay, you will never get a weapon into the house, and without a weapon, I don't know how you will be able to convince Caesar to release your daughter. He's a powerfully built man, Kay, and no matter how well trained you are, you'll never be able to overcome him without a weapon. And his security will be nearby.”

“I understand, Roman. How do I get to his house? Does he send a car for the women?”

“It depends on where he's staying. When he's at Rosarito Beach, the women usually take a cab or Claudio's driver takes them. If you like, I could take you in a cab.”

“Let me think about that. Now I need a couple of things.”

“Yes?”

“First, a hairdresser, a good one, and one that will come here to fix my hair. Then I'll need the name of a place where I can order clothes and shoes appropriate for dining with Caesar Olivera, a shop that will deliver the clothes. I'm sorry, but I'll also need one of your credit cards to pay for everything. It would be too risky to use my own credit cards.”