Chapter 80
NOW WE HAD something, and Rick and I were both feeling it to the max. It was a twenty-five-minute drive from Perez’s two-kilo manse to a hit man’s horse farm in the Agoura Hills, north of Malibu.
The approach was a dusty, unpaved driveway through tall brown grass and trees marked with “No Trespassing” signs. The drive curled around a bluff, then ran straight to a shingled farmhouse, weathered to a silvery shade of gray.
There was a new barn behind the house and a paddock where a mule and three bay mustangs stood head to tail, swishing at flies under a tree. Beyond the paddock was a riding trail that climbed a gentle hill a quarter mile away.
Del Rio braked the car, and light glinting off glass made me look up.
I saw the dome shape of an Avigilon sixteen-megapixel camera mounted under the eaves of the house. I had been thinking of getting the same surveillance system for myself. It shot wide-angle high-res video in color and infrared.
A door hinge squealed, and a man stepped out of the house with an AK-47 in his arms and a gnarly dog at his side. The man was wiry, nothing remarkable to look at, which probably helped him in his work. The dog had a head the size of a large melon. It tensed and growled as we got out of the car.
I kept one eye on the dog as I introduced Del Rio and myself to Monty, faking a casualness I didn’t feel. The man was a killer many times over. He was holding a weapon that could turn a person into a colander in seconds.
At the same time, I was hyperaware of my hair-trigger buddy standing beside me. Del Rio had a loaded gun stuck in the back of his waistband. He couldn’t outdraw Monty, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. Sweat formed on my upper lip.
Monty said, “What do you want?” His voice was high, almost boyish.
“I’m Jack Morgan, with Private. Shelby Cushman’s husband is my client,” I said. “We have no issues with you. I just need to know who wanted Shelby dead.”
“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Morgan. I don’t know any Cushmans.”
I kept talking. “If the hit on Shelby was personal, if killing Shelby was a message for our client, we want to work that out.”
Monty’s thin lips hardly moved when he said, “I repeat, I don’t know any Cushmans. And if I did know that Shelby always took a nap at four in the afternoon, it still wasn’t personal, and I don’t send messages. Now, back up slow so you don’t scare the horses.”
“Thanks, Monty, you’re a real professional,” I said. Then Del Rio and I walked away and got into the car.
I took the wheel. I backed out slowly, then drove along the driveway, dust billowing up behind us.