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this one.”
    “Okay.
If you need anything else, let me know.”
    After
I disconnected, Alex said, “Benito Esposito?”
    “The
son,” I said.
    “Certainly
worth looking at then, isn't he?”
    I
told him what Jessie had said about him.
    He
looked at me for a moment and said, “I'm coming with you on this one.”
    I
thought about saying no, but that little voice that you often ignore was
telling me not to be stupid. I decided to do something different this
time—I decided to listen.
    “Sure,”
I said. “On the way back, you can buy us lunch.”

 

 
    Chapter 6
    Tuesday Morning

 
    The
thirty-mile drive from the FBI offices to Benito's Malibu estate would take
about an hour, maybe a little less, depending on traffic. Alex had the radio
on, an oldies station. He sang along quietly. Mostly, I thought about Monica,
wondering who had her and whether or not she was safe. I found myself talking
to her. I’ll find you , I assured her. Just hold on. I’ll find you .
      It was the second week of August, hot and
clear, with a gentle onshore breeze. As we drove up PCH, there were groups of
surfers at their favorite spots along the coast. In a couple of spots, they had
to compete with dolphins for the best waves. Catalina was visible in the
distance, as were a couple of large oil tankers cutting across the calm waters,
one going out, one coming in, to Santa Monica Bay. It would have been a nice day
to go fishing off the Malibu Pier or to lay on the
beach and soak up some vitamin D. But I was too distracted to really enjoy the
day. All I could think about was Monica, where she was and how she was being
treated.
    Esposito's
estate was on PCH a few miles beyond Pepperdine University, on the ocean side
of the highway. There was a wide gated driveway, with the gate about fifty feet
in so you could turn in and be well off the highway while you sat at the gate
and waited to be let in. There was a camera and a speaker. Alex was driving his
agency car. He let down the driver's side window and pushed the button on the
speaker.
    “Can
I help you?” a disembodied female voice asked.
    Alex
held up his ID for the camera and said, “Special Agent Watson, to see Mr.
Esposito.”
    There
was a pause, then the voice asked, “Do you have a
warrant?”
    “No.
We'd just like to ask Mr. Esposito a few questions.”
    “Questions
about what?”
    “I'll
discuss that with Mr. Esposito,” Alex said. “Would you open the gate, please,
so we can enter?”
    In
a moment, the large double gate began to swing open. Alex put the car in gear
and drove onto the plush, manicured estate.
    A
circular drive led to parking spaces opposite the front door. We parked and
went to the door. Alex knocked. Since he had the FBI ID, it made sense for him
to take the lead. The door opened and a young woman that could have been Miss
Mexico stood there in a small, tight black dress.
    “This
way, gentlemen,” she said without a hint of an accent.
    The
house was elegant, decorated with the same kind of ultra modern white leather
and chrome furnishings Esposito, Senior had had in his office… before Monica
splattered blood all over it, his own and that of two of his associates.
    Miss
Mexico led us through the house to an expansive tiled patio off the back of the
house. The view of the coast and the ocean was magnificent.
    Benito
Esposito sat in a lounge chair near a large pool. Two more Latinas that would
have given Miss Mexico a run for her money lay on their backs on either side of
him, sun bathing in the nude. Our presence did not seem to bother them in the
least.
    Esposito
looked up at us and gestured to two chairs that appeared to have been
strategically placed opposite him. Alex handed him his card and we sat down. As
we did, two very large Mexican men stepped out from the house onto the patio
and positioned themselves about twenty feet apart so
they could watch us. From the size of the bulges under their sport coats, it
was apparent that each carried a large