Page 23 of The Man I Hate

She had no discernable accent and spoke with humble authority. I wondered if she was one of the boyfriend’s many female companions.

I reached into my jacket and produced a business card. The official-looking ADT Security cards had proven useful on many previous similar occasions.

“We’re with ADT Security,” I said, handing her the card. “Can we speak with the owner of the home?”

She studied the card. Upon satisfying herself that it was legitimate, she met my gaze with a smile. “I’m Sophia Santos,” she said. “The homeowner.”

The home was listed as being owned by Samuel Santos. Instead of challenging her, I nodded in agreement.

“We’ve had a series of problems with the security systems in the area that were installed between 2005 and 2015,” I explained. “Sadly, the motherboard isn’t allowing the system to communicate with the main switchboard during an intrusion. We’re in the neighborhood this morning hoping to check the sequence numbers of all applicable systems. If it’s in need of replacement, we’ll get it scheduled for first thing next week with the repair division. May we come in? It should only take a few minutes.”

She stepped aside. “Absolutely.”

I removed two protective Tyvek booties and slipped them over my shoes. Pratt did the same.

“That isn’t necessary.” She gestured toward the living room. “Come in.”

We followed her inside the expansive home. Other than furnishings, it appeared no differently than it did in the photos from the home’s previous real estate listing we’d reviewed thirty minutes prior.

The open floorplan allowed the rear of the home to be viewed from where we stood. A group of scantily clad women—one of which I recognized as Weinberg’s daughter—were poolside, drinking margaritas and lounging in the sun.

Mica being surrounded by women who were giggling at each other’s stories was far different than being pumped full of drugs by a sex-crazed member of the Sinaloa Cartel. Luring her away from the pool party without raising eyebrows wasn’t going to be a simple task.

Before I did anything, I needed to find out where the true homeowner was, and what his ties to Mica were.

“We have a few documents that will need to be signed after completing the survey,” I explained. “The system is registered to Samuel Santos. If it won’t be too much trouble, we’d like to get him to sign the work order once we’re finished.”

“Sam’s my brother,” she replied. “He’s upstairs.”

Pratt tapped his index finger against the clipboard. “Let’s get him to sign this while Jake is checking the main panel.”

“Sure,” Sophia said. She turned toward the staircase. “Follow me.”

The last place Pratt needed to be was upstairs with the braless Brazilian beauty. While they laughed and joked their way up the stairs, I turned toward the garage. “I’ll check the serial number on the panel.”

Getting Mica away from the pool without someone recording the incident on their phone would be a challenge. I walked toward the garage, surveying each room for security cameras as I passed. Upon reaching the panel, I opened the cover and mulled over potential scenarios to lure Mica into the home.

Two minutes later, Sophia’s screams caused my sphincter to pucker.

“Jake!” Pratt bellowed. “Get up here!”

If I learned one thing in my thirty years in the Marine Corps, it was to expect the unexpected. Even so, when I reached the room where Pratt was located, I stared in disbelief.

Sophia and Samuel were seated on the floor between the desk and where I stood. Their wrists and ankles were bound with tie straps, and their mouths were covered with tape.

Samuel, a lean man with olive-colored skin, was wearing dark gray slacks and a pressed white shirt that was splattered with fresh blood stains. The source appeared to be a two-inch gash beneath his left eye, on the upper portion of his cheek.

I scanned the room. Obviously used as an office or study, there were matching bookshelves on two opposing walls. Each were filled with hardbound books from top to bottom. Situated in front of a picturesque window, a large wooden desk was free of clutter. In one corner, there was a two-inch stack of neatly situated paperwork. In the center, a cell phone. Those two items were all that littered the surface.

I looked at Pratt. Clutching his pistol in his right hand, he shook his head in clear disbelief of the situation.

I shifted my gaze from Pratt to the bound siblings. “What the fuck happened, Jared?”

He holstered his pistol. “I told dumbfuck that we were going to be taking Mica. He didn’t seem to give a fuck. His sister, on the other hand, started screaming like I was pulling off her fingernails with a pair of pliers. She wouldn’t shut up, so I smacked her in the throat. He got all pissed off because I hit her. Fucker charged at me like a raging bull. I had to bust him in the face before he spider monkeyed me.”

Our option pool was shallow when we arrived. It seemed all but non-existent now. Having Samuel lure Mica in from the pool party was the only scenario that originally came to mind. If she saw him with a two-inch gash on his cheek, it would only be a matter of minutes before everyone at the pool had their cell phones out, filming the event as it unfolded. In Samuel’s absence, getting Mica away from the pool without arching the eyebrows of her scantily clad poolside friends would be difficult, if even possible.

Frustrated, I shot Pratt a glare. “What’s your plan for getting her away from the pool?”