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Khezir was only fifteen at the time, but he had sought the woman out and restored his family’s honor, meeting blood with blood. Afterward, he inked his body with the dead woman’s name.
It was the first of many tattoos.
Now Khezir threw the remote control at the flat-screen, strode to the sliding doors, and went out to the balcony. Gozan knew that Khezir was bitterly disappointed that Susan and Serena had canceled the evening’s plans.
Tension was building inside Khezir, and Gozan was responsible for keeping the young man on track. Having fun was a by-product, not the objective. Much was at stake.
Gozan sighed as the sun slipped beneath the water. He was of the same blood as Khezir and he loved him.
“Khezzy,” he called out. “I am ordering oysters for two and a nice bottle of champagne. Is there anything else I can get you?”
Khezir shouted back, “You’ll be the first to know.”
Chapter 36
TWENTY MINUTES AFTER the fistfight at Sherman Canal, Cruz parked the fleet car in a lot adjacent to Shutters, a rangy white clapboard-sided hotel with hundreds of balconies and windows and doors looking out over the Pacific. Lights were on inside, and the place looked beautiful against the cobalt sky.
From where they were parked, Cruz and Del Rio had a clean sight line to the third floor. Del Rio affixed a small, military-grade electronic listening device to the car door, angled the receiver at the suite of rooms in the northwest corner, pinpointed and locked in the settings. They were too far away to see the Sumaris through the windows, but their voices were coming in clearly and the conversation was being amplified and recorded.
Like most stakeouts, this was going to be as exciting as Bingo night in a retirement home, but Cruz was just happy he could get Del Rio out of the house and give him something to think about that wasn’t his trial.
Del Rio said to Cruz, “I’m sorry I started that fight.”
“Forget it.”
“One of us could have gotten killed,” said Del Rio.
“That’s the TV,” Cruz said of the sounds coming through the receiver. “Someone is channel surfing.”
Del Rio turned up the volume, and he and Cruz listened to snatches of a ball game, a real estate show, Two and a Half Men, an escort-service ad, and the ball game again. Then there was a cracking sound, like something had been thrown or had fallen.
Del Rio said, “Okay, they’re talking to each other in Sumarin. Wait. Now in English.”
One of the Sumaris said, “I am ordering oysters for two and a nice bottle of champagne. Is there anything
else I can get you?”
And the other, the one with the younger, higher-pitched voice, said something from the balcony, his words blown away in the wind.
The first one put in the room-service order, asked how long it would take, and said thank you.
About fifteen minutes went by. Cruz and Del Rio listened to the TV anchors reporting the local news, and then there was the sound of a door buzzer, a door opening, the man’s voice, sounding hollow because he was behind a wall, probably in the foyer.
A woman’s voice chirped, “Would you like me to set this up near the window?”
Something, presumably a cart, rolled and squeaked over the carpet, and the older man said, “Let me help you with that, dear.”
“I’ve got it, sir.”
Cruz and Del Rio heard the female voice say, “Shall I open the champagne?”
There was the soft pop of a cork being ejected from the bottle, the older man calling out, “Khezzy, come and see what we have here.”
The younger man said, “Maybe later.”
The other man sighed deeply, said, “Ah, well. What is your name, miss?”
“I’m Luanne. When you’re ready for the cart to be picked up, just call star eighty-eight and put the cart outside.”
