Mauricio turned right at the driveway on Filbranz Lane. The garage door lifted, and Cruz waved him in. With the car snugged in next to Cruz’s burgundy Escalade and motorcycle, the men climbed out of their nondescript black Chevy sedan and joined their handler inside the house.
“John said you should stay with me temporarily, but you’ll be out on your asses if you cause any shit or attract attention to yourselves. I live a quiet, peaceful life here, and I have neighbors. Understand?”
They agreed to keep a low profile and said they would leave the premises only when instructed to do so.
“Good, because I report to Mr. Vance daily, and I wouldn’t want to piss him off. What’s the latest on that murder case?”
Antonio shrugged. “All I know is that Maria is being held for questioning. I’m sure it’s standard procedure when the husband of a murder victim has a girlfriend, that they’d both be hauled in, but if Maria runs her mouth, I’ll kill her myself. She has as much to lose as we do since she’s the one who set the wheels in motion. The husband wanted the wife out of the way, but he was too much of a pussy to do anything about it himself.”
“Okay, but starting now, turn off the locations on your phones and don’t accept any more calls from your sister. Remember, every phone call she makes from jail is recorded.” Cruz walked to the humidor, opened it, and pulled out three Montecristo Cuban cigars. “Enjoy these, because they aren’t cheap.” He took a seat in the leather wingback chair. “Now, tell me the play-by-play details of how it went at McCord’s house. John will want to know everything.”