Page 31 of The Grave Artist (Sanchez & Heron #2)

Jake Heron hated suits. He didn’t own one.

As for ties? He believed he had one he’d been given as a present once but had no clue where it was. And, needless to say, bow ties did not even enter into his universe.

He had to look the part, however, so he forced himself to cinch the strip of black polyester tightly around his buttoned shirt collar.

He stood beside Sanchez in a small windowless room off the lobby of the Chinampas Grand Resort in Bel Air, one of the posher sections of posh LA.

“I’m only doing this for the investigation, Heron,” Carmen said. “I’m a walking stereotype.” She made a sweeping gesture up and down her body.

He took in her maid’s uniform and privately admitted that she’d gotten the worst of the deal.

He’d warned her that she wasn’t going to like his plan. “I do this all the time. Pen testing. Camo and disguises. Playing a role. You do the same thing, don’t you? Undercover?”

She made no reply.

During their drive from headquarters to Bel Air, Declan had forwarded them photos of the Chinampas Grand Resort—including the floating gardens in the huge lagoon.

Only accessible by boat, the honeymoon villa was every bit as isolated as Zebrowski described.

With the water surrounded by a rainforest, the resort would have huge appeal for those wishing to get away to an exotic location without the time or money to jet to Mexico or Costa Rica.

They walked into the lobby proper and looked over the expansive lagoon shimmering in a slight breeze and reflecting colored lights into fractals.

“The chinampas in Xochimilco are the most famous,” Sanchez said. “Mexico City. There used to be thousands, precolonial portable farmland. Now they’ve kind of grown together. Still about two hundred. Tourist and eco thing these days. You can take gondolas around them.”

“You’ve done that?”

“Sure. When my family went, our favorite was the Island of the Dolls. The place is filled with them.”

“It’s either cute or spooky.”

“I’m talking Hitchcock ... We loved it.”

Jake nodded toward the distant honeymoon suite, a large tiki hut with a fake-grass roof, sitting on a landscaped island that measured about forty by forty feet. “It’s the perfect place for HK. He’d slip in by boat and look for an opportunity.”

“What’s his strategy, Heron?”

Jake squinted as he gazed over the mesmerizing lagoon.

“A slip and fall. But somehow, he’ll have to get one of them alone.

He was lucky with Anthony Brock. The groom went for drinks by himself.

Here? I don’t know. But if your four-day pattern is right, he’ll have it carefully planned already. Impulse control, remember?”

Zebrowski appeared and gave them both a quick perusal. “Your tie is crooked. Our bell persons do not have crooked ties.” He was dead serious. The manager himself was perfectly assembled, from his sparse, slicked-back hair to pointy shoes that shone like black mirrors.

In a touch of domesticity, Sanchez reached up and adjusted Jake’s tie.

“And me?” she asked the manager.

“I would hire you in a minute.”

“I’d make a bad maid. I don’t vacuum, don’t polish and don’t make beds. At least not very often.”

Zebrowski seemed unsure how to respond, so he motioned toward the exit. “Your boat’s here.”

The vessel was a small pontoon variety with a flat deck about six by eight feet. The driver sat on a bench at the rear and operated a quiet electric outboard.

They stepped on and Zebrowski handed Jake their props: a bottle of wine and a basket of fruit. It looked like any other evening at a ritzy hotel. The bell person bringing a bottle for the couple and the maid coming for the turndown service.

They began to cruise across the glass-flat water, a small wake V-ing away behind them. Jake scanned the shore but most of it was impenetrable vegetation and if HK was there, he could see no trace. He noted that Sanchez was doing the same. Her body language casual, her eyes intensely focused.

“Nothing,” she whispered, barely moving her lips. “Goose chase?”

He paused to consider. “No.”

The driver slowed the craft until it thudded gently against the dock. Sanchez clambered out of the boat, walking through a gate into a grassy yard. Jake followed.

She glanced over her shoulder as they approached the door. “Me first.”

“Because you’re armed?” Had she seen evidence of HK’s presence and not mentioned it?

She gave her head a shake. “Because I’m a woman.”

“I don’t see what—”

“Exactly my point. You shouldn’t see anything.

” She gave him an amused glance. “If they’re busy doing .

.. whatever ... the groom will come to the door in a robe.

He sees you, he might not undo the chain.

He wouldn’t want you checking out his bride in a state of undress.

If it’s me, he won’t care. I served my share of no-knock warrants in the middle of the night.

Believe me, men are less self-conscious about their bodies.

They’re all about fight, flight or freeze. ”

Jake shook his head. “The fine art of policing. Not sure I’ll ever catch on.”

They arrived at the front door—the jamb decorated with pink-painted hearts—and she rang the bell. “Housekeeping.”

The sound of fumbling came from inside. “Be right there,” a male voice called out.

A pause, presumably while the groom robed himself and looked through the peephole. Then the clatter of the chain—Sanchez had been right—and a man in his twenties appeared, head and terrycloth-covered shoulders only.

“Thanks, but we don’t need turndown.” He peered over her shoulder at Jake. “And no more champagne or anything for now either.”

He gave a small finger wave and started to close the door, but Sanchez stepped in quickly, slipping past him.

The groom was too shocked to muster more than a feeble protest. “Hey ...”

Jake followed, clutching the wine and fruit.

A slender woman about the same age with long blonde hair was tying the sash of a matching plush robe around her waist as she emerged from the bedroom. “What’s going on, honey?”

“They’ve brought us more stuff, but ...”

His voice faded as Sanchez reached behind the starched white apron at the front of her maid’s uniform, pulled out a slim leather badge case and opened it. “Agent Carmen Sanchez, Homeland Security Investigations.”

The groom blinked, then recovered, his expression morphing from shock to amusement. “You’re punking me. Who put you two up to this?” He focused on Jake. “Was it Todd? Because that asshat is going to pay when I—”

“This isn’t a joke,” Jake said evenly. “You might be in danger.”

That stopped all traces of humor.

Sanchez said to Jake, “We’ll have to move fast. Real employees would only be here ten minutes, tops.”

They had to assume HK was somewhere nearby, watching his prey and preparing for the attack.

Sanchez outlined the situation, leaving out references to a serial killer. He was impressed with her storytelling ability, making the whole thing sound like a follow-up to a singular but nonspecific threat.

“Have either of you seen anyone who might be watching you? White male, average build, dark hair?”

Jake added, “He’d have been paying a little more attention to you than normal.”

Robin and James looked at each other. The groom ran his hand through his mussed hair. “No.”

His bride agreed.

Sanchez frowned in thought and said, “I’m curious. You mentioned not wanting more champagne or anything else. Some was delivered before?”

The bride’s mind seemed elsewhere—digesting the news of the threat, undoubtedly. James answered, “Somebody at the hotel missed the note that Robin’s diabetic. We got a box of chocolate anyway, along with champagne.”

Jake’s eyes snapped to Sanchez. Hotels rarely missed information about medical conditions and allergies. The risk of liability was too great.

Sanchez asked, “Where’s the candy and wine now?”

James opened the door to the minifridge. A bottle of California sparkling wine and a box of Godiva chocolates sat inside.

“They were delivered after you checked in?”

“About an hour ago.”

Sanchez pulled out her cell phone, tapped in a number and put it on speaker. “Mr. Zebrowski. Agent Sanchez. We’re in the suite. Robin and James are here. Everything’s good. But I have a question. Did you send another bottle of champagne and some chocolates an hour ago?”

“Let me check.”

After an eternity, the manager came back with a response.

“No one took anything to that suite. They’re scheduled for an excursion in a glass-bottom boat tomorrow morning.

No one is supposed to contact them until then.

And there’s a note to the restaurant and room service that Ms. Schwartz is diabetic. ”

So HK is here.

“This is Jake Heron. Can you connect me with your security cameras? I’ll need the IP addresses of the ones focusing on the shore near the honeymoon suite and the lagoon between the two locations.”

“Sure. I’ll do that.”

“Call it in to Agent Sanchez’s number.”

“My God, this is serious!” Robin was visibly shaken.

“Who exactly is this guy?” James asked.

So their special day would be tainted, after all. On the other hand, the groom’s eyes sparkled with excitement. Maybe the trade-off for the disruption was that he’d have a story to share about their honeymoon for the rest of his life, even if his bride wished the incident weren’t happening.

“We’ll go into details later,” Sanchez said, and was saved from dodging more questions when her phone vibrated. She held it up for Jake, who typed in the appropriate information on his tablet.

Within minutes he was reversing through the surveillance footage to a point that was about ninety minutes in the past. Then slowly the video rolled forward.

Soon they saw another watercraft leave a different dock—one not far from the honeymoon suite.

This was not for guests, but a small outboard.

It navigated to the suite, and a figure climbed out.

Left the wine and chocolates at the door, rang the bell and quickly departed.

Too dark to see any details.

Sanchez tapped the service dock. “He’s probably waiting there.”

“Waiting for what?” Robin asked, her voice unsteady.

Jake said, “We think he spiked the champagne or the chocolate. Roofies maybe. Something stronger. To knock you out.”

“Oh, shit,” Robin muttered, looking at the gifts as if they were explosives. “And then he was going to come back and ... what?”

Sanchez didn’t answer. She nodded to a wall clock. “Time’s up. We have to move.”

Jake said, “Wait here and stay away from the window.”

“Where are you going?”

“Into the bedroom.” He glanced at Sanchez. “We need to strip.”