table.”
She looked where he was pointing.
The general solicitor of the republic’s private secretary winked at her from across the room.
That evening, she asked Bonnie, her secretary, to cancel all her appointments so she could get a mud-therapy treatment at a spa in Santa Fe, just a few blocks from her office.
“Don’t forget that you have to go to the warehouse,” noted the gringa with her clipped Texas accent.
“I won’t forget, I’ll go later tonight,” Lizzy responded.
She decided to walk to the spa, much to Pancho’s consternation; he didn’t like her wandering around unprotected. But she always managed to do as she pleased.
The French girl who applied the mud for the massage, a recent arrival from Lyon, couldn’t help herself and said, “You have a beautiful derriere. As firm and smooth as a peach.”
“Thanks,” said Lizzy.
At 8, they arrived at Tamayo Museum in her father’s old armored BMW, Pancho driving. Two light Windstar trucks packed with bodyguards followed them.
She was dressed completely in black leather, her hair pulled back in a bun speared with little chopsticks. She looked almost beautiful.
“Wait for me outside. I don’t want to attract attention,”
she said from the door of the museum.
“Miss …” protested the bodyguard with the cavernous voice.
“Do as I say.”
Pancho ordered the team of eight Israeli-trained escorts—two of them women—to be placed strategically in key positions around the museum. The old bodyguard monitored their movements by walkie-talkie.
The girl’s whims made him nervous, but he had sworn to the Señor, her father, that he’d take care of her.
Inside, unconcerned with her bodyguards, Lizzy distributed kisses to gallery owners, art collectors, curators, critics, and artists. She was an art world celebrity. Everyone knew about her collection and her peculiar tastes. She’d surprised more than a few with her resources. No one asked where her funds came from.
The opening was for a retrospective by an Armenian-American painter named Rabo Karabekian. Eight of the pieces belonged to Lizzy’s collection. As usual, she had asked that they be credited to an unnamed private collection. She didn’t want any publicity.
She had to cross a human gauntlet to greet the artist, who managed to spot her even at a distance.
“Lizzy, baby!” The old artist’s face lit up when he saw his favorite collector.
“How you doing, Rab?”
They chatted animatedly for half an hour. When the press wanted to take photos, Lizzy demurred.
The painter told her that there would be an after-party at the curator’s apartment in Condesa, that he would love it if she came by. She apologized.
“Got some business to take care of, sorry,” and she said goodbye to everyone.
On the way to the car, her cell rang.
“Got ’em,” growled a voice on the other end of the line.
Seconds of silence.
“You have them with you?”
“Correct.”
“I’m going to give you a kiss on the nose, like Scooby-Doo,” Lizzy said before hanging up.
She got in the BMW and asked to be taken to the warehouse.
Pancho silently directed the car toward the warehouse that MDA, their ghost company, had leased in an industrial park in Vallejo. They did not exchange a word during the trip.
The security team at the warehouse waved them in, surprised by the late hour of the visit. A heavy steel door slid open to let the BMW and the Windstars pass.
Bwana, Lizzy’s lieutenant on the north side of the city, received them. He was a cholo, an ex—juvenile delinquent who had learned something about chemistry during his years as a science student. A violent type, he had been raised on the streets of East L.A.
Secretly, Lizzy found him attractive and was fascinated by the wild beauty of his indigenous features; his athletic body, always clothed in baggy jeans, was like a basketball player’s; his naked torso was covered with tattoos of the Virgin of Guadalupe and Santa Muerte; his
Richard Ellis Preston Jr.