How come he remembered?

He wasn't supposed to remember, and yet he did. Now he couldn't get it up for this peasant woman, the mother of his child.

It came to him in a flash.

He didn't love her anymore. It was over.

Willow made it home, where a pack of paparazzi were hanging around outside her house waiting to pounce. There were more of them than usual. Being seen with Mr. Action-Movie Star was an excellent boost for her image.

The questions flowed fast and furious.

Where's your new boyfriend?

Are you and Ralph engaged?

How long you been seeing him?

You in love, Willow?

When's the big day?

Ridiculous questions. She didn't answer any of them as she made her way into her house.

I'm hot again, she thought gleefully. Hot and happening. Ha! Wait until they hear about my movie, then I'll really be on fire.

Which reminded her that she should check in with Sam and assure him that he'd have his deal memo this week. Next she'd call Alejandro to find out when they could expect to have cash on hand. And finally she'd contact Eddie-who she knew would be steaming because she'd left the restaurant with Ralph.

Willow grinned. All was going as planned.

To Rafael's surprise, Pablo agreed that Alejandro becoming a Hollywood producer might be a good idea.

Really? Rafael wanted to say. Surely you know he's a fool, and this project will be like pissing money into the wind?

Instead he said a respectful, "You have made a wise decision, Seor Diego. Alejandro will be very happy."

A pleased-with-himself Pablo clicked his fingers for Eugenia to pour him more wine.

"Perhaps I will visit," Pablo said, surprising Rafael even more-for everyone knew that Pablo Fernandez Diego rarely left the safety of his heavily guarded compound.

"You will?" Rafael said, not sure that he relished the thought of Pablo coming to L.A.

"Maybe," Pablo responded, clicking his false teeth. "I have a wish to meet some of the young ladies you mentioned. Beautiful sexy actresses. I have always had a yen for Cameron Diaz. I would like a meeting to be arranged. You take care of it."

Rafael almost choked at the thought of Cameron Diaz and Pablo Fernandez Diego getting together. That would never happen.

Eugenia served the two men platters of thick steak and an assortment of vegetables.

Pablo slapped her on the ass before cutting into his steak with a sharp knife. Blood flowed from the hefty piece of meat.

"Moron!" he screamed at Eugenia. "You know I like my steak well-done. Why are you so stupid, woman?" And with those words, he picked up his plate and flung it at her.

Rafael felt his mother's humiliation as the plate hit her full in the face.

He said nothing. He was as trapped as she was.

"I understand you visited your girlfriend today," Pablo said, turning to Rafael as if he hadn't just thrown his plate at Rafael's mother.

Rafael nodded. The last thing he wished to be reminded of was the disastrous day he'd spent with Elizabetta.

"You know," Pablo continued, twirling his fork in a not-so-playful way, "your girlfriend is fucking one of my guards. I have heard they might even marry."

Rafael experienced a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut. Was it possible that Pablo was telling the truth? Was that why Elizabetta had been so surly and indifferent toward him?

He met Pablo's gaze full on. Was the old tyrant hoping for a reaction?

Rafael refused to give him what he wanted.

"This is a fine wine, Seor Diego," he said, keeping his voice even and steady. "Might I request another glass?"

Pablo's expression changed from calm to a malicious scowl. He'd expected more from Rafael. He'd expected sniveling and whining and protestations that the information couldn't possibly be true. He'd expected to be entertained.

This was not to be. A shame, for there was nothing Pablo liked more than being entertained.

He rose abruptly from the table. "It is time for you to return to America," he said authoritatively. "Alejandro cannot be trusted on his own. You have to always stay by his side to protect him."

"Am I to tell him that you have agreed to finance his movie?" Rafael inquired, half hoping that Pablo would say no.

"This is so," Pablo said, fingering his beard. "I will finance his movie through you."

"Excuse me?" Rafael said.

"We both know that Alejandro can be ... reckless at times. He is not good with responsibility. Therefore, the money will be cleaned and I shall arrange for you to open a special account that you will oversee and report to me about."

"Alejandro may not like that," Rafael ventured.

"That's the way it is," Pablo said.

"What about the cash he's asked me to bring back to the U.S.?"

"Foolish!" Pablo snorted. "There are plenty of dollars in the U.S. I will arrange delivery for the initial up-front money. He can have that, and then you will take over all finances."

Rafael was relieved. Trying to smuggle two million dollars on his person back to America was indeed a stupid idea. Alejandro had been screwing with him, as usual; he'd known Pablo would never give him the cash.

"One of my drivers will take you to the airport," Pablo said, dismissing Rafael as if he was a lowly servant. "You can leave now."

Yes, Rafael thought. I will leave now. But one of these days, I will be back to collect my son. I make this promise to myself. It is a promise I swear I will keep.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN.

Chris Warwick had two means of transport. One was a personalized van that he used for work. The other was a fully restored 1965 silver Ford Mustang that he took out only on special occasions. Tonight he drove his van, which he'd parked in a lot at LAX before flying to Chicago.

Chris always made sure that he was prepared for anything that might happen. He carried a Glock semi-automatic pistol for which he had a license, and tucked away on different parts of his body were two five-inch folding knives always sharp and ready for action. He might look unthreatening, but with all his martial art skills, he was a lethal weapon.

It was getting late when he drove up to Pedro Albarado's door in Silver Lake, unannounced. Thanks to his many connections, he'd already found out quite a bit about Pedro. Pedro Albarado had a long history of crimes ranging from carjacking to home invasion, burglary, and receiving stolen goods. He'd done time twice, and was quite the career criminal.

Had Pedro murdered the girl in Chicago? Probably. But that wasn't Chris's problem. His intent was to find out why Bobby had been set up. And even more important-who was responsible?

A woman answered the door. A plump Mexican woman with rollers in her hair and a long-suffering expression on her sullen face. She stared at Chris with bleary eyes.

Mother? Sister? Wife? Daughter? She could be any of them, although maybe she wasn't old enough to be the mother.

Chris refrained from flashing his phony detective badge. He didn't relish the thought of Pedro leaping out a back window and making a run for it. Instead he spoke quietly in a friendly, nonthreatening manner. "I have lucrative business to discuss with Mr. Albarado," he said. "Is he home?"

The woman continued to stare at him as a dog barked in the background. She had no idea what lucrative meant, although he could tell that she understood the word business.

As Chris returned her stare, his honest brown eyes luring her in, he hoped the dog wasn't a pit bull. He'd had a run-in with a vicious pit bull several years ago while rescuing a kidnap victim, and he still had the scars to prove it.

"You wait," the woman said at last. She had a heavy accent.

"Should I wait out here, or can I come in?"

Her answer was nonverbal as she slammed the door shut in his face.

Some people had no manners at all.

After what seemed like a long while, although it was only a matter of five minutes, the door opened again, and there stood a Latin man in all his stay-at-home glory. Unshaven. Floppy hair. A wifebeater T-shirt with ugly pit stains. Ill-fitting dusty-gray jogging pants-although Chris would've bet his prized Mustang that this dude had never jogged a day in his life-and a pair of scuffed sneakers.

This was hardly the dapper, sour-faced, bearded man from the security tapes. This was a slob of a man, with a brown wad of tobacco sticking to the side of his mouth and bad teeth.

"Mr. Albarado?" Chris inquired politely. "Mr. Pedro Albarado?"

The man squinted at him, a wary look on his face. "Who wants t' know?"

I do, you repugnant dumb-ass, Chris thought, inhaling a foul odor of sweat, stale cigarette smoke, and fierce garlic breath.

"I have a very tempting offer for Mr. Albarado," Chris said.

"What kinda offer?" the man said suspiciously.

"Work."

"My brother don't do no work. He's on disability."

His brother. That made sense. This one stayed at home, while Pedro took care of business.

"I do believe that Pedro should listen to what I have to say," Chris said smoothly. "It involves plenty of ... money."

"How much?" the man asked, his eyes full of greed.

"I should discuss it with your brother. Is he home?"

"How d'you know about Pedro?"

"I know that he has a reputation for getting things done."

"Yeah?"

"Yes."

"You wanna tell me who sent you?"

"I have contacts in Chicago."

"Chicago, huh?"

A short standoff took place while Pedro's brother thought things over.

"Well?" Chris said, holding his impatience in check.

"What kinda job?"

"A job that'll pay him plenty."

"How much?"

"That's for me to discuss with Pedro."

"I'm gonna try to reach him," the man growled. "There's a diner on the corner. Be there in the back parking lot in an hour."

"Will he be there?"

"Mebbe he'll come," the man said noncommittally-adding a succinct, "An' if he finds out you're a fuckin' fed, he'll blow your fuckin' head off."

"Do I look like a federal agent?" Chris said mildly, although he could feel the muscles in his stomach clench.

The man gave him a mirthless laugh. "One hour. In back of the diner."