Three weeks into the personal route, I noticed the pattern.
It wasn't obvious. Nothing about Mateo Cruz was obvious. The man was designed to be overlooked, built like a shadow, present but never prominent. A man you didn't notice was a man who could go anywhere, and a man who could go anywhere was a man you couldn't control, and control was the foundation of everything I'd built.
The pattern was simple. Once a week, sometimes twice, Mateo Cruz was gone.
Not from the car. From the car he was perfect. He was always at the SUV at six, always waiting, always still. He drove the route without deviation, without complaint, without a single moment of hesitation or error. In the car, he was the best driver I'd ever had, and I'd had drivers for nine years.
