Prologue to Deadly Tactics Just as she had every weekday morning for the last eight years, Luisa Quiñones pulled her used green Honda to a stop in front of the white house on Shady Lane, making sure that the rear end of the car cleared the driveway. It was a known, if unspoken, rule that this was her spot, and all the gardeners who worked on this street respected it. Normally when she arrived they would be here, with lawn mowers and edge clippers peeking out of the beds of their well-worn pickup trucks, wood planks ramped towards the road. But because she was earlier than usual today the street was nearly empty, and Luisa had no one to greet. She stood beside her car for a moment, admiring the gardeners’ work. Amid the neatly trimmed greenery, shocking pink and purple Bougainvillea billowed and flowed over trellises and carports. Birds of paradise silently squawked their orange beaks. Fragile tea roses blossomed over fence pickets. And everywhere, an abundance of jasmine scented the air with a sweetness that, despite its prevalence, always surprised. Luisa breathed in its aroma. She opened the gate, making sure the latch clicked behind her, and used her key to let herself in through the front door. She checked the alarm but, as usual, it was not activated.The house was dark and still.The señora must still be asleep. A slight staleness of alcohol and acrid cigar smoke hung in the air, which confirmed Luisa’s decision to arrive early in the wake of last night’s party.The first thing she’d do after she changed her clothes would be to open the glass doors that led to the back yard. She flicked on the light in the powder room just inside the entry hall and changed into black stretch capris, a big white t-shirt and a pair of white rubber-soled canvas shoes. She was grateful that the señora did not make her wear a uniform like the one she had worn when she worked for the Bernsteins in Beverly Hills.The señora was much more casual. Luisa turned off the light and placed her bag on the antique pine bench beside the front door. She went to the living room, unlocked the glass doors, and quietly slid them open.The cool morning air wafted into the room. Steam rose from the surface of the pool and Jacuzzi. Luisa could see that the overnight fog had left the shrubs damp and alert. She picked up a few glasses and headed for the kitchen. The granite and chrome of the modern kitchen sparkled in the glow of the light Luisa flicked on with her elbow. She sought a space on top of the center island to rest the glasses, but its surface, which ran the length of the room, was covered with platters of leftover hors d’oeuvres and empty wine bottles. Luisa circled the island in order to get to the dish washer on the other side, hoping it was not already full. As she navigated the counter’s oval, Luisa’s breath caught in her throat.Without thinking, she reached her arm back toward the wall phone and dropped the glasses.“Dios mio, dios mio,” Luisa repeated as she dialed 9-1-1 with trembling fingers. :: michelle solotar