Sinclair Justice

by Colleen Shannon

  He nodded approvingly. Then he held out his arms for her to appraise him. “How do I look?” he asked.

  Like a peasant trying to be a billionaire by wearing a Savile Row tuxedo, she wanted to say, but she nodded, as if impressed. “Like a king.”

  He nodded his satisfaction. “And your daughter? She is . . . ready?” He meant was she composed enough. Jennifer had been in tears more often than not lately, and Arturo knew this from his son, who was beginning to lose interest in her.

  Yancy was well aware of his thoughts and said calmly, “The last time I saw her she was fine, but I should probably slip into her room and check before I go downstairs.” She touched up her lipstick again as he watched indulgently. She’d learned early on that the more valuable Arturo found her, the better he treated her and, by extension, her daughter. . . .

  He used a Kleenex to wipe his reddened mouth. “Everything else is ready?”

  “Yes. I checked with the kitchen and the housekeeper before I came up to dress, and they’re on schedule with the menu and the flowers. And the valets you’ve hired; will they be enough?”

  “Sí. We may have to park some cars outside the compound, but I have men on guard.”

  At the landing, they parted. He went downstairs and she turned toward Jennifer’s room. To her relief, the guard stood aside when she appeared and the door was unlocked.

  Standing before her own mirror, struggling into a skintight royal blue silk gown that brought out her blue eyes, Jennifer still had the usual dazed look. Yancy’s concern mounted as she went to her daughter and softly kissed her cheek, careful not to muss her reapplied lipstick or Jennifer’s heavy rouge. “You remember tonight is the night, don’t you?” she whispered in her ear. “When the men go into the study for their cigars, we’re supposed to retire with the women for margaritas and mojitos in the salon, but I want you to act drunk and pretend to throw up so I have an excuse to take you to your room. I’ve paid someone to help us escape in the trunk of a limo—”

  Jennifer nodded woodenly. “Yes, Mother. When do we get to go home? I’m bored here.”

  Yancy whirled her daughter around and shook her slightly. “Listen to me, dammit! How many Xanax did that bastard give you? What else?”

  Jennifer was so unsteady, even the slight shake almost made her fall. “Sleepy,” was all she said, yawning.

  Tears added their brilliance to the diamantés in Yancy’s fake eyelashes. Jennifer had been either an emotional wreck or virtually comatose of late, and Yancy knew Tomás had upped her Xanax dosage. She suspected he was feeding her other drugs, anything to keep her quiet and quiescent. Obedient arm candy for this event.

  Yancy bit her lip and then cursed herself; now she’d have to touch up her lipstick again. Her gaze lit on Jennifer’s jumbled dressing table and a stretch rhinestone bracelet that would look good with the small diamonds in which Tomás had bedecked Jennifer. Yancy grabbed it up and stretched it. It seemed pretty sturdy. Yancy slipped it on Jennifer’s bare arm and lifted her daughter’s chin to look deeply into her eyes. “Remember how I taught you to pop a rubber band against your wrist when you were sleepy or nervous or had to remember something?” She shook Jennifer again, once, hard. When that had little effect, Yancy pinched her, hard.

  Jennifer’s head lolled back, then snapped erect, her eyes focused. “Yes, Mom.”

  Yancy snapped the bracelet on Jennifer’s arm. “I want you to snap this every time you get the chance tonight. Every time it pinches your wrist I want you to remember, repeat after me, ‘Throw up with my first margarita in the salon after dinner.’ ” She made Jennifer say it six times until she was satisfied she would remember.

  She relaxed a bit. “Okay, one other thing.” She had to swallow hard, but there was no way to dress this up. “Arturo and Tomás have new . . . business associates. Chechen scum, but it’s possible they may want to . . . spend the night with you. If it happens, just do whatever they say, no matter what. Hopefully, they won’t want to . . . retire until after cigars, but if they do, you have to keep them happy. We can’t have a scene right before we finally escape. Clear?”

  Jennifer’s lips trembled and the glazed look was coming back, but she nodded briskly.

  “Just keep it together tonight and I promise you, tomorrow we’ll wake up in the US Embassy and we’ll be home within a month.”

  “Home,” Jennifer whispered. She popped the bracelet, and the glazed look faded a bit. She nodded more firmly.

  “Go downstairs, then, and pretend to be happy.”

  Jennifer walked downstairs with some of her usual grace, though she was still a bit unsteady.

  After she touched up her lipstick, Yancy also walked downstairs, stepping carefully in her high heels. Arturo greeted her at the bottom and even offered his arm. She rested her fingertips on it and took a last satisfied look around, as if she were, indeed, chatelaine of this mansion. Soft instrumental Spanish music played from the expensive built-in speakers. Flowers cascaded down from the arched entry and were massed in crystal vases between burning candles on the entry tables.

  A heavy antique silver salver gleamed in the middle of the huge dining table in the formal dining room, which seated twenty-four people. More crystal vases overflowing with flowers and glowing candles were interspersed with the silver. Yancy had arranged most of the vases herself, and she’d helped the chef draw up a menu that had gained Arturo’s final approval. Only one element spoiled the tableau: Armed men were everywhere, as usual, but tonight they were suited, and only a few openly carried machine guns. Most merely had bulges under their armpits.

  Her hand on his arm, she followed him to the doorway, where the first guests were arriving. Anyone seeing the urbane if not handsome Latino and the gorgeous natural blonde on his arm would have assumed they were married, independently wealthy, graduates of elite universities. Successful Mexico City businesspeople welcoming a roster of international guests.

  Which, in a way, was true, except the business all were involved in was uniquely lucrative. And uniquely dangerous.

  Every woman wore glittering jewels and every man wore a tux. Yancy had attended fancy dinners with Emm and her Rothschild stepfather, but she’d never felt as if she fit in, with her off-the-rack dresses and cheap shoes. But tonight she sensed Arturo’s macho pride in having her on his arm, and he courteously introduced her to anyone she hadn’t met, which included most of the guests.

  Yancy smiled brightly at a new arrival. Jesús. As a key distributor of both meth and cocaine, he was at the house often, and Arturo had already sent her to Jesús’s bed as a reward for beating his quotas. But she’d also read his blatant ambition and invited him several times to her bed when Arturo was away. She’d dated such men before, identical in morals and ambition; they just wore Wall Street suits when they stabbed someone in the back.

  Yancy hadn’t figured out if Jesús was an undercover Mexican cop or just playing the two rival cartels against one another, which she knew was a very dangerous game. He was, Arturo had thought, totally loyal, at least until tonight. Apparently now Arturo suspected he had divided loyalties, which was disastrous news to Yancy, because Jesús was their ride out of the compound. She had to do damage control for one more night.

  She’d flattered his ego and played up her hatred of Arturo enough that Jesús was enamored of her and had agreed to help her and Jennifer escape, especially as she’d promised him a hefty reward from the Rothschild side of the family and a portion of the money raised when she sold her jewels. He intended tonight to be his last appearance as one of Arturo’s trusted lieutenants, so he had little to lose. Arturo would already be out for his blood.

  But she and Jesús merely smiled perfunctorily at one another as he lifted her hand to kiss it. Yancy stuck the tiny piece of paper he slipped in her palm between her breasts as she turned aside to bend, as if to straighten the strap of her shoe. Arturo glanced her way as she slipped the glittery strap higher. Something flickered in his eyes that disturbed her but then she was
greeting another guest. Arturo’s cold dark eyes followed Jesús as he went to help himself to champagne, but a second later the drug lord was smiling at his new associates.

  The older and shorter Chechen’s eyes were fixed on her bodice when she straightened up. Had he seen her hide the scrap of paper? Her heart skipped a beat, but she only forced a seductive smile, offering her hand as both men eyed her up and down and then back. Both kissed the air above her hand. One said something to Arturo in Russian, which, to her shock, he answered, albeit slowly. She had to greet another arrival, but the hairs rose on the back of her neck at this added proof of Arturo’s utter dedication to ruling the world of drugs. He was barely literate, so learning Russian must have been a real challenge for him, and it was also a scary sign of how much this alliance meant to him. His life’s ambition was to be included in Fortune ’s list of billionaires, like his predecessor, El Chapo. Except Arturo didn’t intend to be captured . . . no matter how many people he had to kill or palms he had to grease.

  As the festivities wore on, with extreme effort, Yancy managed not to fidget with her bodice to see what time she and Jennifer were to slip out of the house to the courtyard; Jesús would plead tiredness before the cigars and retreat to his limo. The way the younger Chechen all but stripped Jennifer with his eyes and slapped Arturo’s son on the back made time, always a precious, vanishing commodity, more priceless than the jewels Yancy wore.

  She figured she had about three hours before Arturo ordered her to the upstairs room or, even worse, Jennifer. Or . . . and this time she grew dry mouthed at the thought . . .

  Both of them.

  Back in Amarillo, Emm reveled in the slight soreness of her lips as she waited at the hostess desk for Curt. She was so tired after the session with Ross it had been an effort to show up as expected, but she’d dragged herself to the appointed dinner, knowing it was too important to miss. She fixed a false smile upon her face as she greeted Curt at the reception area. “Thanks for meeting me.” He took her arm as the hostess led them to a nice booth near the back. It was dramatically lit, and Emm realized the woman thought they were a romantic item.

  They traded small talk at first, but Emm slowly ratcheted up her questions from bland to pointed. “I thought your penthouse was gorgeous when I came to your housewarming party. What else have you done to it?”

  After Curt described his extensive renovations, she added, “That must have increased the market value quite a bit. You bought at a really good time, so I imagine your equity is substantial.”

  Curt looked away. “Yeah, I had to pull a home equity loan to afford everything.”

  That was easy enough to check. “So how do you like your new Carrera? It’s the turbo model, isn’t it?”

  He nodded woodenly, eyeing her more closely. “You’re . . . chatty tonight.”

  “I love my new car, just thought we’d compare notes. What did it cost you, again?”

  “Again? I don’t believe I ever told you.” Curt drummed his fingers against the tabletop. The waitress had cleared everything and they were having coffee.

  “Why are you being so cagey? I’m just making conversation.” Emm stirred half and half into her cup.

  “Yeah, well, you’re being nosy.”

  Emm smiled wryly. “It’s uncomfortable when it comes back atcha, isn’t it?”

  He relaxed a bit and smiled reluctantly. “Guess so. Goes with the territory. To answer your question, I paid almost 150k for the Carrera with all the royalties last year from my new best seller. I saved them for that purpose. I’d always wanted one, and I’m not getting any younger.”

  Emm looked suitably impressed. “I agree there’s no substitute for a high-performance car and the rush you get behind the wheel. Dad wouldn’t tell me exactly what mine cost, but I know it was over 100k.” She folded her napkin over her plate. “So you don’t have any insight to share on the cartel’s methods? Anything that could help locate Yancy and Jennifer?”

  “I already told you, no.” His voice rose again. “You didn’t have anything to share either, so it looks like this was a—” He broke off.

  “Wasted conversation? Then at least I can get the bill. But we made the appointment, and I keep my side of the bargain. Just like Yancy would.”

  He flinched at the name, as if he couldn’t help himself. She knew he’d been wildly in love with Yancy, but her half sister had found Curt too hidebound to stay with him long-term; plus, she said he was equally boring in the sack. From the look on his face, he was also recalling their breakup. But as she’d finally pierced his tough reporter hide, she had to take advantage.

  She stirred her cup again. “I didn’t realize you still had feelings for Yancy.”

  Curt shoved back his thick blond hair with a frustrated hand. “Neither did she. I tried to dissuade her from threatening Brett Umarov because I know he’s dangerous, but she wouldn’t listen.”

  Emm frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “She didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  Curt sighed. “Brett is probably one of Los Lobos’s top distributors on the East Coast, and Yancy threatened to go to the DEA about him if he didn’t help her find Jennifer. She believed he was involved in her daughter’s disappearance. I believe he’s been moving cocaine and heroin for the cartels for years, hidden in his band equipment on his tours. The DEA has brought him in several times and searched his bands and equipment, but they’ve never found anything substantial, just personal stashes. They ducked the charges because all of them have clean records. At least until now.”

  Feeling sick to her stomach, Emm shoved her cup away so hard, coffee splashed into the saucer. “When did this happen?”

  “A few days before Yancy disappeared. I thought she told you, thought that was why Brett has been dragged back in for questioning. I figured you told Sinclair. ”

  A furious flush stained her cheeks. “If you knew all this, why the hell didn’t you tell the police?”

  “I tried to tell that Ruiz fellow. But he blew me off, said they’d already interviewed Brett and found nothing.”

  “You said you heard Brett had been questioned again . . . Who told you that?”

  Curt scowled. “You know I can’t reveal my sources. I’ve been investigating the Mexican cartels for years and I have to give my sources absolute, total anonymity because of how dangerous it is for them to talk to me.”

  “Uh-huh. What about protecting the woman you claim to love?”

  Curt surged to his feet, a flush coloring his own broad cheekbones now. “She broke up with me over a year before she was grabbed. She didn’t even return my calls when I tried to keep in touch. But still, I tried to be there for her. I warned her not to threaten Brett. I even went to the police when she disappeared—”

  “So if I ask, I’ll find this official report on file, right?”

  Curt froze halfway around the table, his napkin still clenched in his hand. He tossed it on the table. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  “Curt, you’re a reporter. You bend the truth for a career.” Emm tossed her own napkin on the table. “Well, this is one time you won’t slant your way out of a scandal. I think you know more than you let on. And I know you’re living very well on a reporter’s salary at a time when every daily in the country is cutting costs.”

  Curt leaned across the table toward her, saying through his teeth, “You don’t talk to me like that, you rich little bitch!”

  Emm gathered her purse over her shoulder and looked him straight in the eye. “You’re right; I don’t have to talk to you at all anymore. The Texas Rangers are on the case. You’re hiding something, and even if I can’t find out what it is, they will.” She turned on her heel and walked away, aware of the pure venom aimed at her back.

  Emm’s eyes burned with tears as she drove back to her hotel. That had been a useless exercise, except for the information about Yancy threatening Brett. She’d be sure she told Ross and Abby tomorrow during the interview.
They could check the evidence to see if Curt had really called Ruiz, as he claimed. As for Curt, she was more convinced than ever that he was hiding something, and it wasn’t just his sources.

  Back in Mexico, the lavish dinner sat heavily in Yancy’s stomach, though she’d eaten lightly. Arturo had placed his Chechen guests in places of honor, one on his right and the other on his left. Because she was seated at the other end of the long table—fortuitously enough, next to Jesús—she had no idea what they were discussing, but she was certain it wasn’t the food or the flowers. The older one kept looking toward her, while the younger one had fixated so intently on Jennifer that even her daughter’s handicapped sense of awareness was on alert. She was trembling where she sat, and Yancy read her urge to flee. Just a little longer, baby. She tried to send her thoughts across the table, but Jennifer was practically shredding her linen napkin, oblivious to everything but her own panic and despair.

  Yancy had little choice. It was midnight. Despite the rigid timetable they’d all agreed on, she had to move up the schedule or Jennifer would blow everything. Giving Jesús an infinitesimal nod agreeing to meet him at twelve thirty, a time she’d confirmed on a bathroom trip that had ended with her flushing the incriminating piece of paper down the toilet, Yancy stood and smiled brilliantly.

  She clapped her hands. “Everyone, thank you for such lovely company on a lovely evening. I hope everything was delicious?” At the enthusiastic sís from every quarter, she smiled even more brightly, pretending not to notice that some people had to gulp down the last of their Mexican flan with dulce leche sauce, and that Arturo was frowning from his end of the table.