by Cate Noble
Then again…
Next he looked over passenger lists until his eyes hurt. At noon he stopped and stretched. Maybe he’d go out and get some real food. Stop by and see Iris and Truman, before coming back and going through it all over again. There had to be something here.
In the end, Dante went to the grocery store first, then picked up a bucket of fried chicken—Iris’s favorite—and took it to the marina.
Iris greeted him with a hug and then peeked inside one of the bags he’d set on the galley’s tiny table. “My stomach and your mind must have a telepathic link.”
“That explains a lot,” Dante grumbled.
“And look who’s here.” Iris pointed to the couch.
D-dog was stretched out on a small mountain of pillows. His cone and most of the bandages were gone, but his hind quarter was still splinted. The dog raised his head, growled, and resettled himself.
“I’d hoped his near-death experience would change his attitude,” Dante said.
“It has! Why, he’s sweeter than ever, aren’t you, Darling-dog?” The mutt returned Iris’s adoring look. “I just sprang him this morning. ’Course, Truman’s already carping about feeling tied down with a dog. Like we go anywhere!”
“Don’t listen to her,” Truman joked as he entered and shook Dante’s hand. “I thought that was your truck outside.”
Over the next hour, he talked fishing with Truman and listened to Iris’s view on election politics. “Send me to Washington for a week, and I’ll fix those rascally bastards,” she said.
Dante was still chuckling when he left. As he climbed in his truck, his cell phone rang. P. PATTERSON showed on the caller ID.
“You won’t believe this!” Pearl’s voice was triumphant. “I went to look in that old cabinet of Paul’s that I kept and there was a file labeled CHURCHES. He kept the photographs of all the ones he painted. I’m so pleased to have discovered these! Now, I think I’ve found the one you mentioned. A white church with baskets of red hibiscus? The back of that picture says ‘Saint Maria’s.’”
Dante was trying to find a working pen in his truck. Damn heat had baked the ink. “Do you know where it’s located?” He’d guess there were hundreds of churches with that name. Maybe thousands.
“I can’t read Paul’s scrawl. R—E—O. Rio, perhaps? You know, that would make sense. He spent a couple weeks in Brazil, before returning to paint these.”
“Rio de Janeiro.” A city famous for welcoming and hiding fugitives. “You’ve been most helpful, Mrs. Patterson.”
Racing back to his apartment, Dante did a search on the church. Bingo. There was even a photograph of Saint Maria’s in Rio de Janeiro. He squinted at it. Imagined red flowers.
Yeah, that was it. One of the entries stated that the church had burned and was scheduled to be razed. He wrote down the address.
Okay, he’d found the church—but what did it mean? Had Cat spent time in Rio at some point? The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was the one place he’d never heard her mention. Interesting.
Was it true she had wanted the painting for a friend? Any chance that friend lived in Rio? Any chance that friend was Giselle Barclay?
“Crap shoot, crap shoot, crap shoot.” But as long as he was chasing wild hares anyway…
Dante called Travis. “I’ve got a long shot. Based on nothing more solid than an old memory. Is there a way to cross-reference the names on the Freeport list against flights in and out of Rio de Janeiro over that same period? And include Giselle Barclay’s known aliases.”
“You don’t ask for much, do you?” Travis exhaled. “Let me consult my oracle and get back to you.”
Chapter 21
Bangkok, Thailand
July 11
(Present Day)
Rocco sat in a dim corner of the bar’s outside patio. In another part of town, al fresco, Thai style, would be considered premium seating. He’d have been overlooking a mink-and-pearls crowd.
Here, depending on the prevailing wind, al fresco required a strong constitution. And the only fur in sight was on the rats that scurried past.
The docks weren’t far away and tonight the smell of fish and pollution battled with the mélange of garbage from the alleyway behind him.
The inside of the place wasn’t much better. At least outside the breeze could shift. And here he had four different escape routes immediately available with no worries of being trapped in a building with one exit.
He’d been in town two long and frustrating days. And wouldn’t you know the rush of travel and jetlag had caught up—just as he was getting ready to leave again. Returning to Thailand was an even bigger risk these days, considering both sides of the Pacific had tabooed the journey.
Didn’t stop him, but to avoid taunting fate, Rocco limited his stays to forty-eight hours or less. In and out. Wham, bam.
A slight twitch in the air alerted him to the fact he had company. Someone was behind the fence that lined the side of the patio. Rocco checked the switchblade tucked inside his sleeve, then he picked up his scotch and pretended to take a drink.
A man vaulted over the fence with a ninja-like ease and landed right in front of the point of Rocco’s knife.
“Easy, my friend.” Diego Marques raised his hands in mock surrender.
Rocco sat back down. “One of these days you’re going pull that stunt and find yourself sushied.”
Grinning, Diego took the seat opposite. “I have great faith in both of us. Your control is impeccable, but my speed…”
The blade retracted with a slish. “Cut the shit; the smell’s bad enough as it is.” Rocco slid an envelope across the table.
“All business tonight, eh?” Diego peeked inside and made an appreciative grimace. “That will buy a lot of Girl Scout cookies. But…” He pushed the envelope toward the center of the table. “We’re doing this all backwards. Why?”
In past dealings, Rocco would request a service, and if Diego was interested, he’d name his price. They always haggled. Diego was good, but his opinion of his value was as inflated as his ego.
“I’m on a deadline,” Rocco said. “And I know what I usually end up paying for an address.”
“That’s three times the norm. You looking for triplets?”
“One man. But he is—or was—employed by a mutual friend.”
“You’re suggesting my loyalty is for sale?” Diego examined the empty glass sitting on the table, then picked up the bottle of scotch and loosened the lid. He sniffed the contents before pouring himself a drink. “Okay, I give up. Who is this person?”
“Jaleel.” The snitch who’d told Rocco about the cartel’s drug route.
With a dramatic sigh, Diego shoved the money all the way back. “I understand his last job didn’t go so hot. Diving with sharks. No cage. Bait and blood sacks tied to his weight belt.”
Well, that explained why Jaleel couldn’t be found. “Pissed off Minh Tran one too many times?”
“Tran offered me a very sweet deal to locate the man, so I don’t think he was the one who bagged Jaleel.”
“Any idea who Jaleel was freelancing for then?”
“Not yet. But for a price,” Diego’s eyes shifted back to the envelope. “I can assure that you’ll learn first.”
“I’ll think about it.” Yes, Rocco wanted to know, but he wasn’t paying big bucks to get details on something that he’d hear about eventually through the back alley grapevines.
And dead, Jaleel was, well, even more worthless than he’d been alive. Shit. This whole damn trip had turned out to be a waste. Another of his snitches who’d promised the latest and greatest on SugarCane production had vanished as well. Guess it was sign.
“Gotta run.” Rocco checked his watch as he scooped up the envelope. He shipped out in two hours. “Feel free to stay and enjoy the ambience.”
“Not so fast.” Diego raised his glass. Like Rocco, he’d never actually drank. Not in a dump like this. “I have something else that might be of in
terest.”
“About?”
“That prison guard you were looking for a few months back? Skihawtra?”
Skihawtra. It took Rocco a minute to recall Ping’s surname. “You found him?”
“Not yet. But someone else is searching for him, too.”
“Who?”
Diego shrugged. “I’m still working on it. My contact in customs said Skihawtra’s passport was flagged by one of the head honchos.”
While corruption was openly accepted here, it did have a pecking order. And a hierarchy. Governmental head honchos didn’t come cheap and didn’t work for just anyone.
“I want to know who’s asking,” Rocco said. “But that’s not worth this.” He held up the envelope. “As you said, this is three times the norm.”
“There’s more.” Diego had on his Cheshire Cat smile. “Someone’s also asking about the man who escorted the American prisoner out of that Bangkok jail.”
Rocco debated briefly about extending his trip a few more days. Except he’d just promised to meet Dante again. And staying in Thailand beyond the forty-eight-hour limit he’d negotiated with the goddess of Fate was just plain reckless. He’d have to plan another trip.
Rocco surrendered the cash. “You know which name I want first, right?”
“Word to the wise.” Diego grew uncharacteristically serious. “Be cautious with your travels. There’s talk of a special election here, so the ruling party is looking for sacrificial lambs. Any leniency they hand out will be reserved for potential voters. Whereas harsh sentences handed out to foreigners will be lauded.”
Luc melted back into the shadows. “I’ll be in touch,” he heard the large American say.
That same man now walked toward a car.
So you’re the American searching for my father. Why? A half-dozen reasons crossed Luc’s mind. He hoped that after he met with his uncle tonight, all those questions would be answered.
Then Luc would decide whether or not to tell the American where his father was buried. Right now, though, Luc wasn’t even certain himself.
Just before reaching his car, the American casually dropped something into a trash can. Luc recognized the muffled clattering.
The man had just ditched his knife. He’d likely bought it upon arriving, which meant he must be leaving again. Luc was tempted to follow, but the American now knew that someone had asked about him. Which meant he’d be more vigilant.
Once the American pulled away, Luc relaxed and refocused on Diego Marques.
Diego was considered a folk hero in Luc’s world. Diego was the model of success other criminals aspired to. He worked for himself and didn’t have to deal with the unending protocols that were the bane of the various crime cartels.
Unlike Luc, Diego had found a specialty that provided a lucrative living. An encyclopedia of international information, Diego was extremely picky about who he worked with, too. Simply being able to afford him wasn’t enough. He required references. Credentials.
Luc had been correct in surmising that Diego was one of the few who could have arranged to smuggle an injured American prisoner out of the country. Then Luc had checked around some more and confirmed Diego had indeed been in the area four months ago. Slowly the pieces were starting to come together.
As Luc watched, Diego pulled out his cell phone. No ring, vibrate only. The man listened, said “Thanks,” and disconnected.
A minute later, a sports car driven by a gorgeous blonde pulled up. As Diego approached, she climbed out from behind the wheel, showing off long legs, a tiny skirt, and an even tinier top. She spread her legs slightly, leaning back against the car. Diego brushed one hand across her bare midriff, the other claiming a very large breast. The woman moaned as if having an orgasm. They broke apart, climbed in the car, and disappeared into the night.
Yeah, Luc wanted to be just like Diego Marques.
He remained in the shadows another few minutes, then eased across the alley to the garbage can. The trash he had to fish through was disgusting, but the switchblade more than made up for it.
A quality piece with a fine balance, it was wrapped in a handkerchief used to wipe prints. Pity to buy something this nice and have to discard it. But on the other hand, who wanted to get stuck in a knife fight with a cheap piece of shit?
Luc ejected the six-inch blade and sliced the air. He’d watched the American pull this knife on Diego. Since few would dare pull such a stunt, it said much about the American’s skill. The fact that Diego hadn’t retaliated indicated the two were friends. Was the American one of Diego’s counterparts?
Flipping the blade up into the air, Luc caught it by the tip. Then he pocketed the closed knife and took off. Depending on what he learned from his uncle, it wasn’t inconceivable that Luc might be scheduling his own meeting with Diego.
Or even the American.
Moving so light-footed that even the normally nervous alley rats didn’t squeak and run, Luc ran a false trail, doubling back to assure no one followed.
Just like Diego had when he’d followed him here. Except Luc had tailed Diego from the rooftops.
And while Luc didn’t have anywhere near the number of enemies Diego was rumored to have, there was a certain party he needed to avoid. Not that they were smart enough to catch Luc.
After navigating a few more streets on foot, Luc again took to the roof to survey the area. Here and there, the darkness was broken by an occasional light. But his uncle hadn’t shown up yet.
Would he come? Luc pulled out the notes he’d received. None of them told the whole story. Luc had snooped around a bit on his own, but for every question answered, ten more popped up.
Luc hadn’t seen his uncle—anyone in his family—in more than ten years. He’d run away at age thirteen. And the things he’d done since…That he felt nervous about this reunion surprised him. He’d thought his heart had turned to stone long ago.
A month ago Luc had received word his uncle searched for him. Knowing it likely meant his father had died and that his mother needed him, Luc had made the long trek to this parents’ home.
Finding their simple thatch hut gone had unnerved him. The house had been burned, the ruins removed. As if someone had tried to erase their very existence. Guilt had besieged Luc as he worried that his enemies had discovered his real name and found his parents. If this had been because of him…
Staying hidden, Luc had then made his way to his uncle’s house, but it, too, was destroyed. Wary of openly approaching the tiny village near his parents’ home, Luc waited until one of the old men, a friend of his father’s, went off alone to fish.
The man had seemed horrified to see Luc. “I was told you were dead.” Then the man told Luc about how his father, Ping, had gone to work at a prison. “This will be hard to hear, but he was shot while helping a prisoner escape. The prisoner died, too.”
Apparently, Luc’s mother had left in shame to go live with a sister far away. It was assumed Luc’s uncle had accompanied her. That their houses both mysteriously burned down one night was believed to be an omen by the overly superstitious townspeople. The prison in the jungle had swirled with dark evil. An evil that had corrupted Ping.
“You should leave,” the old man advised. “And tell no one we spoke of this.”
Luc then made his way to his mother’s sister. But his auntie hadn’t seen Luc’s mother in years. And she knew nothing of Ping’s death.
Returning to the jungle, Luc quietly searched for the prison. He found that it, too, was gone; burned and razed just as his parents’ home had been. And what little he gathered from the local grapevines added to his confusion. Had the prisoner indeed escaped? Had the prisoner been a Westerner? And what about the American who’d been asking questions about the prison?
Finally, Luc had received a note from his uncle confirming that both his parents were dead. Murdered, but no details were given. That his uncle was now in hiding and needed help to leave the area confirmed that his uncle was indeed involved somehow. No su
rprise. When he lived at home, Luc recalled the two brothers always hatching crazy schemes. But had this one cost his parents’ lives?
In the darkness below Luc heard a sound. A shadow moved. His uncle.
Luc checked the other end of the alley before shimmying through an exhaust pipe in the roof that led to a little-used supply room of a now-closed business.
Opening the door, Luc motioned the man inside.
“Uncle! Come in quickly.”
Clearly not expecting the door to have opened thus, his uncle drew in a sharp breath and clutched at his chest. “Luc!”
“Shh.” Motioning his uncle to be silent, Luc pulled the man inside and shut the door before turning on a small lamp.
The ache in the pit of his stomach sharpened as his eyes took in his uncle. The years had not been kind to the older man. Drinking and dissipation were partly to blame, but the mantle of horror and grief his uncle carried was demanding a heavy toll.
“How you have grown! You were a boy when I last saw you. Now you’re a man. Your father…” His uncle began to weep, hiding his face.
“Come over here.” Luc led the man to a chair in the far corner, then returned to listen at the door, giving the older man a chance to compose his thoughts.
And Luc a chance to steel himself.
After a moment, Luc returned to his uncle’s side. The older man’s eyes lit up when Luc handed him a slim flask.
“You always were my favorite nephew.”
“Your only nephew. I have food, too.” Luc passed his uncle a small loaf of bread, filled with cheese.
While his uncle ate, Luc told him what he’d learned about his father after going back to the jungle.
“It’s all lies! And you must promise me to never go back there!” his uncle said between bites. “It is bad enough they’re searching for me.”
“Who is searching?”
“The guards from the prison. They don’t want anyone to question what went on there. They killed your father!”