Conor's eyebrows shot up. "How'd you know that?"
"You can't work in Nuevo York as long as I did without learning something."
"In that case," Conor said, fanning through the photos, "maybe you can help me with something else. I've got some pictures here. That message was written on the back of one of them."
"Uh-huh."
"There are some signs in the pictures, in Spanish. I figure they must have some connection to the message."
"What do the signs say?"
"The first says Avenida Rio Azul."
Conor could hear the sharp intake of his father's breath over the phone.
"Avenida Rio Azul?"
"Yeah. Does that mean something to you?"
"Tell me what the other signs say, Conor."
"There's a second sign that says Calle La Perla. And then there's a sign on a building. It says—"
"El Gato Negro."
Conor frowned. "That's right. You know this place?"
"Damn right, I know it. Where'd you get those pictures, son?"
"It's too complicated to go into now. Just tell me what the hell I'm looking at here."
"There was a big drug bust back when I was still on the job. Some yahoos from Medellin got taken down by the DEA."
Conor felt the hair rise on the nape of his neck.
"Medillin? Colombia?"
"Yes. They were running high-octane coke right through the heart of the Seventh. I ended up working with the DEA guys. They had lots of surveillance photos."
"Like these?"
"Exactly like those."
"So, what am I looking at, then? A Colombian drug factory?"
"El Gato Negro, at the intersection of Calle La Perla and Avenida Rio Azul, wasn't a drug factory."
"Conor?"
Conor turned around. Miranda had moved close to where he stood. Her face was pale and puzzled.
"Who are you talking to?"
He tried for a smile and forced his attention away from Miranda and back to the telephone.
"If it wasn't a drug factory, what was it?"
"It was the favorite meeting place for every fat cat who dealt dope in that part of Colombia."
"Why?"
"Because El Gato Negro was the best whorehouse in town."
* * *
"I don't understand why I can't go with you."
Conor slipped into his leather jacket. He and Miranda had been at this for almost twenty minutes, her insisting on going with him, him coming up with what he hoped sounded like logical reasons for her to stay right here. Well, she wasn't going with him, that was for sure, not if he had to lock her inside this damn apartment and throw away the keys.
No matter what Miranda's relationship was with her mother, he wasn't going to have her standing there while he told Eva he knew she'd lied about her place of birth, then shoved a picture of a whorehouse under her nose and asked her what in hell she knew about it.
"Damn you, O'Neil, don't you dare ignore me!" Miranda grabbed his arm and stepped between him and the door. "Why won't you take me with you?"
"Sweetheart..."
"Don't sweetheart me. I want an answer."
"I've given you my answer half a dozen times." He smiled, but she wasn't buying it. Her eyes still flashed defiance. Conor sighed. "Okay, I'll try again. I want to check out a lead."
"About these photos," she said, and he nodded. "I have the right to know why, Conor. They were sent to me."
"I know that."
"And you won't tell me what that call from your father was about."
"Can't a father call a son to say hello?"
"Give me a break, O'Neil. He called to give you some information."
"What if he did? He was a cop, remember? Cops have all kinds of contacts."
"How come you didn't tell me you'd gotten in touch with your father about what's been happening to me?"
"It didn't seem important to tell you, not until I found out if he could pick up some information on Moratelli."
"And he did, but you won't tell me what it is."
"Dammit!" Time was flying, and Conor's gut told him that from now on every second counted. "Beckman," he growled, "get out of my way."
"Why would you think your father would know anything about Moratelli?"
"I just told you why. Because my old man was a cop. He used to work the streets where—"
"Where what?"
Conor took a breath. "Where you can dig up information on low-lifes like Vince."
Miranda's eyes fixed on his. "I know there's more to it. And now you want me to stay here like a good little girl, all by myself, while you play detective."
"You won't be alone. I've told you that. I've arranged for security until I get back. It's already in place. You heard the call I made, and the confirming one that came in, a little while ago."
"Do you ever listen to yourself? The way you spoke to whoever it was you telephoned—"
"An associate," Conor said. Hell, it wasn't a lie. Thurston was an associate, in a way.
"And the words that trip off your tongue. Contacts. Associates. Security." She made a face, as if she'd smelled something unpleasant. "There are times you sound like an actor in a bad spy movie!"
"Will you calm down?"
"I am calm. I am very calm. I'm just tired of being lied to."
"I haven't—"
"Oh, please, spare us both that wide-eyed routine! You haven't been honest with me and I know it."
He knew he was supposed to deny it, assure her he was second cousin to an Eagle Scout, but he wouldn't. No more lying, not after Eva gave him some answers.
"Miranda," he said softly. He took hold of her shoulders, feeling the rigidity in her body. "Sweetheart, you're right. There are things I haven't told you."
"Then tell me now."
"I can't." She tried to pull away from him but he wouldn't let her. "But I promise, I'll tell you tonight."
"Everything?"
"Everything."
She sighed, and he felt some of the tension ease out of her.
"No more lies, Conor." The anger in her words was gone, replaced by a weariness that almost broke his heart. "Please."
He took her face between his hands and raised it to his.
"Trust me one last time," he said, "that's all I ask."
She looked up. His eyes were steady on hers and filled with promises enough to last a lifetime. She smiled tremulously and he kissed her. Then he undid the locks on the door and picked up the manila envelope with the photograph inside.
"Yabba Dabba Doo."
"Yabba Dabba Doo?" she said and, just as he'd hoped, her smile warmed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you lock the door after me, put the chain on and don't open it for anybody or anything, unless you hear those words. I'll be back before you know it."
He kissed her again, and then he was gone.
* * *
It was chilly out, and felt more like early fall than late spring.
Conor zipped up his jacket and turned up his collar. He knew he should get moving. Everything was set. He'd had Thurston make sure that Eva was at home, though he'd warned him against alerting her to his visit.
"You want to tell me what's going down?" Harry had asked, and Conor had said he wasn't sure, which was damn well the truth.
But something would go down, tonight. Eva was sitting on a secret and he was going to get it out of her, any way he had to. Conor's mouth thinned. And if Hoyt got in his way...
He had a million reasons for putting his fist through Hoyt Winthrop's teeth, every one of them named Miranda.
Conor looked up and down the street. He'd made a specific request for Hank Levy to watch over Miranda and Hank had phoned to assure him he was in place along with Dave Scotti, another good man, to cover the service entrance.
Well, then, why was he wasting time? He knew, just knew, that the tangled skein of the Winthrop's secrets was about to unravel.
Yet, he had an uneasy fe
eling about leaving Miranda alone.
But she wasn't alone. Her door was locked, and Scotti and Levy were watching over her.
Conor turned up his collar, tucked his hands into his pockets, and headed for the Winthrop mansion.
* * *
Far above the street, in Miranda's apartment, the shrill ring of the telephone pierced the silence.
Miranda jumped. Hand to her heart, she reached for the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Good evening, Miranda."
Her heart slammed against her ribs. She knew that unctuous voice, would know it anywhere.
"What do you want?" she whispered.
Vincent Moratelli laughed. The evil sound felt like a trail of slime across her skin.
"Your mother knows what I want, darling. Why not ask her?"
The connection was broken and the dial tone hummed in her ear, Miranda started to tremble.
"Conor," she whispered, as she hung up the phone, "Conor, where are you?"
She thought of the message written in Spanish that had something to do with her mother and secrets, thought of Moratelli's whispered words as they had oozed through the telephone.
Your mother knows what I want.
She had received the threat, but Eva was the target. She had been, all along.
Miranda looked at her watch. Less than ten minutes had crawled by since Conor's departure. He'd tell her everything, he'd said, when he returned, but why should she wait? Eva had answers and she wanted them now.
Someone was downstairs, Conor had said, watching over her. Miranda smiled tightly as she headed for the door.
Whoever was down there, she hoped he was in the mood for a little visit to Fifth Avenue.
* * *
Conor knew he'd caught Eva off guard, from the way her lips formed into a thin, unyielding line. She wasn't any happier to find him waiting in the entryway than Jeeves had been to find him on the doorstep.
"Mr. O'Neil." Her gaze flashed to the envelope he held in his hand, then to his face. "You should have telephoned first. I'm afraid my husband and I are expecting dinner guests."
Conor smiled pleasantly. "This won't take long."
He didn't wait for an invitation but pushed past her into the foyer. The painting of Miranda was gone. A watercolor in a heavy gilt frame hung in its place.
Eva brushed past him. "Indeed, it will not," she said briskly. "This way, please."
The library was the same as it had been weeks before. Once they were inside, she shut the door, folded her arms, and looked at him.
"Well? What is it that brings you here uninvited, Mr. O'Neil?"
"You're direct, Mrs. Winthrop. I admire that."
"And I admire brevity. What is the purpose of your visit?"
Conor smiled. "I was wondering... what was it like, at The Black Cat?"
The color drained from Eva's face. She seemed to age a dozen years as she staggered backwards to brace herself against the paneled wall.
"The what?"
"You're a good liar, Eva, but not good enough. Why did you lie about your birthplace?"
She stiffened, but only for a heartbeat. Then she reached past him and flung open the door.
"I think you'd better leave."
"It was stupid, pretending you were Argentinean, when the truth was so easy to discover." Conor opened the envelope and drew out a photo. "I have something for you. A little souvenir, you might say."
"Get out!"
"Come on, Eva, aren't you curious? It's a picture, from your country."
"My country," she said coldly, "is the United States of America. And I would remind you, Mr. O'Neil, that my husband is—"
She fell silent as Conor held out the photograph. Her gaze shot to it, then to his face.
"What—what is that?" she whispered.
"You tell me."
He lifted his arm and slowly waggled the photo back and forth. After a moment, Eva took it from him and looked at it. The sound of her breathing seemed to fill the room.
"Where did you get this?" she asked hoarsely.
"Someone had it delivered to your daughter this afternoon."
She nodded. "Well, I don't—I don't know why you've brought it to me." Her hand shook as she held out the photograph. "A picture of a street in the middle of nowhere..."
"It's over," he said, almost gently, and he slid the other photos from the envelope and held them in front of her.
She looked at him, and he could see the fear in her hazel eyes. He almost felt sorry for her.
"What's over? I don't know what you're talking about."
"If you tell me the truth, I may be able to help you."
"Why would I need your help? So I lied about my birthplace. Well, so what?" She slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, her posture one of regal defiance. "That was a long time ago. Is there a law that says Colombians can't enter the United States, especially when they're married to U.S. citizens?" Her chin lifted in a gesture that reminded him of Miranda. "We have friends in high places, Mr. O'Neil. Have you thought of what the president will say, when my husband informs him that you've been harassing me?"
"Actually," Conor said softly, "I've been thinking about what he'll say when he finds out the wife of his ambassador-designate used to earn her living as a whore."
There was an instant of electric silence and then Eva flew at him, her fingers curved so that her blood-red fingernails flashed like talons. Conor grabbed her by the wrists and forced her further into the library.
"Condenado," she screeched, "hijo de puta!" She pulled free and wrapped her arms around her middle. Terror and rage flashed in her eyes. "You son of a bitch! I knew you were going to ruin everything from the second I laid eyes on you."
"Who's blackmailing you, Eva? Tell me what's going on and maybe I can get you out of this mess."
"I will tell you nothing. Not a word, do you hear me?"
"Have you told Hoyt?" His question made her breath hitch. "I thought not." Conor's expression hardened. "Give me what I want and the information will never leave this room."
Her eyes were fixed on his, her body as taut as a stretched wire. The air almost vibrated with tension. She was hanging on to his every word.
This was the moment he'd been waiting for.
"I want to know why de Lasserre's after Miranda."
"How would I—"
She stumbled back as Conor moved towards her.
"You fuck with me," he said, "so help me God, I'll toss you to the wolves."
Eva stared at his face. His eyes were cold and flat. She had seen eyes like those in what she'd begun to think of as a life that had belonged to somebody else. But it wasn't somebody else's life, it was hers, and it had caught up to her, as she'd always feared it would.
"All right," she whispered. She folded her arms around herself again, as if to let go would mean she'd break into a dozen pieces. "First, you have to promise me that no one else will ever learn what I tell you—and that Edouard de Lasserre will never bother me again."
Considering what he had in mind for the son of a bitch, it was an easy promise to make.
"Done." Conor sat down on the arm of one of the silk chairs that flanked the fireplace. "Now, let's hear it."
Eva took a deep breath. "Very well." Her accent, always before barely noticeable, had grown stronger during the past minutes, as if she were giving up not just the truth but herself. She looked straight at Conor and though her face was flushed, her gaze was steady. "I was born to a mother who was a factory girl." She smiled bitterly. "I had many tios, uncles, who would stay with my mother for a week, a month..." She shrugged and drew a deep breath. "One day, when I was perhaps twelve, one of the 'uncles' had business in a town called Santa Teresa. He took us with him."
"Drug business?"
Eva laughed. "That is the business in Santa Teresa, Mr. O'Neil." Her smile faded. She shivered and rubbed her arms briskly with her hands. "I don't know what happened between them, only that they quarreled and he le
ft us there. My mother had no money and so she sold herself at El Gato Negro, so that we could eat."
"And she stayed on," Conor said, when Eva fell silent.
She nodded. "She died in a drunken fight when I was almost thirteen." Her eyes flashed. "I make no apologies for what I did then, Mr. O'Neil. What other work is there for the daughter of a puta? Yes, I worked at El Gato Negro until I'd saved enough money to go to Bogota—and then I met my soldier."
"Beckman."
"Yes. He was very young and very innocent, and when I told him he had taken my virginity and that I was pregnant with his child..." Eva's hand slashed through the air. "He married me and brought me to this country."
"Why did you lie about your birthplace?"
She shrugged. "I wanted to bury my past. Buying a phony passport was easy enough, and Beckman was stupid. He believed whatever I told him."
"Even that Miranda was his," Conor said softly.
"It would have been better if she had been born dead," Eva said bitterly.
"Jesus Christ, do you hear what you're saying? She's your daughter!"
"She is no good."
"And what are you?" Conor's mouth twisted. "You lied your way into marriage, cheated your way into this country, found that pig, Winthrop, molesting your very own flesh and blood, and you did nothing except punish the girl by sending her away."
"Ah, I see. You have chosen to believe Miranda's version of the story."
"She told me what happened."
"She is a liar and a tramp!" Spittle formed in the corners of Eva's mouth. "She is the one who lured Hoyt to her bed."
Conor's laugh was brutal. "You can't really believe that."
"Why would I not believe my husband? The blood in his veins is as blue as the sky."
"And the blood in Miranda's veins is yours." A muscle knotted in Conor's jaw. "That's why you didn't believe her, isn't it? You believe in the sins of the fathers... only in this case, it's the sins of the mothers."
"What I think is none of your concern, Mr. O'Neil."
She was right. His only concern was Miranda's safety.
"Tell me why Edouard de Lasserre's been threatening Miranda," he said.
"Because I would not do as he demanded."
"Which was?"
"Do you know anything about the manufacture of cosmetics, Mr. O'Neil?"
"No."
"Papillon makes perfumes, colognes, lotions and sprays which contain fragrances. To make them, we import huge quantities of fresh flowers." She smiled a little. "Colombia does not only export drugs. It exports magnificent flowers. The flowers must be hurried through customs or they wilt and die. Because of our reputation and my husband's connections, Papillon has been granted something called a 'line release.' It means shipments we receive from Colombia may come into the United States without being searched by U.S. Customs."
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