by Odell, Terry
She closed her eyes. It came again. She strained to pinpoint the direction. Not the door. The closet? No, it got quieter as she moved nearer. It was more of a scraping sound. Coming from the window? She’d have said it was a tree branch, but there were no trees close enough to rub against the glass. Maybe Paulo had a cat. But cats were usually quiet and couldn’t rap on windows.
For a fleeting moment, she thought it might be another howler monkey, but what would they be doing up here? Unless someone kept one as a pet and fed it.
Would you get your brain in the game? You’re heading out to La-La Land.
The scraping grew louder. Elle turned off the bedroom light—no point in becoming a target—and climbed on the bed. She positioned herself behind the curtain as she slid it aside. Only darkness greeted her. And a faster, louder tapping. Five taps, a pause, five more. No code she knew.
If the cartel wanted her, they’d simply open the door to her room and barge in. Everything said if it was a person out there, he—or she—was one of the good guys.
What do you have to lose?
Stupid question. Before she eased the curtain back any further, she mimicked the tapping.
It echoed at her, faster still. She pulled the curtain aside and braved a peek. Darkness. And then a shadow appeared inches from her face. She lurched backward, grabbing her chest where her heart had tried to leap through her ribcage.
“Who’s out there?” she whispered.
“No importante. Open the window,” came back in a harsh whisper. “We must hurry.”
Hoping like hell she wouldn’t regret it, Elle raised the window. After it lifted a few inches, a gloved hand reached for the bottom rail and the window rose smoothly. “Come. Now. Please. I can help you.”
All she could tell in the dim light was the person was male and was wearing a dark windbreaker and a knit cap pulled low on his face. Again telling herself the cartel would have used the door, she threw her fate into her visitor’s hands and flung a leg through the opening. How he expected her to get down was beyond her, but sometimes you had to take that leap of faith. She hoped it would be a figurative leap, because she didn’t see plunging from a third-story balcony as having a positive outcome.
The man stepped against the rail, his back to her. “Come. Close window.”
Elle took a few deep breaths, letting her eyes adjust to the semi-darkness. Moonlight and a few carriage lights mounted under the eaves offered just enough visibility to make out shapes.
The man swung his legs over the rail, reached out and disappeared. Upward. Elle saw then what she couldn’t see from inside. An escape ladder hung from the roof.
After closing the window behind her, she followed the man’s example, and once he was far enough up, she grabbed the woven nylon sides and hoisted herself after him. He extended his arms as she approached the roof, giving her a quick hand onto solid footing. Then he yanked the ladder up, rolling it and tucking it under his arm.
The barrel tiles of the roof were a challenge to her balance, but the roof wasn’t steep, and she followed her rescuer as he trotted, hunched over, across the building. She kept her ears attuned for the sound of a helicopter, but if this man were Blackthorne, he’d have identified himself as such.
When they reached the other side of the building, the roof angle changed. There were several short but steep drops to a lower level, and after making their way down, they were on an adjoining wing. The man secured the ladder to a U-shaped piece of metal bolted to the roof, tucked near the edge. “You follow,” he said.
As if she’d stay here—wherever here was. He lowered the ladder, apparently not worried about any noise it might make. She waited for him to hit the ground, then made her way down the rungs. She wondered how he’d retrieve it, but decided that was his problem, not hers.
Once she landed beside him, she had the quick impression this was a garage, but instead of going inside where there might be a car, he grasped her arm and led her around the building and down a paved drive. Once they were out of sight of the house, he took a small flashlight from his pocket.
“This way.” He aimed the light down another narrow roadway and set off at a quick jog.
A few minutes later, he slowed, then veered left onto an even narrower road. It ended at a small cottage tucked into the trees. A light burned in a window. He quickened his pace along the drive, approached the cottage and tapped on the door. Five taps, a pause and five more. The door opened.
A plump, gray-haired woman, her face wrinkled like a piece of old leather, wearing a faded print dress and worn leather slippers, stood in the doorway. She smiled and said something in Spanish to the man, then reached up and hugged him.
Inside, the man shrugged out of his jacket, hung it on a hook by the door, and pulled the cap off his head. Elle’s mouth dropped open as she saw the man in the light. “Diego?” What was Aguilar’s waiter doing here?
Elle stood there, dumbfounded, as Diego placed his hands on the woman’s shoulders and kissed her cheek.
“This is Elle,” he said to the woman. “Elle, this is my Tia Consuela. She will care for you.”
The woman gave Elle a grandmotherly smile. “I have coffee or tea. Or I can make chocolate.” Her English was accented, but understandable.
Diego disappeared down the hall and returned a few seconds later, holding up a bottle of whiskey. “Or, there is something stronger.”
Elle regarded Consuela’s expectant face. As if people dropped by in the middle of the night all the time. Hell, maybe they did. “Whatever is easiest.”
Consuela bustled away in the direction Diego had gone, and Elle heard running water and clattering kitchen sounds. She turned to Diego. “First, thank you for getting me out of there. Can you tell me why you did it? How? And what happens next?”
He smiled. “What I can. Please, sit.” He gestured to a worn red-and-white striped sofa. “Tia Consuela will be upset if I am not a good host.”
Elle noticed Diego’s English seemed much improved over the way he’d spoken at Aguilar’s. What other surprises was he hiding? She crossed the small room and sat. “I’m sitting. You’re hosting. Please… fill me in.”
His smile widened. “My uncle used to be a gardener for the hacienda where you were taken. After he died, Paulo allowed Tia Consuela to continue to live here. For him, she appears a doddering, harmless old woman. He feels charitable and pays her no attention. It means nothing to him that people stop by for tea and cakes, never guessing they give information in exchange, or ask for help. Tia Consuela knows people all over Mexico, and from time to time can make arrangements for people to find new homes.”
“Do you get involved often?” Elle asked. “You certainly know your way around the rooftops.”
His smile faded. “Myself? Not often, no. As a youth, I would visit and learned from an older cousin how to sneak into the house. There were women there who introduced me to the way of being a man. I did have what you would call a… crush… on one of the cooks and we had a spot on the roof where we could gaze at the stars and enjoy the company of one another.” He ducked his head, as if embarrassed to be talking about his coming-of-age exploits.
He lifted his eyes, capturing hers. “What I said before, about the patrón having a hold on my family, that was true. I am only here now because everything was crazy after your escape, and I told him my mother was ill. I do not think he will check, but I must be back by mid-day tomorrow. When you arrived at the patrón’s hacienda, I knew you were not like the other women. That you were there to help. By helping you, I hoped I was helping some of the others.”
He cupped his mug in his hands. “Did you understand my map?”
“We didn’t know what the numbers meant, but we found the houses—that was what you were trying to show us, right?”
He nodded. “I thought it would make it less obvious as a map, should it be discovered.”
“That it did,” she muttered.
Consuela returned, setting a tray with three ste
aming mugs of tea onto the small coffee table in front of the sofa. Diego waited for her to sit beside Elle, then unscrewed the top of the whiskey bottle. He poured a generous glug into one of the mugs, and with his eyes, asked Elle if she wanted some in her tea as well.
Why not? “Sure. A little.”
Diego poured, then settled into an easy chair across from the sofa.
Consuela picked up a mug and sipped. “Tell me what troubles you, senórita.” She shot Diego a glare. “My nephew, he told me only he was bringing a woman who needed help. He did not say she was militar.”
“I’m not.” Elle decided not to mention she was a cop—assuming she still had a job when she got home. Or wanted it. “I had to borrow these clothes.”
“Elle was helping disrupt the workings of the patrón,” Diego said.
Consuela nodded, a faint smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. Then she sighed, and her expression saddened. “If only we could do more.”
“Right now, I need to get to my sister. She is in Mexico City. She’s very ill.” With the words spoken, Elle realized she didn’t even know the name of the hospital. “She was at a local clinic. They must know where they sent her.”
“I have that information,” Diego said. “It is the Cardiology Institute. A very good place.”
Elle’s eyes widened. “How?”
He and Consuela shook their heads simultaneously. “It is better you do not know,” Diego said. “We have what you would call a… network… of people who go against the cartel. But secrecy keeps us alive.”
Elle nodded. “I understand. A kind of Robin Hood.” She thought for a second and corrected herself. “No, more like Zorro.”
Consuela laughed, a melodious sound filling the room. She patted Elle’s knee. “My nephew, he is the fox, yes.”
Elle leaned forward and set her mug on the tray. “When I get home, I will do whatever I can to help. Tell me what you need.”
“Only that you make people in your country more aware of what the cartel does,” Diego said.
Consuela narrowed her eyes at Diego. He lifted his hands. “And, yes, we have always a need for money. But the money must go to our secret account. One of us has a large company with several smaller companies—”
“A shell company,” Elle said. “Where you can hide the money.”
He nodded. “I believe that is what you call it.” He laughed. “The parent company is a charity which raises money to provide books and clothing for poor children. We take part of this money to help our cause.”
“Doesn’t the government audit the books—you know, make sure the money is used properly?”
Diego’s laugh was as warm as Consuela’s. “Ah, but you see. This is a charity the cartel is running. They need a way to appear as good citizens, so they make generous donations. They are already helping themselves to much of the money. And, our government does not always perform these audits… accurately… when the cartel is involved.”
She couldn’t help but laugh herself, until the ramification hit. “But if they find out you’re skimming… taking money for yourself—?”
He shook his head, and his eyes twinkled.
Elle grabbed her mug and swigged a sip of whiskey-laced tea. “You mean someone in your network is in charge of the books?”
He put a finger to his lips and nodded. Then he poured another glug of whiskey into his mug. “I will leave you in the good care of Tia Consuela. I must make another stop before I return to the patrón’s hacienda.”
Elle stood and walked him to the door. “Thank you. And be careful.” She reached forward to hug him.
He returned her squeeze. “I wish the best for your sister.”
Trish. Elle had almost forgotten. “She’s a fighter. Like you.”
He cocked his head. “We do what we can. The war is too big, and we are too few. But we see the occasional victory in the small battles.”
He kissed his aunt’s cheek, grabbed his windbreaker and left. Elle heard a car start, then fade into the distance.
“Now, senorita,” Consuela said. “Let us get you to your sister. I fear you cannot go to Mexico City right away, but someone will come for you before dawn. Meanwhile, I suggest sleep. Do you need food as well? And perhaps a change of clothing, I think. Less…militar.”
Consuela showed her to a small bedroom. “Clothes from my daughters are in the closet. The bath, it is across the hall,” she said. “I will prepare you something to eat.”
Elle’s eyes brimmed with tears. Why were these people helping her, a total stranger? But if this was a gift horse, far be it from her to look it in the mouth. “Gracias.”
She’d taken advantage of the shower and a change of clothes, hoping her trip to Mexico City wouldn’t entail any more jungle hikes or treks across rooftops, because the closet held nothing but flowery, flowing cotton skirts and peasant-style blouses. A pair of huarache sandals proved a reasonable fit. She headed toward the kitchen. She hadn’t thought she’d be able to eat, but the aroma of spicy sausage had her mouth watering and her stomach growling.
A rapping at the door brought Elle to an abrupt halt. She pressed against the wall, listening. A male voice, speaking Spanish. Consuela’s voice, responding. Both growing more heated. Elle crept into the bedroom and eased the door closed behind her.
Chapter 38
Jinx woke to a rapping sound. Right. Hotel. He wrapped himself in the bedcover and stumbled to the door. The peephole revealed a uniformed hotel employee.
Yeah, right. Been there, done that.
Keeping the security latch on, he opened the door the few inches it permitted.
“Mr. Dalton?” the man said. “Delivery for you.”
Jinx spun and looked at the clock. Holy crap, he’d slept until 10:47. “Who’s it from?” His voice was thick with sleep.
“Sir, it doesn't say. If you want, I can open the envelope.”
“No, no.” If Jinx had learned anything by now, it was to avoid opening doors while standing in the middle of the doorway. He eased the door open, using it as cover. He swallowed, cleared his throat, trying to get his voice back to normal. “Hand it to me, please. I’m not presentable.”
“Yes, sir.” Disappointment bled through his words, but an oversized white envelope with the hotel’s logo and Dalton’s name appeared through the crack.
The guy probably felt cheated out of a tip. Jinx took the envelope. “What’s your name? I’ll leave something at the front desk for you later.”
After identifying himself, the man left and Jinx ripped the outer envelope open, then the packet inside. With a silent thanks to Blackthorne’s efficiency, Jinx pulled out a credit card, an ATM card, a pre-paid cell phone, and his passport. Everything a prospective traveler could want.
He did a fist pump, tossed the bedcover aside, and made a quick trip to the bathroom before going downstairs to use the computers to book a flight.
Crap. One lousy nonstop a day? And it had already left. Why hadn’t he checked more carefully yesterday? He’d been brain-dead, that’s why.
He made a reservation on the next available flight and put himself on standby for an overbooked earlier one. Asking the boss to send his personal jet would be pushing things way outside the envelope.
He realized he needed luggage, so he found a small tote at one of the shops, rushed upstairs, threw all his new purchases in it, and settled the hotel bill. At the airport, he didn’t make the standby flight, so he hiked up and down the terminal, repeatedly calling Zeke, who simply stopped answering the phone.
Zeke hadn’t had any more luck than Jinx had getting patient—or visitor—information out of the hospital. Jinx kept telling himself Trish had to be alive. And Elle would be by her side. He clung to those thoughts like the rope from the helo as he waited for his flight.
When he landed in Mexico City he stopped only long enough to hit the ATM for pesos before catching a cab to the hospital. As the cabbie approached their destination, Jinx’s first thought was damn, the place was
huge. Multiple buildings of varying heights, their low red-roofs the single unifying element. This could be a very high-end resort. Or a college campus.
As soon as the cabbie pulled to the curb by the hospital entrance, Jinx slung his tote over a shoulder and shoved some bills into the cabbie’s hand. By the smile on the man’s wizened face, Jinx figured he’d grossly overpaid, but he didn’t care.
He figured the main entrance was the place to start, and he stepped inside, immediately aware he wasn’t in a resort hotel or on a college campus. Hospitals in Mexico smelled the same as the ones in the States.
Hopeful that in a major metropolitan institute people would speak English, Jinx found a registration desk. Damn, he wished Dalton were here. That man had the people skills. He could charm the bloomers off a nun. What little charming Jinx did, he did from a computer terminal—maybe a phone, but until this mission, never face-to-face.
Pasting a worried smile on his face, he approached the desk. “I’m looking for a patient.” Brilliant. Probably ninety percent of the people coming here were doing the same thing. “She was brought in by helicopter. Yesterday—last night. From a clinic.” Damn, what was the name of the town? “Santo Felipe.”
A perky young woman smiled, revealing a gold-rimmed tooth, her white-tipped fingernails poised over a keyboard. Jinx resisted the urge to rush around the counter and search the computer.
“Her name?” the woman asked.
Yes! English. “Trish Sheridan. Or Grisham. I’m not sure if she was using her maiden name or not—” Feeling good about the BS he was spreading, Jinx plunged forward. “She had a clotting disorder. Her sister should be with her. Elle Sheridan. Or Grisham. She’s who I need to find.”
The woman’s smile faded. “Patient information is confidential.”
Okay, so he’d gone too far. Sounded like a blithering idiot.
“Sorry.” Jinx tried for a sense of urgency, nothing confrontational, in his tone. The urgency was easy. The not-confrontational took a little more effort. “I’m very worried about them. I’m probably not making much sense. If you could please check the patient records and make sure I’ve got the right hospital, I’d appreciate it.”