No One Lives Forever no-3

by Jordan Dane

  "No, but I made an exception for you. Then again, you are not just any tourist. You are here in Brazil to search for Nicholas Charboneau, are you not?" He didn't wait for an answer. "How do you know him?"

  Christian took a gamble that the police captain didn't know everything and skirted the truth about his relationship to Charboneau.

  "Actually, I've come because of Jasmine. I've never met the man." He didn't exactly lie.

  "So you are not connected to his ... organization? The syndicate in Chicago?"

  Duarte had definitely done his homework.

  "No, not at all. I have my own company, Delacorte Protective Services, but I'm here because I owe her a favor."

  "Such a huge favor. You must owe her quite a debt to repay it in this manner." The man's dark eyes cut through the murky black. "She does not strike me as a woman with many friends."

  "I didn't say we were friends." Christian returned the lawman's stare. "Besides . . . she wouldn't exactly take no for an answer."

  Duarte found amusement in that. "No, beautiful women seldom do."

  "Have the kidnappers provided any proof of life evidence? They can't possibly expect payment if they haven't shown he's still alive."

  "It is true most abductions communicate such things, usually a photograph of the victim holding a current newspaper. But I have not seen such proof. Has the bodyguard been contacted?"

  "No. She would've told me."

  "Are you sure of that? She seems to be a woman of many secrets."

  Christian shifted his gaze to Duarte. The man's face drifted in and out of the dark as he kept his eyes on the road. He had asked a simple question, one Christian couldn't answer in good faith. By his silence, he gave the police captain all the confirmation he needed.

  Score one for the home team.

  Grimacing out the window, Christian distracted himself with the changing terrain. Entering Cuiabá, the capital of the state of Mato Grosso, he found the city held traces of its colonial past mingled with newer development.

  Known as the southern gateway to the Amazon, the city served as a beacon of civilization on the edge of Brazil's great wilderness. He had seen photos of the city in his latest research, but nothing like seeing the real thing. Intersected by a river named after the city, the urban setting looked peaceful in the photos, with its flat terrain and skyscrapers nestled between an abundance of trees.

  But after what happened to Charboneau, Christian knew a seedy underbelly existed in this picturesque place. Mankind tainted perfection with its very nature.

  Still, Cuiabá had an undeniable old-world charm. Only a sidewalk's width away from the bustling street, multicolored facades of old villas lined the thoroughfares. The artist Van Gogh wouldn't have enough pigment on his palate to do the city justice. Tall, ornate custom window cornices and colonnades were painted in white and set against walls of vivid blue, yellow, green, and burnt orange, giving the city a festive appearance. Under streetlights, the splashes of brilliance assaulted his eyes, a departure from the more conservative use of color in Chicago. Wrought-iron balconies and gateways accented the quaint colonial manor houses. Without much thought to city planning, apartment buildings stood next to more modern office high-rises and ancient cathedrals. The new sprouted amidst the old, a hodge-podge of culture.

  On the tepid night air, strange smells overwhelmed his senses, an unfamiliar fusion of a people's culture and the earth. The enticing aroma of exotic foods mixed with the pungent smells of sweet, rich soil, livestock, and the surrounding marshlands, Brazil's lifeblood. Laughter and music served as the backdrop for a lyric language he did not understand, but welcomed. The flood of new sensations bombarded his senses like a hail of bullets, sweet torture. This time, his heightened awareness felt like a gift—a gift he wanted to share with only one woman.

  God, I wish you were here. His heart ached for Raven. He closed his eyes and fought to clear his head, wanting to stay in the moment.

  When he opened them again, a flash of light drew his attention, a well-timed distraction. Candles burned in votives or glowed within old broken liquor bottles. They were displayed in windows, on sidewalks, and on several of the front stoops to shops. A variety of tributes hung beside them, from religious symbols to cigars, the shapes murky in the flickering light. The unfamiliar practice caught his eye.

  "What's with the candles?"

  "Macumba ritual. In your country, you might have heard it called voodoo. The people of my country are superstitious. They are drawn to the supernatural, an influence brought to Brazil from the days of slavery. The custom comes from a blending of African spiritual beliefs with that of the Roman Catholic faith."

  "Why burning candles? What are they for?"

  "I am not an expert, but I have heard the rituals are an attempt to make contact with the Orixás, or spirits. Perhaps they ask for protection from evil or hope to gain good fortune."

  Gazing out the passenger window, Christian mumbled under his breath, "Maybe it wouldn't hurt to burn a candle for good luck."

  "Never underestimate the necessity to protect yourself against evil. You can never be too careful. The curse of the evil eye has its power."

  The police captain's statement struck him as odd. Yet when he glanced toward the man, Duarte kept his eyes on the road, diminishing the significance of his words. Regardless of the man's intention, Christian sensed his implied threat.

  "You sound like you believe in Macumba, Captain."

  Duarte shrugged. "In my line of work, I find many people like to blame the spirits for their actions. Convenient, I think. But I suppose for me, superstitions are hard to ignore. I grew up with them." His face settled into a frown. "I see the evil eye cast on the street, I take a wide path around it. It is no different than you avoiding a walk under a ladder, is it not?"

  Christian smiled. "I suppose so."

  He felt content to wait for Duarte to make the first move, knowing the man would eventually get around to business. Biding his time, he fixed upon the local color again, catching a commotion ahead. Duarte slowed down, putting both hands on the wheel. Cars lined the narrow streets of a pedestrian plaza with shoppers strolling by retail store windows in their leisure, without a care for the late hour.

  "Does this place ever shut down? I'd expect shops to be closed by now," he asked his self-appointed host.

  "You'll find we do things differently in my country, Mr. Delacorte. It is our way. We do things at our own pace." The captain finally began to make his point. Cryptic as it might be, Christian didn't miss the message.

  "Sometimes a slow pace doesn't get the job done." He looked Duarte in the eye. "Maybe a busy man of responsibility could use some help."

  The police captain gripped the steering wheel, not appreciating Christian's underlying meaning. "Those wishing to help sometimes get in the way, maybe get themselves killed in the process. And that would require countless administrative forms to be completed. I wouldn't appreciate the added work ... or the extra attention from my government."

  Duarte turned down a side street, beyond the central square. The taxi followed.

  "I don't suppose we're talking about the street merchants anymore," Christian said. "Unless the competition for sales in this town is that brutal." Christian shifted in the seat and turned toward the man. "Is the economy that bad or are you threatening me?"

  "I had hoped to be more subtle." The policeman pulled into the circular drive of a posh hotel. Valets and bellhops jumped to attention, standing along the curb, but Duarte waved them off. He wasn't done delivering his message. "I would advise you to respect our laws. Do not test me. You are a guest in my country. Do not forget that."

  Seeing a movement out the side mirror, Christian spotted Jasmine stepping from the cab behind them. She paid the cabbie and gave direction to a hotel valet to unload the luggage onto a cart. Her eyes remained on him as he sat in Duarte's car.

  "Subtle or not, message received loud and clear. But let me deliver one of my own." Taking his eye
s off the reflection of Jasmine in the mirror, he leaned toward the captain, an elbow propped against the seat back. "I'm here to find Charboneau. I'm sure it would be in my best interest to abide by the law, as you say, but this is a matter of life or death. With or without your help, I'll find the man and bring him back with me."

  Captain Duarte curved his lips into a sneer. "Do not make me angry, Mr. Delacorte. You would only disappoint me. And you'll find I'm not a tolerant man. I have been told I make a formidable enemy."

  "I have no doubt of that, Captain. So let's agree to cooperate with each other. Then maybe we won't discover how truly ruthless we can be as enemies." He shoved open the car door and stepped out, leaning in for one last exchange. "Thanks for the lift."

  "I will be keeping my eye on you. Do not disappoint me, Mr. Delacorte."

  "Wouldn't think of it."

  Christian shut the car door and watched the man drive away. More than likely, he'd made his first enemy, and he hadn't been in town five minutes. Narrowing his eyes, he stuffed his hands in his jeans.

  Jasmine nudged his arm with her shoulder. "See what I mean? Duarte is a snake, lower than a reptile. The man can't be trusted."

  Christian stared at the red taillights of Duarte's car as it headed down the street and turned a corner. Without glancing at Jasmine, he filled his lungs with muggy air.

  "I'll be the judge of that."

  Benign dark eyes stared back at him. "Have you stayed with us before, Mr. Delacorte?"

  The uniformed hotel clerk behind the registration desk looked bored as he asked the obligatory question yet another time. The young man didn't care what his answer would be.

  "No, I haven't. It's my first time to Cuiabá." Christian watched the clerk work the keyboard to the hotel computer with eyes glazed over. Time to get the man's attention. "Were you working the night Nicholas Charboneau was kidnapped from this hotel?"

  Like getting hit with a cattle prod, the man jerked his head, eyes struggling for a discreet look at the hotel guest asking the question. His fingers flattened on the computer keys. The clerk no longer looked bored.

  "Yes, sir, I was. But I don't know anything about it." He resumed his work, trying hard to avoid Christian's stare.

  Jasmine had stopped her pacing, but he felt the heat of her glare. She kept her mouth shut, willing to see where he'd take this. On trivial matters, the woman could be a real team player.

  Christian lowered his voice. "That's too bad. Because if you did know something, you could be a rich man." He leaned across the front desk, locking eyes with the clerk. "I'm offering a sizable reward in U.S. dollars to anyone with information leading to the return of Charboneau ... alive. No questions asked."

  Jasmine resumed her pacing but kept her silence. She let the sharp staccato of her footsteps on the marble floor do all her talking.

  He handed the clerk his business card. "I can be reached on my cell phone. I'd appreciate you passing the word. The sooner the better."

  Christian had a tri-band cell phone with international roaming, a necessity of the job.

  "Like I said, I know nothing." The man handed him the card key to their accommodations, his jaw knotted with tension. "I hope you enjoy your stay in Cuiabá. And as always, it is a pleasure to see you, Ms. Lee." He nodded to Jasmine, a nervous display of good manners and a gesture she didn't acknowledge.

  As Christian turned for the bank of elevators, bellhop and luggage in tow at a respectful distance, Jasmine slipped her arm into his and muttered under her breath. "What the hell was that all about? I don't appreciate working under the limelight. Shadows are more to my liking."

  "Yeah, but we don't have the luxury of time on our side. We gotta jump-start our search." He punched the button for the elevator, keeping his voice low. "Besides, I thought a surprise game of Russian roulette would appeal to a woman like you."

  "Oh, don't get me wrong. I'm an adrenaline junkie, but I've always believed Russian roulette is best played with a rigged game. I prefer someone else's name on the bullet."

  "Nice to see you've got a strong sense of fair play. Glad you're on my side."

  Even as he said the words, Christian didn't believe Jasmine picked sides. Why complicate the issue when no one else mattered but número uno? He knew the exotic woman played by her own set of rules. No way in hell fair would ever muddle her playbook.

  Yet Jasmine had sought him out and risked her life to rescue Charboneau. Out of loyalty? Or out of something more? None of it made sense, given what he believed of this woman. Maybe Raven had been right to warn him. Had he stepped into some grand conspiracy concocted by Jasmine ... or Charboneau? Another retribution scheme against Fiona?

  He'd leapt into the fray head first, way too vulnerable to anything associated with his past and the father he never knew. Fine time for second thoughts, Delacorte. He caught a glimpse of wariness darkening Jasmine's eyes, but eventually her lips nudged into a smile.

  "Few things surprise me anymore," she said, her fingers slithering up his arm like a nest of snakes zeroing in on their next meal. "But I am willing to see what you have up your sleeve, Christian."

  Not half as much as I want to see what's up yours, Jasmine.

  CHAPTER 8

  A red blinking eye drew his attention. Christian walked down the hallway to his hotel suite with Jasmine. She caught his eye movement and nodded acknowledgment with a sideways glance. They were on the same wavelength, checking out the security of the penthouse floor. Two security cameras had a shot of the corridor, one on either end, with another focused on the bank of elevators. A final camera had been positioned toward the doors into the private suites. Adequate, nothing more.

  Christian lived most of his life in Fiona's world, an existence defined by the power of money. Still, the Hotel Palma Dourada distinguished itself. Exquisite oil paintings in extravagant frames brought color to tan walls. Plush rugs and carpeting deadened the sound in the hall. The air smelled fresh and crisp. By all appearances, the hotel earned its elite status, making it hard for him to believe any crime had been committed here.

  As the bellhop opened the door and pulled in the luggage on wheels, Christian let Jasmine deal with the man's gratuity while he scoped out the room. Charboneau's suite. He pictured his father standing in this very spot only four days ago, contemplating what tomorrow would bring.

  Now he found himself doing the same thing.

  The impressive front entry had a marble floor covered by an elaborate native print rug. A crystal chandelier hung from the high-pitched ceiling in the foyer, with similar fixtures dazzling the interior. Ornate mirrors, classic Brazilian sculpture and artwork, adorned the suite, bringing richness to ivory and gold walls. Lush, tropical plants grew from huge ceramic pots spaced throughout the penthouse. From the front entry, Christian saw that the suite had two bedrooms with private baths and a massive living room. To the left of the wet bar, imposing French doors led to the private balcony.

  Living quarters fit for Nicholas Charboneau. A damned palace!

  After the bellhop left, he said to Jasmine, "I know we agreed on reserving the same room you and Charboneau shared—in case the kidnappers tried to contact us—but you could've booked another room for me."

  "Oh, please. There are two bedrooms in this suite and more than enough space to share. Besides, your detective is not here. She will never know of our cozy accommodations." Jasmine stepped closer, brushing a finger across his waist. Another smile tugged at her lips.

  Then her expression grew more solemn. Fatigue might have played a part in her tiring of the long-standing game between them. For an instant she let her defenses down and spoke her mind. "Besides, having you here reminds me of Nicky. I hoped you wouldn't mind."

  "Let's just say I would've preferred my privacy."

  From his vantage point, Christian watched her expression reflected in the mirror behind the wet bar. A veil of concern clouded her eyes. He knew so little about the woman, but one thing was certain. Jasmine had a deep connection to Char
boneau, a link he didn't understand. Her flirting with him might only be a distraction, a way to cover up her true feelings for his father. At least, he hoped that's all it was.

  "It's time to take care of business." With a stern face, Jasmine fell into her role as bodyguard, checking out the other rooms with efficiency. "You will take this room." She gave the order, directing him with a wave of her hand, eyes alert. "If we have eavesdroppers, I want to know about it."

  She rummaged through the black duffel and retrieved scanning gear. State-of-the-art and very high tech. The best Charboneau's money could buy. With ear jack in place, she ran the equipment quietly through each room, over walls, light fixtures, and phones. As a professional himself, he admired her thoroughness. When the place had been swept without incident, Jasmine set up her countersurveillance gear, to jam eavesdroppers from a distance.

  Standing by his side, she gave her assessment. "Looks like the suite's clean, but from outside, parabolic mics and laser surveillance are still a threat. Doesn't hurt to take precautions."

  "Good, I agree. But before we get to your agenda, I need to ask you something." He stepped closer to her. In typical Jasmine fashion, she gave her acceptance with only a tilt of her head, words unnecessary. "If the kidnappers contacted you for any reason, you would let me know, right?"

  She merely stared at him, her dark eyes a blank slate.

  God, she'd make a helluva poker player!

  "This is not a game, Christian. I know you and I do not trust one another, but we have to get past that, for Nicky's sake." She sighed with drama. "Yes, I would tell you."

  Even hearing the words, he wasn't convinced. The woman could sell time-share condos to men on death row. Still, he would play the cards he'd been dealt.

  "Now can we get on with this?" She stepped to the French doors located near the balcony. "That is where they came in. They punched the glass and opened the door."