Anyhow, that thought only reminded me of all the various other people who hadn’t known where I was going, along with how I needed to find out where I was heading next, so I took out my phone again, expecting that by now both Rafe and Charley had to have texted me back.
But there were no new messages at all. Only the list of old messages, ending with the final text I’d received from Natalie at 6:49 P.M. the previous evening.
I felt an uncomfortable prickling, the first genuine inkling that something wasn’t right. So I clicked over to the outgoing messages screen. The texts I’d written after we’d landed were still there, but each had a little red X next to it, indicating that none had been successfully sent. And that’s when I finally figured out what was going on.
With a sinking feeling, I realized Charley hadn’t been restrained at all — it was entirely possible she’d texted me thousands of times. In fact, knowing her, she probably had. Her messages just hadn’t reached me, for the same reason no other messages had reached me and my own messages hadn’t been sent: My phone didn’t have international reception.
Twenty-five
I hadn’t realized the extent to which my phone served as an electronic security blanket until it was yanked out from under me, but I tried not to freak out. It wasn’t like I was in the wilds of Patagonia — in a city of this size there must be a pay phone somewhere. I’d figure out how to work it, get in touch with Charley and Rafe, and everything would be okay.
Regardless, it took until I’d reached the front of the taxi line to calm myself down. Meanwhile, the dispatcher was asking for my destino, and I wasn’t sure what to tell him. I’d assumed Rafe would text or call with a location for me to meet him, but now I knew that wasn’t going to happen. Nor did I know where he was staying or anything useful like that.
But I also couldn’t face waiting in line all over again if I gave up my place and went back inside to locate a pay phone — I was wasting too much valuable time, and the point of being here was taking action, not standing around. And I did know where I was likely to find Quinn. At least, I sort of did. I’d head there first, try to connect with him, and then I’d worry about how to get in touch with everyone else.
“He is going to the castle to encounter his papa,” Carolina had told me as I zipped my suitcase.
“There’s a castle in Buenos Aires?” I’d asked. An image of Sleeping Beauty’s castle at Disneyland popped up, unbidden, before my eyes.
“No, not like La Bella Durmiente,” said Carolina. “It is the name of the hotel where his papa stays.”
“The Castle?” That sounded odd, but maybe it was an Argentinean thing and didn’t translate well.
“That is what I am seeing,” she’d answered in her why-do-you-insist-on-doubting-me-when-I-am-always-right tone.
So I said to the dispatcher, “The Castle Hotel?”
“Cómo?” he said, like he’d never heard of such a place.
The guy behind me in line, who’d been demonstrating his impatience by sighing a lot and smoking, leaned in. “La americana quiere decir palacio, no castillo.” And then, to me, “You mean the Alvear Palace, sí?”
Palace made a lot more sense as the name of a hotel than castle — there was even one in New York — and it was close enough to what Carolina had said that it had to be right. “Is it very expensive?” I asked, just to be sure. I’d seen how Hunter Riley lived in both Southampton and Manhattan, and he wasn’t about to stay in a Motel 6.
“Muy caro,” answered the dispatcher, rubbing his thumb and fingers together in the universal sign of “it will cost you plenty.” “The celebrities and the políticos, they go there.”
“Then, yes, I mean, sí. Gracias.”
The taxi didn’t look like a New York taxi — it was black with a yellow roof — but otherwise the experience was similar, as if the driver were auditioning for an off-track version of NASCAR that included horn-honking, cursing, and obscene gestures. And if I’d hoped that I might be able to convince him to let me borrow his phone, I was out of luck, because he didn’t stop talking on it himself the entire ride except to swear at the other rush-hour drivers. I didn’t even get a chance to ask.
Instead I tried to relax and enjoy the scenery as best I could, though the initial part of the drive was along an ordinary-looking highway. But the weather was mild, sunny if a little humid, and when I cracked the window, the breeze felt good on my skin.
It was my first time outside the United States, except for when I was twelve and my dad and I went to India, the year before he died. And I had to admit, I was glad the landscape here had so little in common with Mumbai or New Delhi. That would have only reminded me of our trip together, and how alone I was now.
The driver exited the highway by zooming across several lanes of traffic as the cars he cut off honked in fury. We ended up on an enormous street called the Avenida 9 de Julio, and he began weaving through traffic with a level of aggression that would have been terrifying if I didn’t have so much else on my mind and had actually been paying attention.
The avenue’s very size suggested July 9 was an important day in Argentinean history, not that I had any idea why, and the driver wasn’t exactly giving me a guided tour, though he did stop talking on his phone long enough to point and say, “El Obelisco” as we passed an obelisk rising more than two hundred feet high in the center of a plaza. It looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know whether that was because it was so much like the Washington Monument or because I’d seen a glimpse of it in the Evita clip Charley had played the other night.
Then we turned from the broad avenue onto a series of more regular-sized streets, and the neighborhood began to change. Most of the architecture so far had been relatively nondescript office and apartment buildings, but now I could understand what the woman on the plane had meant about Paris. I’d never been there before, either, but I’d seen pictures, and what I saw here was far more like those pictures than the glass and steel skyscrapers of midtown Manhattan or the converted warehouses of Soho. Most of the buildings looked like they dated back to at least the nineteenth century, constructed of stone with a formal grandeur and careful detailing.
“Recoleta,” said the cabdriver, gesturing with a broad flourish, and I guessed this was the name of the area, like Tribeca in New York, though Recoleta was probably more like the Upper East Side. The people on the sidewalks had a cosmopolitan air, smartly dressed in tailored clothing, and elegant mansions and town houses with graceful wrought-iron trim lined the streets. A lot of them appeared to be embassies or other official buildings, but there were also art galleries and restaurants and a bunch of the type of stores Patience shopped at, like Armani and Hermès.
The Alvear Palace was at the corner of Avenida Ayacucho and Avenida Alvear, and its ornate splendor looked completely at home in its fancy surroundings. An assortment of flags fluttered from the broad awning, representing countries ranging from China to Italy to Mexico. More important, I saw the American flag, and since I thought the flags might indicate the nationalities of the guests in residence, I took that as a positive omen.
While I was figuring out how many pesos to give the driver, a doorman hurried to help me out of the taxi and another attendant extracted my bag from the trunk. He began rolling it inside before I finished paying, and I rushed to follow, still wondering if I’d tipped everyone correctly and calling gracias over my shoulder.
“You are checking in, yes?” the guy asked as I caught up to him in the entryway. He wasn’t much older than me, with friendly brown eyes. A brass nameplate above his breast pocket identified him as Manuel.
“No,” I said. And then, “I don’t know.” Along with all of the other logistical issues I hadn’t thought through prior to my arrival in Buenos Aires, I hadn’t considered where I’d end up sleeping that night. “Sorry. It’s just that I need to find someone first.”
“A guest of the hotel?” Manuel asked, pausing on the blue-and-gold patterned carpet.
“I think so,�
� I said. And then, since my lack of certainty seemed to concern him, I said, “Yes, a guest of the hotel.”
He offered to hold my bag at the bell desk while I went to inquire, pointing the way to reception. After my near run-in with Samantha Arquero, I didn’t want to accidentally crash into Hunter Riley or any of our other suspects, so I crossed the lobby with caution, keeping an eye out for evildoers.
The decor was imposing and completely over the top — all marble and gilt, with ferns in massive china pots and heavy draperies at the windows — and most of the people there seemed to be high-powered businessmen and businesswomen, not that any of them looked familiar. And though Charley had picked out my jeans and Joie embroidered top herself, I still felt incredibly underdressed, young, and awkward as I stepped up to speak to the woman at reception.
Her nameplate said Graciela, and her English was practically better than mine — I was beginning to think everyone in Buenos Aires spoke at least a bit of English, which was a huge relief. “Quinn Riley?” she repeated, trying to find him in her computer. “Do you mean Hunter Riley? We have a guest by that name. Is Quinn traveling with him?”
So I was in the right place, even if Quinn wasn’t registered. But when Graciela offered to call up to Hunter’s room for me, to see if Quinn was there, that seemed like a really bad idea. Besides everything else, for all I knew, Hunter still thought Quinn was on an entirely different continent, and I wasn’t going to be the one to enlighten him. I tried another tack.
“Do you know if anyone’s come here looking for Hunter Riley?” I asked. “A youngish guy, maybe, about my age?” Who’s godlike and also happens to be an extremely skilled kisser, I added, but not out loud.
“I’m afraid I can’t discuss our guests or their visitors,” Graciela said, but she wasn’t mean about it. Then she glanced to either side, to make sure nobody was listening, and in a more conspiratorial tone of voice she said, “I just came on duty, so I wouldn’t know. I’m sorry. Perhaps if you check back later?”
I thanked her and told her I would, but I suddenly had a thick feeling in my throat. I’d known that the odds of locating Quinn so easily were low, but it’s one thing to tell yourself something and a totally different thing to make yourself feel it. This fresh disappointment threatened to overwhelm me, no matter how sternly I told myself to focus — after all, the clock was ticking, and Quinn or no Quinn, I needed to get in touch with Rafe and Charley.
Manuel was waiting at the bell desk. I swallowed hard before I spoke, but the thick feeling stayed right where it was. “I’m sorry to bother you, but do you know how I can find a pay phone?” I asked him.
“It is not a bother to help such a lovely young lady,” he said with a broad smile. There was a business center in the hotel, but it was only for guests, so he suggested I go to a locutorio, which was sort of like a phone and Internet café but without the café. He even went over to the concierge and came back with a map, to show me where I could find the nearest one, and then he started telling me how to buy a phone card and make international calls.
And maybe it was because he was being so nice, or maybe it was because I’d been on such an emotional and logistical bender, alternating exhilaration with guilt and confidence with panic and hope with disappointment — anyhow, it all must have taken more of a toll than I’d realized, because Manuel’s very kindness had me dangerously close to tears. In fact, one or two might have spilled over before I realized what was happening. I wiped at my cheeks, annoyed with myself.
Even worse, Manuel thought it was his fault. “I have upset you?” he asked, his smile fading.
“No, no — it’s not you,” I said. And then, because he didn’t seem convinced, I tried to explain. “It’s only that I made this big decision, to be the star of my own movie and everything, but it’s turning into a really bad movie, where nothing happens the way it’s supposed to happen.”
He shrugged in what seemed like a very Latin way. “That is life, yes?” But then he glanced over at the clock above the reception desk. “I can take my break now. I will take you to the locutorio, you will tell me about your movie, and I will help you make it end the way you want.”
Twenty-six
I had no reason to think Manuel was part of the conspiracy — as coincidences went, that would have been huge, especially since when we formally introduced ourselves he told me he was premed at the University of Buenos Aires and his job at the Alvear was just to cover his living expenses. And it wasn’t like I worried about being irresistible — in fact, usually I worried about the exact opposite — but I didn’t think he was hitting on me, either. Before we even left the hotel, he’d opened up his wallet to show me a picture of his fiancée, Ana, and another picture of his entire extended family to point out which of his seven nieces he thought I resembled most.
But I’d also learned the hard way that information could be dangerous. T.K. was in her current situation because she knew too much, and that was why Samantha Arquero had tried to get rid of me, too. So as we walked along the Avenida Alvear, I only gave him the most basic version of the story, carefully excising the names of people and companies and organizations like EAROFO and concluding with how I’d come to the hotel hoping to find Quinn.
“It is possible I’ve seen this young man,” Manuel said. “And also his father, if he is a guest of the Alvear. Can you describe them?”
I’d barely begun before he was nodding in recognition. “The son and the father are very similar, no? I have seen them both. The son was across the avenue yesterday afternoon, not doing anything, only waiting and watching the door of the hotel. It was unusual, so I took notice. He was there until the end of my — cómo se dice, how long one works?”
“Shift?” I suggested. This was the first time he’d struggled for a word — his English was nearly as perfect as Graciela’s.
“Yes, my shift. Then, this morning, when my shift began, he was waiting again. The older man, the father, left the hotel maybe two or three hours before you arrived. He went on foot, so his destination must have been nearby, and the son followed after him.”
This news went a long way toward soothing my previous disappointment. Hunter would have to return to the hotel eventually, which meant Quinn would as well, assuming he was still trailing his father. If I couldn’t intercept him there myself, I could at least ask Manuel to give him a note.
Meanwhile, the locutorio was only a five-minute walk from the Alvear. When I’d started explaining everything to Manuel, he’d offered to lend me his own mobile, but from the way he’d been talking, I had the feeling international calls would be expensive, and it seemed like too much to ask if an alternative was easily available.
Now he led me to what looked like a little store, but there was a green sign out front with symbols for phone and Internet service, and the inside was crowded with phone booths and PC workstations. It was noisy, too, with people chatting to their neighbors as they surfed the net or waited their turn to make calls.
“This is one of the nicer ones,” Manuel told me. “Others, they are not so nice. But it is very convenient, no?”
“No. I mean, yes.”
Manuel helped me figure out how many pesos I’d need on the debit card I bought, and then he said he’d wait outside. “Are you sure you have time?” I asked. “I don’t want to make you late, and I can find my own way back.”
“It is my pleasure,” he assured me. And then, as if he’d been talking to Rafe or Charley and in spite of having only heard the basic version of events, he added, “You should not be without an escort.”
I settled myself on the stool in my cubicle and tried to organize my thoughts as I inserted the debit card into the slot on the phone, readying myself for an onslaught from Charley. The five thousand miles stretching between us might have been a vast physical distance, but it wouldn’t offer much of an emotional defense.
Charley was a big fan of caller ID, and she usually opted to screen unfamiliar numbers and also familiar numbers if they b
elonged to people like Patience. Still, I’d assumed she’d be answering any and all calls until she heard from me, whether she recognized the incoming number or not. Instead, her phone went right into voice mail, like she’d hit IGNORE as soon as it began ringing.
If Charley was ignoring a call that could be from me it meant she was even angrier than I’d thought — which was a terrifying thought — but I left a message anyway. Then I dialed her home number, the one only Carolina and Patience and telemarketers ever used, but the answering machine picked up. It was possible Charley was screening this call, too, but as I left another message there I had a mental image of my voice spilling unheard from the speaker and into the empty loft.
At this point I probably should have just been glad for the temporary reprieve, but it was too unnerving. And when I called Rafe and he didn’t answer his phone, either, it was that much more unnerving. I’d thought one if not both of them would be standing by, waiting to take me thoroughly to task before specifying where Rafe would meet me and how I might be able to redeem myself in their eyes once we’d dealt with everything else.
But apparently not.
At least my fourth and final call yielded results. Maybe my day wouldn’t be a total waste.
When I’d finished, I found Manuel on the sidewalk out front. He’d been talking on his mobile, but he wrapped up his conversation when he saw me. “You were successful?” he asked, returning his phone to his pocket.
“Kind of,” I said. “I had to leave a couple of messages when people didn’t pick up. I hope you don’t mind — you’ve already done so much — but I told them to call the hotel and ask for you. Is that okay? I didn’t know what else to do.”
And Then I Found Out the Truth Page 14
