by Cate Noble
“Tell me about my mother first,” Luc said.
His uncle nodded, understanding Luc’s hesitancy to discuss his father. “Your mother was summoned to the prison, to claim you father’s body.”
“She went alone?”
“I wasn’t there when this happened, you see. I had gone searching for you at your father’s behest.”
Luc frowned. “Finish about my mother.”
“One of the orderlies told me he saw your mother go into a room with a guard. She was weeping. He waited around, to help her, but she never came out. Then later two body bags were removed from that room.” His uncle paused. “He knew by the size one was female.”
Turning away, Luc punched the wall, swearing to avenge his mother. “They will pay!”
“When I returned and found our homes destroyed, I knew there was trouble,” his uncle went on. “Then a neighbor said the prison guards had asked about me. You, too. I told a neighbor you had died years ago but that Ping had never told his wife. If you’ve gone back since…”
“I only saw one man. And I lied about where I lived. Now tell me everything you know,” Luc said. “They say my father was shot while helping a prisoner. But what really happened?”
“Your father was helping a prisoner, Luc, but not like they say. The warden had personally enlisted your father’s assistance for this. He was getting paid extra, you see. But then the American—”
“The prisoner was American?”
“Yes. The prisoner offered your father a blood chit in exchange for his help.”
Luc couldn’t hold back a groan. He could well imagine his father’s reaction. A fucking blood chit. As a child, Luc had watched his father and uncle get drunk numerous times. One or the other would start retelling the tales their drunken uncle had told them of magical blood chits. Stupid men believed stupid tales.
“If my father was offered those two choices,” Luc said, “I know he would have chosen the chit. So did the warden learn of his double-cross?”
“I don’t know.” His uncle took a sip from the flask again. “I warned Ping not to be greedy, to be happy with the chit. But he went back to see the warden and was never seen again.”
“Greedy? How about dim-witted?” Luc struggled to keep his voice low. “Let me guess the rest. You were his partner in all this, and because the prisoner did escape, they are now searching for you, too. I always thought you were smarter than my father.”
Looking offended, his uncle pushed to his feet. “You shouldn’t speak ill of the dead! Especially when you don’t know the full story. I will leave.”
“No. Please sit, Uncle. And finish telling your story.”
An awkward silence fell between them. “My only involvement was in trying to locate you. Along with the chit, your father was promised passage to America, for all of us. He wanted you to come. He…he regretted that he’d made you leave, and in his own way, yes, perhaps a stupid way, he thought this could make it up.”
His uncle dug into his pocket, and pulled out a sheaf of papers. On top, wrapped in plastic, was a small square of paper. He tapped the plastic. “This is your father’s legacy to you.”
“This?” Luc picked up the small scrap of paper. “This cost both my parents’ their lives? Do you even know what this writing says?” While Luc could speak English, he couldn’t read it.
“Blood chit.” His uncle pointed to the letters. “Call Travis Franks. Case number 495-29-1111DJ. The rest is a phone number. And those other papers are notes your father made about things he saw at the prison.”
Luc stared at the pathetic pages that had cost two lives, his vision blurring.
His uncle squeezed Luc’s hand. “Your father would want you to have this. He said that even if the prisoner didn’t escape, there would be a reward. He said they’d pay for his knowledge.”
His father’s knowledge. Gee, that would equate to enough to buy a cup of tea.
“We are almost out of time.” Luc handed his uncle an envelope. “This passport will get you into Australia. Inside is the name of a man who helps Chinese dissidents fleeing communism. We all look alike to them; so use it to your advantage.” Luc reached in his pocket and withdrew a roll of bills. That this wasn’t his money would only get him in deeper trouble. “U.S. dollars. Keep them until you are in Australia.”
Once again his uncle started weeping. “Ping…your father would be so proud of you.”
No. He wouldn’t. But Luc nodded anyway. “I suppose I could have come home first. We must leave now, Uncle.”
At the door his uncle hugged him. Both understood they’d never see each other again. The feeling of aloneness that briefly filled Luc was swept aside by a desire for retaliation. For both of his parents.
“Tell me what happened to the prison?” Luc asked. “No one seems to know where it came from or where it went.”
“I beg you, Luc, do not seek them out! Your father saw many horrible things there. You should leave with me!”
Luc shook his head. “My parents were killed by these butchers, so I understand what they are capable of. But their deeds shouldn’t go unpunished. And I’m the only one who can avenge my parents.”
His uncle looked up at the ceiling for a long moment. Then he exhaled heavily. “I know one man who worked at the prison for just a short time when it first opened. He got sick and moved away. Tell him I sent you, or else he’ll refuse to talk.”
Chapter 22
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
July 12
(Present Day)
Dante had been in South America less than twelve hours. His first impression hadn’t wavered: Rio de Janeiro was the ultimate hiding spot.
The city offered roughly four hundred fifty square miles of surface area. He refused to think in terms of cubic miles, which would mean including the surrounding hills that were plastered with favela-style shanties, stacked one upon another.
Over six million people called the city home, a population that more than doubled when the larger metropolitan area was included.
Needle in a haystack didn’t come close. Yet, damn if Dante could stay away. His gut screamed that she was here…somewhere.
When Travis Franks had searched passenger flights between Freeport and Rio de Janeiro, they’d hit pay dirt. A woman, Luzia Gomez, had left Freeport, July 2, the same day that Remi St. James’s so-called daughter made her final, fatal visit. Her flight to Rio connected in Mexico City. Further crosschecking revealed she had made a similar trip a month earlier, which coincided with the time-frame of St. James’s daughter’s first visit to the clinic.
If Luzia Gomez was indeed Catalina Dion, then Cat couldn’t have been in Key West when his boat blew. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t guilty.
The fact that Giselle Barclay hadn’t been seen in a year further suggested the two women were a team. With Giselle’s help, the two women could have split up, Giselle going to take care of Dante, while Cat took care of St. James.
It made sense in a weird Thelma & Louise way. Killing each other’s lover lessened potential glitches that could arise from having been personally involved with the victim.
It would have been easy enough for Giselle to leave the right clues: the cologne and telltale broken heart. Hell, maybe Cat’s disguise while visiting St. James mimicked Giselle. If St. James was impaired, he’d have been easy to fool.
Right now, Dante’s biggest challenge was finding the correct Luzia Gomez. Travis had come up with a list of fourteen Brazilian passport holders living in Rio with that same name. Of the six passport photos he’d managed to get, none were helpful. And given Cat’s abilities for altering her looks…
Rather than do nothing while Travis continued culling resources, Dante—already in disguise himself—had started checking the passport addresses.
Two of them caught his attention because of their relative proximity to Saint Maria’s, the church in Paul Patterson’s painting. It was as good a place as any to start.
The fact that the location
s were in a favela didn’t deter him. While he could better imagine Cat holed up in one of Rio’s glittering mansions, a mansion drew attention.
He’d decided to look for the church first. Unlike some of the other shanty towns, this smaller favela boasted a new and growing commercial district that catered to Rio’s booming sex trade.
Any concerns Dante had about his disguise, which included dreadlocks and a mustache, vanished. The streets were crowded with foot traffic, but the mostly male tourists largely ignored each other. Broad daylight was prime time here, as the streets were safer.
As Dante walked away from the crowds, he took in the ruined buildings lining the deserted south side. He’d been told that the majority of residents had been run off by the rash of fires that were conveniently freeing up large tracts of land along the main road.
Even Saint Maria’s had fallen victim to the torch. The ruling crime lords wouldn’t want the faithful returning here every Sunday. Better to cut the cord, or burn it, and force the church to follow its flock to greener pastures.
He slowed as he passed the church, recalling details from the painting. What little remained of the building’s broken skeleton was rapidly succumbing to the surrounding blight. Only the front steps and covered portico remained somewhat intact. A portion of the back supposedly housed a soup kitchen and small orphanage, but those were closing, too.
Considered more mission to the poor than church, Saint Maria’s didn’t keep records of parishioners either.
And since there wasn’t a lighted marquee out front bearing the message I’MHERE!—he was wasting time. There hadn’t been a solid connection between Cat and the church in the painting, other than the fact it suggested Rio as a place to look.
Dante moved on to the first address on his list a few blocks beyond the church. Because street signs were nonexistent here, he consulted his map.
“Figures,” he muttered as he stared at an empty field. How many addresses would yield the same?
Leaving the main road, he headed east one block, then turned left, already knowing what he’d find. The buildings on this street had been gutted by fire as well. Strike two.
As he turned away, an older man hobbled out through one of the doorways of a roofless ruin. He approached Dante with an open hand extended.
Dante’s Portuguese was nonexistent, but he knew some Spanish. Digging out a small bill, he motioned the man closer.
“I’m looking for a friend.” He held up a photograph of Cat.
The old man wrinkled his nose and shook his head as he grabbed for the money and missed, nearly falling over. Dante steadied the man’s arm, realized he was drunk. At eleven o’clock in the morning.
“Her name is Luzia Gomez.”
“Luzia?” The old man belched and nodded, before launching into a nearly unintelligible string of Portuguese.
Dante caught one word. “Flor?” he repeated.
The old man bobbed his head. “Pouca flor.”
Little flower? Dante played with the translation in his head. Flower shop?
“Luzia works at a flower shop?” he asked in Spanish.
“Sí.” The old man rubbed his fingers indicating money.
“First show me Pouca flor.” Dante held up his map.
The man turned the map around, seeming to have a hard time focusing.
Dante pointed to one spot, for a reference. “Saint Maria’s.”
Nodding, the man pointed to the main road. “Luzia. Pouca flor.”
Leaving the old man with several bills, Dante retraced his path. If there really was a Luzia Gomez working at this flower shop, he didn’t expect her to be Cat. Most likely none of the people on his list would be, but at least he could eliminate them. At least it was action.
Back on the main road, he headed north again, to the red light district. The streets were busier here. Large brothels dominated both sides of the road. The newer ones had balconies lining the upper floors. Scantily dressed women bent low across the railings, teasing and taunting.
As Dante passed one of the older buildings, he stopped short. POUCA FLOR, the sign read. Little Flower.
The hawker on the front steps hadn’t missed Dante’s delay. The man swooped in, cajoling him in multiple languages to come inside and sample the wares. “Buy a drink! Watch the women! We have the best!”
A whorehouse. Had the old man been trying to tell him that Luzia Gomez was a prostitute? A memory of Cat stripping as she sat on an old iron-framed bed flitted through Dante’s mind.
Climbing the steps, he went inside.
Cat dripped with sweat. This felt like the hundredth basket of wet sheets she’d lugged to the dryers.
And still Theresa had a small mountain waiting to be washed. It never ended.
“Two more days,” she whispered to herself. Two more days and she’d never see the Pouca Flor and its filthy laundry again.
Marco had been released from the hospital yesterday. Cat worried it was premature. “He’s still weak,” she had told Sister Dores.
The nun had disagreed. “Little ones bounce back quickly. You’ll see. In two or three days you won’t have known he was even sick.”
Cat wasn’t so sure, which added to the funny feeling in her stomach. Now that it was definite she and Marco were leaving, every insecurity she had about being a mother, about caring for her son, haunted her. Could she do it without Sister Dores’s help?
Marco had only been four months old when they’d arrived on the orphanage’s steps. Cat hadn’t known where else to go…and Sister Dores, God bless her, had taken them in, never asking the first question.
Cat swiped her face on one of the sheets before tossing it in the dryer. The wetness felt icy against her skin. Please no fever, she prayed. The last thing she needed was to get sick. I just need sleep.
“Just two more days,” she muttered again.
“Luzia! Theresa!” Ernesto’s voice echoed in the cavernous basement.
Cat motioned for Theresa to stay put. The pregnant woman’s ankles were so swollen she could barely walk and she’d been holding her side all day. The chances of her going full-term with this pregnancy didn’t seem good. Cat hurried to the staircase leading up from the basement.
“Get up here with a mop and floor polish!” Ernesto glared down from above. “The bar sink sprang a leak, and if it ruins my new wood floors, there will be hell to pay.” Still cursing, he stomped off.
“I’ll go.” Theresa was already waddling toward the supply closet.
“No, I’ll get it.”
“You made the last three runs.”
And soon I won’t be here to cover for you. Cat swallowed against the hitch in her throat. Of everyone who worked here, Theresa was the only one she’d consider a friend and not even a close one at that.
Shaking her head, Cat shooed the other woman back. “Go empty the front dryers for me, and we’ll both take a break when I get back.”
The brothel’s bar was crowded.
As a first-timer, requesting no specific prostitute, Dante was seated in a small booth. He caught a glance of himself in the mirror. He looked like a reggae clone of the four other men wearing dreads. He’d adapted a slight Caribbean accent to alter his voice. Like most in the bar, he kept his sunglasses on.
He looked around, pretending to concentrate on the women. He needed to watch for subtle clues. If Cat was here, she’d be in disguise, too. He kept his expectations low. The chances of finding her here weren’t good. Hell, nothing came this easy.
The brothel’s setup wasn’t original. Customers sat at tables and booths as an unending parade of prostitutes trolled by in bright, gaudy costumes. The air of competitiveness was tangible as the women paused beside a table, extolling their particular forte. Words and dialect didn’t matter. The women communicated with a sign language that a blind man could read.
The bottle of beer Dante ordered was delivered by a woman who wore multiple piercings on her tongue and inside her cheeks. He paid his tab, watching as she tucked
the bills into her tight-fitting, Fort Knox–size bra.
He had already weighed what to do if Cat, or Giselle even, actually turned out to be one of the prostitutes who approached. Giving in to instinct and grabbing her by the neck was out. But so was waiting to follow her later.
He’d bet the prostitutes lived here, stuck like indentured servants, paying most of their earnings back to the owner for room and board. The women might not go out for days.
He would need to get her alone.
A tall prostitute approached. Dante let his eyes drift up and down, as if considering her wares. That a part of him felt repulsed, angry even, at the idea of Cat offering herself like this came out of nowhere. He squashed the feeling by recalling scenes from the video. Yes, she could do this. With a fucking smile on her face.
The man and woman at the next table struck a deal. They stood in unison and headed for the elaborate staircase that led up to the second and third floors.
Dante’s gaze drifted upward. Was Cat upstairs now, servicing someone? His grip tightened on his beer bottle and he forced his attention elsewhere.
A cleaning woman came in from a back room, her shoulders hunched as she carried a bucket toward the bar. Dropping to her knees, she started mopping a section of floor, oblivious to the crowd.
A whisper of awareness brushed the base of Dante’s spine. Immediately he straightened, glancing around slowly. His senses had gone haywire again, sounds louder, colors brighter. Watch. Listen.
A woman descended the staircase. Too short. His eyes darted toward the women at the bar. Who or what had tripped his perception?
His gaze shifted past the cleaning woman, back to the staircase. Damn it! There it was again.
The cleaning woman straightened. She had her back to the room, but turned sideways to wring out a rag. For a moment her posture unbent. Dante caught a brief glimpse of her profile before she shook her head, allowing her dark shoulder-length hair to once again shield her face as she scrubbed.
He nearly came out of his seat.
Sweet Jesus…
