Latitude Zero

by Diana Renn

  Or did it? There was that trip to Vegas the week Juan Carlos had died.

  A thought tapped at me, like a scratch on a window screen. Any chance Preston was the person Juan Carlos stole data from? The person Darwin was trying to protect?

  I actually laughed out loud. Preston was too protective of his reputation, his company, and his money to risk it all on dealing. And he’d been one of the people to discover Juan Carlos and help develop him as an athlete. He wouldn’t want to kill him off.

  But thinking of Preston made me think of his “proud pedal partner.” Chris Fitch.

  I’d dismissed Chris as a suspect before, but he kept haunting me. A lot of questions surrounded him.

  I went to the Cadence Bikes website and studied Chris Fitch’s picture. He was so not a cyclist type—which was strange for someone who owned a bike company. Those guys were usually former racers, or at least avid cyclists. Someone like Preston Lane seemed more likely to run a business like Cadence.

  Next I read Chris’s bio. He’d run various sporting equipment companies over the years, and other businesses, too. His brother, a former Olympic athlete, had started Cadence Bikes years ago. When his brother died three years ago in a car crash—a hit-and-run on a routine training route near his home on Boston’s North Shore—Chris Fitch took over the company “To honor his legacy,” as he put it. “And to keep producing top-notch racing and recreational bikes that my brother would be proud to ride.”

  They were beautiful bikes. All their models were streamlined and elegant, in classy color combinations. I clicked through the entire gallery. Yet Juan Carlos hadn’t wanted to race on a Cadence. And when I searched “Cadence” and “failure,” the words I’d heard in Bianca’s Slade’s interview, I got taken to complaints on bike review sites. Photos of split bike frames. A press release about a product recall from two years ago. Was Juan Carlos concerned about safety? Was there something about faulty products on that flash drive? But if so, what did that have to do with a wad of cash stuffed in a bike?

  I reached for my notebook and, as Mari and the Ruiz family started singing in Spanish in the other room—with Hugo on guitar—I wrote out fresh questions.

  1. Chris Fitch had a reputation to protect. His company already suffered from bad publicity. Joining up with the squeaky-clean Team EcuaBar could help turn that around. If champions rode those bikes to victory, consumers would have more confidence in them.

  2. Did Juan Carlos find information on Chris’s computer that could make his company look bad? Is the “leak” about more bad bikes?

  3. Mari said Chris put pressure on Juan Carlos for big wins. Did Chris arrange for Juan Carlos to cheat? Did the flash drive and the bike contain proof of that plan?

  4. Could the money in the bike be the cash Chris Fitch was intending to pay to Darwin to keep a secret safe??

  The more I thought about it, the darker Chris Fitch began to seem. Maybe Chris had information worth paying someone like Darwin to protect. Could Chris sabotage a bike to fail catastrophically? Sure. Juan Carlos had crashed on a Cadence, and Chris would know exactly where the bike could be vulnerable.

  Chris had been near the team trailer, too, at the photo shoot. He could have gained access to the bikes when Dylan stepped out. Maybe something had been caught on film, even indirectly, to link Chris to Juan Carlos’s sabotaged bike.

  Amber. She must have taken lots of pre-race photos. Since Dylan was innocent, according to Darwin, maybe I could lean on her for some help.

  I looked up Amber online and got her bike sculpture and photography website. Using a new email account I created with a fake name—so Darwin couldn’t track me—I dashed off a quick email to her. I told her who I was and apologized for going undercover at the Open Road school. Then I explained what I’d leaked so far to help launch the criminal investigation and that I had a good lead here, a chance to clear Dylan’s name. I asked if she had any pictures of pre-race photos, like candid shots of the team, and if I might be able to see those. I hit SEND before I could chicken out. She probably would not reply. I hadn’t exactly made a great first impression, lying to her at Open Road. But it was worth a shot.

  I sat cross-legged on the cool tile floor, a blanket draped around me, while the washing machine rattled and churned, working on Mari’s huge bag of laundry. I waited for Mari to come through the patio on her way to the former maid’s room, where she was staying. I wanted to see what she thought of my new theory about Chris Fitch as a suspect. But the chatter in the living room showed no signs of letting up, so I gave up and went to bed. I lay awake for a long time, sliding Juan Carlos’s crucifix along its chain, and thinking, thinking, thinking.

  49

  THE NEXT morning, I went to La Casa for my teaching shift with a heavy heart. I pushed Gertrude the Bike to the corner, dragging my feet, tripping over the broken sidewalk as I hailed a taxi. I threw the beater bike in the trunk of the cab that pulled up, without even looking behind me to see if any Vuelta volunteers were watching from the window. I didn’t care. I had too much on my mind. Like the fact that I had to call in some kind of report to Darwin today, to make him think I was questioning Mari. And the fact that unless we got the information Juan Carlos was trying to leak, and the bike in the shipping container, we had no story to tell the authorities, because my camera was gone.

  I mourned that video camera as much as the loss of Darwin’s incriminating testimony. The camera hadn’t been cheap. I’d paid for it all myself, from babysitting and birthday money. And now I couldn’t even film stuff for Vuelta. During the taxi ride I concocted a whole story I could tell my parents. I was mugged—maybe a drive-by deal—and my bag with the camera was stolen. Knowing how important this vlog was for salvaging my reputation, maybe they would spring for another, or wire me money to buy one here. Then I erased the story in my mind. If my parents thought I’d been mugged, they’d probably freak out and make me come home. Besides, hadn’t I already told enough lies?

  At La Casa, I paid the driver, who got out and took the beater bike out of his trunk.

  “Gracias,” I said, and turned around to find six of the girls at La Casa staring at me.

  “You pay a taxi to take your bicycle here?” Rosio asked in Spanish, a puzzled look on her face. “That’s so expensive.”

  “Bad knee,” I said, pointing at my right knee with a grimace. “I started to ride—that’s why I have the bike with me—but I couldn’t finish.”

  I lost myself in lessons for the next three hours, grateful for the happy distraction. Many of the girls were moving on to basic pedaling today, following the chalk line I now drew on the sidewalk. Some of them wobbled. Three fell. But not Rosio. Her eyes blazing, her jaw set, she never wavered on that line—or in her resolve to ride.

  I admired that. Even if I couldn’t hop on a bike as fearlessly as Rosio, I could muster up that same determination in seeking justice for Juan Carlos.

  After class, Rosio walked me to the corner to wait with me while I hailed a cab. I complimented her on her quick progress. Her whole face lit up. “I like your classes,” she said shyly, in Spanish. “You are a different kind of teacher. You don’t show us everything. You expect us to figure out things for ourselves.”

  I looked away. Because I’m covering up my fear of riding again, I thought to myself. Suddenly self-conscious, I rummaged in my backpack and handed her a couple of EcuaBars I’d taken from the Vuelta vending machine. “Try eating one of these before the next class,” I suggested, in Spanish. “I noticed you running out of energy near the end. This will help.”

  “EcuaBars!” she exclaimed in delight. “I love these.”

  “You’ve tried them?”

  “My mother came home with a box of these once. She cleans rooms in Hotel d’Oro, the hotel where Señor Lane stays.”

  I stared at her. “Does your mom know him or something?”

  “He gave these to her as part of
a tip. He is a strange man, my mother says, but it does not matter to me. EcuaBars are the best.”

  “Why does your mom think he is strange?”

  Rosio carefully opened an EcuaBar and nibbled a corner of chocolate. “One time, she came into his hotel room while he was in there. He forgot to hang up the privacy sign. She saw him taking apart a bike, on the floor of the hotel room. He yelled at her to get out, and frightened her. Later, he apologized and gave her a case of EcuaBars and an apology note.”

  I frowned. Preston always seemed laid-back. That kind of knee-jerk reaction, followed by an extravagant apology, sounded more like something that moody Jake would do. “What was he doing with the bike? What didn’t he want your mom to see?”

  “We don’t know. My mother said it seemed he was taking things out of it,” said Rosio.

  “Taking things out of it? Are you sure? Like what?”

  “My mother wasn’t sure exactly what he was doing. She couldn’t see well. And when she came back to clean the room later, nothing about it seemed unusual.”

  It sounded pretty unusual to me, given that we now knew there was cash hidden in Juan Carlos’s bike. I said a hurried good-bye to Rosio and ran around the corner to hail the first taxi I saw.

  /////

  I RAN into Mari’s classroom as soon as I got back to the Vuelta office. “I have to talk to you,” I whispered, ignoring the curious stares of her students.

  We ducked out of the room, and I told her what Rosio had said.

  “Preston Lane might have put money in his own bike!” I concluded.

  Mari stared, then shook her head. “He was probably just fixing it. Juan Carlos said he went riding here every time he was in town. And just because there’s some money in Juan Carlos’s spare bike doesn’t mean Preston has money in his. Besides, this is all circumstantial evidence. Rosio’s mom didn’t even see anything specific.”

  I admit, it stung that Mari didn’t buy into my theory. “But why would he freak out on Rosio’s mom like that? And then give her a gift? Don’t you think he had something to hide?”

  Mari shrugged. “Powerful men have a lot to hide. I just can’t picture a wealthy guy like Preston running around with cash in a bike like some money mule. He has bank accounts and business operatives here, and I’m sure a big fat money belt when he travels. Maybe he had a woman in his room, someone he didn’t want to be connected to publicly. Juan Carlos said he’s a bit of a ladies’ man.” She grinned. “I bet Rosio’s mom made up part of the story to explain all those EcuaBars to her daughter.”

  “Are you suggesting that Preston was hooking up with the hotel maid? Rosio’s mom? And that’s why he lavished her with EcuaBars?”

  “Why not?”

  I thought of Rosio’s mother, so beautiful, with that long black hair and high cheekbones. Yes, why not? That theory made more sense than Preston hiding drug money in his own bike, and then taking it out in a fancy hotel room. Besides, Preston cared about Juan Carlos. He’d helped to launch his career. He’d arranged for him to develop as a cyclist and finish his education in the U.S. A cash payout to Darwin from Chris Fitch—somehow intercepted by Juan Carlos along with Chris’s flash drive—still seemed like the likeliest theory of all.

  “I’ve got to get back to class,” Mari said, glancing at her students. “We can talk more at lunch. Lucia packed us some of those higos con queso she served us last night. Did I tell you she’ll teach me her recipe, if I want to stay another night?”

  “Do you?” I fought back a jealous wave. I’d gushed about the figs and cheese dish, too, but Lucia hadn’t offered to teach me to cook it.

  “Yeah, maybe. It is pretty comfortable there. Another night in a real house probably wouldn’t kill me. I feel really safe there. You know?”

  “Sure,” I said as I turned to go. But the truth was, I didn’t feel safe anywhere at all.

  /////

  WILSON KEPT me busy with marketing outreach again all afternoon. I watched the clock on the wall with a sinking feeling, as the hours and then the minutes ticked by. Finally my appointed check-in time with Darwin rolled around, and I still didn’t have a bogus story I could give him to make him think I was working for him. But I didn’t dare not call him. I didn’t want him to come looking for me. Jake had said I couldn’t say words that weren’t scripted for me. But I’d have to go way off script on this phone call. I’d have to totally wing it.

  I left the office and walked to the small corner tienda with a pay phone down the street. The dance party flyer was creased and worn from being carried in my pocket and my sweaty palms, but I could still read the number. I dialed it now.

  “I have been awaiting your call.” Darwin’s acid voice on the phone made my skin crawl. “You made a huge misstep at the dance club smuggling that video camera. I think you’re due for another lesson about trying to mess with me.”

  “No, please don’t. Please don’t do anything to my parents.”

  “Then this is your chance to make up for it. I hope you have good news for me?”

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve been talking to Mari. But I need more time. I can’t just start interrogating her or I’ll scare her off. Like you did. That’s a big part of investigative journalism, you know. Getting your sources to trust you.”

  There was silence for a long moment, and the sound of Darwin breathing. I waited for him to explode at me.

  “How much time are we talking?” he asked.

  “I can’t say for sure. At least a couple of days.” I could feel my voice getting stronger. “But you know what? If I have to keep checking in with you like this, it’s only going to take longer. I had to leave Mari to go make this call. I could have been finding out something right now, but no, I’m here on a pay phone, talking to you. You’re right, I’m a good interviewer, and you hired me because you think I can get information out of Mari that you guys couldn’t. But you have to let me do my job in my own way.”

  “Fine. I’ll make you a deal,” said Darwin. “I’ll give you some space. But just for a couple of days. I’m expecting a check-in on Friday. That should be plenty of time to get your gabbing out of the way and find out what you need to find out. And that’s final. No more negotiations.”

  “Great. Thanks. I won’t let you down.” I ended the call and let out a long breath. Friday. I’d bought myself a little more time and avoided the daily check-ins. I just hoped he’d keep his word and give me some space. I wanted him and his crew far from tomorrow’s urban downhill race. I needed to be free to talk to el Ratón without eavesdropping spies.

  50

  THE NEXT day, Wednesday, Vuelta closed down early so that everyone could go see el Ratón’s last urban downhill race. To my relief, Wilson suggested we not take bikes there, since the crowds of spectators would be too thick. So five of us piled into Santiago’s Pathfinder, and the others took taxis. As Santiago sped down Amazonas toward Old Town, and some of the volunteers in the backseat placed bets on who would win, he turned to me with an encouraging smile. “Nervous?” he whispered.

  “A little,” I admitted. “I’m not sure about our plan. I mean, there’s no guarantee el Ratón will want to speak with me.” Santiago, Mari, and I had come up with an idea on an after-work stroll through a park yesterday. In my backpack, I now had Vuelta’s own video camera, which Santiago had surprised me with after I came back from making that call to Darwin. Mari and I would pretend to interview el Ratón for a TV show back in the States. Our cover story to gain access to him from his handlers would give us a precious few minutes to find out what he knew about Juan Carlos’s flash drive . . . and about who might have wanted Juan Carlos dead.

  “Who wouldn’t want to speak with you?” Santiago said. He sounded genuinely surprised that I would ask this question. He let his eyes rest on me a moment longer than he needed to, then looked back at the road ahead.

  My face warmed. I looked away
.

  We came into the Old Town, and I gazed out the window. Pedestrians flattened themselves against the walls when the buses and cars, including ours, hurtled past them. We passed a grand plaza with a fountain, and beautiful churches that made me think of gold-studded jewelry boxes.

  I wished I could just be a normal tourist. Or a normal Vuelta volunteer, talking about weekend exploits and adventures like Emma and Aussie Guy. Or even just a normal bike teacher. My classes the past two mornings at La Casa had gone great, especially this morning’s class. Today Rosio had actually gone around the block all by herself. Even the smallest girl had managed to ride and pedal a few yards on the Barbie bike without my holding on to the seat.

  Santiago found a parking spot on a side street. We got out and hurried to join the crowds of spectators who were swarming into the area.

  Merengue music pulsed from speakers. Onlookers ate street vendor food and talked excitedly. The plaza was surrounded by cobblestoned streets and alleys and staircases marching up steep hills. Some of the staircases had boards stretched across them. Wooden planks extended from rooftop to rooftop, resembling makeshift bridges.

  In the next instant, a cheer rose up from the crowd.

  A downhill rider dressed in neon yellow came clattering down the hillside on a modified mountain bike with fat tires. He rode down the steps. Down stair railings. Across the planks. He bounced across rooftops, careened around corners, and squeezed through alleys between tall buildings. All at breakneck speed.

  The cyclist zoomed right by us, hopping the bike over a fence, crossing a wooden plank suspended between buildings, and continuing down a stone staircase. “How did he do that?” I exclaimed, suddenly forgetting my entire mission.

  “Exciting, isn’t it? Practice,” said Santiago, grinning. “Sometimes people start this when they’re kids, in the hill neighborhoods. The best of them get discovered. Like el Ratón.”