by Aya De León
“If you ever decide to skip the middle man and go straight to the top, give me a call,” he said. He was making a move, and still hadn’t asked her name.
“I’ll take your card,” she said.
“Oh no, you won’t,” Davis said. “Run along, Phillip. I think there’s a high school tour coming in soon.”
“I’ll be at tonight’s lecture, as well,” Gerard said, winking at her as he walked away.
She turned back to Davis Evanston. “With friends like that,” Marisol said, trailing off the cliché.
“So . . .” he fumbled. “You know who I am. You even know who my unscrupulous friends are. Tell me a little about yourself.”
Marisol didn’t want him to google her online and find that she ran a health clinic for sex workers. Fortunately, there were many women named Marisol Rivera. One was sort of YouTube famous, and she dominated any google searches.
“I live in Florida,” she lied. “I had a project that paid off recently, so I guess now I’m an investor.” On reflection, she realized that the latter part of what she’d said was true.
A steak arrived for him and he began to slice it, the sharp knife cutting the meat into thin strips.
“I like how you handle that bike,” he said.
“I like how you’ve handled this resort,” she said. “Tell me about your operation.”
He talked for maybe fifteen minutes. “. . . such an unprecedented investment opportunity . . . really could use more women investors . . .”
None of the content was important. But she listened with her full attention, waiting for the chance to jump in.
“. . . the same architect who did our offices . . .”
“I’d love to see your office,” she said. “Especially if it has some of the same visual themes.” She waved vaguely toward the giant bike on the wall.
“We have this same artist’s work throughout the property,” he explained.
“Of course,” Marisol said. “I was just hoping you could show me your office.” She smiled widely. “As a start.”
He brightened with her lightly flirtatious tone. “Of course,” he said. “Would you like to stop by after lunch?”
“I’ve got nothing but time,” she said.
* * *
At 1:42 Marisol sent a text to Nidia on the burner phone. heat things up in 10 minutes. call in 15.
The offices were on the top floor. The elevator that accessed them was down the hall from the restaurant, which closed at midnight. The front desk stayed open 24-hours, and she also noted the housekeeping and grounds office, where they probably had overnight staff.
There was a security desk in the lobby. She managed to look at the guard’s camera feed. Front door. Lobby. Parking lot. Restaurant entrance. That was it.
On the penthouse floor, she was pleased to see that the air vents were ground level. Good. It would be much easier to get in. But when they got to his office, she was disappointed that the door opened with a card instead of a key. She could pick a regular lock, but she didn’t know how to bypass a card system. She couldn’t rig the door to stay open, because he’d be in and out too many times today. She’d have to crawl in through the vent.
The office was bright and chilly, with the stale flavor of overdone air conditioning. On the walls were more of the motorcycle art. This time tires with sparkling rims.
“I just love these,” Marisol said, noting which of the pieces might cover a safe.
She looked at his wall clock, also a tire theme, and noted that it was 1:54.
At 1:57, Marisol was not surprised when they were interrupted. His office phone on the fake wooden desk rang. He had been standing uncomfortably close to her, droning on about how the artist really understood the inherent sensuousness of circles, when the call came in.
“Excuse me,” he said, and picked up the phone.
Even from across the office, Marisol could hear the raised voice of the woman from the front desk.
“A fire,” the woman said. “A guest says there’s a fire in one of the cottages. I’ve called the fire department and I sent housekeeping with an extra extinguisher.”
He had barely hung up the phone, when he began to sprint for the door.
“I’ll be back,” he stammered over his shoulder.
He didn’t close the door behind him. Marisol shut it carefully.
She could feel her heart beat faster as she searched behind the wheel art until she found the safe. A MuscleMan. No extra security features to the lock. She felt the urge crack it. But not now. He would be back as soon as he realized the fire was a ruse. Fortunately, it had gotten him out of there. If it hadn’t, Plan B was for Nidia to pull the fire alarm. Marisol would have taken advantage of the confusion.
She had scoped the architectural plans online. She knew the air conditioning vent connected to the hallway. She pulled out her screwdriver and replaced the air vent’s real screws with fakes. From inside the vent, she’d only need to push and the grate would open for her. Hopefully the safe would do the same.
* * *
By the time Davis Evanston came back, she was sitting calmly, flipping through one of the hotel brochures.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Just some papers in a trash can caught on fire,” he said. “Some guest overreacted. Sorry to leave you waiting.”
“I like a man who protects his investments,” she said.
“Let me make it up to you,” he said. “Dinner? On me?”
“Sure,” she said. “But your dining room leaves something to be desired. How about in San Juan? I’ll be there for a meeting this afternoon.”
He agreed, and suggested a high-end restaurant. They set dinner for eight.
Marisol went back to her room and called Nidia on the burner phone.
“I was so scared when I set the papers on fire,” Nidia said. “And even more scared when I called. I did it like you told me. Hysterical, but not over the top. Did they buy it?”
“You did perfectly,” Marisol said. “Are you in San Juan yet?”
“About another half hour,” Nidia said.
Marisol gave her the name of the high-end restaurant Davis Evanston had suggested. “Be there at eight.”
“What do I order in a place like that?” Nidia asked.
“Whatever you want,” Marisol said. “Bring some dinner home for Zara, too.”
“It’ll be a pleasure,” Nidia said.
* * *
That evening, Serena and Lily stood out on the dark road between Las Palmas and San Juan, right at the spot where Marisol had dropped the GPS pin. Serena seemed jumpy with the darkness, the mosquitoes, and the chirping of frogs. But Lily seemed more relaxed than when she was in New York.
“This place reminds me of home,” Lily said. “Same climate. Same foliage. Same style of houses. Same feeling at night.”
“Not me,” Serena said. “We were from Athens. It’s warm, but not like this. And not always so muggy. My hair is nothing but frizz.”
“Would you ever go back?” Lily asked.
Serena shook her head. “Greece is finally getting out of the dark ages in LGBT rights,” she said. “But my family’s too religious. I wouldn’t have anybody there.”
Lily nodded. “Plus that new boyfriend isn’t trying to leave Manhattan.”
Serena smiled. “Except maybe for one of the boroughs.”
“I still feel torn,” Lily said. “I miss my mother, the feel of home. Brooklyn used to be a little West Indies, but the gentrification now.” She sucked her teeth. “We not there like we used to be. This place brings it all back.”
The two women watched the little dot on the screen move down the road toward their location. They had an estimated half hour til it reached them, so they headed back to their own vehicle, hidden in some shrubbery nearby.
Cars only went by every few minutes, but the timing would be tight.
They needed to make sure to target the right vehicle, and they didn’t want to get hit. I
t was difficult to hear cars coming in the darkness with the loud sounds of the insects and frogs.
The two of them waited on the rural road for the black car to come. Glancing from time to time at the GPS, the two women huddled by the roadside and plucked a few last feathers from several row of spikes.
Lily had reassembled the spike strip. When it was collapsed, it was a dense rectangle of metal, but when it was expanded, it was a lethal row of Xs that had spikes on parallel diagonals and connected to make a row of diamond shapes.
Finally, Lily pulled off the last of the feathers and collapsed the spike strip.
“He’s due in about five minutes,” Serena said. “You ready?”
Lily nodded, then opened the car door and walked up to the road.
They heard a vehicle coming from the opposite direction. It wasn’t safe to step out while cars were coming from either side, because drivers often ignored the center line on these curving roads.
The GPS estimated that he’d be there in three minutes. A minivan went by in the other direction.
“Now?” Serena asked.
Lily listened. Was that a car? It was hard to peel the sound of the retreating van apart from any new traffic. The insects and frogs buzzed loudly, drowning other sounds. Yes! That was a car.
“I hear something coming,” Lily said. “But too close to be him. He’s still a full minute away.”
“Damn,” Serena said. “The cars must be pretty close together.”
“We can’t run the risk of harming someone who’s not involved,” Lily said.
“Yeah, but we can’t afford to miss him,” Serena said. “And you could get hit.”
“I’m a fast runner,” Lily said. “That’ll have to be good enough.”
“Okay,” Serena said. “I’ll go further down the road. I’ll shriek like a bird if the cars are close together.”
Serena slipped back into the darkness and around the curve of the hill.
Lily crouched by the side of the road, just behind a tree.
The sound of the car grew louder, and she took a deep breath.
From around the bend, Serena called like a bird. So not this car, but the next one.
Blinding headlights flashed toward Lily, and her body tensed for the leap.
A small coupe made its way around the corner. Five people inside. The windows were open and Lily heard laughter.
The moment it passed, she sprang from her spot at the edge of the asphalt. She ran halfway across the road, pulling the spike strip, which opened behind her.
Lily began to dash the rest of the way across the road, and headlights bore down on her. They were coming from the other direction. A taxi careened toward Lily, swinging wide toward the shoulder on its own side and just missing her. Fortunately, it also swerved out of the path of the spike strip.
Lily dove into the greenery on the far side of the road, just as Davis Evanston’s car came around the curve.
She heard the explosion sound as the tires blew. The car teetered a bit on the busted tires, and as it did so, Lily darted back into the street and dragged the spike strip back toward their own car. She slid it behind her into the bushes like a huntress, returning with a huge tropical snake.
“Did he see you?” Serena asked.
“No,” Lily said. “How about the folks in the taxi? Did they hear the blowout?”
“I doubt it,” Serena said. “They didn’t slow down or turn around.”
“Good,” Lily said. “I think we’re done here.”
“So what do we do now?” Serena asked.
“It’s the Caribbean,” Lily said. “We go to the bar and celebrate.”
“But it’s so late,” Serena said. “And this is such a small town.”
“No matter how small the town,” Lily said. “There’s always a bar open late.”
* * *
Davis Evanston cursed when his tire blew out on the way to San Juan. Unfortunately, he got the flat along a portion of the road with notoriously bad cell phone service. He honked, attempting to get the attention of a blue compact, but the driver zoomed by without stopping. He tried flagging down cars, but with the twists in the road, he nearly got himself killed.
It was 8:45 by the time he had walked to a place where he got decent reception. He called for roadside assistance and then called the restaurant in San Juan. The host was able to find a woman dining alone, about the right age. She fit the description and answered to the name Marisol Rivera.
Davis launched into a long explanation about how he wasn’t the type of man to leave a lady waiting. She really must forgive him. And Davis cursed this backwards island where consumer goods were of such low quality that even new tires were half bald and the roads were strewn with de-tritis sharp enough to cause multiple flat tires. When he had finally ranted himself out, the woman on the other side of the phone said, “No worries.”
As Davis was waiting for a tow truck on the side of the road, Marisol was waiting for the right moment to creep past the front desk staff.
A large party of Midwestern tourists came in with a mountain of luggage, and she took that opportunity to slip into the hallway. She caught the elevator to the penthouse floor. Once she arrived, she unscrewed the air vent and crawled in, leaving the grate in place behind her with clips.
At first, the only sound was the slide of fabric against metal. But as she wriggled through the tiny space to the office, a sudden burst of laughter came throught the grate. She froze.
“Well don’t let my dad hear you talk like that,” a young female voice said. “He doesn’t trust any man who won’t ride a motorcycle.”
Marisol felt the swell of panic in her chest. Who was in the office? She had been so careful to make sure Evanston didn’t have a partner. She hadn’t counted on a daughter. The young woman continued to flirt, but Marisol couldn’t hear the response. She must be on the phone.
Then the air came on. Marisol began to panic, as she felt cold pressure against her feet, pushing up toward her ass in the vent. The back half of her body was freezing, but the front half was overly warm. She began to sweat.
At least the noise of the air covered the sound of Marisol’s movement. She inched toward the office, until she could see through the slats. A young blonde woman sat with her feet up on the desk.
The girl blathered on. Marisol carefully tried to control her breathing, but the feeling of panic continued to rise.
Finally the girl interjected her own monologue: “Why is it so damn hot in here? Hold on—” She set down the phone and walked over to the vent.
Marisol knew intellectually that the girl’s pupils would be adjusted to the office’s bright light. Yet she had had the irrational fear that somehow the young blonde would be able to detect the glint of light on Marisol’s eyes, her hair, her skin beading with sweat in the dark vent.
A pale hand waved in front of the grate. The hand began to open and close the slats for the air. The bright image of the girl in the office flashed on and off like a peep show.
Marisol’s panic spiked. What if the daughter really tried to adjust the grate? With the fake screws Marisol had put in, would it fall off?
The girl left the grate open and walked to the desk: “Let me call you back from my cell. By the time maintenance comes to fix it I’ll have melted in this heat. They say Puerto Rico is part of the United States, but I know the third world when I see it. It’ll take five minutes to get down to my suite.”
After she heard the door click shut, Marisol pressed hard on the grate and it fell onto the rug. She wriggled herself out, and screwed it in behind her with real screws.
Then she went to work on the safe with her stethoscope. Five minutes later, she had cracked it.
Inside, she found nearly $100,000 in cash, several types of bonds and what looked like more of the same stock options Nidia had. She took all of it, and crammed it into her bag.
Just as she was ready to walk out the door, she heard the elevator open out in the hallway. She grabbed th
e bag, and hid under the desk.
A maintenance man came in, a local. He walked to the grate and put his hand in front of it. Marisol could both feel and hear the cold air pouring in. She felt nearly weak with gratitude that she’d refastened the grate.
On his way out, the maintenance man called down on his radio. “It’s working fine,” he said in Spanish. “Fucking Americans. I think they just call to see us jump.”
When Marisol heard the whirr of the elevator heading back down, she peered carefully into the corridor.
Finding it empty, she refastened the hallway grate, and slid into the stairwell, walking gingerly down to her room. She stashed her take from the safe, then walked down the stairs to the ground floor and slipped out of the hotel.
* * *
When Marisol returned from her alleged dinner in San Juan, Davis Evanston was waiting in the lobby, apologetic, with flowers.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I can’t believe I left you waiting.”
“Like I said, no worries,” Marisol told him. “But I’m tired from the drive. I’ll see you next time I’m in town.”
He put a hand on her arm. “It’s not that late,” he said. “It’s barely ten. Have a drink with me.”
She smiled and removed his hand from her arm. “Some other time.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” he said. His voice was half whining, half belligerent.
“Of course not,” she said. “I don’t blame you. I’m just tired.”
“Come on,” he pressed. “Just one drink.”
Marisol looked around the quiet lobby. No one was in sight. The thick doors to the bar were closed. The lights were on, but she couldn’t see anyone through the window. Was it empty? Was there a bartender? Was the bar even open? Or would Evanston make up the drinks himself?
“Oh . . .” she began coyly. “I don’t know . . .”
A grin began to creep up one side of his face.
“You won’t regret it,” he said.
She smiled and rolled her eyes, a sort of coquettish self-mockery. A giggling sort of I know I’ll regret it in the morning, but . . .
She would play along to get his defenses down. Head toward the bar and look for a chance to exit. If nothing else, she could reach for the heavy restaurant door and swing it into his face.
