Latitude Zero (24 page)

43

I RETURNED
to the Vuelta headquarters sweaty. Dejected. Defeated. So much for my dream of an empowering ride back to the office. All I had to show for my effort was a ripped knee on my jeans, a skinned palm, and badly jangled nerves.

I wheeled Gertrude into the shop and snuck her back into the rack. I gave the back tire a swift kick, for good measure. I wasn’t getting on that thing again. Then I looked around the office and the bike shop. Maybe I could do some interviews with volunteers and take my mind off my impending meeting with Darwin.

The shop was eerily quiet, though. There was just one other volunteer at work—a twentysomething Australian guy, whom everyone seemed to call “Aussie Guy.” He was signing out rental mountain bikes to a couple of German tourists.

I knocked on Wilson’s office door, to ask if he wanted me to get started on my next assignment. When he didn’t answer, I pushed open the door a little.

Santiago was at the computer. He looked up and smiled—though less warmly than before, I couldn’t help noticing. “Where is everyone?” I asked.

“The staff and volunteers, they are all at lunch. We can join them at the café. I was waiting for your return, to bring you. How was La Casa?”

“The girls weren’t as experienced as I thought they’d be, but they made good progress.”

“¡Súper bien!”
Santiago smiled and looked genuinely happy. “You must be a natural teacher.” Then his gaze drifted back to his computer, and his face grew serious. “Actually I am sure your teaching skills must to come from your television show.”

I froze.
KidVision
. I hadn’t talked to him about my show. Had Mari mentioned that to him? When they were in the statue together yesterday?

“I looked you up online. Here you are.”

I went over to his side of the desk. Sure enough, he’d found the
KidVision
site with the archived shows. A video was paused on an image of me, age thirteen, helping a first-grade classroom harvest cucumbers at a community urban garden. Me, with braces, a bad haircut, a goofy smile, and skinny legs—my “chicken legs” phase, Kylie and Sarita used to tease me. Oh my God.

“You are a famous person,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “I had no idea.” I couldn’t tell from his face or his voice if this was a good thing or not.

“Oh, I’m not famous,” I said. “Really. I’m not.”

If he’d looked me up, what else had he seen? The awful blog “article” Balboa had posted about my bandit riding? The recording she’d made of my conversation with Gage? All the commentators who’d publicly taken me down? It was up there, forever.

“This show, I like it very much,” said Santiago. “It is good practice for me, for the listening portion of my TOEFL exam.” He clicked a link. “This I liked. Cycling for Change.”

And suddenly there was Jake’s face filling up the screen, as he talked about the junior Team EcuaBar’s community outreach programs: “Yeah, sure, it feels great to give back. To show the world that not all cyclists are doped-up hammerheads. A lot of us are all about the sport. That’s what we want to show the kids.”

I held my breath, listening to him. He came across as eager. And sincere. My thoughts about his character kept taking switchback turns. First I’d thought he was a huge booster for cycling and community service, not to mention an exciting boyfriend. But then he’d tried to frame a teammate for doping. But then it turned out he had doubled back to check out that bike I’d found in the woods, and he’d been right that something weird was up with Juan Carlos. He wasn’t the guy for me, but that didn’t mean he was guilty of any crime here. Or that he was a bad person. He was someone who’d made some bad decisions. I knew something about that myself.

I hoped I’d find out something soon from Darwin that would help to clear Jake’s name as well as Dylan’s. Jake was already paying, as he should, for trying to frame Juan Carlos for doping. He didn’t deserve to be dragged through the media as a person of interest in a homicide case.

I was relieved when the clip of Jake ended—I didn’t like the feeling that my Ecuador and my Boston worlds were colliding here, in this office. But then that clip with Juan Carlos came on, and I sat forward to watch. “Turn it up,” I whispered to Santiago, and he did.

“Bicycles are one solution for to turn around problems like pollution and poverty,” Juan Carlos explained. “One meaning of Vuelta means ‘to turn,’ and that is what we are doing. More cyclists means less dependence on the cars. Less gas and oil. This is something we are very concerned about in my country, in these days.”

“That’s fascinating,” I said to Juan Carlos in the interview. “So how are bicycle
racers
, as opposed to regular, everyday cyclists, helping to turn things around in your country?”

“Bike racing can show to kids a career path. A way out of their circumstances. It can give them opportunities for prize moneys, for scholarships to study, for travel, for lots of things. This is why Preston Lane started the Vuelta Youth Racing Club. To invest money in young racers.”

Santiago tipped back in his chair and looked at me, twirling a pen between two fingers. “So did you know Juan Carlos well?”

“I told you I interviewed him for my show.” What was he getting at? Why did he keep looking at me as though he didn’t believe me?

He stopped the video clip. “The first guy—he is your
novio
?”

“My what?”

“Your
novio
. Boyfriend.”

I stared at him. He meant Jake. I wanted to pretend I’d never known Jake. But I couldn’t look into Santiago’s clear blue eyes and lie again. “He was, once. Not anymore.”

“And Juan Carlos? You were with him or not?”

“No!” Where was he getting these ideas? Had he read my thoughts, my past, on my face, as we watched the videos together?

He shrugged. “Well. I must to close the office and take you to the café to join the others for lunch.”

“I can grab a sandwich later. I’m not hungry.” And I wasn’t. I suddenly just wanted to hide somewhere and prepare, mentally, for my meeting with Darwin. Just as Juan Carlos had needed his five minutes of prayer and peace before racing, I now craved something like that for myself.

“I know you are a hard worker,” Santiago said with a small frown. “But here in Ecuador, we take the time and we stop to eat lunch. We will go join our friends and take the break, yes?”

“Yes. Okay.” I sighed.

“Momentito.”

As soon as he ducked into the bathroom, I rushed to his computer and looked at the other windows he had opened. One had html code; he was updating the Vuelta website with information about Pan-American Cycling Tour events this week.

One was an article in
El Comercio
, Quito’s main newspaper, about how EcuaBars and Cadence bikes were both selling like crazy worldwide since the cyclist’s crash. People had become fascinated with Juan Carlos, and how his promising career and his life were cut short by a member of his own team, the mechanic. People interviewed for the article said they wanted to buy these products to support the companies that had nurtured this great talent. Or they felt closer to him, eating the product he endorsed or riding the same brand of bike.

I frowned at a picture of Chris Fitch and Preston Lane cutting the ribbon at the start of a new bike path opening in Boston. They looked happy, smiling. I wasn’t sure when the picture was taken, but it made me wonder. Could
marketing
be a motive for murder? Was Juan Carlos worth more to them dead than alive?

No. Impossible. He had to be worth more alive, as a moneymaker for both companies. Besides, if either businessman was behind his death, they’d have to be linked to Darwin, too, and that was inconceivable. Talk about coming from totally different worlds.

Another window was open to a mostly black screen, with dancing fruit, and a list of different teams, in English, organized by sports.
Sports Xplor!
it said at the top. I’d seen that website before, in Gage’s office. Once again, it caught my eye because it looked so strange. It resembled an ad in a pop-up window, with simple graphics, basic design. I saw a list of cycling teams, and I realized that’s what this must be. Some kind of ad.

I clicked on the icon for the next open window, and that one freaked me out.

It was the article about my bandit ride, with the audio clip of my “confession.” Just as I’d feared, Santiago had found that, with a simple search of my name.

The toilet flushed. I quickly closed those windows.

Was Santiago doing some sleuthing of his own about Juan Carlos? Or about
me
?

44

AFTER LUNCH,
Wilson put me on an office project with Emma, the Irish volunteer—a relief after the stress of teaching at La Casa. A relief, then a bore . . . then a panic. We had to stuff hundreds of envelopes with letters soliciting donations. Wilson and the team were starting a big campaign to expand their youth outreach and programs.

“I don’t see why these all have to go out tomorrow,” I grumbled, glancing at the clock and the darkening sky. Sunsets flared up like a candle and blew out just as fast in Quito, I’d already noticed. And the sky was especially dark, as storm clouds roiled down from the surrounding hills. The first patters of rain spit against the windows. I glanced at a wall clock, and panic seized me. I had less than an hour until my meeting with Darwin. I had to get out of this place. Why had we all lingered for nearly two hours over lunch? We could have finished this project by four!

“He said they had to go out immediately because it’s Quito’s Bicycle Week and the homecoming event of the PAC Tour,” said Emma. “Everyone here will have bikes on the brain. They might be more likely to donate some cash.”

More like everyone had Juan Carlos on the brain,
I thought. The newsstands were full of magazines with his face splashed all over them. And Juan Carlos was a figurehead of Vuelta. I could see why Wilson was trying to capitalize on all the hype. Still, Juan Carlos’s face staring out at me from all those covers was a constant reminder that I was failing in my mission.

I pushed my chair back from the table. “I have to get out of here,” I mumbled. I felt bad leaving her with a mountain of paper to finish, but if I didn’t get to that meeting, Darwin was going to start his online trail of destruction, his digital bulldozing of my family’s lives.

Emma stood up, too, and followed me out of the back office. “Are you sick? You look really pale.”

“Yeah. Not so good. Stomach stuff. Sorry I can’t finish. Tell Wilson—”

But I ran smack into Wilson as I opened the door to the building. “I was just coming to get you two!” he said. “The surprise is coming!” Behind him I saw Santiago, Sylvia, and the seven other volunteers, including Mari, standing on the sidewalk.

Suddenly I heard something that sounded like a middle school marching band. Some kind of parade. A tinny brass section, a crashing bass. An
oompa-oompa
beat. And then a bus turned the corner and pulled up by the curb, and all the volunteers, including Mari, burst into cheers and applause.

It was the wildest bus I’d ever seen: antique-looking, with wooden sides, painted bright yellow and green. An eight-piece band sat on the rooftop, continuing to play their
oompa
song. The bus was open air, no windows, with benches for seats. Inside were shiny streamers and bunches of colorful balloons.

The Vuelta staff and volunteers started chanting,
“¡Chiva! ¡Chiva!”
and filed onto the bus.

Santiago raised his eyebrows when he saw me, but he didn’t smile as wide as he had yesterday morning when he picked me up at the Ruizes’ house. Something was definitely up with him.

Maybe I’d pushed him away. He’d been so friendly from the start, and I’d been aloof and preoccupied. But I couldn’t make up for it now. I had only twenty minutes to go until my face-to-face meeting with a possible murderer!

“My father rented a
chiva
. A party bus,” he explained.

“Looks fun,” I said. “I wish I could come.” And I did wish that, powerfully.

“What?” Santiago grinned. “But you are coming. Everyone is invited. It is for the volunteers.”

“But I have to—”

“¡Oye, señorita! ¡Venga!
” the driver insisted, ushering me on with an impatient gesture.

“¡Venga
, Tessa
! ¡Venga!
” everyone on board shouted at me, in unison.

I hopped on and took the seat in front of Mari, who was sitting by Aussie Guy. Santiago slid onto the bench beside me. “How could you even think about missing this?” he asked, with a broad gesture, as the band thundered on above our heads. Symbols crashed, trumpets blared, and the drum banged on and on. “This is a classic Ecuadorian experience!”

I could feel a headache coming on fast.

A woman passed around whistles, party blowers, and little cups of Inca Kola, and away we went, shuddering and lurching into the evening, the song growing more frenzied at every turn.

I turned to look at Mari as everyone started blowing their whistles and party blowers. “Where’s this bus going?”

“Nowhere,” she said, playfully shaking a plastic castanet at me. “Why?” Then her eyes widened. “Darwin. Did you call him yet?”

“No. I have to get off this thing. And what do you mean the bus is going nowhere? Everything has to go somewhere.”

“Not this bus.
Chivas
just drive around. Why don’t you use Santiago’s phone?”

“But I don’t need to call—” It took me a moment to realize what she was talking about. Mari thought I needed to call Darwin; she had no idea I was actually meeting with him. “Um, I mean, Darwin said use a pay phone only. I guess that way it’s harder to trace him.”

“I bet you’re right. Let’s keep our eyes out for a public phone sign.”

The bus careened around corners, and more Inca Kola cups were passed down the aisle. I took some and immediately spit it out. It was Inca Kola mixed with fire. “Rum,” said Aussie Guy, his eyes dancing at me as he downed his cup of the concoction in one shot. “Have another go. The second sip’s always better.”

Santiago laughed at the face I made on my second sip. “I do not like this drink, either,” he said quietly. “I can take your cup. You do not have to drink this.”

As Santiago reached across my lap to take my drink away, I noticed the hint of stubble on his face, and the long upward curve of his eyelashes. I warmed at his kindness, disposing of my drink when no one else was looking so I wouldn’t be embarrassed.

There were other guys out there. My life didn’t have to vacillate between the two poles of Jake and Juan Carlos. Maybe I’d meet someone when all this was over, and feel things again. Like love.

Santiago signaled to the
chiva
assistant, or whatever she was. She took our empty cups and, with a gracious smile, flung them outside.

My eyes widened at the blatant recycling violation, and Santiago threw up his hands in frustration. “We are sitting on gold here, with this beautiful country, but people still are throwing their trash in the streets.” He looked closely at me. “Something is troubling you. Is it the cups? You are a big recycler. I know from your TV show,” he added.

“Ah. Right.”

“I like very much your show. But it seems you are not a host any longer?”

I looked at my lap. “Kind of a long story.”

As the bus slowed, Mari poked me in the back, and then pointed to a hotel with a sign advertising a pay phone inside.
“Call Darwin,”
she mouthed, making a phone gesture with her hand.

“Maybe you can tell me the story sometime? I am curious,” said Santiago.

The bus lurched forward again.

“Maybe.” I gazed at the hotel we passed, and the canyon of office buildings around us, as the rollicking bus barreled down another side street. From my wool tote bag I showed him the address Darwin had given me. “Do you know where this place is?”

“Juan León Mera Street . . . that’s in La Zona.”

“La Zona!”

“Yes. Not so far from Mari’s apartment. And about three blocks from here. The driver is passing by there on the way to the Old Town.” Santiago took a closer look at the paper. “Is this place someone’s home? Or a club?”

“A club.” That was the easiest answer. And I hoped it was correct. I didn’t want to be in somebody’s apartment, with Darwin, completely alone. I chilled. Why hadn’t I even thought to ask Darwin what kind of place we were meeting in?

Santiago gave a short laugh. “I thought at first you were different. But maybe you are a typical
gringa
after all? Here to find an
aventura
?”

I stared at him, my face hot. “What do you mean?”

He looked down, his cheeks reddening. “Nothing. Never mind. I did not mean to sound in that way.” Then his eyes met mine again. Not angry, just direct. “But maybe you could just tell me why you’re really here?”

Aussie Guy interrupted us, tapping Santiago on the shoulder to ask him something about an Ecuadorian drinking song. I leaned over the back of my seat and talked into Mari’s ear.

“I’m getting off here.”

“No, Tessa! I don’t think it’s a good idea after all. Not here, anyway. ”

“I saw a sign for a pay phone,” I lied. “Cover for me, okay? Tell Wilson and everyone I got sick again and went to your place. It’s just a few blocks away.”

Before she could protest again, and as the driver slowed for a red light, I slipped off the bench and jumped off the
chiva
.

I tripped and landed on my knees but quickly scrambled to my feet, unhurt.

I ran down the street as fast as I could. Footsteps slapped the wet pavement behind me as the light rain turned steady. I turned and saw whose they were.

“What are you doing?” I said to Mari. “Are you crazy? Who’s covering for me if you’re here?”

“You’re not just calling Darwin from a pay phone, are you? Something’s up. I know it.”

“Fine. I’m meeting him. At this address.”

She snatched the paper. “No way are you going in there to meet him alone.”

Fat, heavy drops, splatted on the sidewalk with fury now. While people ran for cover under restaurant awnings and in doorways, Mari and I stood there and glared at each other.

“This is
not
just your problem, Tessa,” Mari said, her voice breaking. “It’s mine, too. I should have inspected Juan Carlos’s damn bike more carefully while I had the chance. I had a gut feeling the bike wasn’t right, and I never followed through and took the whole thing apart. If I’d done it, we might have found out what was inside it before it left the country.”

“But two weeks ago, what would you have taken the bike apart for? To look for enhancements?”

“Maybe. Or drugs.”

“So you were thinking about drugs, too? Before I mentioned it?”

She nodded. “My aunt works for the TSA at Logan Airport. She saw a bike come through once, from Mexico, stuffed with bags of white powder. I didn’t want to go there in my head, you know? To think that about Juan Carlos. And I’m sick of stereotypes about drugs and Latin America. But I have to face reality. That might be what’s going on here.”

“But why would they be bringing drugs into Ecuador? Don’t they travel the other way?”

“Right. So maybe it’s cash, and maybe it’s not in the handlebars. I’ve been thinking a lot about this,” said Mari. “Carbon fiber can be hollowed out. You saw it for yourself. The whole frame could be stuffed to the gills.”

I swallowed hard. “Santiago told me there was a lot of stuff going on here lately with young people working as drug and money mules. Maybe that’s what Juan Carlos was doing.” He traveled internationally. With a bike. A bike that could conceal contraband. Like drugs coming into the U.S. or drug money flowing back out. Had Juan Carlos been helping Darwin’s group at one point as a mule? What if he had screwed up, or deliberately turned against them, making them mad enough to kill him? The bike stashed in the woods, and the “information” these guys were looking for—none of this made Juan Carlos look good.

“Look. I want to get to the bottom of this as much as you do,” Mari said, softer now. “If my friend was involved with a drug cartel, I want to know why.”

“I get that. But Darwin specifically told me to come alone,” I explained. “If I break my word, and bring someone, he’ll spread dirt about me and my parents online. He’s already set up someone to frame my mom for harassment, and he’ll go after my dad, too.”

Mari glared at me a moment longer, then blew out a long breath. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait across the street.”

We hurried down the street, following the numbers until we came to the address of the meeting place. Salsoteca Mundial.

Mari whistled under her breath. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not this place.”

“What’s wrong with it? It looked okay during the day. Seems like a real nightclub.”

The nightclub pulsed with salsa music, and a line was forming out the door even though it was early in the evening.

“At night?” Mari shook her head. “It’s a place where money gets laundered and all kinds of shady business deals take place. It’s been written up in the paper, and the Vuelta staff told us to avoid it.” She gave me a long look. “If you’re not out in thirty minutes, I’m coming in to find you.”

As I left Mari and approached the line at the door, I checked to make sure Juan Carlos’s necklace was safely tucked beneath my shirt and my cotton scarf. I also buttoned my sweater up tight. This seemed like the perfect place and time to have someone run by and grab jewelry off my neck, if they happened to see a flash of gold. Even if the necklace wasn’t real gold, I didn’t need to look like any more of a target than I already was.

While Mari lurked in the doorway of the SuperChicken across the street, a heavy-set bald man in a cream suit and a Panama hat—a bouncer, I guessed—came up to me and whispered in my ear, in English, with breath that reeked of cigar smoke, “What do you know about mangoes?”

“Mangoes are best at this time of year?”

The bouncer lifted a velvet rope, ushering me underneath. My heart racing, I pushed open the heavy wood door to the club, then parted the thick red velvet drapes in the foyer.

The mango code had worked.

And after this meeting? I was never going to eat another mango as long as I lived.

Once inside, I immediately ducked into a restroom, and into a stall, to avoid the restroom attendant’s curious stare. I quickly set up my video camera inside my woven wool bag from the crafts market. I pulled apart some of the threads on the outside of a pocket to make a small hole. Then I nestled the camera lens right up against it. I stuffed wads of stiff, pink toilet paper around the camera in the pocket, to keep it in position, and zipped the pocket tight. I almost laughed, thinking of the projects and inventions I’d demonstrated step-by-step on
KidVision
. I’d come a long way from pizza box furniture.