Reckless (7 page)

I don’t see any of those responses.
 

Instead, Diego’s mouth twitches.
 

He turns away. “Olivia was six months pregnant with our baby boy when she was . . .
killed
.”

He chokes on the final word and leans against one of the racks. And the Oscar goes to . . . drum roll, please! Diego Martinez for his epic performance in
I Didn’t have Anything to Do with My Wife’s Murder!

“Oh, my gosh. That’s horrible. If you don’t mind me asking, how did she die?”

Diego straightens his back and composes himself. “
They
were murdered. It was a car bombing and done so to send a clear message to me to stop what I am doing. No one cares about the violence here. Politicians especially. They just want the money to keep flowing. That’s all that matters. Threaten their system and they consider you and your family expendable.”

This is the first I’ve heard anything about someone else being responsible for the death of Diego’s wife. While I don’t believe him, he doesn’t talk about the murder like a guilty suspect would. He said they instead of her. Interesting. He sees the car bombing as a double homicide—or at least he wants it to appear that way.

“Why would someone want to murder your pregnant wife? You’re just a coffee producer with an affinity for literature.”

Diego offers a smile to my sarcasm, but his crossed expression reveals to me that he knows I don’t think he’s in the coffee business. I must be careful, or I will press too much, too early and blow my chances of gaining his trust.

“Coffee is not such a dangerous business as long as you know what you’re doing and everyone who should get paid does. Politics is another matter.”
 

Diego stands by an arched window overlooking the terrace.
 

“I hadn’t officially run for office, but everyone knew I was planning to. We started years before. First, we brought clean water to poorer regions of the country, then we started several food banks. We secured Western endorsements to provide free broadband hotspots. No one minded these benevolent acts.

“Yet, I had greater aspirations, ones that could only be fulfilled through politics. I wanted to bring community policing, stop corruption, and jail those who thought they were above courts and justice. We started making speeches in the poorest communities. When we first gained support, the established politicians scoffed at us. Until support flourished. An organic grassroots movement rose around us. No one was laughing any longer. I was told to stop and was threatened. But I couldn’t stop.

“I built this home to hide and protect Olivia after she became pregnant. Convincing her of the danger was difficult. She was brazen and unafraid. Being forced to live in this compound was a prison sentence to her. I begged her to stay and to wait until I had run and the election was over. She refused.”

I’m not sure if I believe Diego. I only know that I have to gain his trust. So I pretend that I’m on his side. “Do you know who killed her?”

“Yes. I do. And when the time comes, they will receive the justice they deserve.”

I suddenly feel as though I’m standing in a funeral home. The articles around me—while being exquisite attire fit for a princess—all contain a morbid shade.

“I really don’t need a dress,” I say. “Just being able to have lunch with you and touring your gorgeous ranch was a treat.”

“Nonsense. All of this is going to be given away anyhow. With the corruption in this country, probably half of it will end up being sold and bartered. I’d much rather it go to someone who will enjoy it. Besides, these dresses were meant to be worn by a rare beauty.”

Diego doesn’t tell me whether I’m a rare beauty or not. I guess it’s implied.
 

Is he just putting me on? Am I his new plaything, someone to fill his time with? And why do I care to know the answers to these questions?
 

It shouldn’t matter. I’m here to gather evidence to use against this man—this
criminal
.
 

The answer to why I care frightens me. Diego may be handsome and smooth, but he’s a killer. A drug dealer. Scum of the earth. Scourge on society.
 

Yes, yes, yes, yes, but no, no, no, no. Part of me doesn’t want to believe that. Part of me believes that Diego is telling the truth and that he feels the same pain that I do. I understand the sorrow in his eyes. It’s the same mourning I see in my own eyes every night and each morning. And even the greatest method actor can’t fake that tired, weary expression.

“Are you okay, Caroline?”
 

I jump and focus my eyes back to reality.
 

Diego is standing beside me. “You spaced out there for a moment.”

“I’m fine. It’s just the altitude. I’ve been here for weeks, and I still don’t think I’ve adjusted.”

Diego nods. “Yes, some Westerners never acclimate.”

I begin rummaging through the dresses, yet my mind has trouble focusing. I can feel Diego looking at me with his dark eyes, tracing the sunlight across my hair. Part of me wants to run, quit the CIA, and hide in Atlanta waitressing at a dive bar by the freeway for the next twenty years (I now have experience), and another part of me wants to spill everything to Diego about my father and my mother and that every good thing in my life has been snatched away from me—that I know him in a way that no one else possibly could. I’d jump in his arms and he’d hold me and kiss me and tell me everything was going to be okay and promise me he would always protect me.

Coming back to reality, I lift a sage strapless dress. “I really like this one.”

“A beautiful one,” Diego agrees. “But the wrong color. With your hair, I’d go with something else. Hmm. Let’s see.”
 

He picks through the racks and finally stops at a champagne metallic dress with a slit along the side. I pray that he continues looking. The dress is designed for a bombshell, a Playmate of the Year. I’d look ridiculous in it.

“This one would be perfect.”

“I don’t think—”

“Oh, come on, Caroline. Just try it on. If you don’t like it, we can look for another one. There’s no harm in that.”

Men will never understand the harm in “just” trying on a dress.
 

Dutifully, I take it.
 

Diego points to a bathroom where I can change.

I close the door, set down my handbag, and begin removing my clothes. I wasn’t expecting to have to try on the dress, and I certainly wasn’t expecting one that would reveal so much cleavage.
 

This presents a problem.
 

The mic is taped between my breasts. I will have to remove it. No easy feat. The tape is medical grade and doesn’t come off easily. Each instance in which I removed it before, I first soaked the tape in warm water. There’s a sink in here, but I think Diego would become suspicious if I started running the water for several minutes.

I try pulling at the corners of the tape and nearly shriek out loud. Christ, that hurts. Ripping a band-aid off is of no comparison.
 

Looking through my purse, I don’t see anything that might help.
 

I grit my teeth and continue pulling, clinching my free hand against the lip of the sink. I think I’m going to rip the sink off the wall. I stop torturing myself and evaluate my progress. Is that half an inch or a quarter of an inch? Either way, the progress is wretched. I’ll be in here all day at this rate. I need a new plan of action.
 

There’s a vanity mirror above the sink with a built-in cabinet. The hinges screech as I pry the mirror open.
 

I squint, praying Diego doesn’t hear. Let’s see. No weird ointments or foot fungus creams. That’s good. Aha! An old bottle of aftershave cream. I dust off the cap and pour cream onto my hand and rub it into the tape.

I pull again.
 

The white-hot burn is still fierce, but I’m making progress. Damn me for applying so much tape.
 

I get one side of the tape removed.

There’s a knock at the door.

I look at the doorknob.

Shit! There’s no lock.

“Is everything okay in there, Caroline?”

“Yes. I was just seeing how it looked and trying to zip up the back.”

“Oh, then come on out. I have a full length mirror, and I’m pretty good with zippers.”

Pretty good with zippers.
Why does that comment send little zapping sensations up my inner thighs?
 

Focus, Miranda. You have a job to do.
 

I yank, rip, pull and grind my heel into the floor.
 

Finally, the tape comes off. I’m free!
 

Not exactly. There’s a major problem. All the tape is gone, every speck of it removed. What remains, however, is a fat red mark across my chest, stretching between my breasts. It will take hours to go away and all the aftershave and cold water in the world isn’t going to help.
 

Standing naked in the tiny bathroom with very little time to decide, I consider my options. I disconnect the mic, leaving the recorder taped to my thigh. There’s no reason to remove it now. I quickly try on the dress, but as I suspected, the mark still shows.

There’s really only one thing I can do. I throw my old clothes back on, stuff the mic in my back pocket, and step out of the bathroom.
 

Diego is standing next to a mirror he’s placed in the middle of the room.

“It fits great!” I say. “Even the length is about right. A little long, but I think with the right heels it will be perfect.”

Diego frowns. “I’m glad you like it.”
 

“Well, I guess I should get going. Maybe we can get together this weekend.”

“Not so fast. I must confess something. I did lie when I said the dress was free. There’s one small contingency.”

My heart flutters. “What is it?”

“You have to accompany on a date tonight. And you have to wear that dress.”

“A date? Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

This isn’t good. Nick and José are out of reach and I won’t be able to record anything that Diego says. I need to get back to the hotel and reposition the mic and form a better plan for how Nick and José will stay within reach.
 

Maybe I can postpone this tryst until tomorrow night.

“I love surprises. However, I have to work tonight.”

“So quit. It’s not like cocktail waitressing is your career. You’re waitressing so you can have money to get back home, right? Look around. I think I can cover that. But first, you need to have a real vacation. You could use some fun, Caroline. You seem way too stressed.”

What can I say? If I was really waitressing because I was marooned in Cusco without means to get back to the States, I’d be crazy not to take Diego up on his offer.

“Fine. I guess you have a point. What time will you pick me up?”

Diego laughs. “Why would I pick you up? You’re already here. I just have some business to attend to this afternoon. By tonight, I’ll be ready.
 

“There’s plenty that you can do around here. There’s the library, an indoor pool that’s a few floors below with a gym and a sauna. You can even sit around and watch TV. I get satellite so I have all the American channels. It’s a lot better than spending your day at the Dragonfly or bumming around the tourist district. I’m sure you’re sick of the local sights by now.”

“Okay. I guess I can keep myself entertained. I would like to see the library. I’ve never seen a private collection that large.”

“Great. If you need anything, hit this call button and my butler, George, will come to wherever you’re at. While he’s officially the chef around here, George knows where everything is. He’s also a great tennis partner if you feel like getting outside and whacking some balls around.”

“I think the library will keep me entertained.”

He passes me the small remote with a fat red button in the center.
 

I shiver as I take hold of it. I can hear the ding of the alarm, the steady ring of the heart monitor and the shouting of nurses, shoving me out of the way and calling for extra help.

The library provides a million escapes, though; all of them neatly lined one after another. Will I go to a faraway galaxy where epic battles are being waged? Or should I slip back into time to watch a gallant knight defend his queen?
 

I settle for the latter and lay back on one of the leather sofas, pulling a nearby blanket over me. I think about asking George for a cup of tea, but I’m already getting lost in the story.

About halfway through the novel, several hours have passed and the knight is not so gallant and the queen turns out to be a real bitch. I close the book and look for another. There are so many choices, I feel overwhelmed.

Feeling restless, I go exploring instead.
 

The library leads to a separate room, a small parlor filled with antiques. The furniture appears so stately and old that it could have been snatched from a castle. Oil paintings of important, dignified people hang from the wall; a crystal chandelier dangles from the ceiling; a fresco, illustrating angels peeking around clouds, encircles the lighting.
 

There’s something about the room that doesn’t add up, yet I can’t quite figure it out. The room juts out from the main building with tall windows on three of the walls.
 

Nothing odd there.
 

Now I see what strikes me as so strange. There’s a door along one of the outer walls next to the hearth.
 

I glance out of the window beside it. The wall extends out for a few feet, allowing room for the chimney and wherever this door leads to. I suppose that makes sense. It must be a closet next to the fireplace. Positioning it there would allow for only one jut in the wall to be observed from the outside. Still, it’s a rather unusual place for a closet. Maybe it’s a typical Peruvian architectural style, though I can’t help from thinking there’s something here that I’m not seeing.