No One Lives Forever (23 page)
Zharan glanced to his man Fuentes with a pained expression. Clearly he did not feel comfortable speculating about one of his own men.
"We don't have evidence to support that . . . yet. But it is not above our consideration." He looked away and cleared his throat. "I hope you know if there is any proof of his misconduct, steps will be taken. I assure you. I have made my career on stamping out corruption wherever I find it. No one is above scrutiny."
"I appreciate your candor, Chief."
Fuentes nodded in support of his superior officer. The detective held his hands behind his back, looking like ex-military, with a lean physique, thick neck, and buzz cut, his face stern and unreadable. Duarte had insinuated that Zharan might be more of a political figurehead, in name only. Yet from what Christian saw, the chief commanded respect from the men under his command, and got it. Another Duarte lie?
"You said you worked through the night. Did you find anything new on Mr. Charboneau's case?"
Chief Zharan laid out his exhaustive measures to stir up new leads, including an update on his communications with the American consulate and his plans for a raid on a tribal village in a remote area. Taking action held great appeal for Christian. Finally, someone with authority had taken control of the case.
"So how good is your reconnaissance on this village? Any proof Charboneau is being held there?"
"I'm waiting for confirmation now, but I've gotten pretty reliable statements from individuals who would have reason to know such things. Still, I want to be sure." The man shrugged, but maintained eye contact. "Mobilizing men in an area so remote is not an endeavor to be taken lightly."
"Yes, I agree." Christian gave a quick glance to Raven. "In the spirit of our newfound cooperation on this case, I have something to share, Chief Zharan."
"Oh? Please." The man nodded, gesturing for him to continue.
"It's come to my attention . . ." Christian didn't know how to phrase it. No matter how he did it, the chief would know he'd held back until now. "Someone called me to say Duarte arrested Jasmine on the street earlier today. I've been trying to locate her, to get a lawyer if need be, but no one at police headquarters has been able to give me information on where Duarte booked her. Frankly, I'm worried. Can you help locate her? I could sure use someone on the inside."
"Captain Duarte arrested her? On what grounds?"
"The caller didn't say."
"Who reported this?"
Christian hesitated, unsure about giving up Hector's name.
"Please, I know you have no reason to do so, but you must trust me." Chief Zharan snapped his fingers, and Fuentes turned his eyes toward his boss. "Detective Fuentes, call headquarters and see what you can find out. If Duarte cannot be located, advise me. We will not hesitate to put out a bulletin for his whereabouts."
Fuentes pulled out his cell phone and punched in numbers.
"Hector Salvador works at a Macumba store called Guia Do Espirito. He witnessed the arrest firsthand and called me."
"How did he know to call you, Mr. Delacorte?"
Fuentes interrupted, a convenient distraction. "Sir, I can't get a good signal for my cell phone here in the hotel."
"Try the balcony, or downstairs if necessary," the chief suggested.
The detective headed for the French doors, rattling in Portuguese once he got outside.
"You've been very generous with your communication, and I appreciate all you've done," Christian offered, his eyes shifting from the chief to Fuentes on the balcony.
"I can imagine your frustration at having to sit and wait. I see it is not in your nature." The man smiled. "You have a stubborn streak, I would imagine."
"Guess that's true enough."
When Fuentes came in from the balcony, all eyes were on him. The man shook his head and explained, in English this time.
"Captain Duarte is nowhere to be found. And Ms. Lee has not been booked."
Chief Zharan tensed his jaw. His anger could not be contained. Trying to regain his composure, he turned to Christian.
"I will get to the bottom of this. When I return to headquarters, I'll put out a bulletin on the captain. In the meantime, we will confirm our plans for the raid on the village. I'll be in touch."
Zharan and Fuentes headed for the door, but the chief turned when he got there.
"I hope for the sake of Hector Salvador that Captain Duarte does not know of his involvement. He may be tempted to make another . . . arrest."
"Well, he's not gonna hear it from me." Christian shook hands with both men and shut the door behind them.
He pulled Raven to his chest and held her in silence. What the chief said shocked him, the honesty of it. The man showed more of his cards and didn't cover up his obvious disdain for Captain Duarte. That made Christian worry all the more for Jasmine. Normally, the woman could take care of herself, but with Duarte, she'd be severely outnumbered.
This time, Jasmine may have met her match.
Perhaps Hector was right, age had caught up to her. Bianca hadn't heard much through the door. Either that or Hector had gotten better at keeping his secrets. With dust rag in hand, she emerged from the storeroom, keeping an eye on her nephew. In time he would tell her all she wanted to know. It was his way. And she was a patient aunt.
"You look happy." She smiled at the handsome young man, her dead sister's son. "Like a cat with a belly full of canary."
Even in the pale light of the store, his dark eyes gleamed and he fought back a grin. His smile always reminded Bianca of his mother, her beloved younger sister Pilar.
Hector had been the product of an out-of-wedlock union with her sister never naming the father. So when a virulent cancer claimed Pilar's life ten years ago, Bianca took her son in and adopted him, giving him a name. She shamed the rest of her family into accepting Hector. Eventually, it worked. An uphill battle she hid from him.
When Hector came to work for her, he put in hours that would not hinder his schooling. Her offer had become more than an opportunity for employment and a means of support. The boy needed a woman's hand. Although Hector bore his grief like a man, at times he let his guard down enough to reveal the hurt eyes of a child. She had become a surrogate mother to him and had learned to read his moods.
Now, without being asked, Hector joined her and took up a cloth.
"Do my eyes deceive me? Hector Salvador stooping to do woman's work?" She shook her head and raised an eyebrow. "To what do I owe this honor?"
One of her decanters of cemetery dirt was only half full. She'd grabbed the depleted jar and headed for the back room to fill it when her nephew opened his mouth.
"My luck is about to turn. I can feel it." He teased. "Maybe that talisman around your neck will bring us good fortune."
Ah, the exuberance and bottomless optimism of youth.
Bianca fingered her talisman and rolled her eyes, but before she left, Hector grabbed her arm and kissed her cheek. The boy was devoted, but the sudden display of affection caught her off guard. Her cheeks bloomed with heat and she laughed out loud, stroking her fingers across her pearl necklace.
"Sometimes . . . you make me feel like a young woman, Hector." She beamed, then furrowed her brow and waggled a finger at his mischievous face. "But most days, you remind me that youth is wasted on the very young."
Before she turned away, he called after her. "Aunt Bianca?" His face turned serious. "One day, I hope I can repay all you've done for me."
For an instant they had a moment. He held her gaze without a wisecrack. And Bianca returned it with a mother's pride. Eventually she shrugged and smiled.
"You don't owe me anything, sweet boy."
She fought a knot in the back of her throat. Before Bianca ducked into the stockroom, she glanced at Hector and caught his shy crooked grin, no doubt an asset when courting young ladies.
Yes, baby sister had done well.
At the counter, Bianca poured herself a half cup of coffee, careful not to let Hector see. The boy worried she wasn't sleeping, and the caffeine wouldn't help. At her age, sleep was only a distant acquaintance, but a rich cup of coffee was an old familiar friend.
With the glass jar wedged in an arm, she enjoyed a few sips of coffee, her guilty pleasure. The storage door hissed closed behind her. She wandered to her desk and set down her cup, saving her indulgence for after her chore.
Bianca busied herself, scooping cemetery dirt into the decanter, careful not to lose any. To be careless would be disrespectful. Worse, she believed it would bring bad luck. She barely heard the bell tinkle overhead. Someone had entered the front door to the shop.
Voices muffled. Angry voices.
She turned her head and listened, sure she had misunderstood. When the noise continued, she pulled the light string over her desk and the storeroom turned pitch-black. Bianca couldn't wait for her eyes to acclimate to the dark. She held her hands out in front of her, trying to find the door. A small pinpoint of light from the peephole guided her. At the door, she stood on tiptoe and squinted, clutching her Ayza talisman and holding her breath as if someone might hear her.
Before she got a good look, something heavy hit the storeroom door.
Thud!
In a panic, she almost fell backward.
"Oh, my God."
Cowering, Bianca covered her mouth to stifle a scream. Her heart hammered her ribs and chills ravaged her skin. She worked up the courage to take another peek—for Hector's sake. What she saw stole her breath.
"Hector," she sobbed, her voice a raspy whisper.
CHAPTER 16
A bald-headed thug had cold-cocked Hector. A savage blow. Now he yanked him off the floor by the collar. Seeing stars, Hector was too weak to fight. He felt a warm stream roll down his chin and smelled blood. Tears of pain flooded his eyes.
"Anyone ever tell you to mind your own business,
cabrão?"
The guy balled his fist again and slugged Hector.
He fell against the storeroom door, jamming an elbow. A jolt of pain shot through his arm and he slid to the floor. This time, the bastard nearly dislocated his jaw, loosened a tooth. His face felt on fire.
"Aargh.
" Hector held up his good arm and waved a hand. He searched for mercy in the faces of the three men standing over him, his eye swollen. "Please . . . st-stop. Why are you doing this? If it's money you want—"
Cold dead eyes stared back. He would find no mercy. Fear gripped him. Aunt Bianca hid behind the door he'd fallen against. He felt her presence and prayed these men would not search the store. If they found her, she would not survive such treatment.
"Not so simple, asshole. You should've followed your own advice and stopped before you got involved."
"Involved in what?" he pleaded, spitting blood. "What are you talking about?"
The man rolled Hector on his belly and rammed a knee into the back of his neck. Yanking his arm back, the jerk almost separated his shoulder. When he felt the handcuffs slammed to his wrists, Hector's eyes grew wide.
"You guys are cops?" He raised his voice, a warning for his aunt. "But I didn't do anything wrong. Why am I being arrested?"
The three men were dressed like a street gang. He thought they would rob him. None of them looked like military police. Now all the rumors of men disappearing off the streets flooded his mind. Cops had been rumored to be behind the conspiracy. His stomach lurched. He fought back the urge to throw up. He'd brought this on himself, with his grand scheme for money and taking care of his aunt as the man of the house.
Big ego, Hector, you idiot.
He had only wanted to help. Now his foolishness might cost his life . . . and Aunt Bianca's. Hector started to cry. Tears mixed with blood.
But damned if he'd take his aunt down with him.
"Okay . . . okay. I'll go with you. Just let me close the shop and lock up."
"Vai a merda!
We'll take care of that." The guy sneered. "See what you get when you resist arrest?" The men laughed. A perverted and cruel joke.
The mean son of a bitch hauled Hector to his feet and shoved him into the next man. Hitting a wall of muscle, Hector stumbled, his legs not working. Two men grabbed his arms and dragged him to the front door, not waiting for him to stand.
"I'll search the place. Take him to the car."
Oh, God . . . no!
Hector craned his neck, catching a glimpse of the man who'd beat him. The guy headed behind the counter . . . toward the storeroom. As they hustled him out the door, dragging him across the threshold, the bell tingled overhead and made a mockery of his predicament. The noise barely registered.
Between the steady thud of his heart, Hector listened to a faint whisper. And as the men shoved him into the backseat of a dark sedan and locked the door, the sound grew louder in his head. More urgent.
It took him a while to recognize . . . the sound of his prayer.
Cramming his pockets with cash from the register, Eduardo Silva opened the door to the supply room, looking for anything else to steal. Side benefits to the job. In the back, it looked like only more of what stocked the shelves in front. Roots, dried herbs, preserved animal parts floating in murky liquid, and macabre religious figures with faces twisted in agony. He'd grown up with superstition. This shithole reminded him of everything he hated from his childhood.
And to think, some people paid good money for a shot at redemption.
What a waste!
He had almost made up his mind to forget about the back, but in the quiet, he thought he heard a faint rustle of fabric. It reminded him of the rats skittering through the walls of the bedroom he had to share with his three brothers when he was a kid.
What the hell? Fuckin' place gives me the creeps.
"Tem alguém aqui?
I could use some help up front. . . anyone back there?" he cried out. "Hello?"
He didn't need any complications.
Silence. Nothing moved. Eduardo peered into the dark corners of the room. From what little he saw, wooden shelves lined the main aisle and a ladder leaned against them. A small desk in the back. It smelled of herbs and an underlying foul odor, like something musty or dead. He wedged the door open with a wooden block to let in the meager light of the storefront. Not much to speak of, but every little bit helped. When he found a chain dangling from the ceiling, he pulled the cord and the small desk was washed in a harsh light.
"Jesus." He squinted, letting his eyes adjust.
Someone had been working. A pen atop a pad of paper, scribbled with a list. An inventory. The handwriting looked too neat to belong to the kid. A woman's touch, he guessed. Eduardo spied a coffee mug on the desktop and ran his fingers along the liquid line outside the cup. Still warm. His senses went on full alert.
Did the kid drink coffee or was someone else here?
He pulled open every drawer in the desk, tossing files and shoving aside paperwork until he found a purse in the bottom drawer. A grin spread across his face. The kid wouldn't have one of these. Dumping the contents on the desktop, he tossed the purse aside and nabbed the wallet, scrounging for a photo ID.
After he pocketed the money in the wallet, he gazed at the face on the driver's license and read the name: BIANCA SALVADOR.
She had to be here somewhere. His eyes searched the gloom. Slowly, he walked down the aisle, peering through the massive shelves. Then he bent over and hustled down the row, shifting his moves in hopes of catching anyone lurking in the shadows. The inventory of the supply room looked eerie in the gloom.
Eduardo didn't consider himself a superstitious man, only a cautious one.
After a long while, he gritted his teeth and scratched his bald head. Did he have a witness to the kid's so-called arrest or had the bitch stepped out before they got there? He hated loose ends.
"Hey, you done?" one of his men called from up front. "We gotta roll."
Fed up, Eduardo turned and headed for the front door, but his eye caught something out of place, a job left undone. Set atop a workbench was a tall jar with dirt in it. A scoop lay on the soil, propped against the inside lip of the container.
Superstitious crap!
With a sneer, he dumped the contents onto the floor and smashed the decanter. Dirt and shards of glass spilled everywhere, making a mess.
That's when he heard the creak of a door. A soft muffled sound.
Eduardo jerked his head and searched the darkness. His hand went instinctively for his Taurus 1911 pistol, tucked under his T-shirt at the small of his back. He pulled out the .45 caliber weapon and flexed his grip, his palms slick with sweat.
Against inky black, the bright light overhead played tricks on his eyes. Images drifted in the shadows, but why hadn't he seen any lights when the door opened? Maybe he'd missed it. That pissed him off. If the old lady hid in a closet, he'd make her pay for putting him through the extra effort. Teeth gritted and gun in hand, he headed toward the noise. And the darkness swallowed him.