Risky Business (9 page)

The exaggeration made her laugh, so she patted his cheek. “So you think a rich American tourist is the road to happiness?”

“Maybe a handsome Mexican.”

“I'll think about it—after the summer season. Go home,” she ordered.

“I'm going.” Luis pulled a T-shirt over his chest. “You look out for that Jonas Sharpe,” he added. “He's got a different kind of look in his eyes.”

Liz waved him off.
“Hasta luego.”

When the shop was empty, Liz stood, jingling her keys and looking out onto the beach. People traveled in couples, she noted, from the comfortably married duo stretched out on lounge chairs, to the young man and woman curled together
on a beach towel. Was it an easy feeling, she wondered, to be half of a set? Or did you automatically lose part of yourself when you joined with another?

She'd always thought of her parents as separate people, yet when she thought of one, the other came quickly to mind. Would it be a comfort to know you could reach out your hand and someone else's would curl around it?

She held out her own and remembered how hard, how strong, Jonas's had been. No, he wouldn't make a relationship a comfortable affair. Being joined with him would be demanding, even frightening. A woman would have to be strong enough to keep herself intact, and soft enough to allow herself to merge. A relationship with a man like Jonas would be a risk that would never ease.

For a moment, she found herself dreaming of it, dreaming of what it had been like to be held close and kissed as though nothing and no one else existed. To be kissed like that always, to be held like that whenever the need moved you—it might be worth taking chances for.

Stupid, she thought quickly, shaking herself out of it. Jonas wasn't looking for a partner, and she wasn't looking for a dream. Circumstances had tossed them together temporarily. Both of them had to deal with their own realities. But she felt a sense of regret and a stirring of wishes.

Because the feeling remained, just beyond her grasp, Liz concentrated hard on the little details that needed attending to before she could close up. The paperwork and the contents of the cash box were transferred to a canvas portfolio. She'd have to swing out of her way to make a night deposit, but she no longer felt safe taking the cash or the checks home. She spent an extra few minutes meticulously filling out a deposit slip.

It wasn't until she'd picked up her keys again that she remem
bered her tanks. Tucking the portfolio under the counter, she turned to deal with her own gear.

It was perhaps her only luxury. She'd spent more on her personal equipment than she had on all the contents of her closet and dresser. To Liz, the wet suit was more exciting than any French silks. All her gear was kept separate from the shop's inventory. Unlocking the door to the closet, Liz hung up her wet suit, stored her mask, weight belt, regulator. Her knife was sheathed and set on a shelf. After setting her tanks side by side, she shut the door and prepared to lock it again. After she'd taken two steps away she looked down at the keys again. Without knowing precisely why, she moved each one over the ring and identified it.

The shop door, the shop window, her bike, the lock for the chain, the cash box, the front and back doors of her house, her storage room. Eight keys for eight locks. But there was one more on her ring, a small silver key that meant nothing to her at all.

Puzzled, she counted off the keys again, and again found one extra. Why should there be a key on her ring that didn't belong to her? Closing her fingers over it, she tried to think if anyone had given her the key to hold. No, it didn't make sense. Brows drawn together, she studied the key again. Too small for a car or door key, she decided. It looked like the key to a locker, or a box or… Ridiculous, she decided on a long breath. It wasn't her key but it was on her ring. Why?

Because someone put it there, she realized, and opened her hand again. Her keys were often tossed in the drawer at the shop for easy access for Luis or one of the other men. They needed to open the cash box. And Jerry had often worked in the shop alone.

With a feeling of dread, Liz slipped the keys into her pocket. Jonas's words echoed in her head.
“You're involved, whether you want to be or not.”

Liz closed the shop early.

 

Jonas stepped into the dim bar to the scent of garlic and the wail of a squeaky jukebox. In Spanish, someone sang of endless love. He stood for a moment, letting his eyes adjust, then skimmed his gaze over the narrow booths. As agreed, Erika sat all the way in the back, in the corner.

“You're late.” She waved an unlit cigarette idly as he joined her.

“I passed it the first time. This place isn't exactly on the tourist route.”

She closed her lips over the filter as Jonas lit her cigarette. “I wanted privacy.”

Jonas glanced around. There were two men at the bar, each deep in separate bottles. Another couple squeezed themselves together on one side of a booth. The rest of the bar was deserted. “You've got it.”

“But I don't have a drink.”

Jonas slid out from the booth and bought two drinks at the bar. He set tequila and lime in front of Erika and settled for club soda. “You said you had something for me.”

Erica twined a string of colored beads around her finger. “You said you would pay fifty for a name.”

In silence, Jonas took out his wallet. He set fifty on the table, but laid his hand over it. “You have the name.”

Erika smiled and sipped at her drink. “Maybe. Maybe you want it bad enough to pay another fifty.”

Jonas studied her coolly. This was the type his brother had always been attracted to. The kind of woman whose hard edge was just a bit obvious. He could give her another fifty, Jonas mused, but he didn't care to be taken for a sucker. Without a word, he picked up the bill and tucked it into his pocket. He was halfway out of the booth when Erika grabbed his arm.

“Okay, don't get mad. Fifty.” She sent him an easy smile as
he settled back again. Erika had been around too long to let an opportunity slip away. “A girl has to make a living,
sí?
The name is Pablo Manchez—he's the one with the face.”

“Where can I find him?”

“I don't know. You got the name.”

With a nod, Jonas took the bill out and passed it to her. Erika folded it neatly into her purse. “I'll tell you something else, because Jerry was a sweet guy.” Her gaze skimmed the bar again as she leaned closer to Jonas. “This Manchez, he's bad. People got nervous when I asked about him. I heard he was mixed up in a couple of murders in Acapulco last year. He's paid, you know, to…” She made a gun out of her hand and pushed down her thumb. “When I hear that, I stop asking questions.”

“What about the other one, the American?”

“Nothing. Nobody knows him. But if he hangs out with Manchez, he's not a Boy Scout.” Erika tipped back her drink. “Jerry got himself in some bad business.”

“Yeah.”

“I'm sorry.” She touched the bracelet on her wrist. “He gave me this. We had some good times.”

The air in the bar was stifling him. Jonas rose and hesitated only a moment before he took out another bill and set it next to her drink. “Thanks.”

Erika folded the bill as carefully as the first.
“De nada.”

 

She'd wanted him to be home. When Liz found the house empty, she made a fist over the keys in her hand and swore in frustration. She couldn't sit still; her nerves had been building all during the drive home. Outside, Moralas's evening shift was taking over.

For how long? she wondered. How long would the police sit patiently outside her house and follow her through her daily
routine? In her bedroom, Liz closed the canvas bag of papers and cash in her desk. She regretted not having a lock for it, as well. Sooner or later, she thought, Moralas would back off on the protection. Then where would she be? Liz looked down at the key again. She'd be alone, she told herself bluntly. She had to do something.

On impulse, she started into her daughter's room. Perhaps Jerry had left a case, a box of some kind that the police had overlooked. Systematically she searched Faith's closet. When she found the little teddy bear with the worn ear, she brought it down from the shelf. She'd bought it for Faith before she'd been born. It was a vivid shade of purple, or had been so many years before. Now it was faded a bit, a little loose at the seams. The ear had been worn down to a nub because Faith had always carried him by it. They'd never named it, Liz recalled. Faith had merely called it
mine
and been satisfied.

On a wave of loneliness that rocked her, Liz buried her face against the faded purple pile. “Oh, I miss you, baby,” she murmured. “I don't know if I can stand it.”

“Liz?”

On a gasp of surprise, Liz stumbled back against the closet door. When she saw Jonas, she put the bear behind her back. “I didn't hear you come in,” she said, feeling foolish.

“You were busy.” He came toward her to gently pry the bear from her fingers. “He looks well loved.”

“He's old.” She cleared her throat and took the toy back again. But she found it impossible to stick it back on the top shelf. “I keep meaning to sew up the seams before the stuffing falls out.” She set the bear down on Faith's dresser. “You've been out.”

“Yes.” He'd debated telling her of his meeting with Erika, and had decided to keep what he'd learned to himself, at least for now. “You're home early.”

“I found something.” Liz reached in her pocket and drew out her keys. “This isn't mine.”

Jonas frowned at the key she indicated. “I don't know what you mean.”

“I mean this isn't my key, and I don't know how it got on my ring.”

“You just found it today?”

“I found it today, but it could have been put on anytime. I don't think I would've noticed.” With the vain hope of distancing herself, Liz unhooked it from the others and handed it to Jonas. “I keep these in a drawer at the shop when I'm there. At home, I usually toss them on the kitchen counter. I can't think of any reason for someone to put it with mine unless they wanted to hide it.”

Jonas examined the key. “‘The Purloined Letter,'” he murmured.

“What?”

“It was one of Jerry's favorite stories when we were kids. I remember when he tested out the theory by putting a book he'd bought for my father for Christmas on the shelf in the library.”

“So do you think it was his?”

“I think it would be just his style.”

Liz picked up the bear again, finding it comforted her. “It doesn't do much good to have a key when you don't have the lock.”

“It shouldn't be hard to find it.” He held the key up by the stem. “Do you know what it is?”

“A key.” Liz sat on Faith's bed. No, she hadn't distanced herself. The quicksand was bubbling again.

“To a safe-deposit box.” Jonas turned it over to read the numbers etched into the metal.

“Do you think Captain Moralas can trace it?”

“Eventually,” Jonas murmured. The key was warm in his hand. It was the next step, he thought. It had to be. “But I'm not telling him about it.”

“Why?”

“Because he'd want it, and I don't intend to give it to him until I open the lock myself.”

She recognized the look easily enough now. It was still revenge. Leaving the bear on her daughter's bed, Liz rose. “What are you going to do, go from bank to bank and ask if you can try the key out? You won't have to call the police, they will.”

“I've got some connections—and I've got the serial number.” Jonas pocketed the key. “With luck, I'll have the name of the bank by tomorrow afternoon. You may have to take a couple of days off.”

“I can't take a couple of days off, and if I could, why should I need to?”

“We're going to Acapulco.”

She started to make some caustic comment, then stopped. “Because Jerry told Erika he'd had business there?”

“If Jerry was mixed up in something, and he had something important or valuable, he'd tuck it away. A safe-deposit box in Acapulco makes sense.”

“Fine. If that's what you believe, have a nice trip.” She started to brush past him. Jonas only had to shift his body to bar the door.

“We go together.”

The word “together” brought back her thoughts on couples and comfort. And it made her remember her conclusion about Jonas. “Look, Jonas, I can't drop everything and follow you on some wild-goose chase. Acapulco is very cosmopolitan. You won't need an interpreter.”

“The key was on your ring. The knife was at your throat. I want you where I can see you.”

“Concerned?” Her face hardened, muscle by muscle. “You're not concerned with me, Jonas. And you're certainly not concerned
about
me. The only thing you care about is your revenge. I don't want any part of it, or you.”

He took her by the shoulders until she was backed against the door. “We both know that's not true. We've started something.” His gaze skimmed down, lingered on her lips. “And it's not going to stop until we're both finished with it.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Yes, you do.” He pressed closer so that their bodies met and strained, one against the other. He pressed closer to prove something, perhaps only to himself. “Yes, you do,” he repeated. “I came here to do something, and I intend to do it. I don't give a damn if you call it revenge.”

Her heart was beating lightly at her throat. She wouldn't call it fear. But his eyes were cold and close. “What else?”

“Justice.”

She felt an uncomfortable twinge, remembering her own feelings on justice. “You're not using your law books, Jonas.”