Chapter Fourteen
Pilar sat at the round table in the breakfast nook, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes on the wilted flowers in the center. She remembered how she used to sit like this when she was a little girl in school. She worked her fingers the way she had back then, kneading them, twisting them one way, then the other, cracking her knuckles simply to hear a sound in the quiet kitchen. A small sigh escaped her lips when she saw that the bloodred polish on her thumbnail was chipped. She wondered how and when that had happened. Then she looked down at her feet and noticed she was barefoot. She frowned as she struggled with her memory. What happened to her shoes? Did she lose them? Obviously, she had, since she wasn’t wearing them. She made a mental note to file a complaint with her insurance company, since she’d paid twelve hundred dollars for the designer stilettos. Way too much money to throw away. She hated insurance companies for the way they bilked people. Finally, she would get something back on all those outrageous premiums she paid out year after year. She loved those shoes.
Pilar looked around, her eyes half glazed, her stomach in knots. Her gaze finally settled on the digital clock on the range. She grimaced. Gabe should be back by now. That was the precise moment when she realized Gabe wasn’t coming back. Ever. She had just refused to believe it at first, so she had sat here and waited. And waited. And then waited some more.
She’d sent texts. She’d called. Not one had been answered. She vaguely remembered crying, pleading, then, to her horror, begging. When that didn’t work, and there was no response, she’d gotten downright ugly, saying things she didn’t mean. Nothing had worked. Gabe was gone, and she knew it. She had had her chance, and she’d blown it. Now she was alone, with the devil’s own disciples hot on her trail.
Her eyes wandered to the digital clock again. So much time had gone by. It was almost midnight. The witching hour. What did that mean? Was something supposed to happen at the witching hour? Ha! It had already happened. Her husband was gone. He’d left her. Coward that he was. She’d called him that, too. And his response had been that he’d rather be a coward than a fool who was going to go to prison for the rest of his life. He’d stalked off, saying he was a smart coward. It was true, she supposed. The thought left her numb.
Pilar’s chipped thumbnail drew her attention again. She wondered if she would be able to get an emergency appointment at the Nail Emporium in the morning. Maybe if she came up with some outrageous story, like she was going to a luncheon at the White House, they would take her in. What was one more lie on her chart of life?
Pilar had to literally pull her hands apart, because they were clenched so tight. Her knuckles ached. She had to do something before the witching hour struck. All manner of crazy thoughts swirled and raced through her brain. Maybe she should hide in the shower. Maybe she should crawl into bed, on Gabe’s side, and pull the covers up and over her head. Or, maybe, she should just lie down and die right now. Or . . . She brightened momentarily at the thought of opening the safe, taking her envelope, and walking out of this place the way Gabe had.
But the greedy core of her being nixed that thought immediately. How could she leave the shelves of Chanel handbags behind? The rows and rows of Louboutin and Jimmy Choo shoes? No way could she do that. Nor could she leave all the Armani and Chanel suits, plus accessories, behind. She’d need a truck to take all her belongings. Only an idiot would leave everything behind. What, she wondered, was the difference between an idiot and a fool? She rather thought an idiot could be forgiven, but a fool deserved no mercy. A fool was stupid. An idiot was just plain dumb.
The phone on the table chirped that a call was coming in. Pilar grabbed it so fast it slid from her hand onto the table. At last Gabe was getting back to her. She cursed when she saw the name Bert Navarro. The man from Hong Kong. She’d totally forgotten about him. This was simply no time to make any kind of decision concerning Hong Kong. Morning would be soon enough. If the offer fell through, then it fell through and was not meant to be.
Pilar made her way to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the king-size bed and howled her misery. When she couldn’t cry any more, she got up and trudged into the bathroom, where she avoided looking into the mirror. She washed her face and brushed her teeth before she changed into her favorite granny flannel nightgown. Maybe she would sleep, and maybe she wouldn’t. Either way, she’d get up early and make a plan.
And maybe when she woke up, Gabe would have had second thoughts about his departure and returned. And cows leap over the moon, was Pilar’s last conscious thought before falling asleep, into dreams of moving to a palatial mansion somewhere and having a conveyor belt installed that would hold her many purses and beloved shoes. She’d read in one of the tabloids that the only person who had one was Candy Spelling in Hollywood. She remembered how envious she’d been when she read that article. If it was good enough for Spelling, then it was certainly good enough for her.
* * *
Pilar Sanders woke slowly. She was cold, and she was shivering, even wearing the flannel nightgown that Gabe always made fun of. She’d forgotten to turn on her bed warmer before she went to sleep, and she’d also kicked the covers off during her fitful sleep. She reached out, tapped the button that would turn on the heated mattress pad, something Gabe hated but he tolerated because the warmer had dual controls. He must have told her a thousand times if she’d put more meat on her bones, she wouldn’t need a bed warmer or a granny flannel nightgown. As with most of his advice, she’d ignored it.
There was no reason, no hurry to get out of bed, so she curled into a ball and let her thoughts take her all over the place. Tentatively, she reached out to touch Gabe’s pillow. A sob caught in her throat. A quick glance at the bedside clock on Gabe’s side of the bed said it was a minute after seven o’clock. More proof that her husband wasn’t coming back.
In all the years they’d been together, they had never spent a night apart. She thought about crying but decided not to because her eyes would get all puffy and red, and she’d have to use up an hour with a cucumber poultice to take away the swelling, and she wasn’t in the mood. Crying definitely was not an option.
She wondered where Gabe was. How far he’d managed to travel in his hasty effort to get away from her and the situation they were in. If he’d made good connections and flown through the night, he was probably in the Caribbean by now. He’d lie low for a few days or maybe just one day before he headed to what was to be their final destination. Now, though, she had to wonder if that was where Gabe would really go. Maybe he’d changed course, gone somewhere different, so she couldn’t find him. That would be so like Gabe. The final insult.
Pilar was warm now in her cocoon. So warm that she started to doze off. She snapped back to reality when she realized she had to get in touch with Bert Navarro. She might as well get up and start the day. Once she was showered and dressed, with a cup of coffee in hand, she could decide on what kinds of decisions had to be made now that she was going solo.
But the warmth of the cocoon sucked her closer to sleep. Pilar was drifting off to dreamland when she heard the doorbell chime. “Gabe!” He was home; he must have forgotten his key. Joy of joy, her husband was home. She bounded out of bed and ran to the front door, her arms outstretched to welcome her husband home. “Gabe!” she shouted as she threw open the door. Her eyes popped at the sight of the man standing in the middle of her doorway. She grew light-headed and had to reach for the door frame to hold herself upright. The man’s name hissed through her teeth. “Mr. Delgado.”
“Invite me in, Senora Sanders, or your neighbors might talk about your early morning visitor.” The words were spoken softly but were full of menace. There was nothing for Pilar to do but step aside. “Coffee would be nice,” Delgado said.
Gabe, Gabe, where are you? I really need you. I know he’s not going to do anything to me right now. He needs me. How did he find me? Oh, God, what am I going to do?
Pilar walked out to the kitchen like a programmed robot. Her movements were jerky, awkward, uncontrolled. A voice inside her head warned her to listen and to keep quiet. She wished again for her husband’s presence.
“Where is your husband, Senora Sanders?”
“He goes out early to get coffee and bagels and meets up with a few friends to catch up on things. He does it every day. He’ll be back in about an hour,” she lied. “Why?”
“I think it’s time I met your partner, but I don’t have that much extra time this morning, so meeting him will have to wait. You will give him my regards, of course.”
“Of course,” Pilar mumbled. Now that the coffeepot was filled, she didn’t know what to do, so she just stood by the sink, her hands clasped in front of her. She gave no thought to her bed hair, her granny flannel nightgown, or her bare feet. All she wanted was for this man to get out of her kitchen. How did he find me? she thought.
“Sit down, Senora Sanders. You look so tense. Please, relax. I’m here to talk business, nothing more. Two business associates having an early morning cup of coffee. Isn’t that how they do it here in the nation’s capital? I myself prefer something a little more private due to the . . . delicate nature of our business, so that’s why I came to your home. I also want to personally apologize for my colleagues’ behavior last night. I’m told they frightened you. That was not my intention at all. They were simply told to give you a message. Good help is so hard to find these days, don’t you agree?”
Pilar’s head bobbed up and down. “Then why did they break into my car?” she asked in a squeaky whisper.
“I beg your pardon.”
“Your people were the only ones there after they threatened me. They didn’t take anything, but they went through my things. Somehow they managed to break into my car, and that could not have been easy.”
Zuma Delgado punched in a set of numbers on his phone and rattled off a string of high-pitched, frantic-sounding Spanish. He listened intently, then rattled off another string of Spanish before hanging up. “My people did not break into your car. Trust me when I tell you this. They did tell me that they saw other activity in the parking lot, but it was so dark they couldn’t tell who it was. And yes, my people are the ones who shot out the lights. It was necessary. They think several men and one woman were there, but that is pure conjecture on their part. They were going by the sounds of footfalls. I repeat, my men would never dare disobey my orders, much less lie to me. I want you to believe me.”
For some ungodly reason, Pilar believed him implicitly. “Then someone besides you and your people is watching me,” she said, a little more bravely this time. “For a long time now, I’ve felt like someone has been following me or watching me.” She opted to keep her suspicions about Toby to herself for the time being.
“You should have apprised me of that immediately, but I’ll deal with that later. For now, I see that the coffee is ready, so let’s drink it and get down to business so I can make you a very wealthy woman.”
Pilar liked the sound of that. Maybe the mansion and the conveyor belt would pop up in her future and not just in her dreams. Just the thought scared her to death.
* * *
Avery Snowden’s phone rang just as he finished brushing his teeth. He clicked it on and heard Consuela’s voice wishing him a good morning.
“Anything to report?”
“That’s why I’m calling. A man resembling the picture of Zuma Delgado you showed all of us just showed up. A cleaned-up version. Casual attire, fresh haircut, clean shaven. Driving a Hertz rental car. When he saw that he couldn’t get into the parking garage, he found a spot on the street easily enough, what with most of the people heading off to work. He walked right by me. It’s him. He walked around to the front of the building. I could not follow him. It would have been too obvious. He hasn’t returned, so I have to assume he gained admittance somehow and is right now visiting Ms. Sanders. What do you want me to do?”
“For starters, move out of the parking space you’re in and park someplace else. Get in the backseat, and don’t let him see you when he comes out. I’ll be there as soon as I can. If he leaves before I get there, follow him, text me, and I’ll catch up and take over.”
Avery was dressed and out of his apartment in less than fifteen minutes and driving to Pilar Sanders’s condo building. He broke his own rules, sending text message after text message as he drove. First to Charles, to meet at the BOLO Building. He explained that he’d been there the night before and what had gone down. His next text was to Mia, followed by one to Consuela, who said Delgado was still in the condo. Mia was running in Rock Creek Park with Toby.
Avery slowed, turned on his blinker, and rounded the corner. He saw Consuela’s parked car immediately. He expertly slid into a space two cars behind her just as his phone pinged that a text was coming in. Tom Fazio. He cursed when he read the message:
I lost him, Avery.
What happened? he typed back. Avery clenched his teeth so tight, he thought his jaw would crack.
We’re here in the Bahamas, as I told you late last night. He checked into Emerald Bay and said he would be there for three days. He paid in cash. I took a room and paid the desk clerk to alert me if he left. Unfortunately, when the clerk took his break a few hours later, Sanders walked out, and he didn’t see him. How he figured it out was when he went outside to smoke a cigarette around three this morning and saw that Sanders’s car was missing. The place isn’t that crowded right now, so the missing car was easy to spot. And because he wanted the second hundred I promised him, the guy went up to his room and checked it out. Nothing was touched or used. He’s gone. He had only a small duffel—you know the kind—shaving gear and a change of underwear fit in. I can attest to that myself.
What’s your best guess? Off the island or he just relocated to another hotel, perhaps one that is less well known?
I think he’s gone, as in gone. The clerk told me one of the other employees recognized Sanders. The reason he remembered him was that he was such a good tipper. He said he’s been here many times, but always with his wife. The guy I talked to has only been at Emerald Bay for sixteen months. You aren’t going to like this, but here goes. If the guy is right, then Sanders has his own plane, which he keeps hangared on the island. He’s a pilot. I can’t confirm any of this yet, but I’m on it, unless you have something else in mind. I’m also thinking a lot of preplanning went into this.
Do what you have to do, Tom.
Do I have your permission to lay out some serious cash?
Whatever it takes.
Well, for starters, I know this retired navy pilot who runs his own small airport in St. Louis. If anyone can dig up info on the guy’s plane and the guy himself, it’s Mike Bernstein. I might have to buy a plane. You okay with that?
You gonna just look at it or fly it?
You’re a funny guy. Of course I can fly it. I spent a whole year with Bernstein before I decided I liked water better than flying through the air.
Go for it. Don’t forget to check in.
Always, big guy. Always.
Avery sat for a moment after he powered down, wondering what Charles and the gang would think when a bill came in for an airplane. He allowed a small gurgle of laughter to escape his lips. Charles would roll his eyes. Jack would shrug, and the kid with the huge fortune would say, “Whatever.”
Avery sent off a text telling Consuela she could leave, and he’d take over.
Through the rearview mirror, Avery could see Consuela exit the backseat of her nondescript car, then text as she walked around to the driver’s side and climbed in.
The text was short and simple. He’s been in there one hour and twelve minutes. His car is the beige Taurus. I have the license-plate number. Call me if you need me.
Avery looked around at all the black cars parked on the street. Other than one white Range Rover, the Taurus was easy to spot. It was four cars up, and it looked from where the subject was parked that he was boxed in pretty good. It would take him a good while to maneuver his way out, which would give Snowden time to gun the engine and pull out at almost the same moment Delgado did.
He settled down to wait, wishing he’d known this was the way it was going to go down. Had he known, he would have planted some listening devices inside the condo.
Avery leaned back, the picture of an aggravated husband waiting for his wife, who was taking way too long to return to the car. His eyes never left the side-view mirror as he waited.
One hour and thirty minutes and counting.