Jasmine had a coffeepot placed on a service tray at the wet bar. Christian poured himself a cup and joined her on the sofa, taking his first sip. He heard the keystrokes of her laptop once she lowered the sound of the stereo system with the remote. But even with the music low, he drew the line at hearing the classic lounge lizard rendition of "Feelings" sung in Portuguese.
"Even without understanding the lyrics, this song sucks. If there's a hell, Muzak would play it for eternity." He narrowed his eyes, pleading his case. "At the risk of sounding like a high maintenance guy, can you change to another station?"
"Finally, we agree on something." She scanned the local radio stations until she found an instrumental jazz piece, then she directed his attention to her computer. "Check this out."
Jasmine hit a few keys and replayed what she had already seen. Coming into view from the lower left-hand side of the camera frame, two waiters in hotel uniforms pushed a food cart through the deserted level eight of the parking garage.
"Heavy load. Takes two to push." After setting his coffee down on a table, Christian rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward, his eyes glued to the computer monitor. "I'm impressed. Full service hotel, catering food to the garage."
She pointed again. "See the dark blue van at the end of the row? Those men standing around it? Just as I remembered. Five of them took my Nicky."
Hearing the crack in her voice, Christian turned to catch Jasmine's eyes welling in tears. She coughed and cleared her throat, wiping a quick finger across her cheek. To give her time to compose herself, he shifted his attention back to the digital recording. The kidnappers loaded his father into the back of the van and shoved a much lighter food cart against a wall of the parking garage. The men piled inside. The vehicle pulled out and headed toward the camera.
"The man driving looks like he's in charge."
"Yes, he was." She nodded. "You tend to remember the man who held an AK-47 aimed at your head."
"Did your informant know him?"
"Yes. He told me the guy used to work for the hotel, until four days ago. He went by the name of Rodrigo Santo. The other one dressed in uniform didn't work here, according to my guy. Santo must have given him the monkey suit."
"Hell, the bastard isn't likely to use his real name. Kidnapping an American while on the clock? Not a smart move."
"Kidnapping Nicky is not the work of an intelligent man. Who would do such a thing if they knew who he was?"
"Maybe he didn't. Maybe all he saw was opportunity. But it makes sense this was an inside job, someone working at the hotel." He raised his hand and nudged his chin toward the TV. "Freeze that, right there."
Christian stared at the face of the native man who kidnapped his father, memorizing every detail. He searched for compassion in the dark eyes but found none.
"Can you get a print of his face?"
"Already done. My contact was most obliging." She pulled out a handful of hard copies printed of the digital frame. Fuzzy but workable.
"Good. Did anyone find it odd that Santo quit like that?"
Shifting her weight on the sofa, Jasmine crossed her legs and leaned closer.
"Well, technically, he never gave notice. When he didn't show up for work, the hotel sent someone to check his local address. He had a dingy little motel room he rented by the week. He'd cleared out, walked away from his life here in Cuiabá. Everything gone, no forwarding."
"He didn't collect his paycheck? That's unusual in this economy."
"Apparently, he's got a bigger payoff in mind."
Christian glared at the face frozen on the screen. "So no trail to follow."
"Not exactly." She smiled and winked. "My source told me the man kept to himself. But he was very traditional in his beliefs, very old school. He talked about his people like he belonged to a tribe."
"Not much to go on. I hoped the reward would jump-start things."
But the gleam in Jasmine's eye told him she had more. She reminded him of a slick black jaguar on the prowl. The woman sure enjoyed her vocation.
"Perhaps it has. Ever since our slithering care package on the balcony, I racked my brain trying to remember someone Nicky and I met at a local fundraiser a while back. Then the name came to me. A shop owner, Bianca Salvador. She owns Guia Do Espírito, catering to the lunatic fringe of Cuiabá. The place sells herbs, charms, and other ritualistic items." Jasmine smiled. "She performs rituals for many of the indigenous people in the area. Perhaps she can help us take the next step to finding Nicky."
He shrugged and nodded. "She's a local and knows the area. Plus, she might shed light on our voodoo welcome wagon. Sounds solid."
"I could talk to her while you—"
"Oh, no. We're doing this together," he insisted.
"That makes no sense. We can cover more ground if we split up . . ."
Christian finished his coffee while he listened to the logic of her argument, but eventually he interrupted her.
"Look, someone waited for me to let my guard down last night. And I almost got strained through the grillwork of a sedan, a human lube job. We're stickin' together."
She narrowed her eyes, not used to taking orders. "I'm touched by your concern, but as you know, I can take care of myself."
"No way. Hallmark doesn't make a card for 'Sorry I got you killed.' Ain't happenin' on my watch. We're doing this together. No arguments."
"I'll remind you of that the next time you play a solo game of dodge ball with four thousand pounds of steel."
The woman had a point.
To change the subject, he asked, "Did last night's surveillance show how the damned snake got to the penthouse balcony? Some bastard gained access outside the hotel."
"No, I found that quite strange." She shook her head, a troubled look on her face.
"With what we're paying for this damned room, you'd think it'd buy us a snake-free zone. Something like that wouldn't materialize out of thin air, complete with flamin' candles and a dead chicken. We just didn't catch it on surveillance, that's all."
"Yes, I suppose so."
The doubt in her voice caused him to turn and face her. "Don't tell me you believe in this voodoo stuff."
"No, don't be silly." She shrugged and waved him off with her hand, not very convincingly. "I like to think we make our own fortune, good and bad."
"Not sure what that says about Charboneau. Let's hope his luck turns for the better real soon."
Jasmine nodded, avoiding his eyes. After a long moment of silence, she finally said, "So what's your plan?"
Christian looked at his watch. "It might be a little early to make a call on the shop owner. The place won't be open at this hour. Let's hit the genetics facility first."
"Why? We have a better lead chasing down this shop owner. The genetics angle is a complete waste of time, something Nicky doesn't have."
Christian knew by her reaction that the genetics lab was a taboo subject. That only made him want to know more about it.
"You're coverin' up his involvement with the facility, aren't you?" By her glare, he knew he'd hit a nerve. "Well, guess what? If we don't find your precious Nicky in time, his connection to that so-called genetics front will be a moot point. I think you need to get your priorities straight."
"Look, we have to work together, but I'm beginning to think you don't trust me." From righteous indignation to a coy smile, Jasmine ran hot and cold like a water spigot.
"Oh, yeah? Can't imagine where you got
that
idea. Maybe I'm just an equal opportunity cynic."
"Point taken." With a raised eyebrow, she crossed her arms over her chest. "So what's your angle on this genetics thing?"
"Just feeling the need for a little education on genetics research, that's all. Let's check out your employer's little charity, to rule out any connection." He stood and stared down at her. "Then we can follow the lead on Santo and your local jinx monger. Come on. We're burnin' daylight."
Christian walked into his bedroom, leaving Jasmine alone with her thoughts. Before leaving the suite, he'd get his digital photos of the care package on the balcony and pack it up in a small carryon bag. With what Jasmine had discovered, the voodoo vendor might shed some light on the materials and its slithering messenger.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his muscles stiff and the fresh wounds on his body aching. After rummaging through the weapons and gear Jasmine had provided, he slipped a knife into his right boot, double-checked the Glock 19, and tucked it into a holster he wore under his khaki shirt. The rest he locked away in a bag in his closet.
Today had to bear fruit. Like Jasmine said, they couldn't afford to waste time. Minutes ticked into hours and he felt the pressure. Soon, his father would run out of time. And he had far too many skeletons in his closet to be cavalier about adding one more.
From the day Jasmine rocked his world with news of his biological father, a clock ticked in Christian's head—nagging and persistent—in perfect rhythm with Nicholas Charboneau's beating heart. The fact that he'd never met the man didn't diminish the blood link they shared.
He felt the pressure of that connection. Today, something had to happen.
On the ground floor of the hotel, the man at the concierge desk gave him a map of the city and the location of police headquarters for future reference, only a few blocks from Hotel Palma Dourada. How convenient for Duarte.
As he walked outside, to catch a taxicab for the genetics lab, the sunlight reflected off the sidewalk. The glare made him squint, which started a throbbing headache. Already the heat had become a factor. He slipped on sunglasses and stepped into the brightness of morning as a valet blew a shrill whistle to hail a cab. The sound triggered a domino of pain from his neck down. This day had gone from bad to worse in the span of five minutes. He couldn't wait for their adventure to begin.
Slung over his shoulder, Christian held a small carryon bag containing the dead snake and the Macumba ritual offerings. His creepy cargo messed with his head. He wanted to ditch it, forget it ever happened. But like Jasmine, he had high hopes for a lead with the local voodoo peddler—their next stop.
"Remind me to leave a large tip for housekeeping. Today, they're gonna earn it," he muttered under his breath to his companion. His headache had shifted to behind his eyes.
A sly smile nudged the corner of Jasmine's lips. "I'd love to be a fly on the wall when they find the dead chicken."
"Let's not talk about flies ... or deceased poultry. Show some respect for animal rights."
Admonishing an assassin on animal rights struck him as ludicrous. In all probability, the life of a chicken ranked higher than people she considered to be a "waste of skin." But he didn't want to begin a philosophical debate with her. He had a hard enough time sleeping.
As Christian waited for the cab, he watched the bustling streets of Cuiabá. Even under the expansive portico of the elite hotel, the mass of humanity closed in on him. Traffic in the city hummed in the background, the smell of diesel fuel in the air. The blare of a horn down the street muffled the engine and brakes of a bus coming to a stop. It soured his stomach. Across the boulevard, a cafe worker hosed water onto the sidewalk, dampening the lingering smells of the night before—a strange blend of muggy odors coupled with the refreshing start of a new day. A city awakening.
Jasmine had no appreciation for this place. He caught a glimpse of the woman. Her expression had changed to a mix of disdain and suppressed emotion. He knew why he felt like crap and he had the bruises to prove it, but she had no excuse.
"What? You not a morning person?" he asked.
"Not particularly. Except for the language, this place reminds me of .. . Chinatown in Chicago." She offered nothing more. Cagey as ever, she answered his question, only conjuring a greater curiosity in his mind.
"Did you grow up there?"
A cab pulled to the curb. Christian took care of the valet's tip and opened the back door, letting Jasmine slide in. She gave the driver their destination as he joined her. He shifted his gaze to Jasmine, waiting for an answer he knew would have little substance. Her typical mode of communication.
"Let's say I spent time there ..." Her eyes grew darker, if that were possible. ". . . like a prison sentence." Her voice faded, muffled by a dispatcher's voice crackling in the background and the idle humming of the driver.
More of a gut reaction, Christian suspected one thing. Jasmine had shared her past with his father. He had no idea how he knew this. The woman trusted no one. She'd become a tightly woven tapestry of dark memories. Still, Jasmine shared a bond with Charboneau, his enigmatic father, who had plenty of his own well-kept secrets.
Her loyalty to Charboneau intrigued Christian. It shed a strange light on his father's character. Charboneau traversed the line between the underbelly criminal element and the lofty influences of high society—and was equally at home with either. And he had taken the time to harness and cultivate this woman's devotion without rival. No doubt, she would die for him.
Even his own mother, Fiona, shared a lifelong commitment to the man. A tribute to Charboneau's charisma, or his ability to manipulate? How had his father earned such allegiance? Christian wanted to believe the man deserved it, but didn't want to jump to any unfounded conclusions.
"Did you meet my . . . did you meet Charboneau there? How long have you worked for him?"
"I met him when I was quite young ... in Chicago. Perhaps you can say he recognized my talents long before I did." She smiled, her gaze locked in memory. "He showed me the world. And with Nicky, you can live a lifetime in a day. Your father is the most amazing man. He knows what he wants, and he would take it like a thief if it pleased him. A dangerous combination, some might say."
"But not for you. You like danger." No question. Only his observation from the limited time he'd known the woman.
She shrugged, fighting a faint smile. The word
smug
came to his mind.