Heart of the World (15 page)

The band, a Caribbean group with a heavy-handed approach to percussion, took a break to scattered applause. A knot of men strolled by, discussing the future of the Miami Dolphins. I felt a hand close on my bare shoulder. Vandenburg.

Jerry made tracks. Margaritas and high heels made standing a minor challenge.

“He didn't bite,” Vandenburg said. “Wouldn't give me the man's number. But he'll talk to you.”

I drained my Margarita; the connection between rubbery legs and drink hadn't quite clicked in my head. “What did you say about me?”

“Nothing. When he wouldn't cooperate, I admitted I was acting as an intermediary. He said he'd prefer to deal with the principal.”

Damn. I'd had more to drink than I'd realized. Should have poured the rest of the Margarita in the pool. “Where is he?”

“I'll show you.”

As we glided through the TV room, a man who'd had more than a few drinks himself lurched into my path. “You one of Drew's girls?” he asked loudly. I kept walking. We passed a room where couples shook their bodies to a different band than the Caribbean group on the patio. A couple slid discreetly up a curving staircase, possibly headed for bedroom frolics.
Drew's girls
. Maybe Naylor had a sideline in pimping. Maybe this shindig was some sort of businessman's special, a free-for-all escort service.

I followed Vandenburg through a vast kitchen teeming with white-aproned caterers and bustling waiters, then through a low doorway into a quieter section of the vast house.

“No threats,” the lawyer reminded me outside a paneled door. “Knock. You want me to come with you?”

I shook my head.

“Come to the pool afterward.”

I waited till Vandenburg disappeared, gave a perfunctory cop knock, turned the knob, and walked in. Cops are always hoping to catch somebody doing something they shouldn't.

My quick entry was wasted. Naylor, if the man on the chaise was Naylor, was doing nothing except reclining with closed eyes in a room that looked more gilded than decorated. The heavy drapes were gold, the walls covered in a gold Chinese paper that added touches of scarlet. The carpet was beige, flecked with gold. A walking stick with a carved head leaned against a desk made of pale wood with gilded scrollwork. The color made me feel lucky; maybe the little golden birdman, the spirit guide, was signaling that I'd come to the right place. More likely I was really starting to feel the alcohol.

“Shut the door.” The man opened his eyes, but other than that, he didn't move.

He was heavy at first glance, but it was more a heaviness of shoulders,
arms, and chest, like a wrestler. His face seemed long, and while he wasn't old, maybe forty, he had jowls that pulled the corners of his mouth down. I couldn't estimate his height very well because he was lying down. He wore a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. Even after he opened them, I couldn't distinguish their color.

“You're missing the party,” I said lightly, not wanting to start with demands before I got a sense of the man. He didn't look drop-dead attractive to women, yet women heavily outnumbered men at the party. Even a commercial film producer was a man with casting power. He probably had a lot of pop in Miami.

“So you're making Vandenburg jump though hoops, eh?” he said, a smile tickling the corners of his droopy mouth.

“I do what I can.”

“You wish to find the notorious Roldan.” “I do.”

“Are you perhaps a ‘journalist' looking to make some money?” His voice had a hint of generic accent. He wasn't American-born. Possibly South American, but that's about all I could tell.

I shook my head.

“Then what?”

What indeed? I was feeling more than a little queasy. A light sweat glistened on my forehead. Too much alcohol too fast.

Naylor gave me the eye, staring like he could see through my halter, like he knew all about girls like me. But if Vandenburg had told me the truth, all Naylor actually knew was that I was searching for Roldan. The reclining man's assumption that I was looking to make money was his own.

When you work undercover you learn a few helpful rules. One of the best is this: Use what the perp brings to the table. Another good one: Be who the perp supposes you to be. What Naylor brought to the table was lechery. What he assumed I brought was greed.

With hardly a moment's hesitation, I placed a hand lightly on my stomach and said, “It's like this: I need to talk to my baby's father.”

“Ah.”

I could read in his satisfied expression that I'd blurted an explanation he could easily believe, and for a moment I believed it, too. It had the advantage of truth; Roldan was my baby's father, Paolina's father.
Plus it seemed to me a reason that Naylor, plagued with paternity problems of his own, would understand, a strong and urgent reason to find Roldan.

He looked like he'd enjoyed the revelation. I wondered about his relationship to Roldan. If he held any sort of grudge against him, maybe I could spin that in my favor.

“I see.” He blinked, something he didn't do often. I wasn't sure, but it seemed to me that one of his eyes was slightly different than the other, a narrower slit in the long face. “May I offer my congratulations?”

“You could offer me a seat.”

His mouth twitched, and he nodded toward a brocade-covered chair. For a while we were both silent, but I didn't mind. I like silence. The room was soundproofed, the loud party no more than a distant repetitive bass.

He said, “And where did you meet El Martillo?”

“Panama.” One of the packages of long-ago cash had arrived with a Panamanian coin stuck underneath a layer of bubble wrap.

“What took you there?”

“Sometimes I crew on boats.”

“Yes,” he said. “I see. I knew you weren't a model. A model looks like a model. She can't help it. She cants her hips just so when she stands. The training becomes automatic. An athlete, also she stands a certain way. You play tennis, yes?”

I nodded to make him feel smart. I play volleyball and the arm motion for a spiker is pretty much the same as that of a server. If he was really smart he'd have questioned my lack of a tan.

“Sometimes the people I crew for invite me to parties,” I said.

“I would certainly invite you.” His stillness was creepy, lizard-like. His mouth opened and shut, but the rest of his face was a mask. His ears were small and close to his head.

“Thank you,” I said, “but I don't need party invitations. What I need is the man's phone number so I can find out how he treats women after he sleeps with them.”

“He didn't feel it necessary to advise you how to get in touch when you parted?”

“Things have changed.”

“You learned he was a wealthy man?”

“I learned I was pregnant,” I said flatly.”

You're after money, I suppose.”

“You giving it away?”

His head lolled to one side and he laughed, a harsh, grating sound, like the caw of a large crow. “Yes, yes, I see. Well, you have an interesting problem. You like older men?”

“Not older men in general. I like Carlos.”

He squirmed to one side of the wide chaise and made a low noise like an insect humming. His arm moved abruptly and he patted the cushion.

“Then you wouldn't care to join me here?”

“No.”

“Not even if I might then give you a number where you could reach our mutual friend?” He rubbed his crotch suggestively. I kept the smile on my face, thinking that if he yanked his zipper he was going to be one sorry SOB.

“I'm not a hooker, mister, just a girl who got knocked up. I don't go for older men. I like Carlos. And he likes me. He told me I could get to him through that lawyer.”

“Perhaps he deliberately misdirected you. Have you considered that? Send Thurman back in, please. When you leave.”

I stayed seated. “Then you won't help me?”

“What's your name, young lady?”

“Carlotta.”

“Carlotta and Carlos. How very sweet.”

“After we're married, maybe we'll name our kid after you, Drew.”

“You wouldn't mind raising a child in Colombia?”

“Where in Colombia?” I tried to soften the question with a smile but I'd pounced too quickly.

His mouth narrowed. “I'll speak with Thurman now.”

“Please, if you change your mind—let me give you my number.” I scribbled my cell on a pad on his desk, begged him to give the number to Roldan if he didn't trust me, but I knew it was no go. My intensity had scared him and I was dismissed. I didn't bang the door on the way out but it took effort to restrain the impulse.

I was furious at myself. A glass of champagne, two birdbath-sized Margaritas. My head was muddled and I'd blown what might be my
only chance to find Paolina. I found myself in the busy kitchen uncertain of the way to the pool. I felt lousy, as helpless and dumb as the pregnant, abandoned woman I'd pretended to be. My mouth tasted sour and I made my way to a sink, intent on water. A man washing dishes glared at me, but nodded to a stack of plastic glasses when I asked.

I drank a full glass, ran the icy stream over my hand, and patted the back of my neck. A woman in a flowered apron yanked a tray of cheese puffs from the oven and clucked at me to get out of her way.

I wanted access to that desk in Naylor's office, that fat pale desk with the golden curves. I wanted the man's Rolodex, his files, his little black books, his memory. To be so close, to come away with nothing…

Kitchens, big modern kitchens, have desks. Desks have drawers and drawers have files, and files contain all sorts of domestic goodies, like phone bills. I didn't go back to Vandenburg like a good little girl. I snooped instead, sitting at the desk, pressing the phone to my ear as though I were making a call while my hands riffled through piles of papers. If Naylor was in touch with Roldan, the phone number might be as close as my fingertips. It might never get closer than it was now.

“Can I help you?”

The woman wasn't wearing an apron, but there was a smear of flour on her cheek.

“Jeez, you have any aspirin?” I said. “Drew said there was aspirin in here, but I didn't know it would be a fucking treasure hunt.” I let myself sound drunker than I was. It was easy.

She exchanged glances with one of the caterers at the same moment I saw the SBC logo on an envelope. SBC. Southern Bell Company. The day's mail was stacked on a corner of the desk for sorting.

“You know where the closest bathroom—” I made my mouth work like I might be getting ready to vomit, and the woman hastily pointed me east. I made a shambles of my effort to stand, knocked the mail to the floor, and knelt to restore it. I grabbed the SBC envelope and held it to my stomach, clasping both hands over it as I groaned and ran.

In the bathroom, I took a long breath and held a hand to my pounding temple. For a moment I thought I might actually be sick. Then I rinsed my mouth with cold water, tucked the phone bill into my pants, and went to find Vandenburg.

CHAPTER 13

When the phone jangled me from sleep
, I swung my legs out of bed, my head split open, my stomach flopped through a bizarre series of acrobatic maneuvers, and I thought:
Paolina, sweetheart, I'm not mad at you. I'm so glad you called. Wheverever you are, stay put; I'm on my way
.

Fumbling for the receiver, a second possibility rushed into my head:
Sam, why didn't you call last night?
I grabbed my cell, flipped it open, and pressed the button only to be greeted by Mooney's growl.

“What?” The word was out of my mouth before I could contemplate substituting a civil hello.

“Carlotta? I wake you?”

The clock on the bedside table said nine. Impossible. I must have turned off the alarm. “You okay?”

His voice hammered my eardrums. My tongue felt as fuzzy as the hotel blanket, my throat raw.
What the hell was in those Margaritas?
I sucked a deep breath and scrunched my eyes shut. It felt like the middle of the night but a steady stream of sunlight poured through the thin curtains.

“Paolina,” I said. “Is she—? Did you—?”

“No bad news. No great news, either, but no disasters.”

I opened my eyes slightly, flinching at the skull-piercing sunshine. “You said you might have something, that you'd—”

“I'm still working it.”

“Oh.” I ran my dry tongue over dry lips. “How did the thing with the feds go?”

“If Paolina hijacks a plane, they'll get interested. Seriously, it's all terrorists, all the time down the Bureau. Not in so many words, but I got the message between the lines. If I were on the street, I tell ya, now's the time I'd pull a bank job.”

“The Roldan angle didn't grab them?”

“I'm going to DEA direct. One of our narcs is setting it up for me.”

“When?”

“You flying back today?”

“I don't know,” I said slowly. “I doubt it.”

“What?” he said. “You getting somewhere?”

The SBC envelope was lying on the bedside table underneath the clock. “I've got a couple of Colombian phone numbers.”

I listened to his silence, but it was my own doubt I heard. Two of the numbers on the stolen phone bill bore the 571 prefix that meant Bogota. One of them might or might not lead to Roldan. One of them might or might not lead to my little sister's whereabouts.

“It's something,” I said defensively.

“Enough to justify a plane ticket?”

“Somebody told me Roldan was in Colombia.”

“A guy I talked to yesterday told me he saw Elvis in Cleveland.”

“My guy seemed to be running on all cylinders. How about yours?”

“Who did you talk to?”

“I gave you the name yesterday. Drew Naylor.”

“No record, no warrants. Who is he?”

I shrugged, then realized he couldn't see the movement over the phone. “A businessman,” I said. “A creep.”