To The Lions - 02 (41 page)

Unable
to help his avarice, Redon closed his eyes, thinking of the vacationing women,
and how impressed they would be with his shiny sports car, his villa and, of
course, his outdoor hot tub.
 
Though he
didn’t care for drugs, he’d make sure to keep a stash of coke and weed, just to
loosen the vacationers up…
and
, he
thought with unrestrained glee,
there’ll
be a whole new batch of them each week.
 
All I need to do now is travel to Luxembourg and Zurich and buy a good
established identity
.

Then
the realization hit him:
I can be on the
beach in a week!

He
opened his eyes, again clasping his hands over Señora Herrero’s, unable to
contain his jury smile.
 
“Madam, provided
you and I can trust each other to keep this to ourselves for as long as we both
shall live, I’d say this is the beginning of a lovely, albeit brief, partnership.”

“There’s
one item I’m hesitant to mention.”

“Please
do,” he sang.

“Through
some incredibly subtle inquiries, I learned that the authorities believe
Ernesto Navarro was killed by a rival gang.
 
Supposedly, they’re assuming his operations.”

“Go
on,” he said warily.

“It
did occur to me that perhaps I should approach them with these bearer bonds
instead.
 
Perhaps they would give me a
larger percentage than you.”

Cortez
Redon nearly fell off his stool.
 
“They
would take every last American penny of that money because they would kill
you,” he spat.
 
“They would kill you
viciously.”

She
touched her hand to her mouth.

“Madam,
scrub such thoughts from your mind,” he admonished.
 
“You’re speaking of Los Leones…savages.”
 
He softened his face.
 
“But by working with me, you’re assuring yourself
of safety, of security and refinement.
 
Do you understand?”

“You’re
heaven-sent, señor.”

“We
both are.”

He
watched as she placed the bottle of mineral water in her purse and used a wet
paper napkin to wipe her glass and the table where her arms had rested.
 
Easing herself off the stool, she glanced
outside.
 
Bringing her eyes back she
said, “Now, Cortez, as you might imagine, I have not used my real name
today.
 
And, if I get the remotest
inclination that you’re following me or trying to find me, I will make this
deal with someone else.”

Showing
his palms, he dipped his head and said, “I’m only interested in working with
you, madam—not following you.”

“I
need your mobile number.”

He
handed over his card.

“Very
well,” she replied, dropping it in her purse.
 
“I will call you tomorrow, early.
 
Can you be ready to go at a moment’s notice?”

Uncharacteristically
showing nervousness, he chewed on his thumbnail, thinking through all the loose
ends.
 
He did own a term life insurance
policy, one that was purchased long before the euro conversion.
 
It was worth about 800,000 euro and, despite
his disdain for his marital partner, would go a long way in making sure she
could easily survive without him.
 
If he
were to choose an activity, such as sailing alone—something he did on
occasion—and were to come up missing, a case could be made that the insurance
company should pay even with the absence of a body.
 
It would be a battle for her, but there was
precedent and a good team of lawyers would have a solid case, especially with
his standing in Catalonia.

“As
you might imagine, I have quite a bit to do, but I think, starting tomorrow, I
could leave with several hours’ notice.”

“Fine.
 
You’ll hear from me.
 
Make sure you answer when I call.”

“I
will.”

“Please
pay the tab,” she said with a wink.
 
He
watched as she pushed the door open with her rump, still careful not to leave
any fingerprints, and headed down the street away from his office.

Mind
lurching into overdrive, Redon turned to find the server so he might pay.
 
But, to his great surprise, standing next to
the glass counter, her large blue eyes on his, was the tall Polish bombshell
from earlier.

Feeling
his lips parting uncontrollably, he said, “How long have you been here?”

“When
I finished changing my tire, I parked and came in to thank you.”
 
She gnawed on her lip, dipping her head.
 
“I guess that was your wife.”

“My
wife?” he blurted.
 
“No, no, no,
dear…that was not my wife.
 
That was a,
uh, business meeting.”

Redon
watched her head come back up, mirth spreading over her face.
 
She took two steps toward him, towering over
him.

“Sorry
I stopped talking on the street.”

“Don’t
be,” he whispered.

“I
was feeling…tempted.
 
Sometimes, when I’m
lonely, I’m too easy.”

His
mouth moved but he made no sound.

“Is
there someplace we can go?” she asked.

“Go?”
he croaked.

Her
hand dithered on his lapel, moving behind his head in a massaging motion.
 
“I’d like to be alone with you.
 
I realize that sounds bad but, please
understand, my time in Spain has not been good and I’m truly craving the
company of a cultured man.
 
I’ve got all
afternoon and no plans tonight, either.”

Feeling
his jaw muscles fail him again, Redon stared up at her and thought,
Of all days!
 
I’ve been paying for ass for twenty years now and, on the day my
bejeweled ship finally comes in, when I’ve got more to do than I can fathom, I
get propositioned by a Polish girl fit for a Mallorca stripper pole.

Probably
sensing his hesitation, she leaned over, kissing his cheek and whispering in
his ear. “I’m sure you have to get back to work and you’re probably
married.
 
Just think of it as a long
lunch and,” she said, cupping his head in her hands, “you have to promise me it
won’t be a one-time thing.
 
Since I
turned eighteen I’ve exclusively dated older men and, while I’m here, I’d like
a boyfriend like you…one who can take care of me.”

“I
should go buy an
El Gordo
ticket
today,” he mumbled, speaking of the Spanish lottery.

“What?”

“Nothing,
darling,” he replied, dropping ten euro on the counter and leading her
out.
 
“There’s a hotel just down the
street here—” He froze in the doorway, feeling a stab of stupidity.
 
“That is what you had in mind, isn’t it?”

“Cortez,”
she said, leaning to his ear, “take me to that hotel and make beautiful love to
me.”

Acusador
Cortez Redon nearly lost his balance.
 
But, after recovering quickly, he tugged her hand, unable to keep from
skipping down the Carrer de Pau Claris.

* * *

Standing
across the street under the breathing lavender blooms of a Jacaranda tree,
Xavier Zambrano watched Acusador Cortez Redon interacting with the tall blonde
in the doorway of a place called El Café de Limón.
 
Minutes earlier, Xavier had spotted him in
the café, sitting there talking to the dumpy old woman with the beehive hairdo.
 
Having crossed the street to await his exit,
Xavier now had watched the entire scene play out, one that reminded him of the
types of grifts he and his fellow neighborhood punks had run as teens.

The
tall blonde, who for some reason seemed familiar to Xavier, had approached the
café from the parking garage down the street.
 
She’d nearly tiptoed in her approach to the café, peering through the
large glass front from its edge.
 
Then
she eased into the café and watched Redon and the older woman from the far side
of the dining area.

After
a few minutes the older woman exited and, just when Xavier had been about to
follow her, she walked away but quickly came back, peering through the window
just as the comely blonde had done.
 
Finally, smiling at what she’d seen, the older woman crossed the
perpendicular street and that’s when Xavier had followed just to see her get
into the passenger seat of a white Volvo parked on the first level of the
parking garage.
 
Realizing she wasn’t
going anywhere, he moved back to his position across the street—where he was
now, watching the tender exchange between Redon and the tall blonde.
 
Then, with that familiar inflamed glow of
fresh lovers, they hurried down the street hand in hand.

Cortez, you horny idiot.
 
You’re too small, too old, and you look like
a fairytale elf.
 
Are you gullible enough
to think that piece of tail would be interested in you?

Xavier
followed from across the street and was able to see the older woman’s
silhouette in the shadowed garage.
 
She
lowered herself in the passenger seat but turned, watching the couple pass by
from her furtive position.

This
was definitely a hustle of some sort—and Xavier remembered the message he’d
seen at Redon’s office: a woman claiming to have Ernesto Navarro’s money.
 
He looked around, finding no other people who
seemed to be interested in the couple’s movements.

Why would two women be working such
an angle on Acusador Cortez Redon?

He
pondered it, not thinking too long about it because, just past the garage, he
watched as the couple stopped in front of a Martel Hotel—one of hundreds spread
throughout Europe’s larger cities—and devour one another with a kiss.
 
Redon’s hands, already lower because of his
small stature, roamed up the back of the tall blonde’s legs, cupping her rear
end with his fingers before they eventually probed underneath her short skirt.

Then,
laughing like thieves, they entered the hotel.

His
mind warring over which path to take, Xavier turned left, walking back toward
the café.
 
He entered the side of the
parking garage by jumping a waist-high wall, closing on the rear of the Volvo
with great speed and stealth.
 
The light
of a mobile phone could be seen in the darkened car—the old woman was typing on
it.
 
Unable to discern if the car was
locked, he dropped below the window at the back and waited a moment before he
lightly tapped on the sheet metal of the rear hatch, rhythmically setting a
slow beat, very soft.

Tap,
tap, tap, tap—never changing tone or speed.

Nothing
happened.

He
continued to tap, the sound not unlike an annoying dripping from above.

Still
no response from the woman.

Like
a patient snake stalking its prey, Xavier continued to tap.

* * *

Señora
Moreno had just replayed the recording of Cortez Redon.
 
It wasn’t as clear as she would have liked—actually
undecipherable in spots—but his indictment of Los Leones was clear as a bell,
and might come in handy later.

Tap-tap-tap.

She
turned her head
.
 
What in the world is that?
 

It
went on and on.
 
Señora Moreno wondered
if it was droplets of drainage water dripping on the car from the level
above.
 
But the constant rhythm was
irritating and continued on for several minutes while she texted several
instructional messages to Justina.
 
Finally, when the noise didn’t abate, she unlocked the car and stepped
out.
 
She viewed the diminutive spare
tire that Justina had installed.
 
It
seemed to be on tight.
 
She walked to the
rear of the car, where the sound had come from, viewing the roof as best she
could and finding no evidence of water droplets.
 
In fact, standing still, she could no longer
hear the sound.

Looking
out at Carrer de Pau Claris she glanced both directions, seeing nothing but
parked scooters, swaying trees, and two businesswomen in smart suits walking
with white bags that probably contained their lunch.

Feeling
an unnerving shiver travel up her back, she took a steadying breath and walked
back to the passenger door.
 
With one
final glance around the mostly empty parking garage, Señora Moreno again took
her seat in the Volvo.

And,
just as she did, the driver’s door opened and a man, menacing black blade in
his left hand, dropped into the driver’s seat.
 
He clamped one hand over her mouth and put the point of the blade to her
throat.