Strolling around to the far side of the pool, where a small shed was concealed behind a screen of plantings, she located one of the pool scoops. Seconds later, she examined the “leaf,” which wasn’t a leaf at all, but the torn-off cover of a small book of matches emblazoned with the name of a bar on Grant Avenue.
A chill roughened the surface of her skin. She had watched as it had landed in the water. Someone had been there, and they had enjoyed playing a cat-and-mouse game with her.
Three
An hour later, Esther eased out of bed. Cesar was sound asleep, his breathing heavier than usual, courtesy of the amount of alcohol he’d sunk during the evening. Normally, she hated it when Cesar drank, but tonight his comatose state provided her with the opportunity she needed.
Slipping on a silk wrap, she padded through the house and downstairs to the office.
The fact that Cesar had failed to advise her that Lopez had personnel loose on their property kept playing through her mind. Normally any extras were invited into the kitchen or the staff lounge, where they could have a meal and watch television if they wanted, and where Jorge and Tomas could keep an eye on them. Security was important. There were priceless works of art in the house, not to mention her jewelry, and they had Rina’s safety to consider. The risk of kidnapping wasn’t high, but it was always there.
She began to search Cesar’s office, carefully leafing through files and replacing them. An unfruitful hour later she sat down at the computer and booted it up, but was stymied when she was denied access. Cesar had changed his password and hadn’t advised her. It was possible he had just done it that day and had forgotten to tell her, but Esther didn’t think so. Cesar hated computers with passion. Normally, he got her to change his password and load any new programs. She had her own separate office and her own computer, but she had always had unlimited access to Cesar’s.
Feverishly, she searched the desk drawers, examining notepads and loose papers, just in case he had written the password down. On impulse, she searched the trash. Halfway down the basket she hit gold, a crumpled piece of notepaper with the word chameleon written across it in bold print. Holding her breath, she typed in the word. A split second later she had access to Cesar’s directory.
The alarm bells that had been ringing ever since Cesar had invited Lopez to dinner sounded even louder as she opened a file labeled “Lopez” and began to read.
Together, with her sharp logistical mind and photographic memory and Cesar’s genius for business, she and Cesar had made a great team. But not anymore. He wasn’t researching a possible business venture with Lopez; he was already involved.
Shutting the computer down, she sat back in the chair and stared at the blank monitor. She needed to sleep, but now she doubted that she would. Cesar had lied about his involvement with Lopez and hidden the facts from her. He had already signed a deal to salvage the Pembroke project.
Financially they were safe, which meant Cesar had also lied about that this evening, and the lie was unforgivable. He knew how worried she was about their financial position and the fact that a predator had targeted them. If he had made a deal he should have told her; it was her neck on the line as well as his.
The sheer scale of Cesar’s deception made her stomach churn. She was beginning to have a horrible feeling about who Lopez actually was, but that research would have to wait until the morning. She still had contacts in international banking, but if Lopez was who she suspected he was, all she would need was an hour in a library.
Hidden in a corner of the San Francisco main library, Esther scrolled the microfilm until she found the newspaper article about Perez that she had researched more than a decade ago. The article didn’t contribute much more to her knowledge, but it provided her with a definite date to work from and a list of names. When she’d scrolled through to the end of the reel, searching for related articles, she selected another film and threaded it into the machine. An hour and three more reels later she found what she was looking for. A rare photo of Marco Chavez filled the screen. She skimmed the brief article and the suspicion that had kept her awake all night coalesced into reality. The reason she hadn’t been able to remember where she had seen Alex Lopez was easy—she hadn’t ever seen him before, but she had seen his father. Alex’s name wasn’t Lopez; it was Chavez.
Minutes later another article followed and Esther’s skin went cold, the chill sinking deep as she read. At first she thought it was a recap of the Los Mendez story. She checked the date, in case the newspaper had been incorrectly archived, but the article was correctly placed. Less than three weeks after the initial massacre in Los Mendez, men, women, children—babies—had been slaughtered indiscriminately; lined up and shot. The pattern had been repeated in three villages all along the Guaviare River, an isolated region inland from Bogotá. Four villages decimated. Then, abruptly, the killing had stopped.
Mind working feverishly, Esther began to search for any other news reports from Colombia within that period. It didn’t take long. The killings had stopped the same day a murderer had been released from prison, pardoned in recognition of the prisoner’s juvenile status and the significant charitable contributions his father had made in donating a hospital to the poorest region of the country. The name of the prisoner was Alejandro Chavez.
Esther stared at the grainy black and whites that accompanied the story, one a standard mug shot, another of Alex handcuffed as he was taken into custody under armed guard. She noted the small tattoo visible on the back of his right hand and her blood ran cold. Alejandro Chavez had been a baby-faced twelve-year-old when he had been jailed for the murder of his own bodyguard.
Alex Lopez was the only son of Marco Chavez, the head of Colombia’s paramount drug cartel. Marco was a clever, astute businessman, his operation smooth by any standards and fronted by a raft of legitimate business enterprises. Its tendrils reached into the highest echelons of South American government. Normally, the powerful and influential Chavez family never made the front pages of any paper unless it was for a charitable donation—until Alejandro Chavez had removed his bodyguard’s gun from his shoulder holster and shot him at point-blank range in a busy mall.
Alex Lopez didn’t dislike women; he didn’t like humanity, period. The emptiness she had seen in his eyes was utter amorality.
An hour later, Esther picked Rina up from school. When she reached home, Cesar wasn’t there, but she hadn’t expected him to be. Normally, he spent the day working from his downtown office. Six o’clock, when Cesar normally returned home, came and went. Carmita served dinner. Afterward Esther helped Rina with her homework and saw her to bed, then went to the sitting room to wait. Cesar didn’t walk in until after ten. His lateness was as uncharacteristic as his bad manners in not phoning to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner, but Esther no longer expected normality.
Stomach tight, she followed him into the office, watching as he set his briefcase down on his desk and removed his jacket. “I know about the Pembroke deal, and I know about Lopez.”
He went still, his expression oddly blank, and she had to wonder if he’d been drinking again.
“It’s too late. I’ve accepted the deal. The money’s in the bank.”
“What money?” She hadn’t seen anything on the computer file that indicated that cash had changed hands.
Cesar shrugged. “It’s not directly connected with the deal. It’s his money. I just facilitated the transfer.”
Panic surged. Esther flipped the catch on his briefcase
