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  Rina began repeating the numbers in sequence, her voice flat. When she was finished Lopez placed the sheet of handwritten numbers on the table, his eyes on Rina. “One hundred percent accuracy. An interesting talent.” Lopez’s gaze was still fixed on Rina. “Where does she get that from?”

  “Her father.” Esther cut Cesar off with a cold, warning glance. “Cesar’s always been dynamite with figures.”

  “That’s not news,” Perez inserted smoothly. “He didn’t get the nickname ‘Mr. Midas’ for nothing. We’re hoping the golden touch will rub off on us.”

  Dennison laughed as if Perez had said something hilarious and Lopez’s gaze swiveled. He muttered a sharp comment, cutting off Dennison’s mirth. Esther noticed Lopez’s accent had slipped. Even more interesting. Something had finally gotten under his skin and he’d revealed some emotion and the fact that, surprise, surprise, Boston wasn’t his natural home.

  Esther forced another tight smile as she smoothly redirected the conversation back into a general discussion about the economy and away from Rina. Her daughter had fitted the headphones of her Walkman back over her ears and was staring back at Lopez with a fixed, unblinking gaze.

  Rina was so mature in her outlook and so exceptional in her talents that sometimes Esther forgot she was still a ten-year-old kid. Cesar hadn’t noticed what she was doing yet, because she was sitting right next to him, but it wouldn’t be long before he realized his daughter had targeted Lopez for eyeball extinction.

  As much as Lopez deserved it, someone had to call her off. Smothering a grin, Esther walked around the table and shook Rina’s arm. There was no point trying to catch her eye, because when Rina identified a victim she locked on like a heat-seeking missile. She never voluntarily gave up on a stare until her victim was a quivering jelly. “Bedtime.”

  Rina didn’t shift her stare. “Another five minutes would be good.”

  Which meant she had already gained the ascendancy, now she wanted the victory lap. “Uh-uh. You’re finished for the night.”

  With a shrug, Rina abandoned the stare and gracefully exited her place at the table. “It’s okay.” She sent Esther a sly wink. “My work is done.”

  Making her excuses and sending Cesar a hard glance, Esther hustled Rina out of the room and watched with an eagle eye as she got settled for bed, allowing Rina to spin out the process in the hope that Cesar would get the hint and make moves to get rid of their guests. When she returned to the table, the evening was finally winding up. Cesar had had too much to drink and so had Dennison, but she couldn’t help noticing that Lopez and Perez were both stone-cold sober.

  Seeing them to the door, she watched as they climbed into a low, sleek Cadillac. A second vehicle, a gleaming black Chevrolet truck with tinted windows, glided behind the Cadillac as it nosed through the security gates, and she tensed. She had been aware they had a driver, because she had suggested he eat in the kitchen if he was hungry, but not that there had been a second vehicle. The only possible reason for a second vehicle was security, which meant Lopez had had additional men loose on the property that she hadn’t known about.

  Suddenly the interlude in the garden began to make sense. There had been someone there, maybe more than one. Cesar must have been aware of their presence, because otherwise Jorge and Tomas would never have admitted the second vehicle.

  As the gate closed behind the truck, Esther turned on Cesar. She didn’t care if they did go bankrupt. “Finish with them.”

  It wasn’t often she demanded, but in this case it was too strong a reaction to deny. She was itching to go to the police, but she was going to have to wait until Cesar got clear. Perez was a wanted man, but as much as she needed to see him behind bars, she wouldn’t allow Cesar to be dragged into the investigation or the media storm that would follow when Perez was picked up.

  “I can’t—not yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve already made arrangements for Lopez to look at the project. He’s a new player in the market and he’s got cash. We can’t afford to throw away the opportunity.” He indicated for her to precede him into the house, the gesture normal and courteous, but the fact that he was avoiding her gaze made Esther’s stomach plunge.

  She stepped into the foyer, her heels rapping on the marble floor. “What have you signed?”

  His gaze was rapier sharp, a glimpse of the old, imperious Cesar. “Relax. Like I told you, I’m just researching options. Lopez has got some heavy-duty connections.”

  “I don’t like Lopez, and Perez is a wanted criminal.”

  He locked the front door and set the alarm. “Ease off, honey. Like I said, Perez can go, just not yet.”

  She watched as Cesar crossed the foyer, heading for the stairs, his gait very slightly unsteady. “Promise me you’ll get out of whatever it is you’ve gotten involved with.”

  She was like a terrier with a bone, but she couldn’t let it go. It was panic, pure and simple. Her stomach was tight and her eyes were burning. She was on the verge of crying and that was something she hadn’t done in years. Something was happening that she couldn’t control and she needed to find out exactly what had gone wrong.

  Business—money—had always been an exciting game, one that she and Cesar were very good at. They took risks and lived like kings. That was part of the excitement and the reward of what they did, but in no way did they break the law. She didn’t tolerate underhanded business ethics, and she wouldn’t tolerate involvement with criminals. With everything they did, there was a moral line between greed and good business practice, and Esther believed in staying on the right side of that line. She’d seen too much ugliness and too much dirty dealing to ever want to join those ranks. Naive or not, she believed that if she behaved with integrity she would always prosper. They would always prosper.

  Until tonight, she was certain Cesar had shared that view. With a sudden chill, she wondered if that was what had gone wrong. Cesar had gotten tied up with criminals and their luck had dissolved.

  She shook off the thought, which was patently ridiculous. Cesar had said he wasn’t committed. There would be logical answers as to why so many of their ventures had failed, one after the other. Lately, she’d been working overtime to find the key to the failures and a definite pattern was emerging, but she needed more time to find her way through the paper companies and isolate exactly who it was sabotaging the deals.

  “Promise me, Cesar. These people are dangerous.” Images from the newspaper article flickered through her mind. “Perez was tied in with Marco Chavez.”

  Just speaking the name aloud made her feel sick. For a moment she thought Cesar was on the verge of telling her something, then the soft burr of the phone broke the moment.

  Esther watched as he changed direction and strode into the office to take the call. She listened long enough to ascertain that this was “normal” business, not Lopez, before she strolled through the house and back out into the garden.

  The kitchen was darkened, and the patio and the pool area were quiet now. Only the hum of the pool filter disturbed the peace. The leaf was still floating near the center of the pool. Directing her gaze upward, she checked the nearest trees, most of which were palms or subtropicals with large, fleshy leaves, nothing like the small, square leaf in the pool.

  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 st
ate 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 and began to search. The implications made her blood run cold. Money laundering, fraud, possibly even treason. She hadn’t checked the finer points of the law, but she was certain that helping a foreign drug cartel establish an organized-crime syndicate on United States soil was a treasonable offence.

  When she didn’t find anything in the briefcase, she started on the desk, just in case he’d slipped something in the drawers since she’d searched last night. She knew Cesar, or thought she had. He was meticulous about keeping records; the paperwork had to be somewhere. “Where is it?”

  Cesar shoved papers back into his briefcase, his face flushed. She could smell the alcohol now, which accounted for his passivity. He had moved the money, then anesthetized himself.

  And what better financial pipeline for the Chavez cartel to utilize than the Morell Group? On the surface Cesar was solid gold, a business prodigy with the Midas touch. Until recently his assets had rivaled those of some of the most powerful men in the States. She yanked open a drawer.

  He slammed it closed. “Don’t bother looking, there’s nothing here.”

  “Liar.” Whatever he had done, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to store the records in his office downtown. Carmita had said he�
��d been home briefly at lunchtime. He would have hidden the papers then.

  She began opening drawers that held hanging files. Not bothering with the contents, she searched instead between the files. She hadn’t thought to do that last night. Cesar had a good brain, usually—he was analytical with just the right amount of greed and ego to ensure success—but his mind wasn’t serpentine. If she hadn’t been so panicked, she would have thought about searching between the files last night.

  She pulled the final drawer open. Her fingers walked through the files. Nothing.

  Her temper erupted. With a jerk, she hauled the drawer off its runners and let it fall to the floor. A neat manila folder was stored at the base of the cabinet.

  Cesar grabbed, but he wasn’t fast enough. Papers scattered, numbers leapt at Esther, the configuration as familiar to her as her own name. An account number in the Cayman Islands. Her gaze flowed down the page and stopped, the chill congealed into ice.

  Not seven figures. Eleven.

  Her heart stopped in her chest. More than thirteen billion dollars.

  Numbly, she transferred her gaze to Cesar. “What have you done?”

  The blow was short and vicious, an openhanded slap that caught her on the side of the jaw. She staggered back, almost tripping over the drawer she had pulled out of the filing cabinet. Her hand shot out, connected with solid wood, clutched at the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. Sucking in a breath, she wiped blood from her mouth and waited until the room stabilized. It was the first time Cesar had so much as raised a hand to her, but Esther barely registered the blow.

  They were dead.

  She knew it as surely as she knew her marriage to Cesar was over.

  Lopez—Chavez—was using them. They were his doorway into the States. He was the predator who had systematically ruined them. He had set them up with breathtaking brilliance, his plays elaborate and perfectly executed, turning them into puppets. When he no longer needed them, he would kill them: all of them.