As the footsteps drew closer, he instinctively raised his hands for protection. Chains rattled. The slack quickly disappeared, and metal handcuffs pinched his wrists. His wrists were cuffed in front of his body, rather than the more restrictive behind-the-back method. But the range of motion was still only about a foot.
“Buenos dias.” The slurred Spanish had sounded like bad Castilian, Buenoth, diath. The voice was definitely Cerdo’s, but the inescapable breath was Bacardi’s. As hot as this room was, Matthew surmised that the sweat oozing from his captor was about eighty proof.
Matthew answered in Spanish. “Man, how much have you had to drink?”
“Enough to make me wish you were Nisho.”
Just the smell of this pig had him pitying poor Nisho. You’re gonna wish you’d never laid a hand on her.
“Where are we?”
“Can’t tell you.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“A while.”
“How long do I have to wear this blindfold?”
“As long as I say.”
As stupid as he was, Cerdo could handle questions with the skill of a politician. “Just take it off, would you? I already know what you look like.”
“True,” he said. Cerdo’s thick fingers fiddled with the knot behind Matthew’s head. The blindfold fell from his face.
His eyelids fluttered in the sudden burst of light. The room was dimly lit, but the adjustment from total darkness came slowly. It seemed to take forever for him to focus, and even then he had to alternate eyes, closing one and then the other to alleviate the discomfort.
Images slowly began to materialize. He was on the floor, chained to the frame of a metal bed with a lumpy mattress and no linens. The small room had no other furniture and no window. The walls were filthy, paint peeling away, graffiti everywhere. He could only guess at the original color of the floors, they were so dirty. The only source of light was a low-wattage bulb hanging by a wire from the ceiling. The door was open, and in the hallway outside were a chair and a small table, Cerdo’s guard post.
His eyes turned back to his captor, settling on the hideous paisley-pattern tattoo that covered the left side of his face. This close, Matthew got a full appreciation of the tattoo’s purpose. It did a fair job of hiding a ghastly scar that started at the corner of Cerdo’s mouth, curled back across the cheek, and then up over the ear. It looked as though, years ago, someone had tried to remove the skin from his skull with dull scissors.
“What are you looking at?”
Matthew rubbed his eyes. “Nothing. Takes a little getting used to the light, that’s all.”
“I could put the blindfold back on you.”
“No, that’s all right.” He tried to hand it up, but with the chains he could only reach so far.
“Keep it,” said Cerdo. “You may want it.”
“For what?”
“When families don’t pay, Joaquin always shoots his prisoners in the face. Seven, eight times. He never returns a handsome corpse.”
Matthew had hoped that release was near, but now he feared a snag.
Cerdo shaped his hand into a pistol, aiming at Matthew’s nose. He made a clicking noise, as if to pull the trigger, then tossed the blindfold in the prisoner’s lap. “Believe me, those last ten seconds, you’ll beg for one of these.”
Matthew was more sickened than afraid-to think that good lives had ended at the hands of this worthless thug.
Cerdo snatched back his gift and stuffed the rag in his pocket. “What the hell was I thinking? Joaquin doesn’t allow blindfolds.”
He laughed at his own joke as he crossed the room, then hit the light switch and closed the door on his way out.
Matthew sank low to the floor in total darkness. It was no better or worse than being blindfolded. The whole exchange had gained him nothing, save the unwelcome insight into how he might die.
61
It was almost 10:00 P.M., and Jenna was still at my place. We’d filed an action in federal court that afternoon. An emergency hearing was set for two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, and we’d been preparing all day, even working through dinner. It was a long shot, but it was clearly my last chance.
“Ouch,” I said.
She was changing the bandage on my arm. Luckily I hadn’t needed stitches, but the knife wound was pretty ugly. And sensitive.
“Double ouch,” I said as she dabbed it with alcohol.
“Men are such wimps.”
“Give me a break, I was stabbed.”
“You were scratched. I’ve done more damage to myself with an eyelash curler.” She reapplied the butterfly bandages. “There. All set.”
I checked it out. “Nice work. Do you do back rubs?”
“I think you know everything I do and don’t do.”
It was one of those half-serious, half-flirtatious remarks in her Kathleen Turner voice that I hadn’t heard in a long time. It left me speechless.
“Sorry,” she said. “I think that crossed the line.”
“It’s okay. I’m not really sure where the line is anymore.” I sipped my beer. “You mind if I ask a personal question?”
“Depends on what it is.”
I took another drink, a longer one this time. “Have you dated anyone-you know, since we broke up?”
She smiled coyly, as if she’d been expecting that question for some time. “Actually, no.”
“Me neither.”
She gave me a serious look. “I didn’t see much point in getting to know anyone new here. I’m moving to Tampa.”
“You’re what?”
“I listed my town house a few weeks ago. As soon as it sells, I’ll be moving back.”
“Wow. That’s. . amazing.”
“It’s where I grew up. It still feels a little like home to me there.”
“Sure.”
“I talked to my partners. They’re all for opening a Tampa office.”
“Sounds like you have it all figured out.”
“It just seemed like the right thing to do. At the time.”
“Does it still seem like the right thing to do?”
She dropped her egg roll. Jenna was a natural with chopsticks, so my pointed question had made her nervous, clearly. “I don’t know.”
I wasn’t sure where to go from there, but she didn’t seem comfortable with the direction so far. “So how much are you asking for the town house?”
“Why? You want to buy it?”
“No, but I don’t want to see you get hurt in a fire sale. It’s a really nice place.”
“How much do you think I should ask for?”
“Just don’t grab the first offer. It might mean having to stay here a little longer, but I’d hold out for maybe. . six million.”
“You,” she said, smiling. She uncrossed her legs, rose from the floor and started clearing away the empty Chinese food cartons. I grabbed the empty bottles and followed her into the kitchen. The conversation seemed unfinished, but I sensed that she had enough on her mind already.
“Are you feeling any better about tomorrow’s hearing?” I asked, shifting gears.
“Honestly? No. We’re going to be bounced out of court so fast it’s not funny.”
“Just trust me, all right?’
The phone rang, which made me flinch. Lately every time it rang a part of me expected the worst. I placed the empty bottles in the recycling bin and grabbed the phone on the third ring.
“Hello?”
“Duncan Fitz here.”
He said it as if he were the president of the United States. “Nick Rey over here,” I replied with equal self-importance.
“What’s this crap you served on my client this afternoon?”
“It’s called a complaint and an emergency motion to prevent Quality Insurance Company from intimidating witnesses.”