Great soliloquy, she thought, really great, but not precisely correct. Levi Asher was a Grade-A cutthroat, true, but only in the financial sense. The pompous little pervert squirreled his way through the art world, wheeling and dealing and throwing his weight around to get what he wanted, and he usually succeeded. He had his failings and foibles, mostly sexual, but he’d never cut a throat. Suzi would bet her favorite Nikki McKinney angel on it-and she wasn’t parting with her Christian Hawkins dark angel painting for love or money.
Esteban Ponce hadn’t cut any throats either, not that were on the record. His father, Arturo, was a different story, but Arturo Ponce had far better things to do with his time than chase around after the ancient artifacts of a four-thousand-year-old religion, unlike his son, who didn’t have anything better to do than juggle his numerous girlfriends and distract himself with occult objects.
As for Remy Beranger, he didn’t look strong enough to cut the strings on a kite, let alone a throat, and Jimmy Ruiz, arguably the most criminal guy in the group, was sitting in the palm of her hand, held in place by a shot at five hundred thousand dollars and a threat the U.S. government wouldn’t hesitate to deliver on if he didn’t hold up his end of the bargain.
No, she wasn’t down here dealing with cutthroats.
But maybe Dax Killian was.
She ran her gaze over him and the room again.
There was definitely evidence of a holster under his right arm, a band of leather she caught a glimpse of running over the shoulder of his T-shirt and under his other shirt, and the large duffel bag on the console appeared to have gear in it rather than clothing. The sides of the bag were poked out in places, and upon closer inspection, the curved edge of metal she saw in one of the outside pouches on his backpack could be a thirty-round magazine, like one used for an AR-15.
Wonderful.
The man was well armed, after the Memphis Sphinx, and wanted her out of his way. Fine. She could accommodate that request.
“Cutthroats?” she said, letting the first thread of doubt slip into her voice, readying him for the boatload of disinformation heading his way. She didn’t need him thinking about her or what she was up to from here on out. She wanted him to think she was out of the picture. “I was sent down here to complete the transaction on an antiquities deal. Skip didn’t mention anything about cutthroats.”
“Skip?” he repeated. “You mean Lester “Skip” Leonard? He’s your client?”
“Yes.” She nodded, and my oh my, he certainly hadn’t disappointed her with picking up on the Illinois politician’s name. There were two “Skips” in Congress. The other was a representative from New Hampshire. “He made all the arrangements, set up the deal. My job was to meet with Remy Beranger and verify the authenticity of the statue. If Beranger is selling the real thing, then I call Skip, and funds are released into Beranger’s account.”
“And you take the statue with you back to Illinois?”
“Well…yes,” she said, standing up a little straighter, looking like a woman who was back on firm ground, like she knew exactly what she was doing-and knew what she was doing wasn’t exactly right.
“Skip Leonard should have known better than to send a woman down here.” He voiced the opinion as cold fact. “Especially after contraband.”
Suzi had a talent, a small one, for blushing on cue. She did it now. Looking him straight in the eye, she braved her way through his icy accusation, while letting a soft wash of color bloom on her cheeks as a clear admission of guilt.
Yes, she was silently telling him, I know I’m skirting the edge of the law here.
Aloud, she brazenly played the party line. “We’re doing the world a favor.” Screw contraband. “I only wish I’d gotten here earlier. You saw what happened back there. Nothing is sacred to these people. A piece as important as the Maned Sphinx of Sesostris III should be in more capable hands-hands capable of keeping it safe. I’m on a rescue mission here, Mr. Killian.”
Both of his eyebrows lifted, letting her know he’d heard that line before-probably dozens of times in dozens of places. It wasn’t an original defense, far from it.
“I’m sure you are,” he said, but in a way that called her a liar.
She couldn’t fault him for that. She was lying through her teeth.
“If you know anything about me, you know my reputation. It’s impeccable.” At least in the art world. Among a certain contingent of her ex-husbands and ex-boyfriends, the words “high maintenance” and “coldhearted” were bandied about with damning regularity. She couldn’t fault them, not really. If she could have frozen her heart solid, she would have done it in a nanosecond and never, ever looked back. Hearts broke. Sometimes in ways that couldn’t ever be put back together.
“On all counts,” he agreed.
“So who are you working for?” That’s what General Grant and the DIA would want to know-who the hell else was in on this game?
“Myself.”
“Interesting.” And as much a lie as half of what she’d been feeding him. She glanced around the room again and let out a brief sigh before bringing her gaze back to him. She didn’t have to look at her watch to know it was time to go. “You’re right. I didn’t sign on to this deal to get shot at or to get involved with the police. It was supposed to be a straightforward authentication and pickup job. I get to keep my retainer whether I deliver the Sphinx or not. I’ll miss out on the commission, of course, but quite honestly, I didn’t expect this place, Ciudad del Este. I’ve never seen anything like it.” Except for the dozen or more times she’d been to Eastern Europe these last five years, since Christian Hawkins had taken her under his wing and told her he had a use for her.
That’s what Christian did, find a use for people, and if they were broken, he put them back together. She’d seen it work. Personally, she didn’t think she would live long enough for Superman’s magic to take hold on her. But she was still here, still on the planet, and she had a job to do. It kept her going.
“I have,” he said, “and these kinds of cities don’t improve over time. You’re not safe here, especially down in the market, trying to do business with the likes of Remy Beranger.”
She conceded the fact with a short nod of her head.
“Do you mind if I call myself a cab?” she said, walking over to the phone on the console, not waiting for him to answer.
“That won’t be necessary. I’ll take you.”
“No,” she said, picking up the receiver and dialing the front desk. “I appreciate your help at the gallery, but I can handle the rest of this. I can get myself back to the hotel.”
“Not just your hotel,” he said. “All the way home.”
She glanced over at him, the receiver to her ear, and he was giving her “the look,” the look men gave women who they thought needed a little help in their decision-making process.
It took an effort of will not to roll her eyes, but she managed.
“All those guys I dated from Steele Street?” she said. “They made sure I could take care of myself. Don’t worry, Mr. Killian, I can get myself home.”
For once, he looked satisfied with her answer.
“Senator Leonard, right?” he asked.
She nodded, and he smiled-like a wolf. And she noted, with all due respect, that there was nothing in that look that made her want to roll her eyes. Quite the contrary. No doubt, Skip Leonard was in for a very interesting conversation somewhere down the line.
“Yes,” she said into the phone when the clerk answered. “I need a…oh… un momento, por favor.” She handed him the phone, having used up her whole supply of Spanish. “This isn’t the Gran Chaco.”
At the Gran Chaco, the desk clerks spoke English, or at least a version of English that included limo service.
It took Killian about ten seconds to arrange her cab, before he hung up. “I’ll walk you down.”