Ansel talked while I refilled Olivares’ and Booth’s drinks. His words melted into the fading day as I, too, remembered a similar, life-changing incident. Long ago, I’d bumped up against evil on the other side of a similar door in a house that bled. A day didn’t go by I wasn’t reminded that not all humans believed in keeping children safe and out of harm’s way.
That’s when my world jerked back into focus. I stood at the cabana bar looking out at the blue water. That’s when I saw Barbara Wicks, the woman who’d just been on the television, the chief of police for Montclair, and Robby’s widow, walking across the beach toward the cabana bar, her black heels kicking up sand.
What in the hell was she doing in Costa Rica?
CHAPTER FIVE
Why was she approaching from the beach and not from within the hotel? Could there be thirty or forty Feds along with the Costa Rican police hidden in and around the personal cabanas and tourist sunbathers? Was Barbara’s approach a diversion so they could sneak up and take down a BMF, a Brutal Mother Fucker, wanted in the States on multiple felonies? I didn’t turn and look. If they were there, it wouldn’t matter anyway.
Barbara was a beautiful woman with brown hair going gray. Her face wore the haggard lines brought on by stress and sleep deprivation, and, to be fair, probably a little grief. Her now-deceased husband, Robby, had been the leader of the Violent Crimes Team, of which I’d been a member. We’d called ourselves the BMFs, Brutal Mother Fuckers. We’d had many a barbeque and beer in their backyard.
Robby’s death had been the direct result of my actions. When he’d shot me in the ass-the second time he’d shot me in two-and-a-half years-he was trying to take me down. He was after Wally Kim, the kidnapped son of a South Korean diplomat who had a million-dollar reward on him for his safe return. Deputy John Mack of the Los Angeles County Sheriff’s Department had then shot and killed Robby with a 12-gauge Ithaca Deerslayer shotgun.
I fought the urge to turn back to the television to see if Barbara’s image was still there, hoping to make this nothing more than an apparition of guilt, retribution for what I’d just done to Jake. The news broadcast had been taped, and the flight to Costa Rica only took six hours-an obvious explanation.
She smiled. “How’s it hangin’, Bruno?”
“Get you something to drink, Chief? Something pink with a little umbrella?” I played the cool fugitive, suppressing every instinct to leap over the bar and run for my life. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t come up with a logical reason for her standing there other than to take me down. Just because she’d been in the process of divorcing Robby didn’t mean she hadn’t loved him. Taking me in could be a matter of principle. Unlike me, some people still lived by principles. That wasn’t necessarily true; I did have principles, just a different set.
I thought Costa Rica was far enough away so I hadn’t worked at changing my appearance. A disguise would not have fooled Barbara Wicks. Robby hadn’t married her because she was a fool, not by a damn sight.
She looked at the three compadres all watching her every move. “You boys need to find someplace else to drink. Bruno and I need to talk.” She didn’t know I was living under an alias. Didn’t know or didn’t care.
Her business professional dark slacks and a peach blouse displayed no law enforcement insignia. Her assertive, no-nonsense demeanor was all she needed. The boys got up mumbling that they had something to do or someplace they were supposed to be, and walked away. Ansel stopped and said, “Hey, Bruno, see you later?” He’d used my real name instead of Bob and winked. He was the smartest of the three and sensed the same dreaded outcome, a conversation that might end with my arrest.
“Sure, come on back later and the first one’s on me.” Meantime, my hands had been working all on their own mixing a Cosmo, her favorite drink. I set it in front of her. I wanted to blurt out, to ask her-no, to beg her-to tell me why she was there. I had to know if my life, as I knew it, was over. She slid up onto the stool, took the drink, and sipped. “What an absolutely beautiful view. This is a hell of a place to work, Bruno. You did good.”
My mind clicked in on the obvious reason for her appearance. Wally Kim. What a dumbass for not thinking of it outright. She was there for Wally Kim. I had promised John Mack I would give Wally back. I just hadn’t gotten around to it. Of the eight children I had saved from abusive homes, Wally Kim had a good father, one I hadn’t known existed when I’d liberated Wally. Through the South Korean embassy, I’d set up a meeting to give Wally back. The meeting was scheduled for tomorrow. The embassy called early in the morning after Marie had gone to work, and I hadn’t told her yet. I could have called her at work, but she was going to be upset. I wanted to tell her in person, hold her in my arms and whisper it in her ear, be there to comfort her.
All the kids we took were doing great, flourishing in their new healthy environment, one that none of them had ever had. I regretted that we had not had the time to prepare Wally or the other children emotionally for Wally’s departure.
That was how Barbara had found me. Somebody from the embassy must have called her, told her where I was hiding out. Maybe that was why she was sitting at the bar sipping a Cosmo. Maybe the cops had already raided our bungalow, seized all eight children, which included my grandson Alonzo. Marie, the love of my life, and my father may now be in custody, pending extradition.
All because of me.
My heart sank. Of course, this was the only logical conclusion. We’d had a good run. Why had we thought we could get away with it in the first place?
Barbara set her drink on the bar and looked back down the beach. “That guy who just walked away, the dried-up old fart who looked like an old kicked-around walnut, that was Melvin Milky, you know. He made me as a cop.”
I took up a white towel and wiped down the bar. “Don’t know who you’re talking about. Didn’t see him.”
She nodded as if she believed me. She pulled out a slim cell, from where I couldn’t guess, and texted while she talked. “I am absolutely sure that was old Melvin.” She finished her text and took up her drink. Had she just made up the name Melvin Milky for Jake Donaldson, and was using it as an excuse to text her backup to swarm in?
“Okay,” I said, “come on, tell me. I can’t stand it anymore. Why are you here?”
She sipped her drink, her expression unreadable.
“Barbara?”
She smiled, set the glass down. “I think you know why.” She nodded behind me.
My stomach dropped the same as if I’d been in a high-speed elevator falling a hundred floors. The police were waiting out there, I knew it, could feel it. She must’ve been nodding toward her backup. I thought of Marie and the kids and Dad.
I got mad. “I didn’t think you, of all people, would come this far to stab me in the back like this.”
She chuckled. “Bruno, what the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t like being the fool. I spun around. No storm-trooper cops were creeping up. A few tan and lobster-red tourists milled about the pool, drinking and talking. The place was quiet. I looked up at the television. The station was replaying the interview with Montclair Chief of Police Barbara Wicks, on a continuous loop like the press does with sensational incidents.
I spun back to face her, pointed up, over my shoulder. “The kidnapped kids? Those kids? Barbara, I don’t have those kids. You’ve made a long trip for nothing.”
Her smile fled, shifted to stone-cold. “Now what are you talking about?”
“What are you talking about?”