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  The intruder rose from the sink cupboard and reached for the bar shelves. He took down glasses and bottles and tossed them across the cantina, methodically shattering each in turn with the urgency of a man ironing his shirt. If he had been searching for something, he’d changed his mind. Now he was covering his tracks with an act of random destruction.

  Miguel rose stiffly, silently cursing the car accident for leaving him slow and weak. Normally, he would have sprinted into the bar and disabled the intruder with a single blow. But if that pouch held a Taser, he’d end up on the floor. If it held a switchblade, he’d end up in the morgue. The doctor had taped his ribs well, but tape could only do so much.

  He had but one advantage—surprise.

  Miguel reached up and pulled the fire alarm. Lights flashed, and there came an ear-splitting wail. A recorded voice repeated “Peligro! Fuego!” between the siren’s squeals. He stepped around the corner. The intruder looked frantically about the bar, trying to spot the source of the alarm. Fortune smiled on Miguel. His target still held a pint glass in his hand. One more item to drop before he could reach for a weapon. Miguel’s hands closed around the neck of a wine bottle. It wasn’t a rifle, but it would do. Nicely.

  The first swing of the bottle struck the intruder a glancing blow on his chest. The glass fell from his hand. Miguel wound up and swung again, harder and farther than before. But instead of dodging or blocking, the intruder stepped into the blow and kneed Miguel in the stomach. He doubled over and the bottle flew from his hand, shattering on the ground.

  Miguel braced himself for the final blow. It never came.

  Dawn crept into the cantina, casting the wood and thatch in a pale glow. The firefighters had already been and gone. They hadn’t been pleased to arrive at the scene of a fireless fire, though they were somewhat sympathetic once they saw the state of the place. Shattered glass littered every inch of the lounge and dance floor. The space behind the bar looked like a science fair gone awry. Bottles of cleaning fluid and rags of every description lay in a saturated heap that leaked vilely. The police were due any moment.

  As soon as the firefighters left, Victoria rounded on Ben and Miguel with her usual empathy.

  “You’re both idiots,” she fumed. “I don’t know what I was thinking, leaving the two of you here without adult supervision.”

  “Victoria . . .” Ben pleaded.

  “Don’t you ‘Victoria’ me.” She looked over her shoulder. “Enrico, get away from there. It’s a crime scene. You’ll destroy evidence, then cut yourself and die of tetanus. Do you want that to happen?”

  Enrico pouted.

  She stared him down. “Do you?”

  “No, Victoria,” he mumbled. He lingered long enough to make it seem like he was making his mind up for himself, then went back outside.

  Ben lowered his voice. “Did you have to bring Enrico?”

  “Where else was I supposed to put him? The hotel daycare doesn’t open until nine.”

  “Ha,” Ben said mirthlessly.

  “Would you rather I left him at the hotel, unattended?”

  “Good point.”

  “What a bloody disaster.” Her eyes swept across the shattered cantina. “What were you thinking, Miguel? Didn’t you break enough ribs yesterday?”

  “Are you blaming me for what happened to the car?” Miguel asked.

  “Of course not,” she said, “but I’d hoped the crash had knocked some small sense of caution into that thick skull of yours.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I asked myself what you would do before I pummeled the intruder with a bottle of wine.” He sat at an awkward angle in one of the lounge chairs, trying vainly to keep the pressure off his side. He took a sip from a steaming mug of coffee, grimacing as he swallowed.

  “You did no such thing,” she said. “I would never waste wine like that. This—”

  Victoria stopped when she heard a car pull into the parking lot.

  Ben went to the entrance to see who had arrived. “Vasquez. Wonderful.”

  The detective walked up the front path and knocked twice on the archway.

  “Yes, Detective?” Ben asked, furious. “What can we do for you today? Would you like to strip search my employees? Look in the attic for Communists? Have a nice quiet conversation, just you, me, and the thumb screws?”

  “Ben . . .” Victoria said.

  “No, Ms. Holmes,” Detective Vasquez said, “Mr. Cooper is quite right. I owe him an apology.” He extended a massive hand in Ben’s direction.

  Ben hesitated, then shook the detective’s hand. “Why the sudden change of heart?”

  The detective frowned as he peered about the cantina. “Whatever your motives, Mr. Cooper, I do not believe you would do this to your own bar.” He pulled out a notepad. “What happened here last night?”

  Miguel recounted the night’s events. Vasquez walked through the bar, jotting down notes on what little evidence there was.

  He tapped his pen on the pad. “The car outside. It belongs to you, correct?”

  Miguel opened his mouth to speak, but Ben silenced him with a look. “It’s our rental car,” he said. “There was an accident yesterday. We had intended to report it, but we had reasons for waiting.” Including you, he added silently.

  “Did the incident take place near the supermarket?” Vasquez asked.

  Miguel nodded, surprised.

  “What happened?” Vasquez asked.

  Miguel told Vasquez about the hit-and-run, and his suspicions regarding the early model Jeep Grand Cherokee.

  “That is what I suspected,” Vasquez said. “We found a Grand Cherokee by the side of the road. It was badly burned. We tried to identify it, but the Vehicle Identification Number had been removed. Completely removed.”

  He paused as though to let that sink in. Ben remembered reading that a vehicle’s VIN could be found in several different locations, not just the dash. Few knew where to find all of them.

  “Do you think the cartel may be involved?” Victoria asked.

  “I cannot say that for certain, Ms. Holmes.”

  Enrico stepped into the lounge from where he’d been listening in the office. “You have no other suspects? None at all?”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Enrico Morales. At your service.” He took a small bow.

  “Well, Mr. Morales,” Vasquez said, as though pronouncing a dirty word. “I suggest you leave this to the police. The people we deal with are not fond of amateur detectives.”

  Enrico shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  “I do not mean to seem harsh, Mr. Cooper, but there are some very dangerous people in Tamarindo. They have no regard for law and order. You and your friends are in peril.”

  “I’m aware of that.” Ben looked at the stain where a bottle of red wine had smashed against a wall in an echo of the brutal crime that claimed Antonio’s life. “But what can we do?”

  “Leave town,” Vasquez said. “I spoke with Captain Reyes yesterday. We both agree that you are no longer a suspect in the murder of Mr. Antonio Guiterrez.” Vasquez handed Ben an envelope. “Here is your passport.”

  Ben felt a surge of relief. He hadn’t realized how much his freedom of movement meant to him until it was taken away.

  Vasquez continued, “I have arrested some of the most dangerous drug dealers, enforcers, and gang leaders in Costa Rica. I will do everything in my power to keep all of you safe. Your lives are yours to spend as you will, but make no mistake—you are in danger right now. You may have strong feelings about this bar, but you need to ask yourselves whether those feelings are more important than life itself.”

  Ben glanced over at his friends. Miguel’s expression was inscrutable. Victoria’s was defiant. Enrico rolled his eyes.

  “Thank you, Detective,” Ben said. “We’ll think about it.”

  “You are welcome, Mr. Cooper.” He turned to leave, but hesitated. “Do I have your permission to return to the bar if I need to gather more evidence?�
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  “What do you think, Victoria?”

  She weighed her words carefully. “We’d ask that you avoid coming by when the bar is serving customers, unless strictly necessary. And we reserve the right to withdraw this invitation.”

  “Fair enough, Ms. Holmes.” He shook hands with Ben. “Be careful who you trust, Mr. Cooper. The cartel has a very long reach.”

  The four owners—pretend and otherwise—sat in silence for a long time after Vasquez left. Ben struggled to think of something inspiring to say, but managed only to rouse himself to brew another pot of coffee.

  “Thoughts?” Ben finally asked, watching the creamer swirl into miniature hurricanes.

  “In case I wasn’t crystal clear, I don’t think it’s the cartel,” Enrico said.

  “Why’s that?” Miguel asked.

  Enrico described how Luis, backlit by the sparse lighting outside, had looked as though he was wearing a cape.

  “I’m not sure that means anything, Uncle,” Miguel said. “Anyone wearing an apron would have looked like that. Even . . .”

  Ana. Ben wondered if it was she who had derailed Miguel’s train of thought.

  He considered mentioning his call with the Tamarindo Gazette and Luis’s surprise termination, but had reached the same conclusion as Miguel: an apron alone wasn’t enough to cast blame on any one person. They needed more.

  Besides, that second clue could well be enough to make Enrico set up camp outside Luis’s bedroom window. Though the idea had its appeal; if nothing else, it would keep their first pretend-client from charging about Tamarindo in search of the cartel.

  Over Enrico’s shoulder, Ben watched Ana walk in through the front entrance. She looked as though she’d scarcely slept. He cleared his throat, but to no avail.

  “The cartel doesn’t go in for aprons in the moonlight,” Enrico said. “They go in guns blazing, kill their target and the family along with them. They send a message.” He frowned at Ben. “Do you require a lozenge, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?” Ana asked Ben. If Enrico’s comments upset her, she gave no outward sign.

  “Of course.”

  They made their way back to the office in silence. Ben hated to admit it, but Enrico had a point. If the cartel had tried to send a message, he had no idea what it was.

  “I want you to forget what happened last night,” Ana said once they were inside.

  “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t want you involved in this.”

  Ben’s smile disappeared. “I got involved the moment Juan walked into my bar. You knew he was coming, but you chose to bury your head in the storeroom. If you’d said something earlier, perhaps we could have dealt with this little problem before I found myself on the wrong end of your ex-boyfriend’s knife.”

  “I—”

  “I’m not finished. I’m not just some daft sombrero-stealing gringo. I’m your boss. And if I’m going to continue to be your boss, you need to trust me.”

  Ana gazed at the faded patches of wall where the photos of Antonio had hung until a few days earlier. “Now are you finished?” she asked.

  He remembered, belatedly, that he was berating his head bartender the day before she buried her uncle. “Yes.”

  “I know, I should have told you sooner.” Tears welled in her eyes. “But I was ashamed. Do you understand? Do you have any idea of what it’s like to feel that way?”

  The white van parked outside the clapboard house. Tara, crying. Putting on face paint. A week and a lifetime ago. “I do.”

  “Can we start over?”

  “One condition,” Ben said. “You forget about the damned sombrero. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She laughed despite her tears. “And I would like your help, if you are still willing to offer it.”

  “God, yes. All I need is one piece of information.”

  “What do you need to know?

  Ben was about to cross a line beyond which there was no guarantee of safe return.

  “His email address.”

  Miguel, Ana, and Enrico were still discussing legendary cartel assassinations by the time Ben returned from the office.

  “. . . then they cut a large ‘Z’ in the middle of the roof,” Enrico finished.

  “You’re thinking of Zorro, Enrico,” Victoria said, turning to Ben. “How’s Ana doing?”

  “She’s fine,” Ben lied, distracted. His conscience tugged at him, but it had nothing to do with their head bartender. “Mr. Morales, I’m afraid we haven’t been entirely honest with you,” he said. “You were led to believe that we invented Antonio Guiterrez’s murder to make your ownership experience more exciting. But Antonio really was murdered, here in this bar. Detective Vasquez was right. Everyone who remains at the cantina is putting their life in danger.”

  The musician only smiled. “I had deduced as much, Mr. Cooper.” He waved at the shattered glass that still littered the floor. “This is all rather more elaborate than the kind of community theatre I’d expected of being a pretend-owner. Apart from Vasquez. That man is the most wooden performer I’ve ever seen.”

  “And you still want to stay on?”

  “I do.” He smiled at Victoria “I could never abandon a fellow musician in a time of need. And don’t worry, nephew. I will not call your abuela. Not until we have the enemy cornered.”

  Ben looked at Victoria and Miguel in turn. “Are either of you having second thoughts about staying on? I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

  “And let you have all the fun? I think not,” Victoria scoffed. “Besides, I’d rather face the cartel than go back to Mansion with my tail between my legs.”

  “I want to see this through,” Miguel said. “Besides, I don’t think they’d let me through security looking like this.”

  Ben smiled. “Thank you both. It’s a brave decision. Or foolish. Either way, I’ll do what I can to make sure you don’t regret it.”

  “What about you, Ben?” Victoria asked.

  “What about me?”

  “You have your passport back. You can leave now, if you want.”

  He shook his head. “There’s nothing for me back there.” As strange and exhausting as the past week had been, he couldn’t imagine returning to the life he’d left behind. “So, what now?” Then he cursed inwardly. His not-so-rhetorical question might as well have been an engraved invitation calling upon Enrico to swivel Tamarindo’s criminal elements into submission.

  “What’s everyone looking at me for?” Enrico asked. “I’m not going to go off half-cocked, if that’s what you’re worried about. I enjoy a good mystery as much as the next guy, but we’ve nothing to go on. We have to stick it out and see what happens next.”

  Ben breathed a sigh of relief.

  “In that case . . .” Victoria opened her notebook. “I think it’s time we discussed your ownership experience.”

  Ben waited in line at Café Tico, a diminutive coffee shop tucked along one of Tamarindo’s meandering side streets. The din of conversation and music, grinding beans, and clinking dishes proved a welcome distraction from the squeal of sirens and the crack of shattered glass.

  He stared at the menu, thinking instead of reading. The conversation with Enrico had been . . . enlightening. He’d known their pretend-owners would have some unusual requests but, well, this one had come as a surprise. Ben had no idea where he would find—

  “Sir?” the barista asked, snapping him from his reverie.

  “Uh . . .” He looked up at the chalkboard once more. What was the difference between a mocha and a macchiato, anyway? The hell with it. It would take more than a choco-latte mocha-something to pay the interest on his sleep debt. “Triple espresso, please.”

  The cash register chimed. “Would you like anything else?”

  “No, thanks.” An idea struck Ben. “Actually, do you know where I could find . . .” He leaned forward and mentioned a few of the more esoteric items on his shopping list.


  She took a step back. “I have no idea where you get those, sir.”

  Worth a shot. He paid for his order and waited near a decadent array of baked goods, wondering where on earth he could find those supplies. He hated to even consider it, but Chris Christianson—

  “Hiya, Ben,” said a familiar voice over his shoulder.

  He turned and saw Jenni at the end of the lengthening line. “Hey, you. You following me?” he asked with a relaxed smile.

  “Following you?” Her entire body tensed. “Why would you say that?”

  “Never mind. It was a joke,” Ben replied. And a great one at that. Everyone knew the best jokes were those you had to explain.

  “Ha ha ha ha ha!” Her laugh, so charming the night before, was now that of an electronics salesman attempting to unload his last VHS player.

  “So . . .” Ben said, struggling to change the subject. “How was practice?”

  “Practice? Oh. Right. Practice. It was good. Lots of waves and such.” She checked her watch. “Would you look at the time? I’ve got to head off. All right if I swing by the cantina later?”

  “Sure, I guess . . .”

  Jenni left the coffee shop without another word.

  Bizarre. Was Jenni some kind of stalker? Was that what Ana had been trying to warn him about? And why had she left the coffee shop without ordering anything?

  Something grazed Ben’s elbow. He spun in place to find his triple espresso and a nervous barista.

  Ben pushed Jenni from his mind. He had some shopping to do.

  “Did you get it?” Miguel asked, a frantic look in his eye.

  “Most of it.” Ben set the heavy, brown paper bag down on the bar counter.