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  If Victoria realized any of this, she didn’t let on. “And what if Juan has the photos backed up on another computer?”

  “My bet is he doesn’t. The photos were valuable only as long as he could hold them over Ana’s head. The more computers they were on, the greater the chance someone else would leak them. Even so, the virus will use any of the Wi-Fi passwords stored on the phone to scan computers on the network and perform the same kind of bait-and-switch routine it did with Juan’s email account.”

  “Juan gets around, Ben. He could end up infecting half the computers in Costa Rica.”

  Ben shrugged. “The virus self-destructs after each find-and-replace operation.”

  “I’m still not comfortable with this.”

  “I know what I’m doing.”

  The laptop beeped to signify that the restore program was finished.

  Victoria watched as Ben removed the disc, snapped it in half, and melted the remains with a butane lighter. “That’s what scares me.”

  “Come on,” Ben said. “We’re late.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Candles placed on either side of the coffin cast a pale, flickering light on the shroud covering it. The priest’s voice reverberated off the church’s high ceiling, rising and falling in volume, washing over the congregation in waves. It was Ben’s first Catholic funeral, and it felt longer than any of the others. Probably because it was longer. Funerals always made Ben feel morbid. Morbid and restless. It didn’t help that he couldn’t understand either Spanish or Latin. And he never knew what to do with his hands except clamp them to the funeral program.

  The priest paused. Everyone stood up, Ben a half second behind the rest. There was a chorus in Latin (Spanish? Spatin?) but he stayed quiet. He could have mouthed the words, had he known which words to mouth. Surely he knew some Latin that could fill in the gaps. Plant names, perhaps? The congregation sat down, Ben last among them. The priest resumed his monologue.

  Ben glanced up and down the length of the pew for the umpteenth time. Ana was staring at her lap, her cheeks still dry. Had she come to terms with Antonio’s death or was there another motive behind her lack of emotion? There would be no eulogy at this service; instead, they would have a small, private ceremony on the beach at the cantina, after Antonio had been cremated. Miguel had told him they were going to empty Antonio’s ashes there. It was fitting, if of questionable legality. Or could you get a permit for that? Better not rock the boat.

  He tugged at his oversized collar. It was getting hot. He could feel the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, spreading through the suit he’d borrowed from Enrico. The jacket hung around him like a tent and every time he stood, he had to hitch up the waistband, which meant the pant legs stopped mid-calf. Still, it was better than attending a funeral in a T-shirt.

  Stand up. “Ahem . . . Caveat emptor. E pluribus unum, modus operandi.” Sit down.

  Ben stared around the church, searching for something to rest his eyes upon. His gaze turned to a marble statue near the altar. Even the most humble Catholic Church seemed to overflow with stunning works of art, but this statue was unlike anything he’d ever seen. The sculpture depicted a woman—Mary?—holding Jesus in a tender and loving embrace. The ghostly flesh seemed to want only blood to come alive.

  How on earth had a sculpture like that found its way to Tamarindo? Brought in by a cartel leading light, perhaps. Someone hoping to salve his soul for some unspeakable crimes? Or was he seeing the hand of the cartel everywhere?

  The mourners rose to their feet once more and began to shuffle out of their pews. Was it over already? The line started moving toward the front of the church to take Communion. Ben stood up to join them, but then Miguel motioned for him to stay put. Right. Not for the uninitiated.

  Perhaps Victoria had the right idea. At the last minute, she had graciously excused herself from attending the funeral so she could tackle some outstanding accounting. For once, the notion of diving into a pool of paperwork rather appealed to Ben.

  He wondered where they would find the money they—he—so desperately needed. His prayer was not for the dead, but that Enrico had one or two wealthy friends willing to shell out for a week or two of pretend-ownership. He had no idea what they could do, otherwise. Cold call some travel agencies? March around the streets of Tamarindo wearing a sandwich board? It might yet come to that.

  He searched for something pleasant to think about. Perhaps Jenni would stop by again. Better yet, perhaps there was a reasonable explanation for her . . . enthusiasm. It had only been a week and change since Ben called off the wedding, and he wasn’t quite ready for something this intense. He could go days without thinking about Tara, and then something impossibly small—a word, a gesture, even a smell—would bring it all crashing in on him, burying him alive. He had grown tired of digging himself out, over and over again.

  Enrico cleared his throat loudly. Ben turned to his right. Everyone from his pew was neatly lined up, waiting for him to let them back to their seats.

  No doubt about it. Whatever Victoria was doing, it was better than this.

  A cockroach skittered across the floor and hid beneath the sagging bed, mere feet from Victoria. She chose to leave it where it was, having already learned that Costa Rican fauna did not die easily. She resettled herself on the battered wooden chair and picked up her binoculars. The target was still in place.

  The upside of staying in a cheap hotel room in a tropical climate was that no one wondered why the window was open in the middle of the day. The downside was, well, there were many downsides, but cockroaches were the worst of them. She lowered the binoculars and double-checked the chair’s distance from the window. About ten feet. Close enough to see what she needed to see, but far enough back that there would be no glare from her binoculars. The stink of mildew, the grunting noises coming from the room next door, and the crisp hundred dollar bill she’d slipped the clerk at the front desk were a small price to pay for this kind of concealment.

  She checked her equipment once more. Her weatherproof, hardened laptop confirmed that the tracker’s signal was still coming through strong. She extended the tripod on the parabolic microphone and pointed the dish at the small café framed by the open window. The target was still silent, but there were plenty of other people within range. Victoria chose a table with two catty-looking twenty-somethings and flipped the switch. “. . . going to happen when you’re sleeping with a married man,” she heard over her headphones.

  “Can you imagine what his wife would say? She has no idea he’s screwing her . . .” Clear as a bell. She switched off the mic.

  Years earlier, Victoria might have been tempted to continue listening to such gossip, but she had done this too many times to risk her batteries running down or her primary target slipping away. She picked up her Canon SLR camera, attached the telephoto lens, and snapped a few quick photos of the backbiters. Victoria could barely hear the click and whir of the camera above the background noise of the hotel. She looked down at the camera’s display to inspect the test shots. Perfect. Her checks completed, Victoria settled in to wait.

  This was one of the reasons that her firm—Mansion’s firm, that was—could charge two thousand an hour for their services. Once upon a time, they’d hired contractors for this sort of research, under the supervision of one or two promising associates. A few costly mistakes had persuaded Mansion to cut out the middlemen and train the associates to handle the surveillance themselves. Not only had that eliminated loose ends, it also meant the surveillance operators couldn’t be made to testify if they inadvertently learned something compromising about one of their own clients. Solicitor-client privilege was a wonderful thing.

  Even so, they mainly used the information gathered during these sessions to steer their more traditional lines of inquiry. It would have been poor form to use a lawyer’s covert photographs in court. Some might consider it rather unethical, if not strictly illegal.

  She raised the binoculars and brought
the target back into focus. Jenni nursed the dregs of a stone-cold cappuccino at an isolated table on the far side of the café’s patio. She kept her back to the wall and faced the street, watching people as they walked past. She was doing a very poor job of waiting for someone. Victoria pointed the parabolic microphone at her table.

  Jenni started chewing a nail. That was her tell. She had done the same the past two nights, whenever Ben’s back was turned. He hadn’t noticed but, to Victoria, it was about as subtle as a brick through a window. So she’d slipped a small tracker into Jenni’s purse when her back was turned. Who would notice a stick of lip balm?

  If she were doing this by the book, Victoria would have conducted a full pattern-of-life analysis before trying to catch a meet. In as little as a week, she would have known Jenni better than she knew herself—from when she ate breakfast to how often she sped while driving. They hadn’t had the time to do this, so Victoria had opted instead to set virtual fences around Jenni’s apartment and the section of the coast where the pros liked to surf. Then she’d configured the system so she’d receive a text message whenever Jenni entered or left either of those zones. It had taken all of three minutes between sets to activate. She’d even had time to enjoy a glass of wine before getting back up on stage.

  By the following morning Victoria had almost forgotten she’d placed the tracker. Then she’d received an auto-alert mere minutes before they left for Antonio’s funeral. When she saw Jenni’s dot heading for the outskirts of Tamarindo, she’d thought it might be worth checking out.

  It was.

  A large Hispanic man in sunglasses and a drab windbreaker stopped on the sidewalk in front of the café. He glanced at his watch, as though waiting for someone, then looked left, right, and left again. He looked at the windows of the hotel as he swung his gaze back for a third time. Victoria recognized a routine check for mobile and static surveillance. He could be their guy. Not his first rodeo, she surmised. She raised her camera, but his head was down by the time the shutter clicked.

  He disappeared into the café, moving quickly, and emerged on the patio a moment later. He walked over to Jenni and said a few words. Asking if he could join her, Victoria figured, in case anyone was listening, making himself seem like any guy trying to hit on a pretty girl. He sat down next to her, then slid the metal chair so his back was to the street.

  Victoria let out a frustrated groan. She dropped her camera and flipped the switch on the parabolic mic.

  “. . . so far?”

  “Bugger all. He was running around the bar putting out one fire after the next. I barely had time to get to know him.” She took a nervous sip from the empty cup. “What’s the rush, anyway?”

  “You will have to do better than that, Ms. Walker. It could go poorly for you, otherwise,” he growled.

  “Well, there were a few bits and pieces. The bar’s skint, for one. He has no memory of what happened the night Antonio carked it. Oh, and he’s got his phone back. Some drug dealer was trying to sell it. At the bar, if you can believe it.” She went to bite her nail, but caught herself. “I can get you what you want, but I need more time.”

  The man exhaled slowly. Nervous? Excited? Victoria couldn’t tell. She picked up the SLR and snapped a few shots. She still couldn’t see his face, but at least she could prove Jenni was at the meet.

  “Have any of them found something unusual at the bar?” the man asked.

  “I don’t know. Can’t really ask him that, can I? You told me often enough what’d happen if he figured out what I was doing there.” Jenni sounded tough, but her hands shook as she spoke.

  Victoria snapped another batch of photos.

  “See him again. Win his confidence. Find out what I need to know. I do not care how you do it.” His voice grew gravely quiet. “You know what will happen if you fail to live up to your end of the bargain.”

  With that, the man rose from his chair and strode out of the café, looking to all the world like any other rejected suitor. Victoria tried in vain to get a single clear shot of his face.

  Ben winced as the light struck his eyes. He walked down the stone steps, joining the growing crowd outside the small stone church, and waited for Miguel and Enrico to emerge. The sky was cloudless yet again. Wasn’t this supposed to be the rainy season? He fanned himself with the damp program. There was a familiar face in the crowd—Captain Reyes, his neatly pressed dress uniform radiating authority. The group of mourners parted to let him through. He looked surprisingly comfortable in the heat and the press of the crowd. Then again, he would have attended more than his fair share of funerals over the years. He was the kind of person the community would turn to when the world stopped making sense.

  “Mr. Cooper,” Reyes said politely.

  “Captain Reyes. Good of you to attend. I know it will mean a lot to Ana.”

  “I’m afraid I have other reasons for being here.”

  “Oh?” Ben suddenly felt cold. “Do you know who left that death threat at the cantina?”

  “Not yet. But we have received your blood work from the evening of Mr. Guiterrez’s murder,” Reyes said. “Your blood alcohol content was extremely high. It’s a small miracle that you suffered no permanent effects.”

  That’s debatable, Ben thought.

  Reyes continued, “Mr. Cooper, there is no delicate way to ask. Do you take any prescription drugs? Or engage in casual drug use?” The words seemed to leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

  Ben shook his head. “The occasional Advil when I have a headache.”

  “Nothing else? A small something for anxiety, perhaps?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, I believe you were drugged that evening.”

  “Drugged?” Some of the mourners turned to stare. Ben kept forgetting how many of the locals spoke English.

  Reyes moved a half step closer and lowered his voice. “Yes. Drugged. Benzodiazepine, it would seem.”

  “Benzodiazepine?” Ben asked, confused.

  Reyes lowered his voice further still. “It is sometimes used as a substitute for Rohypnol.”

  “I was roofied?” Ben’s stomach lurched. “Wait. Are you saying that I was . . . ?” He turned bright red as fear choked off his voice.

  “No,” Reyes reassured him with a gentle smile. “There was nothing to suggest that anything untoward happened to you while you were unconscious.” The shadow returned to his face. “You’re lucky that whoever administered the drug seemed to know what they were doing. They used a small, measured dose. My medical examiner informs me that if barbiturates, ketamine, or even GHB had been used, you would be dead right now.”

  “You say that as though I wouldn’t be the first.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  Ben paled.

  Reyes continued, “Do you remember anything else from that night?”

  Ben shook his head. For a second, he considered playing the recording from the night of the murder for Reyes. Then he thought better of the idea and shoved his hands firmly in the pockets of his ill-fitting pants. They simply couldn’t afford to shut down until the police found Antonio’s enigmatic “bottles,” assuming they were still in the bar. “I’ll let you know if anything comes back.”

  Reyes leaned in. “Mr. Cooper, it is not my place to tell you this, but I feel a certain responsibility for your situation.” His breath was hot on Ben’s face. “I am no lawyer, but one might say this new development would help you convince a judge to overturn your contract to purchase the bar.”

  “Give up the cantina?” Ben balked. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Believe it or not, I value the tourists who come to Tamarindo. Yes, there are some who care only for the sun and the surf, but many grow to love this place and the people who live here. When I first met you, Mr. Cooper, I believed you were, at best, a mindless drunk. At worst, a murderer.” He tugged the hem of his uniform jacket. “Now I believe you are a brave man with a good heart. But you are, without a doubt, the unluckiest person I have
ever met. This may not be a bad time to cut your losses, as they say.”

  “I’ll consider your advice, Captain.”

  “One other matter, Mr. Cooper. A Miss Tara Whitmore placed a call to our station, searching for you. Our desk sergeant informed her that we do not keep track of tourists and legal matters would need to go through diplomatic channels. She seemed very upset.” He raised an eyebrow.

  Ben weighed his next words carefully. Did Reyes know the bar was bought with Tara’s money? Was he trying to give him a way out?

  Reyes clapped him on the shoulder. “I wish you luck, Mr. Cooper.” With that, the captain disappeared back into the crowd as unhurriedly as he’d arrived.

  Ben’s phone beeped before he could make sense of Reyes’s remarks. He steeled himself as he glanced at the call display, fully expecting to see Tara’s number. He found an urgent text message from Victoria instead. I have important news. Let me know when you’ll be back. She never had got the hang of texting in shorthand. The message was perfectly composed.

  Ben texted a reply. Bk soon. Off 2 Brasilito to chk out lead. Or meet 1st?

  There was a lengthy pause. Then: No. It will wait. Enrico shouldn’t see this. You’ll need to keep him busy.

  Rgr. E can look 4 Luis.

  Sounds good. Let me know when you’ll be back at the cantina.

  Ben slid his phone back in his pocket. Finally, he spotted Miguel’s face in the crowd.

  “Sorry we’re late.” Miguel kept his massive hands planted firmly on Enrico’s shoulders. “Uncle Enrico wanted to say a few parting words to Antonio before they took him away.”

  “I have never seen such a shoddily built casket in all my life.” Enrico struggled against his nephew’s grasp.

  “You didn’t have to point out its flaws to the priest, Uncle. Not in front of Ana, at least.”