Fields' Guide to Abduction, - [famous ebook reader TXT] 📗

“But Señor Quintero loves her. You told me so yourself.”

I leaned down and kissed the top of Consuela’s head. “If Señor Quintero decides he doesn’t want her, I’d be happy to take her home with me.”

“Right now he does want her.” Darkness emanated from Javier, dimming even the sunbeams shafting through the glass doors. “And you are right, until he changes his mind, she is safe.”

Games. Men and games. What game was Javier playing?

Was he telling me I was safe as long as I pleased Quintero? When Quintero’s protection was gone, I was lion food? Was I being paranoid?

We needed a new topic. Fast. “You offered to show me the house. Do you have time this afternoon?”

“I will leave that pleasure for Ignacio.”

I sighed as if not touring the house was a major disappointment. “It’s probably just as well.” I added another sigh. “I can’t wear shoes.”

“Ah, yes—your injuries.”

“They’re very painful.”

“I’m sure.”

“Does Señor Quintero have a library?”

“The books are in Spanish.”

“A media room?”

“If that will keep you entertained.”

“It will.”

“Because we don’t want you getting restless again.”

“No. We don’t.”

“I’ll take you there now.”

“Thank you.” I tucked Consuela into my arms and stood.

Javier led me back to the foyer, through the living room where the sicario had tipped the couch, and into a screening room worthy of a Hollywood mogul. Its leather seats were enormous and probably moved and vibrated in conjunction with the action on the screen. Gilded columns held up a ceiling painted like the night sky, and heavy gold curtains were tied back to the edges of a massive screen. Framed movie posters—all of Chariss’ biggest hits—covered the walls.

“This button is for the film library.” Javier’s lips quirked and he handed me a remote. “That button is for the television.”

“Thank you.”

“I want you to enjoy your time here.” He made the mundane pronouncement sound like a threat.

“I appreciate that.”

He left me alone with Consuela and a screen the size of two SUVs.

I sat, settled the dog on my lap, and flipped on the television.

My face greeted me. Then the screen cut to Chariss who appeared in front of the Ritz Paris. Tears stood in her eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought they were real. “Please,” she begged. “Return Poppy safely.”

I couldn’t argue that.

A Spanish-speaking reporter said something I couldn’t understand then James Ballester’s face filled the giant screen. “Poppy was scared. An actress of her acquaintance had already died and she just wanted to go home. The Mexican authorities wouldn’t let her. They held her passport. Now this horrible thing has happened.” He glared at the camera. “I blame the authorities.” His expression softened to the soulful look. “Poppy, if you can hear this, we love you and we’re doing everything possible to get you back.”

My throat swelled with unspent emotion. My blood chilled with dread.

James meant well but antagonizing the Mexican government and men like Agent Gonzales wouldn’t help get me home.

The screen cut to a photograph of Marta Vargas followed by pictures of her grandparents. Then came video of the crumpled Jeep, the Escalade, and medics loading Juan into an ambulance.

I froze the screen

I was big news.

I stared at that Escalade. Stared and thought.

Why hadn’t Javier simply put one of his people behind the wheel of that SUV? I wouldn’t have questioned a man who showed up in a hotel shirt. I’d have climbed into the vehicle and been abducted without the accident or the murdered sicario or the fuss.

No one would know what had happened to me—a famous-for-being-famous woman disappeared without a trace. Depending upon her schedule, Chariss might push and keep the story in the news for a few weeks. After that, I’d get an episode on 48 Hours, then I’d be forgotten.

Instead, Javier had left bread crumbs. The ruined Jeep. The body. The driver left alive with a description of the helicopter.

Did Javier want all this fuss? Why?

And with all this fuss, could Ignacio afford to let me go? Did a man who murdered people, laundered billions of dollars, and produced untold amounts of heroin care about a kidnapping charge? Hopefully not.

Consuela lifted her head, sniffed, and jumped off my lap.

“Where are you going?”

She trotted to a closed door then turned and looked at me expectantly. Yip.

“It’s not my house.” I had a feeling opening the wrong door in Ignacio’s hacienda would be a lot like opening the door to Bluebeard’s closet.

Consuela did not share my concern. Yip.

“We could watch a movie.”

Consuela rolled her eyes. Yip.

“Fine,” I huffed. Then, per her instructions, I stood.

Yip, yip. The doggy equivalent of hurry up.

I closed my hand around the knob and the door opened easily. Whew! Bluebeard’s closet would be locked. I was sure of it.

Consuela dashed into the room on the other side.

I peered after her.

The room was a shrine to Chariss. Photographs of her papered the walls. Glass boxes held props from her movies—the necklace she’d worn in Body Language, the hat she wore in the ill-considered remake of My Fair Lady, the shoes she wore in The Stiletto Gang.

I tiptoed inside. The room smelled of Creed Fleurissimo, the perfume Chariss always wore (if it’s good enough for Grace Kelly to wear on her wedding day, it’s good enough for me). I breathed deeply. Not that Chariss’ scent was a comfort but the rest of the house, despite its elegance, smelled of too many men.

With a satisfied grunt, Consuela hopped up onto a dog bed that had to have cost more than ten thousand dollars. There was a cherub—a cherub larger than Consuela—and the entire frame was covered in gold crystals and pearls. The little dog settled onto a crimson shearling pillow and watched me with one eye.

That dog bed, along with the desk and its chair, were the only pieces of furniture in the room.

Somehow, I shifted my gaze from the monstrosity of Consuela’s bed and studied the pictures on the wall—photographs taken on movie sets, at awards shows, by paparazzi. There were even a few of Chariss and me together. Brittle smiles, tight eyes, stiff spines.

“Wow.” I sat down behind the desk. “He really does have a thing for Chariss.”

He’d collected all manner of Chariss-related items. Now he’d collected me.

There were even framed photographs on the desk. I picked up a silver frame and looked at the picture within. Chariss and—oh, wow.

When had my mother been photographed with Ignacio Quintero? It seemed unlikely their paths would cross. Yet, there they were—smiling happily.

It had to have been a photo-op—just like those pictures with me and Marta. Or photo-shop. I squinted but the Ignacio’s head looked as if it belonged on his body. A real photo.

Wow.

I put the picture back on the desk.

Ka-ka-choo, ka-ka-choo. Consuela snored softly.

This room—Chariss’ scent, the pictures, Consuela’s bed—it had to be Ignacio’s private retreat.

If Jake and the cavalry did come riding in to save me, it would be nice to repay them with actionable information.

I glanced at the door then slid the desk drawer open—just a few inches.

Another quick glance at the door.

A few more inches.

My heartbeat rang in my ears and my hands shook. I wasn’t cut out for espionage.

One last glance door-ward.

A few more inches.

I peered inside.

A map of the U.S. and Mexican border covered the bottom of the drawer. Cities were circled in red pen—Tijuana, Nogales, Juarez, and Nuevo Laredo. In between the cities, there were smaller circles. All the legal border crossings neatly marked. And then there were gold stars in odd places. Illegal border crossings? I wished for my phone and the ability to take photos.

Consuela grumbled in her sleep and I jumped three feet out of my chair.

When my hands stopped shaking, I slid the drawer closed.

I wasn’t an artist, there was no way I’d remember the details of that map. And, somehow, I doubted Jake and the people he worked with cared all that much about illegal entry points. They didn’t want to arrest drug mules; they wanted to bring down drug lords. Like Quintero.

I sighed and picked up the picture of Chariss and Ignacio Quintero.

Where in the world had it been taken?

The dress Chariss was wearing—at least three seasons old. Cannes?

I put the frame down.

Too hard.

Consuela jumped, cast me a reproachful stare, then closed her eyes again.

Consuela was the least of my problems; I’d broken the frame. A tiny piece now stuck out at an odd angle.

I picked up the photo (Chariss and