I do not rise to the bait, even as protective, possessive rage boils inside me. “You’re making a mistake, Spaulding. If it’s money you want, I can get you money. I’ll cut you a check right now for…shit, what do you want—what’d you lose? A hundred million?”
“It’s not that easy.” He grins at me. “I think you received that message once already, didn’t you? My little present? I cut his head off myself, you know.”
“The girl has nothing to do with this.”
He rolls a shoulder. “I know. She’s just leverage. I admit I’m reticent to actually cut her head off—infanticide is distasteful. Not that she’s an infant, but close enough.” A last glance at me, past me, where he knows she’s hiding. “Don’t press me, though, Karahalios. I said I’m reticent to, not that I won’t.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? And I told you I’d give you money, which you said this was about.”
“Money does me no good if I’m dead. I have to ensure I’ll live long enough to spend it. And to do that, I’m going to have to…deal with…your band of friends.”
Clearly, he’s setting a trap, with me as bait. I can only hope whoever is coming for me is smart enough to see that.
6
Old Friends, Reunited
Itrail behind Duke as we weave our way along a crowded street of Lisbon, Portugal. There’ve been a dozen dead ends, so far. A bar on the north end of town, where word is someone knows someone who’s heard of Rasmussen, which turns out to be an old drunk who’ll also swear to having seen Santa Maria herself as well, and not a word of it a lie. Each dead end sends us miles across Lisbon in a different direction chasing the next one.
“We’re chasing our tails, Uncle Duke,” I complain, as we press through the late afternoon crush outside what seems to be a very popular post-workday drinking establishment not far from the docks.
He just grabs my wrist with his massive paw and hauls me through the crowd, ignoring the protests in angry Portuguese. “This is the job, sweetheart: tracking down leads. You follow a hundred, and only one gets you anywhere.”
“I didn’t realize how hard it would be to find him.”
Duke snorts. “Eight billion people in the world and you didn’t realize how hard it would be to findone?” He glances around an intersection, at the phone in his hand, and then cuts around a corner. “Especially one who doesn’t want to be found, like Rasmussen? This is what we do, honey—we find people who don’t want to be found. And this cat is stealthy. Damn good at covering his tracks.”
“Where is Anselm?” I ask.
No answer.
Duke scans the street, then seems to spy what he’s looking for and angles for it—a hole in the wall bar on this narrow street that’s more alley than thoroughfare. Inside, it’s pretty much what you’d expect: a ceiling low enough Duke is reflexively ducking, a few small tables populated by scattered pairs and trios of elderly regulars, all of whom regard us suspiciously over the top of their drinks, a long bar along one wall, behind which is a portly older fellow with a long black beard.
There’s one person sitting at the bar—he’s out of place, being middle-aged at best and wearing a decent suit, a glass of whiskey in one hand and a cell phone pressed to his ear with the other.
Duke sidles up to the bar and takes a seat, and I take one beside him—we’re two spaces away from the businessman. I let Duke order for me; he apparently speaks Portuguese, albeit clearly not fluently, but well enough to be understood.
I receive a glass of white wine, Duke a glass of whiskey. I wait for Duke’s lead. He sips, checks his phone.
The man at the bar ends his calls, tips back his glass and eyes us while swallowing. “Você está procurando por alguém?”
Duke’s response is slow in coming, and in English. “Yeah. Been told he doesn’t like being looked for, though.”
“He does not.” The response is in English, thickly accented. “He is no here. Gone.”
“He was here, though?”
“Sim. I see him yesterday. He goes onto a boat, little shit thing, all rust everywhere. Is a boat for fish.”
“What’s it called?”
The man taps the bar top with a finger and sips whiskey. Duke slides his palm across the bar toward the man, leaving a folded note, which quickly disappears.
“O Espirito Algarve.”
“How do I know he’s on there?”
The man shrugs. “You ask me, I tell you. You believe me, no believe me,eu não ligo.”
