Rebecca York: Till Death Us Do Part

“Can the U.S. State Department really operate that way?” The question came from a woman sitting in the corner. Small and delicate, she had curly brown hair and big brown eyes that seemed to stare right through Cassie. Her name was Jenny Larkin, and she was blind. Jed had wondered at first what she was doing at the meeting, since it was obvious that she had less experience than the others with the unofficial workings of government or with detective work. But he’d quickly discovered that her analytic mind and phenomenal memory were an asset to the group.

“I’m afaid they can do whatever they want to, as long as they don’t get caught,” Cassie explained. “But I’m not going to let Victor get away with stonewalling me.”

Jed admired her defiant posture, but he didn’t hold out much hope from that quarter. He knew the rules. And so did Marissa. She’d taken a job where it was understood she was on her own if there was trouble.

Until now, Abby Franklin had been silent. “What else have you got for us?” she asked him.

“After the scam at Immigration, I didn’t expect to find a record of a Marissa Devereaux checking in to a hotel. But I put it around that I’d be at the Café Primo and that I was willing to pay for information about a blond gringa travel agent who might have been in Santa Isabella within the past few days.

“I got lucky with a portero from El Grande who remembered commenting on Marissa’s snorkeling equipment. He took her to room 345.”

“So you let yourself in and had a look around the premises,” Jo guessed. Jed was pretty sure she’d have done exactly the same thing. Before her pregnancy, anyway.

“Right. The room had been ragged out. But the maid had forgotten to replace the notepad by the phone. The top sheet looked clean. But I could make out the impression of the previous message, which was the name of a taxi company and Miguel Sanchez’s address.”

“I couldn’t go into court with that,” Dan Cassidy muttered. As an assistant state’s attorney, he knew the rules of evidence.

Cassie slammed her fist against the arm of her chair. “I’ve been begging Marci for years not to keep taking these assignments. I told her this one was too dangerous. Damn her. What’s wrong with her? Does she want to get herself killed?” She shot Abby a pleading look.

The woman shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “There are reasons why she takes risks other people would consider unacceptable.”

Startled, Jed stared at the attractive brunette. She’d been introduced as a psychologist. And, like most headshrinkers, she’d shut up and let everyone else do the talking. It sounded as if she’d been seeing Marissa professionally. Remembering the way Marissa had always struggled to hide her emotions from him, he was seized with sudden regret that he’d never tried to understand her; he’d only reacted to what he perceived as her cold arrogance.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” Cassie persisted, her voice fierce. “Won’t anybody stick their neck out for Marci?”

“It’s not a matter of sticking my neck out,” Abby said gently. “You know it would be a breach of professional ethics to talk about the things Marissa and I have discussed at her therapy sessions.”

Cassie looked down at her hands.

“You think someone betrayed Marissa?” Jenny asked Jed.

“I know she wouldn’t have crossed the patio unless she’d been assured it would be empty. There could have been a backup security system only Sanchez knows about. Even a silent alarm,” Jed observed. “Or someone at the party could have spotted her heading for forbidden territory and alerted security.”

“Who?” Cassie snapped.

“Any of over a hundred guests. She was talking to Thomas Leandro just before she left. But there were a lot of other people there. One of them might have jumped at the chance to do the general a favor. Or it could be someone with his own ax to grind. Pedro Harara, the president of the Banco Nacional, doesn’t much like American women.”

“Why not?” Cassie asked.

“He married one who caught him in bed with his secretary and took him for several million dollars when she moved back North again.”

The laughter around the room cut some of the tension.

Jed answered more questions, gave more opinions and assessments, all the while trying to keep certain pictures out of his mind pictures of what could be happening to Marissa. He couldn’t allow emotion to cloud his judgment. And he dared not let his private fears show on his face because that might panic the group.

Jason had been silent through most of the discussions, letting the others ask questions. Then he began to formulate a plan.

“Too harebrained,” Jed snapped when the security expert had finished.

“Do you have a better idea?”

“Give me a little time to think.

* * *

“MARISSA SHIFTED uncomfortably on the narrow bunk. It was made of wooden planks and topped with a straw tick that prickled where it touched her skin. Not very comfortable, but at least the mattress wasn’t resting directly on the unwashed stone floor.

She shuddered. She’d been in this tiny cell for three days, and she knew she was in danger of coming unglued. After the scene on the patio, two women had strip-searched her before she’d been locked up.

It had been humiliating, but thank God they hadn’t found anything incriminating. Now she was praying that her hasty addition to Sanchez’s toilet tank didn’t gum up the works.

At first she’d huddled on the bunk, expecting the general to interrogate her as soon as possible. But minutes of waiting had turned into hours. Was he researching her background before he called her upstairs to give himself an advantage?

That theory had gone out the window as hours dragged into days. She still hadn’t seen the general. Or anyone else, since the guards were shoving her meager meals of rice and beans through a slot in the door.

Some of her clothes and her bag of toiletries preceded the food on her second afternoon. Wondering if anyone was watching on a hidden camera, she changed out of her rumpled black dress into cotton slacks and a T-shirt. The knowledge that someone had been in her hotel room wasn’t comforting. Nor was the lack of response to any of the pleas and questions she’d shouted through the door.

What kind of mind game was Sanchez playing, anyway?

It was hard not to feel completely abandoned, but she didn’t allow herself to lose hope. Still aware that someone might be spying on her, she furtively took some of the items from her cosmetic kit and slipped them into her pocket. If she was very lucky, she’d get a chance to use them.

Then, for as long as she could keep moving, she did what exercises she could manage without getting down on the squalid floor in her tiny cell. After fatigue claimed her, there was nothing to do but lie on the bunk and think.

First she tried to figure out how she’d gotten caught. Most likely the dirty rat who’d taken her money to unlock the door to the office complex and disappear for twenty minutes had turned her in. Or he could have gotten nailed himself. Or someone else at the party besides Jed might have figured out what she was doing.

Thomas Leandro? The balding professor who spouted Marxist doctrine and combed what hair he had in a swirl around his glossy dome. In a strong wind, he looked like a bird’s nest that had blown out of a tree.

Pedro Harara? The five-foot-three banker who dressed like a character in a thirties gangster movie and wore a girdle to hide his paunch. He’d almost put her to sleep standing up with his scintillating discussion of international fund transfers.

Louis Rinaldo? The tough-looking minister of development who’d worked his way up from street gang member to cabinet officer. He wore three gold rings on his fingers to prove he’d made it.