Laura Caldwell - Red Hot Lies

“Did you meet this man?” I held out the photos. I smiled at them as I did this, although really I felt like shredding them and tossing them at the devil mask as an offering. “He stayed here last week.”

The bellman glanced at the photos, shook his head and shrugged.

I grabbed the list of contacts Mayburn made me. “Do you know any of these people?”

He studied it. “Alejandro? He does not work today. Fernando, no work. Pedro, I do not know. Dominga? She is downstairs.”

A tickle of exhilaration crept up my back. “Downstairs where?”

“She is concierge.” He looked at the rest of the list, shaking his head at many of the names. “Yes, and Mateo, he is bartender. He is working in-” he glanced over my shoulder at the bedside clock “-one hour.”

“Thank you!” I gave him a few more dollars.

I changed into a black linen sundress, pulled my hair into a high ponytail to combat the humidity and took the elevator downstairs. I found the concierge behind a desk decorated with bold ethnic patterns.

Dominga was a nice woman who denied meeting Sam, and then immediately began trying to convince me to take a guided trip to someplace called Portobelo.

“No, thank you,” I said over and over, continuing to slide Sam’s pictures in front of her. “If you could just look at these again.”

She glanced at them. “I am sorry.”

“But I thought…” I started to say that I thought she had given information to Mayburn about Sam, but then again, she might have simply given him information that led Mayburn to someone or something else. In my haste to leave, I hadn’t asked Mayburn to decipher all the names.

I pulled out the list now and pointed at Mateo’s name. “Bartender?” I asked.

She looked at me curiously but nodded. “Sushi bar.” She pointed across the lobby to a chic bar that was lit from behind with a blue light. With its modern decor and the low thump of bass emanating from it, it could have been in Manhattan.

The sushi bar was nearly empty of patrons, save for one man wearing shorts and an untucked, cotton shirt that looked like something you might see in Havana.

I took a seat and smiled at the bartender, a small guy with a black ponytail. “Mateo?”

He shook his head and told me Mateo would be there in a half hour.

I ordered water, then changed my mind and asked for a Panamanian beer. He brought me a bottle of something called Soberana.

I poured it into a glass. It tasted like a light beer with a little extra flavor.

The man with the Havana shirt turned to me and smiled. He was older than me, with gray, thinning hair. Last week, I would have smiled right back at him. Now, I felt my heart rate jump.

He pointed at my beer. “Don’t you think the name is funny? Sober-ana?”

I faked a chuckle. “Yeah, that is funny.”

“Where are you from?”

I wanted to ask, Don’t you know already? Are you one of the people who are following me?

But then again, I was here to talk to people, I was here to learn and I was here to find Sam. Even if this man was tailing me, I had nothing to hide. And again, I had that feeling of finally being alone.

“I’m from Chicago,” I said.

“Hey, we’re both Midwesterners. I live in Minnesota. You here on vacation?”

“Not exactly.” I thought about showing him Sam’s photo. “What about you?”

“I’m looking for property. My wife and I are planning on retiring in a few years, and we want to get a condo down here. It’s a lot less expensive than Florida and all those places in the States. Hardly any taxes.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Just got in last night. I’m waiting for my real-estate agent to go look at some places. You can’t believe how much property is available.”

We sat for a moment in silence and then he offered his hand. “Tom LaHaye.”

“Izzy McNeil.” I took Sam’s pictures out of my purse and showed them to him. “You haven’t seen this guy by any chance, have you?”

He said no and showed them to the bartender, who also shook his head. “Who is he?”

“My fiancé. I’ve sort of lost him.”

Just then a short woman in a yellow suit rushed into the bar. “Mr. LaHaye!” she said. “I’m sorry I am late.”

Tom LaHaye laughed. “Hello, Beatriz. You’re always late. Isn’t that what you told me? Panamanians believe in suggested time not being on time, right?”

“Yes.” She patted his arm. “But you are not Panamanian-not yet, until we find you a home-and so I should be on time for you. Come, come.”

Tom shook my hand again. “I hope you find him,” he said kindly, before he was swept off by his agent.

My beer was gone by the time a new bartender stepped behind the bar and began tying his black apron. He was a young guy with a chiseled jaw, who looked as if he could have been in a boy band.

“Mateo?” I said.

He gave me a sexy grin and nodded.

“Hi.” I tossed him my best hey-there-hottie look just for good measure, and ordered another beer. When he delivered it, I pushed Sam’s picture toward him. “Did you meet this man?”

He looked at the picture. He scrunched up his gorgeous face and nodded. “Yes, and someone called the hotel about him recently.”

“Yes! Exactly. That was my friend who called you. Can you tell me what you remember about this man?” I pointed to Sam in the picture.

The other bartender chuckled and moved away to serve a couple who’d just sat down.

“I told your friend that he was at the bar,” Mateo said. “Over there.” He pointed at a low black table surrounded by a cozy, blue velvet booth.

I felt my anger flare. I thought about giving Mateo the hey-there-hottie look again because who knew? Maybe, like Sam, I’d be finding my own Panamanian fling. But for now, I had to focus.

“Do you remember who he was with?” I asked.

“A woman.”

I gritted my teeth. “What did she look like?”

“Black hair.”

So far, nearly every woman I’d seen in Panama had black hair.

Was she pretty? I wanted to ask. Instead, I settled for, “Do you know her name?”

“No.”

“Was she Panamanian?”

“Yes, I have seen her.”

What did that mean? Was she a hooker? That seemed so very un-Sam, but what did I know anymore?

“Where had you seen her?”

“She is a real-estate agent.”

I felt excitement. Maybe the woman wasn’t a hooker or a new girlfriend, but possibly someone he contacted about the real estate owned by the Panamanian corporation. Yeah, I reminded myself. That Panamanian corporation he stole from Forester.

A woman in a tank top took a seat a few stools over from me, dumping a host of shopping bags on the floor.

Mateo began to move toward her.

“Wait!” I said. “Was the agent you saw him with the woman who just left here?”

He gave me a confused face.

“Just a minute ago,” I explained, “there was an agent named Beatriz here.”

He shrugged. “I do not know her name.”

“Is she big? Small?”

He laughed. “She is a woman.” As if that explained everything.

“How old was she?”

“She is maybe thirty? Thirty-five.”

Beatriz had looked to be at least in her late thirties, but I couldn’t be sure. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

Now he looked impatient. “I don’t know anything more.”

“Okay, thank you.” My energy flagged.

I sat there another minute, sipping my Soberana, wondering what to do next. And then I suddenly knew exactly what to do. I went to the house phone and asked for the room of Tom LaHaye.

Day Eleven

The next morning at ten minutes after eight, I stood on the front steps of the hotel, waiting for Beatriz.