Laura Caldwell - Red Hot Lies

I called Mayburn, who answered right away.

“I don’t think this was a good idea,” I told him. “Finding this agent could take years.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not a good time for you to come home right now. Michael DeSanto should be arrested soon.”

I sat up in bed, my eyes landing on the red-and-black devil mask hanging on the wall. “What?”

“Yeah. Money laundering, conspiracy and a bunch of other stuff that could put him away for a long time. He was working with a group that appears to be mob, and who were operating through a dummy company in the burbs. Whenever he worked at home, he got instructions on a secure phone and put the transactions through while he was there. He kept coded notes and things like that on another server at his house. The duplicate you made of the hard drive gave his bosses at the bank the direction they needed. When they started digging, they found enough to take their suspicions to the feds. DeSanto doesn’t know it yet, but they’re going to swarm his house any minute.”

“But what about Lucy and the kids? This is going to be horrible.”

Mayburn grunted. “I’m worried about her, too.” A pause. “And I’ve never even met her.”

I flopped back on the cool white sheets, picturing Lucy’s innocent eyes. I thought of her telling me how she missed her sisters and how she was very lonely sometimes. What would happen when her husband was gone, too?

I felt a wave of bleakness.

Mayburn seemed to sense it. “Hang in there,” he said.

“Hang in there? That’s your advice?”

“Izzy, with your situation, that’s the best I’ve got right now.”

Day Twelve

The next day, my appointment with yet another Realtor wasn’t until noon, so I spent the morning at the Miraflores Locks, part of the Panama Canal. I watched the massive gears of the locks operating as two monolithic ships passed through, then I strolled through the museum, reading about the enormous project that was the building of the canal. In order to link the Atlantic and the Pacific Oceans via the Canal, at least twenty-seven thousand people would die first. It was a massive undertaking that had produced one headache after another. And yet the builders and the engineers persisted and regrouped time and time again, changing their plans drastically, altering their thinking and their assumptions until they succeeded.

As I stood in front of a photo of the Culebra Cut-a man-made valley dug through the continental divide in Panama -I came to a conclusion. No matter what happened with Sam, no matter what happened with my job, no matter what I found out about Forester or who had paid Dr. Li, I was going to be okay. Like the builders of the canal, I would persist and I would regroup and I would change my plans and I would alter my assumptions and my thinking whenever I had to. Because I was not going to go down with this fight. I was not going to lose myself just because my world had been rearranged.

Feeling stronger and more determined, I went back to the hotel and got ready for my next appointment. I packed my bag and brought it downstairs with me. If I couldn’t get a lead on Sam today, I was heading home to regroup.

The Realtor, Adelina, was a small woman with a soft, lyrical voice, who seemed to know everyone in Panama. At the hotel, she hugged two of the bellmen, and the manager rushed out onto the front steps to say hello. She took me to a café, where I choked down a dark cup of Panamanian coffee, and where every worker in the place came out to greet her. We spoke, and I told her how I’d already seen developments in Punta Pacifica, Costa del Este and the others. I liked Adelina. She leaned close and listened intently when I talked. She chuckled at the slightest thing that amused her. She reached across the table on a few occasions, squeezed my hand and said things like, “Don’t worry, we will put you in the right place.” Every time she said it, I felt as if she was promising to put me in the right place in my life.

“So,” she said, paying the tab and picking up her purse from the floor. “Let’s take you to some interesting places, yes? First, I think a tour of the Amador Causeway. There is American history with the causeway and a beautiful development there.”

I liked her so much I decided not to wait to show her Sam’s photo. I couldn’t bear wasting her time anymore.

I grabbed my purse, took a picture out and placed it on the table.

Before I could even ask her a question, I saw the reaction-a deep blink of the eyes-then she leaned in again, this time toward the photo.

She sat up and looked at me quizzically. “Do you know him?”

“He’s my fiancé.”

“And so are you buying property now that he has sold the others? Why did he not tell me?”

My heart nearly jumped out from my ribs and through my mouth. “You sold property for this man?”

A careful look took over her face. “If you do not know, then maybe I should not say. We are very cautious here in Panama about our clients. We use…how do you say it?” She paused. “Discretion.”

“Are you having an affair with him?”

“An affair? Do you mean sexual?” She tsked, clearly offended. “Of course not. I am a Realtor for Mr. Hollings, and for Pickett Enterprises.”

“So, you’ve seen Sam? I mean, in the last week?”

She shook her head brusquely. “I cannot discuss this. I told you, we have discretion here.”

Now it was my turn to squeeze her hand.

She gave me a nervous look like people do when they encounter a crazy person on the street.

“Please,” I said, not letting go of her hand. I was so close. “Tell me what you know about him. Tell me if you know where he is.”

She pulled her hand away. “Perhaps it is time for me to leave.” She stood and walked out of the café.

Scrambling to put the photo back in my purse, I chased her onto the street. “Adelina, please help me.”

She opened her car door. “If you do not truly want to buy property, then I cannot help you. I am sorry.”

“You can’t leave me here! We’re miles from the hotel, and I don’t know how to get back.”

It wasn’t entirely true-I was sure I could find a cab-but it stopped her.

She bobbed her head toward the passenger seat. “I will drive you to the hotel, and then I must go.”

In the car, I began to pour out my tale as fast as I could form words. I told her how Sam had disappeared. I told her how it looked as if he had stolen the shares of Forester’s corporation, which owned property in Panama.

She looked at me sharply. “That is not true,” she blurted. “He did not steal. Mr. Pickett placed these properties in a Panama Private Interest Foundation. Upon his death, the documentation says that Sam became the temporary protector of this foundation. Mr. Pickett devised specific instructions through a very respected attorney here in Panama telling Sam how to dispose of the properties.” She leaned forward a little, her face stern. “Sam has the right to hold those shares and to sell the assets of the corporation.”

“He does?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice.

Adelina pulled over to the side of the road and turned the car off. “I want the truth. What is happening with this situation? Why are you here telling me this? Is your name really Isabel?” She looked scared now, and I felt terrible for her.

I took a breath and looked deep into her eyes. “Adelina, I am telling you the truth. I was supposed to marry this man-” I pulled Sam’s photo from my bag again “-in a month and a half. He disappeared and did not tell me anything. I have wondered if he was hurt. I have been terrified that he was dead. I have been questioned by the FBI. I have been followed for weeks. I have lost this man, do you understand? And I loved him.”