Fields' Guide to Abduction - - (best sales books of all time txt) 📗
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“Who?”
“Siri—”
“Give Siri a rest, Mia. I’ll Google it.” André’s fingers flew over the keys.
Google gave us a quick answer. In English. Ahmed Badawi was an Afghani heroin dealer and terrorist wanted by the Département de la Sûreté for a bombing in a Paris café that killed twelve and by MI5 for a bombing in the London tube that killed twenty-seven.
I dropped my face to my hands and wished with all my heart that I’d never stepped foot in James’ Gulfstream. We were in so much trouble. “So, if I understand this correctly—” I peeked through my fingers at my gob-smacked friends “—the Sinaloans are going to war with the Zetas and into business with the largest heroin producer in the world who also happens to be a terrorist.”
“Looks that way.” André wore a stunned expression.
I needed more coffee. I stood and pointed at the drive. “We have to give that to Gonzales.”
“Fine,” said Mia. “But we’re not giving him the bag.”
“Why not?”
“This bag is a work of art. Gonzales can have the flash drive. Put it an ordinary bag and say it belonged to Marta. I’m keeping this one.”
I opened my mouth to argue but Mia wore her stubborn face. I’d have better luck arguing with a mule. Plus, there were more important things at stake than the final disposition of Marta’s handbag.
“Fine,” I ceded. “Go pack.”
“Pack?” Her brows rose.
I nodded. “Both of you.”
“Why?” André turned away from the computer screen and scowled at me. “We’re not going anywhere.”
“Yes, you are. Gonzales already has my passport. Do you want him to take yours too?”
André crossed his arms. “We’re not leaving you here.”
“It’s a five-star resort. I’ll be fine.”
“You were attacked. Just last night.” He made a good point.
I waved it away. “After I hand this drive over to Gonzales no one will have the slightest interest in me. Gonzales might even return my passport.” There was a better chance of pigs flying over Tijuana—especially if Gonzales figured out I’d looked at the drive.
My friends remained stony-face, unimpressed and unmoved by my persuasive skills.
“Please.” I pressed my hands together as if in prayer. “Go. I need you two to be safe. Go to the airport. Charter a plane. Please. I won’t call Gonzales until I know you’re safely in the United States.”
“We can’t possibly leave you.” Mia shook her head.
“There’s no point in all of us getting stuck here.” I pushed the Keurig’s buttons and watched it spit coffee into my cup. “If you’re that worried, I can stay with James in La Paz.”
My best friend regarded me through narrowed eyes. “You mean that?”
I crossed my heart. “I do. I’ll call him at nine o’clock.”
André’s brows drew together. “Is it suddenly quiet in here?”
It was. The ailing air conditioner sound was gone.
How long had it been quiet? Jake’s warning flashed through my head. Trust no one.
André pulled the drive out of my Mac and closed the lid. Quickly.
A second later Mike traipsed down the stairs. “What’s a guy got to do to get a cup of coffee?”
The question wasn’t if he’d been listening. He had been. I knew it in my gut. The question was for how long?
When I knew Mia and André were in the air, I made the call. “Señor Silva, this is Poppy Fields calling.”
“Si, señorita.” His voice was that of a man waiting for the next shoe to drop.
“I—we—found something we believe belonged to Marta Vargas. Would you please make arrangements for me to meet Detective Gonzales in your office at one o’clock?”
“In my office?” Anyplace-but-here was evident in his voice along with a soupçon of why-me, and a dash of this-gringa-is-ruining-my-life.
“Your office.” Things might go better if Gonzales didn’t know Mia and André had run back to the United States at my behest. “I’m sure you understand when I tell you I’m tired of having police in and out of where I’m staying.”
He sighed. “You are right, señorita. One o’clock?”
“Or two.” I could be magnanimous.
“And you found something that belonged to Marta Vargas? What is it?”
Trust no one.
“I’ll let Detective Gonzales tell you about it.” I’d put the flash drive (along with the chewing gum and the room key) in a plain black clutch. “Please ask him to bring my passport.”
“I will try.”
You’d think the man would try hard. Getting me and the chaos surrounding me out of his resort had to be a priority.
“Gracias.” I hung up the phone and called James.
“Poppy!” Unlike Señor Silva, James’ voice was warm. “How are you?”
“I have a problem—problems.” I gave him the condensed version of everything that had happened since I last saw him (minus Jake in my bedroom). “Would you please send the plane? If I get my passport back, I’ll head to Los Angeles. If I don’t, I’d like to come to you. Ruth Gardner thinks I’d be safer in La Paz.”
“I’ll send the plane right away. It will be waiting for you whenever you get to the airport. What else can I do? Are there strings we can pull?”
“If there are strings to be pulled, Ruth is already pulling them. If you’ll just send the plane.”
“Consider it done.”
“Thank you, James.” Tears welled in my eyes.
“Honey, I love you like you’re my own daughter. We’re going to make sure you’re safe and we’re going to get you out of this mess.”
“I love you too, James. Thank you.”
At a quarter till one, I walked up the jasmine-scented path to the main hotel and asked for Señor Silva. A pretty woman with a gentle smile led me to his office, tapped softly on the door, and waited.
“Come in.” The hotel manager’s voice still rasped.
I took a deep breath and stepped inside.
Detective Gonzales sat across a huge desk from Señor Silva. Calling him Detective was important. He’d lied to me about who he worked for. For a reason. Calling him Agent Gonzales might antagonize him.
I took the other chair in front of the desk, settled my tote next to the chair’s legs, then crossed my ankles and folded my hands in my lap.
“You have something to give me?” demanded Detective Gonzales.
“I do.” With an apologetic smile, I explained how Mia and I had confused the bag’s ownership. Then I pulled the little black clutch out of my tote.
Detective Gonzales practically snatched the small purse from my hands.
He opened the flap and spotted the flash drive. His eyes glowed with an emotion I didn’t care to name. “Your friends will corroborate your story?”
“Of course.” They were safely in the U.S—out of his reach.
His eyes narrowed. “Did you look at the drive?”
“No.” A justifiable lie. “May I have my passport back? Please?”
“I will need to review what’s on the drive.”
“What difference do drive’s contents make to returning my passport?” I drew myself up straight (tough to do in the leather club chair). “I did as you asked. I brought the drive to you as soon as I found it.”
“I want to make sure it’s legitimate before returning anything.”
It never occurred to me to give Detective Gonzales a fake flash drive. My mouth gaped open. “But—”
“It won’t take long. A day or two at most.”
First off, a day or two seemed like an eternity. Second, I didn’t believe him. “I don’t carry around spare flash drives when I go on vacation.” Did he think I just genied one out of thin air? “Where would I get one?”
“We sell them in the gift shop.” Señor Silva leaned forward and peered at the tiny item in Detective Gonzales’s hand. “That brand.”
“Plug it in now.” I pointed at Señor Silva’s terminal. Señor Silva suddenly looked as if he’d eaten a plate of bad shrimp.
Gonzales shook his head. “There could be sensitive information.”
“Or it could be Irene Vargas’s recipe for chicken mole.”
That earned me one of Gonzales’ sneers.
“Detective, since I’ve been here, I’ve found a body, held a woman’s hand while she died, and been attacked by a man who was later murdered on my doorstep. I want to go home. Won’t
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