LITMIR.BIZ

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the line as well as his.

      The sheer scale of Cesar’s deception made her stomach churn. She was beginning to have a horrible feeling about who Lopez actually was, but that research would have to wait until the morning. She still had contacts in international banking, but if Lopez was who she suspected he was, all she would need was an hour in a library.

      Hidden in a corner of the San Francisco main library, Esther scrolled the microfilm until she found the newspaper article about Perez that she had researched more than a decade ago. The article didn’t contribute much more to her knowledge, but it provided her with a definite date to work from and a list of names. When she’d scrolled through to the end of the reel, searching for related articles, she selected another film and threaded it into the machine. An hour and three more reels later she found what she was looking for. A rare photo of Marco Chavez filled the screen. She skimmed the brief article and the suspicion that had kept her awake all night coalesced into reality. The reason she hadn’t been able to remember where she had seen Alex Lopez was easy—she hadn’t ever seen him before, but she had seen his father. Alex’s name wasn’t Lopez; it was Chavez.

      Minutes later another article followed and Esther’s skin went cold, the chill sinking deep as she read. At first she thought it was a recap of the Los Mendez story. She checked the date, in case the newspaper had been incorrectly archived, but the article was correctly placed. Less than three weeks after the initial massacre in Los Mendez, men, women, children—babies—had been slaughtered indiscriminately; lined up and shot. The pattern had been repeated in three villages all along the Guaviare River, an isolated region inland from Bogotá. Four villages decimated. Then, abruptly, the killing had stopped.

      Mind working feverishly, Esther began to search for any other news reports from Colombia within that period. It didn’t take long. The killings had stopped the same day a murderer had been released from prison, pardoned in recognition of the prisoner’s juvenile status and the significant charitable contributions his father had made in donating a hospital to the poorest region of the country. The name of the prisoner was Alejandro Chavez.

      Esther stared at the grainy black and whites that accompanied the story, one a standard mug shot, another of Alex handcuffed as he was taken into custody under armed guard. She noted the small tattoo visible on the back of his right hand and her blood ran cold. Alejandro Chavez had been a baby-faced twelve-year-old when he had been jailed for the murder of his own bodyguard.

      Alex Lopez was the only son of Marco Chavez, the head of Colombia’s paramount drug cartel. Marco was a clever, astute businessman, his operation smooth by any standards and fronted by a raft of legitimate business enterprises. Its tendrils reached into the highest echelons of South American government. Normally, the powerful and influential Chavez family never made the front pages of any paper unless it was for a charitable donation—until Alejandro Chavez had removed his bodyguard’s gun from his shoulder holster and shot him at point-blank range in a busy mall.

      Alex Lopez didn’t dislike women; he didn’t like humanity, period. The emptiness she had seen in his eyes was utter amorality.

      An hour later, Esther picked Rina up from school. When she reached home, Cesar wasn’t there, but she hadn’t expected him to be. Normally, he spent the day working from his downtown office. Six o’clock, when Cesar normally returned home, came and went. Carmita served dinner. Afterward Esther helped Rina with her homework and saw her to bed, then went to the sitting room to wait. Cesar didn’t walk in until after ten. His lateness was as uncharacteristic as his bad manners in not phoning to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner, but Esther no longer expected normality.

      Stomach tight, she followed him into the office, watching as he set his briefcase down on his desk and removed his jacket. “I know about the Pembroke deal, and I know about Lopez.”

      He went still, his expression oddly blank, and she had to wonder if he’d been drinking again.

      “It’s too late. I’ve accepted the deal. The money’s in the bank.”

      “What money?” She hadn’t seen anything on the computer file that indicated that cash had changed hands.

      Cesar shrugged. “It’s not directly connected with the deal. It’s his money. I just facilitated the transfer.”

      Panic surged. Esther flipped the catch on his briefcase and began to search. The implications made her blood run cold. Money laundering, fraud, possibly even treason. She hadn’t checked the finer points of the law, but she was certain that helping a foreign drug cartel establish an organized-crime syndicate on United States soil was a treasonable offence.

      When she didn’t find anything in the briefcase, she started on the desk, just in case he’d slipped something in the drawers since she’d searched last night. She knew Cesar, or thought she had. He was meticulous about keeping records; the paperwork had to be somewhere. “Where is it?”

      Cesar shoved papers back into his briefcase, his face flushed. She could smell the alcohol now, which accounted for his passivity. He had moved the money, then anesthetized himself.

      And what better financial pipeline for the Chavez cartel to utilize than the Morell Group? On the surface Cesar was solid gold, a business prodigy with the Midas touch. Until recently his assets had rivaled those of some of the most powerful men in the States. She yanked open a drawer.

      He slammed it closed. “Don’t bother looking, there’s nothing here.”

      “Liar.” Whatever he had done, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to store the records in his office downtown. Carmita had said he’d been home briefly at lunchtime. He would have hidden the papers then.

      She began opening drawers that held hanging files. Not bothering with the contents, she searched instead between the files. She hadn’t thought to do that last night. Cesar had a good brain, usually—he was analytical with just the right amount of greed and ego to ensure success—but his mind wasn’t serpentine. If she hadn’t been so panicked, she would have thought about searching between the files last night.

      She pulled the final drawer open. Her fingers walked through the files. Nothing.

      Her temper erupted. With a jerk, she hauled the drawer off its runners and let it fall to the floor. A neat manila folder was stored at the base of the cabinet.

      Cesar grabbed, but he wasn’t fast enough. Papers scattered, numbers leapt at Esther, the configuration as familiar to her as her own name. An account number in the Cayman Islands. Her gaze flowed down the page and stopped, the chill congealed into ice.

      Not seven figures. Eleven.

      Her heart stopped in her chest. More than thirteen billion dollars.

      Numbly, she transferred her gaze to Cesar. “What have you done?”

      The blow was short and vicious, an openhanded slap that caught her on the side of the jaw. She staggered back, almost tripping over the drawer she had pulled out of the filing cabinet. Her hand shot out, connected with solid wood, clutched at the edge of the desk to keep herself from falling. Sucking in a breath, she wiped blood from her mouth and waited until the room stabilized. It was the first time Cesar had so much as raised a hand to her, but Esther barely registered the blow.

      They were dead.

      She knew it as surely as she knew her marriage to Cesar was over.

      Lopez—Chavez—was using them. They were his doorway into the States. He was the predator who had systematically ruined them. He had set them up with breathtaking brilliance, his plays elaborate and perfectly executed, turning them into puppets. When he no longer needed them, he would kill them: all of them.

      Fiercely, she stared at Cesar, no longer seeing the brilliant man she’d fallen in love with and married, but the man who was responsible for putting her baby in danger. She had been thirty-four when she had given birth to Rina. She had lived life to the full, but never more so than that first moment she had held her own child in her arms. The thought of all that bright promise, of Rina’s quirky intellect, the fun

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