INFORMANT Page 9

  He good-naturedly shrugs off my praise. “Friends don’t lie to each other.”

  What a prophetic and chilling statement. He’s right. Friends don’t lie to each other. Unless, of course, that friend happens to be me. Time to pull my shit together.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to ruin tonight. It just… family can really get to you, can’t they?”

  Ricco stiffens slightly, but doesn’t say anything. It is an awkward moment, until he spies the heavy black backpack I’ve tossed over my shoulder. It looks totally incongruous with my slinky red dress and heels.

  “You brought your homework?” he asks.

  Unfortunately, yeah. Beckett had me so spun when I stormed out of my house that I grabbed my backpack out of habit. Short of leaving it in the taxi, I had no choice but to bring it with me. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to review our bio notes—”

  His laughter cuts me off. He reaches for my backpack and tosses it over his shoulder, relieving me of the burden of its bulky weight. “No. Not tonight. Tonight we will enjoy ourselves. Come. Everyone is waiting for us upstairs.”

  Agent Reardon’s warning about not being in private with Juan Diaz comes to mind. “Upstairs? I thought we were having dinner down here.”

  “We will,” he assures me. “Later.” He slips his hand in mine and guides me away from the lobby. “Relax. Forget your troubles. From this point forward, we are on Cuba time. There is no hurry.”

  We step into an elevator. Ricco swipes his hotel key card and pushes the button for the eighth floor. The fabled eighth floor, I should say. If you’ve ever lived in San Francisco, you know what this means. The penthouse suite at the Fairmont Hotel occupies the entire eighth floor and is legendary. It rents out at a rate of fifteen thousand dollars a night. Bill Gates stays here whenever he’s in town. So does Mick Jagger. It’s rumored President Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe carried out their affair here. Another little rumor: there’s a secret passage that leads from the penthouse library to an unmarked door in the lobby, perfect for bringing drugs, women, weapons, etc, in and out without notice.

  I assume a corpse could be easily managed, as well. How reassuring.

  The elevator door slides open and I find myself in the largest, most luxurious room I’ve ever seen. The suite’s main salon, I assume. Soaring ceilings, elegant furniture, a full bar, grand piano. And the views—absolutely breathtaking. I mentally absorb the decadent surroundings, then I scan the people inside. Eight men, four women. The men are all dressed in suits. The women wear heavy makeup and short cocktail dresses that display lots of cleavage. I have no idea whether they’re wives or prostitutes.

  They all turn to look at Ricco and me. One man disengages himself from the crowd and strides forward. I recognize him instantly. Dark eyes, heavy jowls, lots of jewelry. Juan Diaz. He greets Ricco in a stream of rapid-fire Spanish. (I took four years of it in high school, but I can’t keep up. Still, I catch a few words here and there.) He wraps Ricco in a rough hug, then pulls back and playfully slaps his cheeks. “You’re late.”

  Ricco grins. “Si, but she was worth waiting for, wasn’t she?”

  Juan Diaz gives a booming laugh. He looks at me, and his appraisal is so lewd I have to fight the urge to turn and walk away. I remind myself that I am too old for him, anyway. This is the pervert who likes to screw thirteen-year-olds.

  “Welcome,” he says, greeting me in heavily accented English. “I see my nephew has excellent taste.”

  Ricco introduces us and Juan Diaz says, “I’m glad you could join us this evening, Señorita Porter. There is always room for another beautiful woman.”

  I manage a smile in return. “Thank you for inviting me, Señor Diaz. It’s nice to meet you.” I offer my hand, but instead of shaking it, he takes it and presses it to his lips. His tongue brushes against my knuckles. Revolting. I jerk it out of his grasp, but he does not take offense—instead, he merely seems amused.

  “Drinks!” he shouts over his shoulder. A waiter appears balancing a tray with three tall frosted glasses. He’s serving Cuba Libre: rum and Coke garnished with wedges of lime, lots of crushed ice. Apparently I’m the only one who’s aware I’m too young to drink. But since I desperately need something to help calm my nerves, I accept the glass Diaz passes me.

  “To family,” he says, offering a toast.

  The three of us clink glasses and I take a sip. The drink is tart and sweet and strong. We talk about how Ricco and I met, and then the conversation gradually turns to the friends Ricco had back in Cuba. What they’re doing, where they are now, that sort of thing. I listen politely for a few minutes and then edge away to enjoy the view.

  But I’m not looking at the skyline, or the bridges, or the bay. My gaze scans the street below until I see it—a white, unmarked van parked on the corner. Beckett. He’s there. Even though he’s not physically with me, and even though I hate him as much as I am drawn to him, it is a relief to know he’s there. I lift my hand and idly rub the fabric of my dress, making sure the mike is still attached to my bra strap. It is.

  I hear a door open behind me and the buzz of conversation dies. Just like that, unearthly silence fills the room. Puzzled, I turn. My gaze is immediately drawn to a tall, handsome, elegantly dressed man who is flanked on both sides by what appear to be bodyguards. I suck in an involuntary breath.

  Miguel Diaz. Ricco’s father. He’s here.

  The Cuban mafia refer to themselves as The Corporation, and now I see why. Miguel Diaz exudes wealth, position, and power. This is not a man who raises his voice. He doesn’t need to. He surveys the room and its occupants with a cobra-like intensity, ready to strike at any moment. When his gaze lands on Ricco, his lips curl into something that resembles a smile. No warmth whatsoever reaches his eyes.

  “My son,” he says, spreading open his arms.

  For just a second—maybe only a millisecond—raw panic flashes across Ricco’s face. But the expression is gone so quickly I wonder if it was there at all. With a brilliant smile, he crosses the room and steps into his father’s embrace.

  “Father,” he says as he draws back. “Forgive me, I didn’t expect you.”

  “Of course not,” Miguel Diaz agrees. “How could you?”

  There is a subtext to their words that I don’t understand. But the tension in Ricco’s body is clear. He has transgressed somehow, angered his father. He is braced for punishment. Miguel reads this, enjoys it, stretches it out. “We’ll talk about it later,” he says. Then, “I understand you brought a guest?”

  Ricco gestures for me to join them, and the three of us retreat to a quiet corner of the suite to sit down. Ricco and I share a small sofa, my bulky backpack resting at my feet. His father sits in a chair opposite us. As we engage in polite conversation, I can’t get the hospital photo of Ricco out of my mind. I look at his father and I see a monster. But I’m not naive: he might be sociopathic, but he is not a deranged junkie. Miguel Diaz appears educated and intelligent, cultured and refined. Thoroughly untouchable. No wonder the DEA has had such a hell of a time getting close to him.

  Miguel looks at me. “So. You are my son’s smart American friend. He’s talked about you.”

  He has? I glance at Ricco, and can tell that he’s embarrassed by this revelation.

  “You study medicine, too?” Miguel asks.

  “Um, no, not medicine. Just science in general. I haven’t decided on my major yet.” My major is forensics, of course, but there’s no way I’ll tell him that. People hear forensics and they immediately think law enforcement. I do not want to draw Miguel’s thoughts in that direction—particularly as it pertains to me.

  “Ah, science.” Miguel nods. “Ricardo wants to be a doctor,” he says. “Help people. Heal them. Save the world.” His words drip with derision. “He does not yet understand how the world works.”

  “Oh? How does the world work?” I ask.

  For the first time since we’ve sat down, I truly have Miguel’s attention. This probably isn’t a
good thing. I’ve challenged him and he doesn’t like it.

  “The weak are crushed by the strong,” he replies. “The strong survive and the weak die. That is how the world works. Let God do the saving.”

  Nice. Before I can summon a reply, however, there is a commotion in the hallway. A heated exchange of words. The two men I’d pegged earlier as Miguel’s bodyguards rush toward us. They’re angry, and as they approach I make out something about la jeva. The young woman.

  Me.

  They’re talking about me.

  My stomach flips. A dull roar fills my head.

  Ricco stands, furiously shouting something back, but it’s all in Spanish and everyone is yelling at once, even the people who were in the other part of the suite, it’s all chaos, so I can’t make anything out until—

  “Silencio,” says Miguel, and the shouting stops. There is nothing left but the echo of my own breathing, which is suddenly abnormally loud. With a flick of his wrist he gestures to one of his bodyguards. The man places a hand on Ricco’s shoulder and forcibly shoves him back down onto the sofa. Satisfied, Miguel turns his dark eyes to me. He steeples his fingers. A small, cat-like smile curves his lips.

  “So,” he says, “my men tell me you are wearing a wire.”

  * * *

  PART TWO

  * * *

  Dear Judge Ellis,

  I know what you’re thinking. How did a nice girl like me—straight A college student, part-time waitress, loving aunt—end up in a hotel penthouse partying with aging whores and Cuban drug dealers? Excellent question. But an even better one is this: Once I saw how bad everything was, why didn’t I just walk away? Turn around and leave?

  Forget the money I was being paid to be there.

  Forget Ricco.

  Forget Beckett.

  Maybe I should tell you that if I had it to do it all over again, that’s exactly what I would do. But I said I was going to be honest. I stood in your courtroom and swore, under oath, to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth. In return, you said you would consider granting me leniency when it came time for my sentencing. So here it is. The truth. This is what you can’t possibly understand: I was already in. Taken—in every sense of the word. There was no turning back.

  Imagine standing at the very top of a steep hill built entirely of gravel. You think you can keep your balance, stay on top, but inevitably you start to slip. And no matter how you fight it, you keep slipping and sliding. It’s impossible to get any traction; you can’t stop yourself from pitching downhill. And even as that’s happening, as you’re tumbling blindly and the gravel is biting into your skin, you keep telling yourself it’ll be okay. You’ve got this.

  Here’s what you don’t know: Everything is going get much worse before it gets better.

  My name is Kylie Porter, I’m nineteen years old, and this is my Testimony.

  Day Twenty-One

  Night

  Miguel Diaz, Cuban drug lord and possibly one of the most sociopathic criminals in the world today, wants to have fun with me. He wants to play.

  We are sitting together in the penthouse of San Francisco’s Fairmont Hotel. It is the largest, most luxurious room I’ve ever been in. Soaring ceilings, elegant furniture, a full bar, grand piano. And the views—absolutely breathtaking. It’ll be a long way to fall when his men toss my body out one of the windows. Assuming, of course, that’s the way he chooses to dispose of me.

  I don’t think he’s decided yet. That’s part of the fun.

  Although Miguel Diaz and I met only minutes ago—I am here as a guest of his son, Ricco—his bodyguards have just detected the wire DEA agents planted on my bra strap. The tiny, nickel plated listening device the tech guy promised me was so sophisticated it was undetectable.

  But it wasn’t. They found it.

  I’ve forgotten how to breathe. My stomach is doing crazy flips. A dull roar fills my head. I feel myself shaking, literally quaking, but I can’t stop. I never knew what real terror actually felt like. How completely it takes over your body and your mind. How it seeps into your lungs and strips your nerves raw. I am nothing but an empty, quaking shell.

  Ricco stands, furiously shouting—defending me, I assume—but it’s all in Spanish and everyone is yelling at once, even the people who were in the other part of the suite, so I can’t make anything out until—

  “Silencio,” says Miguel, and the shouting stops. With a flick of his wrist he gestures to one of his bodyguards. The man places a hand on Ricco’s shoulder and forcibly shoves him back down onto the sofa. Satisfied, Miguel turns his dark eyes to me. He steeples his fingers. A small, cat-like smile curves his lips.

  “So,” he says, “my men tell me you are wearing a wire.”

  I blink. In my panic, my horror, I can’t find any words to defend myself. My mouth opens and closes, fish-like. I am mute for a long moment, and then I dumbly repeat, “A wire?” My voice is so choked with fear I don’t recognize it as my own.

  Miguel senses this. His smile widens, giving me a look at his perfect, pearly white teeth. “Yes, Señorita. A wire. Who are you working for?”

  My mind races. Beckett. I need him. God, do I need him. Now. But he is sitting with two other DEA agents in a white, unmarked van parked outside the hotel. I know he’s hearing this. I know he realizes I’m in trouble. But can he get here in time to help me? I doubt it.

  Agent Reardon’s warning echoes through my mind. If anything goes wrong, get yourself out of there. Somewhere with crowds is generally your safest choice. A store, restaurant, bar—that sort of thing.

  That’s my only hope. My only chance of survival. I’ve got to bluff my way out of this suite. Now.

  “Who are you working for?” Miguel Diaz repeats.

  “Working for?” I give my best blank stare, shake my head. “When I’m not in school, I work in a café.”

  His gaze hardens. “We both know that’s not what I mean.”

  I look at Ricco. “I don’t know what’s going on,” I stammer, “but I don’t like it. I’m out of here.” I stand, shoulder my backpack, and swing around to leave. My odds of pulling this off go from slim to none real fast.

  One of the bodyguards blocks me. The other one steps forward holding what looks like a thick plastic wand—the sort of tool an airport security guard might use. The thing emits a steady tick. When he waves the wand near my bra strap, it goes ballistic, ticking like crazy.

  Shit. Holy fucking shit. I’m done. Dead.

  Even if Beckett bursts through the door, there’s no way he could help me. There are too many people, too many guns. And it’s simply too late.

  “Policia?” Miguel says. Rage burns in his voice. “Did my son bring the police to me?”

  “No,” I stammer wildly. “What? No. I’m not—”

  “Take her.”

  All hell breaks loose. I am suddenly surrounded. Bodies block me in. There’s a flurry of heated Spanish, and then a bodyguard forcibly wrestles my backpack off my shoulder. He shoves me back onto the sofa. Two other men restrain Ricco. His eyes are wild with fear and he’s screaming something at me, but in his panic he’s also speaking Spanish, and I can’t understand what he wants me to do.

  The wand is ticking like mad as the bodyguard waves it over my backpack.

  My backpack.

  Not me.

  My backpack.

  What the fuck?

  I watch in stunned disbelief as he jerks open the zipper and upends the contents of the pack over the coffee table. Everything spills out in a huge, messy pile. Books, notes, old bio quizzes… and Dally’s electronic baby monitor.

  His baby monitor.

  I must have dumped it in my backpack by accident when I swiped everything off the kitchen table at Jess’s.

  My relief is so intense I nearly faint. That’s what the bodyguard’s equipment detected—a baby monitor. Not the tiny mike the DEA tech guy attached to my bra strap. Obviously one of my text books bumped against the monitor and turned it on.


  Then something occurs to me: this is only obvious to me and the other people in the room. Beckett and the DEA agents with him can’t see what’s going on. I can only assume they’re about to storm the suite Hollywood style—guns drawn and badges flashing—unless I say something to stop them. So I blurt out, “It’s a baby monitor. A baby monitor. For my nephew. I was babysitting last night.” Then I turn to Ricco and say the most idiotic thing I can think of, just to reinforce the fact that I am no threat to Miguel Diaz and his men. “What’s the problem? Doesn’t your dad like babies?”

  Silence echoes through the suite. Miguel is the first to break it. He looks at the tense faces surrounding us, then he gives a deep, booming laugh. Within seconds the rest of his crew joins in. The boss has decided the party is back on. What fun we are all having. What a great time. Laughter everywhere.

  Except Ricco. He tries his best to look amused, but I can see he is as shaken as I am. I push that aside for the moment. I can’t worry about Ricco now. Instead, I fix a bewildered expression on my face, trying my best to look baffled. A clueless moron. “What?” I say.

  My question is greeted with even more hilarity.

  Enough. I stand. “Ricco, did I do something wrong? Maybe I should go.”

  He stands as well. Takes my arm. “It’s all right. It’s not you. Don’t go.”

  I thought I was okay, but I suddenly realize I’m not. My hands are shaking, a thin film of sweat coats my back, and my stomach is churning. I’m going to be sick. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  He points me in the right direction and I’m off.

  I lock the door and run water in the sink to cover the sound of my retching. The rum and Coke I drank earlier to calm my nerves comes back up. There’s too much noise in the suite for them to hear me—someone’s cranked the music up again—but I’m sure Beckett and his bosses heard me gagging. I don’t care. That’s the least of my problems.

  I wash my hands, rinse my mouth, and splash my face. When I’m done I look in the mirror. Hollow eyes stare back at me. I look sickly pale.