"We got lawyers too."
"Yeah, but you ain't here 'cause you got lawyers, Lance, are you? You're here 'cause you need help. Lawyers can't do what she needs."
Lance smiled and sipped his beer. He lit a cigarette, something he could never do around Trudy. "Where's Zeke?"
"That's exactly what I figured," Cap said angrily. "She gets in trouble, her money is threatened, and so she sends you down here looking for Zeke or some other klutz you can grease to do something stupid. He gets caught. You get caught. You take the fall and she forgets your name. You're a dumbass, Lance, you know that."
"Yeah, I know. Where's Zeke?"
"In jail."
"Where?"
"Texas. Feds got him. running guns. You're stupid, you know that. Don't do this. When they bring your guy back, there'll be cops crawling all around him. They'll lock him away some place, his mother can't even get near him. There's serious money at stake here, Lance. They gotta protect this guy until he breaks and tells where he's buried it, you know. You try to hit him, and you'll kill half a dozen cops. And die tryin'."
"Not if it's done right."
"And I suppose you know how to do it. Could that be because you ain't ever done it before? When did you get so damned smart?"
"I can find the right people."
"For how much?"
"Whatever it takes."
"You got fifty grand?"
"Yeah."
Cap took a deep breath and glanced around his pub. Then he leaned forward on his elbows and glared at his friend. "Lemme tell you why it's a bad idea, Lance. You never were too bright, you know. Girls always liked you because they think you're cute, but thinking was never your strong suit."
"Thanks, pal."
"Everybody wants this guy alive. Think about it. Everybody. Feds. The lawyers. The cops. The guy whose money got stolen. Everybody. Except, of course, that fleabag who lets you live in her house. She needs him dead. If you pull this, and somehow knock him off, the cops go straight to her. She, of course, will be completely innocent because you'll be there to take the fall. That's what little stud puppies are for. He's dead. She keeps the money, which you and I know is the only thing that matters to her, and you go back to Parchman because you've got a record, remember? For the rest of your life. She won't even write you."
"Can we get it done for fifty?"
"We?"
"Yeah. Me and you."
"I can give you a name, that's all. I'm not touching this. It won't work, and there's nothing in it for me."
"Who is it?"
"A guy from New Orleans. He hangs around here some."
"Can you make the call?"
"Yeah, but that's it. And remember, I told you not to mess with this."
Chapter 12
EVA LEFT MIAMI on a flight to New York where she boarded the Concorde and flew to Paris. The Concorde was an extravagance, but she now considered herself to be a wealthy woman. From Paris to Nice, and from there across the countryside by car to Aix-en-Provence, a journey she and Patrick had made almost one year earlier. It was the only time he'd left Brazil since he'd arrived. He was terrified of crossing borders, even with a perfect new phony passport.
Brazilians love all things French, and virtually all with education know the language and culture. They had taken a suite at the Villa Gallici, a beautiful inn on the edge of town, and spent a week strolling the streets, shopping, eating, and occasionally venturing into the villages between Aix and Avignon. They also spent a lot of time in their room, like newlyweds. Once, after too much wine, Patrick referred to it as their honeymoon.
SHE FOUND a smaller room at the same hotel, and after a nap had tea on the patio in her bathrobe. Later, she dressed in jeans and took a casual walk into town, to the Cours Mirabeau, the main avenue of Aix. She sipped a glass of red wine at a crowded sidewalk cafe and watched the college kids parade back and forth. She envied the young lovers strolling aimlessly hand in hand, nothing to worry about. She and Patrick had made these walks, arm in arm, whispering and laughing as if the shadows behind him had vanished.
It was in Aix, during the only week they had ever spent together without interruption, that she first realized how little he slept. Regardless of when she awoke, he was already awake, lying still and quiet and staring at her as if she were in danger. A table lamp was on. The room would be dark when she fell asleep, but a light would be on when she awoke. He would turn it off, rub her gently until she fell asleep, then sleep himself for half an hour before turning the light on again. He was up well before dawn, and usually had read the newspapers and several chapters of a mystery by the time she ambled forth and found him on the patio.
"Never more than two hours," he answered when she asked how long he could sleep. He seldom napped and never went to bed early.
He didn't carry a weapon or peek around corners. He wasn't overly suspicious of strangers. And he seldom talked about life on the run. Except for his sleeping habits, he seemed so perfectly normal that she often forgot he was one of the most wanted men in the world.
Though he preferred not to talk about his past, there were times in their conversations when it became unavoidable. They were together, after all, only because he had fled and re-created himself. His favorite topic was bis boyhood in New Orleans; not the adult life he was running from. He almost never mentioned his wife, but Eva knew she was a person Patrick deeply despised. It had become a miserable marriage, and as it deteriorated he became determined to flee it.
He had tried to talk about Ashley Nicole, but the thought of the child brought tears to his eyes. His voice quit him, and he said he was sorry. It was too painful.
Because the past was not yet complete, the future was difficult to contemplate. Plans were impossible as long as shadows were moving back there somewhere. He would not allow himself to speculate on the future until the past was settled.
The shadows kept him awake, she knew that. Shadows he couldn't see. Shadows only he could feel.
THEY HAD MET in her office, in Rio, two years earlier, when he presented himself as a Canadian businessman who now lived in Brazil. He said he needed a good lawyer to advise him on import and taxation matters. He was dressed for the part in a handsome linen suit with a white starched shirt. He was lean and tanned and friendly. His Portuguese was very good, though not as good as her English. He wanted to speak in her language; she insisted on his. They had a business lunch that lasted three hours, with the languages switching back and forth, and both realized there would be others. Then there was a long dinner, and a barefoot walk on the beach at Ipanema.
Her husband was an older man who'd been killed in a plane crash in Chile. No children. Patrick, or Danilo, as he was at first called, claimed to be happily divorced from his first wife, who still lived in Toronto, their home.
Eva and Danilo saw each other several times a week during the first two months, as the romance flourished. Finally, he told the truth. All of it.
After a late dinner in her apartment, and a bottle of good French wine, Danilo confronted his past and bared his soul. He talked nonstop until the early hours of the morning, and went from a confident businessman to a frightened man on the run. Frightened and anxious, but extremely wealthy.
The relief was so forceful he almost cried, but caught himself. This was, after all, Brazil, and men simply did not cry. Especially in front of beautiful women.
She loved him for it. She embraced him and kissed him and cried when he couldn't, and promised to do everything in her power to hide him. He had given her his darkest, deadliest secret, and she promised to always protect it.