Sixteen

The room was as high-end as the lobby, furnished in shades of white and tan, with accents of red in an upholstered chair and in a single throw pillow on the bed. Hollis locked the door and glanced into the bathroom, about twice the side of their master bathroom at home, outfitted with a marble tub.

“Swank,” she said, but Finn didn’t look over.

He left his suitcase by the door and dropped onto the bed. He flung the throw pillow onto the floor. He still hadn’t unclenched his fist, so Hollis let him have a minute to process what was in the note. She opened the door to the balcony and walked out to take in the view and the breeze. There was traffic noise and people chatting on the street below, and somewhere in the distance there was music. A lone guitar, as far as she could tell, playing a tune filled with longing. She closed her eyes and tried to block out the voice and traffic and listen only to the music. This, all of it, had her feeling light-headed. They were in Buenos Aires, in a luxury hotel—against their will. It didn’t go together, it didn’t make sense.

“Don’t you want to know what’s in the note?”

She turned. Finn was still on the bed, but his fist was open, the paper visible in his hand.

“I’m almost afraid to ask based on your reaction.”

He held it out, but before she could take it, he said, “‘Tim and Janet are dead.’”

“What?”

“It’s got to be a threat. That’s why I switched rooms. Maybe it will buy us some time.”

“If it were a threat, wouldn’t the note say, ‘Tim and Janet are going to be dead’?”

“Only if it were written by a grammarian.”

Hollis read the note. That’s what it said, all it said. “It feels like a puzzle.”

“In what way does a death threat feel like a puzzle?”

“Declan didn’t come right out and say he was in trouble. He sent clues. Clues that were matched perfectly to one of your areas of expertise, art, and to mine, world politics. That can’t have been by accident.”

“You’re assuming the note came from Declan?”

She was assuming that, she realized, but with absolutely nothing but a feeling. “The driver said the prodigal lady enjoys visitors. Maybe that was a clue too.”

“It makes no sense. It’s not politics, it’s not art, so …”

“Maybe he meant to say something else and it just got mixed up in the translation. It’s possible we’re not kidnapped. Maybe Declan used his friend Silva to get us down here before Peter could set up some kind of surveillance. He is a wanted criminal and Peter is after him. It explains why no one seems to be watching us.” She was starting to feel hopeful.

“Or whoever is after Declan brought us here hoping we’ll lead them to him. And once we do, they’ll kill us all.”

And the small bit of hope was gone. “Or that,” she admitted. “Silva said it’s a murder that will happen. Are we here to stop it?”

“He said it’s a murder that must happen.” Finn got off the bed. “If there’s a clue, then it’s probably in those,” he said, pointing to the luggage.

Hollis grabbed his hand before he could take one of the cases. “What if opening it is how Tim and Janet get dead?”

“Options?”

They stared at each other. Neither spoke.

“I guess we have to take the chance,” Hollis said.

Finn took the black one and hoisted it onto the bed. “Stand back in case it’s a bomb that gets triggered by the zipper.”

“Just a sec.” She reached her hand around his neck and pulled him close to her. Her lips met his lightly. “Be careful.”

She took a few steps back. They both took a deep breath. Finn slowly unzipped the case, took one last deep breath, and opened the lid.

“Clothes,” he said.

Finn dumped the case on the bed, rifling through the clothes, checking pants pockets, inside the shoes, even inside the toiletry kit, but coming up empty-handed. “No clues. Nothing but clothes.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not. It’s just, I don’t know, you threaten to kill a person and then you pack him a suitcase full of jeans and t-shirts,” he said. “I feel like I’m in the middle of some strange prank. I keep getting my adrenaline going and it turns out to be nothing.”

“That’s good, remember? Not getting killed. That’s kind of our goal here.”

Hollis began her own search, carefully folding each garment as she did. It wasn’t just t-shirts and jeans, she saw immediately. It was some nice stuff. She held up a light blue shirt. “This is a Battistoni,” she said. “Expensive. And your size, perfectly.” She put it aside and looked through the rest of the clothes. “Trousers, jeans, shirts, all designer. Even the underwear is designer.”

Finn grunted. “I don’t wear stuff like this.”

“Tim McCabe must.” She grabbed the blue suitcase. “I wonder what Janet wears.”

That suitcase, too, was filled with designer clothes. Several dresses, tops, pants, and a rose-colored cashmere and silk sweater by an Italian designer. It was all so beautiful, and so far beyond their budget that she had never even held clothes this expensive, let alone worn them.

“Who are Tim and Janet McCabe that they can afford this stuff?” she asked, holding up a French-lace bra with matching panties.

“About to be dead people, remember?” He pointed to the lingerie. “That would look good on you.”

She dropped the clothes back in the case. “It’s strange that I’m enjoying this.”

“Yes. It’s definitely strange.”

There’s something that makes all of this make sense, she decided. The multiple Tomas Silvas, the private plane, the prodigal lady, the nice clothes, the fancy hotel in Buenos Aires …

“We either see this through or head to the embassy right now.”

Finn hesitated. “If we go for help that may be the signal to end us.”

“Okay, so we play through,” she said. “It’s just after six. Let’s nap for a couple of hours and then get out of here. Walk around. See the sights.”

“Play tourist?”

“Play Tim and Janet, playing tourist. We can sit here and wait for whoever is behind this to find us, or we can go out there and see if someone approaches. Maybe Declan or one of his friends. Or Peter.”

“Moving targets?”

“If this is the work of Declan’s enemies, we’re targets whether we move or sit.”

Finn stood there. She waited for him to protest, but he didn’t. “It’s not a terrible idea. At least we’ll get to see a bit of Buenos Aires.”

They kicked off their shoes and lay on the bed, still made, as if they’d have to jump out again. Hollis slept on and off, but as the city woke up, the sounds of cars and people wafted in from the balcony. Every noise reminded her she wasn’t home. Finn didn’t do much better. When the room clock said nine a.m., he got up.

“Now or never,” he said.

Within twenty minutes they were ready. Finn wanted to stay in his own clothes, but Hollis talked him into a pair of jeans and the light blue shirt she’d admired. Hollis dressed in a pair of gray pants, a black silk blouse with a black cardigan, and a pair of ballet slippers. In the jewelry pouch she found a beautiful diamond bracelet, and a pair of matching earrings. There was a gorgeous tan leather Prada bag. She didn’t have a wallet to put in it, but she grabbed a few tissues and a lipstick. Worth carrying, she thought, if only to show it off. She almost took the rose-colored sweater but had a momentary flash of the beautiful garment covered in blood. She put it back in the suitcase, trying not to focus on what that image would really mean.