CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day, another unusual person appeared on the scene.

At mid-morning, I accompanied Catalina to the local day spa, where she was scheduled for a massage and a sauna in the women’s-only section. I mentioned to the attendant that I was Catalina’s bodyguard and should accompany her wherever she went. The attendant gave me a withering look and made me wait out in the lobby.

It was a busy spot. For the next ninety minutes, I watched and listened as numerous wealthy, extremely attractive, scantily clad Latin American women arrived for their appointments and got in a bit of gossiping.

Careful observation and an ear for Latin accents led me to conclude that Colombian, Venezuelan and Argentine ladies, if they chose surgical enhancement, had it done on their breasts, while Brazilian women built up their butts. Rear ends juiced with collagen were a revelation to me, but they were apparently all the rage in Rio.

I stayed alert, although the only danger those women posed was eyestrain. In fact, Catalina emerged just as I was perusing a particularly healthy Brazilian client.

A glint of dark humor flashed in her dark eyes. “So this is what you mean by ‘private investigations,’ Mr. Cuesta?”

What could I say?

On the way home, Catalina asked me to stop at a Colombian coffee joint—the Key Café. The walls were decorated with large color photographs of Colombia: Andes mountain scenes, Caribbean ports and bird’s-eye views of the Amazon jungle.

We ordered our drinks, a cortadito for me—espresso with a touch of steamed milk—and a cappuccino for her.

We took a table and she sipped her coffee with one hand, fingering the white coral necklace she wore with the other.

“I heard about your adventure on the golf course yesterday.”

I shrugged. “Doña Carmen was worried about a man who fit that description, so I was worried too. She’s paying me extremely well to be extremely cautious.”

She nodded. After the first meeting, when she had studied me as if I were a mathematical formula, Catalina had become friendlier. Having come from poor beginnings, I think she understood everybody had to eke out a living.

She sipped again. “Do you really think we have to worry about kidnappers here?”

“I don’t know. There is a lot of Colombian money living on this island. And Doña Carmen is certainly concerned about it.”

She nodded. “I think José is right that we really don’t have to be concerned. But I also believe we have to make sure his mother doesn’t worry herself to death.”

She flicked her dark eyebrows at me. “All I want is to not cause her trouble or anxiety. At least not any more than I already do.”

The hint of a smile twisted her full lips. She seemed to understand perfectly her unsettling effect on the Estrada household.

I felt a certain bond with Catalina. We were both commonfolk who had been cast into close contact with a family that was filthy rich. We were both outsiders.

“Yes, Doña Carmen has concerns about you,” I said.

She tapped her cheek with a finger. “If I were only a bit lighter-skinned, I would cause less anxiety. But Doña Carmen should look at that whole issue differently.”

“How’s that?”

“She should think of it this way. At least I’m not spending her money at the tanning salon.”

She smiled wickedly, and I laughed, but a moment later, she grew serious. “The truth is Doña Carmen has to worry about only one thing with me: that I will love José even more than she does.”

With that, she drained her coffee, we got up and headed out to the car.

Just as we came out the door, Catalina bumped into a woman she apparently knew. They fell into a conversation, which I watched from a distance standing next to the car. The other woman had her back to me, and I couldn’t see her face at first. She was slim, had long white hair and wore a hot-pink jumpsuit.

At one point the exchange worried me. The woman, who seemed high strung to begin with, got excited about something and raised her voice. I started to move in their direction, but I didn’t want to overreact as I had the day before.

I waited and saw that Catalina stood her ground and listened carefully as the woman vented. I couldn’t make out the content of the diatribe, but Catalina answered her briefly and the other lady calmed down some.

Finally, that woman whirled around and climbed into the front passenger seat of the car in the space next to me. It was only then I saw her face and saw how white she was. In fact, she was an albino.

As the car pulled out, I saw that the driver was the same man with the scarred face, the landscaper, who had spoken to José at the golf course the day before. If he was a landscaper, maybe the albino lady was a housemaid also looking for work.

When I had asked José about the landscaper, I had gotten a less than civil response. This time, I decided to hold my tongue.

That was my mistake.