Chapter Twenty
It was a fine, warm, breezy evening a few weeks later. Paulo was enjoying the spectacular sunset out the window of his home office – the view was one of the main reasons he had kept the penthouse, after all – while working methodically through his company's latest quarterly financial reports. He always made sure he understood and approved them line by line before they were submitted to their various recipients.
Javier had not been there when he'd arrived home a couple of hours earlier, leaving a note on the kitchen counter saying only that he had some business to attend to, and pointing to supper (a creamy casserole of blue Peruvian potatoes and Serrano ham) keeping warm in the oven. He'd be back in a couple of hours. Although it was the first time this had happened, Paulo had merely shrugged and helped himself to the casserole. He wasn't the man's jailer, after all.
It was fully dark before he heard the soft alarm signaling the front door opening, silenced a few seconds later by the entry of the code, then Javier called out, "Hola!" to which Paulo replied in kind. These simple steps, including keeping the doors always locked and alarmed, were some of the measures his new Chief of Personal Security had enacted and enforced.
"Where have you been?" he added. Javier replied after a beat that he'd be there in five minutes. He sounded bone weary.
When he appeared in the office doorway a few minutes later, Paulo glanced up and then stared: his cook was carrying a double Negroni, his favorite drink, in a large cocktail glass. Javier set the drink down delicately before his boss, then looked at him sorrowfully. "I'm sorry, Paulo," he said, his voice cracked and heavy, his face etched in matching distress. Before the bewildered man could ask, a tiny USB drive was softly laid beside the drink. "You do not want to watch that. But you need to."
A heartbeat later, the coin dropped, and Paulo looked up at Javier with the question on his open face. Javier simply nodded, as he sat down in the chair across the desk, placing a flat package on the floor beside him. Then he pointed to a breast pocket on his button-down shirt. "The camera was right here."
Paulo shrank back, staring at the USB drive like it was a scorpion poised to strike. He reached abruptly for the drink and took a healthy swig, then forced himself to pick up the drive and insert it into his desktop. Javier watched silently as he navigated into the drive. There was only a single file, a video, about twenty minutes long. Taking a deep breath, Paulo clicked on it, and turned the sound all the way up.
The video started on a strangely discolored and distorted shot of Javier himself, with a couple of vertical lines through the middle. Then the panel of numbered buttons at one side caught his eye, and it fell into place: Javier was inside a mirrored elevator. He was holding his cell phone with one hand, evidently checking the video as it was being recorded on it. Then he turned the phone off and on to reach the splash screen, and read off the date and time aloud as he held it in front of the camera eye for verification. Thumbing the phone off then and slipping it into his pocket, Javier added, "Hilton Colon Hotel, Guayaquil, Ecuador, room eight-oh-seven."
Just then the elevator chimed its arrival on the eighth floor. Just as the mirrored doors parted, Paulo glimpsed what Javier was carrying in his other hand: a large pizza box.
The camera eye preceded its wearer down the hall, turning after a few doors to one with the number 807 elegantly engraved on a plaque beside it. Javier's hand reached out and knocked.
After a moment, the door opened – and all the blood ran out of Paulo's face as he stared at the man on the screen; his face, if that were possible, even more familiar to Paulo than his own. "Pablo?" The name was wrenched out of him in a wretched, cracked whisper. He stabbed a finger unerringly onto the space bar, pausing the frame, staring, then whipping around to stare at Javier. "No," he pleaded with him, shaking his head violently.
Javier just stared back, his tortured soul in his eyes, saying nothing, not bothering to confirm what was plain to see.
After a long moment, Paulo took another gulp of Negroni, and tapped the space bar again to continue.
"You ordered the deluxe special?" Javier's voice asked, as the pizza box was proffered.
Pablo snorted softly, then nodded. "Come in," he said gruffly, opening the door wider and stepping back. He was in his late fifties – same as Paulo – with greying hair cut short, medium height. A bit on the paunchy side, he evidently hadn't kept himself in peak condition. He was clean-shaven, with a jowly face that looked like it would be equally at home scowling or grinning. Just now, he was scowling. He was wearing an expensive black business suit, and had not removed the jacket, although he had loosened the tie and collar.
As the door was closed behind him, Javier offered his hand. "I'm Javier," he said.
"Pablo Cabrera," came the gruff response, along with a perfunctory handshake. Paulo closed his eyes in pain momentarily, as if he'd been hoping for a different name, against all the evidence of his own eyes.
Javier then handed over the box, and Pablo snorted again with surprise at its weight. He pried open the lid. "You actually bought a pizza?" he asked with evident amusement.
"Of course," Javier replied smoothly. "In case I was stopped."
Pablo grunted and dropped the box on a small table near the door, then waved his visitor on in, walking himself to the minibar at the far side of the couch and chairs. "You want a drink?" he remembered his manners.
"Sure. Thank you."
Pablo refilled his own glass from a half-empty bottle of scotch - it appeared that he had already consumed the first half that afternoon - then poured another, turned and handed it to Javier, before motioning him to sit down. Javier moved just slowly enough that it wasn't obvious he was waiting for his host to choose a seat, so that he could make sure the man was always on camera.
Pablo picked up a large manila envelope from the table at his side and tossed it into Javier's lap, just missing the drink. "That's everything you asked for," he grunted.
Javier's drink sailed out of camera range, evidently being set down, before the envelope was picked up and opened. "One hundred thousand?" An impressive stack of bills was extracted, the corner rifled through. It was crisp new one-hundred-dollar bills.
"Of course."
The bills went back into the envelope, to be replaced by a few printed pages, with a glossy photograph clipped to the front. Paulo's heart sank even further as he saw his own face smiling back at him. "And who is this?" came Javier's voice.
"It's all there!" Pablo replied sharply.
Javier had smoothly flipped through the pages, showing them to the camera to be read, if one cared to pause the video and enlarge any frame, then he placed them down again in his lap. "I want you to tell me – to make sure it's the same person."
Pablo sighed, exasperated, but he knew he wasn't in charge at the moment - and the alcohol was loosening his tongue along with exacerbating his irritation. "Paulo Rodriguez. Head of Rodriguez Shipping."
"And what is he to you?"
"My partner," came the growled, disdainful reply, and Paulo flinched from the emotion. How could this be?
"And why do you want your partner dead?"
"Why do you want to know?"
"To make sure that I'm on the right side of this... disagreement."
Pablo barked a laugh. "You have principles now?"
"Humor me."
Paulo leaned forward, hardly daring to breathe – although he was fairly certain he knew what was coming. He had never seen his old friend act this way; could hardly believe his eyes and ears.
Pablo looked away a moment, nursing both his drink and a simmering rage that Paulo found it hard to recognize. "I want him out of the way because he's a fool. He is costing us millions with his fine sensitivities."
"You are making millions now."
"How do you know that?"
"I live here now. I have learned the players – many of them, at least. I know a little about Rodriguez Shipping. It's a big company. Makes lots of money – lots for you. You're the vice president. Why do you want more?"
"Because it's there for the taking. Why shouldn't I have my share?"
"What? Running guns? Drugs? People?"
"All of it. I don't care."
"But your partner says no."
"He's a fool." Even in repetition, the scorn burned Paulo's skin. "I hope you are better than the other idiots."
The camera jerked as Javier did, taking a sharp breath and leaning forward abruptly.
"Others? There was a previous hit?" he asked sharply. One corner of Paulo's mind congratulated Javier on his acting.
"What difference does that make?"
"What difference? It makes a great deal of difference. It means he is warned, and wary."
Pablo waved away the concerns. "I told you, he's a fool. He knows nothing. He thinks that was a robbery, and has changed nothing since coming back. He's a sitting duck."
Across the desk, Javier remembered the trickle of sour satisfaction he had ignored in the moment. Apparently the many small changes he had insisted on to improve Paulo's security had worked - and yet gone completely unnoticed, as they were supposed to. Nor had Paulo apparently bucked his strict instructions to not breathe a word of their suspicions to a living soul. They were reaping the bitter, bitter harvest now.
"Where was this? And when?" the recorded Javier was continuing to press.
"In Hong Kong, a few months ago. I told you, it changes nothing." Pablo took another drink, and changed the subject. "How long will it take you to do this?"
Javier wasn't letting go. "If you are wrong, and it is more difficult, I should charge you more."
"You are being paid enough! Twice as much as the others, and there were several of them! Now how long?"
Silence for a long pause, as evidently Javier was deciding. Finally, "It depends on how you want it done. I can make it look like an accident, or a heart attack – that will fool even medical examiners. Or, if it's messier, I can make the body disappear, if you want."
"No, no mysteries. No disappearances. It must be known that he is dead, so the succession is clear and unquestioned. But no murders, either. No questions, no investigation. An accident is fine, or a heart attack – but he is in good shape, so that might look odd. So make it an accident." Paulo was utterly chilled at the way his supposed lifelong friend and partner was so cavalierly discussing his own death.
"It will take me a couple of weeks to do my research, and decide how exactly to arrange it. I can't give you an exact date. But I can promise you this: by the end of the month, you will no longer have a partner."
Pablo smiled sourly. "Good. Then if there is nothing more, you can see yourself out." He waved a hand brusquely towards the door behind Javier and the camera.
Javier leaned forward, tilting the camera down, but Pablo was still in frame. "One final thing, Señor. Once I walk through that door, there is no going back. You cannot change your mind and call me off." Sitting there listening to himself on the screen, Javier felt his old habitual parting lines ring in his ears. He was distinctly uncomfortable at how easily he had fallen back into the old habits, and could not wait to put them behind him again. He shuddered.
Pablo snorted once more. "If I were going to change my mind, Señor, I would have done it a long time ago," he said flatly. He stared hard at his visitor over the camera.
At last Javier stood. "Then adios." Pablo simply waved and went back to his drink.
Once in the hall, firmly closing the door behind him, Javier took out his phone and clicked a few buttons, and the video stopped.
Paulo swiveled in his chair and stared out the window at the spectacular night city beyond the balcony, covering his mouth with one shaking hand. The world would not stop spinning beneath him. Javier was silent, staring down at his feet, giving him space to try to process what he had seen.
He failed. "This was today?" he asked unnecessarily. When Javier confirmed it, Paulo's face twisted in pain. "He left the office early. Said he had a grandchild's birthday party to attend." He continued staring out the window, slowly shaking his head. "Thirty-two years," he murmured, then swiveled back to stare at Javier with tortured eyes. "Thirty-two years. That's how long we have been partners. How can this be? How can I not have seen?"
Javier held up a hand. "Stop. Don't. Paulo, this I can tell you from my own experience. Everyone – every single person in the world – has secrets, some of them dark, some downright evil; that they never tell a single soul, not even the ones they are closest too." He paused a second. "Nobody... ever... sees this kind of thing coming. Nobody ever... suspects those closest to them of even thinking of such a thing. And they are the ones most likely to do it." He shut his mouth abruptly, having said much more than he had meant to, in hopes of soothing his deeply wounded friend. "Don't..." he went on, "Do. Not. Beat yourself up for not having seen this. Nobody ever knows anyone that well. No one."
Paulo shook his head slowly. Javier could tell he was trying to believe him. Finally he shrugged. "What do I do now?" he asked helplessly.
"Call the police," Javier replied immediately. "This is their problem now. Let them handle it."
Paulo spluttered. "That's a new one, coming from you. Up till now, you've avoided all the police."
Javier shrugged ironically. "New man. New life."
"And give them this?" Paulo pulled out the USB drive and held it up.
"And these," Javier replied, picking up what he had placed on the floor earlier. First he held up a large plastic zipper bag with a manila envelope inside. "The material he gave me." Then another envelope, this time without the plastic bag. "And printouts and screen prints of all the messages that set up today's meeting. I left these on my bed for you, in case I didn't come back – I figured you wouldn't go look until later." He started to lay them before him.
Paulo objected, though. "I don't want that on my desk! I don't want them anywhere near me!"
"Sorry." He put them in his lap, instead.
"Does that mean you will cooperate with the police, then? Help them with this?" Paulo was sounding a bit bewildered at the prospect.
Javier was having a bit of trouble believing it himself. But... He held up a finger. "With one caveat. I want full immunity, and citizenship. If they give me those, then yes... I will turn state's evidence."
Understanding dawned, and Paulo nodded appreciatively. "Good thinking." But he couldn't escape the evening's revelations. He went back to sipping his drink and staring morosely at USB drive.
"Paulo!"
He looked up, startled. "What?"
"I'm not getting out of this chair until you pick up your phone and dial the police. Don't brood over this. Don't sit on it. You'll drive yourself loco, and you'll taint their investigation. Act. Move."
It still took a few more seconds, but at last Paulo did move. He picked up his cell phone and opened his contacts. In a moment, the answer hit him. "Detective Raoul Montoya. I've worked with him many times, and consider him a friend." He glanced at Javier. "He is in white collar crime, but he will know who to bring in to handle this quickly and discreetly."
Javier just nodded. As soon as Paulo began talking to the detective, asking him to come over at once, Javier at last stood up and escaped the room.