Investing in Murder

Prologue

PrologueGeorge Town, Grand Cayman Island › Friday, June 6, 2008 › 11h25

Those who recognized the chic middle-aged woman gave her a wide berth as she disembarked the yacht under grumbling skies and entered a revving Mercedes sedan, staying out of her path as they would a hurricane.

As her driver raced through rain-soaked city streets, she speed-dialed her phone and wrapped it around a high cheek bone, tugging a jeweled earlobe until it hurt and the call connected. “Did you make the transfer?” she whispered.

“Yes,” a mellow voice replied, “but you’ll have to wait — ”

She cut his words off with Latina temper. “You listen to me, pretty boy. If that money isn’t in my hands by noon tomorrow, you’ll wish you’d never met me.” She snatched a pair of designer sunglasses from her face and shoved them into her burgundy hair.

“I already wish I’d never met you, puta,” he screeched, like a rusty hinge. “You’ll get the cash when it’s clean.”

His retort sliced through her like a knife. She squeezed her eyes shut and pinched the bridge of her nose and thought about the impact on her mission — they’d stopped short of nothing to acquire the wealth needed to overthrow a government, but they needed cash to get the revolution moving.

A crack of lightning jolted her back to reality. She glanced up through the tinted sunroof as heavy rain pelted down. Within seconds, the tropical downpour turned torrential, rendering the car’s wipers useless. Agitation beneath her tan skin crawled to the surface. She leaned forward and glared in the rearview. Her dark eyes transfixed her driver’s anxious expression; she screamed at him to pull over, then slumped back in her seat and cupped the phone to her ear. “I’m running late,” she shouted. “Can you pick up our friend at the airport?”

The line buzzed in her ear as she fumbled a Rothmans out of its pack and placed it between her glossy lips, awaiting a response. She pictured him seated in his custom red leather chair behind the Bridge, a circular glass-and-chrome desk where large flat-screen monitors and tv screens displayed real-time stock quotes and up-to-date news reports. He was wearing a headset; she could hear his manicured fingernails dancing across a keyboard, like a ghost.

She lit her smoke.

“What flight?” he finally acknowledged.

“The one-twenty. American Airlines, from Chicago.” She exhaled a short spiral of smoke. “He’s bringing a friend. Someone just for me. You can look,” she teased, “but don’t touch.” Residual bourbon enhanced her amusement. She laughed and coughed smoke from her lungs, sinking her phone to her chest, clamming it closed as though it were a velvet ring box.