Jacinto cursed and stalked through the house. First thing, he crossed to the basement door and flipped on the light. The ripe odors of shit and urine and unwashed man assaulted his nose as he descended three steps. Van Amee sat up from the cot in his tattered, bloody business suit and blinked owlishly at the light. Several days’ worth of beard covered his jaw, and his black and purple left eye had swollen shut. He looked and smelled more like a street bum than the owner of a multi-million dollar empire.
“Water,” he whispered through cracked lips. “Agua. Por favor.”
“What did you want to name your son if he was a girl?” Jacinto asked in Spanish and then again in English.
Van Amee blinked his one good eye. “Please. I need water.”
“Answer the question.”
“I—I—don’t know. Which son?”
“Ashton.”
“I—God, I can’t remember. It was…something Susan. After my mother. Uh, Adelaide. Addie Susan.” He winced. “Please, I need something to drink.”
Jacinto shook his head and went back upstairs to the kitchen. Trusting his cousin to help with this had been a stupid idea from the start, but he couldn’t have asked his brother without getting the EPC involved. The plan was only to make it look like the EPC was involved. They took enough people hostage that sliding one more under their belt shouldn’t raise suspicion.
Or so Claudia said.
She said if they made it look like their brother’s doing, nobody would cast them a sideways glance. He wasn’t sure about that, because if Angel found out they were setting up him and the EPC, kin or not, he’d kill them both and lose not a wink of sleep over it. Angel Rivera was one scary cabron, and Jacinto wanted nothing more than to be free of him.
Soon. Once they got the ransom money, he could go somewhere Angel would never find him. Hollywood, maybe. He’d live the good life with women and booze and drugs. Maybe act in a movie or two. All he needed was his cut of Van Amee’s ransom.
Jacinto found a bottle of water in the fridge, crossed to the basement door, tossed it down, and heard a scramble of limbs. Like a rat. That’s all Van Amee was. A wealthy, well-dressed rat, who didn’t need even half the money he had. Claudia said so. But even rats had to drink, and it’d do no good if he died of thirst before they got their money.
Jacinto shut and locked the door and, hearing sounds on the back patio, headed that way. He had to talk to Rorro, though he really didn’t care to see the little pervert going at it with his flavor of the day.
And wasn’t it interesting that this flavor was a younger replica of Jacinto’s uncle, Rorro’s not-so-dearly departed father? No wonder the kid was being especially brutal tonight. Jacinto could hear the flesh on flesh action from the kitchen and waited outside the solarium doors until the sounds faded into heavy breathing. Then there was a gasp, a gurgle, and it was over.
Jacinto stepped into the room and tried his hardest to keep his eyes off the battered man hanging limply over the side of the Jacuzzi. Blood dripped from his throat onto the tiled patio. Rorro sat in the bubbling water, smoking a joint and looking very satisfied with himself. The knife he’d used to slit the man’s throat lay near his elbow on the edge of the tub.
Bile rose in Jacinto’s throat. He’d never had the stomach for murder, which was part of the reason he’d called Rorro in the first place. Bryson Van Amee had seen both of their faces, knew at least his name if not Rorro’s, and had to die tomorrow after they got the money.
“What did you do to Van Amee?” he asked, remembering the man’s black eye.
“Had a little fun.”
Jacinto held back his wince. He was always torn between disgust and sorrow when it came to his young cousin. Rorro seemingly had it all: money, intelligence, movie star good looks, privileges and opportunities other children in Colombia would kill for—but all that glamour hid horrible secrets, ones that made Jacinto’s dysfunctional home life look like a fairy tale. Little wonder the kid turned out as loco as he was.
“I told you,” Jacinto said as gently as he could manage. “You cannot have him until after we get the money.”
Rorro flopped a hand in the air. “He tried to escape. I had to punish him.”
“What?”
“Last night. No, don’t look at me like that. It wasn’t my fault.”
It most certainly was his fault, but Jacinto wasn’t in the mood to argue. “Did he get far?”
“Only to the patio.”
At least he hadn’t made it off the property, onto the street where anyone could have spotted him.
Jacinto shot a look at the dead man, who was starting to stink with the release of bodily gases and fluids.