Reviving Izabel - Redmerski J. A. (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации TXT) 📗
Her bright blue eyes widen with offense. She scribbles something on the paper, tears it from the notepad and shoves it in my hand. “What’s that supposed to mean?” But before she gives me a chance to dig myself further into the hole, she changes her tone and leans in toward me and whispers suggestively, “Hey…just how alike are the two of you, anyway?”
I know precisely what she’s asking—she wonders, probably hopes, that my sexual aptitude is as dark as Fredrik’s is—but she’s treading very dangerous territory with Sarai being in the other room.
“Not very,” I reply, tucking the paper with the man’s name and description into my pocket. I go back to my investigation of her house.
“That’s too bad,” she says. “What is it with him, anyway? Does he talk about me to you at all?”
Please make it stop….
I sigh deeply and stop at the mouth of the hallway, looking right at her. “If you have questions for or about Fredrik, please do me a favor and direct them at him.”
Amelia tosses her hair back in a pride-filled fashion and with the rolling of her eyes. “Whatever. Just find out from Fredrik how long I’m supposed to babysit, will ya’?”
She pushes her way past me and into the kitchen with Sarai and Mrs. Gregory while I use the opportunity to inspect the rest of the house.
Speaking of Fredrik, I get a call from him just as I’m heading toward the spare bedroom.
“I have information on the New Orleans job,” he says on the other end of the phone. I hear traffic in the background. “The contact believes the target is back in town.”
“What makes her believe that?”
“She thought she saw him outside a bar near Bourbon Street. Of course, she could be seeing things, too, but I think we should look into it. Just in case. If we wait and he goes back to Brazil, or wherever it is he’s been hiding, it might be another month or two before we get another shot at him.”
“I agree.” I close myself off inside the spare bedroom. “I’m with Sarai at Amelia’s right now, but I’ll wrap this up sooner than I planned. Go on to New Orleans ahead of me and I’ll meet you there by early evening tomorrow. But don’t do anything.”
“Don’t do anything?” he asks suspiciously. “If I find him, I can at least detain him and start the interrogation.”
“No, wait for us,” I say. “I want Sarai to do this one.”
Silence ensues on the phone.
“You can’t be serious, Victor. She isn’t ready. She could ruin the whole mission. Or get herself killed.”
“She won’t do either,” I say calmly with every bit of confidence. “And don’t worry, you can still do the interrogation. I only want her to do the detaining.”
I know there’s a dark smile on his face without having to see it or hear his voice. Giving Fredrik the interrogation job is very much like giving a heroin addict a fix.
“I’ll see you in New Orleans then,” he says.
I hang up and slide the phone in the back pocket of my black pants and then finish the sweep of the house before joining the women all sitting in the living room with plates of food on their laps.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Sarai
“You really should get a plate,” I say to Victor as he emerges from the hallway. “Dina is the best cook. Even better than Marta. But don’t tell Marta I said that.” I shovel a big spoonful of green bean casserole into my mouth.
Dina, sitting beside me on the couch, points to Victor. “She’s biased. But if you’re hungry you better eat while it’s there.”
“We need to talk,” Victor announces standing in the center of the room, now blocking our view of the television.
I don’t like the vibe he’s putting off.
“OK,” I say and lean away from the back of the couch, setting my plate on the coffee table. “What about?”
Victor glances at Amelia. She sits in the chair on the other side of me breaking apart a piece of cornbread with her fingers. I get the feeling he doesn’t want her here during this conversation.
“Amelia,” Victor says, reaching into his back pocket and retrieving his leather wallet. “I need you to go out for a while.” He fingers the money in his wallet and pulls out a small stack of one hundred dollar bills. He lays them on the table into her view. “If you don’t mind.”
She looks down at the money, setting her fork on her plate and then she counts it.
“Sure thing,” she says with a pleased smile. She gets up, taking her plate and soda can with her and disappears into the kitchen.
I hear the fork scraping the leftover food from the plate into the garbage and then the ceramic clanking softly against the bottom of the sink. Amelia walks past and begins to head down the hall.
“But I need you to leave now,” Victor calls out. “There’s no time for you to change clothes or to freshen up.”
“Can I at least put on some damn shoes?” she snaps.
“Of course,” he answers with a nod. “But please make it quick.”
Amelia moves the rest of the way down the hall, mumbling words of irritation as she goes. Minutes later she finally leaves the house and her car pulls out of the driveway.
Victor looks down at us.
“We can’t stay as long as expected,” he says.
Dina sets her plate down now, too, and sighs miserably.
“Why not?” I ask.
“Something has come up.”
I look down at my plate, the silver shine from the fork blurring into focus as I begin to contemplate heavily. I thought I had time to search for the right opening to begin to tell Dina everything that I planned to tell her. Now, I’m left scrambling to figure out how to even begin the sentence.
“Dina,” I say and take a deep breath. I turn to the side to face her fully, sitting to my left. “I killed a man months ago.” Dina’s face appears to stiffen. “It was self-defense. I uh…,” I glance up at Victor. He nods subtly, urging me to continue, letting me know that it’s OK, even though I know he doesn’t fully agree with me doing this. “…In fact, I killed a man in Los Angeles the night Dahlia and Eric were found dead.”
Dina’s weathered hand comes up and her bony fingers linger on her top lip. “Oh, Sarai…you…what are you—”
“Dahlia and Eric were murdered because of me,” I cut in because clearly she couldn’t figure out what to say. “Not only do I have the LAPD looking for me for questioning since I was with them, but the men who murdered them are looking for me, too. And that’s why you’re here.”
“Oh, good Lord.” She shakes her head over and over, her fingers finally falling away from her mouth, her eyes outlined by crow’s feet, shrinking underneath her distressed features.
I take a hold of her hand, it’s cold and smooth underneath my touch. “There’s a lot you don’t know. Where I really was that nine years my mom and me went missing. What really happened to me. And to my mom. And I wasn’t shot by an ex-boyfriend when Victor brought you to the hospital in Los Angeles. I was shot by…,” I glance up at Victor again, but I take it upon myself to keep this information from her. She doesn’t need to know about Niklas, or anything about what he and Victor are involved in. “I was shot by someone else,” I say. “It’s really a very long story that I will tell you someday, but right now I just want you to know the truth about me.” I brush my fingers softly across the top of her hand. “You’re the only mother I’ve ever truly had. You’ve done so much for me and you’ve always been there for me and I owe you the truth.”
Dina encloses my hand with both of hers. “What happened to you, baby girl?” she asks with such pain and worry in her voice that it chokes me up inside.
I begin to tell her everything, as much as I can without giving any information about Victor and Niklas away. I tell her about Mexico and the things that I saw and experienced there. I tell her about Lydia and how I tried so hard but couldn’t save her. I leave out mostly the sexual relationship that I had with my captor, Javier Ruiz, a Mexican duglord, weapons and slave dealer, and just tell her that I was there against my will and made to do things that I never wanted to do. She breaks down in tears and holds me close to her, rocking me pressed against her chest as if I were the one crying and who needs the shoulder. But for once I’m not crying. I just feel terrible having to tell her any of this because I knew it would hurt her immensely.
