The Eighth Sister (Charles Jenkins #1)(72)

The interior smelled of wood dust and was packed with a menagerie of antiques—everything from furniture to toys, knives, lighters, and jewelry in locked glass cases. Jake walked wood-plank floors as if browsing while considering the man seated behind the counter. He smiled and acknowledged Jake, then went back to polishing a silver pot. He looked a bit like one of Jake’s law school professors, dressed in a comfortable brown sweater over a collared shirt, round glasses, and long hair. This was not the man Alex had described. For one, he was far too young. When Jake felt confident, he approached the glass counter.

“Hola,” he said. “Habla inglés?”

“Sí.” The man smiled and put down the silver pot and rag, which held a strong chemical odor. “How can I help you, amigo?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Jake said, which drew a smile but no verbal response. “My uncle, Charles Jenkins, told me I could find someone in this store he called Uncle Frank.”

Uncle Frank, Charlie had told Alex, was the code name for a man named José. The man behind the counter shook his head and wrinkled his forehead. “I’ve never heard of anyone by that name,” he said. “Are you sure you have the right store?”

“I understand Uncle Frank would be in his seventies, maybe early eighties. Charlie knew him when he worked here in Mexico City. Have you worked in this store long?”

The man nodded. “I have, but I don’t know an Uncle Frank. What did you say was your uncle’s name?”

“Charlie. Charles Jenkins. He said Uncle Frank was about five feet eight, bald, and wore round wire-rim glasses, like yours. Oh, and he said Uncle Frank liked to drink good Scotch.”

The man grinned and leaned against the counter. “You’re describing my father,” he said. “But his name was José. He owned the store before me. And he liked good Scotch.”

Jake felt great relief. He put his backpack on the counter, talking as he unzipped a pouch and pulled out the bottle, setting it on the counter. “My uncle said to tell Uncle Frank . . . José . . . that I need to talk to him, that it’s important.”

The man put out a hand. “Slow down, amigo. Slow down. I’m sorry, but my father died seven years ago of lung cancer.”

The words felt like a punch in the gut. “He’s dead?”

“Sí.”

Jake felt paralyzed by the news, not sure what to do.

“Are you all right?” the man asked.

“I’m sorry. I’ve had a long night and a long morning. He’s dead, your father?”

“Sí.”

Jake stepped back from the counter, feeling as if he might throw up. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

“It’s no bother, amigo. Was your uncle a friend of my father’s?”

“He was,” Jake said, still stepping away from the counter.

“Amigo.” The man held up the Scotch bottle. “Your Scotch.”

“I can’t take it on the plane.” Jake shrugged. “Enjoy it.” He started for the door.

“Did your uncle have a message for my father?”

Jake thought about what Charlie had told Alex when he’d called on the burner phone, but he wasn’t about to tell that to the man’s son.

“He said that your father was an artist. He said he’d made several purchases from him when he worked here in Mexico City.”

“My father an artist?” Again, the man smiled and shook his head like he’d never heard this before. “My father sold antiques all his life. Maybe he sold some artwork to your uncle?”

“Maybe,” Jake said.

“What did your uncle do here in Mexico?”

“I’m not sure,” Jake said.

The man shook his head and shrugged. Then he picked up the silver pot and returned to polishing it. “I’m sorry you came all this way. Why didn’t your uncle call first?”

“I guess he should have,” Jake said, and he walked quickly out the door.

The cool air assaulted him. He sucked in several deep breaths. He felt light-headed and nauseated from a lack of food, a lack of sleep, and a lack of options. He needed to eat something to settle his stomach. The area continued to awaken, more cars driving past, and more people walking the sidewalk, some carrying plastic bags. Jake also needed to call Alex and let her know Uncle Frank was a dead end, so she and Charlie could make other arrangements, if they could. He walked down the street, stopping when he came to a lime-green building with a red neon coffee cup illuminated in the window above a display of pastries.

Inside, he ordered a coffee and two cinnamon rolls from a young woman with red hair and freckles, who looked anything but Mexican. She spoke to him in Spanish but Jake shrugged and said he could not understand her.

She made hand gestures. “Aquí o para ir.”

She was asking if he wanted the coffee and pastries to go or to eat in the store. He saw several small tables pushed up against the store wall, all of them empty.

“Para tomar aquí, por favor,” he said. “Gracias.” He looked about. “Dónde está el ba?o?”

She pointed to the rear of the store.

Jake carried his backpack into the bathroom and shut and latched the door. He considered his face in the mirror above the sink. He looked pale, dark bags developing under his eyes. He turned on the faucet and splashed several handfuls of cold water on his face, chilling his skin, then drying it with coarse brown paper towels.