Deadlock (FBI Thriller #24)(100)
Zoltan paused in plaiting a cornrow, raised her eyes to the awesome blue sky, and thanked Zoltan for teaching her to always keep a fake passport available. You never knew, he’d say, when it would be best to take your skills elsewhere. She did miss her beautiful old house outfitted with all the dramatic touches for her clients’ benefit, but Jamaica had its own opportunities.
She thought about Rebekah Manvers, wondered if she knew where the Big Take was hidden. A pity Rebekah never trusted her, never believed her grandfather had come to chat, even with her special tea. In the long run, though, would it have mattered? Maybe so, given what she’d read online yesterday. Clarkson United had been bought out. The financial analyst called it a merger, but between the lines, it was clear Clarkson United had been taken over, clear the old witch was no longer in the driver’s seat. And that was the proof Gemma hadn’t gotten her hands on the Big Take.
Zoltan studied the cornrow she’d just finished, saw it wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. She bet the teenager would notice and trash-talk her.
She looked out toward the incredible turquoise water at all the happy swimmers, the yelling children, the endless supply of Jamaican hawkers pushing their wares on the tourists. She loved Montego Bay. She couldn’t say why she’d picked Jamaica, but it turned out she loved the heat and the fierce sun baking through her muscles, warming her very bones. She loved the sheer laziness of Jamaica, never hurrying or stressing about jobs or traffic jams, only an occasional small one if the goats hunkered down in the middle of the road. From what she’d seen, most of the men didn’t work much, just lay about, literally, in the shade of blue mahoe trees, smoking ganja, the women steering the family’s course. It was the tourists who were the manic ones, as if they’d been let out of jail for the first time and didn’t know what to do with themselves. They seemed incapable of simply relaxing, which was good for her plaiting business and her other growing business as well.
She’d found a woman from the mountains to tutor her in obeah, the Jamaican version of Haitian voodoo. She practiced communicating with ancestors and spirits, and Zoltan certainly knew how to do that. It would be a hard sell to convince Jamaicans a woman from the United States could have any powers, and the fact was few of them had enough money to afford her in any case. Ah, but visitors to Jamaica were different. She’d already begun enticing tourists to let her guide them in obeah sessions. It gave them a chance to be a little wicked and use their money to wallow in a bit of the local shamanism, something to tell their friends when they got home. All seemed to like her name, Sharma. Maybe it gave them a little shudder, made them think of magic. And none of them realized how much you could find out about them in a minute on the web. Like Mrs. Grace Chivers. And after all, the Internet was a kind of magic, wasn’t it?
She finished another cornrow, perfect, and she’d only learned two weeks ago. She laughed with pleasure, couldn’t help herself. Miss Sixteen-Year-Old twisted around and said in a furious voice, “Why are you laughing? I know I’ll look beautiful in cornrows. My mom’s a cheapskate and doesn’t like anything I do. If you’re not doing them right—”
Zoltan leaned close to her ear. “Be quiet, or I’ll speak with your grandfather, Phillip Arlington, tell him what a disrespectful brat you are.”
“My grandfather? No, that’s stupid. Grandpa’s dead, two years ago. You can’t—how do you know his name?”
Her voice wobbled a bit, and Zoltan saw alarm in those beautiful blue eyes. Good. “Hold still, I’m nearly done. I’m laughing because I’m happy. When your mother comes to pick you up, you will buy her a rum drink with one of those pink umbrellas and tell her she’s beautiful and the greatest mom alive.” Zoltan finished the last cornrow and held up a mirror.
“Wow, I look amazing.” She fingered the cornrows, lifted them up and down, wrapped and unwrapped them around her fingers. And she started to laugh.
Zoltan saw the girl’s mother coming, looking every bit as rich as Zoltan’s Internet search suggested, a look of dawning horror on her face and cash in her hand. Zoltan leaned close to the girl’s ear. “Don’t forget to do what I told you. It’s what your grandpa wants you to do. And tell your mother she might want to come back and see me. I’m Sharma, and I practice obeah. I can help her speak to your grandfather.”
The mother pressed a twenty into her hand and walked away with her daughter. Zoltan saw the girl take her mother’s arm, which surprised her mother, and heard the girl say, “Mama, you’re so nice to let me experiment. Can I buy you a rum drink? Did I tell you? You’re the prettiest mom on the beach.”
Grandpa Phillip Arlington would be pleased when they talked to him, and she knew they would. Zoltan saw another customer walking toward her across the sugar sand, older, looking determined. A middle-aged tourist, good thick hair a pretty dark brown, wanting to try something outrageous. Yes, a little wicked. She’d look amazing when Zoltan was finished with her. She was wearing an expensive-looking cover-up. Zoltan gave her a little wave and nod. She felt a slight tug in her arm where she’d been shot. Almost well.
She smiled. Life was good.