The Lion's Den(105)

“I’m not gonna let that happen.” He grabbed my hand, forcing me to meet his eye. “I promise.”

The steel door in the wall opened and a striking Latina in a black tunic dress emerged, a messenger bag slung across her shoulder. Her long dark hair was swept up in a messy bun, her lips stained red. She smiled and waved.

“That’s George?” I asked, surprised.

“The one and only,” he confirmed.

She peered into the car, her eyes going wide behind her black-framed glasses as she saw Eric.

“Dios mío,” she said, getting into the backseat. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you,” he said dryly. “You sure you weren’t followed?”

“Yes. I did just what you said. What happened to you?”

“Summer pushed me off a cliff.”

Her jaw dropped.

“My sentiments exactly,” he said. “But that’s the least of my problems. My father wants me dead, too.”

“Welcome to the club. My father ever escapes from prison, I am—” She drew a finger across her throat.

It was disconcerting yet grimly charming, how lightly she alluded to her own demise. I extended my hand through the center divide. “I’m Belle.”

She flashed a somber smile. “Thank you for taking care of my friend. I’m sorry I can’t go with you. Mexico is still too dangerous for me, even with my new name.”

“George isn’t your real name?” I asked.

She laughed. “I was Maria in a past life.”

“George and I met here,” Eric explained. “But later figured out our illustrious fathers had collaborated on a development in Mexico many years ago—”

“That drained a marshland and displaced an entire village,” she elaborated.

“Small world,” I commented.

“Yes,” she agreed. “At the top, all the most powerful men are in each other’s pockets, though they are always claiming otherwise.”

“And now she somehow miraculously convinces suckers to pay far more for my art than it’s worth,” he finished.

She passed him the messenger bag. “One hundred thousand. You have a couple of pieces pending, so there should be more soon. The passport and the key to my friend’s place in Rosarito are in the front pocket. He understands the need for confidentiality.”

“I can’t thank you enough,” Eric said.

“You’ve done more for me.” She waved his gratitude away. “I had a weird message from your brother yesterday. I haven’t called him back.”

“Did you save it?” Eric asked.

She brought up Dylan’s voice mail on her phone and hit play. Dylan’s voice was tinny over the speakerphone. “Hi, George. It’s Dylan. Please call me back as soon as possible. It’s important.”

“Can you call him now?” Eric asked. “I want to hear what he has to say.”

She hit call back. As the other end rang, Eric mouthed, You haven’t seen me. You know nothing.

“Dylan, it’s George Ramirez, returning,” George said into the phone.

“Right.” Dylan cleared his throat. “Hi, George. Thanks for calling me back. I’m sorry to—”

“What’s going on?” George asked, feigning concern.

“It’s Eric. He—” Dylan stopped himself, taking a breath. “You haven’t heard from him recently, have you?”

“No,” she said. “Not since his show last week.”

“And how did he seem, at his show?”

“Fine. Normal,” George replied. “Why, Dylan? What’s up?”

“He…They’re saying he may have killed himself.”

“Oh God,” George cried. Eric signaled for her to find out more. “When did this—what happened?”

“A few days ago,” Dylan said. “He sent a suicide email to his ex-girlfriend and then he disappeared.”

Eric and I exchanged a glance.

“Disappeared?” George asked.

“They found his car in a park in Ventura. They’re treating it as a missing persons case right now, but—”

“So he could be alive,” George interjected.

“We have people looking for him,” he said somberly. “It’s unbelievable, really. I can’t imagine he’d do something like this, but…I know how close you guys were. I should have called sooner. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to—”

“Mierda,” George said. “Do you need my help with anything?”

“My dad’s out there right now, dealing with everything,” Dylan said, glum. “He’s trying to retrace his steps. He asked me to tell you to please hold on to any money that comes in from his art. We’ll figure out what to do with it when we have time.”

“Okay. I’m so sorry, Dylan. Please keep me posted.”

Voices in the background. “I have to go,” he said. “Take care.”

The line went dead, and George looked up at us expectantly. “He sounded upset.”

Eric nodded slowly. “Doesn’t mean I can trust him.”

“You guys should hit the road if you wanna make it down by sunset,” George said. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything.”