his feet or the digital photos captured on his cell phone. Until he figured out whose side the man was on, Duarte didn't need to know everything.
'So, Captain, you have any ideas on who might think a poisonous snake makes a good key to the city?'
'Placing a curse on Mr. Charboneau after the fact seems a waste of time, don't you think? Perhaps the scare tactic was directed at you and your delightful companion. A message to mind your own business.'
Jasmine stopped her pacing. She drilled her eyes on Duarte. Clearly, the man brought out the best in her. If looks dealt a mortal blow, Duarte would have been sporting a garrote necktie, his throat severed by a lethal wire.
'That's what I thought too, but I find it hard to believe kidnappers would tamper with their meal ticket.' Christian offered his theory. 'Usually ransom money is the main driver for an abduction, but whoever is behind this thing is sending mixed messages, like they don't care about the payoff.'
'I've witnessed families of victims take different approaches to recovering their loved ones, to pay or not to pay. I am not offering advice, but I've seen a severed ear or finger put things in perspective.'
'I appreciate your ... sensitivity.' Christian scowled, leaning forward in his chair. 'Forgive me if I don't wait for body parts to show up on my doorstep.'
'I'm not suggesting—' Duarte stopped and slouched back in his seat, making the brown vinyl crinkle. He pulled something from his desk drawer. 'You asked if any proof of life evidence had been received. Well, this arrived an hour ago.'
The captain dropped a plastic bag onto his desk. It contained a Polaroid photo and a white envelope, the photo of a man holding a newspaper. When it landed in front of Christian, he recognized the face. His father, Nicholas Charboneau. He looked gaunt, his clothes rumpled and his skin smeared with grime and sweat. Before Christian picked up the bagged photo, Jasmine beat him to it. She held it close, in both hands, as if it were fragile.
'Did you see who left it?' she whispered, not taking her eyes off the Polaroid. 'I can't see the date clearly. Did you recognize the headline?'
'The paper was yesterday's. And unfortunately, a small boy dropped it off before anyone questioned him. It came inside a sealed envelope. It's unlikely we will find the child, but even if we did, he probably couldn't tell us much.'
'He's in some kind of jail cell, but with the shadows and the poor quality of the photo, we can't determine much else. And we found no fingerprints on the photo or the envelope.' Duarte leaned forward in his chair. 'If it's any consolation, it does confirm he's alive. More news than what we had before.'
'I'd like to know what you've been doing to find him.' Christian gritted his teeth, holding back his anger.
Second thoughts and instinct stopped him from showing the photos of Rodrigo Santo. Why didn't he trust the captain? If Duarte was covering for Santo, Christian would be stepping into the middle of the conspiracy without knowing the players. And having the photo would only bring up questions on how they'd acquired it. No, at this point he had no faith in Captain Duarte. And with his abrupt change in attitude, Christian's true colors showed.
'What leads do you have, Captain?'
Before Duarte replied, a booming voice came from behind him. Jasmine turned her attention to the newcomer, her expression unreadable.
'And if I were in your shoes, I would want to know the answer to that question myself.'
Duarte glared at the intruder standing at his door. Tall and well groomed, a man in an expensive suit extended his hand, walking toward Christian. He stood, grimacing with pain as he knocked out all the kinks.
'Mr. Delacorte, my name is Chief Ricardo Zharan. I'm sorry for what has happened to Mr. Charboneau.'
The man already knew his name. Did everyone in this town get the memo on his arrival?
'Pleased to meet you, Chief,' he replied. Zharan had a firm grip.
'And it is a pleasure to see you again, Ms. Lee.' The police chief nodded in her direction. Without a word, Jasmine leaned an elbow against a bookshelf and nodded. She raised a finger in greeting, going all out. The woman knew how to conserve energy.
Dressed in a dark navy suit, crisp white shirt, and a red power tie, Chief Zharan carried himself like a man of privilege, head held high and rock-solid eye contact. Seeing him on the street, Christian might have mistaken him for a politician or a successful movie actor. Charismatic. Confident. A head of thick dark hair grayed at his temples. And his strong jaw and white teeth projected a polished image.
'Understand this, Mr. Delacorte. I will not tolerate such a travesty in my city.'
Apparently, Duarte had competition for control of Cuiaba. And by the looks of him, the good captain didn't appreciate the opposition from his boss.
Zharan continued, 'It is despicable. I have formed a special task force to work with your American consulate, coordinating the rescue efforts. Captain Duarte has agreed to turn over his files to me, along with the evidence he's gathered thus far.'
The chief's sideways glance toward his police captain sent a clear message to Christian. Zharan was taking charge and Duarte resented it. Nothing like getting your manhood whacked in front of an audience.
'And furthermore, I plan to match your reward offer for any information leading to the arrest of all those involved.'
'I'm more interested in getting Mr. Charboneau back alive.'
'Yes, of course. That goes without saying.' The chief grinned, white teeth setting off dark olive skin. 'Do you have a card? I will be in touch, of course.'
After Christian handed the man his business card, the chief gave one of his own.
'Call me anytime ... for any reason.' Zharan gave a quick dismissive look toward Duarte and left the room. The silence in his wake was deafening.
Although Jasmine kept quiet, her smug attitude spoke for her. She enjoyed the degrading show of disrespect Duarte just got from his superior, but Christian had never developed a fondness for gloating.
'I hope you know I had nothing to do with that.' He didn't know what to make of this sudden turn of events. No point alienating Duarte.
'I have survived many chiefs, Mr. Delacorte. And I am still here. This one has ambition for politics . . . and other things. One way or another, he will not stay long.'
'And what ambitions do you have, Captain?' Christian couldn't resist asking the question.
The man narrowed his eyes and flexed his jaw. 'As I have said, I am a simple man. What I want does not concern you.'
'I hope not, Captain Duarte. For both our sakes, I hope that's true.'
With Jasmine on his heels, Christian left Duarte's office, feeling the weight of tension in his chest. His shoulders and neck felt like crap. Charboneau's case had escalated into the hands of the military police chief, with a hefty bump in reward money. He should have been satisfied for the added attention to his father's case. Instead, he felt adrift in a strong current, being pulled out to sea. A familiar sensation these days.
Had the police chief taken over too late? Or worse, was Zharan only an image-conscious figurehead without clout—more buff than stuff? And if Duarte had a secret agenda, would he sabotage Zharan's investigation?
All things considered, his short-fused mission to save his father's life had grown hair. And he didn't need the added complication.
'Come on. I could use some caffeine,' he declared as he headed for the elevators with Jasmine. In his best Ricky Ricardo impersonation, he added, 'And you have some 'splainin' to do, Lucy.'
Christian picked a sidewalk cafe down the street from Guia Do Espirito, their next stop. With the carryon bag at his feet under the shade of the table, he indulged in a jolt of espresso and a sweet roll as he watched the comings and goings of the voodoo store and listened to Jasmine.
'That clinic was not in operation the last time Nicky and I came.' She sipped her tea. Her eyes hid behind dark glasses. 'I'm guessing, but I don't think Nicky knew of its existence.'
'But you're only his bodyguard. How would you know that?' He smiled.
