More fiddling with the Logicube. “No,” he said distractedly, “but…” more fiddling…“I know that you did it. Yeah! Nice work!” Mayburn was practically bouncing on his feet now. “Damn, I didn’t think you could do it.”
“You didn’t think I could do it?” I tossed the T-shirts on top of the pile of clothes already in the suitcase. “Then why in the hell did you send me in there?”
He laughed. “I’m kidding. I’m just trying to piss you off.” He walked over and closed the suitcase. “Look at me.”
I did. His eyes were compassionate. We stood still, a few feet from each other. “I’m proud of you,” he said. “I want to hear all about it. Let’s go get a beer or something to celebrate.”
I turned and kept packing. “No way. Michael DeSanto caught me in his office.”
“What happened?”
I told him quickly while I threw random tank tops and sandals into the suitcase.
“Holy shit,” Mayburn said. “Maybe you should leave town.”
“Exactly. They know my name is Isabel, but they don’t know anything else about me, but it’s not like I’m the hardest person to spot.”
Mayburn eyed my red hair. “Good point.” He stared down at the hard drive in his hands. “I can’t wait to see what you got. You kicked ass here, McNeil. I have to thank you.”
It was nice to hear. “You’re welcome. Now, do me a favor and give me any information you can about what I should do when I get to Panama. Like the names of all the people you spoke to, and maybe those you have info for but haven’t contacted yet.”
“No problem.” He pulled out a pen and small notebook. Ripping out a blank page, he began copying a list of names he’d written in there. “And when you get to the airport, call your wireless company and ask them to turn on your international calling.”
“Good idea.”
Five minutes later, I took the list of names from Mayburn, threw my makeup on top of the pile in my suitcase and zipped it up. “I’ll call you from Panama.”
62
Day Ten
There were no available evening flights to Panama, so I stayed at an O’Hare Hilton. Strangely, I got the best sleep I’d had since Sam disappeared. No one seemed to have followed me there. I felt safe in the anonymity of an airport hotel.
During the flight the next morning, though, my anxiety returned like a train blasting into the station. The male flight attendant seemed way too accommodating for coach. And the guy behind me who glanced up over his paper when I went to the bathroom-was he someone to be careful of? I would probably never again think a man was simply ogling me for my looks, and I added this to the list of wrongs Sam had done me. I sat fuming in my seat.
The ride from the Panama City aeropuerto to the Decapolis hotel, where Sam had stayed, surprised me. Despite the billboards in Spanish, the highway looked as if it could have been in the States-a few industrial areas, a couple of impoverished-looking places. When we reached downtown and the avenue that ran along the bay, I was surprised to see its shore packed with high-rises.
“Does all of Panama City look like this?” I asked the cabdriver, who, blessedly, spoke English.
He laughed, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He was old, probably in his seventies, and his entire tanned face creased when he smiled. “No, no. This is business area and Multicentro, for shopping. You make sure you see Casco Viejo, sí? And Panama La Vieja.”
“Right. Great.” I twisted in my seat and tried to see if any cars were lingering behind us. I saw nothing.
And then, for the first time in over a week, I got the feeling I was alone. That no one was watching me.
The hotel was a sleek tower made of stainless steel and glass. I thanked the driver and paid the fare using U.S. cash. The official currency was the balboa, I’d learned from the chatty flight attendant on the plane. But only coins were available, no balboa paper money, and the balboa was tied to the U.S. dollar 1-1, so they accepted American money.
As I stepped from the cab, the hotel loomed over me like a big mirror, reflecting the low-hanging gray clouds that peppered the sky. The temperature was pleasant enough-probably in the low eighties-but the humidity hung like a wet blanket. While the city had looked a hundred percent metropolitan from a distance, I could see now that sprinkled in between the high-rises were bodega-like shops, cafés with round plastic tables in front and video stores.
I handed my bag to the concierge and soon I was inside, checking in. So far, everyone had spoken nearly fluent English. My room, twenty stories up, didn’t look so different from an upscale hotel in the United States -smooth maple furniture, crisp white linens on a low platform bed. The only thing that set it apart were the large photographs of what looked to be African natives in tribal dress.
The bellman saw me staring at the photos and explained, “Panamanian peoples.” He pointed at a scary, colorful mask that hung between the closet doors. “Devil mask,” he said.
An image flashed in my mind-Sam lifting the mask off the wall, wearing it.
I gave the bellman a large tip.
“If we can do anything for you during your stay-” he began to say.
“There is.” I rifled through my carry-on for the two photos of Sam I’d brought with me. Both were close-ups of his face and torso. One, I’d taken in Mexico on the beach. His hair was almost white-blond from the week of sun and there was a streak of sand on his bare shoulder. The other photo showed him in a suit, before a benefit Forester had invited us to. His olive eyes matched the suit.
“Did you meet this man?” I held out the photos. I smiled at them as I did this, although really I felt like shredding them and tossing them at the devil mask as an offering. “He stayed here last week.”
The bellman glanced at the photos, shook his head and shrugged.
I grabbed the list of contacts Mayburn made me. “Do you know any of these people?”
He studied it. “Alejandro? He does not work today. Fernando, no work. Pedro, I do not know. Dominga? She is downstairs.”
A tickle of exhilaration crept up my back. “Downstairs where?”
“She is concierge.” He looked at the rest of the list, shaking his head at many of the names. “Yes, and Mateo, he is bartender. He is working in-” he glanced over my shoulder at the bedside clock “-one hour.”
“Thank you!” I gave him a few more dollars.
I changed into a black linen sundress, pulled my hair into a high ponytail to combat the humidity and took the elevator downstairs. I found the concierge behind a desk decorated with bold ethnic patterns.
Dominga was a nice woman who denied meeting Sam, and then immediately began trying to convince me to take a guided trip to someplace called Portobelo.
“No, thank you,” I said over and over, continuing to slide Sam’s pictures in front of her. “If you could just look at these again.”
She glanced at them. “I am sorry.”
“But I thought…” I started to say that I thought she had given information to Mayburn about Sam, but then again, she might have simply given him information that led Mayburn to someone or something else. In my haste to leave, I hadn’t asked Mayburn to decipher all the names.
I pulled out the list now and pointed at Mateo’s name. “Bartender?” I asked.
She looked at me curiously but nodded. “Sushi bar.” She pointed across the lobby to a chic bar that was lit from behind with a blue light. With its modern decor and the low thump of bass emanating from it, it could have been in Manhattan.
The sushi bar was nearly empty of patrons, save for one man wearing shorts and an untucked, cotton shirt that looked like something you might see in Havana.
I took a seat and smiled at the bartender, a small guy with a black ponytail. “Mateo?”