Tenderloin (Abby Kane FBI Thriller) (5 page)

“You guys often travel alone?”

“Not usually, but I was busy with another tip in Medellín.” Cabrera waved off any sense of danger. “We’ve done this many times before.”

“And Fredy? What about him?”

“He stayed in Bogotá and covered the airport.”

“So what happened in Mitú?” I asked before scooping up mouthful of beans.

Cabrera took a moment to swallow. “I wish I knew. While in Medellín, I got a call from a police contact saying they had found his body in a ditch. I came back to Bogotá and grabbed Fredy, and we left for Mitú right away.”

“Then what?”

“We identified the body at the local morgue and reported it to my superiors.”

“Why not report it the minute you got wind?”

Cabrera took a moment before speaking, his shoulders dropping a bit. “Aside from wanting to be sure, I guess I was in denial. I mean, he was a capable agent, right? I was sure it was a mistake, and I would find him later and we would laugh about this over beers.”

I sensed Riggs’s death was still difficult for him to talk about, but I was the party pooper who had to keep the conversation going. I knew firsthand how tough it was to lose a coworker—especially if they’re a close friend. I had lost my partner, Trey Wilkinson, during an investigation not too long ago. I also knew Cabrera had the ability to shut off those emotions to get the job done. It’s part of the training across all agencies.

“What’s your take on the FBI getting involved?” I asked.

“I’m all for it. I mean, you saw the body, right?”

I nodded.

“Because of the nature of what we do down here, it’s important not to look weak in front of the cartels, even the Colombian forces. We’re a big part of the backbone here. So when we lose a man, we need to show that whoever is responsible will have to face the wrath of the US Having FBI here sends a message.”

The work dynamics here were similar to what I faced when I worked in Hong Kong. Fighting the Triads, the Chinese crime syndicate, was a love-hate relationship. We knew them well, as they did us. In a weird sort of way, there was a level of respect toward each other because each side knew what the other was capable of. Neither showed weakness; it was the quickest way to lose respect.

I let out a yawn. We had both finished our meals.

“I’m sorry. You must be tired from your flight.”

“I won’t argue with you there. We can talk more tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday. I thought I could show you around town.”

“The tour will have to wait.”

Cabrera grabbed the bill and stood up. I grabbed my purse and reached for my wallet, but he looked back at me and said, “I got it.”

There were those dimples again.

Chapter 10

The next morning, I was sitting on the toilet, filing my nails, when I heard knocking on my hotel door. I ignored it, hoping the person would lose interest, but the knocking continued.
Persistent staff they got here.
There I sat, trapped, seconds away from housekeeping barging in. The knocking then turned to pounding. I couldn’t understand why they didn’t come in already. I finally yelled at them to come back later. That’s when I opened my eyes and realized I had been sleeping, but the knocking was real. Someone was at my door.

The blackout curtains were drawn, cloaking the room in darkness. It took me a few seconds to gather my senses and find the clock on the nightstand. It was 9:00 a.m.
Ugh.

I swung my feet off the bed and grabbed a robe on my way to the door. I looked through the eyehole and saw Cabrera smiling back at me.

“Abby, I know you’re looking at me through the peephole. Come on. Open up.”

What the hell is he doing here?

I undid the bolt lock and cracked the door open enough to look out.

“Time to get up, Sleeping Beauty. I got you coffee.”

“I prefer tea.”

“You haven’t had fresh-roasted Colombian. Now, open up. You got nothing I haven’t seen before.”

Cabrera shoved his foot into the crack and started to weasel himself in. It was hopeless. I let the door swing open, and a man I had only recently met walked into my room. I stood there and watched him place two coffee containers down while he asked if I took cream or sugar. He didn’t wait for an answer, telling me he had none and the coffee he had brought should be drunk black so I could taste its true flavor.

To add to that, I didn’t have a lick of make up on, my hair looked like the aftermath of a hurricane, and the thin piece of cloth shielding my lady parts from his eyes made me feel exposed.

I excused myself to the bathroom. A few seconds later, I heard Cabrera yell out, “Is that you or a horse?”

I felt my cheeks burn red as I was so publicly made aware of how loud I peed.
Dammit!

When I exited the bathroom, Cabrera held a cup out to me, and I tried to act like my bionic pee was nothing.

“Try this,” he said.

I grabbed the cup and took a tiny sip. And then another. I’m not a coffee gal, but the brew was tasty. I usually find most coffee to be bitter. This one was palatable.

“Keep drinking. It’ll help bring you back from the dead.”

“How long were you knocking?”

“A good ten minutes. I almost busted down the door.”

I shot him a raised eyebrow as I braved another sip from the steaming cup. I still couldn’t tell what his story was. Was he a jokester, or was he flirting with me? What confused me even more right then was watching him make himself comfortable in a chair in
my
room. He kicked up both feet and let them rest on the coffee table. He cradled his cup of joe in his lap and smiled. What kind of guy enters a female coworker’s hotel room while she’s half naked and proceeds to make himself at home? This guy, that’s who.

I folded my arms across my chest. “If you’re waiting for a show, it’s not going to happen.”

Ding, ding, the light went off.

“Sorry. I wasn’t thinking. I get comfortable around people really fast.”

I noticed.
I watched him stand up and take a seat outside on the balcony.
Not much better.
I waited a bit until I was convinced he would to stay out there. Before I jumped into the shower, he called asking if I needed any help. His candidness gave me pause.
Things really are different down here.
For me, this was a business trip. The last thing I needed was my contact flirting with me.

When we exited the hotel an hour later, my stomach let out a growl that caught Cabrera’s ear.

“Hey I know a great place we can get some delicious
calentado
.”

“Huh?”

“It a traditional Colombian breakfast: beans and rice with an egg on top, a piece of
arepa
, which is like cooked dough, plus a side of
chorizo
and a cup of hot chocolate. Good stuff.”

Over breakfast, I learned more about my new partner. To be honest, I did find him interesting. He wasn’t institutional like most agents. He was a lot like me: off kilter.

“I got my green card shortly after graduating from the University of San Francisco.”

My eyes widened. “You lived in SF?”

“Yeah. I had family there: cousins. It made sense at the time. Anyway, when I graduated, I was able to secure a job at the Colombian embassy, and I stayed put until I gained citizenship. My plan was to apply with the CIA.”

“You wanted to be in the CIA?”

“I always wanted to be a spy,” he added. “Ever since I saw my first James Bond movie as a kid, I dreamed of being a secret agent. When I got older, I realized those agents only existed on the big screen, but I figured I’d give it a try. Right before applying, a friend mentioned the DEA to me. It felt like a better fit. Plus, I knew I always wanted to come back to my country, and I could do that with the DEA.”

The waitress put a cup of hot water down on the table. I pulled out a tiny silver tin from my purse and opened it, revealing my loose-leaf tea.

Cabrera let out a chuckle. “You always carry your own tea?”

“It’s the only way to guarantee I’ll have something to drink. Plus, I have a particular fondness for a certain green tea.”

“You know, you have some cute quirks.”

“I have quirks? This coming from a man who barged into my room while I was half dressed and then proceeded to camp out while I got ready.”

“You’re alone in a new country. I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Yeah, I know what you want to keep an eye on.”

Cabrera immediately pointed to his chest with both hands, feigning innocent surprise. At times it was hard to believe this guy was DEA. I couldn’t help but crack a smile. “Okay, enough,” I said as I sipped my tea. “Funny business aside, is there anything else about this case you want to mention?”

Cabrera leaned forward. His smile disappeared. His eyes narrowed, and in a low whisper, he asked me, “What do you know about zombies?”

Chapter 11

Cabrera surprised me when he suggested we walk to the office and even more so when talk about the investigation turned into talk about “his” city. He was a wealth of information and proceeded to give me a personal tour, leading me down narrow streets, past homes with wooden doors and elaborate door knockers, until we reached the city center, or what locals called
La Candelaria
—old Bogotá. The area was surrounded by a mixture of small shops and ancient churches, the centerpiece being the
Plaza de Bolivar
, a large public square anchored by the neoclassical façade of the
Catedral Primada
, Bogotá’s largest church.

“It dates back to 1807,” he said. “It’s older, but poor construction caused parts of it to collapse, and it had to be rebuilt.” The bells chimed as a flurry of men and women filed in through the front doors. “All of our churches, no matter how old, still hold Mass.”

Before we left the square, I took a quick peek inside and admired the stately rows of whitewashed columns leading to the archways above.

From there, we passed a surprisingly large number of small museums—Cabrera pointed them all out—before stopping in front of a two-story building covered in chipped and peeling paint. Its current color was a faded yellow. There were four or five retail establishments on the ground floor. One appeared to be a beauty salon. Another looked like a store that sold cigarettes and booze.

“This way,” Cabrera said as he headed up a flight of cement stairs dotted with aged gum. I noticed a camera in the corner.

“A little low key for a DEA office, isn’t it?”

“It’s that way on purpose, to blend.”

The second floor of the building was different. Frosted windows ran its entire length. A wrought-iron guardrail occupied the other side. Cabrera punched a code into a digital pad next to the only door on the floor. Another camera above peered down at us. A few beeps, and then he punched another code. I heard a couple of clicks and what sounded like a dead bolt unlatching.

“We have one hell of a door though,” he said, smiling as he opened it. “Ladies first.”

The lights were off, but enough natural light punched through the windows to illuminate the layout of the space. I half expected wood paneling on the walls to match the large metal desks. Utilitarian style at its worst, punctuated with a putty-colored palette.

I reached for a light switch, and harsh florescent lighting flickered to life, causing me to squint. Cabrera immediately shut the lights off. “Yeah, that’s why we use desk lamps.” He walked from desk to desk, switching on the lamps and giving the place a homey feel. “Why don’t you take this one?” he said. “You’ll be next to me.”

“Boy, you weren’t kidding when you said it was just you and Fredy,” I said, motioning to all the empty workstations.

“We’re self-sufficient. We answer our own phones and buy our coffee from the café downstairs.” Cabrera took a seat behind his desk and leaned back. “We’ve always had a small operation down here.”

“Where
is
Fredy?”

“Medellín. He’s finishing up the business I had out there so I could remain in Bogotá with you.” Cabrera straightened up in his chair. “Sit, sit. Make yourself at home. We have WiFi. We’re fully equipped like any office.” He retrieved a manila folder from one of his desk drawers and placed it on my desk. “That’s Riggs’s file.” He emphasized by tapping it with his forefinger.

Cabrera stood up. “Listen, I got some business I need to take care of. I’ll be gone for a bit. That file should keep you busy, but if you need me,” he said, handing me a business card, “you can reach me at that number. It’s my mobile. Oh, one more thing.” He fished out a paper from the top drawer of his desk. “Here’s the security code and step-by-step instructions for the door. Should I walk you through it once?”

I had already begun reading and was only half listening. Before I knew it, I was sitting alone.

It took me forty minutes to get through the file. I had nothing but questions and no Cabrera to answer them. Plus, I didn’t much feel like calling him on his cell. I wanted his full attention. A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Lucy had texted me a photo. She had learned how to suck her cheeks in and make like a fish. I responded with my best puckered face.

I picked up the file and started flipping through it once more. Intentionally or not, Cabrera had skipped over some information during our talks. For instance, there were two other bodies found in Mitú with similar wounds. That’s important to know. Had Cabrera spent less time trying to get to know me and more time briefing me, we might have been further along.

I reread the section that mentioned the
muertos vivientes
and still felt the same about it:
indifferent. When he brought it up earlier, I continually cut him off, wanting to see the report firsthand in lieu of hearing his version of the gist.

Colombia came across to me as a land full of lore, and I happen to be one of those people who don’t believe in any sort of supernatural-type-stuff. Never did; never will. It’s probably the way my brain is wired. I’m also not the best person to watch a horror movie with because I point out all the silly movie effects and inconsistencies. And if that doesn’t ruin the movie, then my snarky commentary about women who can’t run more than five feet without falling or who think it’s nothing to find out what the dog is barking at in the backyard at night while only wearing a bra and panties will certainly do it.