Dial (12 page)

“Why should I talk to you?” Jo asked. “And last I heard, you were rotting in jail.”

“Meet me behind the club at nine o'clock tonight.” Diva's whispered voice was urgent, pleading. “Please. For the sake of my father . . . and the memory of yours.”

The phone went dead, and Jo replaced the receiver in its cradle. She had known from the instant she heard Diva's voice on the other end of the line that she would listen to what the girl had to say. Something was driving Jo forward, and she owed it to herself—and her father—to find out what that something was.

Jo reentered the dining room and took her place at the table as if she didn't have a care in the world. But her appetite was gone, and her mind was already several miles away—several miles away and behind El Centro, to be exact.

“What did Danielle want?” Caylin asked.

Jo shrugged. “She left her favorite bikini at the other house. I told her I'd swing by and pick it up after dinner.”

“We'll come along and keep you company,” Theresa offered. “I haven't had a ride in the Alfa Romeo all day—a new record for us.”

Uh. That wasn't going to work. Not at all. Theresa and Caylin would never approve of Jo going to talk to Diva
without clearing the rendezvous with The Tower first. And Jo's gut instinct told her that Uncle Sam wasn't going to okay any clandestine meetings with the Big Boss's daughter.

“I'd like to hang here,” Caylin said. “Pedro and I were going to take a dip in the pool.”

Jo breathed an inner sigh of relief. Getting rid of her ever present comrades was going to be easier than she had expected. “If you guys don't mind, I think I'll go on my own. I think a little solo jaunt would help me clear out my head once and for all.”

Theresa nodded understandingly. “I see what you mean.” She leaned close to Jo. “And I'll keep an eye on Caylin—so she doesn't make too much headway in your absence,” she added in a whisper.

Jo leaned back in her chair and surveyed the crowded table. Everyone continued to eat and drink as if some possibly momentous event wasn't about to take place. But Jo knew differently. She knew that tonight might change everything.

•  •  •

“Hello, Diva.” Jo had fled Chico's home without a hitch and sped all the way to El Centro. Diva had been waiting in the
shadows behind the club, just as she had promised.

“Josefina, you must listen to me. My father is innocent.”

“How did you get out of jail?” Jo asked. “Did you escape?” Even in the darkness, Jo could see that Diva looked terrible. Her face was pale, and her eyes were swollen from crying. She even thought that more of Diva's hair had turned white.

“No, the agents let me go . . . at least for now. They believe that I only did what I did because my father forced me to.”

“Is that true?” Jo asked.

Diva shook her head. “No. I did what I did because of Chico. He is the one who has held all of us hostage all of these years.”

“You're not making any sense,” Jo said. “Not that I should be surprised by that fact—I'm not prepared to believe a word you say.”

“Josefina, my father was not responsible for your father's death. He was set up—you must believe that.”

“What do you mean, he was set up?” Jo asked. “Who set him up?”

Diva shook her head. “I don't know all of the facts. What I do know is that Chico has made my father's life miserable ever since the murder of your father and the trial in Miami . . . but I don't know why.”

“What does Chico have to do with all of this?” Jo was starting to feel slightly dizzy. This whole situation was completely insane.

“Chico rules everything in Rio,” Diva explained. “And he rules everything up above it, too, into America. Yes, he has provided for my family, and he made sure that my father was not wrongly sent to prison for the murder of your father . . . but he has had his own reasons for doing these things.”

“None of this makes sense. I don't understand.” Jo was trying not to feel sympathy for Diva, but it was difficult. The girl was a wreck.

“All Chico wanted was to keep his own hands from getting dirty,” Diva said, her voice heavy with hate. “And he has kept my father in forced servitude for all of these years.”

The full scope of what Diva was saying finally sank in. “Are you trying to tell me that
Chico
is the Big Boss?” Jo asked. “That's . . . well, it's impossible.”

Diva snorted. “Believe me, it's more than possible. It's true.” She paused. “And I believe that Chico is the man who murdered your father.”

No. This conversation was now beyond totally insane. Diva was either out of her mind or the best liar Jo had ever had the displeasure to meet.

“But Chico's house is so modest . . . I mean, for a drug lord. Your
father's
house is the one that's huge and opulent.”

Diva shook her head. “Josefina, you are very naive. That house where you and your friends are staying isn't where Chico really lives. He uses it as a cover so that he won't seem like such a wealthy man.”

Jo's eyes widened. “And the mansion . . . ?”

“It is also his,” Diva confirmed. “Not to mention two more houses—in other parts of Brazil—that he has bought in other people's names. As well as several homes in the United States. One in Miami.”

“I don't believe you,” Jo insisted, her head spinning. “Chico is so sweet. . . . He's like someone's grandfather.” Like her
own
grandfather, in fact.

Diva laughed, but it was a laugh heavy with bitterness
and frustration. “Aren't all evil men sweet on the surface, Josefina? Do you think they gain their power by showing their true selves to the world?”

Jo's head began to pound as she studied Diva's ravaged face. Once again, everything was spinning out of control. Jo had no idea who she could trust. Diva? Chico? The Tower agents? It was all a huge, ugly mess.

“Josefina, if you can find the gun that shot the bullet that killed your father, then we can bring Chico to justice. It is our only hope.”

“I'll think about what you've said,” Jo told Diva after several long moments of tense, awkward silence. “That's all I can promise.”

“Please, Josefina. Call me soon.” With that parting remark, Diva disappeared into the dark Brazilian night.

Jo stood alone, feeling more isolated and confused than she had in her whole life. Only one thing was clear. This mission wasn't over. And it wouldn't
be
over—not until Jo learned the absolute truth about her father's death.

“It's official,” Theresa said to Caylin the next afternoon. “This is the best tan I've ever had.” Her careful use of the sunscreen had paid off. She had managed to get a tan without getting fried to a crisp in the process.

“That makes two of us,” Caylin responded. “But Jo's still got us beat, even though she hasn't even sat down in the sun long enough to get a tan line. That's just so not like her.”

“No kidding. If I didn't know better, I'd think that Jo was still deep into the mish.”

Theresa glanced at Jo, who was sitting in a corner of the patio, shielded by a large umbrella. On the table in front of her was Theresa's laptop. Every time one of the girls walked over to check on Jo, she was engaged in a serene game of computer Monopoly.

Caylin took a sip from her tall, frosted glass of lemonade. “Well, she hasn't said anything about that gun since last night. That's a good sign . . . right?”

“I guess so. . . .” Theresa sighed. “It's just too bad that there isn't something we can do to help Jo get out of this black mood.”

“Jo is one of the strongest people I've ever known. She'll bounce back when she's ready.”

Theresa hoped Caylin was right. Jo had been forced to deal with a lot of heavy issues during this mission. But she was taking Diva's betrayal so personally . . . almost as if she couldn't bear to believe that yet one more person was willing to do evil in the world. Who was to say Jo would ever really get over the effects of this mission?

“We're not going to do any good by hovering over Jo and asking her how she feels every five seconds,” Caylin continued. “The best thing we can do is have a good time ourselves—you know, teach by example.”

Theresa laughed. “In that case, pass me that gold nail polish. I think I need a pedicure.”

•  •  •

“Mind if I have a seat?” It was late afternoon by the time Jo had formulated a semifirm plan of action. And essential to that plan was a carefully orchestrated conversation with none other than Chico himself. She had found him in his den, smoking a pipe and relaxing with a café latte.

Chico glanced up from the Brazilian newspaper he had been reading. “Of course, Jacinta. Please, have a seat.”

The man was the picture of a clean conscience. In loose cotton pants, a traditional Brazilian shirt, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses, Chico looked like any semiretired middle-class businessman. Jo sat down on the love seat opposite Chico's couch.

“I just wanted to thank you again for all your help,” Jo began. “I mean, if it weren't for you, the man who killed my father would still be walking the streets.”

Chico shrugged. “Was nothing, Jacinta. I am just happy that evil man is away now. It was good that I call The Tower with my information, yes?”

“Yes.” Jo nodded. Okay. They were talking. . . . What now? “Do you have plans for the future, Chico?” she asked
cautiously. “I mean, now that you don't have to worry about Diva and her father forcing you to do their dirty work?”

“I am an old man now. I will just sit in the sun and be lazy.” He paused for a few moments, seemingly lost in the notion of permanent rest and relaxation. “Of course, there is part of me who wish I could have job like yours.”

“Like mine?” Jo asked. Hmmm. Now they were getting somewhere. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me what it is like, working for the government in United States.” His gaze was mild, but intent. “You must have exciting life, yes?”

Jo took a moment to gather her thoughts before she responded. She wanted to go at this part of their conversation with more than a little bit of imagination. “My job
is
pretty incredible. We get to do all kinds of James Bond stuff—you know, assassinations, bombings, the usual.”

Chico raised his eyebrows. “That must be very difficult. I don't think I could do those things.”

Jo shrugged. “If the ends justify the means, who cares what the price is?”

“I don't think I understand. What do you say—ends
and means?” If Chico was faking the innocent routine, he was doing a darn good job of it.

“I'm just pointing out that sometimes it's necessary to kill someone. Not that I
want
to—we just have to.” Lies, lies, lies. Diva wasn't the only person in Rio who could lie her tail off. Jo had gotten plenty of practice in the art of deception during her time as a Spy Girl.

“Oh, my, I could not do that. Never.” Chico looked horrified by what Jo had said.

Jo put on a sad, almost tearful face. “Yes, it's awful.” She paused. “But there are other parts of the job that are a lot of fun.”

“Oh yes?” Chico asked. “Tell me. I am just an old man. I don't know what is fun anymore.”

Okay, they had established that Chico thought of himself as an old man. What a crime! “Well, we get to use lots of cool spy gadgets,” Jo said, which was true enough. “Like, tiny cameras and microphones shaped like earrings and mini-computer modems . . . all that stuff.”

“My, you girls
are
like James Bond.” Chico still looked clueless.

“And I've gotten to play with lots of neato equipment,” Jo continued. “We have access to all of this old knights' armor. . . .” Not. But whatever. “And one time I got to fire a Jack Major Longhorn pistol—this totally rare kind of gun.”

There. A flicker. She had definitely seen a flash of interest in Chico's eye. An eye twitch wasn't a lot to go on, but at the moment, it had to be enough. . . .

•  •  •

Caylin stared at herself in the mirror. She had followed a Brazilian fashion mag's directions for the smoky-eyelid look, and the effect was nothing short of dazzling. ­Theresa, on the other hand, resembled a raccoon.

“Jo, you've got to come with us,” Caylin said for the third time since dinner. “If you agree to go out, I'll even do your eyes so you look like an Egyptian princess.”

“Thanks, guys, but I'm still feeling pretty drained.” Jo was lounging on Caylin's bed, reading a random Harlequin romance that she had pulled from one of Chico's many bookcases. “I'm just going to hang out here and lose myself in the story of Adrianna and Storm.”

“But Pedro is bringing two friends,” Theresa pointed out. “Without you, Cay and I are going to be outnumbered.”

“Yeah, it'll be La Americana all over again,” Caylin added. “We'll be left to juggle the guys without you. And you know, that ain't right.”

Jo shut the book. “Look. I'd love to, but I really think I'd just fall asleep at the table. My flirt switch is off tonight.”

Caylin set down her mascara wand and turned to Jo. “Are you sure? 'Cause we can cancel with the hotties and stay here with you.”

“Don't go nuts on me,” Jo insisted. “There's, like, less than no point for you guys to miss out on possible action just because I want to stay in and eat bonbons all night.” She paused. “Besides, I think I'm going to feel a whole lot better by tomorrow.”

“Your wish is our command,” Theresa said. “But you'll be missing out—tonight I samba!”

Caylin laughed. She would have to remember to take some pictures of Theresa on the dance floor with her digital lash cam. If those photos wouldn't bring a smile to Jo's face, nothing would!