flipit
04-19-2008, 02:56 AM
CHAPTER TWO
I was in the middle of a dream where police were arresting me for being too fat and an alarm was ringing in the background. The dream stopped, but the ringing didn’t. It took me a second to realize that the noise was coming from my cell phone.
“Maria Rosita Consuela …” Michael chanted.
“What time is it?” I demanded weakly, as I fell back against my pillows. My room was pitch black and it seemed awfully early to be receiving phone calls.
“…Mercedes Gutteriez,” Michael finished. “It’s 7:30, time to be up and around.” He paused, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is HE there?”
I am not a morning person. I believe that a person should wake up when they’re ready to wake up and not a minute before. And then, there is that delicate time between sleep and full wakefulness that most people refuse to acknowledge. I prefer to lie in bed for an hour or so sipping my first café mocha of the day. Michael, on the other hand, was always up at the crack of dawn, revoltingly cheerful and full of energy. I found myself having some fleeting sympathy for Sylvester.
Out of all the people who fell in love with Sylvester, which was practically everyone he met, Michael had seemed unlikely to spark his interest. Michael was attractive in an exuberant boyish way, but he wasn’t exactly handsome. He was about 5’10” and constantly trying to fight a growing roll of fat around his midsection. He had a slightly receding hairline, with soft brown hair, chubby cheeks and slightly crooked teeth. He had made an enormous fortune in New York real estate and had spent the last several years branching into any business enterprise that caught his fancy. Michael had a knack for making money.
They had met on a friend’s yacht. Sylvester had then spent the next year courting Michael in a manner that had forcibly reminded me of a hungry panther stalking a furry little bunny. I once asked Michael why he had held out for so long. “Because,” he had explained to me, “if I was to let myself fall in love with someone as beautiful as Sylvester, what would be left for me when it ended? I would be ruined for all other men.” I had completely understood how he felt.
“Yes Michael, he’s here,” I told him wearily. “He got here yesterday. What happened?”
“Oh thank God.” Michael’s emotions bubbled out like a child’s with absolutely no restraint and he was clearly relieved. “I was sure he must be, but you know Sylvester, I’m never sure what he’s going to do when he flies into a miff. Is Victor with him?”
“Victor?” I shook my head trying to clear it. “Who’s Victor?”
“Oh Maria, I think I’m losing my mind. He’s been getting phone calls from someone named Victor and he won’t talk about it.” Michael sounded a little sheepish.
“It’s probably something related to our work. You know he doesn’t like to involve you in it.”
“I know,” he said with a pathetic little catch to his voice.
“Michael, he says the wedding is off. What happened?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t care if it is. And if it is, I’m equally sure that it’s no fault of mine.” He sniffed and I could picture his mouth drooping sadly.
I sighed and fumbled on my nightstand for a cigarette and lighter. “No Michael, I’m sure it’s not your fault, but what happened?”
Michael snorted. “Well, really Maria, it’s the most ridiculous thing. All because my chef will flirt with me, as if that should be any threat to Sylvester. And when I think of all those gorgeous young men that he’s had making up to him over the years, well really.”
I frowned. “Michael, you’re telling me that you think Sylvester is jealous?”
“Like a tomcat marking his territory,” Michael confirmed. “Here’s this cute little chef paying me just the sweetest compliments and what does Sylvester do? He demands that I fire him.”
“Wait a minute, what chef?”
“Oh didn’t I tell you? I bought a catering company. You know the sort of thing, purely black tie affairs. Very shi-shi. It’s the most diverting business.”
“Okay,” I interrupted. “So who’s the chef?”
“Oh, little Antoine, he’s the cutest boy, French trained you know. He makes the most delightful pastries.”
“Michael, what happened?” By now I was sitting up and feeling slightly alarmed. I was ready to bank my life on the fact that Sylvester had never had a jealous twinge in his entire existence.
“Well nothing really,” Michael faltered. “It’s just like I said. Antoine has a little crush on me, and he flirts a little. There’s nothing to it and I can’t believe that Sylvester would think that there was.” Michael’s voice had become a little shaky but steadied with indignation. “And when it comes to demanding that I fire Antoine out of hand. Well, that’s really too much.”
“He told you to fire him?” I was fumbling for another cigarette.
“For no good reason. Can you imagine? Do you know how hard it is to get a good chef for a catering company? Well, of course I told Sylvester absolutely not. Well really.”
I could imagine that none of this had gone too smoothly. “So why did you call the wedding off?”
“Well, I told Sylvester that I had no desire to marry a b-bully.” Michael blew his nose resolutely and continued, “Well I ask you, who would? And he said fine and walked out. And that’s the last I’ve seen of him.”
“That last part sounds like Sylvester,” I agreed. I turned on my light and glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. “Michael, it’s only 4:30 in the morning.”
“Well it’s 7:30 over here and I just couldn’t wait any longer. Besides,” he continued indignantly, “I can’t believe you didn’t call me as soon as you heard from him. I’ve been worrying for almost two days.”
I sighed. I could see his point, but I really didn’t want to get caught in the middle of this.
“Maria, do you think I should come out there?”
Forgetting that he couldn’t see me, I vigorously shook my head. “No, definitely not. First, Sylvester’s still in a snit and second, we’re starting a job today.”
“Really, a job?” Michael thrilled.
I closed my eyes waiting for his next line. Michael loved the idea of being a thief.
“Do you think I could help this time?”
“No Michael, especially not with you and Sylvester on the outs.”
He sighed forlornly. “Would you talk to Sylvester? You know, try to make him see reason for me?”
I rolled my eyes and crossed my fingers. “Sure Michael, I’ll talk to Sylvester for you, but now I need to get breakfast.”
“Maria, about that food.”
“What about that food, Michael?”
“Well, that’s my other reason for calling.” He hesitated.
I waited.
“It seems that Bitsy called Raven yesterday a little upset. Of course, I told Raven that it wasn’t possible, but Bitsy seems to think that you might be cheating on your food plan.”
“Michael, when your wedding is back on track we’ll have this conversation. Not a minute before then.”
“But Maria,” He protested, “Bitsy could really help you, if you’d just give her a chance. Raven speaks very highly of her.”
“Bitsy has the IQ of a small plant, maybe a weed. It’s amazing that she can breathe.”
“Maria, not everybody can be as smart as you and Sylvester,” Michael answered reprovingly. “I hope you don’t speak about me like that behind my back. Do you tell people that I have an IQ of a plant?”
I shut my eyes and banged my head back against the headboard. “Michael, it’s 4:30 in the morning and I haven’t had any coffee yet.”
“But that’s the only time I can win with you,” he told me cheerfully before disconnecting.
I forced myself to disengage from my blankets and stand, dislodging Tom in the process. He gave me a baleful stare.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s tough all over.” I watched him knead the blankets back into shape and settle down stretched out on his back, supremely indifferent to my troubles.
Having wrapped myself in a soft comforting robe with matching slippers, I shuffled into the kitchen to brave the certain disapproval of Mrs. Santos.
Sylvester had hired Mrs. Santos years ago. She had been in the house when I came and I suspected that she would still be there after I was gone. At first, she had been coldly disapproving of me. When Sylvester had moved to New York and declined to take her with him, she had apparently reevaluated and became frigidly accepting. When I dismissed her nephew from his part-time post mowing the grass and clipping hedges and replaced him with Carlos, she had reverted to her original coldly disapproving demeanor. As for Carlos, as far as I knew, she had yet to acknowledge his existence. I would have fired her years ago, but Sylvester had insisted that she would always have a place in the house. On the bright side, I rarely saw her. It was a little like living with a ghost. She lived in a suite of rooms above the garage and moved silently and invisibly through the house, maintaining its spotless condition. We communicated by leaving notes for each other at the foot of the stairs.
Why she was up at 4:30 am cooking up a storm, I had no idea. I was pretty sure it wasn’t part of her normal routine. But then again I couldn’t remember the last time I had been in the kitchen at this hour. I noted the rigidity of her shoulders and studied her thoughtfully. It took me a second to catch the emotion. Mrs. Santos was most definitely suffering from embarrassment and guilt. “Buenos Dias, Mrs. Santos,” I said politely.
As always, she was in her blue and white uniform with adidas sneakers tied in neat bows. Her hair was pulled tightly back and painfully twisted into a shiny knot, the whole covered by the inevitable thick and very ugly hair net. She glanced at me over her plump shoulder and continued to stir the contents of a large bowl. “Miss Maria,” she acknowledged with a supreme indifference before turning her back on me.
“What are you cooking at this hour?” I asked and felt a definite sense of satisfaction as her back tightened even more.
“It is for Senor Sylvester’s breakfast,” she said defensively.
“How nice.” I was damned sure that the wretched woman never got up at this hour to cook me a special breakfast. “What is it?”
Mrs. Santos stopped stirring and deliberately wiped her hands on a dishtowel before turning to face me. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “It is the Mexican donuts in honey that Senor Sylvester used to like me to make.”
I had a vague memory of these delicacies. “I don’t think we’ve had those for a long time.”
Mrs. Santos shook her head matter-of-factly, “No, I only make for Senor Sylvester.”
I sighed. After all, the woman was clearly infatuated with Sylvester, along with the rest of the civilized world. “I’ll be in the computer room,” I told her. “I’d appreciate my morning mocha as soon as you can manage it.”
“Yes, Miss Maria.” Mrs. Santos nodded her assent, automatically heading towards the coffee.
It was still dark out and the glow from my flat screen monitor cast a weird bluish glow across the room. My computer room was actually a large solarium off the living room that I had made into my workspace. It was filled with my computer equipment and all the toys that went along with it.
If I had a passion, above and beyond basic hedonistic pursuits, it was hacking. Computers didn’t emote. They didn’t have good days and bad days. They didn’t have mood swings. They didn’t have a need for understanding and support. I loved my relationship with my computer.
The first rule of hacking is to leave no footprints, so I busied myself connecting to several different addresses before hacking into a phone line that originated somewhere in Ontario. From there I started to dig for any information published anytime, anywhere that was relevant to Flanders’ Chocolate.
The company had been started in 1914 by Dorothea Flanders’ great grandfather. It had been passed down from father to son until it reached Dorothea’s father, who had suffered the great indignity of only fathering a single daughter. A resourceful man, Dorothea’s father had handpicked a husband for her and bequeathed the company to him. Luckily for him, he had a compliant daughter. However, the husband failed to demonstrate the expected longevity and had passed away in 1996, leaving the company, despite her father’s wishes, to Dorothea. He had also failed to produce a son. Instead, leaving behind, like the generation before him, one daughter.
In 2003, Dorothea Flanders’ remarried and, without her father to guide her, made a remarkably poor choice. Mr. Graham Carr was by all accounts not only a nasty specimen, he was also an efficient one. By 2004, Dorothea had relinquished her position in the company along with the majority of her legal rights to her new husband.
I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. I’m not deluded enough to make any noble rationalizations for my way of life, but there is such a thing as honor among thieves. Graham Carr definitely had a hinky feel to him. In the upper right corner of my screen, a text message box was beckoning to me with a cheerful greeting.
“Good morning beautiful.”
I smiled and typed back, “Good morning Stryder, don’t you ever sleep?”
Stryder was a professional hacker who sold his services over the Internet. His abilities were legendary. Lately, he had been poking into my system rather frequently. This probably should have alarmed me, but I consoled my conscience with the salve that I didn’t sense any threat. Of course, if I was being perfectly honest, I wasn’t really sure what I could sense about a person through the internet.
“Didn’t anyone tell you? Real hackers never sleep.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a real hacker, I love to sleep.”
“Alone?”
I sat back and considered before typing, “Gotta go, I have work to do.” Stryder had been getting a little personal lately and I didn’t think the idea of virtual sex appealed to me.
“Scaredy cat. Let me know if you need help.”
I closed the text box feeling a little unfocused.
The kitchen was filled with comforting smells of pastries and coffee. Sylvester, impeccable in grey silk pants and an angora turtleneck, was seated at the table being fed and fussed over by Mrs. Santos. “Could I have some breakfast too?” I asked plaintively.
Sylvester gave a lordly wave indicating for me to take the place opposite him at the table. “There’s more than enough, isn’t there Mrs. Santos?”
“Of course, Senor Sylvester.” Mrs. Santos dropped a plate in front of me and set a large mug of café mocha alongside it.
Sylvester gave a grimace of distaste as he listened to my description of Graham Carr. “It’s a rather interesting turn of events to steal from a thief,” he remarked when I finished.
“Not a thief,” I objected, “a con-man.”
Sylvester made a dismissive motion with his hand. “A rose is a rose is a rose. However, I think we should learn everything possible about this particular rose.”
I was in the middle of a dream where police were arresting me for being too fat and an alarm was ringing in the background. The dream stopped, but the ringing didn’t. It took me a second to realize that the noise was coming from my cell phone.
“Maria Rosita Consuela …” Michael chanted.
“What time is it?” I demanded weakly, as I fell back against my pillows. My room was pitch black and it seemed awfully early to be receiving phone calls.
“…Mercedes Gutteriez,” Michael finished. “It’s 7:30, time to be up and around.” He paused, then lowered his voice to a whisper. “Is HE there?”
I am not a morning person. I believe that a person should wake up when they’re ready to wake up and not a minute before. And then, there is that delicate time between sleep and full wakefulness that most people refuse to acknowledge. I prefer to lie in bed for an hour or so sipping my first café mocha of the day. Michael, on the other hand, was always up at the crack of dawn, revoltingly cheerful and full of energy. I found myself having some fleeting sympathy for Sylvester.
Out of all the people who fell in love with Sylvester, which was practically everyone he met, Michael had seemed unlikely to spark his interest. Michael was attractive in an exuberant boyish way, but he wasn’t exactly handsome. He was about 5’10” and constantly trying to fight a growing roll of fat around his midsection. He had a slightly receding hairline, with soft brown hair, chubby cheeks and slightly crooked teeth. He had made an enormous fortune in New York real estate and had spent the last several years branching into any business enterprise that caught his fancy. Michael had a knack for making money.
They had met on a friend’s yacht. Sylvester had then spent the next year courting Michael in a manner that had forcibly reminded me of a hungry panther stalking a furry little bunny. I once asked Michael why he had held out for so long. “Because,” he had explained to me, “if I was to let myself fall in love with someone as beautiful as Sylvester, what would be left for me when it ended? I would be ruined for all other men.” I had completely understood how he felt.
“Yes Michael, he’s here,” I told him wearily. “He got here yesterday. What happened?”
“Oh thank God.” Michael’s emotions bubbled out like a child’s with absolutely no restraint and he was clearly relieved. “I was sure he must be, but you know Sylvester, I’m never sure what he’s going to do when he flies into a miff. Is Victor with him?”
“Victor?” I shook my head trying to clear it. “Who’s Victor?”
“Oh Maria, I think I’m losing my mind. He’s been getting phone calls from someone named Victor and he won’t talk about it.” Michael sounded a little sheepish.
“It’s probably something related to our work. You know he doesn’t like to involve you in it.”
“I know,” he said with a pathetic little catch to his voice.
“Michael, he says the wedding is off. What happened?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t care if it is. And if it is, I’m equally sure that it’s no fault of mine.” He sniffed and I could picture his mouth drooping sadly.
I sighed and fumbled on my nightstand for a cigarette and lighter. “No Michael, I’m sure it’s not your fault, but what happened?”
Michael snorted. “Well, really Maria, it’s the most ridiculous thing. All because my chef will flirt with me, as if that should be any threat to Sylvester. And when I think of all those gorgeous young men that he’s had making up to him over the years, well really.”
I frowned. “Michael, you’re telling me that you think Sylvester is jealous?”
“Like a tomcat marking his territory,” Michael confirmed. “Here’s this cute little chef paying me just the sweetest compliments and what does Sylvester do? He demands that I fire him.”
“Wait a minute, what chef?”
“Oh didn’t I tell you? I bought a catering company. You know the sort of thing, purely black tie affairs. Very shi-shi. It’s the most diverting business.”
“Okay,” I interrupted. “So who’s the chef?”
“Oh, little Antoine, he’s the cutest boy, French trained you know. He makes the most delightful pastries.”
“Michael, what happened?” By now I was sitting up and feeling slightly alarmed. I was ready to bank my life on the fact that Sylvester had never had a jealous twinge in his entire existence.
“Well nothing really,” Michael faltered. “It’s just like I said. Antoine has a little crush on me, and he flirts a little. There’s nothing to it and I can’t believe that Sylvester would think that there was.” Michael’s voice had become a little shaky but steadied with indignation. “And when it comes to demanding that I fire Antoine out of hand. Well, that’s really too much.”
“He told you to fire him?” I was fumbling for another cigarette.
“For no good reason. Can you imagine? Do you know how hard it is to get a good chef for a catering company? Well, of course I told Sylvester absolutely not. Well really.”
I could imagine that none of this had gone too smoothly. “So why did you call the wedding off?”
“Well, I told Sylvester that I had no desire to marry a b-bully.” Michael blew his nose resolutely and continued, “Well I ask you, who would? And he said fine and walked out. And that’s the last I’ve seen of him.”
“That last part sounds like Sylvester,” I agreed. I turned on my light and glanced at the clock on the opposite wall. “Michael, it’s only 4:30 in the morning.”
“Well it’s 7:30 over here and I just couldn’t wait any longer. Besides,” he continued indignantly, “I can’t believe you didn’t call me as soon as you heard from him. I’ve been worrying for almost two days.”
I sighed. I could see his point, but I really didn’t want to get caught in the middle of this.
“Maria, do you think I should come out there?”
Forgetting that he couldn’t see me, I vigorously shook my head. “No, definitely not. First, Sylvester’s still in a snit and second, we’re starting a job today.”
“Really, a job?” Michael thrilled.
I closed my eyes waiting for his next line. Michael loved the idea of being a thief.
“Do you think I could help this time?”
“No Michael, especially not with you and Sylvester on the outs.”
He sighed forlornly. “Would you talk to Sylvester? You know, try to make him see reason for me?”
I rolled my eyes and crossed my fingers. “Sure Michael, I’ll talk to Sylvester for you, but now I need to get breakfast.”
“Maria, about that food.”
“What about that food, Michael?”
“Well, that’s my other reason for calling.” He hesitated.
I waited.
“It seems that Bitsy called Raven yesterday a little upset. Of course, I told Raven that it wasn’t possible, but Bitsy seems to think that you might be cheating on your food plan.”
“Michael, when your wedding is back on track we’ll have this conversation. Not a minute before then.”
“But Maria,” He protested, “Bitsy could really help you, if you’d just give her a chance. Raven speaks very highly of her.”
“Bitsy has the IQ of a small plant, maybe a weed. It’s amazing that she can breathe.”
“Maria, not everybody can be as smart as you and Sylvester,” Michael answered reprovingly. “I hope you don’t speak about me like that behind my back. Do you tell people that I have an IQ of a plant?”
I shut my eyes and banged my head back against the headboard. “Michael, it’s 4:30 in the morning and I haven’t had any coffee yet.”
“But that’s the only time I can win with you,” he told me cheerfully before disconnecting.
I forced myself to disengage from my blankets and stand, dislodging Tom in the process. He gave me a baleful stare.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I told him. “It’s tough all over.” I watched him knead the blankets back into shape and settle down stretched out on his back, supremely indifferent to my troubles.
Having wrapped myself in a soft comforting robe with matching slippers, I shuffled into the kitchen to brave the certain disapproval of Mrs. Santos.
Sylvester had hired Mrs. Santos years ago. She had been in the house when I came and I suspected that she would still be there after I was gone. At first, she had been coldly disapproving of me. When Sylvester had moved to New York and declined to take her with him, she had apparently reevaluated and became frigidly accepting. When I dismissed her nephew from his part-time post mowing the grass and clipping hedges and replaced him with Carlos, she had reverted to her original coldly disapproving demeanor. As for Carlos, as far as I knew, she had yet to acknowledge his existence. I would have fired her years ago, but Sylvester had insisted that she would always have a place in the house. On the bright side, I rarely saw her. It was a little like living with a ghost. She lived in a suite of rooms above the garage and moved silently and invisibly through the house, maintaining its spotless condition. We communicated by leaving notes for each other at the foot of the stairs.
Why she was up at 4:30 am cooking up a storm, I had no idea. I was pretty sure it wasn’t part of her normal routine. But then again I couldn’t remember the last time I had been in the kitchen at this hour. I noted the rigidity of her shoulders and studied her thoughtfully. It took me a second to catch the emotion. Mrs. Santos was most definitely suffering from embarrassment and guilt. “Buenos Dias, Mrs. Santos,” I said politely.
As always, she was in her blue and white uniform with adidas sneakers tied in neat bows. Her hair was pulled tightly back and painfully twisted into a shiny knot, the whole covered by the inevitable thick and very ugly hair net. She glanced at me over her plump shoulder and continued to stir the contents of a large bowl. “Miss Maria,” she acknowledged with a supreme indifference before turning her back on me.
“What are you cooking at this hour?” I asked and felt a definite sense of satisfaction as her back tightened even more.
“It is for Senor Sylvester’s breakfast,” she said defensively.
“How nice.” I was damned sure that the wretched woman never got up at this hour to cook me a special breakfast. “What is it?”
Mrs. Santos stopped stirring and deliberately wiped her hands on a dishtowel before turning to face me. Crossing her arms over her chest, she said, “It is the Mexican donuts in honey that Senor Sylvester used to like me to make.”
I had a vague memory of these delicacies. “I don’t think we’ve had those for a long time.”
Mrs. Santos shook her head matter-of-factly, “No, I only make for Senor Sylvester.”
I sighed. After all, the woman was clearly infatuated with Sylvester, along with the rest of the civilized world. “I’ll be in the computer room,” I told her. “I’d appreciate my morning mocha as soon as you can manage it.”
“Yes, Miss Maria.” Mrs. Santos nodded her assent, automatically heading towards the coffee.
It was still dark out and the glow from my flat screen monitor cast a weird bluish glow across the room. My computer room was actually a large solarium off the living room that I had made into my workspace. It was filled with my computer equipment and all the toys that went along with it.
If I had a passion, above and beyond basic hedonistic pursuits, it was hacking. Computers didn’t emote. They didn’t have good days and bad days. They didn’t have mood swings. They didn’t have a need for understanding and support. I loved my relationship with my computer.
The first rule of hacking is to leave no footprints, so I busied myself connecting to several different addresses before hacking into a phone line that originated somewhere in Ontario. From there I started to dig for any information published anytime, anywhere that was relevant to Flanders’ Chocolate.
The company had been started in 1914 by Dorothea Flanders’ great grandfather. It had been passed down from father to son until it reached Dorothea’s father, who had suffered the great indignity of only fathering a single daughter. A resourceful man, Dorothea’s father had handpicked a husband for her and bequeathed the company to him. Luckily for him, he had a compliant daughter. However, the husband failed to demonstrate the expected longevity and had passed away in 1996, leaving the company, despite her father’s wishes, to Dorothea. He had also failed to produce a son. Instead, leaving behind, like the generation before him, one daughter.
In 2003, Dorothea Flanders’ remarried and, without her father to guide her, made a remarkably poor choice. Mr. Graham Carr was by all accounts not only a nasty specimen, he was also an efficient one. By 2004, Dorothea had relinquished her position in the company along with the majority of her legal rights to her new husband.
I leaned back in my chair and lit a cigarette. I’m not deluded enough to make any noble rationalizations for my way of life, but there is such a thing as honor among thieves. Graham Carr definitely had a hinky feel to him. In the upper right corner of my screen, a text message box was beckoning to me with a cheerful greeting.
“Good morning beautiful.”
I smiled and typed back, “Good morning Stryder, don’t you ever sleep?”
Stryder was a professional hacker who sold his services over the Internet. His abilities were legendary. Lately, he had been poking into my system rather frequently. This probably should have alarmed me, but I consoled my conscience with the salve that I didn’t sense any threat. Of course, if I was being perfectly honest, I wasn’t really sure what I could sense about a person through the internet.
“Didn’t anyone tell you? Real hackers never sleep.”
“It’s a good thing I’m not a real hacker, I love to sleep.”
“Alone?”
I sat back and considered before typing, “Gotta go, I have work to do.” Stryder had been getting a little personal lately and I didn’t think the idea of virtual sex appealed to me.
“Scaredy cat. Let me know if you need help.”
I closed the text box feeling a little unfocused.
The kitchen was filled with comforting smells of pastries and coffee. Sylvester, impeccable in grey silk pants and an angora turtleneck, was seated at the table being fed and fussed over by Mrs. Santos. “Could I have some breakfast too?” I asked plaintively.
Sylvester gave a lordly wave indicating for me to take the place opposite him at the table. “There’s more than enough, isn’t there Mrs. Santos?”
“Of course, Senor Sylvester.” Mrs. Santos dropped a plate in front of me and set a large mug of café mocha alongside it.
Sylvester gave a grimace of distaste as he listened to my description of Graham Carr. “It’s a rather interesting turn of events to steal from a thief,” he remarked when I finished.
“Not a thief,” I objected, “a con-man.”
Sylvester made a dismissive motion with his hand. “A rose is a rose is a rose. However, I think we should learn everything possible about this particular rose.”