Hot Revenge Box Set 4

My first day in a new city: Sao Paulo.

I tap into the internal phone. “Room service? A pot of coffee, please. Strong, with cream. Orange juice. Toast, fruit salad and yoghurt. Room 313.”

“Sim senhor. Dez minutos.”

“And a newspaper, please. You have the New York Times?”

“Sim senhor. Sem problemas.”

My hotel suite is spacious and comfortable. Not the top of the range. Not the bottom. Upper-middle, where it’s luxurious enough to be comfortable for, what I’m expecting to be, an extended stay, but not where I’ll be watched all the time.

Anything from Hickman?

I check my mobile. It’s brand new, as supplied by Dakho and currently displaying the message ‘Bem Vindo a Brasil’ from the local service provider. As I touch the screen, the message flicks off to be replaced by Your system needs a restart to install updates. Restart now?

The phone has a great spec, the best, but I'll be happier when it's settled down a bit. Irritably, I tap, Yes, then put it to one side to let it run through its interminable updates.

In rather less than the ten minutes promised, my breakfast arrives. From sheer habit, I keep my hand under my jacket where the Glock nestles in its holster, but the boy of perhaps fourteen who enters with the tray doesn’t look like any kind of threat. “Onde, senhor?”

“On the table by the balcony, please.”

I tip the boy and he backs out of the room beaming. “You want things, senhor, you call Rodrigo. Yes, senhor?”

“Thank you, Rodrigo. I will.”

The juice is fresh, the fruit freshly chopped and the coffee strong as requested. I think they must have run an iron over the newspaper.

Excellent…

I settle with my tray, balcony doors open and the relative coolth of the morning wafting in on the breeze. Shaking open the paper, I savour the excellent coffee.

From beyond the door: the low hum of a vacuum cleaner, gradually drawing nearer. Then, a tap on the door. “Senhor? I am the cleaner of the room, please?”

One hand nested under my jacket again, “Entrar.”

A young woman enters, green-overalled, her hair in a scarf, pushing a cart loaded with cloths and sprays. She looks local, with the olive skin, dark hair and eyes of the Hispanic types, although slightly flattened features suggest some native blood mixed in. She’s a sultry-eyed beauty who would be walking a catwalk somewhere if she lived in the First World, or at least anywhere with less inequality. Her options here are more limited.

“I can clean, yes? You want I come back?”

I wave a hand across the room. “No. It’s fine. Do it now.” I’d prefer she did it later. It’s not as if the room needs much. I’ve barely occupied the place. But it’s better to behave normally. And if the suite’s been cleaned already, no-one will have reason to disturb me again.

Setting my newspaper on the tray with the coffee pot, I take the lot out onto the balcony.

The sun and the heat are wonderful. Jumping from one hemisphere to the other, I’ve left behind the freeze and the damp of winter. The summer heat bakes through my bones, dispelling the grinding chill that’s plagued me ever since I set foot inside Jenny’s home. I’d prefer less humidity than Sao Paulo offers, but you can’t have everything, and it beats the penetrating cold of the northern winter hands-down.

Sighing, I stretch out, tipping my face back to bathe in the morning sunshine, revelling in the heat. Inside, the maid hums some crap-pop jingle before being drowned out by the sound of the vacuum cleaner.

Take an hour to relax, then down to work…

*****

Downloading Finchby’s database of invoices, I scour through for the most likely follow-ups for Baxter. After a couple of hours, armed with a shortlist of a dozen likely addresses and my new mobile which seems finally to have run through its downloads, I’m ready to go.

Take a taxi?

No.

Don’t leave a trail…

anywhere new. The loose linen suit I’m wearing, appropriate to the temperature and

Glock into

… Knife…

… Hat on…

… Sunglasses…

check

English…

… Tourist…

… Harmless…

Time to move…

spit-plaster the hair into place about a foot from the floor, bridging the crack between door and frame. If the door opens while I’m out,

the book, but if it’s good enough for Sean

on my shortlist is about a half hour’s walk away. Hands in pockets, I stroll through

occasionally, then stop by a tourist information board, making a show of tracing my finger over the map to museums, parks and

Visiting Tourist…

phone mutters at me: the mapping app. Your

but I

of outdoor tables and seating… Customers seated with

without breaking my stride, I amble past the address… past the barber’s next door and the half dozen stores following… and then across the road to pause by a series of glass-fronted stores for upmarket clothes, sandals

a show of window-shopping for over-priced clothes behind acres of plate glass, the reflection giving me a reasonable view even with my

just the kind of place I enjoy hanging out in in a new environment: a small family-run establishment, off the main tourist tracks but still in a decent area; somewhere the locals will come to eat. The signs and paintwork are shabby but clean. The seating and tables also look well-used. But

point at the corner, I watch for several minutes as the old man serves drinks and snacks at the outdoor

an umbrella and stand, taking the time to position it carefully to shade the client. After a few minutes, a woman, looking much

people looks a likely candidate for leader of

check my notes, then

I’m in

In the back, perhaps?

Or upstairs?

using my hat as a fan to waft

over, beaming. “Olá senhor. Está muito

to let anyone know that I understand a good deal of what is being said

with a glass of

nod vigorously. “Please,

first mouthful of beer slides down my throat without protest. I’m on my guard, but the second mouthful doesn’t put up much of a fight either. It's tempting to simply enjoy the weather and the

Work to do…

the old man down. “Excuse me, where is

a nod and a smile, and I follow his pointing finger, through a deep narrow room, dim against the brilliant daylight outside, lined either side

space, a glass display counter is stacked with plates of chopped meat and veg mixed with black beans, some crispy-looking brown circles which I take

woman is behind the counter, smiling at me as I amble past. Waving hands

return the smile, winding my finger in

corridor from the back of the room. It takes me past a kitchen where, through the swing doors, the old woman, short and stout, thrusting out arms like wrinkled tree trunks, stirs something in a pot. She glances

door. The passage grows cooler all the while towards the rear of the building. At the end, I’m at the base

the back areas of stores and restaurants always are, plain brick and concrete, but both vinyl-tiled steps and white-painted

to be sure no-one’s watching, then, placing my feet gently against the carrying

room, taking up the entire

between slatted shutters, dust motes

normal furnishings of everyday life: two fat settees, much used, the fabric fraying on the arms. Ancient linoleum flooring, the edges curling