Hot Revenge Box Set 4

Klempner

Over the next day or so, I visit a dozen establishments, all chosen for having been header addresses on invoices received, and apparently paid, by Finchby.

I find myself calling by two more bar-restaurants, a ladies’ shoe shop, a bookseller, a cut-price budget outlet, two fruit and veg stalls and a liquor store.

None of them seems even remotely likely as an export outlet for organised criminals. The only even slightly illegal behaviour I encounter comes from my last call: a jeweller.

By now, my doubts are sprouting. I’m almost out of options and I’ve found nothing that takes me any closer to tracking psycho-Juliana.

WTF’s going on here?

In the jewellery store, the proprietor skulks at the back. Then, seeing me browsing his stock, thinking I might find something for Mitch, he tries to pass off a locket, gold-plated but base metal, as the genuine article.

He cringes satisfactorily as my fingers grip his neck, squeezing just enough to cut off his air for a few seconds. I’m not serious about doing him any real harm, but I leave his store of over-priced crap whistling.

But still, my disquiet crawls…

What am I missing?

I arrived in Sao Paulo believing I had plenty of leads to track, as I first thought, Baxter, then his blood-besotted paramour, Juliana. But I’ve used up my leads and I’m rapidly running out of ideas.

Juliana’s still out there, shrieking for my blood. And she’s as likely as not to go looking for her own peculiar brand of vindictive entertainment with someone else connected if it’s not actually with me.

Mitch…

Jenny…

Think…

A quick check of my messages: a confirmation from Hickman that all’s well over there...

Wearing the ring?

A warm glow, having nothing to do with the weather, floods my chest and face.

What to do?

how I think

strolling out, running on autopilot, letting the

concentrate on the problem in hand. Instead, letting my thoughts drift, I wait for inspiration to well up

in a city of

But nothing suggests itself.

outside Antonio’s. The old man cracks a smile and hastily wipes down a tabletop before pulling out a chair and, brows raised, offering out a palm to

thinking, but nothing else is working for

make my way to the table, then scuttles off, returning in under

down my throat. Slipping the skin from a bean, I chew the salty nibble, tossing the skin to a nearby pigeon Another swallow and I’m reflecting that the moist heat I enjoyed when I first arrived in Brazil is beginning to annoy:

I’d miss the

That mountain…

views… The

Be honest…

I’m missing Mitch.

all of it. My daughter… My granddaughter… The casual camaraderie of

Three husbands?

Haswell fit

?

do I

Mitch…

are you

with

my images,

the tourist, but seldom bother with the camera. I prefer taking the time to see the places I visit: capture them in my head. The few times I’ve bothered taking snaps, the result never

this one is

I don’t think she knew I was taking the photo. Indeed, I made a show of simply fiddling with my phone, looking up some file or other. So, she looks at me, head a little inclined, lips a little

I could give her. Greener than Spring leaves. Greener than

myself in

basket of bread on the table. His eyes crease, if it were

closed, but his

“Lady here? Sao Paulo?”

here.

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