Page 66 of Lethal Obsession

Barely a minute later, Lars’s voice crackles down the line. “Motherfucker,” he greets me. “How’s Cuba?”

So this call is for listening ears, then. That means no discussion of John Owens or my current location.

“So far, blissfully shark-free.”

“Good to hear, though I have a feeling they’ll be circling soon enough.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Lars sounds convincingly annoyed. “That piece of shit Darkside site just published a story about your Cuban business deal.”

Since I don’t have a Cuban business deal, I grin to myself, but aloud I make a frustrated noise like the experienced bullshit artist I am.

“And you should brace yourself,” he goes on. “It looks like the paparazzi got word about your chopper landing on the Guapa somewhere out in the Caribbean this morning, so expect a lot of cameras when you get to the Havana marina.”

“Damn.” Since I’m currently several thousand miles from both the Caribbean and the Guapa, that suits me just fine.

“After Havana, I’d take the Guapa down to the Caymans for a while,” Lars continues. “Miami’s a little hot just now.”

Better if they think I’m properly scared off.

“Shit.” I swear as if I actually mean it. “Copy that.”

“In other news,” he says, “Mickey and I decided to move that new start-up you’re backing to Paris, take advantage of the new wave of government funding. We’ve leased a network of offices. As partner, you’ll need to sign some of the documents. They’ll be waiting for you in the Havana office.”

“Fucking paperwork,” I say gloomily, suppressing the urge to laugh. Since there is no deal, no paperwork, and no Havana office, Lars’s games will have the John Owenses of the world chasing nothing around Cuba and Paris for weeks.

“Mickey and I have even relocated to Paris, for now, at least,” Lars goes on. “I put the apartment in your name as well as mine, so you’ve got a base when you come to town.”

I shake my head, grinning. “You’ve thought of everything. Nice job. Although the apartment will be a bit crowded with three of us in it, don’t you think?”

“Mickey will be moving into his sister’s apartment.”

“Mickey is living with his sister?” I keep my voice even with an effort. “That will be a bit of a handbrake on his lifestyle.” I’m almost choking on all the questions I want to ask, and equally determined to not so much as speak Ofelia’s name on any line that may have intelligence listening in.

Frankly, after what went down at the hotel, I’m surprised, and more than a little pissed off, that Roman would let Ofelia stay in Paris at all.

“Hang on,” Lars says. “Something’s come up. I’ll call you back.” Abruptly he cuts the line.

Even though I know it’s just a security tactic, I also know he chose the moment to cut the call for dramatic effect.

Prick.

I tap the desk impatiently until the line rings again.

“We’re secure,” he says when I pick up the second time. “Properly this time. So I tracked the surveillance in the van—”

“What were you saying before?” I cut him off.

“Huh?” I can almost see the bastard grinning. “About what?”

I pour myself more vodka. “Fuck off, asshole.”

“Lovely way to talk to your oldest friend,” Lars says with mock injury. “Fine. According to some crusty old conductor, Ofelia’s playing lacks heart, whatever the fuck that means. So she’s taking some time off. And since Roman refused to let her stay in Paris, she’s moving back to Spain.”

Spain.

Dammit.