Page 52 of Bad Rio

It seemed only right to remain with her for a few more days, to do a little snooping, and make certain she stayed alive until the felonious Uncle Tim was stopped or arrested. When Rio felt confident that the business had been restored to its old lawful practices, he could return to his own life. Surely Harrison would have a new assignment for him soon. When he’d told Becca this was his life, he’d meant it. For him, there was nothing else.

“There’s no point in hiding at the motel anymore,” Rio told Becca in the cab. They’d left the mansion, and her distressed father, only moments ago. “Now, the bad guys will know you’re back in the States. I’ll grab our things from the room and we can go stay at your condo.”

When Becca nodded, he knew she wanted to go home. There, she could feel safer, see her little frogs, return to some semblance of her former life. Meanwhile, he planned to stop at an ATM machine, withdraw more cash, and buy a few monitoring cameras. If anything further was going on in that warehouse, he wanted to know. At the very least, he’d get video evidence of Uncle Tim doing his dirty work.

****

The following morning, Becca woke in her own bed, thankfully, with the reassuring presence of Rio right beside her. She made him a homey, house-wifey meal of bacon and eggs. The eggs in her refrigerator were a little old but not past their expiration date. Happily, she found bread in the freezer for toast. It felt odd and somehow ... wonderful to perform this most basic of services. Preparing food for a man she was beginning to care for felt both good and frightening, all at the same time. Becca chose not to delve too deeply into her feelings. He’d said nothing about their future, and she dared not think about it.

Rio used toast to sop up the eggs. As usual, his hair fell casually over his forehead. She marveled at him. Only Rio could make messy bed head look like it had been carefully tousled by a photo shoot hairdresser. She really needed to stop staring at him.

“Becca,” he said, “I know you don’t like contemplating that your family could be involved in shady crap, but we’ve got to consider something.”

“Consider what?” She held her coffee up to her nose and inhaled deeply. The rich Columbian roast smelled delicious. Thank God for coffee. Right then, she needed it.

“The money. Why does your Uncle Tim—or your dad—need more money? How’s the business doing? Any financial troubles there? Any at all?”

“No,” she said. “None. I keep careful tabs on our profit and loss ratio. It’s running at a fine profit and always has.” Today she’d donned a white baby t-shirt and black yoga pants.

“Then, for some reason, it’s not providing enough. You know, running a senate campaign takes alotof funding.” He paused and let her work through the ramifications.

“You think my dad is illegally adding to his war chest?” She frowned at him. “Like ... as in funneling money to those accounts? I don’t know much about running a political campaign, and I haven’t been a part of it. But it seems that would have to be done by a complex routing of the cash through various financial institutions. It’s totally illegal.”

“So it is. But these campaign funds never seem to get big enough. And what are your dad’s chances of winning that seat? Fair? Pretty good? How are his contacts in Washington, D.C.?”

She shifted on her stool uncomfortably. “Well, he has the ear of the President,” she admitted. “They’re good friends.”

“You know him? The President?”

“No, I’ve never met him. Dad goes to dinners and stuff when he’s in the capital. I stay out of politics. It’s not my thing.”

“Mine, either,” he said. He added, “Usually.”

Frowning, she pushed aside her half-eaten plate.

“Buttercup,” he said gently, rubbing her back, “I’ve gotta be honest.”

“About what?”

“I think this thing is much larger than just a few guns making their way south of the border.”

“Larger?” She took a deep, alarmed breath. “What do you mean?”

“That, I don’t know. But my plan is to head over to the warehouse tonight and install a few cameras, see if there’s anything else to deal with.”

“I’m going, too,” she said. “I’ll help you.”

“Sure,” he replied.

He didn’t look thrilled at the prospect, but she ignored that.

Jumping to her feet, she grabbed an open-top hobo-style handbag, and started rummaging around in its depths. Onto the table she spilled a sunglasses case, a package of gum, and a fistful of make-up items: tubes of lip gloss, and a small pot of powder.

“What are you looking for?” Rio asked.

“Think I have a flashlight in here. We’ll need it. That little penlight of my brother’s is too small.” As she dropped her make-up onto the table, a tube of lip gloss rolled to the edge.

Before it could fall he caught it. Another container with a screwed-on lid slid toward him. He caught that, too. The vagaries of women’s potions and facial products had always mystified him. Turning the little pot around in his hands, he asked, “What is this?”

---