Espresso Shot

“It was the woman, wasn’t it? Matt’s affair with Louisa hurt you terribly. I can imagine. But you’re a handsome, successful man, Javier. Surely, there were other women since her?”

“Louisa! This is about Louisa?”

“She’s the woman you pla

“Let me show you something.” Javier reached into his evening jacket.

I couldn’t imagine how he got a weapon past the Met’s metal detectors, but he was a former commando. Maybe he knew a few tricks. It didn’t matter, anyway. It was impossible to do anything now but fight or run.

Here it comes! The man’s hand came out clutching-a wallet? He flipped the leather folder open, displayed a photograph tucked behind plastic.

“This is Louisa.”

The woman had long black hair and laughing eyes. She was surrounded by children, and she appeared to weigh at least three hundred pounds.

“She’s married now to the manager of a neighboring plantation. We speak often. But I am most definitely over this woman.”

Javier slipped the wallet back into his tailored jacket. “And my change in appearance is easily explained. I met an American woman, Ms. Cosi.” He smiled. “I have been spending my nights with her, which is why I checked out of my hotel. Yesterday, she confessed to me that she did not like my mustache. She said it made me look like Pancho Villa.” He rolled his eyes, shrugged. “So I shaved. It was a fair exchange. She has been even more affectionate with me since.”

“You have an American girlfriend?”

“Her name is Cody. She’s gone off to find the ladies’ room. We were ru

“Javier, listen to me. A rare Colombian poison was used in an attempt to murder Brea

“Batrachotoxin?” Javier’s face fell. “Made from the skin of a yellow frog, yes?”

“You know about it?”

“I use it,” he said.

“What?”

“Not me,” he quickly amended. “Hector Pena. He is my estate manager. He extracts frog poison then puts it on barbed wire surrounding our buildings. It discourages bandits and FARC. Hector learned the trick from his father.”

I thought about the quiet, sad-faced man. “Hector was with you in the Colombian army, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but-”

“It must be him. But why would Hector want to kill Matt’s bride?!”

“Kill Brea

“How does Hector know Matt exactly?”

“From his trips to our farm. Matteo also knew Hector’s daughter. A few years ago, she moved to Bogotá to live and work. Matt spent time with her there, whenever he passed through our country-”

“But Hector’s daughter died, didn’t she? You told us she was murdered?”

“I did not say she was murdered. Andelina died by gunshot.” He lowered his voice. “To be honest, the young woman shot herself. But we do not speak of it. Colombia is a Catholic country. Suicide is a mortal sin, so-”

“How long ago did this happen?”

“About four weeks.”

I suddenly felt sick. “Around the time Brea

Javier registered surprise. “I never made the co

Oh God. “Javier, listen to me. I think Hector’s daughter killed herself over losing Matt. She must have been unbalanced already, and that stupid wedding a

“You believe Hector is trying to kill Brea

“Not for sending the a

“Yes.” Now Javier looked sick, too. “I just saw him. He brought a gift with him, so he was delayed by security. But Hector should be inside the museum by now. I will look for him-”

“No!” I pushed Javier back against the wall. “You’re my only witness to the batrachotoxin co

He frowned but nodded. “I will do as you ask.”

Dozens of guests were now wandering into the Sculpture Court. Like Javier, they’d opted out of the wedding ceremony and come only for the reception. I dodged the small crowd and moved toward the exit. On my way, I sca

When I reached the elevators, I discovered they were out of service. Security was holding the cars on the roof until the end of the ceremony! I cursed and searched for another way up. I followed a long, empty corridor before I finally found the steel doors to the stairwell, right beside a glass emergency exit that opened onto Central Park.

I entered the gloomy stairwell and nearly fell on my face. My feet had become entangled in torn wrapping paper and a length of scattered ribbon. As I freed myself, I spied a gift box on the ground, packing tissue scattered around it. Leaning against the wall, I saw the metallic gleam of a silver bowl and large brass candleholders.

I heard footsteps above me and looked up.

Hector Pena stood at the top of the stairs, staring down at me. He wore a black tuxedo and gripped a small gun.

In a flash I knew how he’d managed it: the wrapped gift. The metal bowl and candleholders might have shielded the entire shape of the gun in the X-ray machine. Or he could have simply broken the gun down into pieces and reassembled the weapon here in the stairwell.

I gasped as our gazes met. Hector’s flesh was more sallow than I remembered, and the circles under his eyes seemed more prominent, too. In the shadows his face seemed skeletal, like a death’s head. In a blink, he saw recognition in my expression, understanding, too.

He knows that I know.

Hector lifted his weapon as he raced down the stairs, two at a time. I whirled and threw open the door. The corridor was still deserted. If I tried ru

I heard Hector opening the heavy stairwell door behind me. With no other way to escape, I pushed through the glass fire exit and staggered outside the museum, onto the soft grass of Central Park. The door closed behind me. Hector crashed into it a split second later. I thought he was going to shoot me through the clear pane, but he smiled triumphantly instead.

I heard a muffled burst of applause from inside the museum and realized the wedding party had finally come down from the roof! Hector realized it, too. He tucked the gun inside his black evening jacket and turned around. As soon as he was out of sight, I ran back to the door. It was locked! Hector knew I was stuck outside, and he didn’t care. Which meant he was on his way to kill Brea

No!

I stumbled across the lawn, my low heels sticking in the still-damp ground; then I reached the sidewalk and took off at a dead run. The Metropolitan Museum covered five city blocks, and I had to travel at least half of that distance to reach the front entrance.

Panting, I cleared the modern art wing and blew past a bronze statue of three bears nestled among a circle of benches. Fifth Avenue and Eightieth Street were just ahead. I wended my way through a mass of exiting tourists, sprinted the long flight of stone steps, and burst into the museum’s lobby. Breathlessly I stumbled up to a tall African American man in a guard uniform and flashed my events pass.