Page 17 of Fear No Evil
“Quinta Camacho.”
She knew exactly where that was. “Parfait. It’s this way. Come on. We might have time to see the best of Bogotá.”
As she struck out down the narrow street, the fresh stitches on her hip rubbed a seam on her slacks.Not again. Maggie was about to shift the way her pants sat on her hips when Jake threw a companionable arm around her shoulders.Oh…okay…
Given their legend as a married couple, his familiar behavior made perfect sense, but this was how they used to walk together, back in Paris.
Memories assaulted her. They’d toured the entire city in lockstep like this, like nothing could ever come between them. She’d forgotten how good it felt to fit snugly under his armpit. Her left stole around his trim waist, and the discomfort of her stitches was forgotten.
Down the narrow, cobbled street, they ambled through a small colonial-era neighborhood with stucco buildings paintedin vivid hues, either gold or pink or blue. The complex cultural history of the conquest was apparent everywhere she looked. Lights in a café window blinked on, illuminating a colorful mural of an indigenous woman adorning the opposite wall.
“That’s one of Guache’s murals,” Maggie explained. “His paintings are the most vibrant. There’s another one coming up.”
Jake studied them both with grave interest.
Finally, the narrow street spilled them onto Calle 11, a wider thoroughfare surging with traffic. Here, historic buildings gave way to twentieth-century architecture, including the occasional high-rise. Streetlamps blinked on, lighting their way along the cement sidewalks. The warmth and scent radiating off Jake’s body stole into Maggie’s awareness. How, after all these years, did he still smell like a summer rain shower?
A famous landmark caught her eye, as its whitewashed walls and arched windows were lit up by floodlights. “That’s the Botero Museum coming up.”
“Botero?”
“You know. The sculptor and painter from Colombia who makes his subjects look, uh, how do you say,rondelet.”Rotund.
“Ah, oui.” Jake cut a look at her slender body and grinned. “He should sculpt a fat Lena.”
Maggie scoffed at the vision that came to mind.
“You’d still be beautiful.”
She let the compliment pass, pretending it didn’t warm her. The gold dome gleaming over the rooftops ahead gave her something to say. “And that’s the Museo de Oro on the next block.”
“The one with the gold, er…?” He gestured to indicate the dome, clearly not knowing the word.
“Dôme. Oui, there are more than fifty-five thousand pieces of gold in there, most of them artifacts from the Incan empire.”
“I’d love to see that.” Jake checked his watch. “Hélas, there’s no time tonight. In fact, we’d better grab a taxi at the next street.”
Probably a good thing since she realized her incision was stinging.
Jake cut her an astute glance. “You good?”
“Oui,très bien.”She sent him a carefree smile.
A minute later, they were crammed into the rear seat of a tiny yellow taxi zipping along back streets headed toward Quinta Camacho. In lieu of hotels and apartments, the neighborhood of Quinta Camacho was filled with private homes, many surrounded by walls topped with broken glass to discourage thieves. The taxi slowed alongside a curb, Jake paid the fee, and they both got out.
As the cab pulled away, he put his arm around her shoulders again. “We walk to the next street over.”
The neighborhood was dark and quiet, suggesting it enjoyed less crime than much of the rest of the city. On the following block, Jake drew her to a pedestrian gate with wrought-iron bars and an intercom but no house number. He poked a long finger at the button.
A gruff voice came out of it.“Sí?”
In perfect Spanish, Jake announced them.
Once the lock clicked open, they pushed into a lush little garden where they were met by a silver-haired gentleman wearing a white Guayabera shirt. The stranger inspected Maggie, then thrust out a hand. “John Whiteside, station chief.”
She recognized the name. “Oh yes, you replaced Norris. He was the station chief during my assignment here.”
“Welcome back to Bogotá.”