Page 157 of Ruthless Creatures

“No. Everything goes into the computer. That’s been our standard since we opened.”

I drop my head into my hands and groan.

All this way, for nothing. Why the hell didn’t I call first?

What am I going to do now?

Then a lightbulb goes on. I take out my cell phone, ignore all the missed texts and voicemail notifications from Kage, and use the web browser to search for a name. Then I lean eagerly over the counter.

“Try the name Helena Ayala.”

The concierge has very eloquent eyebrows. Right now they’re transmitting that she’s starting to become concerned for her personal safety because of the crazy lady in front of her desk.

I try to make my smile look as sane as possible. “It was an inside joke.”

It was actually the name of the jailed drug king’s wife in the movieTraffic,but I’m not going to tell her that.

After a moment’s hesitation, the concierge starts typing again. Then a look of relief replaces the concern on her face.

“Yes. Here it is.”

I almost scream, “Holy shit!” but restrain myself. “What does it say?”

She lifts a shoulder. “It’s just an address.” She quickly scribbles it onto a small pad, tears off the piece of paper, and hands it to me.

“Is this nearby?”

“It’s about a nine-hour drive.”

When my eyes bug out, she adds hastily, “Or an hour on a plane.”

Feeling every mile of the journey from Tahoe to here in my aching bones, I close my eyes and exhale. “Okay. Thank you. I guess I’m headed back to the airport.”

“There will be a ferry ride, too.”

When I open my eyes and stare at her, she takes a single step back.

My crazy must be showing.

“It’s an island, señorita.”

I repeat slowly, “An island.”

“Would you like me to get you a taxi?”

She’s already picking up the phone. Poor girl can’t wait to get rid of me.

I retrieve my bag from the floor, dig a twenty-dollar bill out ofmy wallet, and hand it to her. “Yes, please. And thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

I take mercy on her and wait for the taxi outside.

As it turns out, the concierge was either misinformed about the ferry or just fucking with me in retaliation for weirding her out, because there’s a direct flight from Panama City to my destination. By the time I disembark from the airplane onto the small, emerald-green island called Isla Colón in Bocas del Toro, it’s late in the afternoon and I’m delirious from exhaustion, hunger, and stress.

I’ve got hand tremors. Eyelid twitches. Stomach cramps. Plus, I’m hallucinating, because headless Viktor lurks behind every streetlight and palm tree, his severed carotid artery spraying blood onto passersby.

I hail a cab and tell the driver the address the concierge at the hotel gave me, hoping I’m not being sent on another wild goose chase.

If there’s a bank and a security deposit box waiting for me at this address I’m headed to, I’m saying fuck it to this whole ridiculous mess and flying straight to Andorra to pick up my ten million dollars.