So what was this?
I got halfway to the door and saw my husband standing there in the hallway.
He said, “Geez, Lindsay, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
I said to my bosom buddy, “Claire. You set this up.”
“Me? No. Not me. No way. I would never do anything like this. Nuh-uh.”
And she melted away from the door.
Joe had a bunch of roses in his hand. He looked like the prince who woke up Sleeping Beauty with a kiss. Handsome. Expectant. And like, maybe, his steed was tethered down at the curb. I stared into his face and saw the lines in his forehead, which were deeper than they had been a couple of months ago. He had some gray at his temples that I hadn’t noticed before.
I stood at the door, feet firmly planted, blocking the entrance.
He said, “Lindsay?”
I honestly didn’t know what to do or say.
Let him in?
Or say, “Not now. Maybe some other time.”
AN UNSOLVED MURDER AT THE WORLD CUP IN RIO WAS JUST A WARNING. NOW COME THE OLYMPICS.
FOR AN EXCERPT, TURN THE PAGE
Rio de Janeiro
Saturday, July 12, 2014
2:00 p.m.
CHRIST THE REDEEMER appeared and vanished in the last clouds clinging to jungle mountains that rose right up out of the city and the sea. Then the sun broke through for good and shone down on the giant white statue of Jesus that looked over virtually all of Rio from the summit of Corcovado Mountain.
In the prior two months, I’d seen the statue from dozens of vantage points, but never like this, from a police helicopter hovering at the figure’s eye level two hundred and fifty feet away, close enough for me to understand the immensity of the statue and its simple, graceful lines.
I am a lapsed Catholic, but I tell you, I got chills up and down my spine.
“That’s incredible,” I said as the helicopter arced away, flying over the steep, jungle-choked mountainside.
“One of the seven modern wonders of the world, Jack,” Tavia said.
“You know the other six offhand, Tavia?” I asked her.
Tavia smiled, shook her head, said, “You?”
“Not a clue.”
“You without a clue? I don’t believe it.”
“That’s because I’m unparalleled in the art of faking it.”
My name is Jack Morgan. I own Private, an international security and consulting firm with bureaus in major cities all over the world. Octavia “Tavia” Reynaldo, a tall, sturdy woman with jet-black hair, a lovely face, and beguiling eyes, ran Private Rio. And we’d always had this teasing chemistry between us.
The two of us stood in the open side door of the helicopter, harnessed and tethered to the ceiling of the hold. I hung on tight to a steel handle anyway. The pilot struck me as more than competent, but I couldn’t help feeling a little anxious as we picked up speed and headed southeast.
I used to be a helicopter pilot in the U.S. Marine Corps; I got shot down in Afghanistan and barely survived. A lot of good men died in that crash, and because of their deaths, I’m not a fan of helicopters despite the fact that they can do all sorts of things that a plane, a car, or a man on foot can’t. Let’s just say I tolerate them when the need arises, which it had that day.