3. Cafecito
Cafecito
Tony
Isip my cafecito and take a deep breath, hoping the heaviness against my chest goes away this time.
It doesn’t. It never does. My hair flops into my eyes, and when I push it back, I wonder when the last time was that I showered.
Not since Casablanca. Actually, I don’t remember showering in Casablanca the three days I was there.
This job has really gotten out of hand.
I’ve been sitting here feeling the throbbing hum of the island, taking in all the dense scents, and mapping the area with just my nose.
I think I’ve covered everything I can in my notebook, so I put my glasses back on and observe the area now with my eyes.
It’s a small restaurant in the hotel, and I’m in the front with my coffee, logging all the details of my new location.
This is a historical boutique hotel, hundreds of years old, older than the United States.
I wonder if some of these potted plants and trees have been around longer than even that.
It makes me miss my home. Damn. I’ve been hopping around country after country, chasing a fucking ghost for months.
But I have a hunch.
She’s here. Or might be on her way here. I just know it.
Ma petite voleuse.
That little thief.
After six months on this case, I figured out how she chooses her next city. I wonder if she even knows. It seemed so random at first. Mexico City. S?o Paulo. Okinawa. Bangkok. Casablanca.
But it’s not random. Or rather, if I do find out the little thief is here, then I know it’s not.
I rub my stubble across my palm and take another deep breath. Today I will explore the southern side of the peninsula. Yesterday I combed the north. My legs ache. My chest is tight. My fingers dance across my gray chinos. It’s too hot for pants, but I didn’t bring much with me.
At least my shirt matches the scene on the peninsula. It’s a silk chartreuse short-sleeve button-up over a white shirt. It’s comfortable, and I’ve been wearing it for days.
I caught her scent in Casablanca. My soul left my body. It was the barest of scents, not even enough to put in my notebook. The only reason I knew it was her was because it was unknown and unknowable. Like seeing a missing puzzle piece in an otherwise completed puzzle.
I tracked it into a small hotel outside the city center and broke into her room. God, what a fucking treasure trove. She’s good. She packs light and keeps her room tidy. There was no contraband to be found.
I knew I spooked her when I went back the next morning, and housekeeping was in her room.
I’d never been that close. I’ve been weeks behind her in every city she’s ran through. I hear all the stories from her wake of victims. The stolen cash, jewelry, drugs, medicines, watches, cars, and missing motorcycle. She even stole a dog.
She goes by a handful of aliases. Marquette. Beatrice. Whitney. But I know her real name: Kelya.
Kelya.
I was given one picture of her looking miserable in Saint Kane, Nevada.
The woman is surrounded by three men whose heads are cut off in the frame.
She’s in an ill-fitting white teacup dress.
Her delicate brown hair is braided and hanging across her shoulder like a dead thing.
Her face is ashen white, but her neck is red, like she’s holding back from unleashing hell.
It didn’t help that her hands were in tight fists at her side.
Hunched over and miserable.
I rub my palm over my sternum.
I want a cigarette. I keep seeing men with one between their fingers. Maybe that will loosen the heavy weight against my chest. But I told Matty, my business partner and best friend, that I’d quit smoking. Matty convinced me to stop, so I didn’t fully commit at the start.
The sun only peeked out a few minutes ago, but things are already getting loud. She likes the noise. She likes movement and evidence of life.
I take the last sip of my cafecito—which was sweeter than I thought, but I didn’t mind—and stand up.
Puerto Rico is only a hundred miles long and thirty-five miles wide, so searching every square foot isn’t impossible.
Though being here now on the ground, everything feels never-ending, mysterious and otherworldly.
A woman like Kelya could easily slip through the gaps.
If I’m right, and she’s here, I won’t let her. She’s mine.
The three alphas I was playing cards with yesterday morning stumble onto the black-and-white tiles in the lobby.
They look like they’ve been out partying all night.
Their clothes are crumpled; their bags are overstuffed, and their faces all look dazed and confused, but they’re freshly showered with wet hair.
“James,” I call out. He turns to see me. “Want to join me for coffee?”
He’s a nice young alpha. He has no scent, though. Neither do his friends. They must be using some serious pharmaceuticals to achieve that. As a bloodhound, I smell everything, even under scent blockers. I want to see if they’ll tell me where they got their stuff.
He looks…ran through. And that is what I tell him when he approaches me.
“Yeah, man. Wild fucking night.”
“You go out to a club?”
He laughs, and we take a seat at the table I was just at. His buddies order coffee from the restaurant. He tells them to get him an americano.
“Nah, man. Picked up an omega at the bar.”
That’s a fucking lie. While he’s showered, there still should be some omega scent on him. And there is no way an omega is going to give these tourists the time of day.
“How much did she charge you?”
He smiles. “Shut the fuck up. She wasn’t local. I think she’s American. And beautiful. Fucking hell. I feel like I got stripped down and beaten behind an alley.”
“You gotta be careful, James.”
“I know. You don’t have to tell me. When we woke up this morning, she was gone and so was half my shit.”
All the color and humor runs out of my face.
“What?”
“At least she didn’t take our phones or cards.”
“Drugs?” I lean so far forward I’m practically in his lap. I gather myself and sit back in my chair.
“Yeah. And our cash. But they weren’t party drugs. Not that we had any left. She took our really nice scent blockers. Sucks. Whatever. I’ve never been with an omega, and she was…wow. Makes me want a pack, to be honest.”
Omega who seduces and robs.
Goddamnit.
“You gonna call the cops?”
“Fuck the police.”
Now I’m the one smiling. Before I was a private detective, I worked at a police department for six years before I fucked off. My dad was the police chief. James is not wrong, though.
“Where’d she go?”
“Oh, no, my friend, don’t go looking for her. She snuck out like a fucking ghost in the night. A thief in the night. She’s got my alpha all fucked up.”
I’m overwhelmed with a desire to laugh at him for even thinking he could keep her. They can never keep her.
“Marquette,” he offers before I can ask.
That’s it then. It is her. Her alias.
Kelya. My mark.
I need to get my eyes on her and give that information to my client, and this job is done. Proof of life. This is it. The end of the road. This job is basically done.
I nearly had it in Casablanca, but it wasn’t confirmed.
My chest tightens even more. I bury my knuckle into my sternum to help ease the pain.
“Marquette,” I repeat back to him.
He chuckles at me like he knows something I don’t. His buddies come back, holding coffee to go.
“Our flight leaves soon, and we gotta get out of here. It was nice meeting you, Tony. I hope you find whoever you’re looking for.
” Yesterday I told them over cards that I was looking for a woman.
They assumed I wanted a wife. Or a bond.
I didn’t correct them. “Oh, and by the way,” he says with even more playfulness.
“She’s staying here. She was looking for Americans. Just hide your good shit in the safe.”
I smile, knowing that nothing is safe from the omega, even locked away. Also, he’s right, she prefers to ruin American alpha men’s days.
“I’ll keep that in mind. What room were you staying in?”
He gives me a weird look.
“If you’re checking out, maybe I want to transfer. My water pressure is shit.”
“Oh, room 2122.”
“Thanks. And good luck.”
I stand and shake his hand, then take off into the hotel, my inner alpha leading the way. I barely realize my motivation until I make it to Room 2122. House cleaning is down the hall. I try the door, and it’s locked.
“Excuse me?” I call out to the housekeeper. She’s a small woman who looks up immediately. “Did you already clean this room?”
“Si, clean.” She nods and points.
I stride over to look into her bin with the used sheets and towels. If I could just get my hands on those and smell them…I could maybe catch her scent. James said they fucked. There’s got to be a remnant…
The housecleaner is looking at me with a worried expression.
I suppress my inner alpha, thank her, and turn, walking away. It’s everything in me not to overturn her cart and rifle through the sheets.
My body is fucking on fire. She’s here! And she just arrived, too. She always finds herself alphas straightaway. Foreigners. Travelers. It’s why she stays at tourist hotels.
Eventually, she’ll find other methods and work her way into the country. Hostels. Rentals. Couch hopping. Then, finally, she’ll have her heat or lack thereof—she’s clearly on suppressants so it’s not a full heat—and then leave the next day. On to the next city.
But she always starts like this.
I’ve never been this close to her. I’m always weeks away from her activities. Kelya. The omega. It’s finally confirmed. I’ll finally get eyes on her.
They describe her as a sweet-looking woman. Red lipstick. Painted toes. Divine cunt. Made them feel special and alive.
I pull out my phone to send an update to Matty, but my fingers stop moving.
My mind blanks out for a second.
Maybe I should get eyes on her first, in case I’m wrong. I swipe off the messenger app, then pull up my photos, looking at hers again. The heart-shaped faced, devastated young woman stares back at me.
I should go shower, and then…and then she’s mine.