“I assumed as much. I doubt Ivy Hill would have hired you otherwise.” Zeke continued to sip his soup, staying in chitchat mode. “How did you end up in St. Louis?”

“My wife had a cousin who lived here. He’s moved on now.”

That matched the DEA’s research.

“Makes sense. Family connections are always helpful, especially if you’re in a new place.”

A shadow darkened the man’s eyes, and he averted his gaze. “Yeah.”

Curious.

“Any other relatives here?”

“No.” His reply came out fast. Too fast. Then he changed the subject. “You speak Spanish very well. Do you have family in Mexico?”

The man didn’t want to talk about his history.

Why?

Was he sensitive because of all the attention being directed toward immigration by government and media—or did he have a more personal motive for wanting to shift the focus of the conversation?

Zeke played along as he continued to eat his soup. “No. My father’s from Spain, but I’ve visited Mexico. It’s a beautiful country.”

“You speak Spanish like a Mexican. Teresa, the teacher you replaced, is from Spain and her Spanish is a little different than yours.”

Uh-oh.

While coming across as a Mexican national had been critical for his DEA work, his role here was different. He was supposed to be Spanish, not Mexican.

He’d have to work on adapting the voseo Spanish he’d learned from his Argentine mother to suit this assignment as he had for his previous jobs in Mexico. In the Ivy Hill environment, only a native Mexican would likely pick up on the differences in dialects. . . but perhaps it would be safer to speak English with Eduardo in future conversations.

“I have friends in Mexico.” He kept his tone light and scooped up more soup. “I suppose through the years my Spanish has become a blend of different styles.”

The other man finished off his burger. “I can see how that would happen. I’ve heard many variations of Spanish since my wife and I came to the United States.” He patted his pocket and pulled out his cell. “Excuse me a moment.”

“Of course.”

He put the phone to his ear and switched to English. “Yes?” As he listened, his skin lost a few shades of color. “I’ll be right there.” He ended the call but maintained a tight grip on the cell. “I’m sorry. I have a . . . visitor.”

Also curious.

Who would visit Eduardo at work—and why would that person’s presence distress him?

Zeke scooped up the last couple spoonsful of soup, wiped his lips, and set his napkin on the tray. “I’ll walk with you. I have to stop at the teachers’ lounge before my next class.” A perfect excuse to accompany the man, as that route took him past the reception desk at the main entrance.

Eduardo hesitated for a moment . . . then stood and picked up his tray in silence.