Just Needs Killin Page 2

  Since the resort, only eight miles or so to the south, was almost within visual distance from Puerto Escondido, we could have taken Raymond Johnson, but what the heck, we had a paid-for room in a luxury hotel, and parties to attend. I was already warming to the idea of Jan's new profession as a paid escort.

  And even better yet, since the parties were luau/beachy affairs, we even had something to wear. In Jan's case it was a teeny fuchsia bikini with a small, sheer, scarf. And mine? A lot more suit and larger opaque wrap. I couldn't do much, on such short notice, about the extra ten pounds—okay, fifteen—setting off my zaftig-ness. However, I'd just had my pixie-cut hair re-reddened and my toenails lacquered Dior 438, Mango, which Jan said set off my hair.

  We decided Ishi-san need not know about me bunking with Jan. I'd wander down during the luau and get myself invited to join the festivities, which shouldn't be much of a problem since my friends say I can talk myself past a Buckingham Palace guard. This way, if Ishi later tried storming Jan's door, so to speak, I'd be there to whack him one. Okay, that might be an unfortunate choice of words, but you get the gist. And if he later reneged on his promise of funding Chino's expedition to find a sunken Manila galleon in Magdalena Bay, I'd bear witness Jan kept her end of the deal.

  We turned off Mex 1 and immediately dove into a rocky wash.

  "Dirt?" Jan exclaimed as we bounced a couple of times. "They build a multi-million buck resort and don't pave the road into it? Look at this mess. If it rains they're gonna have to take their guests to the airport by boat, cuz this baby's going to flood."

  "For sure. They need themselves a bridge, but with the size of this arroyo, it'll cost mucho dinero, which is probably why they haven't done it yet. Hurricane season, or even a heavy rain, must pose a serious commute problem."

  Once through the vado, we climbed a wide gravel road, well-maintained, but still—gravel?

  A few dusty miles later, I was patting myself on the back for deciding to bring a vehicle with windows and A/C. We came around a curve and the resort loomed, like a Mexican Xanadu, from the surrounding lunar-like landscape. The turquoise waters of the Sea of Cortez sparkled in sharp surreal contrast to the barren desert. Palm trees and flowering greenery, obviously imported, swayed with the gentle afternoon breeze. I'd seen the hotel from the water, but it was even more impressive when arriving by land, because it was just suddenly there.

  Since most guests probably arrive via a shuttle from the Loreto airport, we parked right in front, one of the few private vehicles to do so. Three men dressed in light colored shirts and dark pants reminiscent of yacht crew dashed to greet us. While Jan was ushered to the front lobby desk, I dawdled at the pickup so as not to be seen by the office staff, then sauntered into a nearby gift shop. I was, however, close enough to hear her give her name to the clerk: Hetta Coffey.

  We'd discuss that later.

  Our room was touted as a small suite, but was the size of a one-bedroom apartment back home. With a kitchen and dining area, queen sofa bed in the living room, and a king bed in the bedroom, we certainly weren't going to crowd each other. After living on the boat for so long, I was in heaven, space-wise. From the balcony we could have seen the entrance to Puerto Escondido harbor if I'd thought to bring my binoculars.

  A large bouquet of flowers, a bowl of fruit, two iced-down bottles of Veuve Clicquot, and an envelope marked "Hetta" sat on the dining table. "So, Hetta, looks like you have mail," I snarled.

  "Seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, who knew you'd actually be here?"

  "Yeah, who knew?"'

  "I might remind you," Jan said, "of all the times you gave my business card out in bars to jerks you wanted to get rid of? And when you used my name to rent a car that got burned up? And—"

  "Okay, okay. What's the note say?"

  "Just a room number and a reminder the cocktail party is at six, which means I gotta get a move on. Will you help me put some of these flowers in my hair?"

  I picked out a few huge pink hibiscus blooms and we moved to the master bathroom. I rummaged in her makeup kit for something to fasten them with while she glommed mascara onto her long lashes, and applied a smidgen of blue shadow on those previously swollen eyelids we'd treated with chilled tea bags.

  "You know, Jan, I've been thinking. With all the trouble I'm going to here, maybe a little fooling around in a futon might not be all that bad. I'll cover for you and we can split that fifty thou. Just a thought."

  "Yeah, well here's a thought for you. No! Now put those flowers in my hair."

  Jan wears her hair in a chin-length bob cut shorter in the back, so I braided in the flowers down one side. We added an extra scarf or two over that bikini for the cocktail party.

  She whirled on her three-inch espadrilles and vamped. "Whaddya think?"

  "Drop-dead gorgeous."

  The way our lives had been going for the past few months—okay, years—I should probably be a little more cautious when using the term, dead, but she sure looked capable of causing an up-tick in defibrillator sales.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  With Jan off to her benefactor's cocktail party, I celebrated our opulent digs by opening some icy champagne. Taking the bottle with me, I swanned (as best as a short, somewhat chunky gal can swan) towards an oversized bathtub I'd spiked with lavender bath crystals and had started filling while I was weaving flowers into Jan's hair. Now that I had the place to myself, I lit a couple of candles, turned off the lights, slid into piping hot water, and reveled in the scent and caress of a real bath after so many months of showering on Raymond Johnson.

  I'd about decided I'd skip the luau altogether and stay submerged in the tub when I heard our room door open and slam shut. Cursing myself for not hanging out the Favor de no molestar sign before heading for my bath, I sloshed out of the water and grabbed a big fluffy towel. I was making for the bathroom door lock when the door flew open, almost knocking me on my butt. My towel slithered to the floor as I grabbed the only weapon within reach and held it over my head, prepared to do battle.

  Ice-cold, two-hundred-dollar-a-bottle champagne cascaded over my head and into my eyes. Through bubbles I saw a face whiter than my lost towel, and checked my swing just in time. "Jan! What on earth?"

  She sank to the floor, settling into a puddle of water, bubble bath, champagne, and flowers that fluttered down from her hair. I flipped on the light, grabbed my towel, wrapped it around me, and sat on the side of the tub. Jan slumped over, her face hidden in her hands, and began to wail. I realized there was still a little bubbly left in the bottle and drained it before saying, "This better be good, Chica. You just screwed up a primo bubble bath."

  "Is there more of that?" She pointed to the bottle.

  "Yep, but unless you get up off that floor and tell me what's wrong, you ain't gettin' any."

  She struggled to her feet, dogged me into the living room and hiccupped little sobs while waiting for me to uncork the second bottle. I filled a flute, she melted into a chair, downed the whole glass in one gulp, and stuck it out for a refill.

  I moved the bottle behind me. "No way. Not yet, my friend. Talk!"

  The woman who, minutes before left the room looking like a million—or should I say at least fifty-thousand—bucks, now sat in disarray, mascara running down her face a là Alice Cooper, one lone bedraggled flower dipping over a bleary blue eye, and the only reason she wasn't white as a ghost was the blush on her cheeks, some of which was tear-and-eye-makeup smudged. And, dang it, she still looked good. Life is not fair.

  She sighed deeply. "You pour, I talk. And Hetta, I'd really, really appreciate it if you put on some clothes."

  While she downed another flute and reached for the bottle, I went back to the bathroom and donned a luxuriously soft hotel robe. The moment I returned, she whimpered, "Dead."

  "You drank the whole damned bottle?"

  "Naw, there's a tad left. Ishi's dead."

  "So, I guess that means the fifty grand is out?"

  "Not funny, He
tta."

  "Did you kill him?"

  "Nah."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Am I sure he's dead, or that I didn't do it?"

  "Either. Both."

  "When I got to his suite, the door was open a smidge. I heard music, but no voices, so I peeked inside. To tell the truth, I was a little worried it was a set up. Like, you know, he'd be nekkid or somethin'."

  "And?"

  "Yup. As the day he was born. But deader than Elvis."

  "Some might debate just how dead that is."

  To lubricate our higher cognitive processes, we were working our way through the minibar. I splashed a mini-bottle of Jose Cuervo over a glass of rocks.

  Jan turned from staring out to sea, and squinted puffy eyelids at me. She took a hit of Kahlua straight from the tiny bottle. "Huh?"

  "Did you, like, touch him?" I asked.

  "Eeewww, no."

  "Then how do you know for sure he's even dead?"

  "Lemme think. His head is about three feet from his body. That qualify, Detective Coffey?"

  I finished off my tequila and selected the next bottle in line: vodka. No rocks. "Yep, that'd about get 'er done. Okay, I gotta think."

  "That'd be different."

  "Excuse me, Miz Jan, as I recall, you're the one who got us into this debacle. I'm trying to deliberate our way out of it. I'm thinking we get the hell out of this hotel, drive back to the boat, and forget the whole thing."

  "You're right. But, doncha think we oughta at least throw a blanket over Ishi or somethin'? Doesn't seem quite right to leave him like that. Butt nekkid an' all."

  "Okay, that is totally illogical."

  "I'm just thinking of Kayo."

  "Kayo? Who the hell is that?"

  "Ishi's wife."

  "How will she know whether he was covered or not?"

  "I dunno, just seems wrong, leaving him like that. I mean, they probably won't find his body until tomorrow morning."

  "I doubt that. Isn't he the one throwing the luau? Someone will surely wonder why he isn't at his own party, and go looking for him."

  "Yeah, I guess. Oh, hell!"

  "What?"

  "The front desk. They saw me, and they must know Ishi paid for my room. When they find him—"

  "They'll be looking for Hetta Coffey. Thanks a whole hell of a lot."

  "Sorry, I just thought it wouldn't be a good idea to use my name."

  "There a million jillion names in the world. Why mine?"

  She shrugged. We sat in silence, each trying to figure out how we'd gotten into yet another mess.

  Well, we both knew that; it is what we do.

  Jan screwed the top off a gin bottle. "So, any ideas yet?"

  "Yep, but you aren't going to like them."

  "Probably not. I never like anything you think up, but somehow I end up going along."

  "We gotta put on our big girl panties and go to that luau."

  "What? Are you freakin' nuts?" Jan unfolded to her full 5'11"—6'2" in those espadrilles—put her hands on her hips and looked down her nose at me. "No way, no how. And this time I mean it. And besides, I don't have any big panties. That'd be your department."

  I let that insult slide. "Sit down and hear me out. For starters, my pickup was logged into the resort, on a one-way-in, one-way-out road, at the guard shack. And there are probably cameras all over the lobby and maybe the hallways. And to make matters worse, you checked in to a room provided by a dead man. We've been seen. If we don't show up at that party, we'll be way up on the suspect list when they find both pieces of your boyfriend."

  "He's not my boyfriend." After taking a swallow of straight gin that brought tears to her already teary eyes, she nodded. "But, bad as I hate to admit it, you might be right about going to the luau."

  "Okay then, let us ice the puff out of those eyes once again, maybe down a cup of strong coffee or two, and get ready to hula."

  CHAPTER SIX

  The party was in full swing when we arrived, complete with pigs roasting on spits, and hula dancers swaying to some pretty fancy ukulele plucking. Both the dancers and musicians looked suspiciously Mexican, but it's the theme that counts.

  Surveying the crowd, I didn't spot any formal security forces checking for invitations and crashers, just a pretty Mexican girl who greeted us with leis. She was, however, flanked by a couple of huge, mean-eyed dudes incongruously garbed in flowered shirts.

  Properly lei'd, Jan and I made for a thatch-roofed tiki bar.

  "We'll have six triple Mai Tais," I told the Mexican bartender. He grinned and gave us each a huge hurricane glass, complete with umbrella and a bunch of fruit. I stuck the umbrella behind my ear and chewed on a chunk of pineapple while checking out the crowd, most of which, except for staff, entertainers, and what looked like a few local hookers, seemed to be Asian. Jan and I stood out like, well, murder suspects.

  "Jan, for God's sake, look innocent. Let's find out who's the big kahuna here. I mean besides your dead kahuna."

  Scanning for kahunas, I noticed that one man in particular drew a crowd like remoras to a shark. I elbowed Jan. "Banzai! Little wrinkled dude, three o'clock. Follow me."

  I led Jan to an elderly Japanese gentleman dressed in impeccable white pants, what looked like a vintage Hawaiian shirt, and draped with at least a dozen orchid leis. We'd only rated one lei each: plumeria.

  He spotted us coming his way—or rather, Jan coming his way—and said something into the belly button of a towering goon-type Sumo wrestler who was glowering at us. The bodyguard stepped back at his master's command, but reluctantly, judging by his sour puss.

  "Aloha," I said with a slight bow to the old man. "Great party. Thanks for inviting us. Actually Ishi-san invited us, but...by the way, where is he?"

  With a more formal bow in return, the man said, "You are very welcome. I was told Mr. Ishikawa invited guests, but had no idea how charming they would be."

  Charming? Me? Was he in for a surprise! Knowing how I react when patronized, Jan quickly, charmingly, ran interference with a smile and a little dip. "Why, thank yew. So kind. We are just delighted to be here." Southern dripped from her voice like moss off a cypress.

  "I am Tadashi Fujikawa, but you may call me Tadassan."

  "And, Tadassan," I bowed again, a little lower this time, "you may call me anything but late for dinner." See, I can be charming.

  He got it and laughed.

  On a roll, I set out to grill him like that spitted squealer I planned on devouring later. "So, are you and Ishi-san business associates? And where is he, anyhow?"

  Fujikawa didn't miss a beat. "I had supposed he was...detained, but now...." His voice trailed off as he eyed Jan, whom he obviously thought to be the alleged detainer, which told me Ishi-jerk had been bragging about his date for the weekend.

  "So, he's not here yet? Well, then," I grabbed his arm and led him to a table by the fire pit, "we can get to know you better until he turns up." Big ugly dude, whom I decided was more Samoan than Sumo, took a step forward when I strong-armed his boss, but my new best friend waved him off with a subtle hand movement.

  Lava Lava clouded up, but acknowledged the order with a wave of his own hand. Which, I noticed as my stomach lurched, was missing a couple of fingers. Oh, crap! "Finger shortening" is an almost sure sign of a Yakuza thug. And the Japanese Yakuza run the largest and most vicious crime organization in the world. I thought it prudent not to mention this to Jan just yet.

  I sucked in a deep breath to calm my rattled nerves. "Uh, think your man could get us another drink, Tadassan?" I cooed. I don't coo nearly as well as Jan, but she'd grown uncommonly silent and I hoped it wasn't delayed shock. "Jan, would you like another?"

  "Huh?"

  "Drink. Want one?"

  "Sure."

  Our new BFF barked an order at Samoa Boy, who sullenly turned to fetch drinks. But he was smarter than he looked, and collared a waiter for the task. He was back on guard-glower duty way too soon for my druthers.

 
Oh, well. "So, you're in business with Mr. Ishikawa? Lucky you, he sure knows how to pitch a party."

  "We are associates, not partners. We work together on some projects."

  "Here in Mexico?"

  "At times. Why do you ask?"

  "Oh, I just like to know if there are new projects about. Never know when a gal might need a job."

  He looked at me closely and cocked his head. "I did not catch your name."

  "I didn't throw it. You can call me Hetta-san, or if you prefer, Coffey-san. I answer to almost anything if the money is right."

  His eyes did their best to widen as he looked downright alarmed. "Hetta Coffey? Ishikawa's Hetta Coffey?"

  I took this as a bad omen.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Oh, 'kuso!' as they say in Japan.

  When Tadassan blew his inscrutable-ness and blurted, "Ishikawa's Hetta Coffey?" I experienced a revelation. Actually it was more like an acid reflux attack.

  Why I hadn't put ni and ni together and come up with Ishikawa before, I don't know. Sometimes I can be a little on the slow side. I still decided to play stoopid, which at the moment was pretty easy, since adding two and two got, 'Oh, Crap!' and numbed my brain. Or maybe it was that mini-bar? Anyhow, I somehow managed to squeak out, "Why, yes, I am a Hetta Coffey. Have we met?"

  Oddly enough my question sent him into a fit of laughter bordering on apoplexy. When he finally got control of himself, his cheeks matched Jan's fuchsia bikini, but at least he was breathing. Once again he waved off Samoa Boy who, like me, probably thought the old dude was gonna croak on us. Two croakers in one night is way over my body count limit.

  "Are you all right, Mr. Fujikawa?" Jan, now recovered from her momentary brush with the vapors, asked as we both pounded his back.

  Short-fingers handed his boss a drink that looked to be pure whiskey of some kind. He downed it, and wiped his eyes. "Yes, yes, I am fine. I was caught by surprise that Hiro Ishikawa would invite Hetta Coffey to his luau. Or anywhere else, for that matter, what with your, uh, history."