Just Needs Killin' (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 6) Read online

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."

  Jan cocked her head, clearly puzzled, so I asked her, "That name, Hiro Ishikawa, ring any bells with you, Miz Jan?"

  She scrunched up her face like she does when she thinks. When I do that I look like I have gas. She manages to look cute. A light went off somewhere under that blondeness and her eyebrows shot up under her bangs. "Oh, dear! That Ishikawa?"

  "Methinks, yes. Who knew?"

  "But why would he come here and bring—"

  I cut her off to shut her up. "I have no idea why he is here in Mexico. Maybe Tadassan can help us out with that one?"

  Our new best friend didn't look all that friendly anymore, and Mount Samoa moved into our circle like a Rottweiler that'd caught a whiff of prime rib.

  "Oh, my," I said, holding up my bare wrist, "look at the time. Jan, we'd better go, uh, powder our noses before dinner." I was already backing away, pulling Jan with me, ready to bolt if necessary.

  It wasn't necessary. Fujikawa called off his dog as Jan and I beat feet for the lobby, and the little Mujeres room. Once inside we stared at each other for a minute, each of us plainly wondering how we could be so dense. Hiro Ishikawa, for crap's sake? How did we overlook the obvious?

  Okay, so the name, Ishikawa, is Japan's equivalent to Smith in our country, and the last person on earth I'd figure would bring his family to commune with whales was the same guy who, just a few months ago, was planning to can them. Not his family, the whales. Baby whales, to boot. And, even though neither of us had ever met him face-to-face, Jan and I were responsible for foiling his whale-packing plot and getting him, and his cohorts, up to their necks in hot sake.

  "Okay, that tears it, Jan. We really gotta get out of here. Look for a window or something outta this bathroom."

  No luck with windows, but I did, however, find a door with a sign picturing a stick figure man walking through it. He was circled in red with a slash, the international symbol for, DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT DOING THIS. It read AVISO! SOLO EMPLEADOS!

  I tried the knob, but it was locked. Fortunately I always take a credit card with me, even to a luau. I have this little velvet purse I string around my neck to hold lipstick, money, and a credit card—and, back in Arizona, my Ruger LCP—cuz you just never know. Unfortunately, Mexico takes a grim view of an armed citizenry, so only the cartels have guns, and not me, who seriously needs one at all times.

  The lock proved no challenge for my Visa card, and once inside the EMPLOYEES ONLY room we discovered cleaning equipment, toilet paper and towels, and lockers with both uniforms and the clothes left by worker bees currently on duty. "Let's suit up, team."

  "Okay, but then what, Hetta? We have to get back to our room. Hell, even the car keys are there."

  "I know, but both of us don't have to go. Help me tie this scarf over my head. And you, try to look shorter and browner."

  My clothing benefactor was obviously a supersize woman, probably a maid, since the lobby staff all looked like Tecate beer models. I cinched in the flowered dress with the extra-large flowered pareo I use as a beach wrap. Jan, on the other hand, actually looks like a Tecate beer drinker's dream, so we picked kitchen staff gear for her; a little ugly-ing up with a black hair net and white hat was the best we could do in her case.

  I shoved a load of folded towels into Jan's arms and told her to hold them high enough to obscure her face, hoping kitchen staff sometimes doubled as room maids.

  "Take a look at this emergency exit chart. Looks like this door," I tapped on the plastic sign, "leads out the back. Go check out the parking lot and, if the coast if clear, I'll meet you at my pickup." We wanted to make a run for Mex 1 despite the guard post on the hotel's road. Since it was dark by now, our chances of escaping unnoticed from the hotel, and maybe even slipping by the guard, were vastly improved. Not ideal, but better than in broad daylight.

  My decision to take the stairs instead of the elevator wasn't one of my best, considering our room was on the fourth floor. By the time I vaulted the stairs two at a time, I was gasping and vowing to embrace a StairMaster in the near future. Evidently taking a dog for a daily two-mile walk on flat roads doesn't do much for the old lung capacity. Surprisingly enough, my legs still felt strong, which wouldn't do me much good when a lung collapsed.

  When the room door clicked into OPEN mode, I literally fell through it, catching myself on a chair to prevent splattering my oxygen-starved brain all over the tile floor, which, considering the condition of Ishikawa's room, didn't seem fair to the cleaning staff.

  Collapsing into the upholstered chair, I recalled hearing stories about people who passed out because they didn't take the time to cool down after strenuous exercise and this simply was not the time for anything like that. Shoving myself to standing, I swung my arms over my head and did a few arm pumps while running in place, then used my cool down walk to move from room to room, stuffing our belongings—and the remaining contents of the raided mini-fridge—into a hotel pillowcase. I figured they owed Ishi at least one lousy pillowcase, considering what the tab was going to be for that emptied mini-bar. Poor old Ishikawa's bank account was gonna take it in the neck, so to speak, by our bar bill alone.

  Scanning the room, I was satisfied we'd left very little to lead anyone directly to us, if you discount about a million fingerprints, enough DNA to create a new person or two, my name on the hotel registration, at least fifty witnesses who saw us at the luau, and my pickup logged in with the gate guard. All circumstantial, in my opinion.

  Bad as I wanted to bolt for the parking lot, there was still one more thing I felt I needed to do. My camera in hand, I rushed for Ishikawa's suite. Jan said the door was unlocked, and for some reason I felt the need to document the murder. It was, of course, an unreasonable reason, but just felt right.

  His door was indeed still unlocked, and the body—both pieces of it—lay in a brown colored liquid I doubted was Jack Daniels. A combination of best unidentifiable bad smells inside made me reluctant to enter very far into
the room, but I zoomed the lens and got off a couple of quick photos, then wiped down the door handle with my skirt, and slid the door closed, locking it from the inside as I did so.

  Flying back down the stairs, pumped up with fear and adrenalin, I doubted anyone in authority saw me, since I looked like a bag lady with her entire belongings—or some hotel guest's valuables—slung over her shoulder. Hotel employees are trained to overlook the antics of guests, but someone dressed as I was pushed the limits of normal.

  I reached the main floor level and was rushing along the route I hoped led to the parking lot, and Jan, when we almost had a head-on collision.

  As we danced around each other to maintain our balance, Jan whispered, "I drew a big fat zero. There are several hotel employees hanging out in the parking lot. Hell, one of them is sitting on your pickup's hood. I think they're waiting for a bus or something."

  "Dammit! Okay, back into the locker room. We'll think of something else."

  The Mujeres room was still luckily devoid of mujeres, so we spent a few minutes coming up with a new idea.

  "Okay, I think I've got it. Where are our bathing suits?"

  Jan waggled a garbage bag at me. We put our suits back on despite the evening chill, left the workers' clothes in a locker in the EMPLOYEES ONLY room, and scooted for the beach using the lush hotel shrubbery for cover. At least now we had money, IDs, and car keys. What we didn't have were a couple of sweaters, which we sorely needed. The sun was gone, a brisk, cool breeze came off the land, and we were trudging down a deserted beach toward a bar we'd spotted from our balcony earlier in the day. A bar with several pangas parked outside.

  "Okay, Jan, here's our story and we're sticking to it. We came here from Puerto Escondido with a couple of jerks who got drunk and belligerent. We had a tiff, and they left us. We need a ride back to port."

  "Gotcha. Did we come by car or boat?”

  "Boat. I saw a couple of speed boats in the harbor this afternoon with a bunch of partiers on board. As for my truck, we'll get it one way or another. Right now we just need a way out of here. Pronto."

  Business was a little slow at the Playa Blanca Bar, as it was early yet. We immediately spotted a couple of older Mexicans who might belong to those pangas, so I steered us to a table next to them while ignoring the surfer dude types ogling Jan from the bar. We were the only females in the room.

  I ordered two cuguamas of Tecate—thirty-two ounce bottles of beer named for sea turtles—and two cheeseburgers with papas fritas to keep our strength up.

  Turning my attention to the two Mexican men, I said, "Buenas noches."

  Obviously startled that a Gringa was zeroing in on them, they both nodded and politely replied, "Buenas noches" and went back to their conversation.

  Our beers arrived, and we'd chugged them by the time the burgers showed up. When the men at the next table scooted their chairs back, I waved a greasy salt-and-ketchup laden fry in their direction. "Say, do you know where we can rent a boat?"

  Now I was speaking their language. With a wide grin, one asked, "You wish to go fishing or snorkeling, señora?"

  "No, we just want to take a boat ride."

  "We have good boats." He nodded toward the pangas. "We can take you to the islands." He reached into a back pocket and pulled out a brochure featuring the usual photos of whales, underwater shots of colorful fish, and someone fighting a huge marlin. Handing it to me, he asked, "When do you wish to go?"

  "Uh, now?"

  They eyed our huge, empty, beer bottles, probably trying to assess just how drunk we were. I noticed the guys at the bar were eavesdropping on our conversation, so I turned to Jan and said, under my breath, "Showtime."

  Jan stood, tugged off the scarf tied around her waist, turned those big old baby blues on our prey, and mustered a tear, which I suspect was induced by a salty finger. Dabbing it with the scarf, she wailed, "Can you please help us? We came here with some mean old men who left us. We have to get back to Puerto Escondido. Tonight."

  Every man in the room, including the bartender, rushed our table. Jan sniffled while I embellished our sad tale of woe, adding we had money to pay for the panga, but needed to leave immediately. Within ten minutes we were bundled up in loaned surfer-dude windbreakers, and sat mid-panga with our mitts wrapped around two more cuguamas.

  Since the wind was offshore, our eight-mile ride north was smooth and rapid. Of course, the panga had zero running lights, but with so little traffic on the water, the occasional flick of a flashlight alerted others we were coming. Anyone out there now was probably setting lines and nets, so they could easily hear us anyway.

  In no time we were on the dock and waving our saviors a fond farewell. They were all grins, probably because I paid them double what they asked, which was most likely double what they usually charged.

  Since I didn't want them connecting us with Raymond Johnson, we told them we were staying at the nearby Tripui hotel, thus the dock drop. Now we had to figure out how to get to my boat.

  Luckily for us, someone left a dinghy at the dinghy dock.

  Silly bugger.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By the time we boarded Raymond Johnson, Jan and I were frazzled.

  It had been a long and stressful day, and it wasn't over by a long shot. My pickup was still at the resort, we had to return the "borrowed" dinghy to the dock, and worry over becoming the prime suspects for a beheading.

  I'd figured out how to get the pickup, the dinghy was no problem, but Ishikawa? My vote was to let dead guys lie and hope no one came looking for us in connection with his demise. Then again, I wondered if we shouldn't be lawyering-up.

  We tied the borrowed dink to Se Vende, returned it to the dock, and then went back to Raymond Johnson to contemplate our run back to the resort. We had three choices, all bad in our exhausted condition. We could take Se Vende, the fastest method, but that meant a roundtrip in an open boat, and it was already nearing midnight. Taking Jan's Jeep to retrieve my pickup was sensible, but why add yet another identifier to the mix? The guard at the entrance was sure to log in Jan's vehicle, and it had easily traceable Mexican plates—traceable right back to Jan's boyfriend, Chino. Weighing our options, we decided on taking Raymond Johnson.

  I started up the engines, Jan threw off the mooring line, and we slowly left port, hopeful not too many people would witness our exit. An hour later, we entered the resort's bay. I had noticed earlier there were two other powerboats and a sailboat anchored there, so I dropped the hook as far out as I could and still be able to catch a piece of bottom without also catching attention from shore. We ran in dark mode, turning off all lights—interior, mast, and running—before we let go the anchor and backed down. To us, the chain playing out sounded like a passing freight train, but the offshore wind carried most of the sound out to sea.

  From the flying bridge, my binoculars were powerful enough to see the luau still going strong. An occasional drumbeat drifted our way on the sea breeze, and what looked like a fire dance was in progress. I couldn't make out individuals, but by the size of one, I was pretty sure Samoa was still there. If they'd found Ishikawa's body by now, wouldn't you think they'd stop the party?

  "Jan, why don't you grab a nap? I'll wake you when the party's over. I figure it'll go on until at least two, maybe even three o'clock."

  "Sounds like a plan. Uh, just what, exactly, happens now?"

  "I intend to kill you, just as soon as we're safe. And I've changed my mind; I no longer embrace your new profession as a hooker. I mean, your very first trick ups and dies before you even showed."

  I ducked, so the book she launched only nicked me.

  The alarm went off at two-thirty. We fed our slight hangovers a sandwich, chased it with a Coca-Light, then bundled up in sweats and donned Jenks's baseball caps so we'd maybe pass for a couple of fishermen. Beaching Se Vende on the sand in front of the now-closed Playa Blanca bar, I tucked her in next to the panga we'd ridden in to PE a few hours before. I didn't want to land directly i
n front of the resort for two reasons; there was a shoal I'd seen waders walking on at low tide when Jenks and I anchored there a couple of months before, and there were almost sure to be guards about.

  Under our sweats and caps, we wore tourist garb: Bermuda shorts, sandals, and long tee shirts declaring I HEART BAJA. It was our hope that, should we encounter a guard, he'd just think us a couple of drunken vacationers out for a stagger in the wee hours. But with the exception of a stray dog that woofed once and then fell in step with us, no doubt hoping for a treat, we never saw a living soul, even after we reached the hotel parking lot, and Jan drove away.

  As I lurked in the shadows, making certain Jan was not noticed or followed, I heard voices and the sound of footfalls on gravel. Plastering myself to a wall behind an oleander bush, and hoping a scorpion hadn't done the same, I held my breath as the voices grew louder, even though they were practically whispering. One man hissed orders, one whined apologies, and the third just huffed and puffed. If these guys were trying to sneak around, they were doing a crappy job of it. But then again, I hadn't seen any sort of security around.

  The three walked right by me, and I had to wonder why they, like Jan and me, were skulking out a back exit like thieves in the night. The answer was soon clear: two of the guys lugged a very large black plastic bag, and the other was the one giving orders and generally harassing the other two.

  Hmmm. Ishikawa in a bag? Enquiring minds have to know.

  Once again I whipped out the nifty camera Jenks gave me so I could photograph birds at night without making much noise and no flash. I got off two shots of the bag, the luggers, and their tormentor, before following at a safe distance.

  Once in the parking lot, the trio made for a Lincoln Navigator, the vehicle of choice for Mexican drug dealers.

  With Jan safely long gone, I decided it was in our interest to snoop some before making a run for Se Vende and getting out of Dodge. What with tonight's grisly murder, and our possible suspects status, I needed as much on these creeps and their dirty work as possible in case someone came looking for me and Jan. Short of getting a peek into that bag, which I highly doubted contained leftover pig, all I could do was link them to Ishikawa, however circumstantially.