Just Needs Killin' (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 6) Page 4

  Dodging around behind a few parked cars, I got off a couple more shots of the bag going into the back of the Navigator, and men opening the front doors. What I hoped was the money shot was when the interior lights illuminated the faces of the two men in the front seat, but I wouldn't know for sure until I had a chance to see what I’d captured.

  They drove off, I hoofed for my boat, and was underway and heading back to port before my heart quit trying to escape my chest via my throat. The trip back to Puerto Escondido and getting the boat safely re-anchored so I could collect Jan from the dock, seemed to take forever, but was actually only a little over an hour.

  We'd agreed Jan would wait for me in my truck, and when I got there she was sound asleep behind the wheel. I considered just crawling into the passenger seat and catching a snooze myself, but we still had work to do.

  It is true: there is no rest for the weary. Wicked?

  Or the weary wicked.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Because I was single-handing my boat, and it was dark, I had decided to re-anchor Raymond Johnson back in my cell tower access spot rather than try to snag that mooring near the marina again. By the time I retrieved Jan from the parking lot, and we got back aboard, it was only about an hour until I could call Jenks back, and lie like a Persian rug about why I wasn't home to take his call the night before. Was it only the night before? Good grief, it felt like a lifetime.

  As soon as we were safely back on the boat, we feasted on PB&Js Jan made for us. I'd requested eggs Benedict, but Jan said something rude and shoved a sandwich in my hand. Good help is so hard to find these days.

  Jan, revived by peanut butter, had a twinkle in her eye that screamed she was keeping a juicy secret, and I was right.

  "So," she finally said, "guess what I've got?"

  "Is it treatable with penicillin?"

  She laughed, dug into her pocket, withdrew a piece of paper, and waved it in front of me. When I held out my hand, she raised it over her head, out of my reach. "Not so fast, Chica. You owe me a big fat apology."

  "For what?"

  "You called me a prostitute."

  "I did not. I called you a hooker, but I was wrong. I meant to say, more like a high-priced call girl."

  "Hey, I turned down the fifty grand.”

  "I know, dammit. Was he, by any chance, going to pay up front?"

  "For me to know, and for you never to know. And you're also gonna owe me big time for this little gift." She jiggled the piece of paper. "That's two big fat 'I'm sorrys'."

  "What I owe you is a kick in the rear for getting us into this in the first place."

  She let down her guard and I jumped up and snatched the paper. I took it to my desk, put on a pair of cheaters, and saw the resort's letterhead at the top of the page. "Holy crap! I take back the kick, and okay, I'm sorry for whatever."

  "That was pretty lame, but I'll take it."

  "How in the hell did you get the road guard's log sheet?" I peered closely, and sure enough, at 15:45 he'd noted my pickup's license number, description, and my name.

  "Let's just say the sweet man was a mite distracted."

  "My hero! Okay, lookee what I've got."

  I fired up the laptop and downloaded the body and body-snatcher photos from my camera, filling Jan in on the details of the encounter as I did so. I was surprised how well they turned out, considering there was virtually no natural light.

  The first photos, of Ishikawa, were shocking, even though we'd both seen the real thing. Jan and I said, in unison, "God rest his soul." We were raised right, no matter how we turned out.

  The next few shots were of the bag luggers and their snarky overseer. Much to my surprise, more detail emerged than I could have even hoped for. On a garbage dumpster behind them, the name of the resort was clearly stenciled in bold letters, logo and all. I also captured a brief video clip of the men heaving the plastic bag into that Navigator, and by some miracle, another still of the license plate.

  Jan gave me a high five. "Jolly good work, Sherlock. Too bad we can't see their faces."

  "Stand by, my dear Watson." I clicked back a couple of shots and up popped the Navigator, interior lights ablaze. The two men in the front seat were facing directly into the lens. I zoomed in on them, and Jan spit peanut butter all over my computer screen.

  Back in October, when Jan and I first cruised from Northern California to Magdalena Bay, on the Pacific side of the Baja, we had a serious dustup with a Mexican real estate developer by the name of Ricardo Lujàn, a scuzzbag of the highest order who never builds anything he doesn't plan to later steal. He is what the Mexicans call a cacique, after a bird that steals the nests of others. And yes, he richly deserved all the grief we were able to dole out for him after all the crap he pulled on us, but making an enemy of a man of his ilk is never a good thing. Not that that's anything new for me, as I piss people off on a regular basis. It's a gift.

  El Señor Lujàn oozed into our lives as our Mag Bay contact for the giant Japanese firm, Tanuki. They'd hired Hetta Coffey, LLC, for a feasibility study for a desalination/salt plant, or so I thought. Turned out that my boss in Tokyo, a Mr. Ishikawa—at that time he still had his head—and this Lujàn character were conspiring to use the cover of the project to trap, butcher, and can, baby whales.

  But even before we uncovered the whale-in-a-can scheme and his other nefarious dealings, Jan and I took an instant dislike to Ricardo Lujàn. He smarmily told us we could call him Richard, Ricardo, or Rick, but not to call him Dick. So quite naturally we dubbed him Dickless Richard.

  Obviously Dickless and his former partner in crime, Ishikawa, had gotten back in cahoots after the Mag Bay debacle, because for them to be accidently at the same resort when one of them literally lost his head is way too much of a coincidence. Potential whale-canner or not, of the two men, Ishikawa was by far my choice to still be breathing.

  I paced while Jan wiped peanut butter from my computer screen. We were both still speechless from the shock of Dickless's ugly mug—the one now so justly splattered with peanut butter and spit—popping up. Once in awhile, one of us would start to say something, then not do it. We were too tired, and too appalled by this nasty turn of events in an already nastily eventful evening. Finally, Jan stood and declared, "Stick a fork in me, I'm done," as she headed for her cabin.

  Wiping Lujàn's smarmy face from my computer screen, I sent myself an email with all of the photos attached, then deleted them from My Pictures on my laptop.

  My eyes stung with fatigue, and maybe an impending tear or two. I longed for the comfort of a furry rump on my feet, but Po Thang would have to stay put with my friends until after I got a few hours of sleep.

  I popped a couple of PMs to give myself half a chance at sleeping, and called Jenks while I waited for them to kick in. I missed his lovely rump, as well. I envisioned his long lanky frame, slightly graying blonde hair, kind bright blue eyes, and his classic Norwegian features as I waited for my call to travel all those miles to Dubai. He picked up on the first ring, and when I heard his deep voice, a tear did escape my burning eyes. "Hey, you're up early."

  I made a valiant effort to sound cheerful. "Heck, I've already had breakfast. Jan made it."

  "Ah, Jan's there. That explains why you were out and about and not answering your phone. How's Jan?"

  I liked the way this was going. No reason for Jenks to wonder if we'd been up to no good, because if Jan was with me it was a given, and he usually just didn't want to know details unless he had to post bail.

  "She's going back to the fish camp today. If I had a slip for this boat, I'd go with her, but I'm still on the wait list. I'm actually thinking of taking the boat back up to Santa Rosalia, or maybe down to La Paz. It's starting to warm up in the Sea of Cortez, and before long I'll have to run the air conditioner during the afternoons." And besides, there's this dead guy, and that rat Lujàn is involved, and I'm scared, and tired and….

  Jenks's voice cut into my pity party. "Is the generator running o
kay?"

  "Oh, uh, yes. It's just that I hate listening to it. I will, if I have to, but I think I need to maybe move the boat. There's still no electricity at the new small marina here, so no use going there, and I don't have any idea how long it'll be to get into the other marina. Besides, I'm leery of leaving Raymond Johnson here this summer anyway. I don't trust that Med-tie situation at the main marina."

  Putting out an anchor and backing in to tie the back of the boat to a dock—called a Mediterranean tie—is fine in benign conditions, but Puerto Escondido was hit with a major hurricane a few years ago, and even where my boat was now anchored, there were reportedly one-hundred mile an hour winds, and eight-foot waves crashing into the harbor through the '"windows" between the low hills. Several boats sank, and Puerto Escondido's claim to fame as a hurricane hole sank with them.

  "So, you're going to put the boat away and join Jan and Chino on their little treasure hunt?"

  Yes, I find it preferable to being beheaded. "Why not? It's much cooler on the Pacific side of the Baja, they have that huge research vessel, and who knows, we might even find Chino's galleon. Beats sitting at a dock in the Sea of Cortez with the air-conditioner droning away twenty-four seven."

  "I've heard summers in the Sea are brutal. It ain't gonna be exactly dandy over here, either."

  "I'll bet. I read somewhere that Dubai stays over a hundred all summer. Sounds like Vegas. Nothing near that here, but the humidity is fierce. Decisions, decisions. Anyhow, if I put the boat in Santa Rosalia or La Paz and go with Jan and Chino in Mag Bay, I can still drive back for meetings at the mine, I'll have a place to live, and built-in dog sitters. Just sounds like the best thing to do." Since I prefer to live.

  After we exchanged 'I-love-and-miss-you's', I called Texas, needing the comfort of hearing my mom's drawl. Of course, there is no way I’d let her know I was most likely neck deep in cow patties again, or that I was lonely and scared. Why worry the parents unnecessarily?

  “Hetta Honey, I have some bad news for you.”

  Oh, great, just what I need right now.

  “Everything okay with you and Dad?” I asked, which was all I really cared about.

  “We’re just fine. But your Uncle Fred died.”

  I rubbed my eyes. The nighty-night pills were starting to kick in. “Uh, I didn’t know I had an Uncle Fred.” We have a large family in Texas, but danged if I could remember an Uncle Fred.

  “Well, you do. Or did. He and your aunt Lillian were married a few months back.”

  “Oh, that uncle. They never last long enough for me to remember their names. The way Lil runs through husbands it’s no wonder I don’t know who they are. Did she kill him off, like she usually does?”

  “Het-ta, if you’re going to be that way I’m hanging up.”

  “Sorry, Mom. I know Lil is your big sister, but what number husband is this? Six? And let’s face it, she gets them out of what Dad calls the drunk tank at the VA, then they fall into the bottle together. If she’d leave them where they were getting help, they’d probably all still be alive.”

  “Fred had a weak heart.”

  “Well, marrying Lil sure as hell couldn’t have helped that. Where are they? Last I heard they went to Mazatlan.”

  “Still are. Well, she is. Fred passed in a hospital there.”

  “Good thing. If he’d died at home the Feds would have her in custody.” Actually the idea of my aunt in a Mexican clink appealed to me, but I didn’t share that, and changed the subject. “So what else is happening?”

  “Nothin’ much. Your father wants to take the RV to Canada this summer, so I guess we’ll leave next month. Oh, he just walked in, so here he is.”

  Dad took the phone and we talked more about their RVing, and my plans to join Jan and Chino on the galleon/treasure hunt for the summer. While we were talking about that, Mom yelled in the background, telling him to tell me to use sunblock and for him to ask me about Jenks. Daddy dutifully did both. My parents really like Jenks and are worried, as I'm wont to do, that I'll scare him off. This latest escapade just might do the trick.

  Jan and I were up and about by noon, although still a little fuzzy from too much booze and tension, and not enough rest. I took her to her Jeep and picked up Po Thang, who seemed ecstatic to see me. He circled and whined, telling me just what an old meanie I'd been, but quickly dashed for the pickup to ensure his old meanie didn't leave him again.

  It had been a few years since my last dog, RJ, died and I'd forgotten how nice it was to always be greeted by a fluffy critter who didn't give a damn whether you were drunk, or sick, or whatever, just so you are there. Po Thang actually seems to like morning breath.

  RJ, the dearly departed, was also a rescue dog. I got him out of the Oakland pound, where he was deemed basically un-adoptable because of his crappy attitude. I figured we were meant for each other. Unable to come up with a name, I called him Dawg for a few weeks until Jan, deciding Dawg was undignified, named him Raymond Johnson. As in “You can call me Ray, or you can call me Jay, or you can call me Johnny, or you can call me Sonny, or you can call me RayJay, or you can call me RJ, or you can call me RJJ, or you can call me RJJ Jr., but you doesn’t have to call me Johnson.” Jan was a big fan of that annoying repetitive skit on the old Redd Foxx Show.

  Jan also named Po Thang after we'd spotted him on the roadside several times before snagging him. The poor thing was indeed a pitiful sight back then.

  But on this morning after I picked him up from exile, his pure joy when we arrived back at the marina and he leaped into Se Vende's bow, gladdened my heart and made me forget, for just a moment, this fresh hell Jan and I were into.

  For the next few days I scanned the Net, searching for news of a murder in Baja, and found nothing. Then again, the Mexican press is pretty much in league with the tourist bureau, and a beheading at a large luxury resort just ain't good for business. In fact, since the new president took over, even cartel violence has all but disappeared from the headlines. Either The Prez has made some kind of deal with the drug lords, or they finally killed off or terrorized every journalist brave enough to report cartel mayhem.

  Days passed without further incident, so Jan and I began to relax a bit. We talked daily, speculating on the what ifs and whys, and hoping Ishikawa was planted next to Jimmy Hoffa.

  But why? "What I don't get is why Ishikawa was at the fish camp in the first place. I'm finding it hard to believe he only brought the family for whale viewing. And if it really was just a family outing, why pick your camp? Chino doesn't run tours, he's a scientist. How did Ishikawa even contact you in the first place?"

  "Lemme think."

  "I smell smoke."

  "Smart ass. We got an email from a Japanese eco-group saying they wanted to expose Japanese industrialists first hand to whale preservation. Chino didn't really want to get involved, because you know how he feels about a country that kills whales. However, the idea of educating a man who might make a difference was appealing. And, they said that man was willing to pay big time, and we needed the money for the summer expedition."

  "Have you checked out this Japanese whale hugger group?"

  "Yes. They're legit."

  "You say Mrs. Ishikawa and the kids are still at the camp?"

  "They have another two weeks."

  "Have you asked her where her husband is?"

  "No."

  "Do it and call me back, okay?"

  "She's out with Chino right now, but when they get back I'll figure out a way to ask."

  "How about, 'By the way, ma'am, are you aware your husband was beheaded and his body stuffed in a trash bag and hauled off by thugs?' "

  "I think I can be a mite more subtle than that."

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Po Thang, Po Thang, go channel seventeen."

  Po Thang practically levitated from a deep slumber. He'd never received a radio call before.

  As he ran in excited circles around my legs, I grabbed the mic and switched channels. In my best answeri
ng machine voice I said, "Hi. Po Thang can't come to the phone right now, but your message is very important to us. So leave one."

  "Cute. Okay, here is the message," I recognized the voice as belonging to Denny, a single-hander who had one of those coveted slips at the main dock. "Tell him the local heat is asking around about his boat mate. And they've commandeered a panga and are loading up to head his way. He might want to take a pee, if you know what I mean."

  "Holy…Got it. Gone."

  I dropped the mic like a hot tamale, and grabbed my bright orange ditch bag. If you live on a boat, you never know when you are going to have to abandon ship, and my large waterproof satchel contains an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating rescue beacon), a strobe light, flashlight, whistle, a signal mirror, first aid kit, a knife, bottled water, sunblock, a handheld watermaker, a flare gun with extra shells, lots of power bars, and everything one might need to survive a few nights in a raft, or afloat. Into this pack, before I go to bed each night, I always toss in my handheld radio, money, binoculars, and both mine and Po Thang's inflatable life jackets, his with a tether that clips to mine.

  Before boarding Se Vende, I jammed on an oversized straw hat like the ones favored by local fishermen, then grabbed a fishing pole, which sent Po Thang into a tail-wagging frenzy; he just dearly loves it when I catch a fish.

  I hid behind some nearby mangroves, and not a minute too soon, for I first heard, then saw, a panga streaking toward Raymond Johnson. It was loaded to the gunwales with six or seven uniformed, armed men. It first circled my boat, then sidled up to the swim platform.

  One of them called out something in Spanish, and knocked on the hull, but getting no response, boarded. Finding the boat locked, and no one reacting to their ever more vocal demands, they posted an armed guard on deck. After a discussion of some sort with the others, the rest of the contingent left in the panga, which headed for the other anchorage near the entrance to the harbor, a popular spot called the Waiting Room.