Rum Luck Page 19

  “I thought the Father would want to know. He could have given an extra blessing or something to make up the difference. Those hinges!” He shuddered. “He didn’t have to shoo us out of the church like that. The nerve of the man!”

  Miguel eyed Enrico. “You pressed your ear to the casket, knocked on the top, and shouted that if it was real mahogany, then you were a French nun.”

  “I didn’t shout, exactly,” Enrico grumbled.

  Ben had heard enough. “Where’s Ana?”

  “She was gone by the time we left the church,” Miguel said. “She muttered something about having to sort through Antonio’s effects. I think she’s going to stop by the cantina when she’s done.”

  “Shall we head to Brasilito and see if we can run down our missing vandal?” Ben asked.

  Enrico led them over to the parking lot where his Mercedes waited in the sun. He popped open the door and slid into the front seat. Miguel opened the passenger door and looked apologetic as he tilted the seat forward so Ben could wedge himself in back. Even seated behind Enrico, he had to slide his knees up to his chin.

  Enrico hit the Benz’s start button, and the music picked up where it had left off, blasting at full volume. “I’m on the highway to hell . . .”

  Miguel and Ben both stared at Enrico, mouths agape.

  “What?” Enrico asked.

  The Benz flew from the parking lot, shrouding the lingering mourners in a cloud of dust.

  The red convertible cruised past the wooden and cinderblock shacks that lined Brasilito’s meandering side streets, drawing attention from those who thought they had a pretty good idea of what men inside a slow-moving Mercedes were searching for in that neighborhood.

  A thin man with long, greasy hair and stained linen pants approached the Benz. “Hey man,” he asked with a predatory grin. “You looking for anything?”

  Miguel smiled back, then fired off a series of short, sharp phrases in Spanish.

  The thin man jumped as though slapped and backed away from the car toward his herd of equally disreputable friends. Enrico tossed his head back and laughed.

  Ben leaned forward from the back seat. “What did you say?”

  “Nothing, really,” Miguel said. “I told him we were looking for Kalashnikov-pattern rifles, 7.62 mm armor-piercing rounds, Dragon Skin bullet-proof vests, and night vision goggles. Oh, and three kilograms of Semtex plastic explosives. With detonators.”

  “Of course. Can’t forget the detonators.” Ben allowed himself a chuckle. “Could you imagine if he’d actually had any of that?”

  “I don’t know. It would have been nice if he’d had some of it.”

  Ben blinked. What exactly had Miguel done in the Colombian army? He’d always made it seem like he was simply another conscript, serving out his time. Yet, as far as Ben knew, most draftees couldn’t casually order enough firepower to overthrow a small Central American nation.

  “Look!” Enrico pointed at a ramshackle convenience store. Beneath colorful advertisements for beer and ice cream there was a small Gringo tag, barely visible from the road. To Ben’s surprise, it actually looked like art. The vandal must have been practicing since he’d tagged their rental car.

  He pointed to the side of a small Internet café. “There’s another one over—”

  His face bounced off the headrest as Enrico slammed on the brakes. He turned to his nephew. “Do you see? Third boy on the right, in the blue shirt.” Enrico pointed toward a group of young men standing on the dusty street corner.

  Miguel nodded and threw open the door. The youths turned and glared at him, then shouted something in Spanish. The vandal stood his ground for a moment, then broke from the group in a dead sprint. Miguel dashed after him.

  “Hold on,” Enrico said.

  “To what?” Ben asked, rubbing his nose.

  Enrico stomped his foot on the gas, unleashing a wail of rubber and a wall of tire smoke. Ben was mashed back into the leather upholstery as Enrico swung the heavy convertible around the corner.

  An oncoming pickup truck blared its horn, flashing past them a split second after Enrico wrenched the convertible back into its own lane. To his right, Ben caught glimpses of the blue-shirted youth and Miguel sprinting under towering trees through the yards of haphazard houses. His head snapped forward as the Benz howled around another corner.

  No sooner had he regained his sense of balance than his face bounced off the headrest once more. The squeal of brakes was replaced by silence, broken a moment later as the teenager cart-wheeled into the back seat of the Benz, his head landing heavily in Ben’s lap. Miguel caught up seconds later.

  “Nice catch, Uncle.” Miguel loomed over the side of the convertible, barely out of breath.

  “Did he leave a dent?” Enrico asked, frowning. “I’d only hoped to slow him down for a second or two. I never thought he’d be stupid enough to run into the car.”

  “What do you want?” The youth struggled vainly against Miguel’s heavy grasp. “I didn’t do anything, man!”

  Enrico leaned in. “We’ll ask the questions here . . . Gringo.”

  The youth swallowed hard, then glared back at Enrico. “What are you talking about? My name is George.”

  “Fine, George. If you are innocent, why did you run from Miguel?”

  “Who wouldn’t run if he was chasing them?”

  He has a point, Ben thought.

  “Well, then.” Enrico chuckled. “You’re a bit old for finger-painting, aren’t you?”

  Ben looked down at George’s clenched hands. Despite the vandal’s best efforts to hide the evidence, the tips of his fingers were clearly covered in a rainbow of spray paint.

  George—Gringo—turned defiant. “I want a lawyer.”

  “If I was a police officer, I would be glad to get you a lawyer.” Enrico smiled sympathetically. “But I’m not.”

  “What?” George looked at each of them in confusion. “You’re not cops? Why are you all wearing suits?”

  The car’s engine roared to life. “Let’s take a little drive, shall we?”

  “No!” George’s eyes widened in terror. “Stop! I’ll do anything!”

  “Ready to come clean?” Enrico revved the engine. “Are you sure?”

  George bobbed his head rapidly. Ben thought about confessing himself, if it would spare him another ride in the back of this damned convertible.

  The engine cut out.

  “All right. Start talking.”

  When they got back to the cantina, Ben found Victoria alone in the lounge with a glass of wine and a trashy magazine for company.

  She didn’t bother to look up. “Any luck finding the source of the graffiti?”

  “We found Gringo, and he confessed,” Ben said wearily. He went behind the bar and fixed himself a drink. A very strong drink.

  “Really?” Victoria put down the magazine. “Did you just run into him by chance?”

  Ben took a sip and grunted. That was either a potent drink or a mild drain cleaner. “I wouldn’t say it was by chance.”

  Enrico walked in and clapped his hands. “Good news, everyone. I think the scuff Gringo left on the Benz will buff right out. All I need is some soap and a little bit of carnauba wax. Mr. Cooper, I require two of your finest chamois.”

  Victoria was aghast. “You ran him over?”

  “Technically, he ran over us.” Ben sat down in the chair next to hers, then turned his mind to Enrico’s request. Unfortunately, he wasn’t entirely certain what a chamois was, let alone which was his finest. “My regrets, Mr. Morales. The intruder destroyed all of our chamoises last night.”

  Ben might as well have cancelled Christmas. “Even the sheepskin from New Zealand?”

  “Especially that one,” Ben said, then told Victoria about the high-speed chase. Meanwhile, Miguel and Enrico fixed drinks of their own, then joined Ben and Victoria in the lounge.

  “Who was he working for?” Victoria asked.

  “No one.” Ben leaned back in his chair a
nd pressed the ice-cold glass to his forehead. “He was in Tamarindo visiting friends, got drunk, and decided our little hatchback was the ideal canvas.”

  “He said he was sorry,” Miguel said. “That was nice of him.”

  “Nice? Nice?” Enrico fumed. “He leads you on a foot chase through the back streets of Brasilito and scuffs my beautiful car, and now he’s nice?”

  “Gringo did think we were trying to arrest him, Uncle.”

  “Apparently, he was disappointed with the quality of his work that night,” Ben said. “He even offered to repaint the car. From what I could gather, he’s something of a budding artist.”

  “We told him the car had bigger problems than a bit of graffiti.” Miguel said.

  “So, now we’re back to Luis,” Enrico said.

  Ben leaned forward. “If Luis did murder Antonio, he’s going to want to get his hands on that loan agreement. One of us should keep an eye on the office in case he breaks in to look for it.”

  “I’ll do it,” Enrico said. “If he does show, I’ll lock him inside and we can question him at our leisure.”

  “Are you sure, Uncle?” Miguel asked.

  “That burglar wasn’t messing around,” Ben cautioned. “You could get hurt. Or worse.”

  “I think I can manage to pull a door shut without getting myself in trouble, Mr. Cooper. Unless you’re worried about me being in the kitchen alone with all those sharp knives about? Perhaps you’d like to put some plastic covers on the electrical outlets as well?”

  Ben shrugged. “Yell if you need anything.”

  Enrico stomped off to the kitchen.

  Miguel frowned. “I’m not sure how I feel about you leading my uncle around like a cat chasing a laser pointer.”

  “Enrico’s a bit . . . zealous. If he’s content to chase after Luis and leave the cartel alone, that’s just fine by me. Who knows? He might even be right.” Ben turned to Victoria. “What did you want to show me?”

  “You’re not going to like it,” she said, pulling her hardened laptop out of her attaché case.

  “If it’s a new lead, then I’ll like it just fine,” Ben said.

  “Hold on to that thought.” She powered up the laptop and set it on the table.

  There was something unusual about Victoria’s computer. Its dark steel surface seemed rather more tank-like than the one he’d used earlier that day. “Is that a different laptop?” he asked.

  “Consider it another tool in my toolkit.”

  Victoria opened the photos and audio of Jenni’s meeting with the unknown man. When she had finished, Ben leaned back in his chair, his eyes unfocussed and his glass empty.

  “Beer?” Miguel asked.

  Ben nodded, then turned back to Victoria. “You spied on her?”

  “ ‘Spied’ is such a harsh term. I prefer—”

  “Enough!” Ben yelled, slamming his hand down on the armrest. He lowered his voice. “I’ve heard enough.”

  Miguel returned with two pints of foam. “It’s cold now, at least.”

  Ben set his glass down on the table to let it settle and stared at the streams of tiny bubbles, racing to the surface and bursting into nothing.

  “What now?” he asked finally.

  “That doesn’t look or sound like Luis,” Miguel said.

  “What about his partner, Ramon?” Ben asked. He doubted any of them had paid much attention to Luis’s business partner during the bar fight, except to make sure he wasn’t badly injured afterward.

  “Whoever he is, he gave orders for Jenni to get in touch with you,” Victoria said. “When she does, we feed her some misinformation that should draw him out of hiding.”

  Miguel looked up sharply. “What if he realizes we’re playing Jenni against him? He might kill her, too.”

  Victoria mulled that over for a moment. “What if we wait until Jenni makes contact, then we sit her down somewhere and tell her we know all about her little deal?”

  Miguel looked skeptical. “She wouldn’t make it as a double agent. You can tell from the recording that she doesn’t have the stomach for it.”

  Ben took a deep breath. If anything happened to Jenni because of him, he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “Let’s keep this simple. All we need from her is a name. The police can take it from there.”

  “And if she doesn’t have a name to give us?” Victoria said.

  “She’ll have something we can use. A phone number. A birthmark. Something,” Miguel said. “I’m with Ben on this. We’ve already tried to do too much on our own. There’s a big difference between running a white-collar surveillance operation and trying to turn a cartel source.”

  Victoria thought about it for a few moments. “You’re right, Miguel. We haven’t the time or the training to play spymaster. After we’ve confronted her, we’ll take this to Reyes or Vasquez directly. Otherwise, we risk the wrong people getting wind of it. Agreed?”

  “Not that I’m objecting to the plan that’s least likely to get Jenni killed, but what if she dashes back to the mystery man after we make our approach?” Ben asked.

  “Then it’s a good thing someone planted a tracker on her, isn’t it?” Victoria said.

  “Good point,” Ben said. “In that case, I agree with your plan.”

  “Me too,” Miguel added.

  Ben made a face as he sipped from a glass with more froth than beer. “Whatever happens, it’s absolutely vital that Enrico knows nothing about this. I just don’t trust him not to torpedo our plans and put Jenni at risk.”

  Miguel and Victoria both nodded.

  “So, what next?” Ben asked.

  “We wait.” Victoria picked up her trashy magazine.

  “Why not approach Jenni now, while Enrico is occupied?” Ben asked.

  “We need to wait until she’s here at the cantina.” Victoria flipped to a full-page advert for a product that promised longer eyelashes and eternal youth.

  “It’s safer if Jenni is on our turf,” Miguel said. “From what she told her handler, she’ll be back tomorrow. We can wait until then.”

  Ben looked up at the clock. It was still early afternoon. That was a long time to sit on his hands.

  Miguel yawned, stretching gingerly as he rose to his feet. “I’ll be in my room, taking a nap.”

  Ben sighed. He’d been struggling against exhaustion most of the morning, but there was no way he could go to sleep now. He wasn’t even enjoying his beer.

  “I’m going to sort out the damned draft tap,” he said.

  Miguel eyed him with a mix of surprise and dread.

  Ben rolled his eyes. “I promise not to break anything.”

  “I’ve heard that before. Be careful.”

  Ben headed over to the bar and opened the door of the new keg fridge. Everything looked as it should. Well, as far as he knew, at least. All the hoses were hooked up, and each of the gauges was in the green. Perhaps the keg had gotten shaken up? He switched the lines between the two kegs—creating a small lake of beer in the process—and tried the offending draft tap once more. Another pint of foam.

  This didn’t make any sense. Ben sat down on one of the bar stools. Before the new fridge arrived, they had warm, foamy beer. Now they had cold, foamy beer. The new fridge had fixed the temperature problem, but not the foam. He looked at the gleaming draft tower, a brass pillar secured to the counter with four screws.

  Ben fetched a small screwdriver from the toolkit under the sink. He peered at Victoria, who was still immersed in her magazine. He listened for a moment, but heard no sound from Miguel’s room. He had a pretty good idea how his friends would react if they saw him taking tools to their latest purchase, and most of the possibilities involved said tools protruding from his chest. Ben slowly removed each of the four screws and gently lifted the draft tower from the counter.

  A small cloth bag dropped from inside the tower, spilling open on the counter. A gleaming emerald the size of a sparrow’s egg rolled across the counter and into the sink.

 
; CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Ben lunged after the emerald as it tumbled toward the drain. He exhaled sharply when it lodged safely between a lemon slice and a half-crushed martini olive. He picked up the jewel delicately and dropped it back in the bag, where it nestled amongst more than a dozen glittering stones of roughly equal size.

  He slid the pouch into his pocket and glanced over at the pass-through into the kitchen. He couldn’t believe his eyes. It looked as if Enrico was cooking. Surely not? There was a large pot of water on the boil and a range of utensils out, but together they made no sense. Why did he need a can opener, a rolling pin, and a garlic press? Then Ben realized that Enrico was trying to look at home in a kitchen, despite clearly never having made food for himself at any point in the past three decades. With no idea what any of the implements actually did, he’d simply chosen ones with different shapes and sizes.

  Ben dashed over to where Victoria was sitting and grabbed her by the arm. “Come with me,” he hissed. “No time to explain.” The magazine fell from her hands, and she and Ben snuck past the kitchen and into Miguel’s room.

  Victoria blushed and clapped a hand over her eyes.

  “Hey!” Miguel yelled. He was sprawled on the bed, naked but for a pair of well-worn boxer shorts covered in yellow smiley faces.

  “Shhh . . .” Ben frowned. “Lower your voice. And put some pants on, there’s a lady present.”

  “This is my room!” Miguel said in a whisper with the force of a shout.

  “Just let me know when I can move my hand,” Victoria said.

  Miguel dragged a pair of pants out from under his bed and put them on. “You can open your eyes now,” he said. “What’s all this about?”

  Ben pulled out the bag of emeralds. He opened the drawstring and held one up to the light. Miguel sat heavily on the bed, his arms wrapped around his midsection. His breathing turned ragged.

  Definitely a panic attack. Ben put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Relax, man. You’re all right. Take slow, deep breaths.”

  The reassurance only made matters worse. Miguel’s eyes widened as his breaths devolved into rasping gasps. Ben’s grip didn’t waver. To their surprise, Miguel soon brought himself back under control.