Rum Luck Page 22

“How’s that going?”

  “He’s putting Florence Nightingale to shame, I’m sure.”

  Reyes appeared behind Victoria’s shoulder. “Mr. Cooper, it’s good to see you awake again. Are you feeling well enough for me to ask you a few questions?”

  Ben waved toward a nearby empty chair. The ocean was so cold . . .

  Reyes settled himself and flipped open his notepad. He glanced at Victoria, then back at Ben. “I assume you want your lawyer to remain during your statement?”

  “That’s right.”

  “In your own words, please tell me what happened,” Reyes said gently.

  He told the captain everything that had happened from the moment Vasquez arrived at the cantina. Enrico quietly walked into the room and sat next to Victoria while Ben related what Vasquez had told him.

  Reyes leaned back, tapping his pen against his notebook. “Did he give you any indication as to how he intends to leave Costa Rica?”

  “None.” A wooden hull disappearing into the distance . . .

  “You gave him the emeralds in exchange for your freedom? All of them?”

  Ben thought for a moment. “I must have. I don’t remember opening the door, but there was no other way for Vasquez to get into that freezer.” Or for Ben to get out.

  “A Special Investigations Unit from San José will be called in to continue the investigation, but I will recommend that you be absolved of all responsibility for the theft of the emeralds.” He closed his notebook and slid it back inside his pocket. “While Vasquez’s actions are unfortunate, you were right to call the police when you did. Had you kept the gems, you might have faced charges for theft or even money laundering.”

  “What happens now?” Victoria asked. “My clients live here in the cantina, and have no other place to stay. How long will we be unable to use the bar?”

  “I will leave Constable Andino here overnight as a precaution and to ensure the crime scene remains secure. Provided you do not go behind the bar itself or enter the kitchen, you may use the remainder of the cantina as you see fit. Barring any further surprises, we will finish processing the scene early tomorrow morning.”

  “Do you have any leads on Ana’s whereabouts?” Ben asked. Clowns on miniature jet-skis, riding in circles . . .

  “So far, we have been unable to locate Ana Guiterrez. If what Vasquez said is true, then I expect he will keep her as a hostage until he can make his escape. We are searching with every available resource,” Reyes said. “If Vasquez is still in Tamarindo, we will find him.”

  “What if he’s already left?” Enrico asked.

  “Then we will have to hope he is a man of his word.” Reyes stood up. “I suggest you all get some rest. Good night, Mr. Cooper.”

  He walked back to the dining area and dismissed the detective and all officers but one. The police gathered up their equipment and left, while Constable Andino took up a position beside the door to the kitchen.

  Enrico drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair. “I think we should pay Miguel a visit.” He looked at Ben. “Can you walk?”

  Ben set his mug down on the table, glad to be rid of the foul beverage. He rose unsteadily to his feet but found himself growing sturdier as they went through the bar, past the lone policeman, and down the hall to Miguel’s room. Victoria closed the door softly behind them. There was a faint smell of burn ointment in the air, but Miguel seemed fine. Better than fine.

  “Ben,” Miguel exclaimed. “It’s great to see you. How are you?” He sat on the bed cross-legged, bouncing up and down.

  “Is he okay?” Ben asked. A faulty life preserver . . .

  “He’s fine,” Enrico said. “He’s had a few cans of Red Bull, that’s all.”

  “Red Bull?” Victoria echoed, aghast.

  “How many is a few?” Ben asked.

  “Four or five.” Enrico looked down at his feet. “The medic thought he might have a concussion. I wanted to make sure he didn’t fall asleep.”

  Miguel hopped off the bed and started doing jumping jacks.

  “No risk of that,” Ben muttered, easing himself into a chair in the corner of the room. Mouthfuls of sea water . . .

  “Enrico, they changed that years ago,” Victoria said. “Most doctors think it’s better to let a concussion victim sleep. Unless Miguel is bleeding from the ears or has an open head wound, you’re just supposed to wake him every few hours. That’s all.”

  Enrico shrugged. “Oops.”

  “How are you feeling, Miguel?” He looked different, somehow, but Ben couldn’t pinpoint why.

  “Never better,” Miguel said between jumps.

  “How is he, really?” she asked Enrico.

  “He’ll be fine. He knocked his head on the floor and he has a few minor burns from the stun grenade. It’ll just be a month or two before his eyebrows fill back in.”

  Ben looked at the singed stubble where Miguel’s thick, dark eyebrows had once been. Well, that explained the change in his appearance.

  “I have bad news,” Ben said. “Ana’s missing.” He brought Miguel up to date on everything that had happened that night.

  Miguel stopped jumping. “When are we going after Vasquez?”

  “I don’t even know where to start with this one,” Victoria said. She looked at Enrico and Ben in turn. “Do either of you have any ideas?”

  Enrico shook his head.

  Sinking beneath the waves . . . Ben sighed. “I can’t think straight. I had the strangest dream when I was unconscious, and I can’t get it out of my head.”

  “What was it about?” Victoria asked.

  “It was pretty ridiculous . . .” Ben said, then recounted every detail he could recall, from the rum bottle to the clowns.

  “That is bizarre,” Victoria said.

  “Are you sure you didn’t fix yourself a snack while you were trapped in the freezer? Perhaps a small sauerkraut and salami sandwich?” Enrico asked. “Sauerkraut always gives me the strangest dreams. This one time, I thought I was a hot air balloon pilot from Argentina, and I’ve never been to—”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me, either,” Miguel said. “But there’s something familiar about the boat.”

  “What could be more familiar than a fishing boat towing a bottle of rum?” Victoria said. “Perhaps I should check your pupils again.”

  “No, Miguel’s right,” Ben said. “Someone said something about a boat a few days ago. What was it?” He was so close, but he still felt foggy from his time in the freezer. Then something clicked. “It was a sailboat, wasn’t it? Something about a sailboat.”

  “Not a bad way to leave the country,” Victoria admitted. “The police will be watching the airports and the road crossings. But there are plenty of sailboats anchored off the Tamarindo beach, and they come and go as they please. No one would notice another one heading out to sea.”

  Miguel snapped his fingers. “Antonio had a boat. He used to run fishing charters. Ana told us he planned to spend his retirement sailing. She would have inherited it.”

  “The timing fits,” Ben said. “We lost track of Ana after she left the funeral, when she went to deal with the rest of Antonio’s effects.”

  “Well done, Miguel,” Victoria said.

  Enrico reached for the door. “I’ll get Constable Whatshisname.”

  “Wait!” Miguel said. “We need to talk this through first.”

  “Miguel, I know you want to help Ana, but we’ve had enough excitement for one day,” Victoria said. “We should let the professionals handle this.”

  “Hear me out,” Miguel said, holding out both palms. “How do we know Vasquez doesn’t have an accomplice in the police department?”

  Silence filled the room.

  Finally Ben said, “That would explain how he got word of the emeralds soon after I called the police. And how he sent so many officers on a wild goose chase.”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Victoria said.

  Miguel bounced up and down on the balls of his
feet. “I bet Vasquez got his fellow officers out of some tight spots over the years. If he needs a favor, they might not ask any questions. And who knows how deep that loyalty runs?”

  A chill ran through Ben. Suddenly, the presence of Constable Andino at the cantina felt far less comforting.

  “We need to handle this ourselves. Tonight.”

  Flashlight in hand, Ben crept toward the water taxi stand on the shores of the river estuary. Heavy branches swung in the wind as he made his way along the sandy path. Though scarcely on the outskirts of town, the stand seemed on the verge of being swallowed whole by the jungle. The flashlight lit up flimsy wooden outbuildings and piles of carelessly stacked canoes. In the distance, he could faintly spot a handful of moored motorboats. No sign of Vasquez.

  They had helped themselves to the flashlight—and some other choice provisions—from the tactical vest Constable Andino left unattended in the kitchen while he patrolled the perimeter. Stealing from the police had proven to be the easy part; more difficult was figuring out where Antonio kept his boat. They’d searched the office for over an hour before Victoria found a crumpled invoice wedged in the bottom of the desk drawer. The bill was for several hundred dollars, payable to Guanacaste Water Taxi. Ben might have missed its significance, but Victoria realized a bill that size meant Antonio was paying for more than the occasional ferry ride across the river.

  Ben and his friends had snuck out of the bar with ease, then quickly made their way down to the estuary. It was only when he hopped out of Enrico’s convertible that Ben noticed the police station was less than a hundred meters away. He was too tired to appreciate the irony.

  He checked his watch, newly borrowed from Enrico: 12:38 a.m. Fewer than twenty minutes remained until the tide reached its highest, offering Vasquez his best shot at a clean escape. Ben kept going down the path.

  A voice crackled in his ear. “Radio check,” Victoria said through his tiny earpiece.

  He steeled his nerves and cleared his throat. “Coming through loud and clear. Stand by for my signal.” There was a lengthy silence. Ben hefted the flashlight. “Mark.”

  He played the beam of light over the fleet of water taxis—large fiberglass motorboats with thin canvas canopies—and then along the shore, looking for any sign of the sailboat. Finally, he spotted a flimsy dock built of rotten lumber beyond the water taxis. Tied to its side was a long, sleek cabin cruiser. He walked closer until he could read the name Real de a Ocho painted on the side. There was no sign of movement aboard, but the boat was rigged to sail.

  “Vasquez!” he shouted. “Vasquez!” His words died in the cool night air. There was only the sound of water slapping against hull and shore, of the wind lashing the trees.

  Then Ben felt the cold muzzle of a revolver on the side of his neck. A muscular arm stretched around his throat. “There is no need to shout, Mr. Cooper,” Vasquez murmured in his ear. “Turn off the light, then drop it on the ground.”

  Ben clicked off the flashlight and let it slide from his hand.

  “Did you come alone?” Vasquez asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Forgive me if I do not believe you,” he hissed. “Why are you here?”

  “To make sure you keep your end of the bargain.”

  “I will release Ana as soon as I reach my destination. You have my word.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Vasquez cocked the hammer and pressed the muzzle in harder. “It will have to be, Mr. Cooper.”

  “You won’t shoot me,” Ben said. “The police would be here in minutes.”

  “They would find your body and an empty dock.”

  A moment’s lull in the wind betrayed rustling in the jungle beside them. Vasquez spun in place, keeping the revolver pressed to Ben’s throat. “You may come out now, Mr. Valares.”

  Miguel stepped from the shadowed brush, holding up both hands before him. “It’s over, Vasquez.” He stared at the detective as he slowly sidestepped toward the dock. “You wouldn’t shoot two unarmed men. You aren’t a cold-blooded murderer.”

  Ben felt the pressure of the muzzle against his skin slacken. Then Vasquez swung the revolver to bear on Miguel.

  “No!” Ben shouted. He clenched his eyes shut.

  The flashlight at his feet exploded in a wave of light and sound. He fell backward, opening his eyes as Miguel bore a stunned Vasquez to the ground. The revolver arced through the air, landing beside Ben. He scrambled to his feet, picked up the weapon, and hurled it into the water.

  Vasquez rolled atop Miguel and hammered his face with heavy blows. Miguel brought up his elbows and withstood the onslaught as best he could, then knocked the detective off balance.

  They scrambled to their feet and slowly circled one another. Miguel lashed out with blistering jabs and crosses. Vasquez ducked, blocked, and countered with a heavy blow to the jaw. Miguel’s head snapped to one side.

  Miguel took a leaden breath and threw everything he had against Vasquez. The detective struggled for a moment, then slammed a heavy fist into Miguel’s stomach. Miguel staggered back, then lashed out with a kick. The detective slid alongside the raised leg and struck Miguel’s kidneys with a heavy elbow. Miguel dropped to his knees, and Vasquez drove his heel into the small of his back. He hit the ground with a muted thud.

  Ben dashed forward. Vasquez turned, grabbed Ben’s shoulders, and drove a knee hard into his diaphragm. He fell to the ground, fighting for breath, watching in horror as Vasquez fell upon Miguel once more, wrapped his hands around his throat, and began to choke the life from him.

  “Ben!” Victoria shouted through the earpiece. “Ben!”

  He couldn’t speak. The only noise was Miguel’s strained gurgle—

  The Real de a Ocho roared to life. The harbor engine thrummed and the navigation lights cast the shore in a vivid red and green glow.

  Vasquez looked up for a split second. Miguel grabbed him by the jacket and yanked the detective down with all his strength. Their skulls connected with a lurid crunch. Vasquez collapsed, clutching his broken nose.

  Miguel leapt on the wounded detective, tugged a pair of plastic zap-straps from his pocket, and secured Vasquez’s wrists and ankles. He patted the man down for the collapsible baton, but it was nowhere to be found.

  Ben tapped his earpiece. “Victoria?” he wheezed.

  She stepped from the shadows, radio in hand. “What happened?”

  “I think the plan actually worked.”

  Victoria smiled. “I still can’t believe Miguel managed to turn a flashlight into a flash-bang.” The flashlight’s metal shell lay smoking on the sand, split apart by the force of the pyrotechnics.

  Miguel grunted and rubbed his throat, but a huge grin split his face.

  “Next time, can we make the trigger word something other than ‘no’? I was sure I was going to detonate it by accident while it was still in my hand,” Ben said. “That was some brilliant improvisation by Enrico, starting the boat up like that.”

  “It wasn’t me.” Enrico hobbled out of the jungle. “I twisted my ankle on my way down to the beach.”

  Miguel touched his forehead and winced. “Then who—?”

  They turned to look at the Real de a Ocho. Ana beamed at them from the deck. “Hola.” She raised her hands, bound at the wrist with thick marine rope. “Can one of you get this off me, please?”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Victoria leaned into the office. “It’s time.”

  Ben glanced down at the voicemail icon on his cell phone. He’d already put off listening to the countless messages for days now. Another ten minutes wouldn’t hurt. He rose from his desk, feeling every ache and bruise from his trying week. Enrico had proven to be a successful—if exhausting—owner. Better still, the cantina had been packed every night since the police raid, bullet holes and all.

  Miguel had even managed to convince Enrico to give up his dream of becoming a world-class bottle spinner. In the span of a single night, the man smashed more glassware
than Vasquez had while terrorizing the cantina. Enrico was briefly disappointed, but soon divvied the remainder of his time between chatting up the patrons, bossing Ben and his friends about, firing Oscar from no fewer than three jobs, and freestyling behind his bongos. It was one hell of a week, even if none of the reporters they’d invited ever showed.

  Ben would never forget last night, when Enrico invited his band to join him in a full-on musical battle against Victoria and some of the top DJs in Tamarindo. The party had raged on until well after sunrise. Ben stifled a yawn. He would have taken time to sleep it off, but they had vital business to attend to.

  “Good news,” Victoria said. “Because of the problem with the glued-on mirror, the rental company has agreed to sell us the car for an even thousand dollars.”

  “Are you kidding?” Ben asked. “We have cases of empty bottles worth more than that blasted hatchback. It’s not even drivable.”

  “It’s the best we can do under the circumstances. We have a good shot at getting back the rest of the money from the police department as compensation for the damage done by Vasquez, but that’s going to take time.”

  They walked past the kitchen, where Oscar was tending to a half-dozen pots while rolling a fresh coat of paint onto a wall scorched by the stun grenade. Ben looked at the freezer and shivered.

  “Miguel seemed excited,” she continued. “Apparently, he has something special in mind.”

  He shrugged. If Miguel wanted the hatchback, Ben would chalk the cost up to danger pay. “Works for me.”

  Victoria started whistling.

  “You’re in a good mood,” Ben said. “Any word from Mansion?”

  She smiled. “None at all.”

  “Then why are you whistling?”

  “I’ve done a lot to anger Mansion over the years. Whether I was selling Mother’s diamonds on eBay or dying my hair blue, I’ve always gotten some sort of reaction from him. Usually, he hires another private detective to babysit me or threatens to cut off my trust fund. He’s never, ever been speechless before.” Victoria grinned. “He must be absolutely furious.”

  Ben shook his head. He didn’t think he’d ever truly understand Victoria.