Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (16 page)

BROAD IN THE BEAM (Nautical term): Said of a wide vessel or a large-hipped woman.

I had the right of way.

Unfortunately the other gal had the widest beam.

When Po Thang and I left the office for a jobsite tour I realized, as we climbed into a company truck, that I'd never driven into the busy part of the site. Up until then, someone else chauffeured me around and I now wondered, as I became more paranoid, if that was by design.

The administrative offices, man camp, mess hall and the like are all clustered near the entrance, whereas the actual mine construction area is set back at least a couple of miles. I was somewhat familiar with the busy roads from previous trips into the heart of what would, for a stranger to the ways of construction, look to be total chaos. Hundreds of vehicles of all sizes mill about in seemingly random patterns while hoards of worker bees armed with hand tools line roads and building areas. An ant farm I had as a kid comes to mind.

Having spent so much time on working sites, I knew there was a grand plan and everyone knew where to go and what to do, and that if I took precautions I could stay out of their way. Or so I thought.

I was stopped on the side of the road, double checking a plot plan for my location, when a cloud of dust caught my attention, especially since it seemed to be aiming right at us. Po Thang sat up straight and stared at the oncoming threat as intently as I did. We both let out what sounded like something between a squeak and a growl as it bore down on us, not slowing one iota as it neared.

Seconds later a huge piece of equipment, obviously totally out of control, outran its own dust. At the wheel was a wide-eyed woman who had apparently just spotted us and was desperately fighting the wheel and gears to either stop or at least slow down. She missed us by mere inches and careened past at nothing near a safe velocity.

Pissed, I turned around and gave chase, dead set on giving her a nasty piece of my mind. I had to drop back quite a bit in order to see the road through her dust, but keeping her in sight was hardly a problem since she left what looked like a tornado in her wake. Only when she made a two-wheeled turn—not easy with a piece of equipment that has six huge tires—onto an uphill grade did she finally roll to a stop. She was climbing from the cab when I caught up to her, and when she saw me stomping toward her she sank to her knees and set up a serious caterwaul. My anger dissipated when I saw her tear-streaked, terrified face.

Hustling to her side to see if she was hurt, I forgot about Po Thang in my rush. As we closed in on her she screamed and backed away, terrified. Mexicans, as a rule, are fearful of dogs, probably because until fairly recently dogs were for protection of property and therefore vicious.

I shooed Po Thang away while trying, in my best Spanglish, to reassure her that I hadn't loosed the hounds on her. Po Thang sat at a distance and whined, not understanding what he'd done to get a shooing.

"What's your name?" I asked her in Spanish.

"ChaCha," she sniveled. 

"Okay, uh, ChaCha, calm down," I think I said, but I might have asked her for an order of clams.

She nodded and wiped her eyes. "I am fired?" she asked in English.

"No, no. Are you hurt?"

"No. My...what is the word? Stopping no work."

"Your brakes?"

"
Sí
. Is
always
happening," she wailed and started blubbering again.

I patted her on the head and glared at the big yellow monster that tried to kill both of us. Po Thang sauntered over and disdainfully lifted his leg on a tire.

Other than ChaCha's sobs and the killer machine's engine ticking as it cooled, the desert was silent. Reaching for my cell phone, I realized I'd left it at the office, so I headed back to the pickup and the company radio.

"Coffey to base."

A delay, then Laura answered and I told her where we were and to notify Safety, but he cut in on his own radio and said he was on his way. Five minutes later his dually came over a rise and Po Thang ran to greet him, but turned tail when he sensed fury.

Safety stormed our way, his face a mask of anger, which set ChaCha to howling once again. Po Thang joined in.

"What the hell happened here?" he shouted, then added, "For Christ's sake, ChaCha—and you too, dog—dry up."

They both dried up and I bulled up. "Listen here, you jerk. ChaCha, Po Thang and I were almost killed so
you
dry up before I stuff your ears up your ass!"

Safety stopped in his tracks, opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and grinned. "Let me rephrase that. Would everyone please stop the noise, and can I be of any help to you?"

ChaCha and I giggled, Po Thang relaxed and rushed in for an ear rub, and Safety saved his own ears.

Safety stayed with the oversized dirt hauler and I gave ChaCha a ride back to the equipment yard. She blabbed nonstop all the way, a mixture of English and Spanish, giving me an earful of the problems the women drivers were experiencing with their equipment. Oddly enough, I understood most of what she said because she kept repeating herself until I did. Yes, she admitted, they were newly trained, but they were
not
trained to handle large machines that continually malfunctioned. She also told me her husband was a car mechanic in Santa Rosalia and he said there were too many breakdowns so the mechanics at the jobsite must not know what they were doing.

After awhile, I started to tune her out because something she said was niggling at me. I wasn't sure exactly what it was, but something to do with the cost overruns we were trying to zero in on. I dropped her off and headed back to the office to check on some of Jan's findings. Maybe, just maybe, I was on to something, but it would take some major snoopery to find out.

Po Thang didn't know it yet, but we were in for some unpaid overtime. Well, he was. I planned to bill the hell out of the Trob.

The jobsite started shutting down at three and I was the only one left in the office by five. Safety left last, still in a huff over the possibility of yet another blight on his record. Even though there was no injury except to our nerves, any accident or near accident had to be reported and could possibly raise the need for a review of safety regulations, which in turn would go on his record because he hadn't thought to instigate the regulations in the first place. Safety, it seems, has a thankless job and it made me wonder why he did it. Back at the office after the Cha-Cha incident, I heard him yelling into the phone a couple of times, but couldn't make out exactly who he was talking to or what he said. I did catch a couple of choice words.

Once I had the place to myself, I locked the front door to make sure it stayed that way. I'd already sent Jan an email and told her and Rosario to get ready for a confab via live chat.

Me: Okay, no witnesses around here, but I'm still not gonna use the phone. You never know who is listening.

Jan: Ain't that the truth? Get this. Back when Rosario first told us his story, the one I wrote up and sent you? He said he "overheard" rumors of financial problems on the job. Well guess what? Our boy genius here planted a bug in Ozzie's office while he was working at the mine.

Me: And he's only now getting around to sharing this bit of info? Remind me to box his ears when I see him. So, is the bug still here?

Jan: He says yes, unless they somehow found it.

Me: Fantastic. Tell him I want to know how to activate that bug when we get through here.

Jan: Will do. What's up?

Me: I need you to look at the Heavy Equipment account. What we've bought, how much we paid, all that. And then what the maintenance costs are running, anything that might raise a red flag.

Jan: Roger. Give me an hour.

Me: Put Rosario on the computer.

Rosario: Hola. You wish to box my ears? What is that?

Me: It's something you do to bad kids when they act up. Why didn't you tell us about the bug before?

Rosario: I was afraid you would think I was a bad person.

Me: And now?

Rosario: Jan said you like bad guys, if they are
your
bad guys.

Me: Jan is right. Okay, no ear boxing. Tell me about the bug.

Rosario: You wish to listen to
Señor
Osvaldo's office?

Me: You bet your sweet little sneaky ass I do. Tell me how.

Lucky for me old Ozzie doesn't lock his office, although if he did I'm sure our little friend Rosario would know how to get in anyway.

As instructed, I looked under Ozzie's desk, located the computer, turned the tower a half-turn and removed what looked like a thumbdrive. Rosario had installed the bug the night before he disappeared, and he'd somehow fiddled with it, making it voice activated. He wasn't sure of its recording capabilities, in terms of longevity, as he was still tinkering with it when he left that last night, but I would soon find out. The bad news was I had to listen to the whole damned thing and return it before everyone showed up at the office the next morning.

I was dying to bug Safety's office as well, but it would have to wait until Rosario could supply me with another of those snoopery/thumbdrive/thingies (technical term). Turns out he had a stash with him at Camp Chino.

And while Rosario was my bad guy, I began to wonder what manner of person we had taken in and whether anything I owned was now bugged.

I took Po Thang outside for a potty break, looked around to make sure I was truly alone, plugged the bug into my own computer and settled in for a long night of eavesdropping on what would probably be the most boring recording ever. I listened with one ear while catching up on email to friends and family.

Knowing my veterinarian buddy in Arizona, Craig, is a late nighter, I caught him for an online chat and told him all about Po Thang and sent him a photo. Craig assured me my dog was purebred, asked if he'd been checked out by a vet.  I told him Chino had done so. Then we talked about my alleged hate crime.

Craig: Nothing new, but I talked it over with Topaz Sawyer, that deputy you became friends with after the assault.

Me: How's she doing?

Craig: Fine. She couldn't believe the scuzzbucket was trying to sue you.

Me: Can she get into the jail and shoot him in the nuts again for me?

Craig: I think she'd like to, but nope. She did say she has vacation time coming and will come down there if you want her to.

Me: Fantastic. I'll pay her airfare and bill the Trob for it, as I could seriously use a real detective right now. I'll email her pronto.

I fired off an email to Topaz, gave her a little background on all the crap befalling me and invited her to an all expenses paid trip to the "charming seaside village of Santa Rosalia." I was hoping that description would lure her into thinking  she was headed for the likes of Cancun instead of a dusty little mining town.

I was getting ready to catch Jenks for a chat when the ear I had tuned into the bug's playback caught my attention. I quickly hit the rewind key. Okay, I know it's not really a rewind key anymore, but what ever it is I hit it. I'm still struggling with the digital world here.

My computer announced the time, six-thirty AM the morning after Rosario almost lost his life, followed by the voice of Ozzie saying, "Good morning, baby girl. All ready for school?"

Osvaldo has kids?

The next twenty minutes damned near put me to sleep, as Ozzie spoke with what was probably his entire immediate family. I was nodding off when I heard a familiar voice. "Oh, sorry, didn't know you were on the phone."

Ozzie said, "Gotta go, sweetie. Bye. Love you all."

I heard his chair squeak, probably because he was swiveling to face his desk, then he said, "Good morning, what's up, Safety?"

"That kid who works for you? Rosario? We may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"He and the company boat are missing."

"You're kidding. He was only supposed to fix the radio. What the hell happened?"

"I'm not sure. When I left him, he'd passed out on the boat and this morning he, and the boat, are gone."

"How do you know this? It's early."

"I stopped by to make sure he'd locked up, and
Lucifer
is gone. Then I stopped by the man camp and they said he had not checked in last night. So my guess is he took the boat somewhere."

"What should we do?"

"I guess someone ought to call the cops."

A heavy sigh. "I'll do it. After all, it is company property and he is not authorized to take it from the dock. You say he was passed out. I didn't think he drank."

"He did last night. Like I said, he was zonked, so I left him there. He...uh...said some things about the project. Things he shouldn't be talking about, or even know about."

"Like what?"

"Trust me, Osvaldo, you don't want to know."