Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series, Book 5) (18 page)

At this point, no one is above suspicion.—Hetta Coffey

Before I even stepped onto the boat I knew Jan and Rosario were there; the mouth-watering aroma of something wonderful cooking greeted me as I walked down the dock.

Po Thang raced ahead, ecstatic to see his friends again which gave me a twinge of jealousy. After all, we
had
slept together. But I needed not fret, for after his brief display of joy he headed for the galley, went on point at the oven and held his pose until Jan's Venetian-style lasagna came bubbling toward the dining table. Her recipe, made with spinach lasagna noodles—the last of our stash brought down from the States—and layers of garlic and parmesan-laced béchamel sauce, mozzarella, and a savory marinara sauce is, in my humble opinion, the best on earth.

After enjoying his freedom at Camp Chino, Rosario was less than pleased to be back under house arrest, although with that blonde beard and hair I don't think his own mother would recognize him. However, now that I knew for certain that Safety was hiding something we couldn't risk a chance encounter.

After dinner I called a strategy session.

"So here is what we know for sure," I told them. "Not a damned thing."

"I like this kind of meeting," Jan said. "Can we go to bed now? I'm stuffed and tired."

"Meeting adjourned."

Did I mention that I positively abhor meetings?

It has been my experience that the only person who enjoys a meeting is the person who calls it so they can look important and boss everyone around. While I do like bossing people around, I prefer a more informal jawboning session, say, at a bar.

Because Rosario couldn't be seen in a local cantina, we gathered around the dining table the next morning to try and figure out where we were in our investigation, which was pretty easy: nowhere.

Jan had walked into town early and secured fresh
torta
rolls from the famous El Boleo bakery, or
panaderia
. Baked in century-old mesquite fired ovens, these sandwich rolls, when split and lightly toasted, make the perfect base for Jan's Mexican-style version of eggs benedict. Lemons being hard to come by, she subs lime juice in the sauce and throws in finely chopped cilantro. Luckily we still had canned Canadian bacon left in the larder, and a chilled bottle of not very good but better than nothing champagne in the fridge.

"Ya wanna know what I think?" Jan asked between sips of champers and bites of her perfect hollandaise sauce.

"Not really," I teased, "but someone has to come up with something."

"Somebody is doin' some creative financing."

"Really? Like how?"

"I don't know for sure, but if you want to hide spent money, you don't spend it all from one account. Too obvious."

I thought about that. Accounting is not my long suit. "Wouldn't that take someone high up the organizational ladder to pull that off?"

"Yep."

"Then no one is above suspicion. Want to stake a wild guess as to how high this mess can go?"

"Chief Financial Officer or someone like him with pull and power."

"But he's in Canada, right?"

Jan nodded. "Yeah, I'm putting him on the list anyway, but this looks more hands-on, so my money is on someone in Mexico, either right here or in Mexico City. Someone with, what is it they say about murder suspects? Means, motive and opportunity."

"What does this mean?" asked Rosario.

"It simply boils down to someone, or in this case probably several someones, with the ability to commit the crime. This means the perp has to have the
ability
to steal money and hide where it came from and went to. That rules out people like you, Rosario, who have no opportunity to finagle things on the project. Although, after seeing what you've been up to, I may have to change my mind about that."

He pointed to himself. "Me? I was the one they tried to kill."

Jan used her fork to wave away his protest, thereby snagging Po Thang's attention. He'd run through his eggs and was looking to clean the plates and flatware. "Oh, for crying out loud, Hetta, you read way too many cop novels. Perp? Anyhow, we know the motive: moola."

Rosario opened his mouth, but I quickly explained. "Money."

"Oh. Moola. I have never heard that word."

I had folded down two fingers of the three I held up when listing what it takes to commit a crime. I wiggled the one left. "Opportunity. Far as I'm concerned in this case, it is the same as
means
. We have to zero in on who has the ability, and how."

Jan brightened. "If we find the
how
, we can find the
who
. So, let's get back to work on the paper trail, even though these days it's more of a data trail."

"Okay then, Ms. CPA, if you were able to, how would
you
somehow add hundreds of thousands of dollars onto a project and then steal it."

"Easy-peasy. I'd set up a phony baloney purchase order or two. Make one out to, say, Hetta Coffey, LLC. Then you would submit invoices for services
not
rendered, and we'd split fifty-fifty."

"Seventy-thirty."

"Sixty-forty, and that is my last offer."

"What a cheapskate."

Rosario held up his arms. "What are you talking about?"

Jan and I had a good laugh, but we knew we were on to something.

Maybe.

After several hours of comparing estimated costs for each and every department on the project, we found no real red flags, only a steady twenty-percent or so overrun for each one. Which, in itself might not be all that suspicious, except that the cost overruns were being blamed partly on gasoline and steel prices, so why the overspending in, say, office supplies? Seemed a tad too tidy.

If, for instance, the monthly budget was estimated to be a cool million, to take a number, twenty-percent is a substantial overrun. In one year, you are looking at two and a half million bucks.

I'd heard El Boleo, the big mining project over the hill, was also having money worries, but it was more understandable because they were building in El Vizcaíno Biosphere Reserve, Mexico's largest protected area. I was amazed they even received a permit to mine there, but El Boleo was taking drastic, expensive, measures not to cause environmental problems. I'd gotten a tour of the project and was very impressed with the steps they were taking.

All the water used at that mine came from a massive desalination plant so no ground water is tapped, and they even use the brine byproduct to salt roads so no excess salt is pumped back into the sea.

My project, Lucifer, had a much smaller scope and is outside the protected area by mere miles, but because of that we have far fewer constraints, but there were some similarities in the rising cost of steel and fuel.

This was really boring stuff to spend much time on, so I took a break and called Deputy Sawyer in Bisbee to see if she received my email invite and was coming over. Even if the boat
was
getting a little crowded.

"Hetta?" she said, "How good to hear from you. And before you even ask, I haven't managed to break into the prison system and plug that piece of crap for you."

"Well, dang. If you can't do it can we hire someone? Surely you have friends in low places, what with your job and all?"

"I arrest them, Hetta, I don't drink beer with them. And speaking of beer, if you'll ice down a case or two I might take you up on your generous offer of an all-expense paid trip to sunny Baja. I could use a break, it's still cold up here and I have vacation coming. How about next week? How do I get there?"

"It ain't easy, but the best way is to drive to San Carlos, stash your car in one of the storage lots and fly over. Unfortunately on the way down you almost have to spend the night in San Carlos because the plane leaves really early out of Guaymas, but on your return trip it's a one dayer."

"That's okay, I want to visit San Carlos again anyway. What airline?"

"Aero Calafia. You better go online, check the schedule and book if you can. If for some reason you can't do it that way, I'll buy your ticket from here. Just let me know when and I'll be ready for you. By the way, there's a shuttle from the Santa Rosalia airport to my marina. Jan will be here on the boat."

"Okay, then. Chill down that Tecate, and
hasta la vista
, baby."

"We're gonna have company, guys," I told Jan and Rosario. "Well, Jan and I are going to. Rosario, you'll have to go back to the fish camp so our friend Topaz can have the guest cabin."

Rosario tried to hide his glee, but I had a sneaking suspicion he couldn't wait to get back to Doctor Delish and more freedom. I wondered if the pretty marine biologist had any idea Rosario was smitten with her. And speaking of smitten...."So, Jan, have you managed to divert the lovely doc's amorous attentions from your beloved Chino, or does she still want to play doctor?"

Jan's face clouded. "I knew you couldn't leave that alone. And, it's none of your bidness."

Rosario looked stricken. "You think Doctor Diana is really that interested in Doctor Chino?"

"Don't tell me you haven't noticed?"

"No." His short and gruff answer spoke volumes.

While Jan and Rosario lapsed into separate pouting sessions over the same woman, I marveled at the human capacity for attraction to, and dislike for, others. I was really pissed at Safety, but he still held a strange appeal. Jan was ready to call it quits with Chino until Doctor Devine showed up. I am in love with Jenks, but once in awhile someone like Safety, or the elusive and mysterious Nacho, comes sniffing around and I get an itch. Lucky for Jenks I have scads of Benadryl onboard.

I could understand Rosario's infatuation with the doc, considering his youth, but the rest of us? Aren't we getting a smidgen long in the tooth for this crap? I sometimes feel like I'm living my life in Soapoperaland, and none of it is real.

Reality, however, has a way of biting you in the butt, as it did when I opened a good news/bad news email from Geary.

The good news was the well-done bod was not that Dickless Lujàn.

The bad news was the well-done bod was not that Dickless Lujàn.

In my mind the really good news was that now I would maybe have an opportunity to off him in person one day.

However, Geary had even more worse news. Evidently one of the other players in the Café Olé incident had been arrested, and he told the local cops that their boss had warned them of a dangerous red-haired Gringa with a yacht before his fellow thug ended up boiled. 

If we were in the States, the authorities would be referring to me as a "person of interest".

Lamont Cranston: We're going to need help on this, m'lady—help from an old friend.

Margo Lane: The Shadow?—From a 1954 Radio show.

After telling Jan I was a "person of interest" in a death I had nothing to do with, I whined, "I feel totally helpless. If they come after me, even though I have an alibi, it probably won't make one damned difference."

Jan nodded. "Mexican cops don't give a big rat's rump about alibis. They toss you in the local clink and wait for things to get sorted out."

"Then we need things sorted out
before
they come for me."

"Does Geary think the cops know where you are?"

"He doesn't know much. Conception Bay and Mulege are gossip mills on steroids. He says he overheard this latest tidbit during a Texas Holdem tournament."

"Well, that's appropriate. They actually
named
you?"

"Not exactly. This guy he was playing cards with said the cops were nosing around the Gringo community, asking about a red-haired woman with a boat."

"Well, heck, you're safe. You ain't no real redhead."

I tossed and turned most of the night, imagining heavily armed
federales
in balaclavas swarming my decks. Jan and Po Thang—who had wormed his way onto Jan's side of the bed—growled at me several times for waking them up with my fretful writhing, so I moved out to the settee in the main saloon. Still unable to sleep, I decided to try and catch Jenks on Skype.

Before I called I brushed my teeth and hair. Like Jenks can smell my breath on Skype?

"Whatcha doing up, Hetta? It's your middle of the night."

"My dog threw me out of bed, and don't even think of making some smartassed remark."

"Sounds like he threw you out on the wrong side of that bed."

"Sorry. It's been a long day and longer night. We've been going over really boring accounting crap trying to find the black hole of pesos. You know how I hate that."

"Good thing you have Jan working on it with you. Okay, so what's really bugging you?"

Jenks is getting to know me all too well. "That rat bastard Lujàn."

"I thought he was stewed, so why are you stewing?"

"Clever. You have razor blades for lunch? Here's the deal, he ain't dead. However, one of the other goons from the Café Olé thing
is
dead, and I think someone is trying to finger me. I smell a set up of Lujàn's doing, because now the local gendarmes have been nosing around the Gringo community, asking about some redhead with a boat."

Dead silence. From his frown he was either stifling the urge to remind me that my hair is so red by the grace of L'Oreal, or he was working up a worry.

"Still waiting for a profound statement here," I prompted.

"Sorry, I'm thinking."

"I hate it when that happens. I
thought
I saw smoke wafting from your ears."

We shared a chuckle at our old joke. It made me feel much better just knowing I had him in my life.

Finally he said, "I can't believe I'm going to say this, but I think you need to contact Nacho."

"What? You told me Nacho is dangerous. That he's bad news. And to stay away from him."

"All that is true, and on top of that every time that man gets near you I get a bad feeling."

"Would that bad feeling be jealousy by any chance?" I teased.

"Yes. But desperate times, and all." He sighed. "Look, here's the deal. I talked to Nacho after you called about Lujàn nosing around and then pulling some stunt at Conception Bay, and asked him if he could find you a bodyguard. I have a sneaky feeling he decided to take care of the problem himself."

"You talked to him?"

"I felt you needed someone in your corner, even if it is a rival for your affections."

"Oh, come on, Jenks. You have nothing to fear in that department. He holds zero appeal for me," I prevaricated. I do not lie outright, I fib and prevaricate. It sounds so much better.

"I'm not sure that works both ways. I've seen how he looks at you. However, right now I think it's more important to have friends in low places on your side."

"Funny, I just asked Topaz Sawyer, our sheriff's deputy buddy in Bisbee, if she had some of those people around so we could deal with that sleazebag I shot in the nuts that's trying to sue me."

"Hetta, does it seem at all strange to you that we're having a conversation that most people would not experience in a lifetime, unless while brainstorming a Hollywood screenplay?"

"Jeez, Jenks, a little murder, mayhem and gunplay put a little spark in a romance, doncha think."

"Just make sure
whose
romance."

I changed the subject and told him Topaz was on her way to Santa Rosalia, so Jenks was somewhat mollified. Maybe he viewed her as a chaperone? He still urged me to contact Nacho, pronto.

I removed the mystery man's card from where I had taped it underneath a drawer. Which, according to Jenks, is the first place someone would look. I thought it was safer than burning or eating it, what with my lousy memory for numbers. Conversations I remember for decades, but numbers? Not so much.

Now that I looked at the card again, I felt foolish. Who in the hell could forget
this
phone number?

L. Cranston Pest Control

1-800-got-bads?

We get what’s bugging you.

I wasn't all that sure what he could, or would, do to help me out, but he had gotten me into, and out of, several dustups in Mexico. Jan and I have spent a great deal of time talking about him, speculating on who he worked for or what he did exactly.

We both agree on one thing; Nacho is handsome in a criminal sort of way.

Right now it was looking like I needed someone with his skill sets (murder and mayhem) to deal with this Lujàn thing, and figured while I was at it I might as well let him know about that scuzzbucket in the Arizona prison who was messing with me.

Killing two birds with one stone in Nacho's case could be taken quite literally.

There was, of course, no answer at that 800 number, so I left a voice message. "This is Margo Lane. Uh, Help?"

Po Thang obligingly ate the card.

Monday morning we timed our departure from the boat to coincide with first light, but even then we took no chances and stuffed poor Rosario into the back jump seat of my pickup with Po Thang perched on top of him when we drove through town.

We had arranged for Chino to pick them up at a truck stop a little past Lucifer, on Mex 1, so I could scoot back to the jobsite with plenty of time to bug Safety's office before anyone else arrived. This spy bidness is exhausting work.

I posted Po Thang on the front porch of the office building to make sure I was left alone to my devices, literally. Not that Po Thang was worth a damn as a guard dog, but no one got by him without giving him at least an ear scratch, so I knew I'd hear his pleading whine in time to scoot back to my office.

I first inserted the fake thumbdrive in Safety's computer, making sure the side of the tower containing the bug was turned to the wall. Satisfied with that job, I hurried to Ozzie's office, removed his bug, downloaded it into my computer, and replaced it just as Po Thang's
pet me
whine announced company.

I was back at my desk, looking quite innocent I thought, when Laura opened the door and she and Po Thang entered, she holding her lunch bag above her head to avoid pillaging. When she threw the bag in the fridge and slammed the door, Po Thang, rebuffed, deigned to grace me with his presence. Mainly because he knows I keep dog biscuits in a desk drawer.

Laura returned to my office with a post-it in hand. Bert Melton, the project manager, wanted to see me in his office at nine. Dang. I'd been on the job for over a month and had zip-all to report. I'd been avoiding him for that very reason.

Worried that he might be considering giving me the old heave ho—and I had decided I wanted to ride this one out, if for no other reason than to nail whoever tried to do in Rosario—I resorted to a ploy that has worked well for me in the past; when you don't have snot, make a graph.

The thing I love about graphs is that, depending on the scale, you can make them project whatever slant you desire. Of course, you never want to leave a copy with anyone, lest they figure out that a squished graph can look ominous, with huge jagged peaks and valleys, while a lengthened one with gently undulating ups and down doesn't look all that bad.

By the time I reached Bert's office for my meeting, I had devised a graph making the cost overruns look much worse than they really were, dragging the timeline out a year to show a line climbing off the upper right hand corner of the page.

"And so you can see, Bert, without cutting back somewhere, this project's cost overruns are destined to soar into the ionosphere." That much was true, but I figured an overly sharp climbing visual would prompt him into thinking he really, really needed me.

He did seem suitably impressed, but said, "I think that goes without saying. My question to you is, where are you in this? I have to justify you to the home office, you know. You
and
Miss Sims."

Damn. I had to throw him a bone. "We are making progress, but if I tell you how you have to promise me it never leaves this office. One leak and my investigation could go south, along with any money already stolen, if in fact it has been. Stolen, that is."

"So, what you're saying is that if you tell me you'll have to kill me?" he asked, his face a study in barely concealed amusement at my overly dramatic warning. "My lips are sealed."

"Okay, I can't say much for sure right now, but we think it's something to do with..." I lowered my voice to a whisper, "purchasing."

When I first met Bert Melton I had marveled that a man with such a seemingly gentle demeanor attained project manager-hood on a job of this caliber. Of course, then I reminded myself of the location. Lucifer is not what one would consider a plum assignment. Then he told me he'd asked for this job. He had, after all, been here for five years, even
before
the project's construction ground floor, as one of the scientists on the exploration team. He said he planned to retire after this project. All in all, he seemed unruffled by possible project cutbacks, probably because he figured no matter what, his job was secure—a naive notion in this bidness.

He also did something that my father never did; he bought a house near a jobsite. Most in the ever-changing engineering/construction field, being self-proclaimed vagabonds, do not buy homes predicated on staying employed on a particular project. What they do is buy a place where they plan to live someday when they retire. Did Bert plan to retire in Santa Rosalia?

Okay, Santa Rosalia is a cute little town, but wouldn't even make AARP's top
million
retirement destinations. Again, though, he is fluent in Spanish, loves to fish, and seems quite content here. Maybe that accounts for his kind demeanor?

That had been my assessment of him, right up until the moment he blindsided me with a furious outburst. He turned a worrisome shade somewhere between puce and purple and growled, right after I said,
purchasing
: "Miss Coffey, I don't know who you think you are dealing with here, but you are way off base and I suggest you get back on track, or off my project."

Stunned at not only his outburst, but his vehemence, I was literally blown back in my chair, speechless. For some reason, instead of tossing me from his office, he stormed out himself, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving me sitting there with a dropped jaw. I was, for one of the few times in my life, totally bumfuzzled.

A timid knock on the door drew me out of my stupor, and I managed to say, "Yes?"

Laura, white-faced herself, peeked around the door. "Miss Coffey, are you all right?"

I pushed myself out of the chair and tried to smile, but it wasn't easy. It felt like someone had gut-punched me and I couldn't quite catch my breath. "Y-yes, Laura, I'm fine."

Back in my office, I rued the day I removed the door. Laura brought me a cup of tea and a bottle of water. Po Thang sat on my feet, his way of letting me know he was there for me in case I dropped a steak or something. I rubbed his ears, which was a comfort to me, and he nuzzled my hand. Maybe dogs just know when we humans have been stupid?