Old Poison (23 page)

While my tiny printer was busy spitting out
pages of Sam’s attachment, I began a day of rest and luxury. First
I turned my gray hair dark brown, added brown contact lenses, and
did a more thorough job of removing the old lady makeup. Next I
sank into a hot bubble bath in a Jacuzzi tub, shaved my legs and
underarms, and read the printout. Clean, refreshed, and grateful to
feel and look young again, I took out the bottle of body makeup
that Richard had given me and applied a wash-proof golden brown
tan, all over my body.

In the hotel gift shop, I bought a
lightweight sweatsuit, a basic brown street dress, tennis shoes,
and a pair of brown flats. Dressed in the sweats and tennies, I
headed for the women’s fitness center for a workout and massage,
followed by two hours in the beauty shop and another shower. Hair
and makeup done, I put on the dress and headed for the San Pedro
Mall. Dolores was a high-rolling consultant and needed an
appropriate wardrobe. It was a tough assignment, but somebody had
to do it.

When they closed the stores and I could shop
no more, I had the packages delivered to my hotel and grabbed a
taxi for Le Chandelier, a classic French restaurant that my hotel
concierge had recommended. It turned out to be in a spectacular
Mediterranean-style mansion with beamed ceiling, fireplace,
sculpture garden, and wonderful paintings, many painted by the
chef.

I placed myself in the hands of my waiter
and asked him to make all my food choices for the evening. He
started me out with a salad of marinated salmon and hearts of palm
in a melon and mint vinaigrette dressing that was delicious,
proceeded to shrimp and champagne mousse that melted in my mouth,
then a cream of pejibaye soup I could get addicted to. I asked what
pejibaye was, and he showed me a small persimmon-colored fruit that
came from a native peach palm.

Each course was accompanied by an
appropriate wine, and he served a lemon sorbet to cleanse the
palate before bringing my main course of châteaubriand. By the time
he followed up with pastries and coffee, I had mentally raised his
tip and the tip to the concierge twice. It was a spectacular
dinner, completing a wonderful day of escape, but as I headed back
to the hotel and to reality, I felt like the condemned after a
hearty last meal.

* * * * *

To my delight the ambassador’s chief was
also familiar with the peach palm fruit. As I tried to sip my cream
of pejibaye soup daintily without dripping on my lovely new silk
blouse, James Nolan slurped his rapidly, with much clanging and
banging of the spoon as he tried to scrape up the last few drops.
Though the noise was muted by the general din of conversation in
the ambassador’s large diningroom, it was sufficient to summon the
attentive server, who offered Nolan seconds. Nolan looked
surprised, then looked at me as if asking my opinion or permission.
Surprised and curious, I obliged him.

Leaning in close I said, “There are probably
four more courses. Wouldn’t want to dull your appetite.”

He responded like an obedient child. Mildly
disappointed, he hesitated a moment, looking at the empty bowl,
then dropped his soup spoon into the bowl and handed it to the
surprised server. “Guess I better not, but thanks anyway.”

The server was too well trained to show his
disapproval to Nolan, but with a sharp look and a barely
perceptible movement of his head, he summoned a busboy to collect
the offending dirty bowl from his hands.

“What the hell was that made of, anyway?
I’ve never tasted anything like it.”

“It’s made with pejibayes, or palm peach, a
small round fruit that grows on a type of palm tree they cultivate
here.”

“You must have been here a while to know all
this stuff. You work down here?”

One of my favorite things about PI work is
the way the oddest pieces of general knowledge can find their way
into working a case. “I’ve been here about six weeks consulting for
a chip maker who has a plant in San Jose.”

“Oh, so you’re one of those high tech types,
huh?”

“Not really. I do set up some scanning
programs but my job is to help companies establish and maintain a
records retention system.”

Our next course was served. Nolan waited to
see which utensil I would select, then dived into the tomato aspic
with the same gusto he had the soup. I’m sure the food was every
bit as good as my meal last night, but in the disciplined tension
of this evening, I might as well have been eating sawdust.

Sam’s friend had made excellent arrangements
for my cover. He’d sent a car to bring me to the ambassador’s house
in San Rafael de Escazú, a country club suburb west of downtown,
and arranged for me to sit next to James Nolan at dinner. I was
tense, expecting the same sort of man as Harriman Woods, but James
turned out to be somewhat of a surprise. He looked to be in his
forties, was about six foot two, and had curly, light brown hair
and blue eyes. Though he had no detectable regional accent, he had
the tan, verbal expressions, and general demeanor of a
California-raised surfer. His brightly colored surfer shirt gave
the impression that his dark, conservative suit and tie must be
borrowed for the occasion. As I watched him inhale his aspic in
three bites, I wondered if he could really be working for the same
company as Harriman Woods.

“Records retention. Is that like filing
systems?”

The question was asked casually, head down,
looking at the empty bowl instead of me, but his voice carried a
sharp undertone of interest.

“It’s an entire system for all forms of
records. In the plethora of paper produced by supposedly paperless
computers, companies are finding that they spend more warehouse
dollars on records than on product. I help them weed out the
unnecessary, cut down on the total, and establish criteria for
routine control of records.”

He put his spoon down and to all appearances
was genuinely enthusiastic. “Now you have hit on a business angle
that is really needed. Can you really do all that in just six
weeks?

“No. This trip was just for the initial
survey to learn what records are kept by each department. It will
take a couple years to complete a company-wide program that
eliminates redundancy and obsolescence.”

“You’re exactly what I need. Are you still
working with that chip maker? When will you be available?”

I laughed. “I’ve just finished my job here,
but I fly back to New York in two days. With my schedule I might be
available in about two years.”

“Yeah, but you’re already here in Costa
Rica, and I am about two months behind in getting my plant up and
running, and nobody can find anything. When they packed up the
stateside plant, they were in such a hurry it was like an army
bug-out. That plant had been in place for fifty-five years and they
sent everything. It’s a disaster. I don’t care what you charge. I’m
the boss. I can pay you a ten thousand dollar bonus on top of your
usual fee.”

I smiled and tried to look apologetic rather
than gleeful. “I would love to help, but I have clients who have
been waiting for me for months, I–”

“Look, I’m really under the gun here.
There’s going to be an international conference, and some of my
guys have to get ready for a big presentation.”

“Well, I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll tell you what. Now I’m hitting on you,
but I hear that Escazu has some wonderful nightclubs, and I’ve been
stuck in that damn compound in the middle of the rain forest ever
since I got here. I don’t even speak the language. My Spanish stops
with
‘uno mas cervesa, por favor
.’ Let’s bug out of this
dinner early and take in some nightlife. Give me a chance to
persuade you to clean up this shit-can of paper.”

Now how could a girl resist such an
appealingly worded invitation?

* * * * *

The minibus painted with the bright Blue
Morpho butterfly picked me up at six a.m. James, who was already
aboard, woke up enough to mumble a good morning and went back to
snoring. He had drunk an amazing amount of booze last night and
danced every dance, whether he knew the steps or not. Even when he
was quite pickled, I didn’t catch him stepping out of character. He
was the Big Kahuna with a touch of Peter Pan’s determination to
never grow up. Why would Blue Morpho choose such a person to run a
research facility that held secrets they would kill for? He didn’t
compute, and that’s why he worried me.

With him snoring softly and the driver
ignoring us completely, I opened my laptop and used the time for
some last-minute study. My old laptop was stashed in the hotel safe
along with my pistol. I was going to be living within the Blue
Morpho compound and, as Sam had noted, if Woods or my new friend
James decided to search me and my possessions, I didn’t want them
to find any reference to my real business on the hard drive. The
new computer Sam sent down was a clean slate, loaded with an
excellent records management working file to guide me through the
process of doing the initial survey. There were also excellent maps
of Costa Rica and I was able to follow our progress and get some
idea where we were headed.

The van carried us into the foothills north
of the city and treated me to spectacular panoramas of the central
valley, as well as passing images of small villages, rural coffee
fincas,
an occasional waterfall, and green, green
everywhere. After crossing the Cordillera Central between the
looming peaks of the Poas and Barva Volcanoes, we dropped down into
the northern lowlands. There the road followed the Rio Sarapiqui on
its way to meet the Rio San Juan and flow into the Caribbean.
Somewhere, far short of the Caribbean, we left both the Sarapiqui
and the comfort of the paved highway and began to bounce along a
pot-holed gravel road, following the winding path of a small
tributary river. I checked the map but found no name on this
tributary or any location name that looked to be Blue Morpho’s
plant. With the screen bouncing in front of my eyes, I shut the
laptop, and put it away in its case.

The sky came down to meet the forest canopy,
and the rain began to fall in a heavy, steady downpour. The
unending green forest now glistened in the rain. The only sight
that broke the monotony was at a fork in the road. As we took the
southeast branch, a small wooden sign pointed toward the southwest
branch, and to my great surprise it read “Enviro-Medic Research
Facility.” Well, Well! I had planned on looking up Ken and Judith
Hoffman and Guillermo Jesus Montegro Y Monteblan but hadn’t
realized they would be lurking just off the flank of the new Blue
Morpho site. How interesting.

I pulled out the computer again and checked
the map. There on the southwest branch tributary was the a listing
for a Medical Research Station and just a short distance away on
the southeast tributary was a large compound with the innocent name
of Misty Forest Resort. I would have bet a dollar to a donut that
Misty Forest was where Blue Morpho had relocated. Perhaps I would
find an opportunity to visit the good doctor and ask why they
folded their tent and disappeared from that environmental expo so
fast. Then again, maybe not. I had no idea whose side they were
on.

Another twenty minutes of slow travel on bad
road brought us to a quiet fenced compound that seemed to stretch
for miles on both sides of the small river. The trip had taken
hours. If I ever needed to get out of here in a hurry, I would be
up the creek, literally and figuratively.

James woke up as the van bumped to a stop at
a high security gate, his timing so perfect I wondered if he had
feigned sleep to avoid questions. I had explained to him that
before I could begin to build his records retention program, I
would need to interview him and each of his department heads and
learn what sort of business the plant did and what sort of records
were necessary to each department. Other than telling me that the
plant did research to produce better engines and better fuel, he
had successfully avoided discussion of business, preferring to
dance and drink.

He looked out at the rain and the blur of
green that surrounded us and shook his head. “I come to a country
with some of the best surfing beaches in the world, and the only
water I see comes in the form of rain. God, I hate this place
already.”

A young guard with a buzzed hair cut,
camouflage fatigues, and a hooded camouflage rain parka approached
the van and signaled the driver to open the door. Though he looked
too young to shave, he boarded the van with a sidearm strapped to
his hip and a rifle slung over his shoulder. Trying vainly to clamp
down a hardened scowl on his baby face, he looked around with the
intensity of a Special Forces veteran searching for terrorists.
“Your security passes,” he demanded.

His gloomy thoughts interrupted, James’
mouth dropped open, and he stared at the brash young man. “Son, I’m
James Nolan. I’m plant manager here.”

“Sir, yes sir. Company regulations require
that all persons entering the compound display security
badges.”

James stared at him a moment longer, then
shrugged. “Well, I guess rules is rules, huh.” He dug out his
wallet and displayed his photo ID. “OK now?”

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to me.
“Ma’am?”

“She doesn’t have one. I just hired her.
She’ll get hers when she checks in this morning.”

The guard stepped back two paces, planted
his feet, dropped the rifle from its shoulder sling into his hands
and held it at the ready across his chest. “Sir, no sir. Company
regulations state that no individual shall be allowed entrance to
the compound until their security clearance has been completed
stateside or ordered by Mr. Woods personally.”

James was on his feet and over to the young
man in a bound. He clutched the rifle with both hands and wrenched
it from the surprised guard. “Now you listen to me you wind up GI
Joe, I’m the man. I run this fuckin’ plant. I sign your paycheck.”
Still holding the rifle across the young man’s chest, James
punctuated each sentence by shoving the guard back toward the van
door. “Now you have seen my ID: you have been told that this lady
is here on my authority. Now get the fuck off this bus and get that
Goddamned gate open or I won’t be signing any more paychecks for
you.” As he stood there, his voice, stature, and posture were
completely changed. Suddenly my aging Kahuna looked more like a
kick-ass warrior.