"Well, I guess I can trust you to take care of me, too, then, Harry. If you don't mind, of course?"
"My pleasure," Harry said with old-man pride.
As that was all settled I walked over to retrieve the Vespa. Two Cozumel cop cars were pulling up on the road as I righted the scooter and examined it. It appeared to be undamaged other than a couple of scratches to the paint. Carillo and Sanchez were beginning their walk behind two uniformed cops as I straddled the Vespa and rode it down to where Delana and Harry were waiting. Sanchez and Carillo knew I'd seen them. Not waiting for them to catch up would not endear me any further in their hearts.
When they reached us, Sanchez, and especially Carillo, took a long look at Delana in her emerald bikini before turning their attention to me. The two uniform cops knew this was above their pay-grade. They hung far enough back to be out of the conversation but not so far that they couldn't get an eyeful of Delana themselves. I couldn't blame them. They'd have to be dead not to react.
"Bad things seem to happen when you're around, don't they, Halliday?"
Sanchez was smiling, not expecting an answer, so I didn't provide one.
"You know, we had a quiet little island until you showed up. Next thing you know, we got dead girls on the beach, and boats exploding."
"Or maybe nothing bad ever happened to me until I came to Cozumel."
Carillo gave me a hard look that was supposed to make me wet my pants. Sanchez grinned knowingly, a cat who knew where the mouse was hiding.
"I checked you out with an old friend in Miami. Seems young girls have a way of getting dead around you, Halliday. Rumor has it that's why you quit."
He was trying to get a rise out of me but I was expecting it.
"You need to get some new sources."
Sanchez shrugged. "Tell me about this," he said, gesturing to the debris floating in the water.
I told him everything, including who Delana was and where we'd been, which he could check on. I left out any speculation on who the bomb was intended for. Sanchez let me tell it while Carillo took notes again, or pretended to. I wondered if he was just doodling. In Spanish.
"So, it'd be a pretty big coincidence, your friend getting murdered last night, and now this pretty lady's boat getting blown up by mistake."
"If that's what happened."
Carillo's head came up, and he gave me that look again, the one that was supposed to turn my legs to jelly. I think it disturbed him that it didn't. Sanchez took off his shades as if he was doing something very important, like handling nitroglycerine, and asked Delana, "You know of any reason someone would wish you dead, Miss?"
"I hope not."
He gave her a look full of fake understanding before saying, "I'm sure no one could stay mad at anyone so lovely for very long."
She smiled noncommittally in return, neither spurning nor acknowledging the flirtation. Sanchez returned to me.
"This Nancy of yours seems not to exist. Tried facial recognition and prints, Interpol and FBI. Nada, gringo. Interesting, don't you think?"
"You sure you used it right? That high-tech US stuff can be tricky for you wetbacks."
It got a rise out of Carillo but Sanchez reached out and placed a hand on his chest as he tried to take a step forward. Sanchez said coolly, casually, "Gringo, wetback, what's in a name, amigo? The important thing is that you are on our turf, and so far you've brought nothing but trouble to our friendly little island getaway. Perhaps it is time to set sail, while you still have a boat, maybe even your life."
"I need to make the funeral arrangements for Nancy."
He was silent a moment, trying to decide, then nodded.
"Understandable," he said. "Just don't hang around any longer than necessary."
"I won't, unless I have a reason."
It was Sanchez's turn to give me the look, but his was more brooding. Armand Assante in a bad mood. He dipped his head gallantly in Delana's direction and then jerked it less elegantly towards Carillo, signaling that they were finished. Sanchez had taken about five steps when he looked back and smiled wide.
"Your friend that doesn't exist. Our coroner says she had some Mexican blood in her. Part gringo, part wetback." He turned and I watched as he and his partner headed back up the pathway.
Sanchez had been curious enough to run a check on Nancy. Having it come up empty made it easier to justify letting it remain unsolved; a Jane Doe Nancy's age could easily have been the victim of a college prank gone wrong, even if she wasn't attending college. Sanchez and his pal might ask around with the spring break crowd -- probably choosing to question the hot college girls mostly -- to fill out the casebook before labeling it a dead end.
"I think I should change clothes," Delana said. She walked over to the Vespa and opened the little box where she'd put her shorts and top.
"You can clean up in the shower if you want first. Harry 'll show you where it's at while I tie up the scooter."
"Thanks. God, I must look a mess."
"Hideous. I can barely stand to look at you for more than a few hours at a time."
She flashed me a big smile and then followed Harry below. I secured the Vespa with a small chain-link that ran from the bike to one of the boat hooks and then ran a piece of very thin twine from the chain to the boat bell. I'd be alerted if anyone tried to move the scooter in the dark.It was unlikely that anyone could approach without being seen, which is why I'd docked there. Like a gunfighter who always sits with his back to the wall, cops and ex-cops usually pick the least accessible spot to be stationary while maintaing a wide view of the surroundings. Harry and I had cruised past a couple of the crowded marinas and kept searching. We chanced upon this little jetty by following the curvature of shoreline fronting the lush tropical jungle.
The old wooden pier ran far enough out into deeper water for tie-up. The area was only wide enough for two or three boats and no one had been using it when Harry eased her in, hiding Stella from view except from the road about fifty feet above us. We could sit on deck and see the big cruise ships down the shore but they couldn't see us. Only a local would know about this place.
I went below and found Harry flipping through my vinyl record collection. Both the records and the equipment to play them on were first-rate. I had a fair amount of jazz and easy listening, a few pop albums and a smattering of country. We were set up for CDs but I only owned a limited few; albums I couldn't find on vinyl. Above the record collection were antiquated cassette tapes; old radio shows from the 30s, 40s, and 50s. One day I would have to transfer them to CDs just for longevity, but I was resisting.
Harry picked out an old Jack Jones album he liked and soon the sound of All or Nothing at All filled the cabin. I took a Coke from the small fridge and sat down on the short sofa, leaned back and propped my feet up on the coffee table.
Stella had been in splendid condition at the time I'd bought her, despite Harry's condition not being nearly so splendid. After a few minor refits and the addition of the stereo equipment, I had a boat to sail the seven seas, and a captain that went with her.
One of my very few minor decor additions was a framed poster by Kerne Erickson. Harry liked it too. It was of San Francisco, one of those vintage travel posters for which Erickson was so famous. It looked to be set around the early 1930s. It was advertising TWA and the Lindbergh Line. A DC-3 was flying across the city, high above the Golden Gate and the bay. The foreground was the view of cable cars climbing halfway to the stars. Vintage automobiles were parked on each side of the street and a few buildings had that pagoda-shaped roof which added mystery.
I liked looking at it because it reminded me of a world that had once existed but had died a slow and tragic death. This was the San Francisco of Charlie Chan; exotic, mysterious, and romantic. The City by the Bay was still aesthetically beautiful, but her insides were decayed and decadent now, a lovely femme fatale rotten on the inside and beyond redemption.
San Francisco was today more a symbol of the moral decline of a na
tion than any other city in America. If you dared expound on this point in the wrong company, however, you were labeled as intolerant, and subject to a cacophony of vile verbal abuse that would make the proverbial sailor blush. The intolerant preaching tolerance, unable and unwilling to see the hypocrisy.
I took a drink of Coke and Jack began another song. An old Beatles' tune with a new arrangement. Sad but lovely.
The door to the bathroom opened and out stepped Delana, wrapped in a dark blue towel. Her hair was turbaned in a smaller towel the same color. Before I could do anything but admire those white legs beneath the towel Harry motioned her to follow him and he showed her the spare cabin. She disappeared inside and reappeared in her blue shorts and striped top five minutes later.
"I can't believe how big your shower is."
"Well, when you get as dirty as we manly men do, you need a lot of room to wash off."
She sat next to me on the sofa and propped her legs up next to mine. Hers were prettier. Her hair was still damp and she kept working on it with the towel, almost absentmindedly. No matter how many times I had watched women use a towel to dry their hair, I had never figured out what magic made it such a feminine act, and something sexy.
We sat around and listened to music, and then an old Jack Benny show. Delana at least knew who he was and that he'd been big on radio. That was half the battle won. Harry remembered hearing him live. Once Delana heard the show she knew why he'd been so popular. We listened to another while she sliced and diced some lettuce, tomatoes, and cheese for tacos. I warmed up some thinly sliced beef strips and tortillas. Delana had a bottle of Dos Equis with Harry and we watched the sun set while we ate.
Around twilight, after several bottles of Dos Equis to Delana's two, Harry drifted below, leaving us alone as darkness fell. Ten minutes passed and we heard snoring.
"Penny for your thoughts."
I had been thinking about tomorrow, and about talking to Caroline and anyone else who might have met Nancy. Maybe there would be a thread in her movements when she was away from Harry and me that would lead me to why she'd been left to die on such a lonely stretch of beach.
"They're not worth it," I answered.
"Do you want me to go with you tomorrow?"
I turned to look at her. She put her hand on my arm and squeezed. "I know San Miguel, and I need to pick up some clothes anyway."
"Not that I don't want company, but…"
She laughed, stopping me short.
"But you don't want company."
"Something like that."
"Alright, I'll sleep in and ride in once I'm up and around." She leaned her head into me for a quick but very soft kiss. "At least tell me what you find? You don't have to shoulder it alone, you know." She squeezed my hand. "Thank you for letting me stay here and hide from the world. Goodnight, Seth."
She let the back of her hand graze my cheek as she walked away, leaving me in the darkness with my dark thoughts.
Six
When I slept at all, it was restless sleep. The temptation waiting behind Delana's door was certainly part of the reason. The proximity of feminine love, that awkward yet wonderful tangling of soft white arms and legs, and softer kisses, made me restless. It made every man restless. But it was the urge to start finding some trail that would lead me to the reason for Nancy's murder that made sleep so elusive.
The most important person in my life right now was the guy Maria's father was sending. He would give me credentials and justification for hanging around and looking into Nancy's death. Once he arrived I was good to go. Sanchez and Carillo could still give me trouble, but if Maria's father had as much juice as I was certain he had, they'd be careful about it.
When he finally arrived, he wasn't a he at all, not even close. I had gone up top as the sky offered hints across a sea bathed in shadow that light was on its way and nothing could stop it. I slipped my Beretta 92FS with the large hammer pin out of my shoulder holster and held it gingerly as I watched the headlights on the road above. The car slowed and came to a stop next to the pathway. It was a sleek Jaguar, dark blue or black. You'd have to already know where the narrow track through the jungle met the road to find it in daylight, much less in the dimming half-light as night gave way to morning.
I watched the silhouette step from the car and begin walking down to the dock. Even from a distance, in semidarkness, I knew instantly my guest was a girl. There is something so distinct in the way the feminine sex moves and navigates that only the most masculine of women can fool you. The more feminine they are, the easier the recognition. This one was born a girl and liked being a girl. From the hillside she saw me waiting on deck and waved, nearly all fingers. Very feminine.
When she was close enough for it to be of any use, I clicked on the big heavy Maglite and pointed it on the trail in front of her so that she could see. She smiled as she quickened her pace and for the first time, I got a good look at her.
Stunning did not do her justice. Her hair was soft black and long, curled on the ends as it flowed over big breasts you knew would be beautiful because she was. There was a sparsity to her face that highlighted each feature; dark eyebrows above eyes nearly clear, only the faintest suggestion of green and gray against white; a long yet graceful nose; soft, full lips painted in some frost color leaning towards pink; and cheekbones exquisitely sculpted into an oval of perfection.
She wore dark charcoal slacks that tapered over lush, magnificent buttocks into a tiny waist. An elegant looking wrap-around blouse with a tiger-stripe pattern of faded gold and washed out black was thin enough to move with her, teasingly intimating the beauty it hid. Shoulders, neck and a good portion of her chest lay bare. Her skin was smooth and unblemished, the tone somewhere between milk and copper, leaning toward the cream end. An Aztec or Mayan princess come-to-life.
"Thank you for the light. I have not been down this path since I was young." She spoke carefully, with perfect diction, the way people often do when English isn't their first language. Her accent was slight, and I couldn't pin it down. If I'd had to guess, I'd have placed her in her early thirties.
"You must be Seth Halliday. I'm Florencia Garcia." Friendly but neutral.
She handed me a manila folder she'd been holding while she walked. She gave me time to look through it. It was all there; gun permits; licenses to nose around in both Mexico and the US; a bank check for $5,000.00; and a letter stating I'd been engaged to look into Nancy's death by the Fernandez family. The letterhead was from Fernandez Import-Export Ltd. and the paper had that expensive feel that suggested a dozen trees of some extremely rare variety had given their lives to make it.
"I forgot one thing," I said, closing the folder.
"Yes, I was told that you had. Fortunately, you are in good hands." Her first smile. It was worth the wait. She nodded to the road above. "After you drop me off at a private airport, you are to keep the car for your investigation."
"Destination?"
"Pardon?" I had caught her off-guard. I had the feeling it didn't happen to her often.
"Where are you from? Where will you be flying? And why aren't all women as beautiful as you?"
An even bigger smile this time.
"A-I am from Uruguay. B-That's where I will be flying."
She paused, her smile and eyes hinting at amusement.
"And C- My husband shares your sentiments, but it is nice to be reminded occasionally that he is not the only one."
She was setting the record straight, in the nicest way possible, but she truly was flattered. Women think they can fake it but men can always tell. There is a warmth they can't keep out of their voice when they mean it.
I wasn't surprised. The more beautiful the woman the more intimidating it is to the average Joe. You don't tell women like Florencia they're beautiful. You take it for granted they already know. A model in Miami once told me that no one outside of photographers at photo-shoots had told her she was pretty since high school.
"I'm sure I'm in good compan
y, then. I take it you've spent some time here in Cozumel?"
"Yes."
The inflection said that was all I was going to get about Cozumel.
"When is your plane leaving?"
"When I tell it to."
"Oh. Then would you mind if we make a stop or two?"
"I am at your disposal, Mr. Halliday."
It was my turn to grin. "I thought you said you were married?"
"I am at your disposal, within limits." She looked behind me. "Besides, I understand there is an extremely lovely girl aboard already."
"She owns a Vespa, not a Jaguar."
She shot me a mischievous look and began walking. It was my cue to follow her. Without turning around, she said, "Why do I have the feeling you're more of a Vespa man than a Jaguar enthusiast."
"It's the tropics. It can drive a man to madness. Haven't you seen Red Dust?"
I hadn't expected an answer, but was delightfully surprised when after a laugh, she shot back, "Would I be Mary Astor or Jean Harlow?"
When we got to the road I said, "You drive. I'll take over once you're on the plane."
"Which way?"
"Coroner's office. Do you know where it is?"
"Yes."
"Good, because I don't."
After a couple of miles she turned to me and asked the logical question.
"Why the coroner? It will just be underlings at this time of morning, not the person in charge."
"That's who I want. Some guy working the night shift guarding the stiffs. He's more likely to tell me something I wouldn't find out otherwise."
"And what would that be?"
"I have no idea."
She thought about that and gave me a discerning look.
"You want to see her because you aren't ready to let her go. You won't let her go until you make things right. Or as right as they can be made."
We came to a stop and it was my turn to look beyond her gorgeous face and body.
"I'm beginning to envy your husband, Mrs. Florencia Garcia."
The Turquoise Shroud: A Seth Halliday Novel Page 5