She pushed the gas pedal and the quiet power of the Jag propelled us forward again.
"You can call me Flo, Seth."
I pretended I was dangling a cigar between two fingers, and in my best Groucho imitation, which wasn't very good, said, "And you can call me anytime."
She laughed and took her right hand off the wheel to shake. "Nice to meet you, Anytime. My name's Flo."
Seven
The Coroner's Office didn't look any different from the rest of Cozumel. It was colorful in that Spanish flavor; an orange-brown background trimmed in soft yellow only slightly brighter than pastel. Palm trees kissed each corner. It was set back from the thoroughfare some distance and well-manicured shrubbery lined the long brick walkway leading to the entrance. Massive Ceiba trees -- ironically, the Mayan tree of life -- shielded curious tourists from reality. The sight of dead people was not compatible to festivity, nor would it encourage vacationing gringos to spend often and unwisely.
"I could use your help, if you're willing," I said as Flo pulled into a parking space.
"How may I help?"
"Just by standing around and looking beautiful, smiling a lot, being nice."
She raised one of those soft eyebrows but nodded knowingly. She understood and wasn't offended. It was refreshing in today's politically correct world where women all too often professed that there existed no difference between the sexes. Until, of course, they need to use that difference to get ahead, or get over. Seth Halliday, card-carrying chauvinist and eternal cynic.
"What is your plan if the attendant is a woman?"
"Then I'll be extra nice and do all the smiling."
"And will you be beautiful?"
"No, but it won't matter. With you on my arm, she'll be insatiably curious about my magical power to attract women out of my league."
"Good answer."
A security guard had a cup of coffee in his hand and was leaning back in his chair behind the front desk. I rated only a cursory glance, his focus gravitating toward my partner. I couldn't blame him. He stood.
"How can I help you?" His accent was thick, like his waistline. He looked to be in his early forties.
Before I could produce my P.I. license for the first time, which I was somewhat surprised to find myself looking forward to, Flo replied, "I am Florencia Garcia, and I work for Señor Fernandez." She said, "Fernandez" as though there was only one in existence and the security guard should know him. "We wish to have a word with the person on duty."
From the recognition painting his face he did know exactly who she meant. Power is better than money, but only those who have it truly understand that.
"Certainly. Just down the hallway, the big double doors."
"Thank you."
"You are quite welcome," he said, bowing in deference to her position with Mr. Fernandez, whatever her position might be.
We went through the big doors and a young, lanky hispanic wearing a white smock over jeans and a black Led Zeppelin T-shirt looked up at us through wire-rimmed glasses. In the top pocket of his smock was clipped an honest-to-god pocket protector. His eyes got big when we entered, and even bigger when he got a gander at Flo. I was beginning to wonder what it must be like for her husband to take her out. Unless he was Tyrone Power reincarnated, he'd always be that guy with Florencia.
"Hel…hello."
"I'm Seth Halliday and this is Florencia Garcia. I'd like to ask you a few questions." I showed him my credentials but I think Flo's smile was all the credential he needed to see.
"Sure, but what about? I mean, I'm just, you know, the night guy."
Flo said, "I'm sure you can be a big help to us." She held out her hand. He looked as though he'd just won a trip to Disneyland. Wiping his hand quickly against his smock he took hers and shook it. "Roberto." Florencia smiled as if the name reminded her of someone dear.
"Roberto," I began, "we were hoping you could let us see the file on Nancy Wells, if it isn't too much trouble."
He frowned, desperately wanting to please Flo but the name not registering.
"Nancy Wells? Oh! The Jane Doe?"
"Yes, that's the one," I said, feeling ashamed, as though I were slighting Nancy in some way.
"Sure, just a few seconds." He walked over to a wall of file cabinets opposite drawers where people who would never wake up again found slumber, if not rest. He found what he was looking for and brought it back, handing the manila folder to me.
I opened it and skimmed through it. I'd seen a million reports like it, and knew what to look for. I found it.
"BZD was in her system?"
He held out his hand and I gave the file back to him. He read through it and nodded. "Benzodiazepine. Not much, just enough to catch in a blood screen. A very low dose, probably taken long before she drowned."
Enough to make her drowsy and pliable while someone dug her watery grave, but not so much that the effects wouldn't wear off quickly. Her killer wanted her to be aware that she was going to die. Sadistic.
"I'd like to see her, Roberto."
He looked from me to Florencia. Showing us a piece of paper was one thing, letting us look at the body was another. Flo helped him make the decision.
"I could use a coffee, could you, Roberto? Maybe we could have a cup while Seth says goodbye?"
He looked at me. "You knew her?"
"A friend," I said.
He nodded, turned, walked over and opened a drawer where Nancy was covered in a white sheet, then walked back. "I guess I could use a cup of coffee. The break room is down the hall, if that's okay?" He was talking to Flo now, nervous at the prospect of being alone with her and excited all at the same time. More worldly men had probably experienced the same feelings.
"That sounds fine, Roberto. We really appreciate this."
I waited until they'd gone and walked very slowly over to Nancy. I carefully folded the sheet back over her face. She was still pretty, still sweet, still vital, and still too innocent for the world in which she had lived and now would live no longer.
I placed my hand on her cheek. Her flesh was cool from being in the drawer.
"I'll make this right, baby, I promise," I whispered. I leaned down and kissed her forehead. I found her hand beneath the cover and squeezed it, then covered her up again and slid the drawer shut. I gathered myself and went to find Florencia and Roberto.
Flo was writing on a business card when I found them. She reached across the small plastic table in the cramped break room and handed it to him.
"You've been a huge help, Roberto. We really appreciate it. The top number is a man who can set you up in a better position, perhaps even train you in the area you're interested in, which is pharmaceuticals. Just tell him I gave you the number. If there is a problem connecting with him, the bottom number is my private line."
He nodded, his voice offering disbelieving gratitude. When we were outside, I asked her if the number she'd given him was her husband's.
"Yes, he will help him."
"And the other number? Is it really your private line?"
"Certainly. He is a nice young man ill-suited to his station in life."
"And you are a nice woman very suited to yours."
She gave me a strange look as she got into the car, and once sitting, stared straight ahead through the windshield at nothing for a full minute. Very quietly she finally spoke.
"Mr. Fernandez visited Uruguay on business many years ago, when I was in my teens. He came to our school and spoke. I asked him many questions and he took an interest in me. My father had committed suicide over financial matters and it was only a matter of time before my mother was to pass, from cancer. He took an interest in me, came to our home, got to know my mother. He was very kind. I was able to attend the best universities overseas. But when my mother passed, I sort of lost my way. I repaid his kindness, this great opportunity he had given me by getting into trouble on spring break, here in Cozumel. What type of trouble is unimportant, but suffice it to say it was signif
icant enough to ruin my future."
She stopped talking, but kept staring straight ahead. She took a deep breath and continued.
"He flew down and personally took care of the situation so that no record of it exists. When he came to get me, he simply sat down next to me and placed his arm around me. No harsh words, no rebukes. You know what he said? He said, 'It must be hard now that your mother's gone and she isn't here to talk to'."
And then she began to cry. I found some Kleenex in the glove compartment -- and a Smith and Wesson 38 -- and handed her the box. She took it and wiped away her tears. She sniffled and took a deep breath, trying to gather herself together. She was even more beautiful with red, tear-stained cheeks, and eyes no longer perfect, but bloodshot.
"I have always remembered how I felt that day, to be given a second chance. I try to do what I can so that others will experience that feeling, and pass it on."
I couldn't recall the last time I'd met a finer, more decent woman than Florencia Garcia. I probably hadn't.
"Soo…" I said lasciviously, "if you really wanted me to feel wonderful…"
She slapped my chest, and started laughing, and then I began to laugh. We were still laughing when she began backing out of the parking stall.
"You're one special woman, Florencia Garcia.”
Eight
I watched Florencia's private jet ascend skyward and felt like someone special had just entered into my life. Roberto was not the only one with her private number. When I could no longer see the Lear I got behind the wheel of the Jaguar for the first time. The registration in the glove box didn't have a corporate name on it, it belonged to Florencia. She had given me an address to drop off the Jag once my business in Cozumel was completed, informing me that the house was where she and her husband stayed when in Cozumel.
There is something inherently sexy about being in control of a luxury car like the Jaguar, and even something sexier about sitting where only minutes ago someone sexier and more exotic than any automobile ever could be had sat. Anyone who tells you there isn't something sensual about a girl letting you drive her car, even if it happens to be an old beat-up Gremlin, is lying. It doesn't have to be sexual, it can be friendship, but there is an intimacy and trust that is implied, a bond which makes the relationship, whatever it is, permanent.
It didn't take long to get to the hostel where Nancy had stayed and, if Margarita was correct, Caroline made her permanent residence. A plump woman in her fifties was ironing clothes in the front room when I entered. She had the ironing board parallel to her television and was using a remote to flip through channels for a distraction from the hot work. She was quick on the button, and was concentrating so hard that she didn't see me.
I stood watching as a blur of what passed for entertainment nowadays was checked out and quickly dismissed in frustration: Jerry Springer and his circus, featuring the lowest dregs of society, sans the people who thought them worthy of interest; a show portraying a serial murderer as an anti-hero because, as all serial killers do, he helped the cops catch other serial killers; a show about a dying chemistry teacher who decides to make and distribute drugs to kids so he can leave his family rich -- life insurance wasn't an option, apparently; a show about lesbians in the big city trying to hook-up; a show about gay men in the big city trying to hook-up; a show about females trying to hook up with males in the big city; and a reality show featuring a bunch of twenty-somethings living together in the same house being filmed 24/7, the objective to either be the shallowest or crappiest to win some money.
She let out a big sigh, pointed the remote at the TV and pressed the off button. I cleared my throat and startled her.
"Heavens! You scared the daylights out of me."
She was hispanic but spoke excellent English.
"Sorry, I didn't want to interrupt you."
She scoffed disgustedly. "I wish you had. Can't even find anything decent to watch while I work anymore. Whatever happened to Zorro and Mannix? Hawaii Five-O and Remington Steele? Everything's upside-down now. The whole world! You don't take out the garbage, you invite it into your casa and sit for hours watching it until you think that's all there is left."
She took a deep breath. I was smiling.
"I'm sorry, Señor, I just can't stand it sometimes."
"You don't have to apologize, mam, I agree."
She relaxed, and looked me over. She raised her eyebrows.
"Decent looking, don't look like you're broke, and you're way past the age to be backpackin' anywhere, so what brings you here?"
"I'd like to ask around about Nancy, if that's alright."
Her demeanor softened like melting butter.
"Such a sweet girl. I saw on the news last night and couldn't believe it. They say it's probably one of those college things got out of hand."
I could tell she wasn't buying it.
"It wasn't," I offered. "That's why I want to ask around."
"I knew it! As soon as I heard it I knew she'd never go party with that crowd. She wasn't like that."
"Who knew her best, of the young people staying here?"
"Well, she sort of kept to herself. She was friendly enough, sweet, like I said, always a smile for anyone who gave her one. Maybe Caroline, another doll. They talked a little. I'm not sure she'll remember a lot though. It comes and goes."
"In what way?"
She took a moment, trying to decide how to explain things, like when a child asks where babies come from.
"I met her a few years ago when she first came. Her first year of college. Smart as a whip and just filled with wonder at everything. Was going to be an archaeologist, she told me. That's why she came here to Cozumel, to see the ruins, not to party like the rest. She came alone, stayed here with the backpackers. When I think what might have been, it almost makes me cry."
She stopped talking for a minute and I thought she might cry. I had the feeling if I'd said anything she would have. But I gave her time, let her gather herself and tell it her way. It was the Navajo way, according to all those Hillerman mysteries Harry liked to read, giving them to me when he finished. The Navajo way worked.
"She trusted this boy and went with him to a party, somewhere on the island. She didn't come home that night. I was worried, but what can you do? They're eighteen, nineteen, sometimes older. I heard whimpering outside early the next morning. I thought it was one of the mongrel dogs wanting scraps."
She closed her eyes, recalling it all sadly.
"She was just curled up there on the porch, like a baby, you know? Lord, she was a mess! Frightened and wild-eyed, shivering like it was freezing. There was skin under her fingernails, and she had some bruising. You can imagine what happened to her. I hid her away and nursed her for a month, kept everyone from seeing her except the doctor. They'd given her some drug. Too much of it. It mixed her up. She's still smart, still sweet, but she forgets things easy. And some things have just dropped out completely."
"She doesn't remember?" I asked quietly.
"Maybe sometimes she does, but she doesn't let on. Maybe once a month or so I hear her crying in her room. I let her be, then."
"You can't be making a lot of money here," I observed.
"I get by. That's all anyone has a right to do."
"I'm guessing you get by with one less room to rent out," I said with kindness. I felt a warmth for this woman, the same warmth I'd felt for Margarita.
The woman, whose name I didn't know yet, looked down at the floor, embarrassed. She said, "She helps me out sometimes, washes dishes, irons when I'm too tired. She earns her room. I can't always feed her the best, but my sister Margarita sometimes gives her meals when that tacaño husband of hers isn't looking. Margarita has dos hijas, so she understands."
"It's a small world," I murmured. Before she could ask what I meant, I asked her name.
She raised her hand quickly to her forehead and rolled her eyes. "Forgive me. I am Rosita."
"Seth Halliday." I showed her my license. She
nodded.
"Caroline is upstairs. Room 4. It is small, but hers alone. She does not have to share with several like the others." She frowned. "They sometimes make fun of her, call her names, but not when I hear. I need the money, but not that bad."
I turned to go upstairs and she placed her hand on my arm. "I would kill anyone who hurt that girl. You understand?"
I placed my left hand on top of hers on my arm and squeezed. "I understand completely. I'd never hurt her."
She looked me straight in the eye for maybe five or six seconds, then smiled. "No I don't think you would. You go on up."
I heard footsteps and activity on my way up, and two girls blew by me headed the other way. One was a short, busty redhead and the other girl had pink hair. The redhead's hair had an unnatural tint as well. The pink-haired girl wore fatigues, the camouflage variety. The redhead sported a black mini-skirt which didn't hide much but would have better served her if it had. She'd stuffed her massive pointed jugs into a tie-dye T-shirt. If she wasn't careful, she'd poke someone's eye out. They both giggled on the way by. They weren't the underground anymore, they were the mainstream.
I knocked gently on Caroline's door. When she opened it, I realized three things: the first was how much I'd been looking forward to meeting her; the second, that she wasn't quite the waif the baggy clothes she'd had on yesterday suggested; and third, just how lovely she was.
She'd washed her hair. Strands that had been long and stringy yesterday were soft and carefree today. Sandy blonde. Her face was open and surprised and lovely because of the eyes, which were full of wonder and open to possibilities. There was magic here, an enchantment like when Audrey Hepburn cracked the door open in Breakfast at Tiffany's.
She was slight, but the curves weren't quite as gentle as they'd appeared yesterday in clothes too large for her. Her chest was ample without being too big, her shape matching the sweetness of her.
"I don't usually get visitors. Did momma send you up?"
"Rosita said it was okay."
"Yeah, I call her momma. She sort of fusses over me like I'm a kid, though I'm in my twenties." There was no resentment there, only affection. "I'm Caroline, but maybe you know if you've come to see me."
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