by Moulton, CD
“Monnie’s dead?” Vern asked.
“And Arnold. Maybe you’d better get to Bocas ... no, you’re no part of that end.”
Vern nodded and Clint went to the hotel, charged his phone while he packed, got the bus and went to David.
Accident My Ass!
He left the disguise on while he was on the bus. Two people he had seen in El Critico were there and had booked immediately after he got on. Probably nothing, but be careful.
He talked with Batty on the phone to learn that Monica Standing had probably been involved in the scam with Bill Arnold and somebody had managed to stage an auto accident where they both ended up dead. The car supposedly was traveling at a high rate of speed and she took the wrong exit, the one that goes down more or less under the bridge over the canal, and ran into that heavy concrete wall at the bottom. He didn’t believe it because Monica didn’t drive and she was under the steering wheel when the car hit the wall.
Clint didn’t ask why she would be on that side of the bridge at 3:00 AM. He remembered that Batty had called a number, then the banker. What he said was that there was a probable scam – which information would not be given to a secretary or answering service. It struck him as being significant at the time. Then Monica suddenly headed straight for Panamá City without informing her best friend, Yvon?
Then Monica ends up in Panamá City – with the engineer. Both are dead in a staged car crash.
Monica and Arnold would have ended up with the money. Batty wasn’t smart enough to have figured this thing this closely. It didn’t, as the tired old saying went, compute. It would seem Batty wasn’t the head of the deal. It wasn’t likely Arnold could have figured it and contacted the people involved on the money end. Monica was a runner for someone. She and possibly Arnold would know who the real head of the deal was.
How could they stay out of so much and end up with the gravy?
This was going to take some thinking. Maybe the funny-money thing always was a part of it.
Wait! WHO sent the Cartworthys to Puerto Armuelles and why kill Sally Wallace? If the Smiths had killed her it would be that – but they didn’t kill her. Cartworthy(s) killed her. They were definitely NOT in on the funny-money part.
None of it made much sense. Marko met the Cartworthys in Panamá City. Arnold was in Panamá City. Was that significant?
Probably – but how? Why? Who else was in Panamá City at a critical time?
Carlos Vermont? He was there all the time with his work on getting permits and concessions.
Clint called Carlos and said he would be in Panamá City in the morning and wanted to talk with him about some things. They agreed to meet at the Hotel California at eight in the morning. He called the hotel and wheedled them into giving him a room. It was full, but he knew the people and they would give him a room that was being renovated. He could get a regular room in two nights.
Maybe something was going to come out of this mess now that he could get a grip on. It occurred to him that he had been approached a number of times when he came to Panamá by people who wanted him to use any contacts he had with anyone in the states to buy land or finance a new business. Half of them were scams. Carlos would be the one to make the contacts. He would be in on the scam bigtime. Would he be running it?
That was what Clint had to discover.
When he got to David, “Denton” got in a cab and went to the Palacio Imperial Hotel. The two from Puerto Armuelles watched him get the cab and managed to be near enough to hear him ask for the Palacio. He went in to find the feria had the place full. There were no rooms. Perfect! When the two asked for his room number they would be told the place was booked solid and that he wasn’t there.
He went out to his author friend’s place in Quiteño, changed, and Jose (the student being financed through university who was living in the house) would tell anyone who asked that he’d been there for a week. He dumped the disguise and went to catch the Panam City bus.
He got into Panamá City at 3:00 AM and went directly to the Hotel California. He managed to get four hours sleep and be in the restaurant when Carlos came in. They discussed the scam.
“Carlos, I’ve known you for a couple of years. You had to know it was a scam. I think you either set it up yourself or helped someone else set it up. I don’t care about that. Most of the people involved can afford it and were on the shady side as it was. Vern is a good person and came out ahead, Batty and Yvon got enough of a rake-off to live on. Abel and Downy got a lot back and will manage to build it up again fairly fast. Even that Denton character made fifty grand on the deal. Arnold won’t be collecting his part. Monica Standing was a runner and not much more.
“It’s a personal project. Denton couldn’t believe they were doing anything so easy to see through, but Abel and Downy were naive enough to where it would work IF you’d made it clear that they were to contact no other investors or mention it in any way. You always ran the risk of it falling apart the way it did if you didn’t keep absolute control of that part. You should have told them all the percentages were sold. You got too greedy, wanting a few more thousand bucks – with the result you lost about half of what was already in it.
“They met Denton and decided to get him in on it because he obviously has a lot of money and they could trust him. He’s able to project that. I’ve met him a few times. We don’t tell people we know each other, Okay?”
He nodded. Clint could see he didn’t know how to react to this little speech. “What do you want? I can’t tell you who else is in it. I don’t know. I meet with his representative. A Monica Standing.
“Met. I didn’t have anything to do with killing her or the engineer, Arnold. The police won’t investigate. They say she was drunk and ran off the road. It happens.”
“Which means whoever’s behind it has a lot of money and power. I really can’t believe it was Lariez.”
“That, I know. It was NOT Lariez. Lariez was told to stay out of it.”
“So he told me. Want to show me a permit or concession document?”
“I thought you would ask. I brought a couple.” He put them on the table.
“Oh-ho! Very good job! You do it or are they supplied?”
Carlos laughed. “They’re the real forms. I just have them filled out and take them to a notary for the stamp. Only thing wrong with them is that they’re the originals so no agency has a copy on file. There’s no finca number so they’re not even legal yet. When they’re refused it’s no fault of mine. It’s this damned government with all their delays and fees and obstructionism! It’s getting impossible for a man to get an honest job anymore! Oh, woe is me!”
“Bummer!” Clint shook his head. “Lariez isn’t going to give me a name, hunh?” Carlos said it wasn’t likely. That said a lot.
Clint went to the police station after lunch at the chicken place a block from the Hotel California and met with Vito Williams, an investigator he’d worked with for a short time several months past. He said he’d only seen the reports. It seemed to be clear enough. What was the problem?
“They were running a seeded mine scam in Puerto Armuelles. She didn’t drive. The scam’s being run from here.”
Vito raised an eyebrow and called an officer over to tell her to get the autopsy reports to him right away. She went out while Clint and Vito chatted about whatever came up. She returned in fifteen minutes with a note that said the autopsy wasn’t completed yet. Vito picked up his hat and said for Clint to come along to the morgue.
Monica’s body was still in a cooler. Nothing had been touched. The report was in a slot in the drawer door – that said her blood alcohol level was 2.4. It didn’t mention injuries. There was a cremation certificate in the slot, signed by her aunt. Maria Sanchez. The cedula copy (required on legal documents) was so smeared it couldn’t be read.
“She has an aunt here?” Clint said, disgustedly. “Maria Sanchez? That’s like Mary Smith in the states.”
“Come on!” Vito snarled. “This one they d
on’t shove aside where no one looks.”
He marched to the coroner, who was working on the body of a fat older woman, to demand to see the sample of blood taken from Monica Beatrice Standing in number fourteen. The doctor looked a bit shocked and uncertain, then went to the refrigerator to rummage around and not find it. He called a kid over and asked about it, was told it was right there earlier.
“Mierda!” Vito snarled. “Doctor, show me the place the blood was drawn! Now!”
The doctor went to the drawer, paused, opened the door, paused and turned to say, “I didn’t have time to take it. I have that bus accident with six bodies and can’t waste my time with a drunk driver! The man in the ambulance said she was really drunk!”
“Except that she didn’t drive and didn’t drink more than a glass of wine with a meal,” Clint said. “You have a double homicide there that you don’t do an autopsy on because some flunky in an ambulance says it was a drunk driver? I don’t believe one word of it. Who told you to not do an autopsy and to report it as a drunk, then rush her off to be cremated so the evidence is gone? Come on, Vito. She was a citizen of the US who was murdered in Panamá City and there will be no further investigation because a stupid ambulance driver said she was drunk? That’ll really add to tourism here when I smear it all over the net!”
“Oh, there WILL be an investigation. A very thorough one!” Vito promised. “Doctor, this is your next project and it will be done with the greatest possible attention to the smallest detail. Claro?”
The doctor looked very sick. He nodded.
They went back to Vito’s office, where he fumed for a few minutes, then asked Clint what else he could tell him about it. Clint said he had to know who was behind it. That should answer most of his questions.
Vito called in three other officers (one was there, the other two arrived in about twenty minutes) to ask if they had noticed Arnold at the Hotel California. One said he had seen him working in the restaurant often with a computer. Various people would speak with him. Clint had been there once. A woman met with him several times, once with a large man in an expensive suit who had two people with him who stayed outside when he and the woman went in.
Vito showed him a picture of Monica and he said that was one of the women. Clint looked thoughtful and took out his little pocket camera to check the photos and asked him if Yvon was the other woman. No. He got an idea and asked if this man and woman had met with him. He showed the Cartworthys. The man had come once, but seemed to just have a message or something to hand him.
Batty? Yes. Several times. Sally Wallace? Yes. She was the other woman from a few weeks ago. She had gotten a little drunk and was saying something about a gusher. Arnold said he didn’t like being around a bigmouthed drunk and walked out.
Vern? With Sally. Never with Arnold.
Lariez? That was a known criminal. He had been in the restaurant several times when Arnold was there, but had not spoken with him. Lariez had his own home, but he sometimes had evening meals, espagetti con camarones in particular, at the hotel. He may be a criminal, but he’s always pleasant to the police there.
Clint thanked him. He left and Clint asked why they had a man at the Hotel California.
Because some important people stayed there – and a few who were no more than thieves and scam artists. They could keep an eye on certain types and warn the tourists if they seemed to be getting too chummy.
“He’s good!” Clint said. “I never spotted him.”
“Yes. That’s because he’s always there,” Vito replied. Clint thought a minute, then said, “I’ll be damned! He was sitting right there when I came out to come here! I’ve seen the others there, too. I’ll be damned.”
They chatted a bit more. Clint wanted to know if the officer ever saw the man in the expensive suit again. He felt that may be the real head of the bunch.
He went back to the hotel where he called Marko. He didn’t know anything more except that a black man by the name of “Ras” was a specialist in staged accidents with cars. He might or might not have information. The Top Place billiards hall out toward the end of Via España. Take care.
Ras would be a Rastifarian, thence the name. Probably ten of them, but worth a shot. Maybe only one a specialist.
The Top Place is a chain of billiard halls all over Panamá. They are almost always upstairs as a gimmick. This one was loud and dirty with a clientele that would scare the piss out of most people. Clint knew it was mostly an act, but there were a few violence freaks in any such place. There were four blacks with dredlocks. He asked which one was called “Ras” – the auto specialist.
About six o’clock. Thin creepy type, but scary. Crazy. Hit women and backed down from men.
Clint thanked them, bought a round of beers and went to wander the shops in the “bad” end of town. He saw and talked to three people he knew from Bocas and one from David. At six thirty he went back to the Top Place to meet “Ras” Smith. Not his name, but it would do.
Ras Smith was wearing four heavy gold chains around his neck, had four very fancy rings on various fingers, a copy Rolex watch and four very distinctive large diamond earrings.
“Flint Hardy,” Clint introduced himself. “Not my name, but it’ll do.” That got a grin.
Clint bought a beer for himself and a Ron Abuelo with Coke for Ras and asked him if he was the one who screwed up the hit on Arnold and Standing. He knew he had it from the look of fear that came across Ras’s face.
“Screwed up? How ... I mean ... I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, it was probably mainly because the stupid dickhead didn’t give you enough information – such as the tiny facts she didn’t drive and never drank. Now they’ll check it a lot closer than they ever would if they hadn’t learned that. There won’t be any cremation.”
“Oh, shit! No one told me ... I mean, you say somebody set up a hit and didn’t even tell the one they hired something like that? Shit, man!”
“I’d suggest the person who set it up contact the employer and get it straight that the fuck-up was because of what the employee wasn’t told. Those people are usually a lot more careful than that.
“I guess it was a rush job and no one checked it out far enough, hunh?”
“Yeah. shit man, I mean ... they hire somebody and don’t give all the facts, man? That one will have his ass in a real crack if they can find him!”
“Well, I guess I’d better get on back. Hay cuidado.”
He went out and waited just around the corner. Ras came out a minute later and went to stand in the doorway of the closed store beside the stairway. He took out a fancy cell phone and called a number. He kept calling for several minutes until he finally got an answer.
“Llama Gordo! Muy importante!”
(Call Gordo. It’s very important.)
“Si. Yo intiendo. Digarle mi obra es fucked porque el no ... Si! Policia conoce!”
(Yes. I know. Tell him the job was fucked up because he didn’t ... Yes! The police know!)
“Porque el no ... es importante sus trabajadores conoce total! El no....”
(Because he didn’t ... it’s important your workers know everything. He didn’t....”
“Es no falta de mi! No miculpa! Digarle!”
(It’s not my fault. Tell him that!)
“Okay. Esta bien. Ya voy.”
(Okay. That’s good. I’m leaving.)
It wasn’t a gringo. He spoke English and would have used it there if just because passers-by wouldn’t speak it, either. The head man – or contact man – was called “Gordo”. That was a fat man and a rather common nickname.
Clint waited until Ras almost ran to a nearby cheap apartment building and went inside. He expected someone would come to explain to Ras that saying the wrong name to the wrong person would result in another death by accident. His.
An hour later, Ras hadn’t come out. Eleven people had come and six left again. Four others left in the interim, apparently people who lived there.
Clint took all their pictures, but they wouldn’t be clear with the bad light. He certainly couldn’t use the flash.
He strolled into the hall and asked a woman there which place was Ras’s. She pointed to the stairs and said, “Dos once.” (211). He went up the stairs and saw the door to 211 was ajar. He never carried a pistol, though he had a permit, but wished he had one now. Whoever came for Ras might still be inside.
No one was inside. There were some signs of a minor struggle or Ras might just be a pig who lived like a pig. The only way out he could see was the door. There was one window, closed.
He went to the window and opened it. Fire escape?
There was no fire escape. It was a sheer drop to a brick paved alley. There was a body under the window that had apparently fallen on something raggedly sharp that has skewered it through the lower chest.
Clint went back down and out to find the alley entrance was on a side street and had a locked gate across the entrance. He called Vito and waited eight minutes for him to arrive with a crew. They forced the gate and went in. As soon as Clint saw the body he shook his head and looked up at the window. He said, “Neat! He had it all planned.”
There was a ragged broken-off 2"X4" stuck into the slot of a concrete block directly under the window. It had gone through the body at a slight angle and had entered from the back just below the heart. There was no reason for anything like that there unless it had been put there deliberately for exactly this situation. The body was a slick Latin man in his early or mid-thirties, medium but strong (workout) build, expensive suit, expensive rings and watch.
“Don Juan Castillo,” Vito said. “Enforcer for someone we haven’t been able to identify yet. Ras Smith lives in that apartment. I can deduce that this one was sent to take care of Ras and that Ras expected and prepared for exactly that. That means Ras knows who or what you’re here for. You are here because you wanted to talk to him.
“Did you talk to him?”