Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition

by Moulton, CD

  “Veras is also a big part of that. I now have the Colombians believing he is meeting with Mr. Faraday in a deal so he will not have to spend six years in carcel.”

  “So they will kill Veras,” Ronaldo said. “I will then investigate and find he was dealing with those people and will report that it is a crime that will never have a solution – unless I protect Veras.”

  “Please do not!”

  “Oh, I will have to make a report that he may be in a danger of his own making and may need protection in the near future,” Ronaldo replied. “Perhaps we may arrange something in a day or two. It will take that long to process in Panamá.”

  “Thank you. I cannot believe what this has made of me. I will have to live with that, but have no regrets. Justice will be served.”

  “That’s the way it’s done here,” Clint agreed. “I’ll go back to Bocas.

  “Who will get the land if Veras gets knocked over?”

  “It will revert back to the family. It is ROP land in dispute,” Ronaldo explained. “Armando Vega has a legitimate claim and no one has anything to contest it. There will be a few months for the verification, but that is how it will go.”

  “So a scheme to kill the Indio and steal his land has finally turned into a case where the Indio kills the crook and gets his land back!” Clint said. “I love it!”

  Ronaldo grinned and said his investigation of Estrella Vega Garcia had exonerated her of any likely charges. They left.

  Clint decided to stay in Puerto Armuelles for the night and go to Bocas in the morning.

  Day seven

  Clint had enjoyed the night and was up very early to head back to Bocas. He might spend the day and night in David. It was beautiful this time of year, if a bit warm. He arrived in David and went to the Hotel Iris where he often stayed, then had lunch in the Multi-Café across the park. About three o’clock he got a call from Ronaldo saying that an Armando Veras had suffered a serious accident when he apparently got roaring drunk the night before and wandered out on the pier, slipped on one of the myriad of loose boards (assumed) and struck his head on something, causing him to drown. Very sad, but those things happen.

  They chatted awhile, then Clint rang off and went to visit friends. He went to Restaurante Las Brasas where Cecilio served him one of their excellent filet mignons and a Balboa. Manolo called him about eleven thirty and asked if there was any connection of the two deaths with his Colombians. Clint said yes, but let it lie. It was for the best, the way it had turned out.

  “I worry that they lied to me.”

  “It was only to protect someone here. Are those people Indio?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was because someone else they were slightly involved with killed an Indio for his property. They lost a bundle on it.”

  “For ... I see. The Indio code. It will be a writeoff if what they call justice is served.”

  “This time, it was.”

  Hmm....

  “Mornin’ Clint!” Elvis Dormienda called as he passed in his cayuca toward the institute.

  Clint liked some of the names he found here. “Dormienda” meant “Sleeping.”

  Clint Faraday, det. rtd., was lounging on his deck enjoying his third cup of coffee. He was considering what to do today. Fishing? Snorkel? Scuba? Lay around? Maybe catch up on the stuff on his computer.

  Nah! This was Panamá! Put it off for a day – that would turn into a month.

  It was a bit overcast. It might rain, clear up, or it might stay cloudy. The clouds were at that height.

  Okay. Work on the computer for a bit to see what would happen. If it cleared he could do whatever. If it remained overcast he could hang around town. If it rained he could do the comp stuff.

  Judi Lum, his nextdoor neighbor, called a good morning across the water. He waved and put his palms up in the “What’s the word?” gesture. She returned the one-handed palm up. She didn’t have any plans yet, either. He called he would make up his mind when he saw what the day was going to be. She agreed.

  He went inside, turned the comp on and brought up his e-mail. Lots of ads he erased and a couple of legit notes. One of them was about the death of a man he knew slightly, Paulo Estillio. He was in the process of moving from Alanje to Boqueron. Jilda, the friend who sent the e-mail, said she had spoken with him only about two hours and a half before in Bugaba when he came through with a trailer-load of furniture. He had, apparently, run his car off the road in the mountains and gone over. Across from that waterfall near the house past the dam with the great view of the Pacific.

  That would be on the inside of the curve. On the road to Chiriqui Grande?

  “Hmm....” Clint wondered.

  “What can you tell me about it?” Clint asked Fredo Manto four hours later at the Policia Estacion Las Lomas.

  “We don’t know much, just that the people at the house heard it and went out to see, then called us. He dropped about twenty five meters into the trees and landed on the rocks upside down.”

  “On the inside of a slightly tight but usually very safe curve?”

  Fredo shrugged. “It happens. Looking at the fall and cut too fast. The road there drops off fairly sharply.”

  “There’s a rail on the part that’s a direct drop and on a ways toward David.”

  “He went off the road just before the rail.”

  “Coming toward David?”

  Fredo shrugged.

  “Was there a trailer on the car?”

  “No. It’s too difficult to pull a trailer up there if you’re not very experienced.”

  “I don’t question that you did your job for one second. You couldn’t know some things and people go off those roads a bit too often. I can see that something’s very wrong because I know a few things about him. Number one, he wouldn’t be coming toward David if he was even up there. He would be going toward Chiriqui Grande. He was seen in Bugaba two hours before, so had very little time to get even to that point.

  “Number two, he wouldn’t be going that way. He was moving to Boqueron.”

  Fredo shrugged. He said he’d investigate if Clint could get him any facts to investigate. He couldn’t use the time if there was nothing to give a direction.

  “Someone is very definitely counting on that little fact! I have to talk with a girl, then maybe I can give you something more.” He headed for Bugaba on the next bus.

  Damn it! He was going to have to do one other thing he’d promised himself he wouldn’t do here! He was going to have to buy some kind of car. Buses were everywhere, but took too much time when you had to wait an hour to get one.

  Luckily, buses went through Las Lomas every fifteen minutes or less that could take him to the terminal. He had to wait very little time in the terminal for a bus to Bugaba. A good many buses to other places went through there. The Frontera-David bus was just leaving. He flagged it and got on. He was in Bugaba forty minutes later. Jilda was at the restaurant where she worked. If things could be depended on to go that easily he wouldn’t need a car.

  Uh-huh! Depend on things like this? Right!

  “Ola, mi amor!” Clint greeted. Jilda waved and pointed to a table in her section. Clint called to bring him a limonade and two empanadas and sat. Jilda only had one other customer so could sit and chat. He asked about Paulo.

  “What? He was someone I talked to here a lot. He came almost every day for desayuno. He was nice. He always wanted to move up into the mountains and Martin Fernandez’s wife died so he sold the place in Boqueron to Paulo cheap. They were always friends. Martin wants to move to Chitre. He has family there.”

  “Did he say anything about going toward Chiriqui Grande?” Clint asked.

  “No. He was moving his things to Boqueron. I was surprised that he was up there.”

  “That was pretty fast to get past the dam.”

  “He could take the Calderas road and get on the Changuinola road at Gualaca. It would still be hard for him to be there that fast.”

  “Was there anyone
with him when you saw him?”

  “No, but someone was in a little truck waiting for him. He only stopped for coffee para llevar. He got two large and gave the man in the other car one. I couldn’t see who was in the other truck because it was parked back there.” She pointed. “I could only see that it was a man by the shirt and reloj when he took the coffee.”

  “What kind of truck?”

  “A Nissan. White with a red stripe and a blue stripe with black between.”

  “Old?”

  “No. New and shiny. I think I saw it a time or two over the past week. There was something else, but I can’t remember what it was.”

  “A light on top? A special license plate in front? Chrome rear bumper with a trailer hitch?”

  “It had the chrome bumper, but that’s not.... Those wide tires! It had wide tires in back with white letters on them! With flashy chrome hubcaps! That was it! I noticed them when it followed Paulo out!”

  “That’s a clue that may be very important! There can’t be many like that around here.”

  They talked until more customers came in. Clint paid the cuenta and left. He asked around about the truck. Some people had seen it, but not often. One man had given the driver directions to get to Paulo’s place. It was sad about Paulo, but those mountains were dangerous to drive.

  “What did the driver look like?”

  “Moreno. Gordo. Bald and with two gold teeth in front. Diamond earrings and a fancy gold diamond ring. Fancy heavy gold wristwatch.”

  “Big showoff? Look what I’ve got?” Clint asked. The man grinned and nodded.

  Clint thought a while, then headed for Gualaca. Maybe someone saw Paulo come through.

  Maybe he had a habit of stopping for coffee. The Boquete road across Calderas to Gualaca was about the distance to make him want a cup about then.

  No one saw Paulo that they could remember, but they saw the Nissan. It was not far behind a car, so that may have been Paulo. There was a pretty negra woman with woven hair that was bleached a bit to where it was a sort of brownish red driving it. No one else was inside.

  So. The man was probably in Paulo’s car. It was coming together.

  Clint was waiting for a bus when Nicanor, an Indio friend, drove by. He stopped and offered Clint a ride.

  Nica worked in Boqueron! Clint asked him about the truck.

  “Oh, I’ve seen it a lot. Sometimes a woman is driving and sometimes a fat bald man. People don’t seem to like them. They come from farther into the mountains. I never spoke to either of them.”

  “From up in the mountains? From the direction of Martin’s place?”

  “Martin Fernandez? It was sad that Bonita died. Cancer. From that road, yes. It’s the second one past the tienda. Not very good, but not very bad, either.”

  Clint considered. Nica would take him on in to Boqueron. He had some questions to ask there. What in hell could it be about? One thing seemed pretty certain. Martin’s place had something to do with it.

  “That road,” Nica said and pointed to a scraped mixed gravel and tosca road toward the higher mountains. “Martin’s place is about three kilometers. Right on the second road and left on the third from there. It ends at his place.”

  Clint thanked him and got out. Nica’s job was on a bit farther on the main road.

  Three kilometers from here. Say forty or forty five minutes walking if it was in the same condition all the way. Not difficult, not fast.

  Clint did remember to bring a pistol. He seldom carried it, but this was unpredictable, judging from what information he had.

  About twenty minutes later the truck passed him going toward Boqueron. The woman was driving. He went on. Martin’s place was comfortable if not fancy. He was there talking with two of the locals about Paulo. He didn’t know what to do with the place. Paulo had paid him for it, but Paulo was no more, so was it his again or somebody else’s?

  “It belongs to whoever inherits from Paulo. The lawyers can fight about that. Is it ROP?”

  “No. Titulo,” Martin replied. “Does that make any difference?”

  “Oh, yes!” Matilde, one of the locals, said. “If it is ROP and there is no one else on the papers anyone can file for it and own it in five years if they live here and take care of it. With titulo it goes to the children or wife of the one who holds the papers.”

  “That’s true,” Roberto, the other local, said. “I can remember when Nato died and that Negro couple just moved in. They’ve been there for eight years. They got a titulo after five.”

  “You can move in and register for a titulo in only one year now,” Matilde added. “The new law.”

  “I heard about the Negroes. People don’t seem to much like them,” Clint said.

  “They’re snobs,” Martin agreed. “Better than anyone else out here. We’re all Indigeno or part Indigeno and the Negroes have never liked us.”

  “Even some of the Negroes who visit don’t like them,” Matilde said. “Elina – she’s Mestizo and married to that black Taylor fellow – says they’re a RPITA. Big showoffs and can’t talk about anything but what they have.”

  “RPITA?” Martin asked.

  “Computer talk for Royal Pain in the Ass,” Clint answered. “I think I see what’s happened. Thanks.

  “Where do the Negroes live?”

  “Up there,” Matilde said, pointing. “You take the road where this one comes from and go on up two more turn-offs and it’s the one on the left.”

  Clint thanked them and walked to the turn-off. He thought for a minute and decided to go back into Boqueron. He’d return with the policia. He was too old and tired for the shoot-‘em-up bit anymore. He went directly to the station.

  “Can you call the medical examiner in Las Lomas and determine if Paulo was dead before that car went over?” Clint asked.

  “Well – only if they had any reason to check,” Carlos, the sgt. who was helping him at the request of the Bocas policia (Sergio) replied. “A moment.” After about five minutes of jabbering on the radio Fredo came on to say he was suspicious because of what Clint told him and had called the ME to ask that such details were investigated. When they checked at the accident scene the ME determined that Paulo had been dead for about thirty to forty five minutes before the car went over, determined by the time the call to the policia came in.

  “Then it was no accident, it was murder,” Carlos said. Clint agreed and said they could go pick up the killer and his accomplice. Carlos said they might as well. He didn’t have anything else to do.

  Clint went with them in the policia truck. The truck the Negroes drove was in front of a Salon de Belleza so Clint said she couldn’t get far, anyhow. Carlos radioed for a unit to go there and arrest the woman.

  They drove up to the place where the Negroes were living. There was a minor altercation when they arrested Billam Robinson. Clint stayed out of it. Carlos said Robinson would have an added charge of assault against two policia officers. When they got back into Boqueron they also were able to file an assault charge against Gloriana Taylor Zahrias. Seems she was quite the tough one. Clint gave the policia the names and contacts for his eye-witnesses. Gloriana remained mute about anything. Billam couldn’t shut up about blaming her for everything – including having killed Nato Suarez to get his land. He only stayed around her because he was afraid of her and her brothers, who lived in Colón and had killed a lot of people.

  Clint went home after making his sworn statement. It was verified by the policia, notarized and he wouldn’t even have to testify seeing Billam had confessed to the whole sordid thing.

  The trip back was as quick and relaxed as the trip in. He was wondering what would go wrong. Too much good fortune scared him.

  There was a derumbe. He would have to wait for it to be cleared before the road would be passable. He sighed and told himself he knew it. It was cleared in fifteen minutes and he was back in Bocas almost on schedule. This good luck simply couldn’t continue! Things didn’t happen that way for him!

&nb
sp; “The idiot didn’t know Martin had the place titled. They thought they could grab it the way they grabbed the land they were living on,” Clint explained to Judi, Dave (his weird musician friend), Sergio (Cptn. violent crimes) and Manny (retired mafia don and close friend). “They got the max for murder and every time they step out of jail for six or eight times they’ll be arrested again on the other charges. There’s no time limit to trial here if the charges are filed on time. It’s a life sentence, in effect.”

  “Want to go fishing tomorrow?” Dave asked. “I’m going to be out past the Zapatillas on the other side of Tierra Oscura and you can use the boat while I’m screwing around in the jungle.”

  “Why not?” Judi replied.

  Exactly!

  The day dawned perfectly. There were a few low clouds to the east and the normal clouds sitting on the mountains to the west. Several green parrots sat on the rail of Clint Faraday’s deck to squawk at him. He tossed them some grapes from the bowl on the table.

  They came some mornings. Clint liked to watch their antics. Parrots seemed to enjoy life.

  A large leopard ray swam leisurely by. The chum that hung around under his deck didn’t pay it much attention. A large blowfish chewed something off of a post, the small crabs saw it coming and climbed out of the water until it was through and swam off, then went down into the water again. There were three of the large starfish on the bottom, clear through seven or eight feet of water.

  The water was generally clear here, but could get cloudy when there was turbulence in the Caribbean.

  What to do today? He went fishing and diving two days in a row, his computer work was up to date, most of his friends were in Boquete for the Feria de las Flores.

  Maybe he’d walk around town a bit to watch the tourists gawking at the handmade trinkets his Indio friends sold along the main street. He could gab with Jim and friends at the Golden Grill and spend the day doing nothing. That was good now and then.