Caribbean Rain

by Rick Murcer

  “Mr. Fogerty. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “That seems fairly obvious, muchacho. This fine young lady refuses to give me the limo; she says it’s already reserved.”

  “Let me take a look.”

  A moment later, after a few hurried key strokes, he looked up, smiling in relief. “It seems that reservation has been canceled. I’ll have the car brought up, señor.”

  Evita looked at her manager, then back to Fogerty. “I’m sure that reservation is still—”

  “Evita. Please go tell Alfredo to bring the limo up, now.”

  “But—”

  “I said now, if you want to work your next shift,” his eyes on fire.

  She bowed her head and moved to the back office.

  “Thank you, Benito. I appreciate the way you handled that.” Fogerty shook his hand. “For that kind gesture, we’ll leave the interest rate for your loan at twenty-five percent. You’ve been a day late on the payment twice, so we could raise it, but you did well.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. Fogerty. I appreciate that. My daughter is doing well from the surgery and her chances are good.”

  Fogerty smiled wider and leaned closer. “I hope that makes you feel better, because frankly, I don’t give a shit. If you miss another payment, you’ll have more trouble than she. Got that?”

  Benito’s voice shook. “Ye. . . yes sir. It won’t happen again.”

  “I know it won’t.”

  Fogerty spun on his heel and walked through the doors to the awaiting limo. Braxton instructed one of the bodyguards to take the wheel and the other to ride shotgun, while he climbed in back with his boss.

  Fogerty grinned as Braxton folded into the backseat opposite him. Not a small man himself at six feet and two hundred pounds, he was nothing compared to his number one man. Watching him get into the limo and get comfortable was always a show.

  Braxton returned the grin. “Dey don’t make des like dey use ta.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  Braxton nodded, then abruptly hit the dividing glass that separated driver and passenger.

  “Let’s go, mon. Get dis ting up to the rainforest, now,” he yelled.

  Fogerty nodded his approval.

  It was time to end this charade, and no one could do that better than he.

  Chapter-16

  Manny waited for Chloe and Josh outside the sterile examination room. Sitting in the padded chair, he ran his hand through his hair, contemplating Josh’s revelation regarding his brother. Shock was probably too strong a word, but it seemed his world was never devoid of the type of surprises that raised his blood pressure and made slack-jaw the expression of the day.

  The waiting room was empty, and for that, he was glad. He could use the quiet. Sophie and Alex had gone out to fill the SUV with gas and retrieve their baggage. Alex also wanted to call the Bureau for an updated time frame for when they could get another plane into Cleveland. The cell phone reception in the hospital was terrible, maybe by design, so he tagged along with Sophie. He said they’d be back in thirty minutes. Manny smiled to himself. Sophie was driving, and she had said twenty.

  After announcing his brother Caleb had been murdered, Josh had explained what he meant by brother. Caleb was actually his half-brother and had come to the Corner family at age thirteen. Josh’s father had had a bit of a wild side growing up and had gotten a young woman pregnant. She wanted nothing to do with him, married another man, and moved to the West Coast. The family apparently had trouble staying together. Then Josh’s family had gotten the call, out of nowhere, and he had a brother.

  Josh said Caleb had come from an extremely troubled home, where beating the children for no apparent reason and smoking crack cocaine had been routine for Caleb’s parents, especially for his stepdad.

  The four-year difference in age, with Josh being older, prevented them from being close, but they talked a few times a year and up until Josh’s mom passed away two years ago, saw each other for Christmas and her birthday.

  Watching his friend’s face and body language as he told the story, Manny could tell that Josh was creeping close to the level of stress and anxiety that could be a little more than any man might be able to handle. As surprised as Josh was at the news of his brother’s death, and the way he’d died, Manny was sure there was still something else going on. The reaction he’d seen just before the doctor had entered told Manny he was right. But then, like he’d seen him do so many times over the last two years, Special Agent Josh Corner set his face and eyes in that familiar I got this mode and became all business. If ghosts were enjoying the haunt in Josh’s head, he wasn’t telling anyone about them. Josh could shift gears almost as well as Manny—and Manny knew that dance.

  He stood, stretching his back and legs. Soon enough. Josh would tell him soon enough. However, timing was the spice of life, and in this job, good timing was a constant guessing game. He hoped he didn’t have to wait too long for Josh to unload.

  The heavy steel door swung open, and Chloe walked out. There was a small bandage on her head, and the sling was gone. That made him feel even better. His insides did that old “jumping in the chest” routine as she sauntered close to him. He’d never get tired of the way she walked. The shape of her body, the sway of her breasts, and the blatant beauty that always turned his heart, if not his head. She stopped a foot away and smiled with those eyes. It was brilliant. He felt his temperature rise.

  “I could file sexual harassment charges against ya for the way you’re looking at me, man.”

  “File away. But I doubt I’d be the only defendant.”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, delivering a kiss that would thaw an iceberg.

  “You’re the only defendant that matters, though,” she breathed, her voice husky and provocative. “Manny Williams. How long are you going to make me wait? Sometimes I think I might explode.”

  For a brief moment, he thought she’d only have to wait another ten or eleven seconds. His whole body ached with the anticipation of sleeping with her—all night.

  “Why, Agent Franson, whatever do you mean?”

  She tightened her grip, moving her body closer. “Oh, I can tell you know what I mean, or is that your gun in your pocket?”

  “Got me there,” he grinned.

  He reached for her hand and felt the Claddagh ring he’d given her in Ireland. “I made a promise and you said yes, so let’s—”

  Just then, Josh burst through the door, Doctor Gilger on his heels, white coat flapping and her notebook held high.

  “Don’t twist my words, young man. You might be okay to fly, I said. I need to run a few more tests.”

  “I heard you, but I’m leaving on the next flight to San Juan, with or without your approval,” he said firmly, his face draped with determination.

  “Like hell you are. I got sons your age, and they still listen to their mother when I speak to them. Never mind that I’m your doctor.”

  He stopped and turned to face her. The look changed to a softer, but even more determined, demeanor Manny hadn’t quite seen before. “I respect that, doc, but this killing bastard just made it personal. Give me some pills that will help, if you’d like, but I’m going to be in Puerto Rico in a few hours.”

  She stared at him, then slowly reached for his hand, patting it like mothers and grandmothers do when they’re proud and pissed at the same time. Manny felt the attack of déjà vu. That gesture had been one of Louise’s favorite. He pushed it way. The last thing he needed right now was more emotion kicking the shit out of him.

  “I’ll get you some non-aspirin pain medication and hope you don’t develop a subdural hematoma and die drinking your coffee.”

  “Deal. And if I do, you can say you told me so.” He winked at her. “Thanks, Doc.”

  “That charm stuff doesn’t work with old ladies like me, but you’re welcome.” Then she left.

  “You still have a way with the women,” said Manny.

  Josh gave him a tired grin.
“You gotta use it when you have it.”

  Sophie pranced through the outside door with Alex a few feet behind her, his face pale as the drifting snow.

  “Never again. I keep saying that, I know. Then she sucks me in with promises to drive like someone from this planet. She thinks she’s driving the freaking Starship Enterprise.”

  “Stop whining, Dough Boy, we got back seven minutes sooner than you said we would.”

  “Yeah, but my guts will never be the same. And don’t call me Dough Boy.”

  “Never mind your guts, tell them what we found out.”

  “That’d be good,” said Manny.

  After letting out a breath, Alex straightened up. “The weather is breaking, and it looks like we’ll be able to leave in a couple of hours.”

  “That’s good. We need to get down there,” said Josh.

  “What else?” asked Manny.

  “The detective that called you, according to AD Dickman, didn’t tell Josh everything.”

  Tension sang in the room as all eyes focused on Alex. “There have been seven murders, not five, all in the last fifteen hours.”

  Manny ran his hand through his hair. “Shit. That means the killer is on a spree.”

  “And is very pissed about something.” added Sophie.

  He nodded. “I keep thinking I’ll get used to crap like this. What else, Alex?”

  The CSI looked down to the floor then back to Manny. “Yeah, that’s not all. Apparently we have three more missing persons.”

  Chapter-17

  Dean Mikus stroked his long, uneven beard and wondered what it took to get a taxi in San Juan. In Los Angeles, they’d be on him like flies in a landfill, and in several different languages. But he wasn’t in LA anymore, was he? The FBI had made an offer, and he only had to think about it for a few seconds.

  Hell yes, I want to be an FBI agent.

  This job gave him the opportunity to specialize in forensics, instead of the jack of all trades gig he had in LA. The pay was better, the cost of living in the DC area was less expensive, and goodbye morning smog. That might have been the best reason to leave the LAPD. He wanted no part of emphysema or any other situation that would turn his lungs assorted dark colors. Sure he’d miss the beach, and of course the bikinis, but at thirty-eight, he was feeling more and more out of place going down to the ocean and sitting under an umbrella to watch the waves and the chicks. Even the “older women” pushing thirty were starting to look like his kid sister. He smiled. Not quite, but almost.

  Reaching his hand high in the air, he hailed another taxi; it zoomed past with defined purpose and a backseat full of tourists. The driver waved; Dean fingered him.

  My first California Salute out of the state. Got to like it.

  Stepping out a little further into the street, he started to hail the next yellow vehicle that caught his attention, when he heard the horn. He glanced to his left just in time to see the white Hummer limo bearing down on him, looking more like a rhino than a vehicle. He jumped back, falling over his bag and hitting the sidewalk with both cheeks. Never missing a beat, he jumped up quickly and yelled obscenities toward the limo that was, by now, far down the street and out of ear shot.

  Brushing off the dust, he mumbled under his breath, “Paybacks are a bitch that will not be ignored, and she’s a friend of mine.”

  He reached down and picked up his sunglasses, minus one lens, shook his head, and put them on anyway. Might as well add to his reputation of being a little different, whatever the hell that meant. Just because he liked things a certain way didn’t mean he was weird. For instance, didn’t everyone prefer a certain kind of hairdo or type of clothes? His style preference was to ignore the barber shop for three years. The same time frame applied to his beard. He liked it that way, and it was his choice. And what was wrong with argyle socks and shorts? They were always color-coordinated and clean. Besides, they were practical. The socks kept his legs warm, but the shorts reminded him that he lived in California and that the sun shone every day, almost. His dress was the best of both worlds: warm, but not too warm; cool, but not too cool.

  And what about personal preference when it came to the opposite sex? Women loved big guys, little guys, good-looking men, long hair, short hair, beards, hairless, all shapes and sizes. Women were better at tapping much deeper, at least initially, into relationships. But men would come around, given the right woman.

  Men, himself included, all had the perfect woman pictured in some mysterious part of themselves, not driven totally by the small head. The color of her hair, the size of her breasts, the shape of her hips, the curve of her legs were all important. Was she quiet or boisterous? Pale or dark? Some people called it compulsion; he called it simply a matter of taste.

  His friends all thought him a little odd when it came to his perfect woman, claiming he was far too picky given the list of requirements he desired to fall head over heels. He’d shrug and tell them he wasn’t in a hurry, and she was out there, somewhere. Dean had no idea where his preference for that flawless mate had come from, but he couldn’t help it if he liked Asian women with big hooters and a thinking practice that didn’t revolve around shopping and painted fingernails. He looked to the late afternoon sky and stroked his beard again. And what was wrong with restoring old lawn mowers? Didn’t everyone have a hobby?

  You bet your ass they do.

  Feeling more of the Caribbean heat than he was ready for, he renewed his search for another taxi. Looking left, then right, he noticed a couple avert their eyes from him and glance to the cement as they hurried past. He looked down, admiring his red argyle socks and the blue-and-red-paisley Bermuda shorts, set off by his brand new, green island shirt, and his royal-blue LA Dodger hat. He shook his head again. Some people just had no appreciation for a true sense of style.

  Finally, a blue-and-white taxi rolled up. The female driver jumped out almost before the vehicle had stopped. She sprinted around the front of the car, stopping in her tracks, covering her mouth with her hand, ever so briefly—but Dean noticed the twinkle never left her eyes.

  “I take you to where you want to go, senõr.” The plump driver tossed his bag in the trunk. He scooped up his laptop case before she could reach it. She opened the door, then cocked her head in one of those inquisitive looks people throw out when the question they want to ask is much more powerful than any sort of personal restraint.

  “You dress very . . . colorful. Is there somewhere special you wish to go?” She drew out the go in a classic Puerto Rican accent.

  “Well, thank you, but no. Just to my hotel, the Condado Hotel on the Condado Strip please. I’m meeting my new team there.”

  She nodded her head with enthusiasm. “They will be impressed.”

  Stepping toward the door, he noticed the Hummer limo coming back in his direction, heading out of the airport. The back windows were tinted, but he got a good look at the driver because the window was down.

  He yelled. “Watch where you’re going; you almost hit me.”

  The driver threw back his head and laughed, speeding up without responding further.

  The cab driver’s face grew somber. “You shouldn’t talk to that one like that. He’s trouble, senõr.”

  “That’s okay, I’m with the FBI, and I can be trouble too.”

  She nodded and got into the car.

  Dean Mikus frowned and filed away the taxi driver’s reaction to the driver of the Hummer. Could be nothing, but in his line of work, it didn’t pay to ignore fear, no matter the source.

  The cab moved away from the terminal, and he remembered he hadn’t checked his email or messages. He pulled out his new smartphone and hit the email button. Two messages from friends, one dating service, one that wondered if his woman wanted his manhood to be three inches longer by the weekend, and one from Agent Josh Corner, his new boss. He thumbed the screen and the message popped open.

  Hi Dean,

  We’ll be in San Juan by the early morning, so enjoy your first night be
cause tomorrow will be a big day.

  P.S. Attached are some preliminary reports and photos from the SJPD of the first two victims. For your review, in case you’re bored.

  Agent Corner

  He smiled. Corner knew guys like him couldn’t resist a good crime scene report, pictures and all.

  Tapping the file with the photos, the first one came up. He felt his stomach turn inside out. The man’s severed head hung from a branch, glasses still on his face and blood splattered on the left lens. The second showed the rest of the parts of the drawn-and-quartered body, laid out in approximate order, with six-inch gaps separating the limbs and the trunk of the camper’s body.

  After three more photos, he shut down the attachment, his mind settling on the beautiful San Juan weather. Almost.

  “Shit. I thought LA had sick bitches,” he whispered to himself, his mind churning.

  He was struck with another idea.

  Maybe LA wasn’t such a bad place after all.

  Chapter-18

  “Good God, I hate this,” said Sophie as the Gulfstream V sprinted down the runway and lifted effortlessly into the still Ohio night air.

  “I know what you mean,” answered Chloe. Manny noticed her face was a shade paler than it had been a moment before.

  Sophie sat to his left, Chloe to his right; each one had a vice-like grip on one of his hands. “I’m going to need surgery on my phalanges if you two don’t let go.”

  “You’ve been reading again, haven’t you? Pulling out those new words for fingers isn’t going to save your ass this time, or your hands. I’m not letting go until we get to San Juan, or I have to pee, whatever comes first.”

  “I got to agree with Sophie on this one. And if you have to go to the rest room, we’re going with you,” agreed Chloe, still sounding a little shaky.

  “Okay. I guess I can sit here for a while with two beautiful women, but no one goes into the john with me, got it?”

  Leaning forward, Sophie narrowed her eyes, scoping Chloe’s face. “Have you told him?”