Reluctant Smuggler

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  A slender woman in an airline suit bent over Desi. “Are you all right, señora?” She spoke decent English.

  “I’m fine. Just let me…ow!…get up.” Desi stayed with her native tongue as she struggled to her feet with the woman’s assistance.

  The urchin and the security guard had disappeared.

  The woman tugged her arm. “We should get you to the first-aid station. You are bleeding.” She pointed to Desi’s elbow.

  A red trail crept down her arm. “It’s just a scrape.”

  “Which must not become infected. Come with me.”

  “But my case.” Desi stared in the direction it had gone. My engagement ring! Oh, Tony, how could this happen?

  “When the guard catches the little ladrón, he will bring your bag back here.”

  Fighting tears, Desi retrieved her belongings and trudged into the terminal. Her benefactress said “when,” not “if” the carry-on was recovered, but that was diplomacy speaking. How could she have been so careless? Robbed twice within an hour. The medallion. Her ring! Gone.

  But the child sure had appeared hungry. Those black eyes were almost bigger than the kids face. Couldn’t have been much older than Luke Webb. Desi’s heart softened. Her hand curled around the strap of her laptop case. She’d trade this for the carry-on. Her money, credit cards, and cell phone were in here—safe. The child could have them for her ring back.

  The woman led her through a door marked with a red cross and left her with a nurse who disinfected and bandaged Desi’s elbow.

  A knock sounded, and the nurse opened the door as Desi gathered her things. A frowning man in a suit stepped inside. Some airport official by the insignia on his lapel.

  “Señora.” The man spread his hands toward Desi. “Humble apologies for the rude welcome to Mérida.”

  “Señorita.” Staring at her scuffed loafers, Desi corrected his mode of address in a small voice. She was Myra now, all-around underdog.

  “Señorita, may we offer you assistance getting to your destination?”

  She looked up. “If you could help me find a place to stay. Not too expensive.”

  The man pursed his lips. “You have no reservation?”

  She shook her head.

  He scratched his brow and then snapped his fingers. “I know of just the place. A home where they take in a guest now and then.”

  Desi smiled inside. Probably this guy’s aunt or some other relative. That was the way things worked in Mexico. “Yes, please.”

  “Bueno. I will get you into a taxi and make sure you are taken straight there, no charge. The room rate will be most reasonable, I assure you. And we will know where to find you when your bag is recovered.”

  Desi quirked her lips and trailed the airport official. If she’d been Desiree Jacobs, prosperous businesswoman, she’d be on her way to a five-star hotel, and the charge would be compliments of the city of Mérida. But that was the way things worked all over the world.

  A few minutes later, she sat in the rear of a taxi, darting at breakneck speed through dense traffic. The driver laid on the horn as they narrowly missed another collision. Desi paid little attention. She’d been through this drill before. Myra would be gripping the seat in white-knuckled terror, but for a few minutes, she needed to be herself and think.

  Her disguise might be superfluous anyway. Two thieves making a play for her carry-on? Hardly a coincidence. If someone had targeted her, using that little street beggar, they knew what she looked like as her alter ego. That possibility was scarier than the oncoming truck that nearly swiped the mirror off the taxi.

  Could more than one person be after the medallion? One had succeeded, and the other one only thought they had. But why would the ancient necklace inspire so much attention?

  Clayton Greybeck had to be a factor in this incomplete equation. He wasn’t in Mérida by chance. Was he after the medallion, or did his mission involve her assignment for the Mexican government? Neither thought made sense.

  And where did Preston Standish, Esquire, fit? Fair bet he wasn’t who he said he was. A good research job for Tony.

  The taxi slowed in a neighborhood of run-down adobe houses with dirt yards. Children scattered off the packed-earth street. The driver pulled up in front of a house better kept than others around it. He turned, arm across the back of the seat. “This is the place, señorita.”

  She blinked like she didn’t understand his Spanish words. He sighed and got out. She went with him to the rear of the taxi, where he pulled her case from the trunk. His hand went out again. She gave him a few coins that would have been on the edge of insult ten years ago. He scowled, rolled his eyes, hopped into his vehicle, and roared off in a trail of dust.

  “Sorry, pal.” She couldn’t afford to have him mark her as a target fare. Given recent events, it wasn’t wise to have anyone interested in her location or where she might go next.

  Lugging her laptop, Desi pulled her suitcase up the dirt track to the house, aware of many children’s gazes studying her progress. Probably some adults too, peeking out their windows. Before she reached the cracked steps, the door swung open, and a plump woman came out, smile as bright as her skirt and blouse. The smile didn’t reach her small black eyes. Counting her pesos then, not genuine welcome.

  Desi smiled back “You have a room?”

  “Sí, sí.” The woman motioned her inside. “I am Zapopa.”

  “Myra.” Desi stepped over the threshold.

  The smell of grease greeted Desi’s nose. Her hostess led her through a shabby front room into a kitchen where the back door stood wide and mottled chickens pecked in the weed-grown yard. The woman opened a warped door and rubbed her hands together while Desi peeked inside.

  The room was cramped and dark, but not as dirty as she’d feared. A quilt-covered bed filled most of the space. A rough-hewn table and chair stood in the corner, and a dresser supported a white wash basin and pitcher. Talk about early last century. But give her one night’s rest in this little hovel away from home, and she’d be out of here. She nodded to the woman, who smiled while Desi counted coins into her palm.

  Zapopa made eating motions. Desi shook her head and pantomimed laying her head on her hands. The woman nodded and turned away.

  Desi went into the room, closed the door, and released a long breath. She grabbed a straight-backed chair from beside a small table and propped it under the doorknob. Then she concealed her laptop in the spot she always used when she was in a strange place. An intruder would have to get through her to get to it.

  She pulled back the shutters and stared at an adobe wall a few feet away. She closed the shutters, got out her cell phone, and checked the reception. Not bad. Hadn’t she even seen satellite dishes on several houses on the block? She shook her head. People would do without a lot of things these days, but not their television or telephone.

  She punched in the number for Señor Corona.

  He answered on the third ring. “Ah, Señorita Jacobs, I trust the accommodations are satisfactory. We wished you to have the best.”

  Desi wrinkled her nose. A swirling hot tub would have been heavenly right now. “Your arrangements were most generous, but I’ve had a change of plans.”

  “Oh?”

  “I have no clue of my current address. It’s a rented room in a private home, but you can reach me on my cell.”

  “Has there been trouble?” The mans voice sharpened.

  “I’ve had a run-in with thieves.”

  Corona gasped. “Outrageous! We never guessed our assignment would place you in danger. You must return to Mexico City at once. I will tell El Presidente—”

  “Unnecessary. I have no reason to believe the incidents had anything to do with my mission for your government. My medallion was the target.” And my ring was a casualty.

  Heavy silence. “Is the item safe?” The words came out breathless.

  Not, “Are you all right?” Desi measured her next statement. “No harm has come to the antiquity.” She co
uld be reasonably certain she was telling the truth. Standish would need the piece in pristine condition if he wanted the best price.

  A long sigh answered her. “You are unharmed then?”

  “Shook up, but not knocked out of the game.” She touched the bandage on her elbow and sat on the edge of the bed, thankful for the softness on her bruised behind. “I’ve taken different lodging to throw off further interest from medallion-nappers.”

  Corona cleared his throat. “And what of the escort who was to accompany you to Chichén Itzá?”

  “It might be best if I simply join one of the usual tour buses and play dull tourist. Less intimidating when striking up conversations.”

  “Dull? Not a term I would apply to you, Ms. Jacobs.”

  “You haven’t seen me on vacation.” Or as Myra.

  The aide chuckled. “Stay in touch, would you? El Presidente awaits word of your progress.”

  “I’ll do that, but remind him to be patient. I plan to move carefully.” In a literal sense. She shifted to a more comfortable position on the lumpy mattress.

  “Sí. Exercise the utmost caution.”

  Desi closed the connection, then entered Tony’s cell number but got a hiss of static. Great! If the blizzard was as bad as Tony had said, towers might be out. She punched in Tony’s landline number but stopped before the last digit. Tony already knew she’d gone to Mérida. He’d just worry for nothing about her change of approach to Chichén Itzá. She could return to the airport tomorrow and log into their Wi-Fi connection so she could e-mail him her little assignment on Sir Jaiapeño. If she talked to him tonight, she’d probably just bawl in his ear about the engagement ring.

  Hugging herself, Desi battled useless tears into submission. Limbs leaden, she poured water from the pitcher into the basin and removed her makeup. Then she put on a soft sleep shirt and crawled between crisp, air-dried sheets. No one and nothing had better disturb her tonight.

  Desi was finally dozing off when a bass roar jerked her awake. Her eyes popped wide. What? That sounded like an explosion. She sat up.

  “¡Fuego! ¡Fuego!”

  The shouts came again, and her chest constricted. Outside, voices screamed a Latino chorus of “fire.”

  Five

  Desi sucked in a breath and tasted a hint of smoke. She went to the door and touched the knob. It was cool. Getting on her knees, she sniffed the crack under the door. Clear. The explosion had sounded nearby, but not immediate.

  She darted to the window and opened the shutters on the narrow lane between her room and the wall next door. Smoke obscured the stars. More shouts rang outside, and then sirens joined the din. Desi’s heart pounded. Something had blown up and fire had struck the neighborhood. Not this home, but close.

  Desi threw on clothes and then covered her American attire with a poncho she’d bought in Mexico City. She climbed out the window, slunk along the wall, and peered into the street. Clusters of people stood in their yards. Others hurried toward the flames that leaped above the rooftops a block away. Desi trailed along, keeping her eyes averted. No one glanced at her. Too absorbed in the disaster up ahead.

  She rounded a corner and gasped. Ah, these poor people. Living hand to mouth, and now a half-dozen homes were engulfed in flames—many more in peril. Three City of Mérida fire engines pumped water at the conflagration. Another one wet down neighboring houses. Some of the crowd members were clearly gawkers. Others stood in family groups, wrapped in blankets and hugging each other, gazes stricken. Thick smoke strangled the air.

  Above the roar of fire, the hiss of water, and the cries of dismayed people, a woman’s shriek rose. “¡Mi bebé! My baby!”

  Heart in her throat, Desi sank to the ground beneath a tree. Not everyone had escaped. What caused an explosion on this clear, still night?

  A trio of onlookers stopped near her.

  “…this is the work of the Fraternidad de la Garra…”

  Brotherhood of the Claw? A chill wafted through her. She focused on the three men, but they paid her no attention. Perhaps they didn’t see her hunkered on the ground in the shadows.

  “I told Juan,” said one of them, “if he didn’t deliver, something bad would happen.”

  Desi went cold in the balmy air. The fire was set on purpose?

  “Sí,” agreed another. “El Jaguar is not fond of disappointment.”

  The third man crossed himself. “If he asks me to get one of those shiny baubles in exchange for my shipment, I will do it. I would rather risk getting caught by the federales than this.” He lifted his hands toward the fire.

  The men drifted away into the flickering darkness.

  Desi pressed her hand against the rough tree bark and stood. Her knees trembled. Shiny baubles? As in golden antiquities like the crown of Pakal? Or had she misunderstood the conversation? She went back to Zapopa’s house.

  Raised voices carried from inside, a man and a woman. Desi halted and listened but could make out no words. She sneaked up the narrow passage to her window and crawled inside. Sinking onto the lumpy mattress, she buried her head in her hands.

  The angry voices had stilled, but she couldn’t silence the voices in her head. What kind of rabbit hole had she tumbled down? At least two different parties after her medallion, Clayton Greybeck in the same city, and now a fire set by a drug lord named El Jaguar who liked shiny baubles. A breath stuck in Desi’s throat. Could that reference be connected to her medallion and not the antiquities thefts? No, that conclusion didn’t square with the mention of federales. The Mexican federal police could not care less about her antique necklace.

  A faint ruddy pall from the fire cast a dim glow in her room. Something wasn’t right. Desi rose and padded to the light switch. She winced at the stark brilliance and then gasped. Someone had rifled through her things.

  She’d perched her hard-sided case on the rickety table. The lid, which she’d closed and latched before she went to bed, was unlatched, and though it was still closed, bits of clothing stuck out the sides. She hurried over and flung the case open. Careless fingers had made a stew of her pants and shirts and underthings. Fury heated her pulse. They’d ripped out the quilted lining of the case and added that to the mix. The emergency hundred-dollar bill and credit card that she had tucked into the lining were gone.

  She whirled toward the scuffed dresser by the bed. Her toiletries bag lay on its side. Cosmetics, shampoo, and toothpaste littered the top of the dresser and the floor. The cell phone she’d laid beside the bag after her attempt to call Tony was missing.

  Her laptop! She crept to the bed on the side where she hadn’t been sleeping and lifted the edge a little. Then a little more. Air gushed from her lungs, and she snatched the case.

  Hugging her laptop, her gaze followed the trail of mayhem around the room. A rush job. Too quick for a thorough search. This was her third robbery in less than twenty-four hours, and that was three too many.

  She checked the door. Yes, her chair remained wedged under the doorknob. The thief must have come in through the window after she went out. But that meant someone was watching her movements. She caught her breath.

  Someone still after the medallion? Antiquities robbers searching for information on her assignment for the government? That miserable Clayton Gr—no, that was seriously reaching.

  There was another possibility. The memory of angry male/female voices ran through her mind. Maybe the woman and her male accomplice had been watching the exits to see if she left the room? And maybe they fought because they hadn’t found enough loot to satisfy them?

  Footsteps sounded in the kitchen.

  Heart thudding, Desi took a step toward the window, an escape route if necessary—and if accomplice number two wasn’t lying in wait outside. She hefted the laptop by its strap. Heavy enough to pack almost as good a wallop as the leaden crown she took from the Museo de Arte Mejicana. A fist hammered on the door panel, and the knob rattled.

  A knock sounded on Tony’s doorjamb. “It’s open.” He sig
ned off on the file in front of him and looked up. His eyebrows climbed. Stevo? At midnight in the middle of a raging blizzard? He waved the man in.

  Steve Crane lumbered into the room, damp and cold emanating from the unzipped parka that hugged his burly shoulders. He plopped into Tony’s guest chair.

  Tony tapped his pen against his fingertips. “You lost or out practicing for the Iditarod?”

  Crane scowled. “Women! They can get you to do the dumbest things.”

  “I thought Lana reformed your misogynistic tendencies?”

  The other mans craggy face colored—like a rock blushing. “Yeah, well, she’s special.”

  “No argument there. Anyone who can get you to give up gum-chewing without going back to cigarettes qualifies for sainthood in my book.”

  Crane shot him a thin smile. “Don’t give up the day job. A comedian you’re not.”

  “If you felt the need to insult me, why didn’t you pick up a phone?”

  “Service is out in our area. A skidding semi sideswiped a major relay station. I’m surprised you’ve still got a connection.”

  Tony picked up his landline phone. Silence. “No dial tone. And cell service is next to nil. Hard for people to get emergency services.” Boston had just become Nightmare City. “Why hasn’t anybody around here no—”

  “Hey, boss!” A freckled face topped by carrot hair poked through the doorway. “Phones are dead as a doornail.”

  “I know, Bergstrom.”

  “Oh.” The eager puppy look fell away. “Guess I’ll get back at it then.”

  “Back at what?”

  “Huh?”

  “What are you doing?”

  Bright spots appeared on the kid’s cheeks. “Well, actually, I was—uh.” Bergstrom jingled the change in his pocket. “I was helping the night maintenance guy fix a floor scrubber. I’m pretty good at that sort of thing, and I—”

  “Did you get the machine fixed?”

  “Almost. He’s putting it back together now.”

  Tony frowned, too much bad coffee swishing through his veins. “You’re not paid to repair floor scrubbers. Get your case paperwork up to date.”