Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series)

by Schwartz, Jinx

  Now that I looked at the card again, I felt foolish. Who in the hell could forget this phone number?

  L. Cranston Pest Control

  1-800-got-bads?

  We get what’s bugging you.

  I wasn't all that sure what he could, or would, do to help me out, but he had gotten me into, and out of, several dustups in Mexico. Jan and I have spent a great deal of time talking about him, speculating on who he worked for or what he did exactly.

  We both agree on one thing; Nacho is handsome in a criminal sort of way.

  Right now it was looking like I needed someone with his skill sets (murder and mayhem) to deal with this Lujàn thing, and figured while I was at it I might as well let him know about that scuzzbucket in the Arizona prison who was messing with me.

  Killing two birds with one stone in Nacho's case could be taken quite literally.

  There was, of course, no answer at that 800 number, so I left a voice message. "This is Margo Lane. Uh, Help?"

  Po Thang obligingly ate the card.

  Monday morning we timed our departure from the boat to coincide with first light, but even then we took no chances and stuffed poor Rosario into the back jump seat of my pickup with Po Thang perched on top of him when we drove through town.

  We had arranged for Chino to pick them up at a truck stop a little past Lucifer, on Mex 1, so I could scoot back to the jobsite with plenty of time to bug Safety's office before anyone else arrived. This spy bidness is exhausting work.

  I posted Po Thang on the front porch of the office building to make sure I was left alone to my devices, literally. Not that Po Thang was worth a damn as a guard dog, but no one got by him without giving him at least an ear scratch, so I knew I'd hear his pleading whine in time to scoot back to my office.

  I first inserted the fake thumbdrive in Safety's computer, making sure the side of the tower containing the bug was turned to the wall. Satisfied with that job, I hurried to Ozzie's office, removed his bug, downloaded it into my computer, and replaced it just as Po Thang's pet me whine announced company.

  I was back at my desk, looking quite innocent I thought, when Laura opened the door and she and Po Thang entered, she holding her lunch bag above her head to avoid pillaging. When she threw the bag in the fridge and slammed the door, Po Thang, rebuffed, deigned to grace me with his presence. Mainly because he knows I keep dog biscuits in a desk drawer.

  Laura returned to my office with a post-it in hand. Bert Melton, the project manager, wanted to see me in his office at nine. Dang. I'd been on the job for over a month and had zip-all to report. I'd been avoiding him for that very reason.

  Worried that he might be considering giving me the old heave ho—and I had decided I wanted to ride this one out, if for no other reason than to nail whoever tried to do in Rosario—I resorted to a ploy that has worked well for me in the past; when you don't have snot, make a graph.

  The thing I love about graphs is that, depending on the scale, you can make them project whatever slant you desire. Of course, you never want to leave a copy with anyone, lest they figure out that a squished graph can look ominous, with huge jagged peaks and valleys, while a lengthened one with gently undulating ups and down doesn't look all that bad.

  By the time I reached Bert's office for my meeting, I had devised a graph making the cost overruns look much worse than they really were, dragging the timeline out a year to show a line climbing off the upper right hand corner of the page.

  "And so you can see, Bert, without cutting back somewhere, this project's cost overruns are destined to soar into the ionosphere." That much was true, but I figured an overly sharp climbing visual would prompt him into thinking he really, really needed me.

  He did seem suitably impressed, but said, "I think that goes without saying. My question to you is, where are you in this? I have to justify you to the home office, you know. You and Miss Sims."

  Damn. I had to throw him a bone. "We are making progress, but if I tell you how you have to promise me it never leaves this office. One leak and my investigation could go south, along with any money already stolen, if in fact it has been. Stolen, that is."

  "So, what you're saying is that if you tell me you'll have to kill me?" he asked, his face a study in barely concealed amusement at my overly dramatic warning. "My lips are sealed."

  "Okay, I can't say much for sure right now, but we think it's something to do with..." I lowered my voice to a whisper, "purchasing."

  When I first met Bert Melton I had marveled that a man with such a seemingly gentle demeanor attained project manager-hood on a job of this caliber. Of course, then I reminded myself of the location. Lucifer is not what one would consider a plum assignment. Then he told me he'd asked for this job. He had, after all, been here for five years, even before the project's construction ground floor, as one of the scientists on the exploration team. He said he planned to retire after this project. All in all, he seemed unruffled by possible project cutbacks, probably because he figured no matter what, his job was secure—a naive notion in this bidness.

  He also did something that my father never did; he bought a house near a jobsite. Most in the ever-changing engineering/construction field, being self-proclaimed vagabonds, do not buy homes predicated on staying employed on a particular project. What they do is buy a place where they plan to live someday when they retire. Did Bert plan to retire in Santa Rosalia?

  Okay, Santa Rosalia is a cute little town, but wouldn't even make AARP's top million retirement destinations. Again, though, he is fluent in Spanish, loves to fish, and seems quite content here. Maybe that accounts for his kind demeanor?

  That had been my assessment of him, right up until the moment he blindsided me with a furious outburst. He turned a worrisome shade somewhere between puce and purple and growled, right after I said, purchasing: "Miss Coffey, I don't know who you think you are dealing with here, but you are way off base and I suggest you get back on track, or off my project."

  Stunned at not only his outburst, but his vehemence, I was literally blown back in my chair, speechless. For some reason, instead of tossing me from his office, he stormed out himself, slamming the door shut behind him and leaving me sitting there with a dropped jaw. I was, for one of the few times in my life, totally bumfuzzled.

  A timid knock on the door drew me out of my stupor, and I managed to say, "Yes?"

  Laura, white-faced herself, peeked around the door. "Miss Coffey, are you all right?"

  I pushed myself out of the chair and tried to smile, but it wasn't easy. It felt like someone had gut-punched me and I couldn't quite catch my breath. "Y-yes, Laura, I'm fine."

  Back in my office, I rued the day I removed the door. Laura brought me a cup of tea and a bottle of water. Po Thang sat on my feet, his way of letting me know he was there for me in case I dropped a steak or something. I rubbed his ears, which was a comfort to me, and he nuzzled my hand. Maybe dogs just know when we humans have been stupid?

  28

  Thou canst not joke an Enemy into a Friend; but thou may'st a Friend into an Enemy.— Benjamin Franklin

  The rest of the day, after Bert blew up at me and stormed out, passed without further kerfuffles. Still, I remained on edge; too many things hung heavy over my head, and I felt embattled on all fronts.

  Still smarting over Bert's unexpected admonishment, I also stressed over the possibility that Safety would somehow spot the bug I'd placed in his computer tower. He was in and out of the office most of the day, so I doubted my plant would glean anything of interest, but I didn't want it found. He did stop in and volunteer to visit the boat later and bring beer, and I gratefully agreed. Bert's rebuff was painful and I needed a friend. Any friend.

  Now that I'd gotten reassurances (how pitiful and needy does that sound?) from Jenks, and sent that plea for help to Nacho, I really had no room in my life for another man, but he did bring the beer, so what's a gal to do? He also brought Po Thang a big old greasy knucklebone, which the dog wanted to drag around on my
carpet, but earned him the boot onto the dock. I had everyone trained to close the gates onto the docks so Po Thang, even if he wanted to, couldn't escape the marina grounds unless he jumped into the water and he showed no inclination to do so.

  While Po Thang worried his bone, Safety and I retired to the sundeck with beers. Once we settled in, he said, "Boy, did you ever punch Bert's buttons today. What did you say to him?"

  "I really don't know, exactly. Well, I know what I said, but not why it upset him so much."

  "What exactly did you say before he blew?"

  "Lemme think. I simply told him that Jan and I think the cost overruns might have something to do with purchasing."

  His beer stopped at half-mast. "You're accusing Osvaldo?"

  "No, of course not. I simply meant we are delving into purchasing anomalies. I didn't get a chance to explain what."

  "Ah."

  "Ah?"

  "Look, Bert hired Osvaldo, despite other candidates suggested by corporate, so if he thought you were saying Purchasing with a capital P, as in Osvaldo's department might be guilty of something, he may have taken it personally."

  "Have you talked to him since our dustup?"

  "No, I wasn't there, remember? I heard about it later."

  I wondered if I should try to find Bert's house and attempt to rectify the situation, but wasn't exactly sure where he lived. It shouldn't be hard to figure out, however, because he said it was near the hospital, on the hill, and since his company truck couldn't be driven after dusk, it should be easy to find. I had seen very few garages in town, and certainly none that would house a truck the size of Bert's. Almost everyone parked on the street. I decided to go on a little foray later, but felt it best not to share my plans with Safety.

  Instead, I changed the subject, once again bringing up the night Rosario vanished and once again getting nowhere.

  "Why are you so interested in Rosario, Hetta? You didn't even know him."

  "I don't know. Like Jan, I have this feeling his disappearance might not be an accident." As soon as I said it, I wanted to give myself a swift boot in the butt. I'd already alienated Bert today and I needed to keep someone on my side. Nothing like needling your prime suspect.

  Safety looked annoyed. "You're beating a dead horse. Why on earth would someone want to do harm to that kid? I mean, on purpose."

  Hmm, that on purpose part sounded sneaky. "You tell me, Safety. I wasn't there."

  "There, where?"

  "On the boat. You said you were, didn't you?"

  Safety's eyes narrowed. "Not that I recall."

  Oops, now I recalled. He had told Ozzie, and I got it from the bug Rosario had planted. Way to go, Sherlock. You're batting a big fat zero today.

  "Oh, um, don't know where I got that idea. I guess because you said he was fixing the radio on the boat?" Lame, Hetta. Better keep your day job. Oh, wait, I'm doing it. Albeit badly.

  I didn't like the way Safety was looking at me, so I changed the subject, once again. "Say, when I stayed over at the office the other night, I took Po Thang outside and saw headlights to the southeast, on what I'd call a back road into the site. There's a road there?"

  "Many. But what you saw was probably the brine truck. For some reason he usually comes at night."

  "Brine truck?"

  "Yeah, there's an old man and his son who own land on the back side of El Boleo and he has this dilapidated water truck he uses to haul brine to our site. Makes a little money that way, and we use the brine on our roads to keep down dust."

  "Ah, the byproduct water from El Boleo's desal plant?"

  "Yep. He can't haul it over the Cuesta, so he's forged a road that turns less than twenty miles into about fifty by following zigzag goat paths, a dry river bed and heaven knows what else, but he manages to get here every few days. How he keeps that old truck going is a freakin' miracle. I'm always amazed at how much work, and I mean hard labor, Mexicans are willing to do to make a peso."

  "They are very inventive, that's for sure. You ever drive that road?"

  "I rode with him once and believe me, once was enough. I did it to mark the road, in case we ever need to use it."

  "How'd you mark it?"

  "The Mexican way, with rocks and a bucket of whitewash. The old man helped me. Took us all day, but we got it done."

  "I know about painted rocks. I once took an offroad vehicle across the peninsula and learned the system in a hurry. A line of rocks across the road means don't even think of going here." What I didn't mention was at the time I was driving an offroad 4X4 Toyota, or that I had stolen said vehicle from Nacho. Hopefully Nacho didn't hold a grudge, now that I needed his help.

  Safety brought me back from my thoughts of Nacho, saying, "The Mexican system of lane control works. I hadn't realized how many roads, if you can call them that, are all over the place here."

  I knew, because I'd checked them out on Google Earth, but I had decided not to share anything with Safety that didn't get me more answers.

  "Anything else you want to know before I leave, Detective Coffey, or am I free to go?" Safety said, rather sharply, as he rose.

  I shook my head, knowing I had annoyed him enough for one evening.

  He finished his beer and left, no mention of the previously mentioned dinner.

  So, in only one day I managed to almost lose my job, goad one perfectly placid man into apoplexy, and alienate another.

  I must be losing my touch.

  29

  I've traveled far and wide, always alone, so therefore I've never been in Cahoots. —Anonymous from the Internet

  After Safety left in somewhat of a snit and I had an evening to kill, I decided I'd go on that house hunt and maybe clear the air. When I'd told Bert Jan and I suspected the problems might lie with some purchasing ploy, he evidently thought I meant Purchasing, with a capital P, meaning Osvaldo. And now that Safety told me Bert had handpicked Ozzie for this job, I guess my speculation came off as a reflection on him. I can understand his getting steamed. Still, that Jekyll and Hyde outburst was odd.

  Since we hadn't had dinner, Po Thang and I hit our favorite taco stand and indulged in a few. The owner didn't mind Po Thang, since the entire place is outdoors, but after my dog successfully stared down a few diners, willing them to toss a taco his way, I put his Rasputin self back in the pickup. He was still fixated, but from a distance and through the window he was less the hound from hell.

  After our tacos I set out for Bert's house. Once on hospital hill, I drove a quadrant zone search pattern starting with the Clinica Hospital Santa Rosalia as my base. I had a map of town in the pickup, but since I only had about six streets no more than three blocks wide to cover, I didn't think I'd need it. Sure enough, I turned down the second street and there were four white trucks parked at the curb, three of them stenciled with the Mining Company logo and, to my surprise, the white dually belonging to Safety. All sported the required safety whips flying orange flags required when on site.

  I parked a block away and left a sulking Po Thang in the truck. Backtracking on foot, I stuck to the street side instead of the sidewalk figuring, I could duck for cover behind a vehicle if need be, but also because Mexican sidewalks are notoriously booby-trapped with holes and pieces of rebar sticking up for no apparent reason. Walking on one after dark without benefit of street lights is a good way to break a leg.

  In the center of the block sat a fairly large, by Santa Rosalia standards, Victorian style home with a wraparound porch. Since the street climbed a hill, it was obvious the home would have a great ocean view during daylight hours.

  The interior was brightly lit but, unfortunately, gauzy drapes were pulled closed, hampering my vision. I could see there were people inside, but not exactly who or how many.

  Company trucks not only have a logo, they are also numbered. I went back to my pickup for a penlight and my cell phone and left Po Thang even grumpier than before after raising his hopes with my brief return.

  Back on the street in front
of the house I was almost certain belonged to Bert, I called Jan.

  "Hey, Hetta, how's things?"

  "Fine, but I need some info, pronto."

  "Why are you whispering?"

  "I'm on surveillance. I've spotted some company pickups and I need to know who they're assigned to."

  "Standby, I'll go get Rosario. He knows how to check on stuff like that. Want me to call you back?"