"So this Rosario, who also turns out to be some kind of computer hacker whiz, sought you out, gave you the sad tale of his life, wormed his way under your protection, and then threw hints that certain people might be dirty? If you ask me he was sent to the Lucifer mine. Who would, or could, do that? And why?"
"The why is easy. Money." We told her about the upcoming payoff to some outfit in Monterrey for almost seven million dollars, and our suspicion that the merchandise—five large dirt haulers—was never delivered.
"Do you have a copy of the purchase order?"
Jan stood. "In the computer." She brought it up and printed out a copy.
Topaz unpacked her laptop, we connected her to the marina WiFi and she accessed her address book. "Can I use your cell phone? Mine won't work down here."
After punching a few numbers, she said, "Hey, MaGee, sorry to bother you at home. I need a favor. I'm visiting with Hetta Coffey down here in Mexico and—"
I could hear his outburst from three feet away. Not the words exactly, but the tone was unmistakable. Topaz held the phone away from her ear until Investigator MaGee quit his barking.
"Yeah, yeah. I know, MaGee, but she doesn't even have a gun on her boat." She hugged the phone against her chest to muffle the sound and looked at me. "You don't do you?"
I shook my head.
"Look, we'll talk about it when I get back. Right now I need your buddy, Jorge's, home phone number in Monterrey. I'll explain later."
While Topaz waited on the phone, I made a pitcher of iced tea and Jan ran out with Po Thang for a quick walk. By the time she returned, Topaz was already greeting someone in fluid Spanish, and then read off the name and address of the company in Monterrey. Another delay as she was evidently put on hold, then she grabbed a pen and made a few notes as the person on the other end talked.
"Okay, tell," I said as I handed her a tea when she hung up. "Who was that?"
"Guy we've worked with on occasion when they, or we, were looking for someone. I can't tell you more than that. Anyhow, unless your mine has need of a seven million dollar mani and pedi, that address sucks."
"Let me guess," I said. "A nail salon."
"See, you aren't half the imbecile Investigator MaGee said you are."
Jan piped up. "Yeah, Hetta's only half an imbecile. Isn't MaGee that blonde cop we think looks like a wheaten terrier?"
Topaz laughed. "And I have hair like a German shepherd. Gosh, maybe we should hook up and have very hairy pups."
The fake address wasn't much of a surprise, as we were already fairly certain the purchase order was suspect. "And the phony address isn't all that important because the invoice is paid by wire transfer, which Bert had already approved last...oh, hell."
I called Laura at home, who confirmed she'd couriered the paperwork to Mexico City on Friday afternoon, so by now the whole package was probably in the hands of Julio Vargas, the final person whose signature was required in order to transfer the payment.
I sighed. "So our Gang of Four each did what they were supposed to. Ozzie cut the purchase order, which was signed by Bert and Vargas and never mailed anywhere. Then John made out a fake Material Receiving Report for four brand new Caterpillar 777Gs which never arrived, Safety wrote a bogus inspection report, then Bert approved the invoice. All the above mentioned paperwork was then sent to Julio Vargas for final payment."
"Double crap," I said. "Then the four conspirators take off fishing and vanish on the same night their houses and boat are torched."
Topaz nodded. "Entre putas and cabrones, no hay fijones."
"What's that mean?"
"It's the Mexican version, a very rude one, of the proverb, 'There is no honor among thieves.' Looks like your Gang of Four may have been out-thieved."
I nodded. "Maybe in a classic case of what I call Get the Gringo."
I decided to go in early Tuesday morning and retrieve my bugs. With Bert, Safety, John and Ozzie still missing, they would have no new info on them, and there was no sense leaving them around to get found.
Jan and Topaz planned to spend the day delving deeper into the comptroller's background. We already knew Julio Vargas was a Facebook chum of Baja Gamer, a.k.a. Rosario. What was Rosario's role in all of this? I hated to think he had a hand in the disappearance of the Gang of Four, even if they had tried to off him. Somehow I wanted Rosario to be more honorable than I would be in the same situation.
While I was listening to what little was left on the bugs, I remembered something and called the boat. "Jan, do you recall when I sent Rosario a conversation between Ozzie and someone in Spanish? He never got back to us."
"I'll find it and have Topaz give a listen. Anything new out there?"
"Nah, too early. No one here yet."
"Plenty of folks here. Lucifer is crawling with official looking guys. Turns out the EPIRB went off on Lucifer and the U.S. Coastguard became involved."
An EPIRB is an emergency position-indicating radio beacon, a device carried by most boats, including mine, and is activated in several ways. If it hits the water, it goes off automatically, or it can be set off manually. My guess is someone activated it when the fire broke out aboard Lucifer.
"Get Topaz to talk with them. Maybe with her Spanish she can get more info. Short of sending you off to Mexico City so you can hogtie or sleep with Vargas, I don't know what to do next. If the money's already been transferred to God only knows where, it's certainly above my paygrade. I'll update the Trob later today, but for now I'll keep us on the payroll."
"You mean I'm gonna get laid off? Already? Do I get a severence package?"
"Jan, I'm hanging up now, before I fire you myself."
Laura arrived at the office early and by six thirty others, even those who normally rushed their desks at seven, began drifting in. The mood was gloomy and they were probably all wondering what came next, and how it would affect their jobs. When five people disappear off one jobsite in a short period of time, it's bound to cause feelings of uncertainty. Laura's puffy eyes were proof of that.
"Oh, Miss Coffey, do you think they are drowned?"
"I don't know. We are just finding out some details, like their emergency beacon went off. But guess what? The whole United States Coast Guard is looking for them."
This gross exaggeration fetched a small smile as she crossed herself and whispered, "¡Gracias a Dios!"
As things stood, I had little to smile about myself. In my mind one of two things had happened. Either my Gang of Four was feeding the fishes, or they were headed for banks on obscure islands to retrieve their booty.
I wasn't sure which one I hoped for at this point, but when the Mexico City office opened for the day, I planned to make the call that would answer at least the seven million dollar question: where is the money right now?
38
HIGH AND DRY (Nautical term): Beached or caught on rocks and standing out of the water as the tide recedes (stranded or without resources or support)
The minutes ticked by excruciatingly slow until time for the Mexico City office to open. Unlike the mine, they were on Mexican office hours, with the switchboard coming to life at nine. I had decided to take the bull by the horns, go straight to the source, and gently stir the pot.
I could have gotten a home number for Vargas through the Trob, but I wanted to feel the comptroller out before sounding an alarm. The last thing I wanted to do, if he was a part of the embezzlement scheme, was to panic him so he could rabbit with the dough.
At nine, Mexico City time, I called out, "Laura, can you please put a call through for me to Julio Vargas?"
"Of course. But he has probably left the hotel by now."
"What hotel?"
"Las Casitas, in Santa Rosalia. I will try to call."
"No!"
She looked startled by my outburst. "Uh, I mean, I'll talk to him later. Thanks." Vargas is here? That didn't sound good for anyone.
"Miss Coffey, Mr. Vargas should be arriving here at the office soon. I have set up a
conference call for eleven with Canada and Mexico City. I am sure they will be discussing the...uh, accident."
"No doubt. Okay, I need to run down to the Equipment Yard, so call me on the radio if you hear anything new, all right? Or Vargas shows up."
"Of course."
Once in the pickup I made a beeline for John's office and that bug I planted. I had a feeling this place, the entire jobsite in fact, would soon be swarming with cops of all kinds and I didn't want bugs with my fingerprints on them found. Some sleuth I am, I didn't even wear gloves.
I had just arrived and was making my way to his door, hoping it would not be locked, when my cell phone rang and caller ID told me it was Jan.
"Look, I don't have time to worry about your future employment right now, okay?"
"Uh, sure Hetta. No problem. Uh, can you like ix-nay down to the boat?"
Ix-nay? Uh-oh. "Sure. What's for lunch?"
"How about fried ad-bay fish?"
Okay, so there's a bad fish, or bad guy, involved somehow.
"Great. What kind?"
"Those amera-cay we bought at Sweet Pea on Saturday."
"My favorite. See you—" The phone went dead.
I didn't waste time going back to my office. I booted up John's desktop, went online and activated my boat cameras.
Jan, Topaz, Po Thang and Rosario were crowded together on the settee, and no one looked happy. I turned on the sound and heard a male voice, but he was out of camera view. I could manipulate the camera, but was afraid it would make a noise or he'd see the movement.
"Nice work, Blondie. Let's see, it should take her about forty-five minutes to an hour to get here...what was that?"
At the same time I heard that question, the building rocked so wildly my office chair rolled across the room. I pushed it back to the computer, and just before the screen went blank, I caught a glimpse of a man rushing out onto the boat's deck. I recognized him from the photo ID Jan pulled up on the computer: Julio Vargas.
I fled the still swaying trailer and was met with a chaotic scene of workers running helter-skelter with no idea where or why. I joined them, but made a beeline for my pickup, feeling for some reason it might be safer. Safer than what I had no idea. I'd almost reached my truck when a second shock wave hit, and this one knocked me to my knees. I crawled the rest of the way and climbed in.
The truck's radio was useless, as everyone was trying to talk at the same time, and our two-ways were not full-duplex, as are telephones. On a simplex radio, only one person can talk at a time, thus the need for saying over, especially in an emergency situation. No one was getting through to anyone, so I checked my cell, saw I still had a signal, and called Laura. "Are you all right?" I asked her when she finally answered.
"Yes, I was under my desk. You said that is what to do."
"Well, never listen to me. Get out of the building, right now. Go sit in the biggest pickup you can find outside."
"Yes, Miss Coffey. Are you coming?" She sounded terrified, and for some reason she had the ridiculous idea I could help.
"Yes, but the radios are no bueno so I cannot call you. Do you have a cell phone?"
"No."
I'd read somewhere that over eighty percent of the people in Mexico have a cell phone. How did I end up with a secretary who didn't?
"Okay, get to a pickup and tell everyone else to do the same. I'll be there as soon as I can."
The roads, nothing to write home about in the first place, were littered with large boulders, some of them still on the move. Looking up at a nearby bluff, I rethought the safety of my pickup and took off for the equipment yard, and the biggest machine in it, the 777G.
I hunkered down in the driver's seat, feeling much more secure from whatever the earthquake brought next. Cocooned within almost two hundred tons of steel, I was thinking of yelling something like, "Bring it on!" when somehow, through all the chatter I heard Laura, who was frantically calling my name. I grabbed the mic and held down the transmit button, effectively cutting all communication. After a very long three minutes I let the button up and was gratified with nothing but static.
"Laura, are you hurt? O-ver."
A couple of people tried to transmit, but once again, I held down the button, this time for about two minutes. When I let up, I heard Laura transmitting, repeatedly, "Not hurt, not hurt. Building gone, over."
All hell broke loose again, so I threw the useless mic down. I was trying to figure out what to do next when my phone rang. Laura had commandeered a cell phone. A woman to my own heart. "Miss Coffey, did you hear me? The building is gone."
"It collapsed?"
"No, there is a large...hoyo."
Hoyo? You mean a pit? The office is in a hole?"
"Y-es. Miss Coffey, you have saved my life."
"Laura?"
"Yes?"
"Don't you think since I saved your life you can call me Hetta?"
"Yes, Mi—Hetta."
Someone on the two-way fired off a string of machine gun Spanish. The only thing I caught was Cuesta del Infierno.
"What was that, Laura? What did they say on the radio?"
"They say there is a derrumbe. On the Cuesta. And there is smoke from La Vírgen!"
Derrumbe. I had seen signs along the roads and looked it up in my Spanish/English dictionary: landslide! And that volcano I didn't trust? It was spewing smoke?
A few minutes, and two aftershocks, later what I had feared most was confirmed by someone on the radio; Hell Hill was blocked by a large landslide. Mex 1, the only highway to Santa Rosalia, and my boat, was impassable.
"Laura, stay right there. I'm coming."
I called the boat and by some miracle Jan answered.
"Is everyone all right? We had a huge earthquake up here."
"Here, too. Yes, for now we are."
"Sorry I won't be there for the amera-cay lunch, but Hell Hill is blocked by a landslide."
"Oh, no."
"So, looks like it will be a long, long time before I get there, Ot-nay."
"Sure. We'll wait."
The big Cat started right up after I went through the steps taught me by John Warren. I was worried there was some kind of locking system, but if there was, no one had bothered to activate it. Man, if I were running this jobsite I'd instigate some seriously stringent safety measures to keep the likes of me out.
I patted the steering wheel and sang, "Here I come to save the dayyyy. Mighty Mouse is on her wayyyy!" Unfortunately I'd left my cape back on the boat.
No one seemed interested in a big Cat on the move. I had on a hard hat and dark glasses, so I guess they figured I knew what I was doing. Silly twits.
I knew, from what John told me, that these machines could do up to sixty miles an hour, but the first twenty felt like a hundred, so I slowed to five. It took me almost an hour to reach Laura because of boulders and debris in the road.
Only one corner of the office building roof was visible, the rest swallowed up by what could have been a collapsed mine shaft from yesteryear. As a civil engineer I was dumbfounded that they hadn't at least performed an ultrasound test on the site before they built in an area as full of holes as Swiss cheese.
The look on Laura's face when I stepped out on the walkway of the big Cat and motioned for her to come up was priceless. She hesitated, probably weighing the odds between staying and maybe dying, or joining me and dying for sure.
Another ground wave made up her mind for her and she dashed for the Cat.
Others tried to follow, but I took off before they could catch us. I felt badly about leaving them, but the only place for more passengers was in the body, or dump bed, and even though there was a rubber liner, with what I figured lay ahead there was too much risk of serious bodily injury.
I was right.
39
CUT AND RUN (Nautical term): Sever the anchor line in an emergency (leave abruptly and abandoning others).
Just as Safety told me, the back road out of the mine site was marked by whitewashe
d rocks. And as he'd also said, the road was little more than a goat path. I knew the brine truck was almost as wide as the big Cat, though, so I was certain we could get through, if, and that was a big if, the road hadn't suffered too much damage from the earthquake.
The white rocks Safety and the old brine man had placed were a godsend, for like Google Earth showed, the desert was a maze of roads and paths. If it weren't for the markers, we could be out there for days trying to find the way. And even knowing which way to go didn't make the trip easy. We rarely hit more than ten miles per hour, and even that was pushing our luck.
Just The Pits (Hetta Coffey Series) Page 23