The team left for a return journey to Santa Cruz. On the way, Fuentes phoned the medical examiner in Quito. He ended the call and turned to the others. “I gave Dr. Melendez the body and ambient temperature readings Dr. Tuttle provided. Melendez says based on those readings, Gromov had been dead between sixteen and eighteen hours.”
Alton performed a bit of mental math in his head. “That would be yesterday afternoon, around the time we were at the tortoise farm. I recommend we verify the whereabouts of LeFlore, Chin, Shoemaker, and Pavia during that time.”
“I agree,” said Fuentes.
“Did the ME say anything else?” asked Mallory.
“Not about Gromov, but he did receive the body of Urbina, the second murdered fisherman, just a few hours ago. He said the man had scrapes on his knuckles, like he had been in a fight.”
“Trying to defend himself, do you think?”
“Probably. Dr. Melendez didn’t mention anything about classic defensive injuries—bruises on the arms, that sort of thing—but some people defend themselves by going on the attack.”
“True,” said Mallory. “So what are our next steps?”
“We do what Mr. Blackwell suggested,” said Fuentes. “We see who can, and can’t, provide an alibi for their location yesterday afternoon when Gromov was murdered.”
“Let’s make good time,” said Alton. “This may be our best opportunity to nab Gromov’s killer and possibly learn something new about Summit’s abduction.”
CHAPTER 47
Fuentes’ boat moved across Pacific swells on its course back to Puerto Ayora. The passengers began to settle in for the nearly three-hour journey.
Alton gestured to Tuttle to join him and Fuentes at the front of the boat.
“You’ve been watching this investigation for a few days,” said Alton. “Have you remembered anything new?”
“I did remember one thing just this morning. Or rather, not as much remembering something as putting it in the right light.”
“What do you mean?”
“About a month ago, I recall Gromov asking Dr. Summit if they could work late to finish some experiment. Dr. Summit said, ‘I can’t. I have a chin appointment.’ At the time, I figured she was referring to part of her face, but the statement did surprise me a little, I must confess. Anyway, I wasn’t part of the conversation, so I couldn’t really butt in and ask her to clarify.”
“So do you think Gromov knew about Summit’s meetings with Chin?” asked Alton.
Tuttle shrugged. “I really have no idea. Maybe she knew, or maybe she labored under the same false impression of the meaning of ‘chin’ that I did.” He sat back and glanced at Alton with a worried look. “Sorry if all this is irrelevant. I’m new at the investigative thing, and it’s hard to know what’s important and what’s not.”
Lieutenant Rios, the pilot, entered deeper water and pulled the police speedboat into a slow, arcing curve that afforded a striking view of bright sunlight reflecting off the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean.
“Believe me, Dr. Tuttle,” said Alton, “we don’t know either. Usually, we only figure out what’s important in hindsight. That’s why it’s good to collect every fact, no matter how small.”
The allergist seemed encouraged by the words. “In that case, maybe my little tidbit of information will help after all.”
Back in Puerto Ayora, the group walked back to the police station and assembled in Fuentes’ office.
“Everyone has their assignments,” said Alton. “Cragmire and Mallory, you all review the files I decrypted yesterday. Captain Fuentes has Torres and Rios tracking down our suspects for a statement on their activities the day before yesterday, when Gromov was murdered. Gooch and Dr. Tuttle, why don’t you help Captain Fuentes’ men with the search for Quintana? Start with the spot where the Gooch found the necklace and expand outward.”
Mallory raised her eyes in her husband’s direction. He understood the unspoken question.
“I’m going to stay and discuss next steps with Captain Fuentes,” Alton told the team. Soon, only Alton and Fuentes remained in the captain’s office.
“I think I am getting to know you,” said Fuentes with the trace of a smile. “I think you have some particular ‘next steps’ in mind.”
“I guess I can’t lie to the police, can I?” said Alton with a lopsided grin. He steepled his hands. “We agree that Quintana is the central figure in this case, but until we catch him, we ought to pursue other sources of information as aggressively as possible, right?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Last night, I was thinking about the two murdered fishermen.”
“What about them?” asked Fuentes.
“We still haven’t determined whether their deaths are related to Summit’s case or not. On one hand, it’d be a striking coincidence if three men, one of whom has tuna guts on his clothes, attack Summit’s research complex, and then within days, two fishermen just happen to be murdered.”
Fuentes nodded in agreement.
“On the other hand,” continued Alton, “there’s strong on-scene evidence that these two guys were involved in the illegal trade of exotic animals—tortoises, to be exact. And their murders resemble the murder of an Argentinian tourist with known connections to the illegal animal trade. So that suggests their murders really are unrelated to Summit’s case.”
“Again, I agree, mi amigo.”
“I don’t think we’re going to get any closer to answering this question without visiting the families of the murder victims.”
“My men already did that,” said Fuentes.
“I know,” replied Alton. “I read the statements the families gave. But there’s almost no information of value in them. I’m not faulting your officers,” he hastened to add. “We didn’t instruct them to conduct anything besides a routine interview. But now that we’ve learned more about the case, I think you and I should visit the families again. We should point out the evidence and press them on the victims’ recent activities.”
“Yes, this makes sense,” said Fuentes. “If these dead men were involved in selling tortoises illegally, their families would not want to tell that to the police.”
“Exactly. How about you and I pay them another visit?”
Fuentes and Alton exited Puerto Ayora, heading inland on a new route. The port town’s shoulder-to-shoulder shops thinned out, giving way to sloping fields of thick green grass. Dilapidated wooden shacks and concrete structures halted mid-construction punctuated the bucolic scene. In the distance, the hazy form of an extinct volcano loomed over the landscape.
Half an hour later, Fuentes hung a right onto a dirt-packed street. He pulled forward slowly, examining each house for some indication of the occupants. Finally, he exited the SUV and talked with a man scattering corn to chickens. The man pointed further down the street.
Fuentes returned to the vehicle and drove another quarter mile down the lane. He and Alton approached a tumbledown house with a broken window and the last traces of paint curling off rotten boards. He knocked and waited.
“Quien está?” called a voice from within.
Fuentes turned to Alton. “She’s asking who we are.” He turned back to the door. “Policía.”
A thin woman wearing a dirty white dress cracked the door. Seeing Fuentes’ uniform, she swung it open and motioned with her arm. “Pasen.”
The two investigators entered. A single bulb hung from the ceiling, casting the room into perpetual twilight. Mildew streaked the walls with permanent stains and saturated the hut’s atmosphere with a ripe, organic odor.
The woman waved the investigators to a couple of rickety chairs next to a small table. The room’s sparse furniture seemed ready to collapse at any moment.
“You are Helena Soto Espinoza, wife of Diego Soto?” asked Fuentes while providing a running translation for Alton.
“Former wife, yes,” replied the woman. If she felt any sorrow over her husband’s recent death, Alton couldn’t detect
it.
“Mrs. Soto, we’re very sorry for your loss,” said Fuentes with Alton nodding in agreement.
“Thank you,” replied Helena.
“I know this is a difficult time for you, but I would like to ask you a few questions about your husband’s activities before he was murdered.”
“Another policeman already talked to me. I told him I don’t know anything.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the policeman’s notes,” said Fuentes, “but we have some new questions.”
The woman nodded.
“Mrs. Soto, we’d like you to tell us anything you remember about your husband’s activities in the month before he was murdered.”
Helena shrugged. The listless woman seemed to have already expended her entire life’s store of physical and mental energy. “I guess he was on the fishing boat. That was his job.”
“Captain, if I may…?” asked Alton. “Mrs. Soto, think back to the last few weeks. When he returned home, did he smell the same way he usually did when returning from a fishing run?”
The woman began to shake her head but stopped. “Wait…I never thought about it, but he didn’t smell like fish. It used to smell so bad here in this small house. He must have been doing something else.”
“Do you know what he might have been doing instead?” pressed Alton.
Helena shrugged again. “I don’t know what he did. I stayed here with our baby most of the time.”
“Did he mention a new job to you?” asked Alton. “Not necessarily something full time. Perhaps just a short project?”
“He didn’t say anything to me about it,” said Helena, “but he must have been doing something.”
“Why do you say that?” asked Alton.
“He had more money than usual.” The woman frowned as she said it.
“You don’t seem happy about it.”
“Why should I be?” Anger flickered across her face. It was the first time during the interview she had shown any emotion. “When he had money, he would use it to buy Pilsener. And after he drank, he would come home and…beat me.” She broke down into tears.
The investigators waited in silence for her to continue.
Helena sniffed and wiped a pair of moist tracks from her grimy face. “I’m glad he’s dead. He was a demon.”
“I hope your life will be more tranquil now,” said Fuentes. “One last question, Mrs. Soto. Did your husband mention the name of anyone else? Maybe a name you hadn’t heard before?”
“I don’t think so…not that I remember.”
“Think,” urged Fuentes. “The person who killed your husband has murdered at least two other people and may kill again.”
“I’m sorry. He said to me once I should learn to make friends like he does. But he never said any names.”
Alton and Fuentes emerged from the hut, back into the bright light of a tropical, midday sun, and away from the despair of the widow’s meager existence.
They pulled away, headed to the next family for another round of interviews.
“What will happen to Helena and her child?” asked Alton.
“There is a small pension,” replied Fuentes, “but it is not much.”
Alton fell into silence. Diego Soto may have been murdered, but he wasn’t the only victim. He had left behind a wife and daughter, casualties of his propensity for alcohol and, presumably, crime. “Let’s make good time,” he said at last, “before someone else dies.”
CHAPTER 48
Wendy Chin looked out the window of her private suite onto the flawless grounds of The Finicky Finch, the Galapagos Islands’ only five-star resort. Some huge, white bird landed on a perfectly manicured lawn, and an elderly couple made their way across the concrete deck of a swimming pool surrounded by lush vegetation. The place was all one could wish for, so why did she feel like a rat in a cage?
Chin knew the answer. Left to herself, she would have chosen something more modest, but her corporate handlers had wanted to impress Summit with the size of Forsberg’s bankroll, so Chin was stuck here in a land of nightstand doilies and pillow mints.
Finally, the awaited text came through. “Call me.”
Chin dialed the number of Lewis Sampson, her Forsberg manager, and traded meaningless small talk for a minute or two.
Sampson’s voice took on a more series tone. “How is your work proceeding?”
“As good as can be expected, giving the circumstances.” She began to pace from one end of the suite to the other.
“Did you speak with the investigators?”
“Yes,” said Chin.
“How did that go?”
She hesitated. “They understand we are willing to help them in any way possible.”
“Good. Continue to help if asked, but don’t volunteer any information.”
“Understood. So we stay the course?”
“Absolutely,” said Sampson. “I see no reason to deviate. Do you?”
It was a test. “No, sir. None at all.”
Chin ended the call and resumed her gaze out the window, collecting her thoughts. Tonight looked to be busy. She placed a local call. As she listened to the ringtone in her receiver, Chin reminded herself of the conversation she and her contact had conducted yesterday. Knowing their lines could be bugged as a result of the ongoing investigation into Summit’s disappearance, they had mutually agreed to keep their conversations as short and nondescript as possible.
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Chin. “We still on for tonight?”
“Yeah,” replied the other party.
“Okay. Make it seven o’clock in the usual spot.”
“Got it. See you then.”
The conversation set Chin into another round of introspection. Sometimes a person formed strange alliances, partnerships into which she never would have entered had fate not thrown them together. Who would have thought she’d have to travel to a remote island in the Pacific Ocean to form an alliance with a person who, like her, called the United States’ eastern seaboard home?
She changed into a new set of clothes—no need to make this easy on anyone trailing her. Donning a new hat and yet another pair of sunglasses, she set out on her errand.
She reached the lobby desk and asked to see the assistant manager. The man flirted every time he saw her, so Chin figured he’d accede to a small request.
“Enrique, how are you today?”
The man’s eyes lit up at this unexpected friendliness. “Perfect, señorita. And you?”
“I’d be fine if you could do me a little favor,” said Chin. “There’s this guy—another resort guest—who keeps following me.”
Indignation showed in Enrique’s face. “You want I call the police?”
“No, he hasn’t done anything illegal. He’s just creeping me out. I need to leave, but I don’t want this guy to follow me. Could I sneak through your employee entrance?”
“Of course. And let me give you my number in case you need to call for help.” The man must have thought he was being slick.
“Thank you so much,” said Chin, laying on wide-eyed innocence as thick as she dared. “I don’t know what I’d do without you around.”
Enrique beamed and ushered her behind the front desk and through the employee corridors. “You can use my car.”
“You’re too generous.”
Once inside Enrique’s Corolla, Chin changed her hat and sunglasses again and removed the light, floral sweater she had been wearing. She didn’t know how she’d explain the quick-change to the police if they caught on again. It was risky. But the whole enterprise in which she had embarked carried risk. Taking chances seemed to be the story of her life.
CHAPTER 49
Charlie LeFlore leaned back in his rental. How long had he been waiting here in front of this stupid resort? Two hours? The wait annoyed him, but realistically, the only harm he accrued was to his patience. Now that Summit was out of the picture, time had become his most plentiful commodity.
LeFlore s
tretched his arms, starting with his biceps and working down to his forearms. He returned to his vigil of the resort entrance. What kind of idiotic name was The Finicky Finch, anyway? He had heard the place had grown from a modest hotel in the early twentieth century to its status as the best resort in the Galapagos. Time to let the name grow with it.
The pharmacy rep chided himself. This always happened: boredom turned to restlessness, which turned to anger—and at times turned to something worse. Better to let his spare time run its normal course, as he was now: the pursuit of the fairer sex.
And Chin was about as fair as it got. LeFlore had heard of the Forsberg rep for two months but had only caught his first glimpse of her last week at Puerto Ayora’s farmer’s market, of all places. He had introduced himself, but she had rebuffed his initial advances. Since that time, the woman’s petite frame, pale complexion, and straight, black hair had filled his thoughts. She certainly appeared to represent more of a challenge than the addle-headed bleach blondes who populated his own resort.
And the challenge was the best part, the target who constantly spurned a man’s advances, only to succumb at last.
LeFlore hadn’t yet managed to strike up a conversation with Chin, but if fate smiled on him, that would change…as of tonight.
CHAPTER 50
Around midnight, Alejandro Garza rose from the sofa in Carlos’ living room. His friend usually kept a good stock of Pilsener Beer, enough to lure Garza off the spot in which he had planted himself since finishing a dinner of chicken and rice.
Carlos was a lightweight. He had gone to bed hours ago. Garza, on the other hand, had plenty of energy, especially where free cerveza was concerned. He ambled into the kitchen and across stained linoleum to the ancient refrigerator.
He stared into it with an owlish expression, trying to recollect what he sought. Remembering, Garza grabbed a brew. He popped the top and threw it towards an overflowing trashcan. The cap dribbled down rotting pieces of onion and clattered onto the floor. Swaying slightly, Garza gazed at the cap.
The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6) Page 20