“I really shouldn’t,” said Muro, looking doubtful.
“But you’ll do a better job later if you’re not falling asleep on your feet, right?”
Muro brightened. “That’s true. Last night, someone could have walked right up to me and I wouldn’t have noticed, I was so tired.”
“There you go!” said Pavia. “You go back down to the guard shack at the property entrance and catch some sleep. Give me your cellphone number. I’ll call you before I leave the building.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Pavia watched the policeman disappear from sight. That had been almost too easy. No need to skirt the facility’s security force when he could walk right in.
The facilities manager backed his pickup truck around the side of the building, within a meter of the short, wooden fence that surrounded the tortoise enclosure.
A pile of copper tubing lay in a heap next to the fence, the same spot it had occupied since the week before Summit’s disappearance. The tubing had been intended to create a continuous supply of water for the tortoises, eliminating the need to manually fill a row of black, plastic water dishes located in the enclosure’s shaded section.
With Summit out of the picture, though, Pavia had cancelled the work order to install the pipes. He had better plans for them. The copper tubes would fetch around $5,000, nearly seven months’ pay, on the raw-materials black market.
Pavia waited a few minutes to start loading the illicit cargo. He wanted to be sure Muro had fallen safely asleep.
Feeling confident after a twenty-minute interval, Pavia scattered a thick layer of straw from the tortoise enclosure in the bed of his pickup truck to muffle the noise the pipes would inevitably make once he started driving.
Pavia moved to the pile of copper pipes. To keep his operation quiet, he picked up only a few pipes at a time. At this rate, the job would take a while, but he realized stealth was more important than speed.
He stopped after ten minutes to wipe the sweat from his brow. Temperatures had dropped, but the humid, tropical night air rendered the collection a taxing job.
Pavia resumed his work, growing the pile in his pickup bed with each addition.
“What are you doing?” cried a voice from the lab’s back door.
Pavia froze. What horrible luck! Who had decided to come here at this hour?
“I said what are you doing?” asked the voice again.
Pavia eyed the speaker, whose countenance lay shrouded in the black shadows of the building’s eaves. Two-thirds of the building lay between Pavia and this stranger. With luck, Pavia could reach his pickup and escape before the person could reach him.
“I’m warning you…” began the stranger.
Pavia dropped his bundle of pipes and bolted. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the stranger giving chase.
The facilities manager reached his F10 and turned the key, praying the truck would, for once, start on the first try.
Surprisingly, the engine roared to life.
Pavia uttered a quiet thanks and punched the pedal to the floor. The truck shot forward with surprising speed. It careened around the building’s corner, sending copper pipes clattering onto the parking lot’s asphalt surface and rolling until they hit the grass berm on the far side.
Pavia straightened the vehicle and accelerated down the hill towards the property’s entrance. No sign of the stranger, thankfully.
At the guard shack, Pavia squealed around the corner onto the main road, observing Muro’s bleary head rise up and look around just as he passed.
Pavia telephoned the policeman. “Muro, I just caught someone trying to steal the copper pipes. I’m chasing him now.”
“I can’t leave my post,” said Muro, “but I will call Captain Fuentes. What does his car look like?”
“Uh…it is a black pickup truck. I can’t see what brand. It’s too dark.”
“Can you get a license plate number?”
“No. This person is going faster than me. You’ve seen how old and slow my truck is.”
“What bad luck! You might as well come back here. It’s not safe for you to pursue a criminal.”
Pavia returned to the guard shack to give Muro a brief statement. “There’s not much to tell. I was in the woods taking a piss.”
“Not inside?” asked Muro.
“No,” said Pavia, realizing that whoever had been inside could rat him out if he gave that excuse. “I was already fixing that broken section of fence on the property’s northern border. That’s why I’m here.”
“I see.”
Pavia had to ensure his story would match up with the person who had seen him from the building. “Anyway, I came back from doing my business behind that big bunch of palm trees and saw some man loading the pipe into his pickup truck. When I called out to him, he jumped in his truck and sped away. I followed him and called you on the way out.”
After a few more questions, Pavia left the research facility. He pulled onto a dirt lane and swept all the straw out of the bed of his pickup truck. He doubted the sleepy policeman would have noticed it in the moonlight, but why raise any questions in the man’s mind?
Pavia reached his house, entered it, and bolted the door. He sat on an old couch with a floral pattern and breathed deeply for a few minutes, hoping to slow his pounding heart. That had been too close! The allure of the copper remained, but the last thing Pavia wanted was to return to prison. This time it wouldn’t be a brief stay in a juvenile facility. It would be hard time in an adult jail. Perhaps the pipes would just have to remain an elusive prize.
He jumped at the sound of two hard raps on his door. Had the pursuer at the research facility somehow tracked him? That seemed impossible. On the drive home, Pavia had looked behind him a dozen times to ensure he hadn’t been followed. Yet someone was knocking at the door after midnight.
Pavia crept to the door. “Who’s there?”
“It’s me,” came a familiar voice.
“Gracias a Dios!” Pavia opened the door open wide and nodded to the figure.
The visitor chucked. “You seem unusually happy to see me.”
“I just thought…uh…you were somebody else.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his nose. “It’s kind of late. Did you need something?”
“Just a moment to have a word with you. I heard you were still awake, so I thought this might be a good time to talk in private.”
“Okay. You want to come in?” Pavia ushered the guest to come inside.
After closing to within inches of the perspiring Pavia, the figure swung forward a knife, plunging its blade into the victim’s stomach.
Pavia fell back against the door, his knees beginning to buckle. The attacker withdrew the knife and stabbed again, this time penetrating the upper chest.
Pavia slumped to the floor, silent but for faint, rasping sounds bubbling from his chest.
“Papi, is that you?” called a woman’s voice from the back of the house.
The attacker retreated into the night, leaving the wounded man sprawled on the floor, half outside the doorway. With the last fragment of consciousness, Pavia heard a torrent of screams from his wife. The sounds seemed muffled, as if from a far-off place, a distant land to which he would soon be traveling.
CHAPTER 56
Robb Shoemaker opened his eyes. The first rays of sunlight poured through the windows of his hotel room and onto his bed, warming him as he lay there.
Shoemaker remembered the activities of the previous night. He and his partner had been forced to exercise great care, but the effort had proved worthwhile. Everything had gone off without a hitch. He smiled, warming himself in the memory.
Then, as usual, he began to struggle with mixed feelings and divided loyalties. How did one weigh the well-being of a single person, or even several people, against the future of our planet? Was it acceptable to sit by while irreplaceable natural resources were squandered by big business in the name of the almighty buck? Knowing the stakes, was his personal cond
uct justified?
He knew what his father would do. The tycoon would side squarely with the pharmacy conglomerates, smoking cigars with them in back rooms as they devised a plan to carve up paradise.
But the ecologist knew one fact without reservation: he was not his father. Perhaps Shoemaker’s moral compass oscillated in response to the pull of contradictory motives, but at least it responded to integrity rather than profit.
CHAPTER 57
Alton and his teammates swung by to pick up Tuttle on their way to the early morning meeting at the police station. The doctor greeted the other members of the NSA team as he pulled himself into the front passenger seat.
“Fuentes said he has some important news,” Alton told the doctor. “He didn’t sound happy.”
Alton led the NSA team into Fuentes’ office. They took seats in a semicircle of chairs facing the captain’s desk.
“You said you had some news,” said Alton. “What’s up?”
“We can take Cesar Pavia off the list of suspects,” said Fuentes.
“Dude, you’re not saying—” began the Gooch.
“He’s dead,” said Fuentes. “Last night, his wife heard a noise. She went to see what was happening and found Pavia dying in the front doorway.”
“Stabbed?” asked Mallory.
“Yes, just like the fishermen and Gromov. Sergeant Muro was manning the guard shack at Summit’s research facility last night. He’s going to fill you in on the details.” The sergeant proceeded to share the specifics of the attempted copper theft at Summit’s research facility. Then Fuentes described the hysterical emergency call from Pavia’s wife a couple of hours later.
“Well, this certainly puts a whole new spin on things,” said Alton. “Let’s think about how this fits in with the other crimes. Maybe some pieces will fall into place.”
“First, take these,” said Fuentes, passing out coffee in paper cups. “It’s gonna be a long day. I had Rios bring them in.”
Alton removed his cup’s plastic top and took a sip of the nearly scalding java. “The first and obvious question is whether Pavia’s murder was conducted by the same person who killed the fishermen or Gromov—or the fisherman and Gromov. On a group of islands that rarely experiences murders, it seems too coincidental that the fishermen and Gromov and Pavia were murdered by different people, especially considering they were all stabbed to death.”
The Gooch cocked his baseball cap back on his head. “I hear what you’re saying, boss, but you know, there are some big differences between the crimes, too. Some of the bodies were moved to another island, some weren’t. Some victims looked to be trading turtles illegally, some didn’t. Some of them worked at Summit’s lab, some didn’t. Some were killed outright, some wounded and only died later. It’s not like all the crimes were the same.”
“Exactly, Gooch,” said Alton. “It’s what makes this a puzzle.” He turned to Tuttle. “Did you hear anything last night when Pavia almost caught the copper thief?”
“Oh, yes,” replied the doctor. “I heard a car racing down towards the main gate. By the time I reached my doorway, I just caught a glimpse of Pavia’s pickup turning onto the main road. I got down to the guard shack as fast as I could.”
Muro nodded. “Yes, Dr. Tuttle got to my shack a minute or two later. But there is nothing he can do by then.”
“So the question is whether the slightly different MOs indicate entirely different crimes or related crimes carried out in slightly different ways,” said Mallory.
“It could be two people working together,” mused Alton, “or it could be just one person who was in a hurry, at least in the case of Pavia. Think about it. Pavia’s wife said she heard a noise and called for him just before discovering the body. Maybe she interrupted the killer before he or she had a chance to move the body to Isabela Island.”
“We don’t have enough evidence to prove that,” said Mallory, “but it seems like a reasonable working hypothesis.”
“If that’s the case,” said Alton, “what’s the murderer’s motive?”
“Probably money,” said Malloy, “considering this person stole Summit’s computer from her office. We’ve already established how valuable her research is.”
“True,” said Fuentes, tapping a pencil on his desk. “For a while, I thought the murderer might have had a vendetta against Dr. Summit. But now I’m not so sure. It doesn’t seem likely the murderer would have it out for Summit and Gromov and Pavia.”
“There’s a simpler explanation,” said Alton. “The murderer may have killed Summit for one reason—money, a vendetta, or something else—then killed Gromov and Pavia because they had some kind of evidence that could be used to identify the murderer.”
“But wouldn’t Gromov and Pavia have told us if they had evidence like that?” said Mallory.
“There is a possible reason they’d withhold it,” replied Alton, “but now I don’t think it’s likely.”
“Explain,” said Fuentes.
“If either Pavia or Gromov had been murdered, I would have wondered if that person had realized the significance of their evidence and was blackmailing the murderer. But now it doesn’t seem likely that both of them attempted the same scheme.”
“Unless they were in it together,” said Mallory.
“Possibly,” said Alton, “although Gromov didn’t seem the type. There’s another explanation. Maybe Gromov and Pavia both possessed key evidence but didn’t realize the significance of it.”
Tuttle’s face grew white. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying the murderer may be killing people who worked in the research facility because he thinks they might be able to expose him?”
“That’s a possibility, yes,” replied Alton.
“I think I’d like to be off the investigative team now. I’m more interested in some kind of police protection.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the Gooch.
Tuttle cleared his throat. “When Gromov was murdered, I was a little worried, but I assumed she was targeted due to her deep knowledge of Dr. Summit’s research. But now Pavia? He wasn’t any more involved in the research than I am. If someone felt the need to kill him, they might feel the need to come after me, too.”
“He has a point,” said Alton. “Captain Fuentes, can someone be assigned to guard Dr. Tuttle?”
“I will see what I can do, but I don’t really have any men to spare, especially at night. This is a small island, and I have a small force. And the ones I have are all looking for Quintana.”
The allergist rubbed his hands together and shot a haunted look at Fuentes. “What should I do? Should I leave the island? But if I do, what if you find Dr. Summit and she needs me? Or what if you have a question for me about the research facility?”
“Dr. Tuttle,” said the Gooch, “if you’re that worried, why don’t you stay with friends? Do you have someone who can take you in?”
“I know some ex pats living down on the coast,” replied the doctor. “I could ask to move in with them until all this blows over, although I’d hate to put them in danger.”
“I have a better idea,” said Fuentes. “The police force has a little guest house close by, down by the harbor. We use it for policemen or officials who visit from the other islands or the mainland. It is only a hundred meters from the police station—maybe less. You want to stay there?”
Relief flooded Tuttle’s face. “That’d be great. Just until your investigation is complete and you’ve caught whoever is behind all this.”
“Okay, go grab some clothes from your bungalow, and I’ll give you the key to my guest house. Just be sure to lock your door at night.”
“It’s okay to bring my German shepherd, right?”
“Yes, that will be okay,” replied Fuentes.
“Now that we’ve settled that,” said Alton, “let’s discuss next steps. We need to track down Quintana. I saw him sneaking around the lab myself, so he has to be considered the most likely suspect behind all this.”
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“Agreed,” said Fuentes. “Torres spoke with LeFlore and Chin about their locations when Gromov was murdered. I will have him return to ask them where they were last night when Pavia was killed.”
“Sounds good,” said Alton. “Cragmire and Mallory and I are nearly finished reviewing the research files I decoded yesterday. There’s another reference to ‘the tunnel’ but no indication of where it is. We’re going to head back to Summit’s research facility to hit that line of inquiry. Dr. Tuttle, would you like to join us in the review? Maybe you’ll spot something we don’t.”
“I’m happy to help,” replied the doctor, “as long you all will be there with me.”
“Good,” said Alton. “Gooch, why don’t you join the party searching for Quintana again?”
“You got it, boss,” said the former Marine.
“All right,” said Alton, letting his gaze fall on each team member, “we all have our tasks. Let’s roll—and hope we’re not too late to help Summit.”
CHAPTER 58
Charlie LeFlore strolled through a market on the outskirts of Puerto Ayora. Given the market’s distance from the bustling harbor, few tourists visited this spot. That was one thing he liked about it—the authenticity. No tee-shirts or coffee mugs here. Just fresh fruit, locally sewn clothes, good luck charms, assorted kitchen utensils, and cheap electronics.
Passing through the market, he noticed the stares of locals, mostly ladies. He got that at home, but it seemed more pronounced here. The question of how many of the females would agree to accompany him back to the hotel room passed through his mind as an idle thought. Quite a few, he knew.
But he didn’t have time for that. The gawkers might think he examined the local wares to simply pass the time, but in fact he traveled with a fixed purpose.
LeFlore continued on his route, headed for a destination unknown to any but him. Yes, he had traveled to Santa Cruz on behalf of his employer, but that didn’t preclude the pursuit of other pastimes, activities unrelated to his job. One could never have too many opportunities to explore.
The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6) Page 23