by Rene Fomby
“Not a murder, you mean.”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, that sounds straightforward enough. You have anything helpful for me to dig into during the long flight down there?”
“I’ll have a dossier waiting for you when you hit the airport. If you don’t mind, Agent Larson, time is a bit critical on this one, so I have you scheduled out of Washington National in just about an hour.”
Sanders had a long habit of refusing to accept new labels for old places, part of his insistence on playing it all up old school, so Gavin ignored the dated airport reference. He checked his watch. “That might be a little tight. I’ll have to swing by the house and—”
“Got that one handled. Already have a gal on her way to your place to pack you a bag, so you just need to make a beeline for the airport.”
Not for the first time, Gavin considered the pluses and minuses of being in the “special ops” business. Like the fact that everything always seemed to operate on only two speeds, idling endlessly in place or racing like hell for the finish line. “Okay, well, she’ll need the code to our front door—”
“And that would be your wife’s birthday, I take it? March eight, 1982? Make that 3882?” Sanders suggested with a knowing chuckle.
“Am I really all that predictable?” Gavin asked. Then shook his head. Well, quite obviously I am. “Yeah, okay, lucky guess I suppose. So, Reagan National. Who do I look for, Pete Mitchell again? You know, boss, I’m not exactly built to scale for those tight-ass jet fighter seats.”
“No F16s this time, Agent Larson. Unlike the setup we used last time when Andrea disappeared, this business is completely personal, so I can’t officially justify repurposing any government assets. Even for my goddaughter. But I did find a Cessna Citation jet leaving out of National that is being repositioned out near Cozumel to pick up some flaky billionaire VIP, so I pulled some strings and got you a seat. Leaves in—” There was a short pause on the other end. “Fifty-four minutes. That give you enough time? I have a driver already double parked for you downstairs. Black stretch limo, you can’t miss it.”
Gavin paused. The private terminal at Reagan was less than fifteen minutes away, even if they hit every single red light. “That’ll be more than enough time. And Bob, at the risk of sounding like a career government hack, if this is on your dime, and not Uncle Sam’s, how do you want me to—”
“Your company credit card will be fine. It’s still tied to the black ops account, so no problems there. I’ll make sure everything gets properly reimbursed on this end. But Gavin—”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll be in touch. You’ll know everything I know, just as soon as it happens. And I trust the flip side is true, as well. I’ll be pretty much out of the loop down there, so I may need to call in some favors.”
“Right, well, you got it. Anything you need, don’t hesitate to ask. And—thanks. Like I said, this one is personal. And I can’t think of anyone in the world I could trust more to take care of this whole damned mess for me. Other than Andrea, of course.”
Gavin laughed. On that point, he couldn’t agree more. His wife was a force of nature, and would walk through walls of stone or steel if duty called. Or if someone she loved was in danger. “No problem, big guy. Or should I say, no problemo, El Jefe?”
Gavin hung up, still laughing lightly at his lame joke. Southern Mexico? He assumed whoever was packing a bag for him had checked the weather. And at least would squeeze in a bathing suit or two. And his flip flops. He ran a hand through his jet black hair and picked up the phone again to call Andy, to let her know he’d be leaving the country. He got her voice mail instead.
“Hey, sweetie, this is Gavin. Although I’m sure you already knew that, given the Caller ID on your voice mail. Uh, the thing is, Sanders is sending me off on a mission to southern Mexico for a few days. Nothing major, just needs a trustworthy set of eyes to look in on a missing person report down there, an old family friend of his. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I’ll check in with you as soon as I get settled in and know something more. In the meantime, there’s a steak marinating in the fridge. You can either grill it for yourself or toss it in the freezer to save for when I get back. There’s a bottle of Viognier in there for you, too. Try to miss me, even if just a little. And—I’m sorry about last night, about our argument. I promise, I’ll think about it some more, think about what you had to say about all that. I haven’t completely given up on the idea, it’s just that—”
He suddenly realized he didn’t actually have anything more to say about that, any more than he had already said the night before, but he hated to end his message on a down note, so he signed off with a simple, “Love you lots, little peanut.”
Gavin terminated the call and stared down at the phone for a long moment, then over at Andy’s picture propped up on his desk, right next to a much older photo of his son and daughter from his first marriage, the same snapshot he had added to the home screen of his cell phone some two or three years back. They probably don’t even look the same anymore, he thought.
His eyes flicked back to the photo of Andy, standing all alone on the beach in southern Spain where the two of them had exchanged their vows, now almost six months in the past. He’d taken the picture with his phone during their honeymoon in Barcelona, her shoulder-length honey blonde hair pulled back into a braid and shoved up underneath a bright blue baseball cap, a stray wisp of hair poking out at him in front. It was a carefree day, until it wasn’t, a day free from all his doubts, free from his looming sense of failure. Failure in his job, failure as a father. Now add to that his failure as a loving and attentive husband. He smiled sadly, blew her picture a quick kiss, then grabbed his keys, holster and his dark blue jacket—the same jacket he’d picked up recently after reluctantly surrendering the one marked front and back with the letters “FBI”. Like leaving behind an old friend. Patting his pockets one last time to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything, he turned and headed briskly for the door. This time of day, traffic to the airport should be fairly light, but he didn’t want to have to explain to Sanders why he’d missed the flight. He locked the door and picked up the pace.
3
Cozumel Airport
A black SUV was parked on the tarmac just in front of the terminal when Gavin’s Citation jet touched down in Cozumel.
“Señor Larson?” The dark-haired man relaxing against the grill of the car and waving a hand in his direction was wearing an all-black uniform that Gavin assumed was standard issue for the Mexican Federal Police. His easy posture and wide grin were signals that marked him as a possible friendly, but the wary look in his eyes and the spit-polish shine on his leather loafers betrayed the fact that, deep down, this guy was all business. After almost two decades fighting every single day just to barely survive the bloody cockfighting pit known to the outside world as the FBI, Gavin knew the type. Trust but verify, as they say.
Gavin answered by sticking out his hand. “Gavin Larson, at your service. You must be the guy Bob Sanders lined up to help me out down here. And your name is—”
“Tony. Detective Tony Espinosa.” Espinosa grabbed Gavin’s hand quickly but firmly, then motioned with the other hand for an aide to take charge of Gavin’s small carry-on suitcase and stash it in the back of the SUV. “You’re traveling light.”
“Yeah, well, hopefully I won’t be down here all that long. And I can always pick up anything else I’ll need in downtown San Miguel if I’m wrong about that.” Gavin glanced up at the darkening skies, at the same time pushing his Ray-Ban sunglasses up to rest comfortably on top of his head. The late September air was pregnant with moisture, and he could already feel a trickle of sweat starting to flow down the small of his back. “From the looks of things, though, I may need to invest in some rain gear before this is all over. This weather normal for this time of year?”
The detective shrugged, pushing his own sunglasses up slightly and staring briefly at the sky before return
ing the glasses to his nose. “Hard to say precisely. The weather has become somewhat unpredictable over the last few years, to say the least. But as for all this, I hear there’s a big storm brewing out in the Eastern Caribbean, at least according to the Internet. It isn’t expected to come this way, though, so we’ll just have to deal with a little low pressure air it’s sucking in from off to the south and west of us. Nothing to worry about. A little rain, maybe, but nothing stronger. A minor nuisance at worst.”
“Good to know. I might have to pick up a little poncho or something before we head out to the boat, though, just to be safe. So, I take it you’ve been assigned to take point on this case?”
“Yes. The missing girl, she comes from a very prominent American family, so we’re under a lot of pressure to make sure everything checks out, that there is no sign of—how do you Americans say it? Foul play?”
“Yep, you got that right. Foul play.” Gavin ducked his head as he crawled into the back of the SUV. One of the few disadvantages of being tall. “So, what’s your take on everything? Everyone’s story check out so far?”
“We’ve only just started the investigation, Agent Larson, and when your man Sanders made some timely and rather pointed phone calls to my superiors, they ordered me to hold off on any more questioning until you arrived on the scene.”
“Good idea. The first story we get out of any witness is almost always the most telling. Before they have a chance to get their story down pat and make any necessary changes—”
“Exactly. I guess it’s no different here than it is in America. In the end, all people are the same.”
“All people lie,” Gavin agreed with a muted grimace. “Okay then, Detective Espinosa, where do we start?”
“Yes, well, I commandeered a little office here at the airport that is normally used by the customs authorities. I thought that might be better than—”
“Marching an American agent into police headquarters and pissing off all the locals. Gotcha. Again, some things are pretty universal all around the world. So—” He waved a hand at the inside of the SUV. “Why this? We could have easily walked to the terminal.”
“Yes, not really all that necessary as it turns out. But I thought we could sit out here for a few minutes while our first witness, the boat driver who picked up the husband—”
“Sweats it out inside, waiting for us. Good thinking.” I’m beginning to like this guy… “By the way,” Gavin said, patting the slight swell on his left breast where his service weapon lay hidden under his jacket. “Is this going to be a problem for you?”
“No, we have a long-running mutual understanding with your people about that. So long as you don’t kill anyone that might rise up out of the grave and make a fuss for everyone, we’re okay.”
“Good to know,” Gavin chuckled. “I’ll try to be discreet with my targets. Or should I say, discrete.” Espinosa seemed confused by that comment, and Gavin decided to leave it that way. He was used to the fact that nobody ever got his sense of humor. And the language barrier here didn’t help that situation one damned bit.
For the next fifteen minutes, the two of them sat in the back of the thankfully well air-conditioned SUV and shared what little they knew about the case so far. Having just spent several hours digging through the file Sander’s people had pulled together for him, Gavin took the lead. “Okay, the missing girl’s full name is Catherine Littlefield Mulcahey. Goes by the name Katy. Her father was a rich and well-connected U.S. Senator from Texas, until he died of a massive stroke on the floor of the Senate almost two years ago, leaving behind a small fortune for his widow. Somewhere along the way Katy married a former football star, local guy up there, Trevor Johnson by name. Nothing much going on in his life to speak of until her father magically transformed him into a high-roller stock broker and started steering clients his way. Take care of the son-in-law and you take care of the daughter. I’m sure you know the drill.”
“Yes, among the rich, it’s always family first. Especially so here in Mexico. So why are they down here, Agent Larson? Just a routine diving trip?”
“Of a sorts, yeah. Seems Trevor played quarterback during his high school days on a team that won the state championship. That’s a big deal up in Texas, for what it’s worth. At least until you graduate, and then the glory starts to fade fast. Anyway, four of the players on the team celebrated the big win by coming down here on a dive trip the following summer, and they’ve been coming back ever since, like clockwork. It’s become a tradition for them. This would be their tenth trip since their senior year in high school. Somewhere along the line they started dragging their wives and girlfriends along with them.”
“And they make a habit of staying on a million dollar yacht the entire time?”
“More like two million. I’m told it’s a custom-built 67-foot Fountaine Pajot catamaran yacht. Sleeps eight to ten in the lap of luxury, plus two more berths up front for the crew. Full galley, multiple dining areas. Even has a small hot tub for all those cold Caribbean nights. Sweet setup if there ever was one. If you can swing the low monthly payments, that is.”
Espinosa let out a low whistle. “Big money, indeed. So that explains why my government was so willing to let you Americanos butt in on this one.” He glanced up at Gavin’s stoney face. “No offense.”
“Hey, been there myself, amigo. Many times. But yeah, the missing girl’s daddy did some special projects work for our military, and when he retired he took up wildcatting for a living. Guess he was already used to living life way out on the edge, you know? Anyway, his timing couldn’t have been more perfect, because he started his drilling operation just about the time slant drilling into shale oil formations got cranking. Made his name as a major player in the fracking business, then spun that success into a political career. Some folks had him pegged for a run at the presidency when the stroke took him out of the running for good.”
Espinosa stared down at a picture of the girl he’d pulled out of his briefcase. “Richer than God, and good looking, too. Next you’ll tell me she was a gourmet cook. And owned a liquor store.”
Gavin smiled. “If she did, it’d be more like a liquor conglomerate, with their kind of money. Along with a worldwide chain of bars to slam it all down in.”
“¿Qué chingados? Some people have all the luck, no?” Espinosa shook his head slowly as he replaced the girl’s photo with one of her husband. “So what’s this guy’s story? Other than the football?”
Gavin took the picture, holding it up to the light streaming in through the side window. The only pictures he’d seen of Johnson in the dossier he’d studied on the plane were from his senior year in high school. This one was obviously far more recent. Trevor was already losing some of his hair up front, and apparently compensating for it with a bushy porn star mustache. “Trevor Johnson. Comes from an upper-middle-class family trying desperately to push themselves into the lower-upper-class. And with Trevor they mostly made it happen. Played high school football for Southlake Carroll High in the western Dallas suburbs. That place is a major football factory, starting all the way down at the preschooler level. That’s where the first Harry Potter hat sorting occurs, defining their future role with the team almost as soon as they can learn to walk. And then pretty much continuously thereafter. And it seems to work—Southlake’s teams contend for the state championship almost every year. Can’t argue with success, if football is the only ruler you go by, right? Anyway, going into his senior year, Johnson was a second-teamer, good but not quite good enough for prime time. Then for some reason he suddenly made the first team, and everything started turning up roses for him. Set state records for passing in a single season, and along the way steered his team to an undefeated season and the state championship.”
“And the girl?” Espinosa asked.
“They started dating sometime during his senior year as well, when all the magic was happening. Then he got a scholarship offer to Oklahoma and managed to keep up a long-dist
ance relationship with the girl, of a sorts. Norman isn’t all that far from Fort Worth, where she was going to school, so I suppose it was doable. But whatever magic he had going on in high school didn’t translate very well into college ball, because he dropped out of Oklahoma after only one year and moved back to the Dallas area. They were married two years later, had their first and only child three years ago. A son. Named him Paxton, after her father.”
Espinosa nodded and checked his watch. About time to go. But he still had one last question left. “So where did all the money come from? If his family wasn’t rich, how is he buying million dollar toys all of a sudden? Like that yacht?”
“Yeah, two-three million for that little toy. At least. But like I said, seems the girl’s old man set young Trevor up in the stock brokerage business when Johnson graduated from college, then steered all his friends Johnson’s way. Evidently the guy had more on the ball than just playing football, because he appears to have done pretty well for himself. At least well enough to be buying that boat, just six years out of school.” Gavin saw his colleague already reaching for the door handle. “You ready to rumble? Who’s taking lead on this one?”
“He’s Mexican, and has only a halting command of English, so if you don’t mind—”
“No, that’s perfect. Let’s go find out what he has to say.” Gavin stepped out of the SUV, closing the door behind him. “My guess is, we’ll get very little out of the guy. But we have to ask, right?”
“Sí. We check all the little boxes, my friend, one by one. And then, when we’re done, I’ll show you a great place where we can ride out the rest of this storm.” He glanced up at the increasingly blackening sky, wondering whether the Internet gods really knew what they were talking about. This storm had a bad feeling to it.