Clint Faraday Mysteries collection A Muddled Murders Collector's Edition (74 page)

Was there anything in either his e-mail or
that one from Veras? Just a golfing buddy?

Maybe an investment in a golf course. The
e-mail was about a golf course, not a game of golf.

Veras was a “V” – long shot, but barely in
the park.

How trite.

Where was Veras? Panamá City?

Clint called Doug and asked if there was any
way to find where an e-mail came from. He said to trace the IPO or
something such. Clint didn’t know what he was talking about and he
said he could do it. It was in the codes on the e-mail. Clint
didn’t know there were codes on e-mails. Doug said to save the
e-mail to documents or something and they would be right there on
top. Clint did remember seeing that a few times.

After ten minutes of trying to explain Doug
said to forward the e-mail to him. He’d do it.

Clint said the police in Panamá City had the
e-mail. He would get Sergio to have them forward it to him.

He finished his breakfast, dressed and went
to town to the police station. It was drizzly and the whole place
stunk of dead fish. The tide was high and the water didn’t drain
off quickly enough, meaning he had to wade through muddy puddles.
The whole day was downright depressing with a low pressure dome
coming in from the northeast.

Sergio
was off today.

He called Sergio and got a promise that the
e-mail would be forwarded within the hour. One thing went
right.

He walked around town for forty minutes and
got a call from Doug. “Puerto Armuelles.”

There was a golf course in Puerto Armuelles?
Clint really didn’t think so. He thanked Doug and wandered around
some more, thinking. Dave came by looking like warmed-over hell. He
said he and some friends were playing music and started on tequila,
which he could drink all night, but they ran out and started on
Abuelo rum, which he couldn’t handle, particularly after
tequila.

“
Where’s
the guitar?”

“
Shit!”
Dave replied and turned around, then said, “To hell with it!” and
waved as he turned toward his apartment. Clint laughed. Dave was
going to feel like unholy hell today!

“
Hey,
Dave!” Clint called to him. “Is there a golf course anywhere near
Puerto Armuelles?”

“
There’s
talk of building one for the refinery bigshits. They’re doing
tennis courts and all that crap. They’d be a lot smarter to wait
two years. There won’t be many to use the crap until the refinery’s
working if it ever is.” He waved again and walked on.

Maybe Brock was investing in that? Hell, it
was legit if premature! Or was it?

Clint decided he was going to spend New
Year’s eve in Puerto Armuelles. He went home to pack, told Judi and
Sergio where he was going and got the water taxi. It was going to
be a rough day all around. There was heavy chop on the bay, making
the trip unpleasant with the women who kept screeching whenever the
boat sluiced a bit (because they thought it was cute. They rode the
water taxis all the time and had been through a hell of a lot worse
at least a few of those times).

He just missed the bus and had to wait half
an hour. It was dark and drizzly and the coffee at the bus station
was bitter and oily.

The David bus was crowded and he had to sit
on a fold-down seat or stand. The salsa was playing too loud. Clint
hated salsa since twenty years ago in the states when it was so
popular it was all you heard in Florida. These were mostly the same
songs done by the same artist. This bus apparently only had one CD
and played it three times during the trip, then got radio reception
near David and had salsa on then with a DJ who kept interrupting
with weird noises and his name in a growling loud tone.

Happy fucking New Year!

The Puerto Armuelles bus wasn’t as bad.

Quite, but it was raining in Puerto Armuelles
and there were no rooms available in the hotels.

This was a trip Clint felt he should have
stayed home for. Luckily, a friend who had a house there had
invited him to stay. He was pretty drunk already. There was a loud
drunken party at the house that didn’t break up until after
3:00AM.

There are days like that.

day four

The day dawned much better. The sun was out
and the rain was gone. It was late for Clint. Eight ten. He got up
and put on shorts, went to the kitchen and fixed coffee. No one
else would be up for hours, then would have miserable hangovers to
live through.

Clint dressed and went into town. He could
get a room in the Hotel Central tonight. The party crowd would be
long gone. He left his backpack at the desk where Sylvia would keep
it for him. He walked out on the wharf, then went to Yola’s for
coffee and a cheese omelet. She had made cinnamon rolls “The way
gringos like them.” They were very good.

There was no one about. Clint sat and talked
with Yola about things in general. He mentioned the golf course and
asked if she knew the people who were going to build it.

“
There
are two companies,” she replied. “One wants to build more toward
Las Olivas, the other to the west past where the refinery will be.
I understand there’s a lot of fighting because of someone who
complains there won’t be enough business for both of them. That
company wants to buy the other. There was trouble because of the
titulo or something, but that is alright now, I believe. A
government official came and did a survey and said it was all a
stupid misunderstanding because the finca number was first recorded
as part of another thing in the seventies and no one had changed
it. Some old man who died had a big part, but he had already traded
it to the ones who have it now for a place in Alanje. It was a lot
of noise, nothing more.”

Clint nodded. He said those old ROP’s could
lead to years of headaches for anyone who didn’t research them
before they put the money down.

“
And many
too many phony papers and deals,” she agreed. Clint knew about
that!

They talked for awhile, then Clint went to
the office building where one company has offices. They were
closed, but the brochures were on a stand in the lobby. Clint
picked one up for Tropic Breeze Golf and Country Club. It was the
one to the northwest. He then walked in toward the centro and past
the market, police station, and more markets to a smaller building
with an “Investment Realtors” sign out front and a list of clients
– one of which was Vista Mar Grande Golf and Country Club, Las
Olivas. It was open. There was an Indigena girl at a typewriter
just inside the door with a small sign that said, “Estrella Garcia,
Agnt. Clint went in and asked if he could talk with Mr. Edwin
Brock. She said Mr. Brock had suffered a terrible accident in
Panamá City and was deceased. Mr. Veras was now in full charge of
the business with the golf club.

“
Oh. I
haven’t met Mr. Veras,” Clint said. “I’m sorry to hear about Edwin.
He seemed a nice enough sort the little time I knew
him.”

“
Well,
yes,” she replied (very reserved. Brock was NOT her favorite person
in the world). “The business will sorely miss him.” (Not ME! The
business!)

“
I see. I
was exaggerating about how nice I found him to be. Actually, he was
an ass.”

“
He was
just plain mean! All about telling the lawyers all kinds of things
that I only knew about from what HE said!”

“
Oh, yes.
The titulo thing. I thought that part was settled.”

“
It’s an
ROP and those are never settled until a titulo is granted. I doubt
they’ll ever get a titulo for part of it. That Vega person seems to
have a pretty solid claim that his father didn’t have the authority
to sign away his part of it. It seems to be clear – to me, at least
– that trading the whole one hundred thirty hectares for a house
and lot in Alanje was not what was ever intended by the father.
That will be in the courts for fifty years! All they have to do is
pay Vega a fair price for it and there won’t be anymore legal
problems. They can get a titulo. They have the money. A big
investor company paid them more than ten times what he wants
already and they’re not the only investors.

“
I
shouldn’t be saying this. I don’t want anyone to have to go through
ten years of pain because they put their money into a company
that’s run like that one!”

“
I can
understand that. I’ll wait a few days more before I recommend that
my friends invest. Maybe I’ll investigate myself. I don’t care to
be caught up in any crooked deals. I can’t afford it.”

He soon excused himself and left.

So. Brock was running a scam. He’d used the
old “trade for a small part, but get papers for the whole” scheme.
It was an old story here.

He had a fancy pamphlet from this office,
too. It had a good bit of information that could lead to more
information if you knew how to find it. Clint knew how to find
it.

There was nothing he could do today. He
visited people he knew in the area and went out to some close Indio
friends toward Calderas to see how the mining project was going. It
was much better than he’d hoped. The family, now millionaires
because of him and his influence, were happy to see him and invited
him to dinner.

It was delicious. Ham wrapped in banana
leaves and baked with pineapple, brown sugar and cloves. Fish
stuffed with garlic and baked in banana leaves. Fried yuka,
patacones, papas fritas or mashed, lentils and a lot of fruit
chips. Papaya, pineapple, manzana de agua, banana, apple and some
fruit Clint couldn’t identify. It was the best meal he’d ever
eaten.

He went back to town and to the hotel. The
people whose house he stayed in last night came in to the pharmacy
for something to relieve their hangovers. They didn’t even remember
that he was there and greeted him with a “Happy New Year!”.

“
You look
like it really was a happy eve, but today is pure hell!” Clint
replied.

“
You got
that right! Ouch!”

day five

First thing is the registro publico when it
opens. Clint looked up the registration listed on the pamphlet to
find it was in the name of GolfInversGrande S. A. He then found the
older history records and found the land was owned by a Manuel Vega
F. for many years in partnership with Armando Vega F.

A brother? Same mother and father. He’d have
to be. So.

He looked up the plano for the place. The
land was surveyed at transfer by GolfInversGrande, S.A. and
certified by Manuel Vega Fernandez only with the notation that the
other part-owner, Armando Vega Fernandez, was deceased.

Then there would be a death certificate
number on the escritura. Clint searched that. No death certificate.
Contact with Armando Vega F. was lost for more than seven years and
he was then assumed deceased.

This was looking a lot like the old scheme to
steal land from the Indios. Manuel Vega F. traded for the place ...
Clint looked for his signature on the escritura to find he had a
lawyer with POA sign as he couldn’t read or write.

If Armando showed up now half the land would
be his to do with as he pleased. Yola had said that he was here and
had asked a price, in effect. It was looking like Brock and Veras
were working the old scheme and were selling a lot of people land
that they suddenly didn’t own. They tried to steal it, but someone
from the past showed up.

Why was Brock killed? If he knew why he’d
know who.

He thought a minute, then headed for the bus
station and Alanje.

“
I have
to find details of the death of Manuel Vega Fernandez,” Clint
requested at the hospital hall of records. “He died within the last
four years, I understand. I’m working with the police in Bocas del
Toro and the search has come all the way to here. You can contact
Captain Sergio Valdez there to guarantee my
certification.”

She said he didn’t need special certification
for public records and took the information and went to her
computer. Five minutes later she printed out a sheet, handed it to
him and said, “One dollar.” He paid her and left. He waited to read
the report until he was on the bus back to Puerto Armuelles. It was
in Spanish and he was slow reading the language.

Manuel Vega F., 78 years old, died instantly
when hit by a car between Alanje and the CPA. There was a list of
damages to the body and the gory details. The car that hit him had
not been identified and was not found to date.

So. That was the old scheme. No one to
contest the escritura his lawyer signed. There was little doubt
Brock and Veras had supplied a lawyer for him. The brother ran it
down and had probably killed Brock himself. The Indio way,
basically an-eye-for-an-eye. That would mean that Veras had better
be damned careful where he went and who knew he was going.

Okay! Now to find the connection with E.V.G.,
assuming there was one.

Clint got off the bus and went to the hotel
to check into the room, then went to dinner at the fancy brothel
just outside of town where the gringos gathered at times. The food
was very good, but didn’t begin to compare with his meal yesterday!
Clint knew a few of the people there. He didn’t make it a habit to
mix with other gringos very much. He was more friends with the
Indios. The cultural differences were behind that. He found too
many gringos were shallow, arrogant and greedy. Like most of the
Indios, he didn’t make broad general assumptions and didn’t
consider all gringos to be the same mold. If the Indios did that he
wouldn’t have so many close friends among them. Many gringos were
also good honest caring people.

He felt this would be the place he would meet
Veras. He wanted to hear his story. He asked about Veras an hour
after he arrived and was told he wasn’t exactly popular there and
neither was his partner. They tended to be rather crude. Clint told
them Brock was dead. Nobody was surprised by that news!