Just Needs Killin (5 page)

For the next few days I scanned the Net, searching for news of a murder in Baja, and found nothing. Then again, the Mexican press is pretty much in league with the tourist bureau, and a beheading at a large luxury resort just ain't good for business. In fact, since the new president took over, even cartel violence has all but disappeared from the headlines.  Either The Prez has made some kind of deal with the drug lords, or they finally killed off or terrorized every journalist brave enough to report cartel mayhem.

Days passed without further incident, so Jan and I began to relax a bit. We talked daily, speculating on the what ifs and whys, and hoping Ishikawa was planted next to Jimmy Hoffa.

But why? "What I don't get is why Ishikawa was at the fish camp in the first place. I'm finding it hard to believe he only brought the family for whale viewing. And if it really was just a family outing, why pick
your
camp? Chino doesn't run tours, he's a scientist. How did Ishikawa even contact you in the first place?"

"Lemme think."

"I smell smoke."

"Smart ass. We got an email from a Japanese eco-group saying they wanted to expose Japanese industrialists first hand to whale preservation. Chino didn't really want to get involved, because you know how he feels about a country that kills whales. However, the idea of educating a man who might make a difference was appealing. And, they said that man was willing to pay big time, and we needed the money for the summer expedition."

"Have you checked out this Japanese whale hugger group?"

"Yes. They're legit."

"You say Mrs. Ishikawa and the kids are still at the camp?"

"They have another two weeks."

"Have you asked her where her husband is?"

"No."

"Do it and call me back, okay?"

"She's out with Chino right now, but when they get back I'll figure out a way to ask."

"How about, 'By the way, ma'am, are you aware your husband was beheaded and his body stuffed in a trash bag and hauled off by thugs?' "

"I think I can be a mite more subtle than that." 

"Po Thang, Po Thang, go channel seventeen."

Po Thang practically levitated from a deep slumber. He'd never received a radio call before.

As he ran in excited circles around my legs, I grabbed the mic and switched channels. In my best answering machine voice I said, "Hi. Po Thang can't come to the phone right now, but your message is very important to us. So leave one."

"Cute. Okay, here is the message," I recognized the voice as belonging to Denny, a single-hander who had one of those coveted slips at the main dock. "Tell him the local heat is asking around about his boat mate. And they've commandeered a panga and are loading up to head his way. He might want to take a pee, if you know what I mean."

"Holy…Got it. Gone."

I dropped the mic like a hot tamale, and grabbed my bright orange ditch bag. If you live on a boat, you never know when you are going to have to abandon ship, and my large waterproof satchel contains an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating rescue beacon), a strobe light, flashlight, whistle, a signal mirror, first aid kit, a knife, bottled water, sunblock, a handheld watermaker, a flare gun with extra shells, lots of power bars, and everything one might need to survive a few nights in a raft, or afloat. Into this pack, before I go to bed each night, I always toss in my handheld radio, money, binoculars, and both mine and Po Thang's inflatable life jackets, his with a tether that clips to mine.

Before boarding
Se Vende
, I jammed on an oversized straw hat like the ones favored by local fishermen, then grabbed a fishing pole, which sent Po Thang into a tail-wagging frenzy; he just dearly loves it when I catch a fish.

I hid behind some nearby mangroves, and not a minute too soon, for I first heard, then saw, a panga streaking toward
Raymond Johnson
. It was loaded to the gunwales with six or seven uniformed, armed men. It first circled my boat, then sidled up to the swim platform.

One of them called out something in Spanish, and knocked on the hull, but getting no response, boarded. Finding the boat locked, and no one reacting to their ever more vocal demands, they posted an armed guard on deck. After a discussion of some sort with the others, the rest of the contingent left in the panga, which headed for the other anchorage near the entrance to the harbor, a popular spot called the Waiting Room.

As they disappeared behind a low hill, I figured this was a good opportunity to make a run for my pickup. I opened up the sixty-horse and streaked for the parking lot. The marine standing guard on my boat gave me a glance, but didn't raise a ruckus; he was most likely on the lookout for a
Gringo
's inflatable, not a beat up old panga like
Se Vende
.

I called Denny on seventeen and he met me at the dinghy dock. He watched the harbor through his binoculars while recounting how this little drama was playing out. "You gotta stay clear of the marina office, there're still some guys up there who are looking for you. They may know you have a red pickup by now, but so far they haven't posted a guard on it. Give me the keys and I'll take it up to the little grocery store. Meet me there. You have any idea what this is all about?"

Oh, boy, did I
. I tossed him the keys. "No," I lied, "but I want to be sure I have witnesses around when they catch up to me. Any ideas?"

He shook his head. "No, but you know how things are down here. If it were me, I'd head for the border."

"And leave my boat? No way. I'll meet you at the store, then maybe figure out what to do next. I owe you, big time."

Po Thang and I jogged to the
tienda
, even though I don't jog all that well.

What to do? What to do? Obviously someone finally found both parts of Ishikawa, and zeroed in on me as suspect
numero uno
. At the top of my mental TO DO list was to warn suspect
numero dos
.

The little store has excellent WiFi, and several cruisers and RVers were bent over their computers. One guy I knew was talking on Skype when I arrived, so as soon as he said, "Bye," I asked if I could make an emergency call.

"Jan, the feds are here. I think they're gonna take me in."

Every head in the place turned in my direction.

If I wanted witnesses, I sure had 'em.

The thing about Mexico is they have a really crappy legal system. They got it from the French.

Their judicial swamp is so corrupt and dysfunctional that if you commit a crime in Mexico you only have a two in a hundred chance of getting caught and, if you have money, even less chance of being convicted and punished. I read somewhere that only twelve percent of crimes are even reported, and for good reason: the cops want money to work on the case. Or worse, the person who calls the authorities becomes a suspect. So, lacking a pesky body to deal with at the resort, it was doubtful the staff would report a suspicious bloodstain. So what happened to sic them onto me?

And if nabbed, I'd be deemed guilty until proven innocent—that marvelous Napoleonic Code the French thought up—during which time I'd languish in a Mexican jail. Mexican jails are god-awful hellholes.

I'd just gotten off the Skype call with Jan, telling her to run for the hills, and was considering doing the same, when it was too late. A black and white screeched into the parking lot at the store, followed by a truckload of heavily armed Marines. Almost everyone in the
tienda
started packing up computers and making for the exits. To Denny's credit, he remained sitting at the table with me.

"Miss Coffey?" the biggest cop said. I looked behind me, snagged Po Thang's collar, and pushed him forward. "Uh, this is Miss Coffey. What's he done?"

They were not amused.

When they motioned me toward their car, Denny said he would take Po Thang with him, and keep an eye on my boat. When he asked the head fed when I'd be back, he got a shrug. I took this not to be a good sign.

I was soon alone in the back seat of a souped up Crown Vic, pondering my fate.

Most people will find this hard to believe, but I've never been in jail.

I've been detained, delayed, and interrogated by several international agencies over the years, but never actually locked up.

During the ride into Loreto, a grim future took hold of my thoughts, conjuring pictures of bare cells, mean-looking women, and (probably my worst fear) no privacy or freedom. The cops had the lights whirling, siren howling, and were doing at least a hundred miles an hour. One had to wonder what the big hurry was; after all, they had me, and Ishikawa wasn't gonna get any deader.

And my car mates weren't talking, not that I could hear them over all the noise even if they were.

Trying to think of positives about this mess, I came up with a dismally short list. One, I was not handcuffed. This surely had to mean something good, right? And two, I knew Jan was frantically trying to contact the American Consulates in both Tijuana and Cabo San Lucas, as well as Chino's cousin, a lawyer of some sort in Loreto. Hopefully, my mouthpiece would beat me to the jailhouse. Did they even
have
bail down here?  Oh, and three, there was a nice metal mesh grill protecting me from the cops in the front seat.

My head throbbed, but that was no surprise, what with ugly scenarios whizzing around up there, banging against my skull like a pinball machine in overdrive. Oddly enough though, what worried me the very most was Jenks's reaction to all this. Would this be the straw that finally broke Jenks's infinite patience?

Okay, so maybe I have this stupid habit of getting in over my head. It's how I am, and he knows it. But I'd only been in Mexico now for a little over six months, and he's flown back from the Middle East three times when I got into a jam. Maybe I should have thought twice before going off on a lark with Jan? I've heard tell that some people actually look before they leap, but where's the fun in that?

The black and white took a sudden right turn, throwing me against my seat belt and banging my head into my metal mesh protection. A sign flashed by: Aeropuerto Internacional de Loreto.

Oh, hell, I was being deported?

I have, in the past, been asked to leave a couple of countries, but deported?

Can one be deported without proof of citizenship to the country to which they are being deported? They didn't know I had my passport and Arizona Driver's license with me, and I sure as hell wasn't gonna tell them. Day was that your good word was all that was needed to get into the US, but not now. On the other hand, deportation looked mighty appealing when compared with a possible lifetime in a Mexican jail.

We screeched to a halt in front of the airport entrance, lights and sirens heralding a break in what is most likely a pretty humdrum work day between infrequent flights. Unfortunately, a plane had just landed, so passengers gawked while the driver cop opened both my door and that of his boss. Well, some passengers stared at us. Others seemed fascinated by something else afoot inside the terminal. 

The head fed adjusted his pants and gun, growled something at the driver, who hurried to cut the siren and lights. My ears still rang, but not loud enough to overcome a bellow from behind a closed door off the lobby. It was a sound I had hoped to never, ever, hear again.

Curses, screeches, and the thuds of some serious door kicking echoed throughout the terminal. 

I turned to the head fed, held out my arms, and begged, "Please, sir, arrest me. I cut off a man's head last week, so you have to take me away."

For the first time he cracked a smile. "I do not think so, Miss Coffey."

It took an hour of talking through the door, and several hits of brandy from the airport bar, for Aunt Lillian to allow me into the room with her, and even then I wasn't so sure she wasn't going to physically attack me. And no, I didn't share the brandy.

With her steely gray hair standing on end, and mean black eyes lasering everything in sight, she would have resembled an angry eagle, had it not been for streaking mascara, and bright red lipstick smeared pretty much all over the bottom half of her face.  What she did look like, however, was my worst nightmare: a drunken old hag. Jan and I had discussed at length this possible fate for ourselves, and vowed to kill each other should we ever reach such a state.

Lil was totally out of control, crying one minute and threatening me the next if I didn't get her a drink. I finally did what I knew would work to calm her down: I called Mother and handed the phone to Lil. The minute she heard my mom's voice my aunt morphed from Godzilla to all sugar sweet in a split second. "Hi, baby sister," she cooed. "Yes, I'm here with Hetta. After losing my dear Fred, I decided to come visit family. Why, I'll never know. She had me arrested!"

I jerked the phone from her claw. "Not true, Mom. Best I can figure she got drunk on the plane from Mazatlan and then went bonkers on crew when they wouldn't serve her any more booze. The
federales
locked her in a room until I could get here. They tell me they will release her to me, but I sure as hell don't want her."

"Hetta Honey, she
is
your aunt."

"Yeah, well come get her."

Silence.

"I mean it. Two days, that's it. If you don't come down here I'm throwing her overboard. Tied to an anchor."

"Can't you just send her home?"

"Nope. They won't allow her back on a plane without an escort, and it ain't gonna be me."

"I'll talk to your father and call you back."

I hung up and Lil hissed, "How dare you tell my sister I was drunk. I had a, uh, TIA. That's what must have happened."

"No, you had an FUI: flying under the influence. What the hell is a TIA?"

My aunt is a retired nurse who mixes a goodly amount of prescription drugs and booze, but can always come up with some obscure medical reason to explain away her drunken fits. I think I'd heard this TIA story once before, but it was lost in a long history of her crap.

"Transient ischemic attack, it's like a mini-stroke." Then she went pouty. "I'm lucky to be alive."

Now she was entering the sulky, poor me stage. I'd seen it all before. "You're lucky they didn't search your purse. What do you have in there?"

"Only my mood elevators and, of course, all the other meds I need to stay on this earth. I'm old, you know. And," the expected blubbering commenced, "recently widowed."

I opened the door and the officers jumped back like I was releasing the lions. "Everything's okay now. I'll take her back to the boat with me. Uh, can I borrow those handcuffs?"

Lil has a pattern.

Hungover grouch, then, after a drink, gaily entertaining, at least in her own mind.

Since I wouldn't give her any booze, she went straight into raging at past slights. And, boy, can she hold a grudge. She lambasted me for a time I embarrassed her when I was eight years old, for crying out loud, by not using proper eating etiquette when she took me to some women's club breakfast. "I told you, Hetta, one must tear toast into four equal pieces, then butter each quarter daintily, but only before eating it."

Right after that she wailed, got maudlin, pitiful, and finally, thank the Lord, passed out.

While the old crone slept off her latest TIA, I made a piece of toast, buttered the whole thing, folded it over, and stuffed the entire slice into my mouth. I then removed every drop of alcohol from the boat, loading it into
Se Vende
for pickup by Denny. By the time he left with booze bottles stacked to the gunwales of his dink, it was dark, and I was exhausted.

Po Thang, who had never met Aunt Lil, sniffed her with suspicion, then gave her a wide berth. Po Thang is an excellent judge of character.

I'd already called Jan and told her why the cops picked me up, and asked her to call off the legal and embassy dogs because I wasn't headed for the hoosegow, but was suffering a far worse fate. As soon as I had Lil bedded down, I called Jan again. "Uh, what exactly did you tell the consulate and that lawyer when you called them on my behalf?"

"That for reasons unknown you were rounded up and hauled off by some
federales
. When I called them back, I told 'em everything was okay, and that
this
time you weren't guilty of an international crime spree."

"Gee, thanks. Now I'm really sorry I told those cops you beheaded a Japanese gentleman in his hotel room."

"Very funny. And speaking of," she dropped into a whisper, "Mrs. Ishikawa told me her husband was called back to Japan on urgent business, and that she would like to stay another week before taking the kids back home."

"All right! Wait a minute. He
called
her?"

"Yeah, that's what I asked myself. Nope, turns out his secretary called the missus with the message from the mister. Said he was on a plane or something. Is this getting weird, or what?"

"You want weird? Come over to my world."

"Ya know, Hetta, I kinda like your Aunt Lil."

"I'll have her at your place early tomorrow morning."

"Don't like her that much."

"Some friend you are."

"So, your mom is coming down to fetch Lil?"

"I sure as hell hope so, and the sooner the better. The airlines won't let Aunt Lillian fly without an escort, and that ain't gonna be me."

"When your mom shows up, I'll come over for a visit."

"Good, because if she doesn't get here, like tomorrow, you can help her load her sister's body into my dink."

True to the rollercoaster moods defining her, it was the hungover/grouch Lil who emerged from my guest cabin the next morning. Hungover/grouch, when allowed her first Bloody Mary of the day, usually morphs into Somewhat Tolerable as she  explains away her actions, at least those she remembers, of the day, or week, before.

Since there was not a drop of Mary, bloody or otherwise, on
Raymond Johnson
, Lil went immediately to angry/raging aunt.

Po Thang jumped into
Se Vende
and cowered there. If he had an opposable thumb, I think he would have started the motor and escaped to the beach, but lacking that dexterity we humans enjoy, he simply just jumped overboard and swam away.

I didn't even try to call him back, but instead, followed. Yelling over my shoulder as I motored away after my dog, I told Lil there was food in the fridge, and coffee in the pot.

When I caught up to Po Thang, he was on the beach, sniffing and doing his critter-chasing thing with the occasional worried look back at our boat. I cut the motor, and even a quarter mile or so from the boat, Aunt Lil's yowling echoed across the otherwise peaceful bay. I collected Po Thang, and we motored to the dinghy landing so I could rinse him down.

While he dried in the sun, I sat on the dock and sulked. How was I going to survive the next couple of days until my mother arrived? More importantly, how was Aunt Lil going to survive if I had to live with her?

"Why so glum, Hetta?"

I almost jumped into the water. One of the single-handers had walked up behind me as I contemplated how to off my aunt, and then explain her demise to Mom. "Crap, Robert, you scared me silly."

"Sorry. I, uh, heard about you bein' hauled off by the law. Glad to see you back."

"I wonder if they would consider hauling me off again."

"Boy, must be serious if you'd rather be in Mexican custody."

"You have no idea."

"Try me."

The soft sincerity in his voice got my attention. For the first time since we met, I actually took a good look at him. He was probably in his fifties, dressed in sailboater attire of shorts, tee shirt, and baseball hat. Tall and thin, he sported the mandatory sailor-guy gray beard. Until that moment I'd just lumped him in with all the other men alone on their boats.

I gave him a smile. "You wouldn't happen to be a priest, would you? I need an exorcism performed on my boat."

He laughed. "Don't we all? My watermaker upped and quit."

"No, really. I need someone who can purge evil."

He gave me a wary look. "Hetta, this is none of my business, but are you, like, okay?"

"You mean, like, sane?"

He smiled. "No sane person takes a boat to Mexico. Look, we hardly know each other, but I'd like to help if I can. I'm no priest, but I do have good friends here who helped
me
out when I needed it. I have a few minutes, then I gotta go to a meeting."

"Meeting? Jeez, I thought we came down here to get away from those."

"AA, Hetta."

"The car club?"