Just Follow the Money

by Jinx Schwartz

  Jan and Rhonda left for the hotel after we all enjoyed one of Nacho’s signature mojitos. He’d made himself right at home, finding everything he needed in my galley and outdoor bar. He had, after all, spent several weeks on board with me and Jan, and was our every-night bartender. If Jenks took exception to Nacho’s familiarity with my boat, he didn’t show it.

  I, on the other hand, was more than a bit put off. “Thanks for the mojitos, Nacho. Now get off my boat.”

  He grinned and winked at Jenks. “See what I have to deal with? It is even worse when you are not here.”

  Jenks wisely refrained from replying.

  “And yet, here you are. One might wonder why,” I grumped.

  “I shall soon depart. But first, the three of us have a little business to take care of.”

  “What business?” I wanted to know.

  “The ransom bills.”

  I looked at Jenks, and he nodded.

  “Hey, I thought you just came to spend New Year’s Eve with me. You’re here to work?’

  Jenks reached over and gave me a tight hug. “I did come to see you. Nacho is just conveniently paying my way.” His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “They wanted to pick my brain on the marked bills; I’ve had a little experience in that field.”

  I didn’t even waste my breath asking who they were. “Well, then, whoever they are, they just paid for a suite at La Perla, since you obviously cannot work with Rhonda and Jan hanging around, right?”

  Nacho sighed and nodded.

  “And, since we seem to be working together on this, Jenks, maybe you can enlighten me. In the movies, the bank robber opens a moneybag and gets hit in the face with a red cloud that sticks to him and the loot like seagull poop. How do you discreetly mark so many twenties in the covert world?”

  “Can’t tell you, Red. Something new.”

  “Can they trace every single one of them?”

  “Another secret, and way over my pay level,” Jenks said. “I’m really here to take a look at one of those bills to verify a couple of things, which I’ve already done. Meanwhile, since you’re on the snoop payroll, have you found out anything yet?”

  “Yes. I took photos of the volunteer roster today, but haven’t even had time to see how they turned out. You guys want to take a quick look so Nacho can go his merry way?”

  “She’s such a charmer,” Nacho said as we moved to my office, and my new all-in-one desktop with a fabulous 24” screen. It was a Christmas gift to myself; I could now work on the computer without reading glasses.

  I sent the photos from my phone, and mentally patted myself on the back when they turned out both sharp and in focus.

  “Excellent work, Café,” Nacho said, looking as though he was about to settle in and check out the list.

  “Not so fast, amigo. I’ll send them to you as an attachment. Three’s a crowd, if you get my drift. Feliz año nuevo, hasta la vista, y que te vaya bien,” I said, as I grabbed his arm and man-handled him onto the dock.

  At the rate I throw people off my boat, I’m obviously not expecting any nominations for hostess of the year.

  Jenks and I didn’t get around to checking out the volunteer list until the next day. We’d spent a wonderful, quiet evening on the boat, enjoying each other’s company and a meal I threw together from the freezer. We agreed that was far better than going out like the rest of the amateurs, so we planned to do the same for New Year’s Eve.

  Jan and Rhonda showed up around ten the next morning to gather more belongings, so our list checking was interrupted until almost noon. “Do you know any of these people?” Jenks asked me. “If we can flat out eliminate some names, that will help.”

  “A few boaters. I can’t see them being involved in a kidnapping in France.”

  “It’d be a stretch. Highlight their names. You keep the master and start a whittled down group. Take it one name at a time, that way you don’t get what I call suspect-hypnosis; getting overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of possibles, and going into a trance. How many names are there, total?”

  “I counted eighty-three.”

  “Just read their names and addresses and try to remember something about them, but don’t overthink it. This is only the first round.”

  “Sure would help if Jan and Rhonda were in on this. They met more people than I did.”

  “When is the next volunteer meeting?”

  “January third.”

  “Take photos and get names to go with them. Tell them you’re making an album or something. Then send me the data.”

  “Okay…hey, wait a minute, what do you mean send?”

  “Sorry, honey. I’ll be winging it back to Dubai on the second. Duty calls.”

  “Well, crap. In that case, shut down that damned computer and let’s go for a boat ride. Finding out who salted the gift packs isn’t a matter of life and death.”

  I would later question the wisdom of that statement.

  Because Raymond Johnson hadn’t been out of the slip for almost three months, Jenks gave her an extra diligent going over while I ran out for fresh dinner and breakfast goodies. Jan had put several lobsters in the freezer, but Jenks wasn’t a big fan, so I splurged on a good-sized filet mignon from the best butcher in town. They specialized in Sonoran beef, and since I knew it was a little too lean for his taste, I decided to use it for one of his favs, beef Stroganoff.

  While the weather was Chamber of Commerce perfect, Jenks also went online to make sure we didn’t get any nasty weather surprises along with the New Year. We’d only be out one night, but the Sea of Cortez can be a bear when ill winds pin you against a lee shore, and the nearby anchorage we chose has ruined many a cruiser’s evening.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Balandra, only about twelve miles from the marina, is one of my favorite places in the Sea of Cortez because of the incredible white sand bottom and clear turquoise water. However, we no longer knew whether we’d be allowed to anchor there, even for a few hours, as permission to do so appears to be at the whim of someone who doesn’t seem to know either. You gotta love Mexico.

  Our other nearby choice was at the southern tip of Espiritu Santu, which can get pretty rolly if the wind picks up. Quite naturally, when it does, it always hits around two a.m., right after any glimmer of moonlight disappears. We put out a radio call when leaving the marina and learned from a boat near there that the seas were flat calm, no bumpy stuff.

  “What do you think, Hetta? Want to chance it?”

  “If it was just me and der dawg, or Jan, I wouldn’t do it. But, it’s past noon and there is zero wind. And, with Capitán Jenks on board? Sure. Together we can handle anything.”

  “Yes, we can.”

  “Let’s hope we don’t have to, at least tonight. I say we have a toast to seal our deal with Mother Nature,” I said, fetching a bourbon for him and a mini-split of champagne for me.

  We were rewarded with a fabulous, thankfully uneventful, and very romantic evening. Isn’t it funny how, when you are with someone you love, all the hype about New Year’s Eve becomes incredibly unimportant? We ate on deck in our warmies, saw a glimpse of fireworks from several locations near La Paz, and declared it officially midnight on New York time.

  The euphoria of such an idyllic night began evaporating the moment my eyes opened the next morning, and I remembered Jenks would be long gone in a little over twenty-four hours.

  Meanwhile, we had work to do, so we beat feet back to the marina, fired up the computers, and set up a system for vetting the volunteers. Jenks has access to all kinds of information-sorting programs—Stealth Stuff, as I call it—that I certainly don’t, and neither does Nacho, because he called for Jenks’s expertise. Or it could be, what with this being Mexico, Nacho doesn’t trust his own resources in a country where corruption is a way of life.

  I figure if he had to put me on the payroll, he must be desperate. Note to self: ask for a raise.

  By the time we finished crunching data, it was cocktail hour. We
’d been so absorbed with our computers I hadn’t noticed that whitecaps were frothing the bay.

  “Looks like we dodged a wind event bullet,” I told Jenks when we went out on deck to enjoy the sunset.

  “I ordered that weather yesterday, just for you.”

  “Wow, you must have some pull.”

  His eyes sparkled, and he gave me that crooked grin of his I love so much. “Better you don’t know about my contacts in high or low places.”

  “Probably. So, Mr. Bond, what’s your take on the ransom money showing up right here in La Paz? I mean, someone kidnaps a girl in France, demands three mil from her rich Mexican grandpa, he delivers it in non-sequential twenty-dollar bills as requested, we get the girl, everyone goes home, et voilà, some of the marked bills practically beat us back to Mexico.”

  Jenks shook his head. “Those odds are uncommonly high. I can run it for you if you want.”

  “Nah, I guess we just have to follow the money. Somehow.”

  “I honestly figured the Russians for the deal, but then again, everything leads back to Russians now if you believe the media. Makes me downright nostalgic for the Cold War days.”

  “Spy versus spy. It sure made for great movies. Refill?”

  He handed me his glass. “Rocks. Not shaken or stirred, Miss Moneypenny.”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  He stood and pulled me close. “In that case,” he whispered into my ear, “hold off on that drink.”

  Rather than sulk the rest of the day, after I dropped Jenks at the airport early on the second, I threw myself into my new job of trying to connect the ransom money to someone involved in the Christmas packages in a poor Mexican neighborhood. As I always do, I started drawing charts, beginning with a timeline.

  At the top of the page, I made a box and labeled it: Juanita snatched/disappears. Inside the same box I added, Last seen boarding yacht in Cannes? By whom?

  I balled up that sheet and aimed it toward a wastepaper basket for two points, but it was intercepted by Po Thang, who proceeded to rip it into tiny pieces. Who needs a paper shredder when you have a golden retriever? I ignored the mess I’d have to clean up later and went back to the task at hand.

  Starting over, I re-drew the Juanita snatched box to the far left of the sheet, created a right-side column next to it, and divided it in half.

  Under WHAT WE KNOW FOR SURE, I had nothing to add, because I didn’t know anything about those first few days. I did, however, make a note to myself to discuss these events with Nacho.

  Below WHAT WE THINK WE KNOW, I wrote: Last seen boarding a large yacht in Cannes. Not confirmed by me. Note: who debriefed Juanita?

  I left a few boxes below that entry empty, hopefully to be filled in later, so the next event was: Team Hetta Arrives in Cannes. Kept in dark and fed fertilizer.

  I sat back and let out a scream, which scared the bejesus out of my dog. He yelped, then barked while running in circles.

  Which is exactly what I was doing. I had only begun to analyze the events and was coming up with too many unknowns.

  Persevering in the face of abject ignorance—something I’ve been accused of often—I finally arrived at the last box, denoting the day I arrived back in La Paz. That one I could fill with great authority and knowledge: I didn’t bring the money from France, and if I had managed to snag it, I sure as hell wouldn’t have given a bunch of it to some kids for Christmas. I was the only one I knew was innocent, so I started a new list of players: anyone who was even marginally involved in the rescue mission. The list was long, for I even included people like Prince Faoud and his yacht crew. There had to be a connection, however remote, to the volunteers we were investigating.

  Staring at the over-abundance of empty boxes and question marks on my charts and lists confirmed only one thing: I didn’t know squat!

  I sent Nacho an email: We need to meet. ASAP!

  Before he answered, Rhonda knocked on the hull and I quickly stashed my handiwork and invited her to join me for a glass of something on deck. My neck was stiff, my head hurt, and I realized I hadn’t eaten all day, so I grabbed some chips and salsa to ward off an alcohol overload.

  After a half glass of Chardonnay while listening to Rhonda natter on and on about her fabulous New Year’s Eve with Cholo, my headache had worsened. So, when she suggested we go to La Perla for dinner, I readily agreed, hoping to get away from her after a quick nosh.

  We’d barely been seated when, by some miracle, Cholo just happened to stroll by. Surprise, surprise.

  It was plainly obvious he was just as smitten with Rhonda as she was with him. I had never seen him smile so genuinely and often. I’d noticed back in Cannes that when he did smile, he was not only more handsome, he was devastatingly so.

  “You know,” I said after about five minutes of their billing and cooing, “I’m really not all that hungry. I think I’ll go take Po Thang for a nice evening stroll and maybe pick up a fish taco. I hope you two don’t mind.”

  Evidently, they’d both gone deaf.

  When I pushed my chair back and stood, I finally got their attention.

  “Hetta, did you say something?”

  “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow. Jan should be back to the boat by ten, then we have a meeting with the Three King’s Day people at one.

  “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. See you in the morning.”

  They both protested me leaving before I’d eaten dinner, albeit half-heartedly.

  I hate it when love is in the air, and so is the love of my life.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Po Thang and I shared fish tacos at my favorite stand near the marina. It was unusual for her to be open during the evening, but it was still the holiday season, and most local vendors cash in while they can. The summer months are unbearably hot, and street stands don’t do well.

  Also, she was providing tacos for the volunteers, so I thought I’d eradicate a duality of feathered vertebrates utilizing one stone.

  My twofer paid off.

  “Maria, I have a question,” I said, while she deep-fried fresh-caught cabrilla strips in a flour and masa-based batter called capeador. She adds a dollop of mustard as her secret ingredient. The result is a puffy coating to die for, and the best fish tacos in town.

  Maria doesn’t speak English all that well, but she understands and answers in Spanish that is spoken slowly enough for me to understand. “¿Si?”

  “Will you cook for us tomorrow when we meet to plan for the niños?”

  “Si. Siempre.”

  Always. Okay, that’s good.

  “Are there new people helping this year?”

  She thought about that while she scooped out the fish and folded it into a nest of two corn tortillas for each taco. Since I was the only person at her stand due to the early hour, she fried my fish one piece at a time, so they’d be fresh and hot on this chilly evening.

  “Si, ustedes y su amigas.”

  Me and my friends? We’re the only new blood?

  “Only us?”

  It took a while, but by the time I’d ordered, she’d cooked, and we’d eaten four tacos—two for me and two for Po Thang—she’d clarified that we were the only new gringas. There were a couple of Mexicans who’d volunteered for the first time.

  “Do you know them?”

  She shook her head.

  “Can you describe them?”

  One was a rubia, the other a morena, and they both looked rich. Hmmmm. The blonde should be easy to spot, but the dark-haired, dark-eyed one? Not so much. She said she would point them out to me the next day.

  Jan arrived at the boat early, we got her moved back into the guest cabin, which she now had to herself; Rhonda’d called and said she was staying on at the hotel. Gee, I wonder why.

  Since Nacho refused to contact me when I asked him to, I made a management decision to bring Jan into the inner circle. I needed help, and she was my comrade in arms. What’s a girl to do?

  After I told her the whole story, s
he said, “Lemme get this straight. Nacho hired you to ferret out who stashed some marked ransom money twenties in kids’ Christmas packages?”

  “Yep.”

  “And, you weren’t supposed to tell me? Why?”

  “Because you were in Mexico when the twenties started showing up. That put you in my top twenty suspects.”

  “Hoo-boy, that’s rich. I’m on your suspect list?”

  “I had to start somewhere.”

  “Yeah? Well here’s a fresh start for ya. Take me off the list.”

  I ran a yellow highlighter over her name on the printout. “Done. Happy?”

  “Somewhat. Now, put me on the payroll.”

  “I’ll split what I get from Nacho with you. How’s that?”

  “You’ve got me. Keep that marker out and let’s see if we can knock off a few more. Rhonda?”

  I shook my head. “Not yet. She’s sleeping with a suspect.”

  “Cholo? A suspect?”

  “Under my present criteria, yes. He was in France, and then in Mexico at the same time as the money started showing up.”

  “Give me that list.”

  I handed it over and she gave it a quick once-over. “Wait a minute. Nacho’s on here?”

  “No one is above suspicion.”

  “That’s rich. He hires you and you put him on the suspects’ roster. I love it. Okay, Chica, let’s get to work.”

  We massaged that list until a quarter to one, and managed to eliminate ten more names before driving down to the park for the meeting.

  We got an unexpected break on arrival; everyone was wearing name tags and to make things even better, the tags included nationalities. We filled ours out, quite naturally identifying ourselves as Texans. We worked the crowd, using my previous story of putting together an album as an excuse to snap photos of everyone we could.

  Typical of Mexican timeframes, the organizers finally got everyone assembled and seated by one forty-five. Jan scanned the crowd for blondes, while I parked myself near Maria’s taco stand and asked her about various volunteers. She gave me the scoop on everyone she knew, and I sent text messages to myself as I cleared them as suspects.