by Ed Teja
I walked inside to a reception desk to find out what the local routine was. Did we take a number or what? When the man at the desk found out who I was, and that I spoke respectable Spanish, he immediately sent us into the office of the jefe, or chief detective.
The jefe sat behind one of those ubiquitous battered gray metal desks that, at some time in the history of the world, must have been new. No one I know has ever seen them in that condition, but logic indicates that someone has.
The jefe stood up when we came in, held out a hand and smiled charmingly. “Wilfredo,” he said, by way of introduction.
Wilfredo was short and squat, with sparkling lively eyes, and a thick Frito Bandito mustache. He dressed in slacks and a shirt, both neat and clean, but obviously not new.
He offered us chairs and called for three small plastic cups of sweet, black coffee to be brought in. Meanwhile, he looked at our passports and wrote our names and passport numbers alongside the date in a thick ledger. I wondered if anyone, at any time, had ever read anything that was painstakingly recorded in these massive, official Dickensian tomes. It didn’t seem that anything ever caused them to be used for anything except recording.
“What can I do for you?” he asked as he slid our passports back across the top of his desk.
“Give me a little information,” I said.
He reached into the desk and took out a piece of paper. It seemed that he had it handy, as if he'd expected me to waltz in asking for it. Well, I supposed that the fuss Maggie had been making led them to expect that eventually someone would come in asking for information, someone they couldn’t really say no to. He glanced at it, then smoothed it onto the desk and pushed it across to me.
“This is your copy of the arrest report,” he said. “It has the bare details, just the facts essential to the arrest itself.”
I glanced at it. It had the name of the officers, the date, the address, the evidence found as a result of the search. Not much more than that. I noticed that Wilfredo had headed the team personally.
“Can you tell me what led you to suspect my brother of the murder?”
His broad and instant smile surprised me. “Why, the facts!” he chuckled. Then he stopped, looked at my face and sighed. “There simply are no other suspects, Señor Billings. Your brother is the only person anyone has ever heard threatening Antonio. He is the only person significant to the case who cannot account for his whereabouts, although I admit that given the witnesses’ testimony, his claim that he spent the day at home in a stupor seems plausible enough. But even his claim of innocence lacks force. He hasn’t the aggrieved look of the innocent.”
“That isn’t evidence!”
“Not entirely. But even the man who told us where to find your brother, a friend of his, seemed to believe that he was guilty. We all believe it. Most everyone in the city does, as a matter of fact, and that makes it a rather popular arrest. It is nice to have a popular arrest once in a while. It can be good for the career.”
I sat looking at Wilfredo, thinking. I was still trying to size him up. His amazing candor surprised me. I figured he wasn’t telling me everything he knew, but I didn’t expect him to volunteer information. That wasn’t the way investigators worked. Finally, I decided that he was an honest, overworked cop who was pleased to have an open and shut case—a popular arrest.
“Isn’t the lack of suspects, the easy arrest, enough to make you suspicious?” I asked. “The fact that Tim didn’t try to run away?”
He shrugged and took a pack of cigarettes from his drawer. He offered them to Maggie and then to me. We declined and he lit one for himself and he searched his desktop drawer for an ashtray.
“A good policeman finds everything suspicious. Aha!” He held up a glass ashtray. “Leads are given by people who have reasons for providing the information. But when information fits together well, forms a complete story, then it is easy to overlook the suspicious nature of the sources of information.”
“I have a question for you about this complete story, for it sounds very incomplete to me.”
“How so?”
“It lacks a motive. Why would Tim kill Antonio? They were friends, and a drunken threat wouldn’t mean much.”
He smiled. “The threat is unimportant to the case.”
“It is?”
“It is the cause of the fight that is important.”
“The girl? Antonio’s sister?”
Wilfredo shook his head. “No, Señor, the drugs.”
“What about them? You found a small amount of drugs at the time of the arrest, but enough to kill for? I doubt that.”
“Antonio saw or knew something that made him connect your brother with a large drug deal. We don’t have the details, but whatever it was, it was greater than just the purchase of some personal recreational amounts. It was big business.”
This turn surprised me. I was about to ask how they knew this when Maggie impatiently jumped in first. “What makes you say that? Tim had no connections with drugs.”
Wilfredo let her calm down for a moment, drawing slowly on his cigarette, then said, “First of all, I believe that Antonio was killed for what he saw. The witnesses in the bar all agree that he was furious because of something he had seen Tim involved with—with his own eyes. That area has been the site of a number of drug deals, primarily of cocaine. We, working in unprecedented harmony with the Guardia Nacional and the Guardacostas, have frustrated a number of the drug operations, but still some get through. However, the risk remains worthwhile, apparently.”
I laughed at his sarcastic reference to interdepartmental co-operation. Wilfredo gave me a sad look and sighed.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, “but entirely understandably, the fishermen would rather live in peace, unmolested by vindictive drug lords, than act as our eyes and ears in that area. So, they will offer no information on drugs to us. Tim Billings worked in that same area where Antonio fishes. Then, of course, there is Tim’s friend, Ramón.”
I looked at Maggie, but she shook her head. “Who is Ramón?”
“To your brother, a friend. To us, a small-time drug dealer who still wanders about freely only because he is also a mule for the syndicate. We watch Ramón and learn important things and make connections to new people.”
“You are sure he’s a friend of Tim’s?” Maggie asked.
Wilfredo nodded. “They have known each other for some time, and they make a very curious pair, so others have noted this friendship.
“Recently, a large shipment of drugs is reported to have disappeared. And Antonio saw something that outraged him. This is an interesting coincidence. Of course, as a policeman, I do not actually believe in coincidences. Antonio sees something involving drugs and your brother, in an area known for such activity. Ramón was involved in the drugs that disappeared, cocaine, we understand. Antonio is killed and your brother is found to have some very fine cocaine. The story fits together. The few missing pieces seem quite trivial to me.”
He sat back and let us take in all of the new information. I was shattered. I had come in thinking that Tim had been unfairly picked out, but clearly, they had done a more thorough investigation than I had given them credit for. Although the evidence was circumstantial, I knew that if I’d been the cop, I would have arrested him too.
“This connection between Ramón and Tim seems to be the key to whatever went on, and might still be going on,” I said. “Why isn't Ramón a suspect?”
“Because Antonio mentioned only Tim Billings, not Ramón. However, we would happily discuss the matter with Ramón if we could find him. We have asked around and offered a small reward for information about him. Yet ever since the drugs disappeared, Ramón has not been seen.”
“So, if we can find Ramón?”
“I would like to speak with him. But don’t get your hopes up. Ramón is frightened of his own shadow, and he feared Antonio because Antonio hated drugs. It is unlikely Ramón killed him and es
pecially unlikely that he would plan such a clever way where he would not even be suspected.”
“So, you aren’t looking for Ramón that hard. Or for anyone else, really.”
“We are looking for him, but...” He tilted his head meaningfully.
“Do you care if Tim is innocent?”
He paused. “Of course, we do. But I have no budget to pursue cases where we already have a reasonable suspect in custody. We are very much overworked. This case is not that important to my superiors and they are quite happy that it makes them look good with your brother in jail.”
“Claro,” I said. “So, it would make further investigation much easier if you could put a guilty person in jail at the same time that you let out a man who might be innocent.”
He smiled broadly. “I must admire your insight. For a gringo you show a remarkable understanding of the practical nature of things.”
“Can you describe this Ramón?” Maggie asked.
“Well he is very ugly,” Wilfredo said as he began to give his description, and we both groaned.
“You’ve seen him?”
“Not an hour ago.” I said and explained the meeting outside the jail.
“Well, that is good news.”
“How is that good?”
“We know he is still alive. I thought perhaps he was too stupid to stay hidden. It might be that fear for his life brings out his best qualities, and that is how he has survived so long.” It was an interesting concept. Wilfredo stood up. He held out his hand. “I am sorry I cannot offer to help but I wish you luck in finding whatever the truth is. I do not envy you, and unfortunately must say that I believe we know what happened.”
So, I did what Ugly Bill had taught me. I stood up, shook his hand and thanked him. He wasn’t going to do what I wanted, but he had been helpful. And I didn’t want to push him hard, maybe make an enemy of him. He was sure Tim was guilty as hell, but at least he was willing to be convinced otherwise—if we came in with a confessing killer.
“At least we know what they have against Tim,” Maggie said as we sat in a small restaurant in El Centro.
“Yeah. They think he’s a drug lord.”
“Well, not quite. That makes it sound a bit extreme. But they think he was involved.”
The food we had was probably good, but the meeting with Wilfredo had knocked the stuffing out of both of us, and by the time we had ordered an after-lunch beer, I couldn’t even remember what I’d had. We lingered there for a couple of more beers, exchanging the muddle-headed thoughts that came to us, deciding nothing new, developing no strategies that hinted at being even remotely helpful. Then we drove slowly on the winding road back to Mochima.
By the time we got back, we had talked ourselves out about Tim and what little we really knew about the case. I think we were both content to let the few facts we knew churn around in the back of our heads for a time. When we got out to the boat, I changed into my swimsuit and dove over the side. The water was cool and refreshing, and I surfaced to float luxuriously on my back.
“You make that look too good,” Maggie yelled.
“It is,” I admitted. “I don’t deserve it.”
A few minutes later I heard a splash, and Maggie surfaced near me. The water was clear, and I had a good view of her body, barely covered by a bright, lime green bikini. We swam and just let the day’s stress leech out of us.
“I am becoming a wimp.” Maggie said. “I have trouble spending much time ashore anymore, especially in cities. This is wonderful.”
And it was. After a while we climbed out, rinsed off with warm water from her portable solar shower, and stretched out on the foredeck on great, thick towels to dry and season our skin under the sun.
When we’d had enough sun, I got out of my trunks, wrapped my towel around me settled into the cockpit with a foot-thick spy novel that promised a thrill a minute. Maggie put on some shorts and a halter-top and began to take care of some neglected boat chores. When the light began to fade, she was washing down the deck, so I went below to put on some clothes and cook dinner.
To help raise our spirits, I fixed steak and rice with steamed broccoli, and opened a bottle of Gato Negro, a lovely Chilean red wine. It was a simple meal, but Maggie is one who appreciates other people cooking for her. I appreciate being appreciated. During our best times together that dynamic had worked well for us.
We ate and watched the stars start to come out, first a faded handful, then groups, until the finale—the entire Milky Way. Maggie took the dishes below to clean up. When she finished, she put on a soft jazz CD and appeared in the cockpit with the half-full scotch bottle, glasses and an ice bucket. It had begun to get cool, and she wore a terry cloth robe.
In the soft darkness that surrounded us after she snapped off the galley light, she sat next to me and poured two stiff drinks. She handed me one, then picked up hers and sipped it as she leaned back against me, exciting me with the gentle press of her body and her intoxicating smell.
She raised her glass. “To old times.”
“Which leads me to ask...”
“Shh, drink,” she said.
“But I need to know some things.”
She took my hand and led it under her robe, against her bare skin. “Just know that right now I want you,” she whispered. “Don't talk now.”
She moved to my touch and it didn't take long for me to realize that I didn't want to talk anymore, either. I put my drink on the cockpit table, then took hers and put it there, too. Then I eased her out of her robe. It had suddenly gotten much warmer. If she was trying to drive away every thought but those of her body out of my mind, well, the woman was doing a damn good job of it.
CHAPTER FOUR
That night I dreamed of sunsets that lit up the skyline with brilliant livid colors, and of mustachioed policemen who made it clear they thought I was a master criminal but were too polite to arrest me. Then, just before dawn, I woke with a start, snapped from sleep by a ringing sound. It took a moment for me to get my bearings and when I did, I found I was snuggled up against Maggie’s naked back in her bed.
A halyard that had come loose caused the ringing. As it blew in the morning breeze, the snap slapped against something metal.
Well, let it slap, I thought and relaxed back enjoying Maggie’s soft, warm skin against me. I lay quietly and the sound of her regular breathing, made me excited all over again.
As I caressed her, she began to wake. She stretched, reaching one arm to the open hatch above the bunk in the forepeak that was our bed. She smiled sleepily, then rolled onto her back, raising her arms to me, pulling me to her, starting the morning much as the night had ended.
When we had exhausted our passion, we clambered through the hatch naked for a refreshing morning swim, followed by a breakfast in the cockpit that was massive enough to satisfy the appetites we had worked up.
As we ate, I heard the morning screech of the local green parrots as they flew from their nesting trees to hunt for fruit. The sounds, the scenery were pleasant and restful, but my body began to tense. I knew this tension came from the clash between this idyllic, sybaritic morning and the reason I had come to Venezuela in the first place. Part of me felt stupidly guilty for being here enjoying myself with Maggie while Tim was in jail. Another part of me knew that helping Tim didn’t mean I had to forgo any of life’s pleasures while I did it.
Some of my guilty feelings bubbled from that uncertain well I call my subconscious. Tim was counting on my help, but I didn’t have a clue about what to do, either to spring him or prove his innocence. When I confessed these dark thoughts to Maggie, she laughed.
“You always did have a problem with duty,” she said.
“No, I don’t. I always do what is right.”
“Exactly. And you are obsessed with it. Don’t you realize, even now, that that’s the reason, one reason that I left?”
“You left because I did what was right? That doesn’t make sense.�
�
“I didn’t say it did. You felt obligated toward me. You needed to help me make my charter business work. You felt obligated to make me happy. Martin, your sense of obligation was driving me nuts.”
“I don’t understand. You left because I was trying to help you?”
She kissed me. “And you never will understand, but I’ll take the time to give you a capsule lesson anyway. Call it Maggie’s perspective on life with Martin. We were having a lovely time. We did things together and wonderful things in bed. You decided this gave you duties toward some abstract ‘us’ and tried to make over my business into something more than the laid-back, fun gig it was.
“Like last night you were about to ask me about us. I didn’t want us. I wanted you to want me, for us to make love. And, for the record, it was after hours, so you were off the clock with Tim.”
I thought about it. “So, you have no desire to be a couple?”
“Just in bed, coupling. Otherwise, I kind of like the idea of Maggie and Martin as separate entities who like each other really well and get together for fun and games when they can.” She looked out at the cut that ran from Mochima out to the Caribbean Sea. “That’s what I like about the sailing life itself, you know. It is seldom the same experience twice. It is always fun to learn if you will actually catch a fair breeze or if you are in for a tough slog to windward, no matter what the weather report said. Sometimes sailing is nothing but hard work, and sometimes everything goes so well that it is boring, but when it is exciting or exotic, it is extremely so. And the charter business is that way too—feast or famine, most of the time. That suits me real well. Many people don’t like the high, highs and low, lows. They want the safe centerline. I’m not that way, and it isn’t really part of your nature, either, although you work damn hard to make it part of you. I love the spontaneous you. The well-intended planner bores me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this?”
She laughed. “Oh, I tried, my love. I tried telling and showing. But finally, I had to leave to get your attention, and maybe I needed time to get my thoughts on us sorted out into words. I knew all this in my bones, not my head.”
