Death Benefits (A Martin Billings Story Book 2)

by Ed Teja

  Still, seeing the effectiveness of this bit of planning impressed me. I didn't intend to try it. The image of me waltzing into the insurance company with Ugly Bill and trying to get a policy was good for a laugh.

  Sure, we'd fill out the forms. I could name my little brother as beneficiary, and Bill would probably list some poet's anonymous society or some equally esoteric beneficiary. I'm sure they'd be thrilled to have us pop in and give them money for a policy.

  But a boat, even one operated for commercial purposes, is a different animal than a regular business. For one thing, if it sinks, getting it going again is a nasty and expensive business and not for the faint of heart, as Bill likes to say.

  But planning always serves James well. He knows what he is doing; he understands his risks and takes some with no regrets and hedges others. In this case, the goal had been to keep his life simple when things went sour. He knew that Evelyn had no personal interest in the business of import and export, no experience in it, and no desire to keep a hand on the tiller.

  "She'll be delighted to learn that her late husband provided a secondary cash bonus," he told me.

  And he was right. Evelyn was delighted at the prospect of being paid a substantial amount for her share of a business that I was pretty sure she considered close to worthless. I would have thought so too.

  "Who would've known?" she asked when she saw the papers. "That ass is treating me better now than he ever did."

  Apparently, the impression that their marriage was strictly one of inconvenience did not require any adjustment.

  "He provided for you." It seemed a politic thing to say at the moment.

  "I'm sure it wasn't his idea," she said. "And he didn't pay the premiums. Still, I get it because of him, so he gets a few merit points. Too bad he wasn't Buddhist."

  "If you sign the paper that waives any claims to the business," I said.

  "That is not a problem," she said, laughing. "For that much money, I'll sign away almost everything."

  "And then?"

  She grinned at me. "I'd always wanted to see Europe. So my obliging husband dragged me to South America."

  "Not everyone is good at geography," I said.

  "Not everyone is the consummate asshole that Clyde was," she said. "He played everyone, not just me. He thought I was jealous of his affairs, but most of the time I felt sorry for the girls he picked up. He ran through them so quickly that they couldn't have gotten much out of it. If you were to tell me that some irate boyfriend or husband was the one that killed him and then torched the boat, I wouldn't be surprised."

  "Would he kill the girl too?"

  She shrugged. "Clearly I don't understand men well, or I wouldn't have gone this long thinking that one day Clyde would wake up and appreciate me."

  "Change his life?"

  Her smile was grim. "Something like that. When things are going down the tubes, somehow it is awfully easy to convince yourself they will turn around. You think that sooner or later someone you loved will see what is wrong and decide to change. All you have to do is be a little patient. I think that is the secret of lotteries. People remember the small wins and forget the steady losses."

  She was right, as far as that went.

  # # #

  I walked out into the bright sunlight struggling with mixed emotions. I couldn't shake the feeling that Evelyn was actually delighted that her husband had been killed and that it was the kind of delight that comes with being part of a successful plan.

  While I couldn't point to any redeeming qualities the man might have had, I didn't really enjoy seeing someone relish his death or create a new future as a result of it.

  On the other hand, I couldn't deny that his death resolved a number of issues, and not just for her. Whatever had happened, whoever orchestrated it, Walker's death cleared James of unhealthy business entanglements.

  As Bill had suggested, if I had been a detective looking for motives, I'd have to consider them both reasonable suspects.

  And then there was Simon. He had been overly interested in Walker and his whereabouts, to the point of tailing me just to find out who I was. It didn't seem that he had shown a great deal of interest in whether Walker was alive or dead. He only seemed to care about whether Walker had taken off with a pile of money that only Simon seemed to know about. Unless, of course, the mystery woman, our prime suspect, knew about it.

  In the strange way that the world has of materializing thoughts on occasion, I suddenly saw her. On a street in New York, I probably wouldn't have noticed her, and certainly not recognized her.

  But in Venezuela, she stood apart from the other women. Her cat-like way of walking, more stalking than strolling, was what caught my attention first. Venezuelan women walked to attract the attention of men. Still, I couldn't be positive.

  As I watched, she turned to look toward the door of Evelyn's building. The angle let me see her profile. When I saw it, I was certain. That was the angle I'd seen her from before, at the beach, when she'd been taking pictures of the boat.

  Now that I was positive it was her, I wanted to know why she was checking out Evelyn's building. Could Bill's theory about Evelyn hiring the woman to kill Walker for the insurance be right?

  It didn't seem likely that she would tell me if I walked up and asked her what she was doing, so I turned to follow her.

  In retrospect, the idea of following a person you suspect of being a professional killer is not the smartest tack you can take. Unfortunately, when you are chasing something, almost anything, you don't have the luxury of considering it in retrospect.

  The moment is there, and you seize it or it is gone. Sailors learn to trust their instincts. Unfortunately, not all sailors develop good instincts, or they mix up what they want to happen with what is actually happening.

  I see that sort of thing a lot. We all have blind spots that make other people cringe, whether it is the way you use tools, or cross the street, or something else. For me, I have few problems at sea.

  The ocean is not a particularly safe place, even though I love the life. But my instincts need a bit of work when I'm back on shore. The instincts that keep me safe on board my ship in a gale have little in common with the ones you need to investigate a murder—or track a murderer.

  Regardless of whether Bill was right about Simon not being a solid ally, at that moment I wished he was around. Simon had tradecraft. I was certain he could follow her easily and she'd never know it.

  But Simon wasn't around so I did my best to be discrete without appearing to hide. I grinned inside as it seemed to be working. I walked a distance behind her. She didn't pay me the least bit of attention as I trailed her through the streets. She looked in store windows, stopped for a coffee at a street-side vendor's cart, chatting with the proprietor amiably, and then, suddenly, vanished down an alley that separated a hardware store and a small clinic.

  I followed after her, cautiously peeking into the shadows to see if she was lurking, waiting for me to pass by. Halfway down the alley, a metal door stood partly open.

  I stuck my head around to look in through it and the world went black.

  # # #

  Real life is often such a huge letdown. In the movies, when a good guy gets whacked, and I mean whacked over the head, knocked out, not killed, there is almost always someone around when he wakes up.

  It might be a bad guy looming over him with a "gotcha!" look on his face, or the concerned look of a bystander, or even a paramedic. If he is a really good, good guy, the paramedic or bystander is a beautiful woman.

  Back in this world, where things are not as neat or cinematic, I woke up crumpled in a corner of the alley. My first bit of awareness was of an awful stink. I wasn't in the doorway where I'd been standing in my last memory of standing. Now I was tucked into a confined space.

  I moved my arms and legs experimentally, and when I was sure they worked, after a fashion, wiggled out into the alley. Someone had dumped me in the
slot between a rack of garbage cans and the filthy brick wall.

  Empirical evidence suggested that the garbage in the cans had ever been emptied. I had been lucky that the smell didn't kill me.

  As I crawled out and used the wall to get myself vaguely upright on my shaky legs, I saw I was being watched. A mangy dog on the other side of the alley stared curiously, tilting her head.

  I am sure she wondered about the games the strange gringo was playing in what she probably considered her domain.

  "If you saw what happened, I'd love to hear about it," I said.

  She just stared, lifting a foot and putting it down again impatiently.

  "Look, I was just passing through," I told her. "I'll get out of your way now."

  She shook her head and walked away. I don't know if she believed me or not, but I was happy to resume my pretense of standing without an audience. As I reviewed recent events, to the degree that my head was functioning, I found I had much to wonder about. Had the woman clobbered me?

  If she didn't, who did? I had no reason to think she didn't have an accomplice covering her back. Would they have clobbered anyone who followed her, or was it something about me that upset them?

  Okay, I didn't say they were good questions, or ones that could lead to some basic enlightenment, but they were the questions rattling around in the still-functional portions of my mind. Besides, I didn't need to come up with intelligent questions.

  As soon as Bill heard what had happened, he would ask all the hard ones, the sensible ones. At the top of his list would be something along the lines of, "are you nuts, Junior?" or a more literary variation of the same.

  It pissed me off that I wouldn't have a good answer for him.

  The light was bright on the street as I stumbled out of the alley and headed for the office. I needed a place to sit down. Maybe Consuela could be convinced to be solicitous and kind.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bill's take on Simon

  After the inevitable unpleasant discussion with Bill about my recent sleuthing effort, Bill decided to go with me to see Simon. He hadn't met him yet and it seemed like a good idea for the two to get to know each other.

  Bill was cautiously curious. He didn't care for what he knew of him, the Simon Riche that came across on the reports James had faxed us. I didn't care for some aspects of what I'd read either, even though I thought he'd been pretty open with me, considering his rather odiferous résumé.

  The typically warm and sunny day made it a pleasant walk from the office to Simon's hangout. About halfway there we stopped to get a fruit shake from a street vendor. The lady tossed papaya, melon, and pineapple into a blender, added milk and sugar, and let her rip. Then she poured the resulting drink, called a merengada, into two glasses and handed them to us.

  As we drank the rich liquid, we saw a young boy, maybe nine, throwing stones ineffectually at a dog that lay panting in the shade. This was a healthier-looking animal than the one I'd met earlier.

  Sprawled on its belly on the dirt, the dog seemed unconcerned about the stones falling around her, and looked at the boy, possibly amused by his incredibly serious manner.

  I don't like seeing people of any age torment animals. I started to walk over, intending to tell the boy to quit throwing stones and to leave the dog alone. The instant I moved, Bill put out a hand to stop me. His instincts and reactions are unbelievable at times.

  I turned and gave him my best quizzical look.

  "If the dog doesn't mind what the kid is doing, your right to object seems a bit suspect, Junior. It would seem you are interfering to please yourself, instead of to do something good for either of them."

  "The kid should learn to respect animals," I said.

  "And you giving him a hard time is going to do that?" He shook his head. "You stop him now, and he might be more determined next time. How does your disapproval of something teach the kid anything at all?"

  I had no response. After a time, the dog got up and, tongue hanging down, slowly walked away. The boy watched him leave. He looked disappointed.

  With the show over, we resumed our walk.

  When I introduced Simon and Bill inside the dark and smoky room I could see that Bill didn't take to Simon any better in person. That troubled me. It didn't matter whether or not they got along as a general matter, but I trust his judgment about people. He tends to give rather marginal people the benefit of the doubt.

  For the moment we had business to take care of that involved Simon.

  "I saw that woman again," I told Simon.

  Simon looked surprised. "Woman? Which woman?"

  "The one from Santa Fe. I saw her outside the apartment Mrs. Walker lives in."

  I braced myself for the obvious question: "Did you follow her?"

  Despite the loss of face it would incur, I opted to tell the truth. "I tried. She obviously spotted me."

  He grinned. "Did she hurt you badly?"

  "She just knocked me out."

  "She must like you."

  "My thoughts exactly. She likes me, although I don't know why she would, or even how she would know much about me, or possibly she wants me around for some reason."

  "Well, the fact that you saw her there certainly fits with my theory, doesn't it?" he asked, looking satisfied.

  "How's that?" Bill asked.

  "I would imagine that the only logical interpretation is that the wife hired this mystery woman to kill her husband for the insurance money."

  Bill watched Simon's face closely. "The Walker's didn't have much money. So how would Evelyn even get the upfront money without her husband knowing?"

  Simon didn't seem bothered by Bill's doubts. "I would imagine she got half the money upfront and now she wants the rest. Maybe Evelyn borrowed the money. I don't really know."

  Bill was having none of it. "If this woman was hired to kill Walker, and then found a ton of money on the boat, why is she still hanging around? She wouldn't need to hang around."

  "She would still want the rest of her pay. You two have had the wife under surveillance."

  "Wouldn't that be stupid greedy for a professional assassin?" Bill asked. "She has to know, or at least guess, that the money wasn't Walker's, or the wife would have asked her to bonk Walker on the head and grab it for her. If she is smart, this killer could even figure out that whoever owns that money will suspect that she has it. Someone who can leave a lot of money lying around probably has worker bees who will be following its trail."

  Simon gave him a patronizing look. I think he intended it to be a disarming smile and went wide. "I don't have all the answers; it is just a theory. Maybe she promised the killer part of the insurance money in return for her services."

  "That doesn't sound like a deal a professional would make," I put in.

  "I have no idea what sort of deal a professional killer would make," Simon said. "I am surprised you think you do."

  "Not to be argumentative, but I think you do know exactly what sort of deal a killer would make," Bill said. "Your rap sheet says that you've worked in those circles. Given the class of your clientele, undoubtedly you still do."

  Simon didn't look upset in the least. "Well, that's true. I suppose I have a much better idea that either of you about such matters, but there are as many kinds of killers as there are of anything else."

  "'The mind could stretch much further, but it seems that is not what our minds are trained for,'" Bill said.

  Simon looked at him. "What do you mean?"

  Bill grinned. "It's from a poem, Simon. It was written by an unknown, but not forgotten, poet. Put simply, it means that we can't get our brains around this situation."

  Simon looked smug. "And that is why I developed a theory, so we can test it. So we can get our brains around what is going on. Lacking any better idea, it seems that we need to locate this woman. Everything we know suggests she killed Walker and therefore she can tell us what happened to the money."

&nbs
p; Bill shook his head. "Why do we care about the money?"

  Simon looked at him. "Because it speaks to her motive."

  "Not if your theory is even close," Bill said. "Her motive was that she was paid to kill him. The money is incidental as far as our boy Walker is concerned."

  "It is still a factor."

  Bill gave him a disapproving stare. "I should have brought along a roll of duct tape so you could stick the pieces of that theory of yours together. It's a bunch of suppositions that don't amount to much of anything. I hate to think how it will sound once we have some actual facts."

  "And you have a better idea?" Simon asked. I noticed he was slightly flushed.

  "I'm beginning to form one," Bill said. "You've given me some ideas."

  "Well, at least that is something. Please share your insights with us."

  Bill stood up. "No. Not yet." He looked Simon over closely. "I need a little think time before my own theory is ready for prime time. When it is, I'll be sure to give you a chance to show me how wrong I am."

  "I can hardly wait," Simon said, sounding curt.

  "I need another merengada," Bill muttered as we went out into the bright light of another beautiful, nearly cloudless Venezuelan day. "Your treat."

  # # #

  "That woman didn't kill your ass because she is still watching and waiting," Bill said as we slurped the dregs of the fruity drinks. He said it the way you say things when you've finally worked it all out and it is true.

  "Watching? What is she watching? Me?"

  "Among others. She saw you on the beach, and figured you for a player, but can't be sure how you fit in."

  "That makes two of us," I said. "I have no idea how I fit into this either."

  "Not as a detective, for certain," Bill said. "We can take that off your résumé."

  "I'm hurt," I told him. "I thought I'd done a pretty good job with the resources I have."