Death Benefits (A Martin Billings Story Book 2)

by Ed Teja

  I agreed with him about the degeneration of the language and left to find an edible lunch in a more amiable atmosphere.

  # # #

  Puerto La Cruz, being a city of sunshine, has a fair number of open-air eateries. The street vendors fade away as the sun rises, to return in the cool of the evening, but there are many establishments that are open all day.

  Señor Pollo (Mister Chicken) is a popular place that has tables and plastic chairs. They have decent roast chicken, papas fritas, and cafeteria service.

  They don't sell any drinks except for water and the sickly-sweet bottled drinks Venezuelans seem to adore. I bought a bottled water to go with my meal. When the food was ready, I took a seat.

  I was hungry and tucked into the chicken eagerly.

  "Mind if I join you," a pleasant female voice asked in English. I heard a Germanic twist to the words. I looked up to see the mystery woman holding two bottles of beer. She put one on the table in front of me and sat down, taking a big drink of hers. Then she put her beer down on the table and looked at me.

  "Tailing is thirsty work," she said.

  She had a stern face. You wouldn't call her pretty, but she had a strange attractiveness about her.

  "I suppose it is. Thirsty, I mean. Is that why you stopped in? Just to tell me?"

  "No. I stopped in to say that Simon Riche is dead," she said. Her voice had that matter-of-fact quality to it that people use when they say that the day is hot, but it made the hairs stand up on my neck.

  "He's dead? Are you sure?"

  She nodded. "Certain."

  I raised an eyebrow and she nodded. "I am sure because I killed him."

  That seemed to settle the matter.

  "Are you telling me for a reason, beyond simple gloating? I could have gone all day without hearing that."

  She frowned. "I am not gloating. I am telling you so you will stop looking for him and so I can find out what you are looking for."

  "Finco," I said.

  "What?" she asked.

  "Finco. I assumed you searched Simon's room and saw the paper."

  She thought for a moment, then smiled. "Yes, of course. Finco."

  "That's correct." Her hesitation made me realize that she hadn't seen the paper.

  After a moment she let out a breath. "If that was in his room, I have to admit I missed it. That would have confirmed what I expected, but I needed the rest."

  "The rest?"

  "The key."

  I was getting more confused. "And you got the key?"

  "Yes," she said. "Simon had it in his pocket." She said the words confidently, but she didn't look as certain. I had to wonder.

  "I hope that those things gave you all that you wished for."

  She grinned. "Yes. I must say that it was everything I'd hoped for. More, actually."

  "And you had to kill him to get it?"

  "I would have killed him anyway, of course."

  "Of course," I said. "Actually, not of course. Why would you kill him?"

  "Drink the beer before it gets warm," she said. When I took a long drink, she smiled. "I killed Simon Riche because he set me up. He made it look as if I took the money he stole. I decided that if I was going to be chased for the money, I would make sure I got it. I killed him to prevent him from killing me."

  "But he was hunting you to get the money."

  She laughed. "He certainly gave a good performance. The truth is that he needed people to see me trying to disappear. If I'd given him an opportunity to kill me somewhere that would make it easy to dispose of the body, he would have taken it and claimed to be looking for me. In the short term, he was content to have me on the run while everyone was thinking that you and he were chasing me down."

  "I was."

  "Yes, I know. But not now. Now you are looking for Simon."

  "And you say he is dead."

  She nodded. I looked into her eyes. They were deep eyes, and cold. I couldn't remember looking into the eyes of a killer before, not knowing I was doing so anyway. I have to admit it unnerved me. Her eyes sucked me in, showed me nothing in return. They were empty the way a black hole is empty.

  "And so, after killing Simon, you decided you'd just drop in and say hello?"

  "No. Now that I have what I want, I intend to really disappear. I can't change what Simon's former employer thinks, but now I have some resources. I want to make sure you don't start looking for me again," she said. "It wouldn't be a huge problem for me, having you chasing me down, but it would amount to an annoyance that I couldn't allow. Your clumsier efforts might attract unwanted attention. So, I'd prefer you forgot that I ever existed."

  "I see." I did. She looked away for a moment, glancing at the street, and the spell broke. I realized that if you ignored the eyes, she seemed ordinary. By keeping her face turned away, she could become invisible. "I think that forgetting you existed would prove difficult," I said.

  "How flattering. But you should try very hard. Keeping me in mind will get you nothing but trouble."

  "Trouble like the kind in the alley?"

  She shook her head. "That was just a love tap. I was watching for Simon but you showed up instead. I walked away but you wouldn't let go. That stubbornness is a problem. I'm afraid that this time I would have to resort to more permanent measures." She held out her hands. "Even if you succeeded in catching me, what would you gain?"

  It seemed that everyone was trying to get me to answer that question.

  "Justice?"

  She thought it over. "For whom?"

  "Walker? His wife?"

  She laughed. "His wife now has more money than she ever has had in her life, thanks to me. Walker is not mourned by anyone. I don't think he deserves your idea of justice."

  "You get to decide that?"

  "In this case, I think I do. Besides, would it be justice if you killed me? Your friend framed me for something I didn't do. So, assuming you could have done anything to save him, how does letting him get away with a crime become more just than letting me get away with one? Does that even things up somehow? Even if Walker does deserve some kind of justice, why should you risk your life—and make no mistake about the stakes—to avenge a man you don't know?"

  It was a fair question.

  "Maybe it's a matter of honor," I said.

  "Such nobility comes at a high price," she said. "And your thinking is muddled. You are playing a game with no point. Who would you give your evidence to? The official reports state that he was killed by bandidos. The case is closed. The authorities are the ones who make this kind of determination and it is not for you or me to contradict them. That is not our role. Whether that strikes you as fair or not, the world works in that way."

  "And what is your role?"

  "You know that."

  "It isn't totally clear."

  "I was hired to do a job—to kill a wayward husband."

  "His wife hired you?" I hated showing my surprise and seeing the smile spread across her face, but it caught me off guard. "How did she contact you?"

  She smiled. "She? The wife? She didn't."

  "But then..."

  "I've never met her. Simon made contact. He said she had asked him to have Walker killed. It was a simple enough exercise. He told me she wanted or needed his life insurance payout. He wanted the boat burned because, he said, he and the woman were greedy. The life insurance wasn't much but the boat was heavily insured, and she hated it."

  "And the girl?"

  "I didn't know about her until I went on board. I saw her with him at the marina, but I didn't know they were going off together. It was something Simon omitted. When I found she was going along, I decided that the wife was happy to be getting back at both of them as well as getting a payday."

  "And then you heard about the money?"

  She nodded. "The word was on the street quite soon."

  "You think Simon made sure of that?"

  "Of course. He
told me to burn the boat so it would look like I had stolen it. He double-crossed me in a foolish manner. We could have made an arrangement that would have been suitable. I don't mind taking the blame if I am paid for it, but he cheated me and I extracted a price for it."

  "You killed him."

  "Yes. And took the money. Now I wish to put that incident behind me and move on."

  "Move on?"

  "I have job offers in places far away from here. I might even take a vacation. I've earned it and I can afford it." She leaned across the table and stole a soggy papa frita from my plate and popped it in her mouth. She licked the grease from her fingers and smiled at me. "Mister Billings, I am going to tell you something. I think I like you. It surprises me. I don't like many people. Perhaps I am just intrigued by your odd idealism, but I am going to offer some advice now, simply because I like you."

  "I'm listening."

  "Put this entire mess behind you and move on. It seems you came here to do a job. You have done it and now you should go. Your friend Simon cheated a number of people and if you stay here you will find yourself in a hornet's nest. From this point on, you will be more of a target than a detective. You aren't particularly well-suited as either."

  "You want me to go home."

  She stood up. "I came here with the intention of saving you a futile search for the worthless body of the worthless Simon Riche," she said. "The truth is that you can't help him now and it would be nicer for me and healthier for you if you allowed things to cool down. Let life return to what passes for normal. For your sake, I do hope you will take my advice."

  She picked up her bottle and swallowed the rest of her beer.

  "I must go pack."

  "One thing..." I said.

  "Yes?"

  "What is Finco?"

  She rolled her eyes. "Finco? Oh yes. You said you found a note. I was surprised that he wrote that down. I expected him to be more of a professional and didn't look for notes. But then, I suppose I should have found it so that you wouldn't. So, he and I both made a mistake. Not that it will help you, but Finco is a well-known company in Brazil. A sheet-metal company."

  "What does that have to do with any of this?"

  She stood and smiled. "Well, for one thing, they manufacture the storage lockers you'll find at the airport. You'd be surprised at the interesting things people leave in those lockers."

  And then she was gone, blending smoothly into a crowd where she should have stood out like a gecko in an ant farm.

  I looked after her, letting her statement roll around in my otherwise empty head. Simon had left the missing money at the airport in a locker. She'd killed Simon for the key.

  # # #

  I took my time making my way back to the office, enjoying the reasonably fresh air and trying to untangle my thoughts from a world of intrigue and the insanity of chasing after money that people would kill to get back.

  Hell, in my way I'd been chasing it too, and I wasn't even after it other than as a clue to what had happened. These people chose an odd and scary way to live. The ones who survived all lived like feral cats, one ear cocked, listening for the strange sound or movement that meant danger.

  In a way, they were snobs. They thought they were better than the rest of us, and I suppose that was true when it came to killing. They weren't any better at dying, though. At least it didn't seem that way.

  Consuela wasn't at the office, but she'd left the door unlocked. Beyond a little bit of cheap office furniture, there wasn't anything there worth stealing now. I sat at Walker's desk in the backroom, staring at the print that hid the safe, or made it more obvious, if you knew there was a safe in the office.

  I wanted to see if I could imagine what the hell Walker had really been intending. He had held the money and was stalling James on the deal. Maybe he was thinking of an escape plan. Or maybe he was just a sucker after all.

  My hunch was that he was a womanizer and a cheat in business, but no worse a villain than that. I doubted that he had intended to double-cross whoever actually owned the money.

  Of course, I only had Simon's word for the fact that the money had been in Walker's safe in the first place. For all I knew, the mob guy gave it to Simon to give to Walker and he'd put it straight in the airport locker and waited for a chance to make it look like some evil villain had made off with the money.

  Despite my murky thoughts, I wasn't surprised when the phone rang. I thought it might be James, but the familiar voice I heard sent a chill through me. Although the voice was weak and strained, the words breathy, it was Simon. He sounded terrible but actually pretty good for a dead guy.

  Simon didn't bother with any pleasantries or explanation. "Would you mind coming by my place, old man?" he asked. "I need to talk to you about your choice in luncheon companions. I also need a favor of you. I understand you've been here before, so I won't annoy you by giving you the address."

  "Now?" I asked.

  He chuckled. "Yes, I think it had better be as quickly as you can make it, as a matter of fact. When you arrive, I suspect you'll agree that the saying, 'there is no time like the present' is particularly apt."

  Bill and Consuela came in the office door as I slipped out from behind the late Walker's desk.

  "What's up?" Bill asked.

  "I got a call from Simon. He seems to be having an emergency situation. He wants my help. I'm inclined to think he needs it."

  "And why do you believe him?"

  "Because he is dead, after all."

  Bill started to laugh but then saw I was serious. He swung the door open. "I'm going with you," he said. "You can give me the story with subtitles on the way."

  I grabbed a taxi in front of the office, and we piled inside, with me more or less shouting the address at the poor driver and telling him to hurry.

  Simon's normal sense of understatement was bad enough, but with reports of his death circulating, I had to assume it was operating in high gear.

  The combination of hearing his voice from beyond the grave and the reference to my lunch with his killer was compelling. He had to have been watching.

  "It could be a trap," Bill said logically once I had spit out the abbreviated version of my day about town.

  "I suppose it could be," I had to admit. "Right now, I can't think of any reason Simon would want to do me in. He knows I don't have the money. Either it is at the airport or the lady has it with her. If she told the truth, he has the money stashed away and has her nicely framed for taking it. It isn't that I think he wouldn't kill me but that he wouldn't gain anything by doing it and killing me might make his story less convincing."

  Bill bought that explanation. "He is one lazy man," he said. "Although, pretty lively for a dead one."

  We charged through the lobby. The same old man, likely in the same dirty tee-shirt, didn't bother to glance up at us. We didn’t warrant the slightest flicker of interest. He didn't even offer to sell me the information that Simon had returned. I guessed that either he didn't know, or he just couldn't be bothered.

  We went to the stairwell and I started up, taking the stairs three at a time. When I opened the door to his floor, the woman was coming out of his room. She moved unsteadily, but when she saw us, she raised her hand. She held an automatic, pointing it at us.

  "Fool," she said. "I warned you." She snapped off a shot loud enough to make my ears ring. Fortunately, her aim was wide. We flattened ourselves against the wall and she ran toward the other stairwell, at the far end of the hall. She careened from one side of the hallway to the other as she went. We ran toward Simon's door.

  As another round chipped metal from the doorframe near our heads, Bill nodded at the door. "Check on Simon. I need to explain to this woman that I think shooting at people is not very ladylike, or manly, when you get down to it."

  I pushed the door open and darted in.

  Simon lay on the bed. He was propped up against the headboard.

  "You look lik
e shit," I told him.

  He smiled.

  Simon looked pale. I'd never seen anyone quite so pale outside of an albino. I assumed that the paleness of his skin was in large part due to the large amount of blood that soaked his mattress. His chest and legs were covered in it as well, and it looked wet and sticky. In other words, fresh. There was too much for it to be all his. Some must have belonged to the woman.

  "I heard your arrival," he said as calmly as if we were at a party. "Shots fired, and all that. I take it you have met Anita in the hallway."

  "We weren't introduced properly. She didn't give her name at lunch, but I think I know her friend Glock well enough though.

  He shook his head. "You amateurs. No wonder so many criminals go unpunished in our world. The gun is a Taurus."

  "I know I said you look like shit, but I have to say that you look far better than I expected you would. Earlier she told me she'd killed you."

  He laughed, then choked and groaned. "She wanted you to believe that. Hence the lunch meeting. I was fortunate in that she exaggerated her efficacy on the first attempt. This time, however..."

  He definitely was seriously injured. "Should I call a doctor?"

  He smiled. "Fine, if that will make you feel better," he said spitting blood. "It won't do me a bit of good. I would have called one myself, rather than you if I thought it would make a damn bit of difference, but no, too much blood gone. I've seen it enough times."

  "You never know," I said.

  "I do. And if my evaluation doesn't dissuade you, then consider the fact that involving more people will likely make my former employer suspect you might know something concerning the whereabouts of the money. His money. He is very possessive about his money. You'd find him a tight-fisted and evil-spirited man, Martin. And you should bear in mind that I am one of his nicer minions, perhaps the nicest of the lot."

  "So the idea is that we skip the far too late medical intervention because it attracts unwanted attention?"

  He coughed. "Martin, I always hoped that you were smarter than you looked."

  "The sequence of events here eludes me. She told me that you were dead. She had heard about the money, figured out that you framed her for taking it, and decided to kill you and take the money."