“Ah, yes, gracias!”
After shaving and dressing, Min grabs a stack of paperwork and a chilly cerveza and settles into a recliner in a shady spot beside his pool. Mona prefers to work in the air-conditioned front leasing office, but Min, after decades spent slaving away in gloomy, windowless laboratories, will never get tired of sunshine and fresh air.
Just before lunchtime, he hears his wife approaching. She’s in the middle of a conversation with an American whose voice Min doesn’t recognize.
“Honey?” she calls as she steps onto the patio. “I’d like you to meet someone.”
Mona is standing with a tall, tan, strapping young man—at least, young to Min’s sixty-five-year-old eyes—who’s wearing sun-bleached shorts and a fraying tank top.
“Hi, David Carrera,” the man says, giving Min a firm, two-handed shake. “A pleasure.”
“He’s a real estate developer from Hawaii,” Mona explains.
“Born and raised. I wouldn’t call myself a developer, though. I’m retired, like you guys. And looking to put some money into Mexican properties.”
“Retired at your age?” Min asks, both impressed and a tiny bit envious. “Let me guess. You were one of those techie dot-com guys or something.”
David laughs. “Not even close. Professional surfer.”
David and Mona pull up recliners next to Min’s, and for the next hour, the three talk business over a round of beers. It’s quickly clear to Min that David is relatively new to the international real estate–investment game. But the way he tosses around terms like amortization, alternative minimum tax, and housing-loan trust tells him that his new friend might have more access to some real cash reserves than his beach-bum persona would suggest.
“Well, this has just been awesome, guys,” David says. “So informative. I think I could really see myself investing in a community like this. And spending some time here.”
“How about you start tonight?” Mona asks brightly.
“Great idea!” says Min. “We’ve got plenty of space. Our friends the Gordons are in casita dos, and the Feinsteins are in tres. But cuatro’s empty. Some light fixtures aren’t installed yet, and the stove isn’t hooked up, but the master bedroom suite is all set. Stay, David. Have dinner with us. Spend the night. Get a feel for the place.”
David considers the generous offer. “I’d love that. Thank you. But maybe we could share a meal tomorrow? I was thinking of checking out the bars in Puerto Vallarta tonight.”
Mona clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Oh, David, you’d just hate it down there. It’s a zoo. Nothing but college girls on spring break getting drunk and going wild.”
David’s lips form a thin, almost imperceptible smile. “You’re right. Sounds terrible.”
CHAPTER 29
May 2003
MIN HAS JUST CRACKED open a beer by the pool when he hears the phone ringing inside his casita. Grumbling, he goes in and answers it.
“Hello, Min? It’s Lou. Are you sitting down?”
Lou Feinstein is one of Min’s closest friends. He and his wife stayed with Min and Mona at Costa Custodio recently, but now they’re back home in Florida.
“Of course I’m not sitting down. I just walked over to get the phone.”
“Well, take a seat somewhere. I’ll wait. You’re not going to believe this.”
“Just tell me, Lou. What is it?”
“Are you familiar with the program America’s Most Wanted? Gloria and I were watching it last night and we recognized one of the people—David!”
“David? David who?”
“David. You know, that nice young fellow we had dinner with. They say he’s some kind of crazy sex pervert from California.”
David Carrera? Now Min remembers him; the image is as clear as the water in his pool. He was the friendly, flaky, would-be real estate investor who’d spent a few nights at one of their casitas, though he hasn’t come around since.
“You need to get your eyes checked, Lou. David’s a surfer from Hawaii.”
“Min, I’m telling you. His family’s loaded and he’s wanted by the FBI. Look it up!”
Min loves his friend, but the old man is starting to lose his marbles. He ends the call with a chuckle and tries to put it out of his mind.
But later that day, his curiosity gets the better of him.
Mostly to prove Lou wrong, Min navigates to the FBI’s Most Wanted page—and nearly falls out of his chair when he sees David’s mug shot staring back at him.
The man’s real name is Andrew Luster. Min does some further research online and learns that Andrew was convicted of over eighty drug and rape charges, and he’s been missing for four months. Min also stumbles across a video of a burly, fiftyish man with long blond hair who claims to be a bounty hunter and has vowed to track Luster down and bring him to justice no matter where in the world he is.
That’s when Min remembers something else.
The last time they saw each other, he and David had exchanged contact information. Neither man ever reached out to the other, and Min assumes that slip of paper is long gone, but after a bit of rummaging, he finds it buried under a stack of files on his desk. David had scribbled down the phone number of what he said was an office he’d rented in the nearby city of Tepic.
Min breathlessly tells his wife everything, and the two debate what to do.
Mona wisely suggests calling the FBI’s field office in Mexico City. After numerous fruitless attempts, they finally get a special agent on the line, but he seems skeptical of their story and sounds annoyed when he says, “We’ll look into it.”
Next they try the U.S. consulate in Guadalajara but manage only to leave a voice-mail message—which gets cut off in the middle.
A call to the local Mexican police headquarters is even less successful.
Min has half a mind to give up. He tells Mona that they have already wasted too much time trying to share their information with law enforcement agencies.
“Wasted?” Mona exclaims. “Honey, you read what that man did. He’s a maniac! Those poor women. How awful. And don’t forget, he lied to us too. We’re a part of this now whether we like it or not. We need to help catch him!”
Min sighs. He knows his wife is right. But what more can they do?
Then he gets a crazy idea. He reopens his web browser.
“Dear? I want you to watch this video I found …”
CHAPTER 30
June 2003
¿BUENO?”
“David? Is that you? This is Min Labanauskas. How are ya?” Min holds his breath as he waits for the man on the other end of the phone to respond.
“Oh, hey there, Min. I’m good. You?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve been better. That’s why I’m calling. It’s one of my major investors. You’re in the real estate business, so you know how it is. He’d been in for a bunch of units, but then his shipping business went under. So he’s pulling out—and leaving me up shit’s creek. It’s a whole mess.”
“That sucks, Min. You just never know who you can trust these days.”
“Tell me about it,” Min says. “Anyway, I remembered you’d been keen on owning a piece of Costa Custodio. Well, today’s your lucky day. I can give you pretty much as many units as you want for seventy cents on the dollar. You’d be doing me a real favor.”
“Really? That cheap? Does sound like a pretty good deal.”
“Listen, why don’t you come by later? We can catch up, have a few beers, and I’ll run some numbers for you.”
“Actually, that would be great. I was thinking of going surfing in Punta de Mita later anyway. I’ll stop by afterward.”
“David, you’re a gem! See you when I see you.”
Min hangs up the phone and flashes a thumbs-up to the man next to him.
“You did good, Mr. L. Real good.” The scratchy baritone belongs to Duane Lee Chapman, a barrel-chested beast of a man who goes by the nickname “Dog” and looks like he just climbed out of a
professional-wrestling ring. He sports a teased blond mullet that flows down past his shoulders, wraparound Oakley sunglasses, spray-tanned skin, and a giant gold-chain necklace.
Dog flew in last night from his home in Honolulu, but he didn’t come alone. With him is his wiry twenty-seven-year-old son, Leland, and Tim, his standoffish “blood brother”—whatever that means.
He also brought along a film crew: three camera operators, two field producers, a sound mixer, and a production assistant.
Min had reached out to this former bail bondsman turned bounty hunter after seeing the video he’d posted online pledging to find Andrew Luster.
Unlike the Feds, Dog took Min’s story seriously right away. He agreed to come to Mexico, locate Luster, and bring him to justice, but only if Min and Mona participated in the filming. Dog is hoping to sell a reality-TV series about his life to an American cable network, and footage of him capturing one of the richest and most notorious sex offenders in the world might help make that Hollywood dream a reality.
Min and Mona were dubious, to put it mildly. But what other choice did they have?
“So now what?” Mona asks. “We all just sit around and wait?”
“Pretty much, ma’am,” Dog answers. “We’ll stay out of your way as best we can. When Luster shows up, you all just act natural. Bring him out here to the pool like last time. Me, Leland, Tim, and the crew—we’ll all be hiding. Over there, there, and there. When the time is right, we’ll jump out and bag him, cameras rolling—and the Lord willing.”
Min can’t believe what he’s hearing. It’s nuts. “What happens if something goes wrong?” he asks. “What if David—I mean, Andrew—resists? What if he’s carrying a weapon?”
Dog snickers. “A surfer-bro trust-fund kid? I think I can handle him.” He pulls a can of mace from his utility belt and what looks like a metal flashlight attached to a pistol grip. He presses the trigger. Buzzzz. It’s a stun gun.
Mona and her husband trade anxious looks. What the hell have they gotten themselves into?
There’s no turning back now. Andrew should be arriving in just a few hours.
But he doesn’t.
CHAPTER 31
June 18, 2003
ANDREW LUSTER FLUTTERS OPEN his eyes, but he can’t see much of anything.
He looks around the small, dark room he’s lying in, trying to get his bearings.
He groans and rubs his pounding forehead.
He always forgets. He’s getting older; at thirty-nine, he can’t drink as much as he used to.
But the fun he had last night was worth it—and the proof is the beautiful naked woman passed out next to him in his bed.
When he’d fled California for Mexico six months ago, Andrew was afraid he’d feel homesick. Unsatisfied. Adrift. He was worried he’d miss his former lifestyle, especially the easy access he had to an unlimited supply of impressionable girls.
But then he ended up in Puerto Vallarta, a party town that makes Santa Barbara look like a retirement village. Its waves are bigger. Its bars stay open later. And its women—American spring-breakers and locals alike—are some of the hottest and wildest he’s ever seen.
Andrew might be a wanted felon, but, ironically, he’s never felt freer. He wouldn’t go back to the U.S. now even if he could.
“Hey, chica. Wake up. Despierta.”
He nudges the snoring young Mexican woman with smooth, hazelnut-hued flesh who’s wrapped up in the white bedsheets.
When all she does is grumble, Andrew, completely naked, gets out of bed and throws open the curtains. Midday sunlight floods in, illuminating the rows of empty liquor bottles and heaps of dirty clothing strewn about his cramped, dingy motel room.
It’s not the Four Seasons, but it sure as hell beats prison.
Andrew traipses across the ugly shag carpeting to the dresser. He picks up a half-smoked joint, lights it, and takes a drag just as his room phone rings.
“¿Bueno?”
“David! Min Labanauskas here. Glad I caught you. Thought you might be away from your desk having lunch or something.”
Andrew glances at the dusty clock-radio on his night-stand: 1:08 p.m. “Nope. Working hard. What’s up?”
“Why don’t you tell me? You’ve stood us up every day this week.”
“Yeah. Sorry about that. Things at the office have been a little crazy.”
“Hey, I get it. You’re a busy guy. But, listen, those units I told you about? I might have some outside interest. Which is great news. But I still want them to go to you. I can go as low as sixty-five.”
“The thing is, Min, I’ve been thinking—”
“Fine—sixty. Final offer.”
Andrew takes another puff of pot. For a while, he was considering parking some cash in a real estate venture down here. But the more he thought about it, the riskier it seemed. Too much of a paper trail. Besides, Andrew wants to stay liquid—and mobile—in case he has to make a run for it again. “I appreciate the offer, man. I really do. I just don’t think it’s for me anymore.”
“Hmm. I’ve got an idea. Remind me, where are you staying these days?”
“I’m in Puerto Vallarta. Got a nice little room at the Motel Los Angeles.”
“I’m sure it’s lovely. But I betcha it’s nothing compared to Costa Custodio.”
Andrew grunts. That’s an understatement.
“Come back and spend a few more nights with us. Remember why you loved this place so much. If you’re still not interested after that, I’ll never mention it again. Promise.”
Andrew rubs his eyes. This Min guy just won’t leave him alone.
He takes a final drag on his joint, now burned down to a nub, and drops it into an empty Corona bottle.
When Andrew looks up, he sees that the beautiful Mexican girl he brought home last night is awake and sitting up in bed. She’s staring at him, smiling seductively. She beckons him over with her finger, then slips that finger between her legs.
“Sorry, Min. I gotta go.”
CHAPTER 32
AROUND NINE O’CLOCK THAT evening, Andrew starts to get hungry. His hangover has more or less worn off, and he wants to put some food in his belly before he fills it up later with more booze.
He’s got a hankering for beef tacos, and the best ones around here come from a tiny stand on Calle Honduras, just off the beach, about a mile away. He could walk, but he decides to drive. After showering and slipping into the cleanest shirt he can find on his floor, Andrew hops into the beat-up silver Dodge Dart he recently bought for a few hundred dollars and heads out.
He turns onto one of the busy main roads through the city and rolls down his window. The rush of the breeze is cool and invigorating.
Andrew glances in his rearview and notices a gray Buick sedan cruising a few car lengths behind him. He doesn’t think much of it. But after a few blocks, when Andrew turns left down a side street, the Buick does too.
Strange.
Just to prove to himself that he’s being paranoid, Andrew makes another left turn, heading back in the direction he came.
Again, so does the Buick.
Okay, now his suspicions are raised. His senses are on high alert.
Andrew tries to make out the plates, but it’s too dark to get a good look. He can’t see the driver either. Is it the U.S. Marshals? The FBI? The Mexican federales?
How the hell did they find me?
Doesn’t matter. Andrew’s only goal right now is to get away without drawing too much attention or causing a scene.
Thinking fast, he decides to see what the pursuit vehicle does when he throws it a curveball.
First, he turns back onto the busy main road, going in the opposite direction.
Sure enough, the Buick stays on his tail like a shark silently stalking its prey.
Two blocks later, Andrew makes his move. Without signaling, he cuts the wheel hard to the right and slams on his brakes. Other cars honk furiously as he comes to a screeching stop on the shoulder of the road.
To Andrew’s surprise, the Buick keeps on driving.
It passes him, and he sees a middle-aged woman in the driver’s seat and two giggly little girls in back before it disappears down the road.
Andrew exhales. False alarm.
Feeling a little foolish, he pulls back into traffic and resumes his trip. Minutes later, he parks his car down the street from the taco stand, walks over, and gets in line.
There’s a decent-size crowd of both locals and tourists milling around on the beach and the promenade, their voices and laughter wafting through the warm night air. Andrew looks out at the ocean, shimmering in the moonlight. Still feeling on edge from earlier, he shuts his eyes, trying to hear the calming sound of the waves over the din of the street.
Suddenly, he hears something else.
Squealing tires.
Slamming doors.
Andrew turns and opens his eyes.
A brawny giant with a flowing blond mane is charging right at him.
So are about six other men, some of whom are holding … video cameras?
Andrew barely has time to register this bizarre scene before the blond man grabs him around his waist and tackles him to the ground.
“Andrew Stuart Luster,” the man screams, “you’re under arrest in the name of the United States government and Mexico!”
Before Andrew can respond, he feels several more people pounce on him and roughly cuff his hands behind his back. Then multiple pairs of arms scoop him up and start hauling him away.
“Stop!” he screams. “¡Déjame! I’m being kidnapped! Help! ¡Ayuda, ayuda!”
But it’s no use.
Andrew is dragged—thrashing and kicking, writhing and screaming—across the pavement and thrown into the back of a black SUV.
It peels off into the night.
CHAPTER 33
HANDCUFFED, BLINDFOLDED, ABDUCTED— Andrew has never been more terrified in his entire life.
Murder of Innocence (Murder Is Forever) Page 8
