Mexican Booty: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 2)

by J. J. Henderson

  MEXICAN BOOTY

  ALSO BY J.J. HENDERSON

  The Lucy Ripken Series

  Murder on Naked Beach

  The X-Dames

  Lucy’s Money

  Sex and Death: The Movie

  Utah

  Lost in New York

  Mexican Booty

  J.J. Henderson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 J.J. Henderson

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Sarah Caley LLC, Seattle

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  PHOTO FAKERY

  "Skreeeeehonnnkkkk..." The roar of a T. Rex, bellowing in frustration as it watched its dinner, a fat Brontosaurus pup, lumber across the primeval swamp to safety beneath its mother's belly echoed through Lucy Ripken's loft and woke her with a start. Damn, she thought, denied the refuge of her dreams. Another gridlock. Will it ever end? "Skroooonnnnnnkkkk!" The dinosaur played a variation. Lucy muttered, "damn," then threw the covers off. She lay naked for a moment, watching the white walls, and listening to the roar that rose up from below, from the perpetually jammed intersection of Broome and Broadway, SoHo, New York City. It was no dinosaur howling but the illegally roaring air horn of an eighteen wheel behemoth, hauling garbage—New York's chief early 21st century export— from Long Island to Ohio.

  With a sigh Lucy swung her feet off her sleeping platform onto the cool, dirty white linoleum floor. She grabbed her frayed silk robe—the one covered with red roses and silver surfers—slipped it on, and padded over to her desk to fire up the computer. She walked to the other end of the loft, put on coffee water, did her ablutions, strolled the length of the loft snapping up the window shades, and then sat before the machine. The thing hummed softly, ready for action.

  What action? That was the problem. She didn't know what to write and she didn’t dare a glance at her spam-laden mailbox, for fear there would be not one single item, among the daily hundreds, that actually pertained to her. Three of the six magazines that gave her regular work had folded in the last eight months, and the other three had new editors who didn't know her from Lucille Ball. The architects who usually hired her to shoot projects were laying off staff, downsizing, and scrambling to survive the dicey economic weather. It wasn't like she could just sit down and start pounding out a novel, for God's sake. There was rent to pay.

  Yikes, rent! What was the date? She had a look at her calendar, pinned on the wall and still stuck in March. She tore it off and tracked down to the last Tuesday in April. The 27th. That meant she'd have to come up with $900 next week. Everybody told her how lucky she was to have a thirteen hundred square foot loft in SoHo for such cheap rent, but it still represented a fair chunk of cash to her. Here it was due again. Bloody landlord. Whatever she saved in rent she paid out in legal fees, anyway. The evil-tempered little creep had been trying to evict her for seven years and still the case dragged on, the loft board shuffled its feet, the lawyers filed another round of papers, and she and her fellow tenants—there were seven living units in the four upper floors of the six story building—dangled in limbo, immovable but not entirely legal dwellers in a building zoned for commerce only.

  Where Lucy lived had once been the Cherokee Zipper Company, or so the faded sign on her front door told her. It had inspired her to call her photography business Cherokee Productions. At present, Cherokee Non-Productions, since she hadn't had a paying job in three weeks, and her bank balance had reached the low three figures.

  Lucy and stared at the computer screen, fingers on the keyboard, brain blank, battling the urge to surf the web, whose waves, invariably, took her to shores she did not long to walk upon. Then the coffee pot whistled and the phone rang. She looked at the clock. 8:47 a.m. Who in New York would dare call before nine? She grabbed her phone en route to the kitchen, flipped it on, and said "Hello" into a sea of static. Lower Manhattan was the land of interference, both visible and invisible.

  "Hi, Lucy?"

  "Yeah?" She poured hot water over the last of her Blue Mountain blend, and sucked up the fragrance of Jamaica.

  "Hi, it's me. Rosa."

  "Rosa! Hey, sorry I didn't recognize your voice. Why are you calling at—what is it, six a.m. out there?"

  "Nah, it's nearly seven, Luce. Gotta hit the trail early, know what I mean?"

  "Right. The trail." She meant it literally. Rosa Luxemburg, one of her closest friends, had fled New York for Santa Fe, New Mexico, that adobified antique boutique for trust fund mystics and New Age artistes. Rosa had fallen in love with a drop-out lawyer from California on a trek out west last summer, and now she was gone. Gone riding everyday, formal English style, for that's what she'd loved to do, when she wasn't throwing paint around her studio down the street: chase fake foxes through the forests of Westchester and New Jersey on her horse. Only now it was Santa Fe. She'd traded in the fake foxes for real coyotes, and the Broome Street studio for a lawyer with a little house in the high desert. He played and taught golf and wanted to write, like everybody else. Rosa rode horses and made art, cruising on cash her father had made in plumbing fixtures. Her grandparents had been Commies of the Trotskyite persuasion, but then, so had lots of Lower East Side grandparents back in the Red Old Days. Rosa, on the other hand, was rich. "So what's up, Rosita?" Lucy said, pouring coffee.

  "Same old shit. Get up at dawn, ride through the desert, work in the studio. It's a tough life."

  "Yeah, I bet," said Lucy, wandering back to the computer. "How's Darren?"

  " Oh, he's fine," Rosa said. "I'm teaching him to ride, he's giving me golf lessons. The sex is great."

  "Not surprising. You're still in the preliminary rounds." God, trust fund life was rough. But she did love the girl. "So how's your work coming along?"

  "Not bad, Luce. I'm doing these cloud paintings on faded wood. Found objects. The desert's really inspiring. God, I am so glad I got out of there, I tell you. When you're in New York you think you can't ever leave, and then when you leave you can't imagine what took you so long. Know what I mean?"

  "I’m glad you’re working again, Rosa. You’re a talented girl."

  "Hey, thanks. Listen, I'm on to something I thought you might be interested in. How's business, anyway?"

  "About the same as when you left. There isn't any."

  "Good. I mean—not good, but you'll be happy to hear this. Look, Darren met this woman down here and she's got a couple of pieces of Pre-Colombian art—artifacts from Mexico—that she just obtained, and she's sending them with a courier up to this gallery on Madison Avenue. They're putting a catalogue together and they need someone to photograph the pieces—in a rush. Darren thought you might need the work."

  "Sounds good. Who do I call?" Lord have mercy, a job. "Do they have any money?"

  "Let's just say you can charge a serious day rate. This stuff is extremely valuable."

  "Like fifteen hundred?"

  She paused. "That seems pretty steep, Luce. How about a thousand?"

  "Sure, why n
ot. It's not like I'm fighting off the clients."

  "I don’t care. I mean you could charge them five thousand a day as far as I'm concerned," said Rosa, "Except that the people that run the gallery are old friends of Darren's parents."

  "Don't worry about it, Rosita," Lucy said. "Either way I could use the gig. So what's the place called?"

  "The Desert Gallery. It's on Madison not far from the Whitney. You know the territory. Uptown art chic. I don't have the number here but the lady you need to talk to is called Madeleine Rooney. She’s majority owner and runs the place. Has the money. Husband's a Wall Street guy. Darren tells me she looks like she eats once a month. She's expecting your call. It's a rush, too. I think you'll probably be shooting tomorrow or the next day at the latest."

  "Great. Thanks a lot, Rosa. I really need the work."

  "Sure. And listen, this stuff is seriously pricey so don't be put off if she seems paranoid."

  "Gotcha. She wants to skin-search me, fine."

  "So how're things in New York? Finally warming up?"

  "Are you kidding? They say it's gonna hit 80 today. From winter to summer with an hour of spring."

  "Typical. Only now you can attribute it to global warming and not just shitty New York weather, huh?"

  "I guess." Lucy sighed. "You know, Rosita, I can't believe you're actually gone. I walk past your building and want to cry sometimes. All my friends are cutting out, and I feel so stuck."

  "Come here."

  "And what, live with you and Darren? I can't afford to live there, Rosie, you know that. There's no work."

  "So how are you and Harry doing anyway?"

  "Ipswich? Fine, fine. He's—hell, why should I lie to you?" Lucy sighed. "We were doing great, and then he started drinking."

  "Drinking? I thought he was a narc."

  "He is, sort of, part time. But alcohol isn't illegal, though maybe it should be." She pictured her father, immobilized in his chair, bitterly drunk. "I guess Harry's more troubled about his brother than he likes to let on."

  "The one that died?"

  "OD'ed. Yeah. He gets on his high horse about dope, and then goes out and gets polluted on vodka and acts like its perfectly OK."

  Rosa paused. "What a drag."

  "No shit. So anyway, I told him I didn't want to see him for a while." Lucy typed "Harold Ipswich" onto her screen, deleted it, then undeleted it. She stared at the name. "So how is it, not being in New York, Rosa?"

  "Well, like I said, it's great not having to put on your armor every time you go outside, but there's an edge in New York. I miss it. People are nice here, but..."

  "Nice is not enough."

  "Exactly. Still, no real regrets. The desert is so beautiful, you just can't imagine."

  "Yeah, I bet. Well, listen, I better get on the phone with Madeleine Rooney, and then I gotta line up an assistant, and—"

  "Oh, by the way, before you call her—I think she needs someone to write text on the pieces for the catalogue as well. You know anyone who might be interested?"

  "Definitely. Beth and Quentin Washington. Remember them?"

  "Your friends at the Indian museum, right?"

  "Yeah. The next ones to leave Manhattan. Now that Hannah's getting mobile—can you believe she's almost five?—and Beth's halfway to having another one, they're ready to blow. But they know everything about Pre-Colombian art, and they always need extra cash. I'll call them."

  "Sounds good. Let me know how the shoot goes."

  "Cool. Give my love to Darren."

  "Right. And one of these days maybe you guys will meet and you'll see what I'm talking about."

  "I sure hope so. Catch you later, Rosa."

  "Bye."

  Lucy wandered into the kitchen to replenish her coffee then threw open a window. The traffic roar got instantly louder. She leaned out and looked up and down Broadway.

  Just nine and already sticky-hot. To the north the neo-Gothic spire of the Chrysler Building sparkled in the morning sun, and a steady stream of slow-moving cars flowed down Broadway. To the south, the Woolworth Building loomed, and beyond it, the hole in the sky where the towers once loomed. Five floors below, she watched her downstairs neighbor, Jane Aronstein, emerge from the building with Ross, her labrador. The landlord popped out of his office next door a second later, in his silver-haired weasel-like fashion, and he and Jane met on the sidewalk. Within seconds they were arguing. The elevator was probably stuck again.

  Lucy pulled the window shut, went back to her desk, picked up the phone, and punched in a number.

  "Museum."

  "Hi. Quentin Washington please."

  "He's at the Brooklyn Annex."

  "Then Beth."

  "Just a minute." On hold, Lucy squeezed the phone between shoulder and ear and riffled through the phone book hunting a listing for the Desert Gallery while her emissary roamed the dusty catacombs of the American Aboriginal Museum in search of Beth Washington.

  Her incoming call signal beeped. "Damn." She switched over. "Hello. Lucy Ripken. Cherokee Productions," she added quickly.

  "Hi Lucy," came a monotone voice. "That was real professional-like. Could have fooled me."

  "Who’s this?"

  "Simon. Simon Stevens. How's it going?"

  "Simon, hey. I'm on another call, but I'm glad you called. Are you busy tomorrow?"

  "Well, no, but I—"

  "You want to work?"

  "Yeah, I guess. What's the deal?"

  "I'll call you back in ten minutes. Be there." She switched to the other line. "Hello."

  "Hello?"

  "Hi. Beth?"

  "Yeah. Lucy! Hey, how're you doing?"

  "OK. How's it going up there? You busy?"

  "Me? I'm just doing my computer thing, you know, cataloguing away. But Quentin's going nuts, they've got him—oh, never mind, you know how he is."

  "The boy is tense. So how's Hannah?"

  "Fine. Except that yesterday, after four months of discussion, she decided she didn't want a kid brother or sister after all."

  "How nice for you."

  "She'll just have to—it'll be fine. I just hope this Vermont thing works out. One kid in Manhattan is manageable. Two I don't know."

  "Any word on the Vermont gig?" Quentin was shortlisted for a job curating a small Revolutionary War museum near Bennington. If he got it they were gone, from the Big City to green New England.

  "They're supposed to call next week. We're told it's a done deal, but who knows?"

  "Meanwhile, I've got something interesting happening. Remember Rosa, my pal that moved to Santa Fe?"

  "Yeah. How does she like it down there?"

  "Fine, fine. But listen." Lucy gave Beth a shorthand version of the artifacts deal.

  "Sounds intriguing," said Beth when Lucy had finished.

  "That's why I called, Bethy. It's a major rush, and I need you and Quentin's help—a little advice—on photographing the goods anyway. It's supposed to arrive at the Desert Gallery tomorrow morning."

  "The Desert Gallery! You mean that Rooney woman's in on the deal?"

  "You've heard of Madeleine Rooney?"

  "Sure. Everybody in this business has. She's the unholy terror of the Pre-Colombian art scene. God, I don't know if Quentin's going to want to get involved with her around."

  "Come on. She can't be that bad."

  "I shouldn't talk so much. You'll have to see for yourself. What time are you going there?"

  "You can't leave me hanging like that, Beth. Please! What's the skinny on Madeleine Rooney?"

  "Oh, nothing. She's just exactly what you'd expect from an upper east side lady running a Native American art gallery."

  "Meaning?"

  "She acts like she knows everything, she doesn’t give a flying fuck about the work, she buys cheap and sells high. Does it all with the most fine-tuned gall you'll ever see."

  "Sounds like fun."

  "What can I say? Get your money as fast as you can. Expenses upfront if possible."

>   "Not likely. But Rosa's fiance is a family friend, so I figure I won’t get burned."

  "Hmmm. I hope you're right. So what time tomorrow? Can we come at lunch?"

  "I assume the stuff will be there by ten. We'll have to unpack and start setting up, so lunchtime should be about right. It's at Madison and—"

  "We've been there," Beth interrupted.

  "Oh. OK. See you tomorrow. Regards to Quent and Hannah."

  "Yeah. Twelve-thirtyish, depending on the trains."

  Next she called the Desert Gallery. As she'd hoped, a machine answered. She identified herself, said she was planning to come up early tomorrow to shoot the pieces, and left her number for a callback to discuss deadlines and fees. She hung up and called Simon back. Simon wasn't a great assistant, but he was a big handsome 26-year old kid and very charming. He'd be helpful with the Rooney woman, Lucy figured. He promised to be over at eight in the morning to help load the equipment into the car. Finally Lucy called the HoSo Car Service, and after bantering with Ari the bad boy Israeli office manager for a minute she lined up a car and driver for the next morning. Once that was done she dressed and headed out in search of a Times and a little distraction. Which came in the form of a check in the mailbox, for nine hundred and seventy three dollars, for a job she'd shot almost four months back. Saved! She walked down Broadway to the bank on Canal Street, practiced her Spanish with the multi-lingual ATM, then headed up Wooster to read the paper over a decaf double espresso at the Dean & DeLuca coffee bar. A check and a job. Things were definitely looking up.

  Lucy and Simon sat in the back seat of a ruby-red late model high-end Chrysler with white fake leather upholstery cruising up Madison Avenue. "There," she said. "On the right. Behind that Checker cab." She did a quick fix with her lipstick as Ari the driver swerved across two lanes of traffic to whip into the only available curb space, in front of a fire hydrant. "Simon, can you please unload while I go in and let her know we're here." As she climbed out of the car, ran a hand through her hair, and approached the double glass front doors of the Desert Gallery, Lucy felt mildly frazzled and anxious. To be expected. The Manhattan air was nearly visible, thick and hot at 8:45 a.m. in late April. Her drycleaning hadn't been ready yesterday afternoon, and this black jumpsuit was better suited for fifty degree weather. Inside the doors waited Madeleine Rooney. Lucy had left Rooney her message and gotten one back in return, in which the woman's hoarse, smudgy voice had okayed the shoot for today and suggested they talk fees and deadlines upon arrival. Lucy hated to make such a commitment—assistant, car, gear, haul uptown—without money matters settled, but having gotten the gig through a friend, she'd decided to play it by ear.