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

by J. J. Henderson

  "Now what would make you think such a thing?"

  "You have to get a warrant to tap phones, Lucy. There's no way on earth you could have one. But, just to save time—of course you will have to call Mr. Wyatt back and tell him to forget that week's delay on my payment you convinced him to give you for your idiotic little investigation—I'm willing to up your photographic charges another ten thousand dollars."

  "Right now?"

  "In exchange for that tape."

  "What if there are copies? What about my photographs? What about my article?"

  "I don't think you made copies." She was right. "And none of that other business matters to me now, Lucy. I just want my insurance payment, understand?" She pulled out her check book. Lucy pocketed the tape recorder, tape still inside, and headed towards the door.

  "Your pictures are on the counter there. I'll let you know when I need to reach Mr. Lobos." She stopped at the door, and pushed it open. "Just one other thing I was curious about: where did you stash the "stolen" pieces? At your house, or at your husband's office, or where?" She didn't allow Rooney time to answer. She went out, quickly found a taxi, then blasted home.

  She made a few fast calls and on the third one scored, talking her downstairs neighbor Jane into feeding and walking Claud for a couple of days. Then she packed an overnight bag and took off for the airport, San Francisco-bound. From the airport she called home just before boarding, and changed her message to say that she was headed down to the Yucatan on assignment.

  She'd have liked Harry to be there, watching out for Claud and the rest of her life while she traveled, but he was a drunk and unreliable. That was a true fact and though she loved him, she'd have to get used to it, or give him up.

  The way she'd figured it, she could hunt the goods, but that would be tough. The "stolen" pieces could be anywhere in the greater Manhattan area, stashed in a country house in Connecticut, or wasted in the Fresh Kills Landfill, transformed, dust to dust. Or she could go after the bad guys, but this meant waiting for Harry to sober up, for she would need some quasi-legal, or at least quasi-professional, help from him and his resources, because she did not want to try and bag Partridge and Mon, or even the fish woman, on her own. They were true believers in the right to keep and bear arms, and to use them. And Harry was drunk.

  Instead she had made this choice: to attempt rescue of her friend from a disastrous relationship, and in doing so, possibly bring down one of the people responsible for the deaths of three men. One of the bad guys. But Darren did not qualify, somehow, as a bona fide bad guy. He was just enough of a sap to have let himself stumble into circumstances beyond his control. Lucy sighed. She would have to break Rosa's heart this very day.

  She landed at the San Francisco airport late in the afternoon, and called the parents' house. A man answered the phone. Lucy asked for Rosa, and she came on a minute later. "Hi, Rose, it's me. Who was that, the butler?"

  "Lucy, how are you? What great timing! I have some wonderful news!"

  "What's that?"

  "We're getting married. I mean, right away. We decided why wait? Can you get out here in a couple of weeks? It's gonna be June 11th, here at Darren’s parents’ place."

  "I'm here now, Rosa."

  "What do you mean? You're in San Francisco? What's going on?" The anxiety surfaced in her voice. "Lucy, does this have something to do with—you know, Mexico, and the art?"

  "Yeah, it does, honey. It definitely does. And to do with you too. Listen, I don't want to beat around the bush, Rosa. It's too serious. Can we meet for dinner in town?"

  Rosa hesitated. "Darren too?"

  "No. And if you don't mind, I wish you wouldn't tell him I'm here. I have my reasons. I've got to talk to you alone, Rosa."

  "Lucy, what are you up to now? I'll have to make excuses. Dinner's a pretty formal event around here."

  "Do what you have to. Please, Rosa, I wouldn't be here if it wasn't—look, you know that new restaurant with the voluptuous purple velvet and gilt interiors, supposed to be the hottest spot in town?"

  "Mohair Mohawk? Yeah, in fact Darren's father is a partner. We go there all the time."

  "Forget it then. I don't want to see anyone you know."

  "You familiar with the Tadich Grill?"

  "Yeah."

  "Let's meet there and have dinner. I'll figure out an excuse to get out of here. Seven o'clock. And Lucy, whatever you have to tell me, don't mess with my marriage plans, because they are not going to change, I don't care what the hell you tell me," she said defiantly.

  "See you at seven." Lucy put down the phone, hailed a cab, and headed into town, depressed. Lucy the homewrecker was 33 years old. Rosa was several years younger but she had practically given up on getting married until she met Darren.

  Lucy checked into a budget hotel off Market Street, freshened up and walked to the Tadich, a bit of a hike but she had half an hour and an unhappy task ahead. She strode quickly through the cool evening air, and felt quite warm by the time she reached the restaurant. She hadn't been in San Francisco in years, but she had hardly noticed the city around her.

  Rosa was sitting at the bar nursing what looked like a straight vodka. Lucy approached her. "Hi, Rosita," she said, and gave her a kiss on the cheek. "How're you doing?"

  Rosa's response was half-hearted. "I'm OK, Luce. Or should I say, I was great until you called, and now I don’t know. So let's cut the bullshit. What's the story?"

  "Nobody knows you're here?"

  "I told them I was going to a movie. Darren was playing basketball with some college buds. Kind of nice staying with the family, getting dinners cooked and all. His mom's actually really sweet."

  "Let's get a booth. Are you hungry? A glass of pinot noir, please," she said to the bartender.

  "Not really."

  "Well, we need privacy." the bartender poured her wine, and they moved to a booth. As soon as they were seated Lucy got out her tape player and set it on the table.

  "What's this?" Rosa asked.

  "A tape I want you to hear. I'm going to say this now, because I know you're going to be upset. Just listen, Rosa, and remember this isn't my fault. I'm sorry."

  "Just play the bloody thing, Lucy, for God's sake!" Rosa said. Lucy turned it on. She'd erased the first two conversations, so the Darren/Rooney conversation began immediately. They listened in silence all the way through, Lucy watching Rosa, who stared at the tape recorder.

  When it was over, Lucy turned it off, and looked at her friend's face. Rosa stared back at her, in a kind of shock. Their eyes locked. Behind Rosa's eyes, a world was crumbling.

  "What—who was—" she stopped, looked at Lucy imploringly. "Tell me that wasn't Darren, Lucy. Please. Tell me."

  "I'm sorry, honey." Tears were flowing down her cheeks. "I didn't want to do this, but—"

  "Where did you get that—why did—who made that tape? Jesus, Lucy, do you know what you've done?"

  "I didn't plan it this way, Rosey. I was going after Madeleine Rooney. After Nathaniel died, and then the so-called robbery in New York, I didn't know what else to do."

  "Robbery? What robbery?"

  Why would he have told her? "The pieces that I photographed—the fakes—were stolen a couple of days ago. Madeleine Rooney had them insured for a million dollars. She's about to collect the money—and I had to—have to stop her."

  "Why? What in the hell makes you—why is it your job to stick your neck right into the middle of this? Jesus Lucy, Darren's—"

  "He's involved, Rosa. He got involved with Madeleine Rooney, setting up the pre-Colombian deal. Then when they turned out to be fakes—that was Nathaniel's little scam, and I don't think anybody knew about it at that point except maybe Starfish—but they ended up using those Dallas thugs to do their dirty work—they found those guys through Starfish I guess—and she's related to Madeleine Rooney, Rosa!—but they...they hired those guys, so they're accessories to murder."

  "Murder? You're telling me Darren is involved in murder?"
>
  "You heard the tape, Rosa. He knows exactly who killed Hamilton Walking Wind, and Calvin Hobart, and Nathaniel Clements. My God, Rosa, he's still doing business with them after they tried to kill us. Rosa, I'm sorry, but for whatever reason, he got involved, and he's up to his neck in it. You've got to get out of here."

  "But I'm getting married, Lucy."

  "Rosa, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about this, but you simply can not marry this guy. I know it's your dream, but—he's going to be taking a fall, honey. He's probably going to be going to prison. Unless they kill me first, I have to nail Rooney, and I can’t see any way that he isn’t going to go down with her." Lucy took Rosa's hands. "Look, I've booked two seats on a red eye out of here. Tonight. You can't stay here.”

  "I have to talk to him, Lucy. I'm sure there's a reason for—I know he didn't mean to—"

  "All he meant to do was make some money. Nothing wrong with that. I don't even want to get into the ethics of the forgery scam, Rosa, because to tell the truth I don't really give a shit if the fucking hunks of clay are five days old or five hundred years old. But when they started knocking people off it turned into a different deal. One way or another Darren could have backed off at that point, and he chose not to."

  "Stop it. Just stop it, Lucy. Please." Rosa went cold. "So: what do you propose? I fly back with you? And then what? What about my life in Santa Fe?"

  "You're going to have to start over, honey. You can stay with me in New York, or you can find a different place in Santa Fe, you just do what you have to do, but what you have to do now is get out of this mess before he drags you down with it."

  Lucy carried in her purse a ten grain valium for occasions such as this. She split it with Rosa in the cab en route to the airport, and so they both zoned out intermittently across the midnight skies of America. Lucy heard Rosa's muffled crying in her waking moments, and it brought tears to her eyes as well. This was a sad thing she had done. Life was cruel at times, and this was one of them.

  They arrived home a little before noon, having wasted a couple of hours laying over in Detroit. They passed Rosa's old loft building a moment before reaching Lucy's corner. "Looks as grubby as ever around here," Rosa said as they got out of the cab.

  "Nothing's really changed," Lucy said. "The restaurant across the street went out of business, the Cuban cafe got shut down for having a casino in the basement, and two people I know got mugged on Crosby last month."

  "Jesus," said Rosa. "So nice to be back."

  They went up stairs. The message light was blinking fast.

  The first from Maggie. "Lucy, are you really in Mexico? Well, I'm back. Here in the Apple I mean. I'm staying where I told you I would be. Call me when you get this."

  The second from Kelly Wyatt. "Ms. Ripken, I have some interesting news for you. Please call me ASAP. Thanks."

  The third and fourth were hang-ups. The fifth was Harold. He sounded worn, contrite as hell. "Lucy, it's me. I know, I fucked up, I'm sorry, you probably never want to speak to me again, but call me when you do."

  The sixth was Madeleine Rooney. "Ms. Ripken, our deal is off! Off, you hear me? I don't know what the hell you told that insurance adjuster, but if things don't change fast you are going to be extremely sorry you ever—do you hear me?—ever stuck your nose into my business. Is that perfectly clear? You'll be hearing from me." Slam.

  The seventh was another hang-up. The eighth was from San Francisco. "Hello, Lucy, goddammit where are you? This is Darren and I know you—I just know you've—Rosa, are you there, Rosa did you go back to Mexico with her? Honey, don't believe that woman, she's got her own agenda, she wants to break us up, she's just jealous, you can't believe her. Please call me, honey, please." He sobbed for a moment. "Please call. It's midnight. I love you, Rosa. Please come home." He hung up.

  "Lucy, I've got to call him," Rosa said. "I've got to." She picked up the phone.

  "Don't do it, Rosa. Not now. It's too late." Rosa looked at her, and dropped the phone on the floor. She sat heavily on the sofa, put her head in her hands, and began crying softly.

  “God, I am so sorry, Rosie,” Lucy said, sitting by her and stroking her hair. “I am so sorry.”

  The next message was from Quentin. "Lucy, you can't be—what are you, crazy? If you're crazy you're in Mexico, and if you're not crazy, when you get this message call me at Martha's."

  The last message was another one from Harold. "Listen, Lucy, I don't know if you're in Mexico or not, but I can tell you who is: your friends Louie and Jackie and Starbaby. My sources are impeccable, and your pals are Merida-bound from San Francisco. My guess is they heard your machine message and headed down thataways to try and run you down. So if you're down there, baby, watch your tail, and call me when you get back. I love you, like I said before I'm sorry. Baby please, baby please, baby baby baby please."

  "Bingo!" Lucy said, and called the Vineyard. Quentin answered on the second ring. "Lucy?"

  "Yeah, it's me. Time for Plan B."

  "You mean they're down there?"

  "I'm here in New York, and they're all three en route to Merida from San Francisco, probably after me. That's why I put that message on my machine, Quentin. Run a little interference, buy some time, see if the bad boys would go for it. They did. So I guess it's time for you to do what you have to."

  "You sure you want to do this?" As he'd explained before, through art world circles Quentin knew the curator who ran the private museum for the millionaire drug dealer in Merida. As Quentin pointed out, this nouveau riche dope dealer would be quite pleased to nail a trio of lowlife gringos who had ripped him off at least once already, and were intent on doing so again. Like most Mexican millionaires, even gringo ones, the guy was well-connected with the Federales, and could easily arrange to have them busted for smuggling contraband, pre-Colombian artifacts, whatever it took to earn them some down time in a Mexican prison.

  "We haven't got any choice. They come up here they're going to be on my case and yours until they take a fall or we do. And they are serious bad boys, Quentin. You know that."

  "Yeah. OK, I'll make the call."

  "Let me know if there's a problem. Otherwise, I'd just as soon not hear another word, know what I mean?"

  "Sure. So what's the latest with Madam Madeleine?"

  "You heard about the so-called theft?"

  "Yeah. What a transparent scam."

  "Really. But apparently the insurance company bought it, last I heard. Although there's a message here from the guy there, who wants me to call. It sounds like maybe he's wised up, I don't know."

  "Keep me posted."

  "Likewise."

  Lucy called Kelly Wyatt. "Hello, it's Lucy Ripken. You called me?"

  "Yes I did. I have some rather momentous news. Can you make it in here today? Like ASAP?"

  "What's the story?"

  "I can't discuss it over the phone."

  "I'll be there in—let's see, it's nearly one. Around three OK?"

  "Copacetic." He hung up.

  "Copacetic?" She looked at the phone. "God, I hate that word." She looked at Rosa, numb on the sofa. "Want to take a ride uptown, honey?" she said while calling information and getting the number for the Waldorf.

  "Sure," Rosa said dully. "Why not?"

  Lucy got Maggie on the phone. "Hey was I glad to hear from you or what?" Lucy said.

  "You're in New Yawk? You're back from Mexico?"

  "I never went. I've been in California. Rosa's here with me. Can we come up there? We have to meet somebody in midtown in a couple of hours and I think you might want to come along anyways."

  "Come on up, I'll order room service lunch."

  "You hungry?" Lucy said to Rosa. She shook her head. "Order salads, Maggie. We'll be there in half an hour." Lucy freshened up and then gently helped sad, sorrowful Rosa out the door. Halfway down she banged on Jane's door. Jane answered. "Listen honey I'm back but I can't take—hey, pup, how are you," she interrupted herself as Claud jumped into the doorway. "H
ey baby."

  "He's a great dog, but he's definitely yours, Lucy," said Jane. "He hasn't taken his eyes off the door. When I opened it to go out for a walk he went upstairs instead of down."

  "I'll be back for him in a couple of hours, OK?"

  "Sure. Back off, Claud," she said, nudging him back and edging the door shut. "Call me when you get home."

  They taxied to the Waldorf and made their way to Maggie's room. Maggie let them in and hugged Lucy, then Rosa. Then, over salad served in silver bowls, they brought each other up to date. Maggie had been holed up in a tent on the edge of the Serengeti ever since she'd cut out of town the day they killed her brother. She had decided to stop collecting, and now planned to dedicate the rest of her life to saving wildlife all over the world. "When Nathaniel told me that he'd done what he'd done so that I could get those pieces, of course I denied it," she said. "But there was a grain of truth in it. That grain was the bullet that killed him, Lucy. And I might as well have pulled the trigger.”

  "Jesus, don't be so hard on yourself, Maggie," Lucy said. "You didn't ask him to drag those maniacs into your life."

  "I know, but—hell, Rosa, I'm sorry about Darren," Maggie said. "I truly am. Just goes to show, like the lady said, "A good man is hard to find."

  "Apparently it’s impossible, as a matter of fact," Rosa said. She was cheering up just a little. "So now what are we going to do, Lucy? I think I need a nap. This is all too much."

  "Visit Mr. Insurance Man, and see what he has to tell us. By the way, he's about thirty and really cute," said Lucy.

  "I'll save the nap for later," said Rosa. "Let's hit it."

  They walked down to the Brueton Company and were shown in to Kelly Wyatt's office immediately. Lucy quickly introduced the two women, and explained who they were, and Wyatt agreed that they could be in on his show and tell.

  "Now then," he said. "Ever since you came by the other day, Lucy, I've been a little bugged about this Desert Gallery deal. Frankly, I threw that question at you about the artifacts because I wanted an answer as much as you probably do. So, I decided that maybe I shouldn't leave it up to you to find that answer, and so I started looking myself. There was no way I could ever involve the cops and get a warrant to search her house on Park Avenue, or her husband's office downtown—by the way, he's a senior partner, with fiscal liability, in an investment firm that is up to its neck in bad debt thanks to some really stupid merger and acquisition activity—or their country house. But, my recent meetings with Madeleine Rooney did convince me that she is an arrogant bitch, arrogant to the point where she feels invulnerable, in some weird way. I mean part of it is just that Upper East Side mentality, but there's something more than that with her, something almost pathological...so like any good investigator unable to get in the front door I went around back, and started looking in the most obvious place—the trash. And you know what? There was nothing at the gallery of course, she wouldn't have dreamed of dumping them there, but I paid a super a good tip and had a hell of a time rooting around in a dumpster behind the building the Rooneys live in on Park Avenue. I got there too late to find the main haul, and I wasn't about to chase a bag of trash through the ten million cubic tons of garbage at Fresh Kills. But look what I found in the bottom of the dumpster." He held up a fragment of dark red ceramic.