by Moulton, CD
“Esta positivo este es el hombre in el autobus de Chiriqui Grande?”(“Are you positive this is the man on the bus from Chiriqui Grande?”) Clint asked the door boy from the trip where Rigden died.
“Si! Positivo!” (“Yes! Positive!”) Raul Esposito replied, Maria Santos, a woman who spoke to the subject in Chiriqui Grande at the restaurante was nodding in agreement.
“Mil gracias por sus testimonios,” (“A thousand thanks for your testimony,”) he replied, then had them make sworn statements. He then came back out of the room where the secretary was making the denunciado and used the radio to call Panamá City to demand the arrests of Arturo Valdez Santiago, Manual Guerra Smith, and Raymondo Guerra Smith on a charge of murder. He signed off and turned to Clint. “Well, that was rapid enough! I hope you are to be disponible in futura if we need your assistance?”
“Why not?” Clint replied.
Doormat
Clint Faraday looked across the wide beach as the sun set to his left just out from the shoreline into the Pacific, shook his head, and went in to have his breakfast, hojaldras and coffee with a generous helping of bolitas. It would be another beautiful day. He would go back to David later, then on to Bocas del Toro to his home. He had gone through about six months of little action and felt he rather enjoyed lazing around doing very little of anything. This was a good spot for a few days at the time, but a month was too much. There wasn’t much to do here, which tended to grow stale. He had to do something even if it was only to go diving or tramping through the rain forest or whatever. Maybe he’d stop for a day or two with Indio friends in the mountains around Calderas – or something.
He went back inside to put on some clothes and pack his backpack for the trip, then walked the four kilometers to the little almacen at the end of the road that served the local natives, most of whom greeted him warmly when he passed. The bus was just arriving as he walked into the place at 8:10 AM. He talked with a few people, then got on the bus for the ride to David. He decided to spend the night in David and go to Bocas in the morning. Bill and Sharon Bohmfalk were in town and a man named Peter had taken over the bar and restaurant at the Hotel Iris. He was from Canada. They had a get-together until about 11:30, when the bar closed. Clint caught up on the latest about everyone there, spent the night at the Pensión Costa Rica and caught the 8:00 bus for Bocas.
It was a nice enough ride. He sat with three Indio friends to Santa Marta, then with a gringa for about half an hour. He usually enjoyed talking with tourists on the bus, but Jillie, this one, kept complaining that she was nothing but a doormat to the people she came to Panamá with and was getting damned tired of it. They just brought her along for someone to use as a servant and babysitter while they saw all the places and went out every night. It was supposed to be a free vacation for her, but she had only had two days in two weeks when she could go anywhere or do anything on her own. Even this trip was for her to pick up stuff for them in Chiriqui Grande. She and the two brats had to eat at cheap restaurants and hang around close while the wonderful, considerate gotrocks ran all over the country.
Clint managed to get away from her just before Rio Uyama to sit with his good Indio friend he hadn’t seen in months, Emilio, who had a seat open for him – finally!
He chatted with Emilio, who asked why he would abandon the pretty gringa. Was it because she was only pretty outside?
“Yeah, you could say that,” Clint replied. “She probably is a doormat, but she’s the type to be one because it’s her personality.”
“Sad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Clint!” Judi Lum called across the water to him from her deck when he went out on his deck over Saigon Bay. “Welcome home!”
He waved and called that he would be over after while. He had to check his e-mail and such. Judi waved and went back inside. He checked the e-mail, then made a couple of overdue calls and went to Judi’s to be caught up on Bocas. Not a lot new.
“There are a couple of people at the Swan’s Cay who you’ll end up meeting,” Judi warned. “They come off as fairly nice people so long as they’re not around their children and slave.”
“Slave?”
“She might as well be. A semi-pretty girl about eighteen or nineteen they brought along as a babysitter or something and they make it damned plain she’s there at their expense, enjoying this fantastic vacation because that was the deal.”
“Name Jillie?”
“The girl? You met her? The people are the Petersons.”
“I met the doormat on the bus. Poooor poooor pathetic me.”
“She really is, Clint.”
“Oh, I agree, but whose fault is that?”
“I’ve talked with her a lot while they’ve been away,” Judi answered. “They tricked her into coming, promising to show her a great vacation and all she would have to do is babysit four nights a week. They would hire someone here to babysit the rest of the time.”
“According to her.”
“No. According to the e-mails and a couple of letters they sent her in Arizona.”
“Maybe I misjudged her.”
“She’s scared they’ll leave her here and run away or something. She does NOT like some things about them.”
“Oh?”
“The children don’t act right. She doesn’t think those two are their real parents.ª
“How old are the kids?” Clint asked, looking serious.
“One and one and a half. See?”
“I’ll check it out.”
“Hi! Remember me?” Clint said to Jillie in the China Hawaii. “We talked for a few minutes on the bus?”
“Oh. Hello. I tend to run people away, but I was at the end of my tether. I apologize.”
“I had to speak with Emilio, but it was only part of why I left. I’ll be honest about that. I may have made a wrong determination about you, according to a friend.”
“Oh? In what way?”
“I thought you had made your bed with your eyes wide open and found it was a mistake after you were here.”
“But you changed your mind. Why?”
“Because the children are about half a year apart,” Clint answered, watching her carefully.
She looked thoughtful, then said. “So you are the detective friend of Judi. Clint Faraday?” Clint bowed his head slightly. Then looked a question at her.
“I didn’t think much about it. That is, until I found that they are not adopted, and that was here. I would never have come if I knew that back in the states.
“Mr. Faraday, I saw the supposed birth certificates Pete is using for them to travel. Both of them say they are their children and both of them are from a hospital that I know was closed more than two years ago. The new General was opened and Charter closed. My mother was a nurse at Charter for more than fifteen years. She went to General and stayed there for just three months until she retired. I don’t know what’s going on, but they sent some strange e-mails to a man in Tempe, Arizona. I made a copy of them. It’s on a flash drive I keep. I don’t think they know that the server keeps sent messages. Yahoo.
“See, I ... let’s go somewhere else to talk. This isn’t a good spot.”
Clint agreed. He took her to the Golden Grill for coffee and empanadas. She gave him the memory stick and said the e-mail messages were in a file marked ‘people’ in a folder marked ‘clubs’ – because no one would think of looking for them there. They were in the one marked ‘Mondo Taitu’.
“They demand money. I think this person they call Sam127B at hotg dot net is either some kind of collector for money or ... something,” she explained. “I think those children are ... I don’t know how they’re involved.”
“So. You think they’re kidnaped and that you’re pulled in as a cover?” Clint asked, still watching her carefully. She was extremely nervous and seemed a little scared.
“I don’t know what’s going on – and yes. I’m scared that they might be kidnapers or something worse.”
Clint nodded
and said he’d look into it. Don’t let them get a hint. Try to get copies of the papers and their passports, if possible.
“I already have all that! They don’t carry their passports when they go out on the boats and that kind of thing so I made copies of everything!” She rummaged around in her maleta and handed him a thick manila envelope.
“That will be a huge help. Not many would think of it.”
“I tried to think of anything that might be useful. I just want to go back home and get away from this mess.”
Clint slid the memory stick into his computer and studied the things on it. Several things besides the files she said to check.
The first of the e-mails said that the payment was due on the first. That wasn’t much time. Make it damned clear to them that there wouldn’t be any extensions.
The next one said it was one week to go. The money had better be there – or else.
Clint checked the headings that came when you took an e-mail off the computer. He shook his head and turned to the papers.
The birth certificates said Linda Marie was born to Paula Louise Baker-Peterson and Peter Willard Peterson on February 6th of 2009, and George Andrew Baker-Peterson was born to the same two on August 21st of 2009. The script was different on the certificates. At least one of them was phony – both, if Jillie was correct.
Clint saw too many discrepancies. Why didn’t immigration find them?
The passports were legitimate. The children ... so that’s why. Different dates of arrival. He came in with George one day before she came in with Linda.
What was missing here? They had legitimate airline tickets so they weren’t hiding from anyone – so weren’t likely to be holding any kidnaped children. Nothing was adding up.
Clint went back to the e-mails and went through the whole process. There seemed to be something ... such as no message code, just a ND message sent within a minute of the sending time and code.
Clint called Douglas, a friend who works on computers and knows more than anyone else about them in the area.
“ND means there was a mailer daemon alert sent saying the message was not deliverable.” Clint thanked him and slipped on a shirt to go to the immigration office at the airport. He asked for a report on the passport of Jillie somebody who came with the Petersons and the children.
She didn’t. Without a full name they couldn’t say when she arrived or with whom.
He called Judi, who said her name was Jillie Baker. They didn’t have a record of her at the airport so they called Panamá City. She came in through Sixola or Fronterra or by boat to Colón. There were three Jill Bakers in Panamá at the moment.
Clint smirked and went to the Swan’s Cay and asked to speak with the Petersons. They were dining at The Reef according to the desk girl, Nilda. Jillie was out with the children somewhere. Clint asked Nilda about the passport of Jillie. They only had the number because Mr. Peterson got the room for her. She gave Clint the number. He called Sergio, the police jefe, who had a check made on that passport number. It was reported stolen two months ago in Limón, Costa Rica.
“What do the children look like?” Clint asked. “More like her or him?”
“Like neither,” Nilda replied. “They look more like Panamanians than gringos. They speak Spanish, I think. I never heard the girl say a thing in English to them.”
“She speaks Spanish?”
“Very good, but more like Colombian than here.”
This was getting scary. Clint called a couple of friends who kept up with what was going on among the super-rich and infamous in Panamá, Colombia and Costa Rica. They would get back in the morning. Clint went home, cleaned up and went to The Reef, where he managed to meet the Petersons. He wasn’t impressed, but they didn’t seem the type to be behind anything. He was almost stupid and she was an airhead. Jillie saw him go in from the Gourmet, across the road from The Reef, and came in. Pete seemed surprised that she would be there and demanded to know where the children were. She was supposed to be watching them. It seemed to be contrived.
She said she had met Clint on the bus and saw him come in so wanted to say hello is all. He demanded that she return to the children. After all, that was what she was PAID for!
It was an act. What was going on here? No one would put up with that crap!
She looked like she would cry, said she would see them later and left. Peterson complained they couldn’t even trust another gringa anymore.
Clint said he was going to the Lemon Grass and left.
“Clint? Turn on your phone!” Judi called across the bay just before dawn. “It’s Sergio. Call him.”
Clint groaned and called. He was told that Peterson was in the hospital in critical condition. The girl working for him and the children and his wife had disappeared.
Clint dressed while he waited for the police truck to pick him up. Sergio was driving. He said Peterson was trying to tell them something, but wasn’t coherent. He had a fractured skull, broken ribs and some very painful bruises and burns. One look was enough to tell Clint he had been tortured. He was sedated and wouldn’t be able to talk for several hours at least.
Clint called Manolo and said he had to have the information he’d asked for yesterday.
“There’s a rumor that the children of two of the Ochoa family are missing. I can’t get solid confirmation about anything in that family, but the fact that they aren’t answering answers a lot. They’re also looking for some girl. I mean REALLY looking.”
“Who is Jillie Baker? Really?” There was a pause, then, “If you know and she’s the one they’re after I wouldn’t want THEM to know you know.”
“I think I can get ... I might want you to contact them. I don’t know enough yet, but might in a couple of hours. Something’s coming together that we do NOT want here!” He talked for a bit more, but didn’t let anything out. When he hung up he told Sergio he had to go somewhere. By boat. That would hold them off for a very little while. He hoped it was enough.
He pulled into the dock in Chiriqui Grande, tied his boat and asked Nicanor to watch it for him. Nica said there had been two men in town the day before asking about the gringa who had come there.
“Where is she?” Clint asked.
“I don’t know. I don’t think she’s here.”
Clint nodded and went into town, then took a cab out to the main road and stopped at the bombas. A couple of women and two children had come through on the late bus last night. The older woman was a gringa, but the younger one was dark and spoke perfect Spanish. The children weren’t theirs, they didn’t think, because they looked more Indio and acted like Indios.
Clint took the Mali bus and stopped in Punta Peña. They didn’t come through, so he went back to Rambla. They might have been the ones who went to the hospital from the late bus.
Clint went to the hospital. They weren’t there. The women. The children were left there for observation. By a gringa who said they were the children of a worker at her finca and that there was something wrong that she couldn’t understand because she didn’t speak Spanish. She left a deposit and would return later today.
Clint went to find the two in a small room playing with dolls. He asked them if they were the Ochoa children Jillie was taking care of. The older one said “Tio Ochoa! Aqui?”
“No, pero tus returno pronto,” Clint answered. He ordered that the children were to stay there and were not to be allowed to be taken out unless the police were with them. Then he went to the station, told the police what he knew and said he would arrange for them to be taken home. The captain said they wouldn’t be allowed to be taken anywhere. Clint said he’d better understand which Ochoa was the uncle they had called for. Ochoa? Colombia?
The captain looked like his eyes would bug completely out of their sockets. He broke out in a sweat and said, in a tiny voice, “Ochoa de Colombia? Ayie!” Clint nodded and said it would be better if the children went home with no questions asked, no answers given. The captain agreed. Five hundred percent!
Clint called Manolo and asked him to contact Ochoa and to have the children returned home. No one there was in any way involved. He would try to find the ones who were. He would handle it. Three minutes later he got a call, made an agreement with the caller where nothing would happen to anyone in Panamá. A man would be there for the children in about four hours. Clint agreed to stay there until the person came, but would demand confirmation he was the one sent. The children had been through enough.
“Los niños se dice quien is correcto, Okay?”
“Muy bien.”
“Then I’m gonna find Jillie, the doormat!” Clint mumbled.
“Clint Faraday, I’m called various things. Carlos is often used. I would like to speak with you. I am here for the children.”
Clint nodded and said the children would tell him if he was the proper person to take them home. That was promised. Carlos nodded in turn and went to the room with Clint.
“Tio!” George squealed and ran to the arms of the man. Clint grinned and said that was proof enough for him. The girl was there too, being crushed against Carlos.
“You will handle the people responsible for these children being here,” Carlos said. “Jorge and Linda will be returned to their parents – one of which is myself. Should you not be able to handle it, I will. That is to be understood.”
“You know who took the kids?”
“Not as a sure certainty, but close. I will know within the hour because two companions are asking questions of people.”
“You promised. I’ll expect you to keep that promise.”
“And I will. I merely wish to know so that...” His cel phone rang. He answered it and listened for a minute, grunted, said, “Bien! Gracias! Ya voy!” and rang off.
“Alicia Menendez, using the name of Jillie Baker, abducted the children and was going to make me pay ten millions of dollars for their return. Two gringos, a man and a woman, were tricked by her into helping by treating her badly in public and saying she was a maid and nanny. She told them she was running away from a man wanted for mass murder. She took the name from the newspapers. The people are not bad people and believed her.
