Shrugging, she rekeyed the ignition and backed out from under the tree. As she negotiated the narrow space, she regretted swinging by her apartment to change after work. Flip-flops and jeans weren't exactly what she would have chosen to wear for a meeting with the local mafia king. Not that the flight suit would have provided much more protection against an Uzi. Wishing fervently for a bulletproof vest, Liz took the coast road toward Cabo.
The Pacific sparkled on her left. To her right, cactus speared out of the sunbaked Baja desert. As they neared the tip of the peninsula, the cliffs lining the shore grew more rugged and the resorts more opulent. Some kilometers past Todos Santos, Short Guy directed her to turn onto a gravel road. This led to a high-walled adobe fence. Broken glass shards in a variety of greens and browns provided a jagged barrier atop the adobe. Rolled concertina wire added another welcoming touch to the vicious glass.
Liz slowed before an elaborately carved iron gate. Her escort waved to the armed guards manning the thatch-roofed shack at the entrance. When they obligingly hit the switch, the gates swung open to reveal an avenue of tall, swaying palms. They shut behind the Jeep with a clank that resounded in Liz's ears like a clap of doom.
Wrapping her sweaty palms around the wheel, she followed the drive through the kind of tropical paradise usually seen only at five-star resorts. Lush green grass was manicured to within an inch of its life. Bushes exploded with red and pink and orange bou-gainvillea. Fountains splashed at regular intervals.
At the end of the drive sat a sprawling adobe structure constructed from the native ochre-colored mud. The wood trim at the windows and doors was painted almost the same shade of turquoise as the Sea of Cortez on a sunny day. Escorted by Short Guy and
Wingtips, Liz exited the Jeep and stepped out of the blazing sun into a blessedly cool foyer. "This way."
Her flip-flops slapped against beautifully glazed marble tiles as she passed through a succession of open, airy rooms before being ushered into what could have passed for a Wall Street executive's office. Stock quotes flashed across the plasma TV screen hung on one wall. A state-of-the art pedestal computer with a twenty-three-inch monitor sat on the massive slab of glass that served as a desk. The only personal touch was what looked like a family photo in a silver frame.
The snapshot had been taken aboard a gleaming white yacht. A trim, athletic-looking man in swimming trunks lounged in a deck chair. He looked relaxed and happy, an arm hooked around the shoulders of the woman lounging next to him. She laughed up at him while two children—kids? grandkids?— stood behind them and mugged for the camera.
The woman was draped in enough jewelry to open her own branch of Tiffany's. A rock the size of Rhode Island sparkled on her ring finger. The diamond studs in her ears had to have weighed two carats each. Her gold Rolex was studded with sapphires.
The man beside her wore only a gold chain with some kind of charm hooked through it. The pale, triangular object nestled against his dark chest hair. It was a shark's tooth, Liz realized with a gulp. From what had to be one hell of a fish. Scenes from the movie Jaws were flashing through her head when a side door opened.
The man who entered was the same one in the photo. Tall and trim, with neatly cut salt-and-pep-per hair, he wore tan slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt with an embroidered monogram on the breast pocket.
"Welcome to my home, Ms. Moore."
He held out his hand. Liz offered hers more slowly. He didn't look as though he intended to chop it off. Then again, The Shark had a reputation for devouring his enemies whole.
"Thank you for agreeing to speak with me."
"Did I have a choice?"
"One always has a choice. Please, be seated."
He waved her to one of the leather chairs grouped around a glass coffee table and took the other.
"Would you care for a drink after your long drive? We have Dos Equis on ice. I believe that is the brand you prefer."
Uh-oh. This guy knew her preference in beer. A shiver slithered down Liz's spine as she wondered what else he knew about her.
A bunch, she learned after she politely declined refreshment.
"So," he said, "we shall get right to business. A friend who works with the local constabulary tells me you reported a shooting on the beach near Piedras Rojas last night."
"Yes," Liz replied cautiously, "I did."
"According to this friend, you saw a man floating in the surf."
"That's correct."
His gaze locked with hers across the glass coffee table. "That man was my nephew."
Liz searched his eyes for some sign of pain or grief. If he was feeling either, it didn't show. Still, she offered her condolences.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"It is my sister who weeps."
Another shiver danced along Liz's spine. If she remembered correctly, sharks were cold-blooded fish who often ate their young.
"You told the police you did not see who shot Martin?" Alvarez commented.
"That's right. I was some way down the beach. I heard the shots and ran to see what happened."
"You are very brave to run toward the sound of gunfire," he said slowly. "Or very foolish."
Liz had already decided B was the correct answer. Devlin had the right idea. She should have disappeared into the night.
"There was another man," Alvarez said, as if reading her mind. "An Americano. You did not tell the police his name."
"I didn't know it. We bumped into each other just a few seconds before we heard the shots and never got around to introductions."
It was the truth, as far as it went. She and Devlin hadn't gotten around to names last night. Resisting the urge to swipe her palms on her jeans-clad thighs, Liz waited for Alvarez to rephrase the question and ask if she had any idea as to the American's identity. Instead, he knocked her completely off balance with a cool remark.
"I understand you have taken a loan with Citibank for $20,000 to make a down payment on a helicopter. The fourth payment on that loan is due in three days."
Liz didn't bother to ask how the heck this guy knew her personal financial arrangements. She suspected he was supremely unconcerned about such things as confidentiality laws.
"Tell me exactly what you saw on the beach, Ms. Moore. If it helps me to locate my nephew's killer, I shall wipe out that debt for you."
"What?"
Liz sucked in a breath. An image of the Sikorsky streaked into her head. Six hundred and fifty horsepower of lift. Low noise factor, almost no vibration. Luxury leather seats for the passengers. Enough avionics to make even the most seasoned pilot drool.
The chopper would be hers. All hers. She could thumb her nose in Donny's and Bambang's faces. All she had to do was reiterate what she told the police, give this guy Devlin's name and let him squeeze what information he could out of the roustabout.
Liz had no idea what held her back. Maybe it was the thought of wading deeper into a swamp she might never slog out of. Or the utter lack of familial concern in Alvarez's black eyes.
"I told the police exactly what I saw."
"Tell me. I wish to hear it from you."
"There was a shot. No, two shots. The man, the Americano, shoved me down. Then he got up and ran in the direction of the gunfire. I followed and saw him standing over what looked like a body. Then I ran for my car to get my cell phone and call the police."
"The Americano was standing over the body?"
"That's right."
Alvarez touched fingertip to fingertip and rested his chin on the steeple. Seconds slid by, stretching Liz's nerves wire thin.
"My nephew was carrying something that belonged to me, Ms. Moore. Something that was not on his body, according to the police. I want it back."
Any inclination, however slight, to tell Alvarez about Joe Devlin evaporated at that point. The man didn't give a crap about his nephew. Just this piece of property, whatever it was.
"I didn't take anything off your nephew, if that's wh
at you're suggesting. I waited up by my vehicle for the police to arrive. I never got close to the body."
The Shark said nothing for another second or two. Just studied her with those black predator's eyes.
"I want you to think very hard. Is there any detail you might have missed? Some bit of information that would enable me to locate this item?"
This guy was creeping her out. Somehow Liz managed a shrug. "I've told you everything I saw or heard."
He kept her pinned by that unblinking gaze for several more moments, then gave a curt nod.
"Very well. The offer stands, however. If you should think of some detail that enables me to find Martin's killer and this property I mentioned, I will pay off your loan. Juan, show Ms. Moore to her car, if you please."
Liz drove back to Piedras Rojas in a puddle of sweat, torn between relief that she'd survived her meeting with The Shark and the dead certainty that this mess wasn't over.
"Damn you, Devlin! I hope I don't live to regret covering your ass."
That worry was still hovering at the back of her mind two days later when a delivery van drove up to Aero Baja's operations center. Liz signed for the package and sought out AB's chief mechanic.
"Let's gas up the Ranger, Jorge. This is the back-ordered medicine Doc Metwani needs. It's marked priority, so I'm going to fly it out to the patch."
"Have you checked weather? There is a front forming."
"I saw it. They're forecasting thirty-knot winds with eight- to twelve-foot seas. I should be able to make it out and back before things get too bad."
Or at least make it out. If necessary, Liz could tie down and ride out the storm. It wouldn't be the first night she'd spent on the rig, or probably the last. And, she thought with a combination of anticipation and determination, an overnighter would give her a chance to have a nice long chat with a certain roughneck.
Ducking into the tiny cubicle laughingly referred to as the pilot's lounge, she spun the combination on her locker and traded her jeans and T-shirt for Aero Baja's mud-brown flight suit. The civilian clothes went into her gear bag, along with a plastic bag of toiletries.
She spent the first half of the flight thinking about the questions she wanted to ask Devlin, the second fighting the storm that blew up faster and fiercer than the forecasters had predicted. Rain lashed the windshield, the ceiling dropped to two hundred feet and the winds were a bitch by the time the LO waved Liz down and the skids touched.
The rig's tie-down crew was waiting in their bright red vests. While Liz completed the shut-down sequence, the crew secured the helo and extended the retractable hangar. Once her aircraft was protected from the elements, Liz ducked out of the rain and now howling wind.
"Looks like you'll have to ride out the storm with us tonight," the rig's quartermaster said as he signed for the medicine.
"Looks like."
"You know where the guest quarters are. Pick a bunk and make yourself comfortable."
Liz stowed her gear bag in the room set aside for transients and made a quick visit to the head before navigating the narrow corridors to the galley. It was just after shift change, so the first rotation was chowing down. The babble of conversations carried on in a half-dozen different languages rose above the thump, thump, thump of the rig's heartbeat.
Liz scanned the thirty or so men and handful of women present. She didn't spot the wide-shouldered American she sought, so she approached the big, brawny Irishman who'd rotated out to the patch with him. The driller looked up with a cheerful smile on his face as she approached.
"Back so soon, lass?"
"Had to deliver some medicines Doc Metwani needed. I'm looking for Joe Devlin. Have you seen him?"
"He was late coming off the deck. He's probably still in his cabin cleaning up."
She could wait. Or she could get some answers out of him in private. Liz chose option two.
Retracing her steps, she traversed the monstrous recreation/entertainment center that constituted the rig's social hub. Long hallways led off in both directions. Devlin's cabin was in the officers' wing and had only his name on the plate beside the door. Liz eyed the brass plate with its slip-in label thoughtfully.
Like the military and most other large organizations, offshore rigs operated under a strict hierarchical structure. Petroleum engineers planned and supervised overall operations. Drilling superintendents were in charge of the deck crews, which consisted of four or five drillers, derrick operators and the roughnecks who muscled the pipe into place. Less skilled roustabouts performed general maintenance tasks. Then there were the pumpers, acidizers, sample takers, welders, electricians and machinists, along with a support team that included the rig's officers, radio operators, cooks, barge operators and a medical contingent.
That Devlin rated private quarters meant he ranked fairly high in the organizational structure. Impressed despite herself, Liz rapped on the door and got a muffled shout in response.
"It's open!"
Once inside, she was greeted with the splash of running water and a gruff call from the head.
"Hang loose. I'll be right out."
She used the interval to take a quick look around. His cabin was like all the others on the rig, just a little more spacious. The built-in lockers, bunk, desk and chair were compliments of the American-Mexican Petroleum Company. So were standard-issue items that littered the cabin. A hard hat and safety goggles sat on the desk. Steel-toed boots were positioned beside the chair. A set of grease-stained overalls lay in a discarded heap, waiting to be stuffed into the laundry bag hanging from the locker handle.
Since the crews rotated every twenty-eight days and space was at a premium, they generally brought few personal items besides tools, photos and the occasional CD player, iPod, or laptop. Devlin's was a sleek, titanium-encased model that raised instant envy in Liz's breast.
Drawn by the brilliant Screensaver images flashing across the liquid crystal display, she nudged a hip against the desk. But it was the Beanie bear propped next to the computer that snagged her attention. The poor guy looked as though he'd gone a few rounds with a real live grizzly and come out the loser. One ear had been torn and restitched by hand. His button eyes didn't match. The red ribbon around his neck must have once formed a neat bow, but the ends now hung limp and ragged and stained.
Interesting, Liz thought. She'd checked the next-of-kin information Devlin had provided before she'd flown him out to the patch. He'd listed a brother in Oklahoma. No wife or kids. And he certainly hadn't struck Liz as the type to tote along a childhood toy to keep him company for a month.
"So who did you belong to?" she asked, lifting the sad-eyed bear until they were nose to nose.
"The son of a friend."
The gruff reply spun Liz around. Devlin stood framed in the door to the bathroom, his chest bare. A flat, hard belly showed above the waist of his low-riding jeans. His hair was still wet and tobacco brown from his shower. His hazel eyes registered something that looked very close to suspicion.
"What are you doing here?"
It wasn't the greeting she'd expected. Particularly after the kiss this guy had laid on her back in Piedras Rojas.
"I want to talk to you."
Moving with the same, panther like grace that had struck her that night on the beach, he crossed the cabin, removed the bear from her hand and returned it to its comfortable slouch against the laptop. His expression wasn't particularly friendly when he faced her again.
"What about?"
Liz didn't understand or appreciate his attitude. Folding her arms, she gave him a saccharine smile.
"How about the fact that two thugs forced me to drive at gunpoint to the house of a seriously un-nice guy? Turns out that floater you found was the nephew of El Tiburon."
His brows slashed into a quick frown. Obviously, he'd heard of The Shark.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm here, aren't I?"
Still frowning, he caught her chin and tipped he
r face from side to side. Checking for bruises, Liz assumed, and was immediately irritated by the heat his touch generated. So irritated she almost forgot the promise she'd made back in Piedras Rojas.
Almost.
"You don't listen very well, do you, cowboy?"
The sudden widening of his eyes told Liz he got the message a mere second or two before she brought her knee up. Devlin deflected the nut-cruncher just in time and took the jab on the tender inside of his thigh instead.
She saw his jaw lock, saw the muscle that jumped in one cheek and braced herself for some form of retaliation. It didn't come.
Liz had to admit the control he exerted over himself was impressive as hell. And just a little scary. His hazel eyes shot bullets, but he subdued the beast within and backed off with just a pained grunt.
"Damn, woman! You pack some punch with that knee."
"I warned you," Liz said coolly. "Yeah, you did."
Eyeing her with a combination of wariness and respect, he took the conversation back to the pre-contact stage. "What did The Shark want with you?"
"Two things. His main concern was locating some object his nephew supposedly had with him when he died. It didn't show up among the possessions the police returned."
Devlin forgot about the spiking ache on the inside of his thigh. His botched rendezvous had suddenly taken on another twist.
OMEGA control had briefed him on the corpse's identity. Martin Alvarez had racked up a five-page rap sheet but had managed to beat every charge from drug trafficking to running prostitutes to shooting a farmer's entire litter of pigs just for the fun of hearing them squeal. Devlin was sorry he hadn't put that bullet between the goon's eyes himself.
He ran a quick mental inventory of the items he'd found during his search of the body. Martin had been carrying nothing of any significance besides that roll of pesos. Was that what The Shark wanted back? The money?
Devlin didn't think so. He'd received a thorough area brief before this op. He knew El Tiburon controlled the crime on this entire stretch of the coast. That wad of pesos wouldn't even constitute pocket change for the man.
Glancing up, Devlin caught Liz studying him with more than a trace of suspicion. "I didn't lift anything off the body," he said flatly.
Devlin and the Deep Blue Sea Page 4
