“So we know she was planning to meet with them,” said Mallory, “but I don’t see how that helps us. Is there anything in Summit’s notes that might help us figure out what happened to her?”
“Let me keep looking.” He scrolled down several pages of information. “It looks like she had a call with her husband that evening. She writes, ‘Told Richard about problems with sample contamination. He said, ‘What do you expect, considering you’re on a jungle island?’ Told him I’ve never seen samples become contaminated so often. It’s frustrating because the clean-room protocols we use here are the best I’ve ever employed. He told me I could work from home. I think he misses me.’ She typed a smiley face,” added Alton.
He continued reading from the notes. “‘Richard says he had a ‘vitriolic’ argument with Senator Leach—again. Richard says he can’t stand the man, and I don’t blame him. Leach is well-named: a pompous, conceited jerk that lives off the blood of others. I’m glad I put my weight behind his opponent’s campaign. Not that it did any good. The only good news is that Leach leaves town all the time, so Richard doesn’t have to put up with him very often.’” Alton looked up. “That’s all her notes.”
“Hola,” called Captain Fuentes from the lab’s main door. He walked over to join the Blackwells. “I have a friend who is a bartender in mid-town. He told me that some people at the harbor may know the man with the crooked nose. You two want to come with me?”
“Absolutely,” said Alton as his wife nodded. “I’m ready to catch a break in this case.”
CHAPTER 37
Captain Fuentes parked his RAV4 in front of the police station. The three investigators piled out and headed for the dock. The steady drone of marine engines and shouts of children playing on the nearby playground seemed at odds with their quest to find a kidnapper.
Fuentes greeted a sunburnt local busy mooring a dinghy to the pier. Irregular waves slopped against wooden pilings, causing Fuentes to raise his voice to be heard. He conducted a brief conversation in Spanish, then turned back to Alton and Mallory. “Leonardo, my friend here, doesn’t know the man with the crooked nose, but he suggested I talk with Jesús Alvarez at the fish market.”
“What’s so special about Jesús?” asked Mallory.
“He is a man who knows many people on the island.”
The trio of investigators walked up the inclined road, past the police station. Their route led inland fifty yards, then veered to the right, parallel to the shore. They walked a few hundred yards to the open fish market. A swarm of seagulls circled overhead, and a constant sea breeze mitigated the worst of the blazing afternoon sun.
Fuentes approached a wizened man wearing a “Galapagos” baseball cap, a plaid shirt, and dark slacks smeared with fish entrails. Grooves in the man’s dark face were deep enough to contain more fish intestines.
“Hola, Capitán. Hello, mister,” said Jesús with a thick accent.
“Hola, Jesús,” replied Fuentes. “How is business?” Alton assumed Fuentes conversed in English for his and Mallory’s benefit.
“Is good,” replied Jesús, “but Señor Marin is still parking his cart in my space.” He motioned to the adjacent fish cart, which seemed too large to fit within a rectangle of white lines on the asphalt. “If he needs more space, he needs to rent a bigger one, not take up mine. Have you talked with him about this yet?”
“I will take care of that later, but right now I need to ask you a question. I am looking for a man with a scar like this.” Fuentes ran a finger across his left eyebrow. “This man also has a crooked nose, like he has been in a fight. Do you know a man like this?”
The vendor nodded. “Sí, I think so. A guy named Leo.”
“What’s his last name?”
“I don’t know. I do know he works on El Explorador.”
“The cruise ship?” asked Fuentes.
“Sí.”
“Have you seen him recently?”
“Sí, he come by here a few times the last nine or ten days. He say he is on shore leave and doesn’t sail for a long time.”
“Has he mentioned where he’s staying here on the island?” asked Alton.
Jesús shrugged. “No. But he ask if he can have a job until he go sailing again.” He stopped to shoo away a daring seagull from his cart.
“Did you offer him one?”
“No. I don’t have an opening. I tell him to try the inland tortoise farm. I hear they are hiring.”
“Cardenas’ Farm?” asked Fuentes. “The one they take the tourists to?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
Fuentes cracked the faintest hint of a smile. “Thanks. I’ll let you know when I talk to Marin about his cart.”
The three investigators made their way back towards the police station, Fuentes setting a brisk pace at first but slowing down as Alton began to fall behind.
“Now we have some information we can use,” said Fuentes.
“So we contact Leo’s cruise ship to find out his residence and pay him a visit?” asked Mallory.
“I will try that,” replied Fuentes, “but the ship isn’t sailing right now, so it may be tough to track down the crew. In the meantime, though, we can visit the tortoise farm to see if our suspect has taken a job there. This is our first real break in this case, and I intend to use it.”
CHAPTER 38
Robb Shoemaker sank into the tepid waters of his bathtub. His motel lay off the beaten tourist path, allowing him to escape the prying eye of what passed for a police force on this godforsaken island.
The digs weren’t fancy, but they sure beat the appalling conditions of the Santa Cruz jail. Besides, after a lifetime of enduring Father’s trappings of wealth, Shoemaker rather liked this room. Its simple lines and clean surfaces held more genuine charm than the over-the-top opulence of some expensive resort.
Shoemaker stepped out of the clawfoot tub onto a threadbare rug and toweled himself dry. He glanced at his watch. One o’clock. Good. Still plenty of time to prepare for tonight.
After dressing, he lit a Winston and tilted backwards in a wooden chair, his feet up on the desk. The pose helped him contemplate his next action.
The wheels had been set into motion. This was no time for half-measures. To have any chance of success, he would have to move with conviction.
Shoemaker knew he had to return to the lab. That much was certain. Perhaps he would be caught again, but it was a risk he’d have to take. Besides, more people had begun to share his beliefs in this cause. If he failed, there would be others to complete his mission.
But after that, then what? That’s when his decisions would become tricky. If only he could rid himself of a nagging sense of doubt. Shoemaker had to admit, at times he struggled to discern the most ethical course of action. Since coming here, his moral compass alternated between a sense of duty to certain individuals and another to the world at large. When those two obligations conflicted, how could a decent person hope to choose? He shook his head and took a long drag off his cigarette, indulging the secret vice that would have appalled Father.
Despite his angst, there really wasn’t any question. Deep down, Shoemaker knew what his next step had to be.
CHAPTER 39
Captain Fuentes motored his SUV along a narrow Puerto Ayora street, heading towards the tortoise farm. Alton, Mallory and Cragmire occupied the vehicle’s passenger seats, while Tuttle and the Gooch brought up the rear in a second vehicle.
Ignoring the expanse of Pacific Ocean at his back, Alton studied the landscape as they jostled up the road. A maze of businesses with rebar-fortified windows and a series of dilapidated bodegas rendered the route indistinguishable from any other South American pueblo. He supposed not too many tourists made it this far inland.
Fuentes’ cellphone rang. He set his passengers’ hearts racing by navigating around potholes with one hand while holding his phone with the other. Thankfully, he ended the call within two or three minutes and resumed a two-handed grip on the steering wheel.
“We have another dead body,” he announced.
“What happened?” asked Alton in even tones.
“Another local from Santa Cruz has been found dead on Isabela Island.”
The SUV bounced into a road crater and lurched into the air.
“Ahh!” said Cragmire as the vehicle bounced down onto the road’s uneven surface. “I can’t even read my phone.”
Alton straightened himself in his seat. “Is this local person’s death related to our case?”
“I don’t think so,” said Fuentes. “Héctor Urbina, the victim, made a withdrawal from Banco del Pacifico yesterday afternoon, and his body was found today. This means his killer dumped the body no more than sixteen hours after that withdrawal.”
“I’m not following something,” said Cragmire. “How does that make this death unrelated to Summit’s disappearance?”
“This man’s murderer killed him right away,” said Fuentes. “If he is the same person who raided the research facility, we probably would have found Summit’s body already. Since we haven’t, we can conclude these are unrelated crimes.”
“I see.”
“There is another thing,” continued Fuentes. “Just like the first victim, we found fragments of tortoise shell mounted in a frame next to the body.”
“Was the shell from the same sub-species?” asked Alton. “The one from Santa Cruz?”
“Yes, the Negrita. So now I am wondering even more if these people are involved with the black-market animal trade.”
“I get that tortoises are valuable,” said Mallory, “but would they really be worth murdering someone?”
“Yes,” said Fuentes as he took a hard right to avoid a gaping pothole, sending his passengers careening to the left. “Giant tortoises are worth around ten thousand dollars on the black market, sometimes more, depending on the health and size of the specimen. That’s twice as much as the average Ecuadorian earns in a year. Both murdered men were fishermen, so they didn’t earn much in their regular jobs.”
“Something’s not making sense,” said Alton. “Didn’t you say today’s victim, Urbina, withdrew money from the bank?”
“Yes.”
“That suggests he may be the buyer. But if that’s true, why would a local buy a tortoise? Wouldn’t it be easier and more profitable to just go collect a wild one and sell it?”
“I would think so, yes,” said Fuentes.
“Exactly how much did he withdraw?” asked Mallory. “That would tell us if he was a buyer.”
Fuentes made a brief call to Sergeant Muro, then turned back to the NSA team. “Urbina only took fifty dollars out of the bank. So maybe he was the seller.”
“But why withdraw any money if he expected to receive thousands once he got to Isabela Island?” pressed Mallory, her forensic-accounting experience asserting itself.
“Who knows?” said Fuentes while hanging a hard left onto a new road with a gradual incline up the foot of a lush volcano. “He could have been meeting someone there but didn’t have enough money to pay the ferry.”
“Do we know if the victim was moved there before or after he was killed?” asked Alton.
“No,” said Fuentes. “That is a question my men are looking into.”
Alton raised himself off the seat a few inches, using the activity to stretch his damaged leg as well as focus his mind. “There’s an entirely different explanation for these murders. Both victims on Isabela Island were locals found with remnants of valuable animals nearby. Let’s still assume they were involved in the black market for exotic animals. But what if the person they met on Isabela was trying to shut them down rather than buy from them?”
“Why would they do that?” asked Cragmire.
“Maybe a new dealer trying to eliminate the competition,” said Mallory. “The Controlled Substances Division sees this all the time with drug turf wars back in the States.”
“Yes,” said Alton, “or it could be the work of someone trying to shut down the illegal trade of Galapagos animals altogether. Who do we know that has recently stated his opposition to interference with indigenous species?”
“Shoemaker,” said Mallory. “It’s the reason he gave for his attempted break-in at Summit’s lab.”
“I knew we should’ve held on to that son-of-a-bitch,” said Cragmire.
“But how would Captain Fuentes have done that?” said Alton. “He’d have to eventually release Shoemaker without actual proof. Right, Captain?”
“Yes,” said Fuentes, “but I think I will have my men keep an extra-close close eye on him.” He pulled onto a gravel road with a surface even more jarring than the one on which they had just traveled. A canopy of trees and a rainbow of colorful blooms provided a small recompense for the discomfort of the journey.
After three teeth-rattling minutes, Fuentes ground to a stop in a gravel parking lot and stepped out of the SUV. The others followed suit. A small wooden sign announced, “Cardenas Tortoise Farm.” The sign’s English spelling suggested that the farm catered to tourists, a fact confirmed by a long row of now-empty parking stalls and dozens of rubber overshoes stashed into a wall of cubby holes, presumably to protect the tourists’ footwear from a half-dozen muddy trails snaking out in all directions.
Alton looked around. Next to the cubby area, two or three dozen chairs and a wooden refreshments table lay under a high-ceilinged shelter. Alton could understand the need for cover. Their journey had carried them into the island’s jungle interior, and a steady mist of rain drizzled around them.
Fuentes headed straight for a small administrative office located in the rear of the shelter. On the way, he turned to Alton. “Lieutenant Rios checked with El Explorador, the cruise ship our suspect worked on. It turns out the perp gave them a false name and address. We’ll have to hope for better luck here or our trail will grow cold.”
CHAPTER 40
At the sound of approaching footsteps, a man typing on a computer in a small office looked up. He rose and presented a gnomish appearance, short and squat, with a white beard that complemented salt-and-pepper hair. “Buenas tardes,” he said. Glancing at the Americans, he added, “Good afternoon.”
“Buenas tardes. I am Captain Fuentes, and these are some policemen from the United States who are helping me. You are the owner of this place?”
“Yes, I am Alfonso Cuno. I am the owner and the manager—and sometimes the cook when Delores doesn’t show up.”
“Señor Cuno, we are looking for a man who may have come here looking for work. I would like to find out if you have seen him.”
The man shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I will help if I can. What is his name?”
Fuentes grimaced. “We don’t know. This suspect gave a false name at his last job.”
Alton chimed in. “Maybe he used the same false name here.”
“That’s true,” said Fuentes. He turned to the farm owner. “Have you seen a man called Leo Berrocal?”
“No, I don’t recognize that name.”
“He has a scar here,” said Fuentes, motioning a finger across his left eyebrow, “and his nose is crooked. He is a little bit taller than Señor Blackwell here.”
Cuno nodded. “Yes, I remember him. He came asking for work a couple of weeks ago.”
“Did you give him a job?” asked Alton, his hope rising.
“No, like I told him, I don’t need anyone right now.”
“Mr. Cuno,” said Alton, “did this man fill out a job application or any other sort of paperwork?”
“No.”
“Aye, Dios!” said Fuentes.
Cuno’s face brightened. “I remember…he wanted me to write down his phone number, in case a job opened up. Would that help?”
“Sí,” said Fuentes. “That would be very helpful.”
Alton breathed a sigh of relief and leaned over to Mallory. “About time we caught a break in this case.”
Cuno scrolled through a list of contacts on his phone and read out a numbe
r to Fuentes. “He said his name was Jose Ortiz.”
“The name’s probably a fake,” said Alton, “but I’m betting the phone number isn’t.”
“Why?” asked Cragmire.
“The guy left his number because he’s looking for a job. What good would it do him to leave a fake number? Why not just decline to leave one at all?”
Cragmire nodded in acknowledgment.
“I will ask Rios to trace this number,” said Fuentes, a determined look on his face. “I think maybe this man won’t be free for much longer.”
The sun began to set as the investigators began their journey back to Puerto Ayora. Fuentes slowed his pace yet still couldn’t avoid the street’s many potholes.
The captain placed a phone call and conducted a brief conversation. Ending the call, he leaned over to Alton, who rode shotgun. “The phone company is closed for the night. I’ll have to wait until morning to see who is associated with the phone number Cuno gave me.”
“That’s not the only piece of information we’ll acquire in the morning,” chimed in Mallory from the back seat. “I just listened to a voice mail I got during our visit to the tortoise farm. Agent Withers from the FBI lab called. He has the test results from the residue left on Summit’s office door.”
CHAPTER 41
The sun dipped towards the horizon. Jaime Quintana glanced around the dusty street before entering a ramshackle building. A single, modest room had been put to use as combination kitchen and dining room. The cabinets and countertops had been scrubbed, but the tropical environment had taken its inexorable toll, leaving most surfaces stained with mildew and rot. A vague smell of decay permeated the room.
“Hi, Monica,” said Quintana. “Where is my family?”
His sister-in-law looked up. “They are sleeping on my bed.”
A frail woman emerged through a doorway, entering from the dwelling’s only other room, a tiny bedroom.
“Gloria, my love,” said Quintana, drawing his wife into a gentle embrace. “How is our daughter?”
The Evolution of Evil (The Blackwell Files Book 6) Page 17
