by Joan Francis
I asked to board early because my hip was hurting me, and was obliged by a very nice young man. Once out of sight of the waiting passengers, I shoved the cane into the pocket of the case and walked rapidly down the jetway to the plane. Timing on this maneuver was going to be tricky.
Flight attendants were fully occupied front and rear of the plane, and I made my way to the restroom in the middle of the aircraft. Opening the bathroom door, I shoved the case through and wedged it into a spot on top of the toilet. As I stepped in and shut the door I tried not to think about how small this little room seemed.
Now the question was, had my long wait at the airport been worthwhile? I unzipped the case and was relieved to find one dirty flight attendant’s uniform. The polyester pants and blouse that I had in my purse would do in a pinch, but the uniform was much better. As long as people in uniforms are in places they are expected to be, they might as well be invisible.
I took all the stuff out of my purse and balanced it on the laptop on the floor. Turning my purse inside out changed its color from worn-out tan to shiny navy blue and changed its design from open tote-bag type to one with a pocket flap and lock. I checked the secret compartment, putting Aunt Tillie’s passport in and taking Dolores Gomez’s out.
First I applied the cleansing cream Richard had given me to remove my wash-proof makeup. The problem was I didn’t have the necessary fifteen to twenty minutes that Richard recommended to soak loose the makeup. I stripped off the Tia Tillie dress and slip and put on the flight attendant’s uniform. The skirt and blouse were snug but workable and the jacket, worn unbuttoned, disguised the tightness. The shoes, however, were torture.
The cabin speakers crackled with brief status checks between the flight attendants and the pilot and indicated that boarding was almost finished. Using a damp paper towel, I wiped off the years along with the cream. Amazingly, it worked fairly well. At least it would get me out of here, and I could do a second application later. Too bad we can’t do this with real age lines.
Someone knocked on the restroom door and said, “You need to take your seat now.”
“OK,” I replied. I dabbed on a little lipstick, crammed my salt-and-pepper gray hair into a skull cap, and pulled the brown wig down snugly. I put the laptop, makeup bag, and other belongings in my purse, crammed the sweater and Aunt Tillie’s clothes into the flight bag, and opened the door.
While the real flight attendants were occupied with getting their passengers belted and upright, I made my way to the front station and looked for anything that looked like a passenger manifest. With Tia Tillie no longer on the plane, those flight attendants were going to come up short on their nose count. I saw nothing and wondered if the manifest was on computer. Then I heard the captain order the doors to be closed and the jetway withdrawn. Shit, if I didn’t get off now, I would be on my way back to LA for real.
A stewardess entered the station and did a double take. “Are you on our crew?”
“No, I, ah, I just came aboard to let you know one of your passengers escaped.”
“Escaped?”
I laughed. “Just joking.” She didn’t crack a smile. “An old lady, she was feeling ill and got back off, almost passed out in the waiting area. She’s with the paramedics.”
“One off, and one unauthorized. It’s going to be one of those flights. OK, did you by any chance get this sick passenger’s name?”
“Yes, Matilda Ferguson.”
“Okay, thanks, you better get off unless you want to try for a deadhead to LAX.”
“Right, have a good flight.” I smiled, she glared, and I backed out of the work station and headed down the jetway.
As I passed the ticket counter I could see Muscles pounding on the counter, and the entire airport could hear him demanding a ticket. The poor ticket agent, wilting back from him, was backed up by two supervisors, all trying to explain why he was too late to purchase a ticket for an international flight. When one of them told him that the plane was already pulling away from the gate, he gave them a royal cursing in an accent that was British, probably London’s south side.
Tia Tillie was safely on her way home, and Dolores Gomez of El Paso was on her way to a lovely large suite at the Aurola Holiday Inn.
* * * * *
THIRTY-FOUR
The wide windows of my luxurious tenth-floor suite provided a panoramic view of San Jose. I wrote Maria’s address on the label of a new box and started to pack her sweater, but the view and my own thoughts stopped me. Looking down across Parque Morazan, I could see the dark mansion that was the Shady Lady, and I sat for several moments just staring at it. Maybe this case was just making me nuts, but all of a sudden I had a vision of Maria, wearing this sweater and dying because she was mistaken for Aunt Tillie.
I pulled a small pair of scissors from my purse and began cutting the sweater into bits of knotted yarn. The tiny scissors had to gnaw their way through the thick hunks of knitted flowers and soon my cutting became an attack. Tears flooded my eyes, almost blinding me, as I tore into the sweater as if it were responsible for the deaths of these two young women who had briefly touched my life. I quit cutting and gave in to a cry that had been building since I first saw Evelyn in the morgue in Flagstaff.
When I could no longer breathe, I was forced to get myself under control. Then calmly and methodically, I continued the destruction of the sweater. No one would ever take the chance of wearing that sweater and being killed because of my investigation. Dropping the pieces in the garbage, I vowed that no one else was going to get killed, period. I would go after Woods and his black operations team and maybe even the entire Blue Morpho Petroleum corporation. I even had a glimmer of how I was going to do it.
I set up my computer, plugged into the electricity and phone, turned on the encoder, and sent Sam a short message. “Dolores in place. Is her CV ready?”
Within an hour I had received and decoded a file attached to a note from Sam.
The note said, “The new plant manager down there has container loads of Paso Nuevo records and has no staff in place to deal with them, so Dolores is now a records management specialist. This is a new field growing out of the ‘paperless’ world of computers, which is manufacturing paper records at an alarming rate. Corporations all over the country are running out of warehouse storage room and are employing specialists to figure out what to store, what to scan, and what to toss.
“I gave Dolores a librarian’s background so that part would be something you already know. Planting a curriculum vitae that could be traced and verified was easy compared to finding enough information for you to bone up on this field. It’s too new for anyone to have written much on it, but since many of the people doing it seem to be flying by the seat of their pants, that shouldn’t be a problem. Some material will be delivered to you along with your credentials. The attached file has some websites you can check. Read fast. An old pal of mine has arranged for you to attend a dinner party at the U.S. ambassador’s home tomorrow night. Get acquainted with James Nolan, the new plant manager for the Blue Morpho research facility, and see if Dolores can get hired to help him with his paper mess.”
The phone rang as I was finishing the note. It could be only one person. “Hi, Sam.”
“Hi, beautiful. You get the stuff?
“Yeah, looks great. Thanks.
“Got one more little piece of equipment coming. Tonight a special messenger will arrive with a new laptop, loaded with a records specialist’s working file. Stash your old laptop in the hotel safe. Someone at the new location might try to take a peek at your hard drive. Understand?”
“Yes, thanks. By the way, in case I need a backup, who is your old pal? Is it someone down here?” There was a long silence and I realized I had asked a stupid question and wasn’t going to get an answer. Working with Sam meant that I stepped over that line, out of the world of private, legal investigation, and into the shadow world of ‘spy guys’ rules. Sam would never expose his contact. “Sorry, Sam. Dumb question.
”
“You won’t be completely alone, but Harriman Woods is chief of security at the plant. Watch your back, beautiful.”
While my tiny printer was busy spitting out pages of Sam’s attachment, I began a day of rest and luxury. First I turned my gray hair dark brown, added brown contact lenses, and did a more thorough job of removing the old lady makeup. Next I sank into a hot bubble bath in a Jacuzzi tub, shaved my legs and underarms, and read the printout. Clean, refreshed, and grateful to feel and look young again, I took out the bottle of body makeup that Richard had given me and applied a wash-proof golden brown tan, all over my body.
In the hotel gift shop, I bought a lightweight sweatsuit, a basic brown street dress, tennis shoes, and a pair of brown flats. Dressed in the sweats and tennies, I headed for the women’s fitness center for a workout and massage, followed by two hours in the beauty shop and another shower. Hair and makeup done, I put on the dress and headed for the San Pedro Mall. Dolores was a high-rolling consultant and needed an appropriate wardrobe. It was a tough assignment, but somebody had to do it.
When they closed the stores and I could shop no more, I had the packages delivered to my hotel and grabbed a taxi for Le Chandelier, a classic French restaurant that my hotel concierge had recommended. It turned out to be in a spectacular Mediterranean-style mansion with beamed ceiling, fireplace, sculpture garden, and wonderful paintings, many painted by the chef.
I placed myself in the hands of my waiter and asked him to make all my food choices for the evening. He started me out with a salad of marinated salmon and hearts of palm in a melon and mint vinaigrette dressing that was delicious, proceeded to shrimp and champagne mousse that melted in my mouth, then a cream of pejibaye soup I could get addicted to. I asked what pejibaye was, and he showed me a small persimmon-colored fruit that came from a native peach palm.
Each course was accompanied by an appropriate wine, and he served a lemon sorbet to cleanse the palate before bringing my main course of châteaubriand. By the time he followed up with pastries and coffee, I had mentally raised his tip and the tip to the concierge twice. It was a spectacular dinner, completing a wonderful day of escape, but as I headed back to the hotel and to reality, I felt like the condemned after a hearty last meal.
* * * * *
THIRTY-FIVE
To my delight the ambassador’s chief was also familiar with the peach palm fruit. As I tried to sip my cream of pejibaye soup daintily without dripping on my lovely new silk blouse, James Nolan slurped his rapidly, with much clanging and banging of the spoon as he tried to scrape up the last few drops. Though the noise was muted by the general din of conversation in the ambassador’s large diningroom, it was sufficient to summon the attentive server, who offered Nolan seconds. Nolan looked surprised, then looked at me as if asking my opinion or permission. Surprised and curious, I obliged him.
Leaning in close I said, “There are probably four more courses. Wouldn’t want to dull your appetite.”
He responded like an obedient child. Mildly disappointed, he hesitated a moment, looking at the empty bowl, then dropped his soup spoon into the bowl and handed it to the surprised server. “Guess I better not, but thanks anyway.”
The server was too well trained to show his disapproval to Nolan, but with a sharp look and a barely perceptible movement of his head, he summoned a busboy to collect the offending dirty bowl from his hands.
“What the hell was that made of, anyway? I’ve never tasted anything like it.”
“It’s made with pejibayes, or palm peach, a small round fruit that grows on a type of palm tree they cultivate here.”
“You must have been here a while to know all this stuff. You work down here?”
One of my favorite things about PI work is the way the oddest pieces of general knowledge can find their way into working a case. “I’ve been here about six weeks consulting for a chip maker who has a plant in San Jose.”
“Oh, so you’re one of those high tech types, huh?”
“Not really. I do set up some scanning programs but my job is to help companies establish and maintain a records retention system.”
Our next course was served. Nolan waited to see which utensil I would select, then dived into the tomato aspic with the same gusto he had the soup. I’m sure the food was every bit as good as my meal last night, but in the disciplined tension of this evening, I might as well have been eating sawdust.
Sam’s friend had made excellent arrangements for my cover. He’d sent a car to bring me to the ambassador’s house in San Rafael de Escazú, a country club suburb west of downtown, and arranged for me to sit next to James Nolan at dinner. I was tense, expecting the same sort of man as Harriman Woods, but James turned out to be somewhat of a surprise. He looked to be in his forties, was about six foot two, and had curly, light brown hair and blue eyes. Though he had no detectable regional accent, he had the tan, verbal expressions, and general demeanor of a California-raised surfer. His brightly colored surfer shirt gave the impression that his dark, conservative suit and tie must be borrowed for the occasion. As I watched him inhale his aspic in three bites, I wondered if he could really be working for the same company as Harriman Woods.
“Records retention. Is that like filing systems?”
The question was asked casually, head down, looking at the empty bowl instead of me, but his voice carried a sharp undertone of interest.
“It’s an entire system for all forms of records. In the plethora of paper produced by supposedly paperless computers, companies are finding that they spend more warehouse dollars on records than on product. I help them weed out the unnecessary, cut down on the total, and establish criteria for routine control of records.”
He put his spoon down and to all appearances was genuinely enthusiastic. “Now you have hit on a business angle that is really needed. Can you really do all that in just six weeks?
“No. This trip was just for the initial survey to learn what records are kept by each department. It will take a couple years to complete a company-wide program that eliminates redundancy and obsolescence.”
“You’re exactly what I need. Are you still working with that chip maker? When will you be available?”
I laughed. “I’ve just finished my job here, but I fly back to New York in two days. With my schedule I might be available in about two years.”
“Yeah, but you’re already here in Costa Rica, and I am about two months behind in getting my plant up and running, and nobody can find anything. When they packed up the stateside plant, they were in such a hurry it was like an army bug-out. That plant had been in place for fifty-five years and they sent everything. It’s a disaster. I don’t care what you charge. I’m the boss. I can pay you a ten thousand dollar bonus on top of your usual fee.”
I smiled and tried to look apologetic rather than gleeful. “I would love to help, but I have clients who have been waiting for me for months, I–”
“Look, I’m really under the gun here. There’s going to be an international conference, and some of my guys have to get ready for a big presentation.”
“Well, I don’t know . . .”
“I’ll tell you what. Now I’m hitting on you, but I hear that Escazu has some wonderful nightclubs, and I’ve been stuck in that damn compound in the middle of the rain forest ever since I got here. I don’t even speak the language. My Spanish stops with ‘uno mas cervesa, por favor.’ Let’s bug out of this dinner early and take in some nightlife. Give me a chance to persuade you to clean up this shit-can of paper.”
Now how could a girl resist such an appealingly worded invitation?
* * * * *
THIRTY-SIX
The minibus painted with the bright Blue Morpho butterfly picked me up at six a.m. James, who was already aboard, woke up enough to mumble a good morning and went back to snoring. He had drunk an amazing amount of booze last night and danced every dance, whether he knew the steps or not. Even when he was quite pickled, I didn’t catch him stepping out of
character. He was the Big Kahuna with a touch of Peter Pan’s determination to never grow up. Why would Blue Morpho choose such a person to run a research facility that held secrets they would kill for? He didn’t compute, and that’s why he worried me.
With him snoring softly and the driver ignoring us completely, I opened my laptop and used the time for some last-minute study. My old laptop was stashed in the hotel safe along with my pistol. I was going to be living within the Blue Morpho compound and, as Sam had noted, if Woods or my new friend James decided to search me and my possessions, I didn’t want them to find any reference to my real business on the hard drive. The new computer Sam sent down was a clean slate, loaded with an excellent records management working file to guide me through the process of doing the initial survey. There were also excellent maps of Costa Rica and I was able to follow our progress and get some idea where we were headed.
The van carried us into the foothills north of the city and treated me to spectacular panoramas of the central valley, as well as passing images of small villages, rural coffee fincas, an occasional waterfall, and green, green everywhere. After crossing the Cordillera Central between the looming peaks of the Poas and Barva Volcanoes, we dropped down into the northern lowlands. There the road followed the Rio Sarapiqui on its way to meet the Rio San Juan and flow into the Caribbean. Somewhere, far short of the Caribbean, we left both the Sarapiqui and the comfort of the paved highway and began to bounce along a pot-holed gravel road, following the winding path of a small tributary river. I checked the map but found no name on this tributary or any location name that looked to be Blue Morpho’s plant. With the screen bouncing in front of my eyes, I shut the laptop, and put it away in its case.
