by Harper Lin
I only got a few quick glimpses, but they were enough. The gate to the loading dock was open, nearly filled by an eighteen-wheeler that had backed into it, harsh light shining out around it and casting a sinister silhouette.
Parked next to it was a four-by-four with a logo painted on the side. My eyes aren’t up to reading at that distance under those light conditions anymore, but I did see a big red shield emblazoned next to the words. That told me all I needed to know.
The Panamanians were still inside.
What to do? I couldn’t enter the parking lot, and there was no way to sneak in even for someone of my abilities. I did have one thing working in my favor. I remembered from checking out the security video that the cameras only covered SerMart property. They did not capture the roads around the building. I could circle without being seen and wait for them to come out.
So that’s exactly what I did, and I didn’t have to wait long.
I only made a couple more slow circles around the block before I came around back again and my heart did a little flippy-flop.
The Escudo Security four-by-four was no longer parked by the loading dock.
I put the pedal to the metal as much as my practical little suburban two-door would allow me and got back on the main road in front of SerMart. I was rewarded by seeing the Escudo Security truck a block ahead of me.
There was a red light between me and them. I groaned in frustration as I stopped at it and saw them just make the light a block ahead.
My phone rang. It was Albert.
“They, like, left.”
“I know that. I’ve been following them and trailing badly. I might just lose them. Why didn’t you call earlier?”
“Like, my manager was around. I don’t want to lose Productivity Points!”
“Ugh, this company is driving me bonkers.”
“Try working here.” Pause. “Sorry I couldn’t call earlier. I know I’m a screwup.”
Now I felt bad. “You are not a screwup, Albert. But you do undercut yourself. That junk you smoke is keeping you at a dead stop in life.”
“I don’t smoke junk! I don’t touch that stuff.”
“Oh, come on, I know you’re still smoking marijuana.”
“That’s not junk.”
“What is it? Magical fairy leaves from the gods?” This boy gave me no end of irritation.
He laughed. “You could say that. No, junk is slang for heroin. That’s bad stuff, man. I’d never touch that.”
“It’s all a matter of degree.”
“Well, I bet you drink,” he said with a whine that would have been more appropriate coming out of my grandson.
“Not to excess, and it never got in the way of my education or career. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some murderers to tail.”
I hung up just as the light turned green. The security vehicle was still way ahead.
They continued straight then had to slow as an eighteen-wheeler pulled out of a supermarket and blocked their way. Thank God for late-night delivery trucks.
The four-by-four began to pass. I moved as fast as I dared. I wanted to catch up, but I didn’t want to attract attention. I worried that these guys would recognize my vehicle. They had obviously been spying on me. Luckily, the streets of this sleepy town are poorly lit, and trying to identify the make and model of a distant car in poor light in a rearview mirror is not an easy task.
I used the eighteen-wheeler as a shield as I approached, which allowed me to take on greater speed. The next time we got caught by a red light, the security guys were only a block ahead and we had left the supermarket truck behind.
We were on the main business road on the edge of Cheerville, heading out of town. I had already checked the location of their office, and that stood in the opposite direction, so these guys were going somewhere else.
After another couple of blocks, it turned out they were going to a motel.
And not just any motel, but the Show ’n’ Tell Motel.
The Show ’n’ Tell Motel is infamous among the conservative and staid residents of Cheerville. It has a reputation of being a place for assignations of the paid variety. The evidence for this was the garish neon lighting showing an eye opening and closing, the swimming pool that hadn’t been filled since 1967, the general squalor of the building and grounds, and the fact that it stood right next to the On-Ramp Burlesque (“Truckers welcome!”).
The On-Ramp Burlesque was so named, I dearly hope, because it stood next to the on-ramp to the Interstate. I did not want to ponder other possibilities. It was understated, a blank concrete facade with no windows and a large sign within view of the highway that carried no suggestive pictures. True to its name, it had parking both for cars and trucks, and several eighteen-wheelers were parked there, their exhausted drivers getting a little diversion from their all-night marathon drives across the country.
You would think that the good citizens of Cheerville would kick up a fuss about these two establishments, and you’d be right. But there was nothing they could do about it because both businesses stood just outside city limits, on state land. Cheerville had tried buying the land specifically so they could zone these two places out of existence, but the state wasn’t selling. I suspected bribery at the state level.
As the Escudo Security vehicle pulled into the motel and parked out of sight around one side, I was faced with a similar problem to the one I had back at SerMart. If I parked there I would stick out like a sore thumb—not my vehicle, but me. No one would think anything of a seventy-one-year-old man going to such a dive. People would only wink and nod. But a seventy-one-year-old woman? Not on your life. People would think I was a vengeful wife or an angry Bible-thumper. No one would think I was actually a customer. I couldn’t blend in. I would only attract suspicion.
I had never been faced with this particular brand of sexism before, and I couldn’t figure out how I felt about it. Somewhere between annoyed and flattered.
The safer option was to park in front of the On-Ramp Burlesque. The Panamanians or whoever they were wouldn’t be able to see me. They had gone to the far side of the motel.
I pulled in, parked by a larger vehicle that would partially shield me from view if my targets came around to the front of the motel, and got out.
Just as I did, another car pulled up not too far off, and three young men got out, drunk and laughing. They looked like college kids. They spotted me and stopped, jaws hanging open. One giggled. I frowned.
“What are you doing here?” one of them asked.
I put a hand on my hip and gave them a come-hither look.
“Hey boys, I’m the next act. The Gyrating Granny. Wait till you see my—”
They leapt in the car and peeled out of the parking lot so fast they left a trail of burnt rubber.
I hurried over to the Show ’n’ Tell Motel before someone from the strip club kicked me off the premises for hurting their business.
The motel was one of those old places that has a single story with rooms all in a row, each with an identical door and battered old air-conditioning unit that probably doesn’t work. The building was built like a giant C, with one wing facing the street and the others running back from it on either side. The security folks were on the opposite side somewhere, out of sight.
I unzipped my purse so I could grab the 9mm pistol inside. I also made sure my reading glasses still hung from my neck. Sad to say, I needed them to see the sights on my pistol. Humiliating, I know, but I was still a crack shot as long as I remembered to wear them.
I also carried my pepper spray in the breast pocket of my sweater just in case I needed to get my point across with a little less assertiveness.
The first problem was the manager’s office, a glass-fronted room on the corner closest to me. Sitting inside reading a thick book was a haggard man in a grubby tracksuit with thinning salt-and-pepper hair that desperately needed to be cut. He looked up from over the top of his book and spotted me before I even got onto the property. By the
time I had made it from one parking lot to the other, he was out of the office and coming for me.
I put my hand in my purse and opened my mouth to speak, but he spoke first.
“If you find him, get him out of here quietly. I don’t want any trouble, and the state troopers are personal friends of mine.”
He said this not in a hostile manner but matter-of-factly, like he was telling me the room rates or checkout time. I suspected he had to say this a lot.
I put on my best scandalized-long-suffering-wife frown. “I’ll have him out of here before you can say ‘excessive alimony!’”
He snickered at that.
“Happy hunting,” he said, and turned to go.
Then I noticed what book he was reading. It was War and Peace, with a bar code from the Cheerville Public Library.
“You’re reading Tolstoy?” I said, surprised.
He turned back, his eyes lighting up.
“I love the Russians. Tolstoy, Turgenev, Lermentov, Solzhenitsyn… theirs are the greatest literary treasures of the world.”
“They are nice, especially on cold winter nights. I suppose they were written on cold winter nights, or cold summer nights. But I’ve always preferred the French.”
He took in a breath of air and put his hand on his chest. “Ah yes, Gide, Baudelaire, Anatole France… such prose! Such poetry! Have you read The Gods are Athirst?”
I smiled. “I really must be going.”
He glanced at the hotel and then back at me. “Oh, right. The cheating husband. Go get him! He had to pay for the room in advance anyway. No refunds. No refunds on the Viagra vending machine either. I’m going to get back to my reading. Books are much more reliable than men.”
He headed back to his office. I chuckled and shook my head.
Well, at least that was one less problem tonight.
I walked along the front of the hotel, noticing there were no security cameras. Even if there were, my friend already had his nose firmly buried in a classic of Russian literature. The lights were out on all the rooms I passed, but judging from the noises coming from within, the residents were not asleep.
Once I got to the corner, I paused. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure my friend was still reading, I found that he was actually out of sight, sitting as he was, a bit back from the window. Good.
I peeked around the corner. There were about ten motel rooms along this row. Only one had its light on. The four-by-four from Escudo Security was parked in front. From the dim light of the flickering streetlamp that feebly tried to illuminate this part of the parking lot, I could see there was fresh mud on the side of the vehicle.
Only two other cars were parked on this side. I heard no noise coming from those rooms.
I crept up to the motel room door. The view through the window was completely blocked by a heavy curtain. The sound of low voices came from within.
I reached into my purse and pulled out a stethoscope. Yes, a stethoscope. Very good for listening through walls. Even better for listening through windows, the glass conducting sound waves much better than concrete.
I cupped my fingers around the cold end of the stethoscope and placed them gently on the window before easing the stethoscope into position. Just putting it up to the glass would make a telltale click, and I had a feeling these guys had pretty good situational awareness. It might seem like a small precaution, but small precautions had saved my life, and my mission, on countless occasions.
The sounds from inside the motel room came loud and clear now. I heard several male voices speaking in Spanish. I’m fluent in Spanish, fluent enough to recognize a Panamanian accent when I hear it.
“You marked the spot, right?” someone asked. He sounded older, his voice gravelly from many years of smoking.
“Of course. Just like you asked us to. I even put it in a metal box so the animals wouldn’t get it.”
“Oh, that was a good idea. Should have thought of that myself. We’ll move it to a better location in a couple of days. Want a beer?” Gravelly Voice asked.
“Sure.”
I heard the sounds of several aluminum cans being opened.
“To Panama for the Panamanians!” Gravelly Voice said.
“To Panama for the Panamanians!” the others replied. Since they all said it together, it was hard to tell their numbers. At least the three I had followed here. Maybe a couple more.
I cursed myself. I should have counted the number of beers being opened. On second thought, there might be a teetotaler in the crowd.
“I think this all went well,” one of the voices said. He sounded young, eager for assurance.
“It did,” Gravelly Voice said. “No innocent people hurt.”
“If only the Americans were so careful,” Young Guy replied.
“You’re too young to remember,” Gravelly Voice said, sounding irritated. “But I do. The Americans were sloppy. They’re always sloppy.”
“And we get left cleaning up their mess,” another voice grumbled.
“It’s always the way,” Gravelly Voice said. “At least it’s all done now. And in a year, we’ll be sitting pretty, counting cash for a good deed.”
“Sounds good to me,” Young Guy said and laughed.
They then started talking about baseball. Panamanian baseball. I listened in for a while about teams and players I’d never heard of as the conversation became increasingly animated. After a few minutes of this, I realized I wasn’t going to get any more information this way. They had buried something (the Volcano Stone of Panama?), marked the spot, and were now celebrating. Why were they going to get money in a year? For selling it? If so, they were smart to wait a year for the investigation into its theft to go cold.
And what was that about doing a good deed and cleaning up America’s mess? I hardly saw murdering an English multimillionaire as a good deed, and from my investigations into him, he had never had any formal ties to the U.S. besides residency. He hadn’t worked for the government, and none of his business deals had ever been in Panama.
I crept away before anyone saw me. While I was tempted to wait until the door opened so I could stick a gun under the nose of the first man to come out, I didn’t trust my reflexes enough to keep control of that situation. I had distinguished at least four voices during the conversation about baseball, and if they decided to resist, things could go sour very quickly.
Besides, I wasn’t sure just what was going on yet. It didn’t appear that they were planning any more murders or planning to get rid of the stone, so I had a bit of time. If I stuck them up now, they would probably shut their mouths and wait for their lawyers. And with their CIA-approved visas, I might never get to the bottom of this. No, it was better to keep on investigating and see what I could find.
I tried to hurry past the office and avoid conversation with the resident literary scholar, but my back twinged and I had to slow down.
“Where is he?” the night manager called out over his book.
“Having a nervous breakdown in the room,” I said, pulling out my phone and waving it over my head. “I snapped some photos of him. Smart phones are a wonder, aren’t they? He’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
He gave me a thumbs-up. “You go, girl!”
“Oh, and don’t mention to him that you saw me. He might try and prove entrapment if he thinks you were in on it.”
“Mum’s the word, grandmum.”
“Sorry for taking away one of your customers.”
“Nonsense! Once you divorce him, he’ll be here more regularly, although I guess he won’t be able to afford the deluxe suite anymore. Divorce is good for business.”
I walked away, rubbing my back and shaking my head. What an odd business this man had.
What was odder was the business the Panamanians were getting up to. It wasn’t simple robbery, and it didn’t seem like simple revenge. This case was getting stranger and stranger.
Ten
“So, what can I do to help?” my boyfriend asked.
“I don’t really see what you can do at this stage,” I said. Truth be told, I didn’t want him on this case. I didn’t want him on any of them. While he had been a great help, all through my career I had tried to keep my professional and private lives separate.
He was having none of it.
“How about I go on over to Escudo Security and pretend to be a customer? I could have them come over to my house, and you could pop out of a closet and stick ’em up.”
He actually made his hands into the shape of guns like some little boy playing cowboys and Indians.
I chuckled. “I had the chance to do that last night. I don’t think we’re at that stage of the investigation.”
“Oh yes,” he said, shaking a finger at me. “The Show ’n’ Tell Motel. I hope no one we know saw you there. It would hurt our reputation.”
“We have a reputation?”
“This is a small town. People talk. Everyone has a reputation.”
“Oh dear.”
Grimal had said something similar. About me being known as the nosy new lady who was always being seen in odd places and with odd people. That could be a problem. I used to be good at keeping a low profile.
“Just let me go over there,” Octavian said. “I can get a good look at the place. Maybe I’ll get an idea of what they’re up to. I’ll wear my best watch and cuff links.”
“Why?”
“So I look wealthy. These people are obviously attracted to wealth. I only wish I had some gaudy gemstones to flash.”
“That’s not your style.”
“No, it is not, but business is, and I know my kind. While these folks might be murderers and thieves, they’re also businessmen. They’ll see a wealthy client well connected to the Cheerville community who wants a security system and will see a good opportunity to make some money.”
