Lucy's Money: A Lucy Ripken Mystery (The Lucy Ripken Mysteries Book 4)

by J. J. Henderson

  “Actually from what I heard they were very, very dead.” He stopped on the landing halfway up the stairs, and turned to face her. “In pieces, as a matter of fact. So here you have half-a-dozen impoverished—I mean abjectly poor—men, who hustled up that hot, dangerous mountain with nothing but the best intentions, I can guarantee you that. So they get up there and they find six mangled bodies, four of them obviously wealthy gringos. Maybe not wealthy by your North American standards, but incredibly wealthy by the standards of rural Costa Rica. For all we know the money could have been blowing around like so much trash on the mountainside after the crash. What should they have done, handed it over to the police? The cops aren’t all corrupt here but thousands of dollars in loose American cash is a temptation few Ticos could resist. Those guys on the mountain knew that. They knew what would probably happen to the money if they didn’t pocket it themselves. I’m not condoning what they did but I refuse to condemn it.”

  “But tearing a ring off a dead woman’s finger seems a little extreme, regardless of how poor you are.”

  “I beg to differ. The lady was dead, and besides, who’s to say if the finger was still attached. Sorry, I know that sounds crude, but nobody knows if that so-called ring finger rip-off really happened. Frankly, I have my doubts.”

  Lucy found herself appreciating Sky’s perspective. “OK, OK,” she said. “Point—points—well taken. But what about the guy on the river?”

  “It’s very simple. No one should be on the Toro this time of year. Way too much water. What’s that guy’s name? Vishnu? He should be banished from the business. What a moron.” He headed upstairs. She followed.

  “You’re a New Yorker, aren’t you?” Lucy said as they entered his spacious office. The furniture was cheap utilitarian stuff, but rich light filtered in from a trio of elegant bay windows fitted with gauzy drapes that stirred in the soft breeze from a slowly turning overhead fan. He went behind his cluttered desk, waving at another chair for Lucy. She sat and fished a notebook and a pen out of her pack. He had two laptop computers open on the desk. A small model of a colorfully painted coffee cart, from Sarchi, the mountain town famous for such carts, sat in one corner.

  Sky leaned back, hands behind his head. “Yeah. I grew up in the Village. My father—Emmanuel Schivowicz—was the librarian in the law library at NYU. I was going to go to school there but I came here instead, looking for whitewater.”

  “And avoiding a war?” Lucy asked.

  “It was 1969,” he said. “So the answer is yes. I got a low lottery number. Costa Rica sounded like a lot more fun than Viet Nam—or Canada, for that matter—so here I am, nearly forty years into it.”

  “Your business seems good.”

  “That it is,” he said, looking pleased. “When I first got here I spent some time studying topographical maps, and then I hiked most of the country, searching for whitewater. When I found good runs—I opened the Reventazon and the Pacuare, the two best rivers in the country—I got started by bringing some old chums down from New York, packing in the raft and paddles, and going for broke. It was incredible. Jamming down Class Four rapids that had never been run, where you’d see jaguars on the riverbank, flocks of scarlet macaws, troops of monkeys everywhere. Then I got a VW bus and made up a company name and started advertising. Costa Rican Journeys.” A phone rang. He called out, “Hey Josefina, hold my calls!” He looked at Lucy. “You want some tea or coffee? I’m into mint tea these days. I shouldn’t say this since they grow tons of great coffee here, but mint tea is much better for your digestion.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Josefina, two teas, OK? Thanks.” He looked at Lucy. “So presently I’ve got 127 employees, three lodges, seventeen vehicles, and an airplane. Along with a Costa Rican wife, three kids, and seven grandchildren. Now that I’m a businessman the thrill is kind of gone but the money’s gotten pretty damned good.” He leaned back. “So what’s your gig? Who did you say you were working for?”

  “Grunwald.”

  “Get Going? What happened to the other writer? Bill Thurman, wasn’t it? I thought he did a good job. They’ve got a nice write-up in there on me and the company.”

  “It is nice, but I think Thurman had had enough of Costa Rica. All I know is the editor called, offered me the job. So here I am, checking on what’s new.”

  Josefina delivered the tea. Sky stirred in three spoons of sugar, then leaned his head down and with a complete lack of self-consciousness slurped from his brimming cup like a dog, quite noisily. Lucy picked up her cup and had a sip. Sky leaned back, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and said, “Well, a lot of people are doing these zipline canopy tours, but I personally think they’re dangerous. You’ve got to have facilities and activities that are as close to fail-proof as possible. Otherwise, well, you’ve seen the results this week.” He gave her a look. “Dead tourists, and really, really bad publicity.

  “We’ve got a new pool at our lodge over in Tortuguero, on the Caribbean—you’ll have to check it out over there, it’s another world, the jungle’s incredible—what’s left of it anyway, loggers and banana growers have leveled way too much—and down in the Osa I’m getting ready to turn the Corcovado tent camp into a real hotel. I’ve finally gotten all the issues around the ownership of the land straightened out, so we’re going to break ground next year.”

  “What sort of issues?”

  “Oh, it’s too complicated to go in to. Suffice it to say that part of the 400 hectares of land I bought was also claimed by the national park service for Corcovado National Park after I bought it, which was ridiculous, and another part had been bought and sold several times to several different gringos, but none of the deeds they had were valid. But given the park service bureaucracy and the North American penchant for litigation it took a while to sort it all out.”

  “Not such a good place to buy property then, eh?”

  “Well, it was better in the eighties and best in the seventies, but you can still do it if you have enough money and an honest lawyer.”

  “How much is enough?”

  “That depends on what you want to buy.”

  “What if you wanted to buy a small hotel on the beach in Guanacaste?”

  “You’d need a lot of money. There are big players out there now. Mexican syndicates, Colombians looking to whitewash drug money, Germans, all sorts of major hustlers. They’re doing golf courses on the borders of the wildlife sanctuaries, the idiots.” He gave her a sly look. “What’s with this line of questions? Have you got another agenda here, other than guidebook writing?”

  “Let’s just say that I’m representing some interested parties—people who would like to get into something down here.”

  He wagged a finger at her. “Don’t do it. Costa Rica’s easy money years are over. You know, now that the tourist business is really established—thanks to me and a few other risk takers from way back when—the opportunities for cheap deals are pretty much gone. So unless you’ve got like, a million bucks to spend, you might as well forget it.”

  “Damn. That’s sure not what I wanted—or expected—to hear.”

  “You might hear a different story from someone else—someone with an agenda, something to sell, for example—but that’s my opinion. Take your money and run.” He glanced at a clock, then leveled a gaze at her. “So how much did your people want to spend?”

  “I’ve got a hundred thousand with me—not on me, but you know, here. And there’s probably—”

  “A hundred grand? That’s fifteen, maybe twenty per cent down on a beachfront dump, if you can find one for sale. Don’t bother looking around Tamarindo, Jaco or Quepos. Samara and Montezuma are getting pricey. Maybe near La Cruz, although I hear some Germans are snapping up those beaches near the border now that the airport’s open in Liberia. I’d take a look on the Caribbean side south of Puerto Viejo. Since they finally paved the road all the way to Manzanillo it’s probably gonna boom. Of course last year the brand new road got demolished in a
storm, but—”

  “I thought you just said it was a bad idea to buy these days.”

  “It might be a worse idea to try to get back through U.S. Customs with that kind of cash.”

  “Really?”

  “Colombia’s not that far from here, Lucy. There’s some drug stuff going on over on the East Coast and down in the Osa too. Stay away from Limón. Cahuita’s a little scary, and Puerto Viejo is full of dope. Mostly recreational, but you know, shit happens. Mix in post-9/11 paranoia and you’ve got a situation where most of your flights coming in to the US from CR get pretty well ransacked by Mr. Customs Man. And one hundred thousand undeclared dollars coming in from Costa Rica does not look good.”

  “Hm. Well, I—”

  “Whatever you do, I mean if you decide to buy into something, just hire a local lawyer who knows his way around, and—hey, I’ll be happy to have my people check out any deals you’re looking in to. Meanwhile, you’re here to write up the country. Do your work. Have some fun. You want to float the Pacuare? It’s a great mix of slow drifts and really intense class threes and fours, lots of wildlife. Hey, you drift through a rainforest, watch the morphos flutter along the riverbank. What could be cooler?”

  “I’d love to go. What day did you have in mind?”

  “How about tomorrow? There are three boats scheduled. I’m sure we can make room for you. I’ll have my guys pick you up around six am. Where are you staying?”

  “At the Grand.”

  “That old heap? Well, I guess for a first timer it’s not a bad place to be. Right in the middle of things. But next time you should stay at the Grano d’Oro or the Britannia. They’re much nicer.”

  “I’m booked at the Britannia when I get back here from Guanacaste.”

  “Cool. Let me get on the phone and get you a discount.”

  “That’s OK. I’m a guidebook writer, remember? Everybody loves me. I get freebies.”

  “Right.” He stood. “Well, it’s been great meeting you.”

  “Thanks for your time. And for the trip tomorrow. Sounds like a gas.”

  “No problem, Lucy.” He stood. “Oh, one other thing. That money you have—I mean, with you here in San Jose?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, you read about what happened down in Samara, that business with the safety deposit box?”

  “I did.”

  “Let me just say that unfortunately it was not entirely an isolated incident. There are a few hotel operators around—only a few, mind you—who are somewhat unscrupulous.”

  “What about the Grand Hotel?”

  “I think they’re OK, but—well, listen, I’ve got a really good safe, and 24 hour security. If you’d like, bring your money here. It’ll be much safer than any hotel.”

  The company was too big time for him to be bullshitting her. And in her judgment he was an honest man. After he’d gone over the rest of the company info with her and had one of his employees stuff her bag with a fat press kit, she went back to the Grand Hotel on foot and got her money. She returned by taxi to Costa Rican Journeys, where Manny Sky secured the 100K in a heavy steel safe built into the wall of a small room next to his office. On the way out Lucy noted the security guard by the front door. He alternated eight hour shifts with two other guys, Manny said, so the building was guarded 24/7. As Lucy headed back to the hotel for a nap, she felt a little better about the money. She might not know what to do with it just yet but at least she could rest easier about where she had it stashed.

  Lucy jolted upright to look at her watch, which read 7. She panicked, stranger in a strange room. Then she calmed, remembering where she was—and then panicked again: she’d missed her six o’clock ride to the river! But no, all was well: it was 7 pm, she’d awakened from a nap, and now came time to get dressed and take the plunge into San Jose’s semi-notorious nightlife. She put on low-keyed evening plumage—a pair of khaki pants and a summer sweater over the underwear and t-shirt she’d slept in—and dabbed on a bit of make-up. She stuffed forty bucks worth of colones, a lipstick, a credit card and a couple of guidebooks into a shoulder bag, slipped on some sandals, did a turn before the glass, then headed out into the cool of the evening.

  Emerging onto the lamplit verandah, she took a table at the end opposite her morning perch, looking for a different perspective, and ordered a glass of red wine.

  Decked-out revelers swept in and out of cabs and private cars and patrolled the casino and restaurant as the night kicked into gear. Across the plaza a crowd gathered outside the theater. A ballet company from Mexico was scheduled to dance, and the audience looked well-fed, well-dressed, and sophisticated. Lucy sighed quietly, feeling a bit lonesome as she recalled nights at the ballet, the theater, museum openings, night-clubbing. It had been a while since she’d done a night on the town. Nobody she knew went to the ballet or the theater any more. Everybody was too tired all the time. Life in New York did that.

  She shook off the blues. Traveling alone put you into a different orbit. It was easy to get sentimental, even maudlin. After lingering for a while watching the crowds come and go she finished her wine, paid up, and headed off on a short walk in the direction of Balcon de Europa, a venerable continental restaurant that had been open in the same spot for over half a century. By the time she reached it ten minutes later she had crossed an invisible border and now walked the red light streets in the land of sex for money: clusters of young women in short dresses and heavy make-up patrolled, eyeballing men, tourists and Ticos alike, on foot or in cars cruising slowly past.

  Lucy slipped into the Balcon de Europa, found a table—the room was empty except for a single elderly man in a dark suit and tie, seated alone, methodically eating—and took a seat. She ordered pasta, salad, and red wine. She was about to plunge into her guidebook to read up on the red light scene she’d just walked through when a large, noisy party entered the dining room.

  Instead of reading, she watched red light life in real time. The party included seven men, all Americans, ranging in age from forties to seventies. The nautical hats and wind-weathered faces suggested that they were fishermen, likely just back from a billfish expedition out of Puntarenas. With them were nine women, all Costa Ricans between 20 and 35. Their short skirts and heavy make-up and low-cut tops and high heels gave them away: hookers one and all.

  They made their way to a banquet table. Lucy watched furtively until the whole boisterous crew was seated, men and women alternating, two women flanking the men at the ends of the table.

  The men talked only to each other, loud dull chatter about fish, weather, and football, but Lucy couldn’t take her eyes off the scene. Mostly because of the way they interacted: gesturing as they told their fish stories, the men moved proprietary hands on and off the women at will, throwing their arms around shoulders, brushing breasts or squeezing thighs, laying claim to what was theirs because after all it was bought and paid for. The women played demure rather than sexy, occasionally exchanging remarks in quiet Spanish.

  Lucy had read in at least one or two of the guidebooks about prostitution in Costa Rica—in fact the one open on her table came from a writer whose penchant for buying sex was clear as day in his book, which went on about Costa Rican “bachelor nightlife” for several pages.

  What choices did these women have? Get married, have six kids, stay home and scrape by? Maybe it was better to take the money from these gringo geezers, get them off and ship them out, meanwhile have a fine dinner with your friends. Lucy caught the eye of one of the women, and smiled at her. The woman smiled back, raised her glass an inch, and winked at Lucy. Lucy looked down, oddly embarrassed. Did she feel left out? No, but she was alone, and felt it, felt vulnerable. She wished Harold was there with her. Why hadn’t she asked him to come? She hadn’t wanted him there. She’d wanted to be alone, and here she was, alone in a room full of dirty old men and pretty young hookers.

  She paid up and left, having decided to get to the heart of the matter. She headed straight for the Blue Mar
lin at the El Rey Hotel. According to the sex-obsessed guidebook dude the Blue Marlin was sex for sale central—and it was: she walked into a room dominated by an enormous, rectangular bar, lined with dozens of elbow-to-elbow gringos, drinking beer, yelling at one another, eyeballing the girls, and watching American sports on assorted TVs suspended from the ceiling. Big stuffed sailfish grinned down. Loud classic rock blasted away: the Eagles, the Doors, the Rolling Stones, re-running the soundtrack of these guys’ youth, when they didn’t have to pay. Behind the bar, three sexy American women slung drinks. The rest of the room held scattered small tables and chairs, some satellite bars with stools, and probably a hundred prostitutes, some still in their teens, most in their twenties and thirties, a flock of exotic nightbirds working the men at the bar with flashes of bedroom eyes, mouths, body moves, the occasional briefly bared breast; anything to bag a gringo for an hour or a night. They clustered in groups of three or four or five, drinking soda pop or wine, trying hard to look sexy, hot, available, half of them scarcely out of childhood. The last time Lucy had seen so many young women dressed so trashy/sexy had been the last time she’d photographed a New York runway fashion show.

  Lucy watched the noisy, horny room vibrate with sexual energy, anxiety, and tension for fifteen minutes, long enough to be offered money for sex by two ugly Americans, two fat Costa Ricans, and one handsome German businessman, with whom she might have had a drink if he hadn’t tried to buy her for the night after saying hello; she replied with a quiet “fuck off, nazi.”

  The last man she encountered sat alone at a table by the door, nursing a beer. He looked up at her and smiled. Tall, skinny-muscular and handsome, pushing forty, balding, unshaven and scruffy, racially he hailed from India, but his surfer dude t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops reeked of California. As she passed he smiled at her, displaying perfect Indian teeth and a major dose of sincerity, and said, “What the hell’s a woman like you doing in a place like this?” The accent was perfect Indo-English grafted atop SoCal surferese.