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

by J. J. Henderson

  Samuel said, “Dese dogs crafty-like, they hide deep in the jungle, where there no people trails, and sometimes even cross the road and go up in the hills. And they only bother person walk alone, usually woman or child, early in the morning. Not many woman come through here alone, Miss.”

  “I see. So what should I do?”

  William said, “You goin’ to Cahuita or down to PV?”

  “I was going to hike through the park, then take a bus down to Manzanillo and come back to Puerto Viejo later. I’m working on a guidebook to Costa Rica.”

  “You writin’ a tourist book?! Hey, tell you what. Three choice: we take you to the edge of the park free, where you safe, no problem, five minutes. You want a boat ride to PV, cost you five dollars U.S., take maybe fifteen minutes. Or we take you all the way to Manzanillo for twenty dollar U.S. See the coast from the water, we show you some good snorkel an’ dive reefs, get you there in two-three hours. Good stuff for your tourist book, show people where to dive an’ catch fish an’ such.”

  Lucy looked at her watch. Eight-thirty. “Great. I’d love to take that ride. To Manzanillo I mean. Only thing, can you return my snorkel and stuff to the hotel in Cahuita later today maybe?”

  “No problem, Lucy. Let’s go, boys.”

  They pulled the boat to the water’s edge. William helped her in as Sing Song stashed her pack, jumped in, and shoved off. Samuel took the helm, and they took off along the reef, then slipped through a passage and headed south.

  They stayed offshore of the waves and reefs, naming the sights while zooming along: the black sands of Playa Negra, then the little town of Puerto Viejo. Past PV the coastline consisted of long sweeps of beach interrupted by jungly, rocky points or rivermouths, and the occasional hotel. They showed her three different offshore reefs that would be excellent dive spots, as well as one near-surface reef that they swore offered a super-fine surfing wave if the swell was big enough and coming from the right direction. They knew about the surfing reef because Joseph Kelman, that crazy American with the dogs, one time come here in a boat and rode these waves surely they were twenty-five feet high. Farther south they came in close to shore at one rivermouth and Sing Song said, “Nobody be surfin’ here, miss, German boy last year tried surf here got ate by an alligator. Found de board, found de head, found nothing else.”

  “My God. How they know it was an alligator and not sharks?” Lucy said. “I heard up in Tortuguero they had sharks that were…”

  “Sharks here don’t bother nobody,” William said. “Least no shark I ever seen. There used to be bull shark go up the San Juan to Lake Nicaragua, be man-eaters sometime, but not down this way. But the gators…got to watch your step by the rivers.”

  It was near noon and steaming hot by the time they reached Manzanillo. From the water it looked like the dead end of nowhere. Paradise. A lost little place. All of the above. They threaded between reefs and ran the boat up on the beach. The guys helped Lucy out, she paid them, and they pushed off and left.

  After a day and night in Manzanillo and Puerto Viejo, Lucy took a couple of buses and a water taxi, then spent 24 hours in Bocas del Toro, in Caribbean Panama. She saw the sights—the whole town tweaked and topsy-turvy from an earthquake several years back—enjoyed two snorkeling sessions—she could report that the reefs were healthy, colorful, and thriving with fish—slogged about on the underwater tennis court—another earthquake-induced oddity—viewed the fancy brothel that had been converted into a hostel, currently bereft of guests, wrote up a couple of restaurants and hotels, and ate dinner with all the Europeans in town. Four Germans and one Italian. By three pm the next day she was fast asleep on a rapido, headed through yet another rainstorm from Sixaola to San Jose: six hours, two stops. In addition to her guidebook work, already an automatic pilot slog—you just filled in the blanks, for God’s sake!—she had found one possible lead for The Money. An outfit called The Four s.

  The bus trip ended at the San Jose terminal, in the seedy Coca Cola barrio. Lucy had planned on walking back to the Grand Hotel, but when she saw the lowlifes loitering around the terminal she grabbed a taxi instead. She rode around until she spotted the small sign indicating the darkened offices of The Four Señors, then had the cab drop her at the Grand, where she found messages from Harold and Manny Sky. She called Manny at home, set up a meeting, and then called New York. “Hey, Harry, how are you?”

  “Luce! How goes it?”

  “Good, good. All’s well, more or less. The guidebook work is getting kind of tedious, but that’s what I signed up for. Hey listen, I only have a minute. Damn, wouldn’t you know it, I stumbled on a dead body.”

  “What?”

  “The day before yesterday. Out on the east coast. Guy half-eaten by alligators, but he had a bullet hole in the head, too.”

  “Jesus, Lucy. You’re such a trouble magnet.”

  “Right. That’s how I found you, remember, Harry?”

  “Hey, sorry, no offense intended.”

  “Anyway, listen. I saw a beautiful place over there—a hotel we could actually afford—but there’s no way. Aside from the dead body not far away, the owners have been robbed three times in the last two years. So I got a bad vibe, to put it mildly.”

  “God, I guess so. Murder and robbery will do that.”

  “Yeah they will. Plus there’s too many bugs and too much rain anyway. And a few too many cocalunatics.”

  “So the northwest looks better?”

  “I haven’t seen it yet. Tomorrow I’m off thataway. Got high hopes. Or higher anyway. But when I was in Panama I did get a line on an investment company that offers really great returns.”

  “What sort of returns?”

  “Guaranteed minimum twenty-five per cent, no fees, no hassles.”

  “Wow. Sounds good. But it’s not real estate.”

  “No, or it might be, depends on what they’re in to at a given time.”

  “Sounds dicey.”

  “Dicey splicey. Dealing with this money’s a hassle, amigo. If I can’t find anything else these guys—they’re called the Four Señors—sound pretty good to me.”

  “OK, OK. Whatever. Don’t worry about it. If nothing works out you can always bring the money back.”

  “Well, yes, but I’ve heard from this tour company guy—a gringo who’s been here a really long time—that Americans are getting rousted coming back in to the US from here because its close to Colombia and there’s some drug activity on the East Coast. I didn’t declare all the money coming in because I was trying to avoid bureaucratic grief. I would have had to—”

  “You didn’t declare it?! So that means you can’t bring it back out?”

  “Well, of course I can, but it could get to be a hassle.”

  “Jesus, Lucy. Well, I guess you’d better find something to buy, eh?”

  “Like I said, if nothing works out I can dump it with these Four Señors and we can rake in our 25 per cent until we find something.”

  “Better you find something.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Hey, don’t say I didn’t warn you this wouldn’t be easy.”

  “I won’t. You did. But you’re just getting started, right?”

  “Right. Only one dead body so far.” She laughed sardonically, and looked at her watch. “Hey, I gotta grab some dinner and crash. Been a long day, gonna be another one tomorrow. I’ll call you in a couple days, OK?”

  “Bye Luce. I love you.”

  “See you, Harry.” She hung up, and looked around in a daze. She sat at a courtesy phone in an open booth off the lobby of the Grand Hotel. Faded red carpets, gilded molding, dirty cream walls. Three thick, middle-aged American men tackily decked out in resort wear strolled by. They all gave her hard, appraising head-to-toe glances, sizing up the product. She glared back. She got up and went out to the verandah, sat down, and ordered a bottle of wine and a chicken dinner.

  “So give me your take on the East Coast,” Manny said as soon as they’d settled into his office the next day. “No bull
shit, please.” He slurped his tea. “I need to know what you think—and more importantly, what you’re going to write.”

  “You tell me, Manny. Let’s get the shit out of the way first. We found a corpse in the national park. Francesca said an alligator did it, but I saw a bullet hole in the guy’s head. What am I supposed to make of that? What do I tell my readers, Señor Sky?”

  “So you were there when Francesca found him, weren’t you?”

  “Was I there!? Manny, I found the guy, for god’s sake.”

  He put his hands up, palms out, pleading for patience. “OK, look. Between you and me, those two guys were last seen alive speeding north towards Barra del Colorado in a cigarette boat two days before you stopped by the cabin. I think maybe they’d been recruited—maybe by choice, maybe by force, I don’t know— into some kind of drug- or gun-running scam. I know they were pot-heads—they told me so themselves—and that was cool since pot-heads make great wildlife observers anyway, they’re content to just sit there and stare. But I didn’t think those boys would get into the heavy shit. They seemed too earnest. So I’m thinking they got into this—situation, and Francois, the one who got killed by the gator—I know, I know—you thought you saw a bullet hole, but—”

  “It wasn’t a thought, it was a bullet hole, Manny.”

  “OK, OK. Anyways I figure they suddenly found themselves in this situation, and Francois, being the naïve, stoned Canadian kid that he is—was—tried to waltz out of whatever it was, and the next thing you know he’s lunch for the alligators.

  “But put this in perspective. These guys were young, stoned, in the jungle alone—about one in a million tourists would ever find themselves in such a position.”

  “Hardly, Manny. Stoned students wandering off into the tropical jungle? Happens every day, amigo. It’s going in the book.”

  “There’s nothing I could say to convince you…”

  “Please, Manny. There’s a dead body and a guy missing and it happened right after two girls got kidnapped, and—“

  “Kidnapped? Those Germans? Two voluptuous and seemingly very stupid young frauleins walked out of a hotel bar with a pair of total strangers who apparently told them they had a pile of pure cocaine to play with. Tourism 101 you don’t do shit like that. Next thing they knew they’re in the jungle God knows where. Next thing their Kraut daddies know they’re coughing up big bucks to get them back. They get them back the girls talk about it like they were on vacation.” He laughed. “What a scam. I wouldn’t be surprised if that quote kidnapper unquote gave half the money to the girls on the sly.” He paused. “Their foolish-looking fathers took them home to Germany, and three months later they were both back in Costa Rica. Last I heard they’re closing the bars in Montezuma.”

  “Then I stopped by the Rio Verde.”

  “Man, poor Romeo. What a hard luck case. All these years I’ve been telling him to get a guard. Everybody knows there are some sketchy characters over there. But they’re few and far between. Only thing they all know—all the bad guys and wannabe bad guys, that is—is that Romy and Lucia don’t have guns or guards. So Rio Verde is like, help yourself, dudes.”

  “It’s a nice place.”

  “I’d buy it in a New York minute if I didn’t have the place in Tortuguero up and running. They’ve done a great job.”

  “Yeah, but who wants to run a hotel where you need armed security?”

  “Are you serious? Every hotel has security, Lucy! These days practically every business does. And not just in Costa Rica. Those two are sweet—Romy and Lucia I mean—but he’s way too idealistic. Narcolombia’s just down the coast, for God’s sake.” He leaned back. “Maybe you’re looking into the wrong business, kiddo. I mean with your investors.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Lucy said. “Which brings me to my other question. Have you been to Panama? Bocas del Toro? Pretty cool little spot.”

  “Hey, I’ve been living in Costa Rica for 30 years, Lucy! Of course I’ve been to Panama. Been all over Panama, even hiked through a bit of the Darien Gap. People try to go through the Gap still come out crazy if they don’t get lost and end up bug food.”

  “I was wondering...I met this couple there—a German and his Italian wife—who just opened a hotel in Bocas. They got the money together for the hotel by investing with this company here in San Jose called The Four Señors. You know anything about them?”

  He laughed. “Holy shit! The Four Señors. I haven’t heard anything about those guys for a couple of years now. Hey, you’re going to Guanacaste next, right?”

  “Yeah, I was planning on catching a bus to Tamarindo this afternoon.”

  “Perfect. What you should do is—the next beach north of Tamarindo is called Playa Grande. It’s another spot where the big turtles—the leatherbacks—come at night to lay eggs in the wintertime. An old friend of mine, Larry Walker, one of the original American expatriate surf dogs of Costa Rica, and his partner—a Tica named Alberta Gomez—have a little hotel there. They spent years lobbying and hassling to get the area declared a marine sanctuary for the turtles. When they finally made that happen—Las Baulas is a national marine park now—they were also given the rights to build a hotel in this one spot on the edge. Right in front of a great surfing wave. It’s a cool little place and I’m sure they’ll put you up. But my point is you should talk to Larry about The Four Señors. Larry’s a strange cat in some ways, as you’ll discover, but he’ll give you the lowdown on those guys. He knows ‘em from way back when. I should warn you: they’re sort of notorious for how they got started, and also for what they invest in.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He held up his hands. “I’ve said enough. I don’t do business with those guys but I have friends that do. I don’t want to step on any toes. Talk to Larry. He knows the Four Señors story better than I. And you know, honestly you could probably do really well investing with them. I’ll say that much.”

  “You’ve got me intrigued.” Lucy got up. “Well, thanks again for all your help.”

  They headed down the stairs. “Just give CRJ a good write-up, OK?” Manny pleaded at the front door. “Hey Jose, How ya doin’?” he said, pointing out the holstered gun on the hip of the armed guard. “See what I mean?”

  The guard nodded. “Hey boss.”

  “I get your point,” Lucy said. “And don’t worry, I’ll do right by you. There’s no reason not to. It’s not like your guys did anything but show me a great time. The river guides were great, and so was the Turtlehead and the trip through the park—until we stumbled on Francois.”

  “Poor kid. Well, anyways, next time you should do Corcovado and Monteverde. On me I mean.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call when I get back in town, see what’s up. And get my money.”

  He smiled. “It’ll still be here. I promise I won’t hand it over to the Four Señors.”

  Maybe not, but Lucy still wanted to have a look at their operation. After stopping for quick bite at a lunch counter, she made her way to the offices of the Four Señors.

  Lucy passed through a foyer into a waiting room, where an attractive young woman seated behind a desk greeted her in Spanish, then switched to flawless, accent-free English when Lucy identified herself as American and gave her name. “What can I do for you today, Miss Ripken?”

  “I’m interested in—well, to be honest, I’m not sure. I may be interested in investing some money with the firm, but I’d like to speak to one of the—um—”

  “Financial consultants,” the woman said, with a reassuring smile. “Have a seat. I’ll see who’s available. Would you like a coffee or soda?”

  “Nothing, thanks.”

  “Just a moment, please.” She got up and wriggled through a door in four-inch heels and a micro mini-skirt. Lucy waited. Along with the receptionist’s desk there were half a dozen comfortable armchairs in the wood-paneled waiting room. Framed posters displayed the usual volcanoes, toucans, beaches, and monkeys. She heard murmuring voices behind the wall.<
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  A moment later a handsome thirtysomething man in a pricey-looking pale green suit emerged from the back. “Greetings,” he said with a slightly unctuous smile, displaying perfect, preternaturally white teeth under his standard issue Latino mustache. “I’m Alberto Machado. Nice to see you, Miss Lucy Ripken. Did you have some questions about the business? Some interest?”

  “Well, yes, I’m possessed of some funds, and one of the reasons I came down was to look for investment opportunities. You probably know how the market’s doing up north these days. Not a pretty sight. So anyway I met a couple of your clients recently, a couple of Europeans over in Caribbean Panama, and they said that they had done quite well by you.”

  “Hans and Sylvia. Yes. The Firehouse Hotel. I flew over for the opening. A very nice place, and I hope they can find someone to stay there. Bocas del Toro is, how you say it, not my cup of coffee, but maybe later on. It is cheaper than Costa Rica certainly, and less crowded.” He smiled. “Not so good for tourism, I suppose. But Hans and Sylvia are not unique. Everybody will tell you that, Lucy,” he smiled. “That they have done well by us, I mean. Because it is true. We are the fastest-growing investment company in all of Central America, and there are very good reasons for that. Excellent reasons, even in this confusing economic climate.” He paused. “If only your Señor Presidente would figure out that he is not the king of the world but only the president of the United States it would I think help—” he stopped, waiting to make sure he was on the right track. A safe bet that Lucy, like most gringos on the loose in CR, was liberal. She smiled reassuringly. Yeah, I agree, he’s a clown. “But enough chit chat,” Machado went on. “Would you like to come back to my office and perhaps I can give you some more precise information?”