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

by J. J. Henderson

  “Man, what a wacko,” Krish said quietly, watching the guy. The guard’s truck started up.

  “No shit,” Lucy said. “Got his nasty little empire out here in the middle of nowhere, doesn’t he? Wait a sec, will you?” She fished out her camera and keeping it just above the level of the dash she quickly captured half a dozen images of the house, barns, and grounds through the windshield. At least one included the angry colonel. “Cool. Let’s roll.” Krish started up the van and they followed the truck back to the gate. “God damn,” she went on. “Bunch of troubled teens, bunch of orphans, psycho colonel in charge, no local legal authority. No wonder those kids ran for it. God knows what’s going on here!”

  “So what do you think? Should we try a more roundabout approach?” Krish said as they waited for the man to open the gate. When he turned his back to do so she quickly shot more pics of the gate and fence, and the guard with the gun on his hip. As she put the camera away, without even glancing at them the guard put his walkie-talkie to his mouth, spoke for a moment, then swung the gate closed again, locked it, and ambled over. He came round to the driver’s side and said something very succinct to Krish, who responded briefly, then turned to Lucy. “He says he wants the roll of film in your camera. The one you just shot.”

  “No way, man.”

  Krish and the guard exchanged a few more pleasantries in Spanish. “He’s not going to let us leave until you hand over the film, Lucy. I don’t think this is a negotiation, if you get my drift.” He cleared his throat, then added softly, “Let’s not forget who’s got the weapons around here.”

  “OK, OK. But this camera is digital so there’s no film. There’s just this,” she said, removing from the camera the small memory card that stored the digital images.

  “Well, I don’t think we’re going anywhere until you give him something,” Krish said. Manipulating the camera busily, she slyly reached in her pack and slipped out a new card. As she opened the camera she handed Krish the new card, putting the other one back into the camera. “Tell him sorry, I just wanted to, you know, take a few pics for—”

  “He doesn’t give a shit, Lucy. He’s just doing his job. I get the feeling that if it included shooting both of us dead he’d do that too. But that was a nice move. I’m sure he missed it.” Krish grinned at Lucy as he handed the card over. The guy dropped it on the ground and smashed it into the mud with the heel of his boot.

  “Ouch,” said Lucy, wincing, as the man, went to the gate, unlocked it, and swung it open. “Those babies are pricey.”

  “Well, I’m glad we got out of there without any serious grief,” she said as they drove through the gate. “I don’t know what a dozen images of a bunch of run-down buildings and one pissed-off guy on a riverbank are gonna do for me anyway.” She shook her head. “I don’t know about going back in there, man. Guy’s probably got a rocket launcher in the barn. God, can you believe a creep like that’s out here doing this?” She shook her head. “I’d have run away too. Did you see that girl in the door? She was radiating pure fear. I thought she was going to make a break for a minute there. But she was too scared.”

  They turned onto the road, while the guard leaned against his truck with arms crossed, eyeballing them. Rounding a bend out of sight a moment later, Krish pulled over. “Seriously, Lucy, what do you think?” he said.

  “We’ll have to take another look, but not right now, amigo. They’ve got guns and they’re already pissed at us. And probably patrolling the perimeter. Guy could blow our heads off, feed us to the crocodiles, who’d know? That sounds extreme but I’ve met types like Douglas before and—

  “Hey, I was a marine. I used to work with ‘em, remember? That clown’s capable of doing anything he can get away with, and that means almost anything at all out here.”

  “I think—Listen, Krish, I know this is a lot to ask, but could we maybe do it later, or tomorrow? Try the surreptitious approach, that is? I’ve got a friend in New York checking on the place. Maybe I’ll know more by tonight.”

  “Why not? Be interesting to see if we can work our way in there.” He looked at his watch. “So let’s head down to Sarapiqui, grab a bite, then go back to Fortuna. We’ll reconnoiter and figure out the timing later.”

  “Sounds good.” They crawled down the muddy riverbank road to Sarapiqui, found a café, ate beans and eggs with toast and coffee, then got back on the main road and headed east. It took an hour to get back to Fortuna.

  Lucy went to her hotel room and collapsed, seriously in need of a siesta and a plan. She woke up at nightfall, just past six, and immediately got on the phone to New Jersey. Harold picked right up. “Hey, so what’s up?” she said.

  “First tell me what you know.”

  “I know that Rancho de la Luna is run by some semi-wacko ex-U.S. military dude, and that he doesn’t like publicity. We went out there, he was ready to nail me to a tree.”

  “Guy name of Douglas?”

  “You got it. Griffin Douglas.”

  “Amazing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “How it all fits together. Or at least seems to.”

  “So tell me, Harry.”

  “OK, here what I know: Griffin Douglas was and maybe still is special forces. Good pal of Ollie North it seems. Deeply involved in the wet ops side of the Contra operation back when the Contras and the Sandinistas were heavy at it.”

  “Wet ops?”

  “Targeted kidnapping, torture, assassinations of Sandinistas, even their spouses, that sort of thing. A real bad actor, seemed to love that hands-on dirty work. In fact he’s been disciplined for conduct unbecoming several times going way back to Southeast Asia, but always weaseled out of it. It’s faint but the trail is there: a dropped charge of child rape, at least three incidents of domestic abuse, a couple of situations involving very young prostitutes in Thailand and Viet Nam who came up missing. A major creep in other words, who kept getting out of shit because he was, you know, special forces. In any case to spice up the mix he’s got this pious, long-suffering wife who seems to put up with all his evil shit, and while he was skulking about Central America doing Ollie North’s weird bidding she went down there—to Costa Rica, I mean—to set up some kind of mission, try to save the people from the godless communists after her husband liberated them. So things being what they are, when they started finding or making orphans—by virtue of their assassinations and the general mayhem of the war down there—they got the creepy as hell bright idea of snatching some of the kids—the newly minted orphans, that is—out of Nicaragua to Costa Rica, calling them local, and shipping them off to the States for adoption through this crew of low-life lawyers in Jersey. They made a bunch of money doing that, and used some of it to set up a legitimate orphanage—Rancho de la Luna—as the war wound down; they also funded the re-creation of AFTA in its Central American incarnation, and threw enough money around various elections in both CR and the US to buy some protection. Now the Rancho and AFTA have done enough legal adoptions to more or less establish themselves as above-board operators, but the people I spoke with are sure they’re still up to their old tricks—stealing kids for illegal adoptions—on the side. And half the time they just take them from their families, since there seems to be a shortage of actual orphans now that the war’s been over a while. And then Griffin got another bright idea with this “reform school” bullshit, and pretty soon, well, there it is.”

  “Jesus, the guy’s like—he’s set up down here so he doesn’t answer to anyone.”

  “Except maybe the Four Señors?”

  “Could be. Word around here is they got their start with North too, you know.”

  “Yeah, so I gather. Did you see any kids out there?”

  “Couple of little girls. And one teenager, peeking through a screen door looking scared. Rumor has it a couple of the teenage kids tried to get away last week and got caught and dragged back. But I don’t get it, if this guy’s up to all this bad shit how come the kids that have gone through his progr
am haven’t told people what’s going on?”

  “Scared shitless and speechless? I don’t know. The school part’s only been going for a year or so. Maybe he’s just got into his bad stuff with the kids this year.”

  “Or maybe he’s got enough 12 year old “orphans” to keep him happy,” Lucy said. “That’s another part of his operation, I hear.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The local girls that don’t get adopted out of Rancho de la Luna supposedly get sold into sexual servitude. Costa Rica’s got a big sex trade, Harry. It’s pretty scary.” She sighed. “God, what a fucking nightmare! What should I do, Harry?”

  “What should you do? Stay away from that guy, Lucy. He’s crazy. Look, the guy’s been getting away with rape and murder and god knows what else since Nam. There’s no telling who’s protecting him. Don’t fuck with this one, Lucy, it’s too dangerous.”

  “But I can’t just—”

  “Yes you can just leave it alone. This is way more than anything you can deal with, Lucy. This guy’s a major league bad-ass.”

  “Yeah, well, something needs to be done.”

  “Maybe you’re right, but not by you and not now,” Harry said. “Listen, Lucy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I want you to promise me you’ll stay away from Griffin Douglas. OK?”

  She hesitated. “But—”

  “No buts—do your guidebook, have some fun, invest the money in—God, I don’t know—bananas?”

  “American Fruit owns the bananas here. I don’t want to give them our money.”

  “Well, fine, but just stay away from that hombre, Lucy.”

  “Yeah, yeah. See ya, Harry.” She hung up, slightly irritated, mostly confused. She had promised nothing, so now what? She knew she was on the edge of getting in over her head, as she was wont to do on occasion, and she also knew that Harry would not have called her off this one unless it was seriously dangerous. He didn’t bullshit that way. She prepped herself, then headed over to the Palace to meet Krish for a beer, on the way considering how much of this news she might share with him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  A GIRL NAMED MARIA

  “Hey Lucy,” Krish called out as she wandered in under the Palace’s soaring palm thatch roof. He sat with Kent Jackson. She strolled over. “I was just getting caught up with Kent. You get some rest?”

  “Yeah, zonked out for an hour or two. Hey Kent, how’s it going?”

  “Not bad. Got the town done. I’m going up to the Chacala Rainforest Lodge for the night. Amazing birding up there.”

  “So I hear.” Actually she’d read it in his guidebook, and her own, and several others. She had no intention of going there herself. Sometimes you had to cut corners.

  “Hey, Krish was telling me about your run-in with those guys at the orphanage. What a bizarre scene!”

  “I’ll say,” she said, and stopped. The Rancho was not Jackson’s business.

  “For some the war never ends,” Krish said. “This Douglas character seems like one of them. Orphanage, high school, boot camp, combat, you name it, it’s all the war.”

  “No shit,” said Jackson. “My sources tell me there are still a few hard-core contra types lurking in the jungles up on both sides of the San Juan.”

  “How come that’s not in your guidebook?” Lucy said. “I thought you prided yourself on being quote the most complete, uncensored, and honest guide to Costa Rica under the sun unquote.” She was reading the blurb upside down off the cover of the last edition of his book, neatly positioned on the table in front of him.

  “Well, nobody goes up there, for one,” he said. “So I figure why bother putting it in, scaring people off from Costa Rica in general? And two, I did have a bit of an essay on lost contras in the northern jungles in the first three editions, but I took it out in the last one because to be perfectly frank I haven’t been up there in a few years and I really don’t know what the fuck is going on.” He grinned. “Yep, even the august writer of the CR Sunshine Guide cheats a little bit. I’ve been through that bug-infested, snake-riddled swamp half a dozen times and if I never go back I’ll be just fine. Besides,” he stood up, “I’ve got some serious research to do back in San Jose.” He smirked. “At the Marlin. Hey, I’ll see you in two years, Krish. Assuming you haven’t given up the adventure trade and made a break for Southern California.”

  “Don’t you worry, Kent. I’ll be here.” Krish said, and waved. “Have a good one.”

  “You take care, Lucy,” Jackson said. “Good luck with the book.”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said. “See ya.”

  “Well, I think I had about enough of that dickhead,” she said, as he sauntered off. “Hey, I’ve got some interesting news on Mr. Griffin Douglas. Turns out the guy’s a major bad actor.” She told him what she knew.

  When she finished he said, “So your friend Harry made you promise to stay away, and that’s that, right?”

  She shrugged. “He tried. I didn’t. But I’m not sure what I can do at this point.”

  “Well,” he said, “It’s probably a good idea. The dude sounds nasty. I knew a few like him back in the day. But on the other hand I’ve got a bit of relevant news myself. Hey Miguel, a couple beers here please,” he called out. “You want to get a bite?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Lucy said. “Haven’t eaten since those beans and eggs.”

  “Neither have I,” he said. “Try the fish casado. Usually they make it with fresh bass out of Arenal.”

  Miguel brought beers and took their orders. When he was gone Krish said, “Here’s the story. You know Renaldo, who works for me? The guide this morning on the Boca Tapada trip?”

  “Yeah sure. I mean I met him. Seems like a good man.”

  “He’s great. Totally reliable, and knows every damned bird and beast within 500 miles of here. But more to the point it turns out Renaldo’s got this second cousin, this girl who grew up in a tiny little town called Pangola a few miles west of that stretch of the Sarapiqui where the Rancho’s set up. This town’s barely even reachable by road. Maybe a hundred people live there. Anyways, to make a long story short, about three months ago she lucked into a job, and starting working as a maid at none other than Rancho de la Luna. Until about six weeks ago.” He sipped his beer.

  “So what happened?”

  “She quit. Now you should know that this girl—I call her that because she’s only nineteen years old, but she already has two kids so it’s not like she’s some flaky kid herself. Look, finding a job around here is like the Holy Grail, there’s nothing outside the tourist industry and some subsistence farming. I mean, you find a job that pays actual money, you don’t just quit. I have six local employees and I could cut their salaries in half and not one would quit or even complain. Not that I would, I pay them shit already, but it’s all I can afford. But my point is, this girl Maria was completely thrilled to have found this job, and then just like that, she bailed on it.”

  Lucy frowned. “Let me guess: Douglas assaulted her.”

  “Actually, no. It wasn’t quite that. That’s exactly what I said when Renaldo told me—that Douglas went after her, one way or another, but no, she just said it was too scary to work there.”

  “Too scary?”

  “That’s what he told me she said. I haven’t actually talked to her. In fact that’s what I wanted to suggest. I was thinking you and I could drive out to her place and find out what she knows, see why she quit, and—I don’t know—”

  “Take it from there?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Damn, Krish,” Lucy said, as Miguel arrived with their orders. “Just when I was getting ready to stop with this foolishness, finish my work, and get out of town, you go and stir things up. God, that smells good,” she said as Miguel put a plate in front of her. “Gracias, amigo. The fish looks fabulous. So what’s the plan?”

  “I’ve got a river trip scheduled in the morning. You’re welcome to come along if you’d like. We’re running the Toro,
” he added, and gave her a look. “In spite of all that has happened it remains my favorite river. We should be back by noon. So let’s head out there after lunch. Sound good?”

  “Perfect. But I’ll skip the river trip. I can use the time to get caught up on the guidebook.”

  They left at one in the afternoon, Lucy basking in a pleasing inner glow as she contemplated how the morning had gone. After a restful night she’d finished virtually all of the guidebook revisions in four intensely focused hours. The words were written. When she got back to New York she simply had to load the Grunwald document into her computer and type in the changes. She’d spent less money than she’d planned, the work was going faster than expected, she was truly fond of several dozen of her guidebook sentences, and now there was this intriguing situation to be investigated. It didn’t exactly solve the other problem, of what to do with the money, but the demands of the money undeniably had led her into this far more interesting gambit. And she sensed that when she came to the end of this search, or pursuit, or whatever it turned out to be, the answer to the money question would be waiting.

  Meanwhile here they were headed into the swamps again, under heavy, ominously dark skies, in search of a girl named Maria. She did not have a phone but Renaldo was sure they’d find her in Pangola, everyone knew each other there and she had two kids, where could she go? Krish had packed a small tent and camping supplies—food, sleeping bags, flashlights, mosquito repellant, books and binoculars for birdwatching if they ended up needing a cover story—and some presents for Maria and her husband and kids. He also had a note from Renaldo explaining that he, Krish, was Renaldo’s friend and that Maria should help him in any way she could and tell him everything she knew about the Rancho de la Luna.

  Just as they got into the thick of the jungle, headed north along the west bank of the flatwater section of the Rio Toro from a little town called Veracruz, the clouds burst open and rain began falling hard and heavy, pounding on the roof of the van and quickly transforming the already soggy dirt road into a quagmire. They soldiered on in Krish’s magic bus, five, ten, twelve miles on a slippery mud track, passing subsistence farms, dense thickets of forest and jungle, fields of sodden corn and the occasional rain-soaked cow, until suddenly Aha! Here was Pangola, a scattering of small, dark, damp-looking houses strung out precariously between a muddy road and a muddier river. Chickens and dogs huddled under overhangs. There were horses standing about, and several goats gazing balefully at the rain, and two ancient, rustbucket trucks, and not a human soul in sight. But the town looked tidy enough. One small green hut with a couple of bins of fruit and vegetables on a sheltered porch appeared to house the town groceria. They pulled up out front, and slipped from the van into the dim confines of the shop.