Clint Faraday Mysteries Collection 5 books: Murderous Intent Collector's Edition

by Moulton, CD

  “You’re not going to have much to do the next twelve to fifteen years, so get unbusy!” Clint replied. Judi smirked at the ass and patted her purse.

  “Eeee? What are you talking about?” he asked in a whiny voice.

  “You want your friends with you for this crap?” Clint asked. “You’re going to be charged with accessory to murder one. That’s the same as the murder charge here.”

  “I have no see-CRETS from my friends!”

  “Drop the stupid overdone accent!” Judi demanded. “It’s never the same twice!”

  “You remember the Changuinola bus that went by while you were waiting for Robertson’s body to drop over that ledge?” Clint asked.

  “Bus...? I ... there were several cars and maybe ... what are you talking about? What bus? Where? When? I was never waiting for.... Oh, God! Oh, God!”

  “Shut up! Don’t say another word to this one!” Suzanne cried. Liam yelled that Clint didn’t have any authority to say such atrocious lies here. He would demand that a charge of intimidation was brought against him.

  “Before I even say what it’s about? Really?” Clint asked. “I think the accessories to murder’ve suddenly become three to one!”

  Liam turned and ran out. Judi shook her head and said, “Where the hell does he think he’s going? This is an island!”

  Jac looked as though he would start crying any second. Suzanne was standing with her hand to her throat and eyes wide. Sergio and another officer came to stand just outside. He raised an eyebrow and pointed to Liam as he ran down the street. Clint giggled. Judi looked disbelieving. Passers-by were staring and asking each other what the hell was going on.

  “It seems a woman, a tourist from Canada, was taking a picture or two of that little cascada Swenson’s body dropped over as the bus passed. Two of those shots feature you.” Judi said. “I really don’t think you can explain that in the next twelve to twenty. You friends can’t explain their reactions before we even told you what it was about.” She took the phony photos out of her purse and handed them to Jac, who just stared and didn’t take them. Suzanne took them and said they were taken later when Jac went to see the place where Swenson had died.

  “Uh-uh. They’re dated. Lower right corner of the picture,” Clint said. “The bus went by about ten minutes before Swenson’s body dropped over that ledge. Jac here waited until there wasn’t more traffic in view to make the call of a bird that’s only found in Mexico and Guatemala. Mrs. Wright heard about it and when it happened when she came back from Costa Rica and called me. She remembered that someone was on the road just there. She had pictures.”

  Jac whined a weird sound and took the pictures. He suddenly cried out, “There are false! I wasn’t wearing that shirt or those trousers when I was there! I was wearing the blue Spandex ... Oh, God!”

  “You are so stupid!” Suzanne snarled.

  “And the two of you are under felony arrest on suspicion of aiding and abetting in a case of degree one murder,” Sergio said. “Sanchez, go pick up that character who was running away when we arrived. Same charge.

  “Let’s go. It can be quietly, as I prefer, or with your hands tied behind your backs and my pistol in your ear. Your choice.”

  They exchanged looks. Suzanne was poised for running, but deflated. Jac’s lip was quivering and he was obviously about to turn on the tears. He looked like a trapped rabbit, then he deflated.

  They went quietly.

  Picture This

  “We have to go through these dated pictures to find what you have that Swenson couldn’t allow to be seen,” Clint said. “It’ll take time, I suppose. That’s mostly the kind of thing detective work is about in the real world. Umpty hours of looking over papers or pictures or watching someone or something for days, then ten minutes of excitement – which almost never includes car chases or explosions that make Bikini look like a little firecracker or crashing planes or boats. You arrest the suspects and they go with the cops to the police station, then you go home to wait for the several days when you sit in a courtroom after giving your five minutes of testimony.

  “Whoopee shit!”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing Swenson before Sweden just two days before we started this trip. That’s what has me so confused.”

  “Sergio gave me a printout of his passport and one of yours. I’m scanning them into the comp where we’ll take the places and dates from each and make a comparison list. Data correlation stuff. Saves ten hours of going through each thing personally.

  “It did occur to me that Swenson might not be the one we’re looking for. It could have as well been Fontaine, Dumond, Lizette – any or a combination. First is what seems most likely. Swenson. I have the others’ passport information if we need it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  It took twenty minutes to scan and make the lists. Clint put in a correlation order in and found that Robertson had been in London for a two week period in 2009 when Swenson was in England and for two days in 2008 they were both in France. He felt that France was most likely because of the others from there being the ones running the blackmail scheme. June 11 and 12. Now was the time to minutely study any dated pictures from that time. None of them included Swenson. None were from France that were dated.

  “Shit!” Clint exclaimed. “That means we have to go through all the pictures from that time to look for him!”

  That was six hours. They found three that had who appeared to be Swenson in the backgrounds of two and with an arm around Lizette in one with another couple with their arms around each other’s waists.

  “This proves he knew Lizette before this trip, but so what?” Clint mused. “We don’t have a date except that it was in a period of a couple of days. We probably can’t prove a specific date from this, though you might remember it so we can work back to find what happened on that date in that place.”

  “I don’t remember the exact date, but this one that shows him behind and to the side was three years ago in Paris in June. That will be either the eleventh or twelfth of June, two thousand eight. There was a person who was hit by that car, the red Renault, that I was taking a picture of. A woman. She had serious injuries that she later died of. She was mostly incoherent, but she did say she was pushed out in front of the car. I do remember that. It was in French, but I speak some French.

  “That was the eleventh. I went back to London at eight o’clock next evening.”

  “You know something?” Judi, who was there for part of the studying of photos, said. “I think just maybe there’s a picture of him at that accident. I think just maybe that woman was pushed out in front of a car and died as a result. I think Swenson pushed her!”

  “And the next day there’s a picture of him with his arm around Lizette! Why did you take that picture?”

  “It was a picture of Sam and Irene Arnold. They had just gotten married in that little chapel near Lourdes. The pictures were taken as they came out of the chapel there. They were just there at ... My God! What if Swenson and Lizette were married there, too? What if that’s why they were in the picture at all? I can’t think of any reason I’d take a picture of strangers. I didn’t even get their names, though I imagine Sam and Irene would know them.”

  “On June eleven, two thousand eight, there was a murder. We can establish the time fairly closely because of the accident. Swenson killed a woman by pushing her in front of a car in Paris, France. He married Lizette in Lourdes the next day. We don’t have a clue as to why he killed her.

  “I think it’s time to check with the police in Paris and the registry in Lourdes for things that happened on the eleventh and twelfth of June in two thousand eight. This just gets weirder and weirder!”

  “You really go for understatement, don’t you?” Robertson asked with a wry grin.

  “Serg, we need information about some people in France on June eleventh and twelfth, the eleventh in Paris and the twelfth in Lourdes. There was an auto accident where a woman was hit by a car, a red Renault
, who died later as a result of the injuries. We have to know everything we can find about that woman and the accident.” Judi explained at the police station. “We also have to know about who was married in Lourdes the twelfth.”

  “Learning unexpected things about our little group of rich surfers?” Sergio answered. “I can’t find much on the ones we have in the pen now. Those wealthy people have ways to keep things from getting into the records.”

  “I think we’re about to learn one hell of a lot about a couple of them,” Robertson said. “Like the fact that Swenson was married to one you’re holding here in Lourdes, France on June twelve, two thousand eight. Like Swenson murdered a woman in Paris the day before he married Lizette. Little interesting details about the private lives of normal people – don’t apply here!”

  “Clint’s investigations seem to keep adding little things that surprise me no end,” Sergio replied. “Paris, June eleven, two thousand eight, automobile accident, woman hit by red Renault who later died. It’ll take about ten minutes for the information to come in.

  “Hmm. Marriage records for Lourdes for June twelve two thousand eight. That’ll come in fast. It’s an automatic call-up.

  “Marriages in Lourdes, France. Only three. Samuel Edward Arnold, twenty three, England – Glouchester, to Irene Marie Collins, twenty two, England – Hampshire. Giavani Marcus Bolinni, fifty eight, Italy – Norma, to Genivieve Georgette Sonnes, nineteen, Paris, France. Lawrence Bierce Swenson, twenty two, Stockholm – Sweden, to Suzanne Lizette Petite, twenty one, Floralia – France.

  “So. Our victim was married to one of our suspects. We live and learn.

  “Ah, yes! There was the automobile accident. Anne-Marie Sante-Marta Swenson, thirty six, Paris, France, was hit ... suffered serious injuries from which she died two hours forty six minutes later. Her husband was in Bern and came back next day after being contacted through computer links. I’d suppose e-mail.

  “So. She was the wife or mother – wife of Swenson. She dies and he marries Lizette the following day. He was nowhere near Bern. The e-mail would reach him anywhere and he could claim he was anywhere when he received it.

  “Let’s see. Made statement at scene, semi-coherent. ‘She pushed me! It was her!’ and ‘I was pushed!’ So. It wasn’t him?”

  “You have the memory stick with you?” Clint asked. Robertson handed it to him. He put into the USB port and brought up the pictures of the accident. He magnified them until they began to pixelate, then closely studied them for awhile. There was one with the back of a woman showing that well could have been Lizette. She was wearing a showy gold bracelet with a distinctive set of alternated red, green and black inset stones. Clint said he couldn’t really be sure. Robert studied the picture, then exclaimed, “That bracelet! The wedding picture! She was wearing it there! I’ve seen her wearing it several times when we went out at night here!”

  Clint brought up the picture of the two couples. Her right arm was around Swenson’s waist and the left to the side. That bracelet was plain on her left wrist.

  “I always thought she was one cold bitch,” Judi said.

  “Shesh! And all this time they were blackmailing me!” Robertson said. “If I’d seen these things then those two would have been in the pen in France for the past three years!”

  “C’est la vie!” Judi said. They all gave her the finger.

  E-mails

  Clint picked up the papers by the printer and shoved them into an envelop and into his file cabinet.

  Now for e-mail. One from Lars Larson. He wanted to thank Clint for exposing what had happened on their trip to Panamá the past month. It was chilling to learn you had been traveling around the world with a bunch of cold-blooded murderers and blackmailers.

  His lazy gambling addicted brother was in deep trouble and needed five thousand that he’d pay back when he sold his Hummer he’d bought when he had the big win in Atlantic City. His expected funds hadn’t arrived and there was a chance the people who bought the place would default and blah, blah, blah.

  Clint had turned him down for loans regularly for the past six years he’d been in Panamá. He wasn’t about to enable a gambling addict. He had more money than he knew what to do with, but enabling someone with an addiction wasn’t something he would spend a dime on. He sent back that the property in Florida still wasn’t sellable (true) and he barely had the money to pay the taxes on it. He certainly wasn’t able to send five hundred, much less five thousand dollars, at this time.

  Dave, his nutcase musician/botanist/author friend, was in Cusapín with the Indios and was planning an extended botanical research trip along the coast eastward. Clint loved Cusapín and the people. There was an invitation to join them.

  He might. He didn’t have plans that never worked out here.

  Sergio had e-mailed him a certified copy of the confessions and convictions of the surfers. Not much unexpected. Jac couldn’t say enough about everyone else and knew one hell of a lot of things. He, Swenson, Lizette and Fontaine had been collecting evidence against them for the blackmail since they knew them. Most of what Sergio learned and found, such as photos and contracts and other papers were somehow lost. Most of it was just things that would result in intra-family problems the victims would have to face. The evidence was no longer anywhere. They just had to get a more efficient system of keeping such evidence! If there was ever a need of any of it ... well, they’d make do. The stuff didn’t exist anymore.

  Clint grinned. He and Sergio agreed about most things. One thing was that evidence that could be used against a person in blackmail, unless it was for some major criminal thing, should disappear.

  Robertson was planning on another surfing trip to Panamá, this time would be just him, Lars, Chastity, Gus, Annette and Angela, a girl he’d met. They seemed to hit it off very well. It would be a great trip and he promised he wouldn’t bring any blackmailers or killers along for the next one. He had the geetus and had learned his lesson. A very good private detective agency was going to investigate anyone he would travel with very thoroughly in future!

  More power to you! Clint thought. He e-mailed replies to them, then went out on his deck. Judi was on her deck and waved. She called that she wanted to go to Gary’s new Mexican restaurant. Did he want to go?

  He said yes. Twenty minutes. Be ready or he’d go without her!

  She gave him the finger and laughed.

  He cleaned up a bit and he and Judi strolled into town. Ben and Earl, neighbors, joined them. They laughed and joked all the way to the cozy little restaurant and found it was as good as people claimed. There were quite a few backpackers and surfers there. Once a place gets a good reputation in Bocas Town they get a lot of business from the locals’ recommendations.

  They were relaxing and talking when a group came in. There were five people, two girls and three men. They seemed to be arguing about something. When they sat at the next table Clint could hear them.

  “Ah, but I am so VAIR-ee sor-EE ! I theenk a pick-po-KET took my mon-EEE at that Hundid-DO place! If you will lend to me the twenty five dol-LARS I weel repay YOU on the mor-ROW when the bank, she is o-PEN!’ Oui?”

  Clint paid the check and his group went to the Toro Loco.

  Clint Faraday Mysteries #18

  Dead Low Tide

  (c)2011 by C. D. Moulton

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

  Two bodies are found on the beach at Las Olivas. People drown in the rip tides there – but these died from the poison of a snake.

  That happens, too. The trouble is, the snake is only found in the waters off Australia..

  Contents

  A Phone Call

  Finding Background

  The Suspects Arrive

  Digging Deeper

  Modifying the List

  More Questions

  Tying it Up

  Back to Bocas

  Dead Low Tide


  A Phone Call

  Clint Faraday stood on his deck with his fourth cup of coffee to wave at some friends passing in a tour boat, a group of surfers going out to Drago aboard. Silvio waved and went on. Judi Lum, his attractive Oriental nextdoor neighbor came out on her deck and waved, then called that she was going into Bocas Town this morning. Did he need anything? He said, “No. Thanks.”

  His house phone buzzed. He considered not answering, then went in to see it was a call from a friend, Hank O’Neil, in Puerto Armuelles. The buzzing stopped so he called the number.

  “Clint? Hank O’Neil here, Armuelles. How are things on the Caribbean?”

  “Oh, somewhere between merely beautiful and magnificent. How are things there?”

  “The weather’s beautiful this side. Other things are mostly great.

  “I called because some kids were beachcombing at dead low tide and found two bodies washed up on the beach across from here at Las Olivas. According to Romero, our local supercop, they were murdered. I figured you might be interested.”

  Clint thought how apt a description that was for when you found murdered bodies on a beach. Dead low tide.

  “I’m not doing anything for the past couple of weeks. Is there something that should interest me about this?”

  “Well, it’s a true weird mystery. They washed up on a beach, which generally means drowning. They were killed with some kind of poison or something that Romero says would be called a natural death if they were over there. This poison is from something that’s found only in the waters around parts of Australia. They look like gringos, but he can’t be sure until they establish ID. It’s more likely they’re Australian, not gringos, seeing the poison was from there.”