“Don’t bet on it. Border Patrol and customs agents don’t make huge salaries, you know. We do have a check and balance system, but there’s always a chance someone can get to a weak link. In this case, we may never know because Water Princess never made it to the border.”
“You’re sure using a lot of ‘we’s’ here,” Jenks said. “Just who do you work for?”
The two men looked at each other and smiled. “We’re not at liberty to say, Mr. Jenkins.”
“I feel like we’re in the middle of a spy novel,” Hetta said. Then she asked, “Hey, is the Water Princess a Hans Christian?”
“Yes, I believe it is. You know the boat?”
Hetta laughed and said, “I sure do. That’s the jerk we saw here the other day.”
Mike looked at her sharply. “He was here?”
“Yep, but he didn’t stay. Cruised right on through.”
“Thanks for the info, and sorry your lives were so disrupted.”
“Disrupted?” Hetta huffed, then she sighed. “Never mind. So, there’s no reason to go to La Paz? I mean, now we can go on to San Carlos?”
“No reason not to. And Comandante Morales said to tell you he'd like the opportunity to thank you personally for your help. I’m sure, if you contact him when you get to San Carlos, he’ll buy you a margarita.”
“Secret agent man, I think I love you,” Hetta said.
Late that afternoon, Jenks went into the main saloon to mix drinks, leaving Hetta on deck. She sighed deeply, taking in the beauty of the Puerto Escondido anchorage and the sun lowering behind the jagged Gigante Mountain Range. Dark volcanic peaks jutted into a peach sky and pelicans kamikazed into turquoise water. An osprey shrieked and swooped to snag a pipe fish dinner in its sharp talons.
“What’cha thinking?” Jenks asked, returning to the back deck with their drinks.
“Oh, how much I’ll miss this when we go back to the States.”
“Me too, but our cruising kitty is dying of starvation. We can put the boat on the hard in San Carlos, go back to do the ‘W’ word for a while, and then come back. Plenty of other cruisers have.”
“I guess we have to.” Hetta let out a deep breath. “Oh, well, we’ve known the time was coming for five years. On an intellectual level, I know we need to jump back into the rat race, but emotionally, I just hate the idea. Maybe I’ve gotten lazy.”
“Hetta, you’ve never been lazy. We both worked hard before we left, and we can do it again. Tell you what, we’ll make a two-year plan. If we get good jobs and live carefully, we can put away enough dough to come back in two years.”
“Heck, I can stand on my head for two years. Thanks, I feel better. Let us get the dirty deed done. The sooner we put HiJenks high and dry and we get back to work, the sooner we'll be cruising again. Let's leave tomorrow at oh-dark-thirty, maybe spend the night at San Juanico and be in Caracol...oh rats, Jenks, day after tomorrow’s Thanksgiving and we don’t have a turkey. Bud's expecting me to cook.”
“Bud’ll live without your stuffing this year. We’ll have a belated T-day in San Carlos.”
“I still can’t believe this whole mess is over. Just like that. Honest to God, one more day of crap and I swear I would have gone into Loreto and begged a bottle of tranquilizers off the pharmacist.”
“You’re tougher than you think. You are, after all, a certified sea wench.”
“Ha! Without you, I’d be draped over some sleazy bar, pilled to the max, crying in my beer.”
“Speaking of which, want another drink?”
“Is there a cow in Texas?” Hetta said with a smile, and then she turned to watch the sky turn from peach to a spectacular red.
Chapter 34
Nothing is
But what is not.—Shakespeare
“Wow, look at that spectacular red sky,” Nicole said, shaking off pool water and grabbing a towel. She and Jerry spent the entire day lounging around the pool. After finishing up paperwork, they ate lunch and sipped lemonades. Now, as the sun dropped behind the Tetakawis, they ordered drinks.
During the morning they’d worked, wrapping up the Goodall case and sorting through bullet-ridden papers to finalize what Washington dubbed Operation Black November: Phase Two, and Nicole called, Operation Black November: Got Lucky.
For the benefit of the international press, their official finding concluded that Hot Idea and her crew stumbled into a drug drop and were killed as a result. That was their story, and they were sticking to it.
Jaime insisted that, in deference to Hetta and Jenks Jenkins, no one need know of HiJenks’s involvement.
The late afternoon sun tinged the pool and bay pink. Seagulls and frigates circled over deep purple mountain peaks. Sighing, Nicole said, “God, I love it here.”
Jerry grunted from under a book he’d draped over his face. Nicole glanced at his pink-turning-to-red stomach and smiled. “Excuse me, sir, is that your belly button I see, or an old harpoon wound?”
Jerry removed the book, took a sip of daiquiri, and squinted at her. “I would remind you, Agent Kristin, that I am your boss. And even though we are officially off duty, my razor-sharp recall for insults suffered at your hand might extend far into your shaky future.”
Nicole started to throw another barb in his direction when she saw company coming. “Hey, Great White One, here come Jaime and Juan. Gee, I wonder who died?”
Jerry sat up to see what she meant. The two Mexican policemen were dressed in black suits.
“You two look pretty sharp,” Nicole teased. “Going to a wedding or a funeral?”
The men smiled and Juan answered, “A family memorial service. For my mother.”
“Oh, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“It is all right, Nikki,” Jaime told her. “You had no way of knowing. Besides, four years have passed. We miss her, of course, but as she was fond of saying, life goes on.”
“Anything more on the owner of the Water Princess, Jaime?” Jerry asked, saving Nicole from an awkward silence.
Jaime glanced at Juan, sighed deeply, and said, “Yes, I am afraid we did get more information on Water Princess: the new owner’s name. And I will talk with him as soon as we locate him.”
“What do you mean, ‘afraid’? Who is it and where is he?” Jerry asked, a little sharply. A picture of his desk back in San Diego, buried under an avalanche of paper needing attention, came to mind. He was eager to return to work, and new evidence in the case could possibly delay their departure.
“The owner of record, as of a sale recorded just three weeks ago, is an American in La Paz.”
At the mention of La Paz, the DEA agents’ ears pricked. Operation Black November was launched by a phone call from La Paz, and Martine said that Hector’s boss was there.
Jaime sat down under the shade of an umbrella at a nearby table and tugged on his tie. “The sale was handled through intermediaries, so the previous owner never actually met the new one, nor was the old owner eager to disclose the sale to the authorities in your country. It seems the Princess was paid for in cash. Fifteen-hundred one hundred dollar bills, to be exact.”
“Jaime, are you going to tell us who it is, or just drag ass all day?” Nicole said with a tilt of her head that said get on with it.
Jaime took off his jacket, folding it carefully, then said, “The buyer is Wilfred ‘Bud’ Killebrew. He owns a large motor yacht by the name of All Bidness, and has a slip at Marina del Cortez in La Paz.”
“All right!” Nicole cheered. Then she frowned. “If he has a slip at the marina, why can’t you find him? Isn’t he in the country?”
“Oh, he is in Mexico. Unfortunately All Bidness, and Mr. Killebrew, left La Paz two days ago. I am certain we will easily locate him, and when we do, I will grill him like a slab of Sonoran beef.”
Jerry smiled at Jaime's figure of speech, then made a decision. “Nikki, you stay here and go with Jaime for that grill job. I’m still leaving tomorrow, but I need you here. If this Killebrew has cartel links
, we want to find out as much about him as we can.”
“Well dang, Jerry, what a bummer. I was so looking forward to leaving paradise for piles of grunt work. But for you, anything.” She grinned and, to the disappointment of Jaime and Juan, pulled a long tee shirt over her bikini.
Jaime handed Nicole a faxed copy of All Bidness’s United States Coast Guard Documentation Certificate, Bud and Pam’s visas and passports, and All Bidness’s crew list. Nicole quickly zeroed in on Bud and Pam’s different last names, and that Killebrew was a good thirty years Pam’s senior. Boat broad, she thought.
Jaime sighed once more, deeply. When Nicole looked up, she saw a troubled frown on his face. “There’s more,” he said.
“What now?” Nicole asked, getting a little annoyed with his Latin sighs.
“Keep in mind that you have reluctantly learned to trust me, Nikki.”
She started to protest, then shrugged. “I’m suspicious by nature. It goes with the job.”
“I understand. But, I must inform you that my brother-in-law, John Colt, is a part-time captain on All Bidness.”
Nicole’s eyebrows shot skyward and she and Jerry exchanged a glance. The world down here was getting just a little too small for their suspicious natures.
Chapter 35
Act nothing in furious passion; it’s putting to sea in a storm.—Thomas Fuller
Bud’s here!” Hetta told Jenks, handing him the binoculars.
Jenks spotted All Bidness swaying gently on her mooring in front of Bud’s Punta Caracol beach house.
“That’s him, all right. That should make you happy.”
“Should. But, as much as I’d love to see him, I’m in no mood for Pam after all day underway.”
The radio cracked to life. “HiJenks, HiJenks, this here is All Bidness.” Hetta smiled a rueful smile and shrugged. She grabbed the mic.
“All Bidness, HiJenks. Switch to seven-O?”
“You got...itc...oh,” came the scratchy reply.
Hetta frowned and switched her VHF radio to channel 70.
“All Bidness, this is HiJenks.” No reply. She banged the mic in her hand. Nothing. Jenks handed her their handheld VHF and she clicked it on. “You there, Bud?”
“Sure am. What happened? I could hear you, but you didn’t answer.”
“Damned radio’s on the fritz again. Jenks thought he had it fixed. I’m on the handheld. Anyway, good to hear your voice. What’s up with you?”
“Turkey’s up, that’s what. Hell, I thought you wasn’t gonna make it.”
Hetta and Jenks exchanged looks. “Thanksgiving, I forgot again.” Then, into the mic, she bluffed. “Well fooey, Bud. Here we are.”
“Good. I was beginning to think we’d have to eat without you, and you’re the one with the cranberry sauce and dressin’. Bird’ll be ready in a couple of hours. Won't be as good as yours, but what the hell. Come on over early and we’ll have a cocktail or two.”
Hetta gave Jenks a resigned look. “Okay. I’ll make a pan of cornbread stuffing. Anything else?”
“Just that ugly ole man of yours and your purty face, JG. See y'all.”
Bud was well into his cups when Jenks and Hetta arrived on All Bidness. After he greeted them with a drink, Pam announced she was turning the kitchen over to Hetta because she didn’t know how to cook all that Texas stuff they liked for Thanksgiving. Where she came from, she told them, they made white bread stuffing from a mix and added oysters. Hearing that, Hetta quickly agreed to take over until time for Jenks, gravy maker supreme, to work his magic.
“Oysters?” Bud boomed. “Your people Communists or somethin’? Don’t sound American to me.”
Pam topped off his glass with straight bourbon, ignoring the insult. Forty-five minutes later Hetta announced dinner.
“Bud,” Hetta said, handing him an iced tea, “why don’t you drink this? I put sugar and lime in it, the way you like it.”
“No bourbon?”
“It’s really dry today. A tea chaser won’t hurt you,” she cajoled.
Bud reluctantly took a sip of tea and grinned. “Just for you, Johnson Grass. Hell, Jenks, what more could an ole over-the-hill Texas boy want? I got two gals lookin’ after me.”
Pam glared at Hetta.
“You’re a lucky guy, I guess,” Jenks said, intercepting the verbal dart he knew Hetta was preparing to throw. “And speaking of luck, guess what Hetta found on the beach the other day?”
“More shells?” Bud teased. Hetta’s legendary shell collection threatened to take over HiJenks’s interior.
“Well, that. And a Garmin GPS.”
“No shit? Wasn’t it all wet? Hetta, this dressin’ is pure Texas heaven.”
“Thanks. Nope, the GPS was in a waterproof bag,” Hetta said. “How about more potatoes, Bud? I mashed ‘em with the lumps left in, just like you like them.” She hoped the carbohydrates would soak up some booze.
“Sure, pile some on my plate and hand me the gravy. Jenks, you did good. Pam, why can’t you learn to cook like this? Or cook at all? Hell, if I’m gonna be fat it might as well be on good food instead of that restaurant slop we eat all the time.”
An awkward silence fell over the table and Hetta, in the name of peace between the Pilgrims and Indians, said, “Well, I think Pam’s bean casserole is wonderful. I’d like the recipe.”
Pam fixed her with a stare. “Can of green beans, can of mushroom soup, can of fried onion rings. It’s on the onion ring can.” She cut her eyes at Bud and added, “Very American.”
Jenks decided to aid the armistice. “Did you swim today, Pam? The water looks nice.”
“Oh, it’s okay if you wear a body suit. I just don’t have any extra fat to keep me warm,” Pam said sweetly, then looked pointedly at Hetta, “like some.”
Hetta laughed at the snide remark, surprising everyone. “So, Pam, I guess I should just add a little more gravy if I want to snorkel tomorrow? Perhaps to build a little more insulation? Then again, maybe I should just give my seconds to Sam Houston. Where is he, anyway? I haven’t seen him in a while.”
“Round here somewheres,” Bud said. He roared, “Sam dawg! Get your furry ass up here. And Pammy, you quit pickin’ on Hetta. Some folks look better with a little meat on ‘em.”
From somewhere in the boat they heard a sharp bark and Hetta left to search for the dog. When she returned with the terrier in her arms, she was clearly annoyed.
“Bud, why was Sam Houston in a closet?”
“Closet? Pammy, did you lock up ole Sam?”
“Of course not, sweetie,” she purred. “The stupid dog probably went to sleep in there and the boat rocked and closed the door.”
“Where’s his life vest?” Hetta asked.
“He ain’t got it on?” Bud squinted in the dog’s direction.
“No. He probably took it off, right before he locked himself in the closet,” Hetta said, sarcasm dripping from her voice.
Pam shot Hetta a dirty look.
Bud rattled his ice for another drink and Pam poured him one from a new bottle. Hetta thought it odd, since Pam left the table during dinner to instruct one of the boat boys, KiKi, to fetch a case from the beach house. As far as she knew, KiKi was still gone. Surely Pam didn’t think Bud would finish the whole bottle tonight?
Pam took a stack of plates to the galley and returned with Kahlua. Hetta inwardly groaned, especially when Pam said, “I’ve popped a frozen apple pie in the oven and am making coffee. Now you know you two can’t leave until we’ve had dessert. The pie will be ready in about forty-five minutes.”
Got to be twins, Hetta thought, marveling at the schizophrenic behavior of the blonde. Waiting for desert to bake, Hetta washed the dishes, put away the leftover food, then searched for and found Sam Houston’s life jacket. By the time she and Jenks ate hot apple pie washed down with Kahlua-laced coffee, Bud had nodded off in a deck chair.
“Don’t wake him, Pam, I’ll say good-bye tomorrow before we leave for San Carlos,” Hetta whispered. She
swooped up Sam Houston, put on his life vest, double-checked the buckles, gave him a goodnight hug, and headed for Jenkzy. They motored the quarter mile to HiJenks, tied Jenkzy alongside, and climbed on board. When she reached the door to the main saloon, Hetta instantly knew something was wrong.
“Jenks, someone’s been aboard this boat while we were gone. I left the main cabin door closed. I know I did. I didn’t lock it, but I’m positive I closed it.”
They walked through all the cabins, turning on lights and carefully looking for signs of an intruder, but found none.
Hetta got the jitters. “Nothing’s missing that I can see. Jesus, I don’t need this crap.”
“You checked the safe, Hetta?”
“Locked. How about the bridge?”
“Everything there. I was afraid someone nabbed the freezer, or our little Honda generator. Even the gas containers are there, and that’s what usually disappears.”
“Fishing poles?”
“All there. Maybe you forgot to close the door?” Jenks suggested.
“Nope, I was almost in the dinghy when I remembered the cranberry sauce and came back for it. I clearly remember sliding the door shut behind me.”
“Well, whoever it was, they didn’t take or leave anything that I can see.”
They went outside into a bright glow of a full moon that rose while they ate aboard All Bidness. Scanning the moonlit harbor, Hetta saw only a few small fishing skiffs left on moorings by local residents, and All Bidness. She cocked her head when she heard the distant growl of an outboard motor, but the way sound travels over water, she knew it could be miles away. Putting her arms around Jenks, Hetta murmured, “I want to leave. Now.”
“Now? Aren’t you tired? We’ve been traveling all day and it’s after nine.”
“I was, but now I don’t think I can sleep anyway. Some alpha hotel was on our boat. Our home. I want to leave,” Hetta’s voice trembled. The emotional upheaval over Hot Idea, helicopters shooting at them, imagined Mexican hit men, Bud’s deterioration, and now an intruder, were taking their toll. “I want to get to San Carlos, put the boat away, and go home.”
Troubled Sea Page 22
