“What did the couple look like?”
“The picture of health. They obviously exercised and ate right. Mr. Bud Lamm could learn a lesson from that pair.”
“How were they dressed?”
“Normal for Cancún and the Caribbean. Beach casual. Between you and me and the gatepost, Mr. Balam, he was a cutie. He wore a tank top. Nice skin tone. The young lady, a gorgeous toucan was printed on her T-shirt.”
“Did you exchange names?”
“No, but when I spotted that toucan, I asked if she liked birds. She loves them. She has parakeets and finches at home, and she was worried whether their housesitter was caring for them properly. Oh my.”
Helen was looking above and behind Luis. He turned and saw a flock of black vultures circling.
“What could be enticing them?”
“The jungle,” Luis said. “It always has what they want.”
Luis picked up Ricky Martinez as persuasion ammunition and went to Hector Salgado.
“Luis, let me understand,” Hector said wearily. “I am to don my uniform and we as a threesome are to intimidate Chester Cross?”
“And scare him witless!” Ricky said, shaking a fist.
“I perceive my role,” said a glaring Hector, who did not especially like lawyers.
“I don’t believe he will reveal the identities of that couple unless he is frightened,” Luis said. “The couple can lead us to Taggert.”
“Luis, do I have to put on the uniform?”
“Hector,” Luis said, “you are a kind and reasonably honest man, but in khaki and epaulets you are a stereotype of corruption, torture, and filthy Mexican jails.”
Hector Salgado Reyes rose, smiled, unbuttoned a shirt button, and said, “Yes, I am, aren’t I?”
On the drive to Paradise Investment Properties Associates, Ricky proposed that they stop and buy Hector a riding crop, as an added dash of implied cruelty. Luis and Hector in chorus told Ricky not to push it.
Hortencia was respectful and immediately ushered them in to Chet Cross, who provided scant resistance.
“Salting the mine, what’s wrong with that? Their excitement is infectious. They get the renters enthused. They’re possibly motivated to make the best investment decision of their lives.”
“A valuable public service is performed,” Hector said, looking at Luis.
“Who are they?” Luis asked Cross.
“Real nice kids named Beth and Corky. I don’t know their last names. I met them at a bar in the hotel here. They had long faces. It was their last night. They were broke and had maxed out their credit cards. They didn’t want to go home.”
“You provided a means to remain in paradise,” Luis said.
“Money,” Cross said, twirling a finger, “makes the world go around.”
“Where are Beth and Corky?” Luis asked.
“I’m not exactly sure. They’re scraping by, but they’re not flush enough to stay in these digs.”
Inspector Hector Salgado Reyes stood and asked. “Where are Beth and Corky?”
“Xcacel,” Cross said quickly. “The campground. They bought a tent.”
Xcacel (sha-SELL) was a beach near BLACK CORAL. A sign at the highway advertised “The Wildest Beach Around.” This was not true, Luis knew. The waves were not particularly hazardous, and resort accommodations were primitive. Budget travelers with expectations of tranquility were drawn to Xcacel.
Xcacel was out of Hector’s jurisdiction, but he went along for fun and procrastination of paperwork at the station. His value to Luis persisted. The caretaker snapped to attention and directed them to Beth and Corky. They were beside their tent, drying off after a swim, lean North Americans in skimpy bathing suits, blond hair sunbleached more white than yellow, skin as brown as Luis’s.
“Chester Cross told you where we were, I presume,” Corky said, focused on Hector. “I’m an attorney, incidentally. What we’re doing isn’t illegal.”
“I’m an attorney, too,” Ricky said. “And this isn’t California. Incidentally.”
“Why did you mention Cross?” Luis asked. “He isn’t your only client.”
“He is,” Beth said. “Honestly.”
“You don’t have to answer their questions,” Corky told Beth.
“Correct,” Hector said. “You have the right to remain silent in jail while we investigate further.”
“What did we do?” Corky said defiantly.
“Bud and Helen Lamm,” Luis replied.
“Helen,” Beth said. “Isn’t she that sweet older lady who likes birds?”
Luis nodded. “Wife of Bud, who was cheated out of sixty thousand dollars, sold the flamingo condo on phony papers.”
“Fraud is a crime in any land, attorney,” Hector said to Corky.
Corky’s and Beth’s lower jaws dropped and their suntans momentarily faded.
“Now wait a sec,” Corky said, “we were hired as cheerleaders. If a deal turns kinky, we can’t be held liable.”
“Accessories, before and during and after the fact,” Ricky pronounced.
“My partner is taking over my clients,” Corky said. “We love the Yucatan. We never want to leave, but it’s expensive.”
“Live in Mexico for ever,” Luis said. “On the beach. Or if you continue lying, in prison.”
Corky puffed his chest in defense of his mate’s honor. “She didn’t lie. We do our thing for Chet Cross exclusively.”
“Ralph Taggert,” Luis said.
“Same difference,” Corky said. “Ralph used to sell for Chet. They’re still associated somehow.”
Beth and Corky gave them the address of a cement block apartment house in Cancún City. After repeated knocking, Hector rattled the doorknob and said, “Deadbolt.”
“We must obtain a search warrant,” Ricky advised.
“Article 16 of the constitution of the Mexican United States permits officials to enter private homes for the sole purpose of ascertaining whether health regulations have been complied with,” Hector said.
Luis sniffed. “I smell rotten food, too.”
“For the record, I am elsewhere,” Ricky said.
Hector kicked the door. “Ow!”
Luis grasped the knob with both hands, pulled, then slammed a shoulder into the door. It opened, splintered jamb and all. Luis said, “You loosened it for me, Hector.”
Nowhere in the three cramped rooms was spoiled food or Ralph Taggert. Clothing hung in the closet; suitcases were stacked on the shelf above. Travel brochures on Hawaii and the Mexican West Coast were scattered on a rickety dining table. Ralph Taggert’s wallet was in a drawer. It contained California and Quintana Roo driver’s licenses and a little cash. There was no other money in the apartment, not sixty thousand dollars, not a peso.
“Why would a person walk out without his wallet?” Ricky wondered.
“You’re forgetful when you’re in a hurry,” Luis said.
“He heard our footsteps or he made a recent transaction,” Hector said. “It became time to go.”
“Either path,” Luis said, “leads to the airport.”
In excess of a million people per year fly in and out of Cancún Airport. They tend to congregate in clumps, herded by flight schedules and the demands of Immigration and Customs bureaucracies.
The trio concentrated on the outgoing clumps, checking the identification of men who fit Ralph Taggert’s appearance. Given Bud Lamm’s “average Joe” description and the fact that they had never seen Taggert, it was a despairing task. They were about to send Ricky for Lamm when Luis pointed out a man and woman.
Hector muttered a curse and quickstepped toward them, parting the crowds as if he were a vehicle. They reached Chester Call-Me-Chet Cross and the beauteous Hortencia as they were handing their boarding passes to a Mexicana Airlines flight attendant.