A Dangerous Harbor (17 page)

"Sorry you got mixed up in the fight, but at least it settled Jeff's mind once and for all."

"We didn't get much time to talk at Spencer's party. Is there someplace we can sit down for a few minutes?"

The girl's rosy red lips rolled in and out as she looked over at Spencer's yacht and then said, "I don't think Spence wants me
talkin
' to you, but he don't own me. This here your boat?"

"Yes it is. We can talk down below if you like."

Unfortunately, Astrid and Jeff walked through the gate pushing dock carts loaded with their grocery shopping. At the sound of their cheerful voices,
Myne
turned sulky and at Katy's touch the girl shied away, mumbled something about talking to her later and stomped off for Spencer's yacht.

Jeff's eyes tracked
Myne
until she disappeared into Spencer's salon and Astrid squinted a pair of unnaturally bright blue eyes at Katy as if trying to think of a reason why she should speak at all. Then yanking on the heavy load in her dock cart, she got the wheels rolling again and over her shoulder aimed a warning at Katy. "Watch your back, lady."

Jeff, finally dragging his eyes back from the empty white expanse of Spencer's yacht, glared at Katy. "What'd you say to her?"

"
Myne
? She was all bubbly and happy until she saw
you
with Astrid
. So I guess the question should be, did you make her promises you can't keep? Is that why she's now so unhappy?"

His jaw tightened. "Lady, you don't know anything. Why don't you go home where you belong?"

"I would, but as you well know I have a job to do here."

"So you're a cop, but who says you have to butt into everyone's business down here?"

"Do you have anything you want to tell me?"

She could see that the thought was making him sweat. "No, I don't. What about you? That inspector got something on you?"

Katy's head snapped back as if she'd been slapped. "We should talk somewhere more private."

Jeff shook his head, the smirk turning into a grin. "No thanks, I like it out here in the open. I'm no snitch, but I'll tell you this much; Booth did much the same thing as you're doing now, that is, until he got too drunk to see the end of the dock."

The shock left her speechless.

"He was getting paid for his information to the police?"

"Hell, if it paid, they'd get a lot more informants on their tiny payroll. No, they paid him in heroin. Booth had stomach cancer and nothing works for pain like pure horse."

This was not looking good for Raul
Vignaroli
. Informants, yes, every police investigator had his or her informants, even drug users, but they didn't supply them with the drugs. "Spencer knew this?"

"Sure he did, he set it up. Spencer keeps a hook into everyone who works for him. It's what makes him successful, doesn't it? That way, he’s always one step ahead in the game."

"And, you? What does he have on you that you'd be willing to jeopardize a career as a professional captain to cover for him?"

Jeff Cook's mouth clamped shut, his chin tucked into a defensive posture.

She said, "The night of the girl's death, the police arrived to find the engines revved and you trying to clean up after a murder."

He blanched, his earlier bravado now shaken. "That was a mistake. I panicked when I saw all that blood and no body and I couldn't wake Spencer to ask him, so I called his lawyer in Mexico City and the guy told me to get the boat out of the marina to open sea."

"I've been told that's SOP for Americans involved in accidents, but you could still be charged as accessory to a murder."

He licked his lips and then ducked his head to stare at his feet.
 
"I'm not proud of what I did, but Spencer's attorney has cleared it with the authorities here."

Confirmation of her suspicion that Spencer had already paid off the local police and at least one judge. But if there was no official investigation, why was Raul involved? For that matter, why was she?

"Who called the authorities?"

"I
dunno
. Maybe Booth, because he was working both sides. Still, I don't know why he'd do it. He owed everything to Spence. Booth brought the girl, I saw them come aboard. Later, I went to check to see if Spence wanted anything before I hit the rack. His door was open… and that's when I saw… all that… that blood. So, what's Inspector
Vignaroli
got on you, Katy—not heroin, I'll bet."

"Not even close," she said, turning away.

He grunted something that sounded like an expletive and pushed his dock cart for Spencer's yacht.

She went back to her boat to sit under the shade of her
bimini
and think about what she'd learned. Spencer Bobbitt. Spencer had built his success by holding up a mirror to the weaknesses of others, justifying his own evil by magnifying the poor decisions of others, all of whom eventually became his victims.

Chapter Thirteen:

In the marina shower, Katy pulled out her square plastic container of Ivory soap and natural bristle brush and went to work on hands and fingernails, turning her hands over to admire the whorls, arches, tents and valleys of her fingerprints.

 
Fingerprinting everyone who had reason to be on Spencer's boat the night of the murder must've kept this tiny police department sweating under the barking threats of the American's lawyers. How tempting it would be to simply let the rich and politically connected Spencer Bobbitt slide out of the marina for the open sea. After all, according to the part-time movie-extra tourist-guide sergeant, the dead girl was only a
puta
from Antonio's, where anything one wanted could be had for a price.

Then there was the tape recording with the chief saying, "It could be possible." She sorely hoped Gabe's suspicions about Raul
Vignaroli
were wrong, if for no other reason than her growing admiration for his ability to work without the modern technical assistance that her police department took for granted. She shampooed her long, thick hair before returning it all to her second favorite
scrunchy
—Astrid had pilfered her best. Then, changing from shorts to a longer pair of lightweight pants, she switched the cassette tape to the pocket of the clean pants, stowed her shower kit in one of the rental lockers and went to wait for the taxi.

At the police station, a harried desk clerk immediately jumped up to escort her to Raul
Vignaroli's
office. She could hear the familiar rumble of his deep voice coming from down the hallway and it sent her heart into embarrassing flutters. She mentally kicked herself, swallowed and waited.

"Hello," he said, his eyes crinkling in warm welcome. "Are you here to see me, Miss Hunter?"

"Yes, I am," she answered, eyeing the sergeant next to him.

The chief turned, said a few words to the sergeant and then motioned for Katy to follow him. Over his shoulder, he said, "Would you like a cold drink?"

At her nod, he leaned into an open door and spoke sharply at a deputy whose feet were up on the desk, hands folded over his chest. The guy's feet fell off, knocking over a wastebasket. His "
Ay,
mierda
!
"
followed them down the hall.

The inspector chuckled. "He may appear to have been asleep, but I assure you he's awake now."

The amused crinkles around his eyes lasted until a smartly dressed woman came around a corner and charged at him with the velocity of a single-minded bullet. Ignoring his respectful greeting, she stuck a forefinger in his chest, gave him a few choice words in Spanish, then finished with, "Fuck you, Raul
Vignaroli
," and marched off.

Katy stared after the woman, "Did that lady just…?"

"Regrettably and in English, too. La
Señora
Alvarez is part of a very old and very respected Baja family. I went to university with her eldest son. Unfortunately, I had to arrest her youngest son today. He was using one of his father's fishing boats to smuggle marijuana into the States."

He opened a door to a private office and invited her to enter. "I'm not sure if she's incensed because I chose to put her son in jail or because I impounded her husband's newest and most expensive fishing boat. But then I suppose that is why her son used it. It
is
his father's fastest boat."

"I presume they won't be getting the boat back anytime soon."

"No. It will be sold at auction. The money used to buy the supplies our police department needs. She'll get it back again, at a price she can live with, though I'm not so sure if the son will be returned to her anytime soon."

Here was another point in his favor. The rest of it was yet to be seen. "Your country has a zero tolerance policy for drugs, so why turn a blind eye to Booth's drug use?"

A light tap on the door and the deputy sheepishly set two sweating cans of Coke in front of the inspector.

Raul fussed with the opening tab of his can while he tried to quarry an answer out of the ever-shifting sand of Mexican politics. This was not the time to quarrel over political differences.

"Booth," he said, a sad note entering his voice. "He was dying, you know. Of course you do. I'm sure by now you know much of what I consider expedient methods in which I get my cases solved. If Americans don't like the way Mexicans behave, your government simply shoves them out of the country. It isn't so easy with us. I have a responsibility to weigh every decision when dealing with foreigners, especially American tourists, and shoving them out of the country is not always the best way to deal with a problem."

She nodded, her admiration at his ability to juggle the diplomacy of politics tainted by what she still didn't know and needed him to answer, honestly. "Then Booth
was
the man you had on the dock to watch me."

"
We are understaffed, underpaid and overworked. I thought Booth a good choice for several reasons. But with his death, perhaps it is time for you to take your boat back to San Francisco and reunite with your fiancé."

 
"Are you telling me you no longer need my help?"

"I don't need the help if you don't trust me."

She huffed out a laugh. "I didn't think you ever stopped to consider how much you were asking, or for that matter, cared. What about Gabe?"

"Ah," he said, his fishing expedition taking a turn. She may not be so attached to the fiancé in San Francisco, but Gabriel Alexander was another matter. "You still care very much about him, do you not?"

"We have a history, if that's what you mean, but that's all there is to it."

"Not all of it. I know that you were married to him for a brief period of time."

She visibly cringed. "We were kids. It was annulled, and if I hadn't bumped into him in the entry of your police station, I doubt I would've ever seen him again."

"And now you are engaged to another man, are you not?"

"I don't… what does that have to do with this investigation?" She licked at dry lips and plowed on. "I'm here because I found a tape, like the kind you use to record conversations, stuck in the dock next to Booth's slip. It might have something to do with why Booth is dead."

He leaned forward, his brows lowering over his glare. "Do you have the recording?"

"You knew that he was blackmailing someone? Was it you, Inspector?"

His frown deepened, but he sat where he was and didn't reply. As a policeman, Raul knew better than to butt in when an angry woman was on a roll.

Then she caught him off-guard. "Did you also know that someone tried to attack me last night?"