Caribbean Rain (26 page)

Gratitude and Sophie weren’t always on the best of terms, but they were kissy-facing right now. It felt good to be thought of as important.

“It wasn’t because of my new boobs then?”

Laughing, Josh shook his head. “Well, maybe a little, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Then if I do that butt enhancement surgery, I should get your job in a couple of years.”

“Let’s not get carried away. God knows I wish I knew what was going to happen with all of that job mess. But we can talk about that later; we’re here.”

Sophie pulled in front of the flat, stucco-designed building common to San Juan and parked in the handicapped space to the left of the door.

“What are you doing?”

“Parking. How many handicapped fencers do you know?”

He shrugged. “Good point.”

They entered the building, Sophie taking the lead. After getting inside, they stood in the tiled foyer, and she bent her ear toward the sounds coming from the back of the building. The clash of metal caused by foils and
épées
in fervent battle flooded her with memories of the school in San Francisco that she had attended back in the mid-nineties. It was where she learned about handling such weapons. And for a change, those memories didn’t haunt her, but lent nostalgic excitement—one of the few commands her father had made that she didn’t rebel against.

Josh touched her elbow. “You okay?”

“Yep. Just remembering how much I liked the club where I learned to flash the steel.”

“Any good at it?”

“Hell yeah. Won the club championship my last year there.”

“Last year?”

“Long story, but I beat a boy who everyone thought was going to be some Olympic champion. He didn’t like it that a little Asian girl whipped his butt so, after the match, he pushed me a couple of times, and I decked him. They tossed me, but that was okay. I was ready to move on.”

“Can’t figure out why that anger part of your psych exam didn’t throw up red flags,” he grinned.

“Playing the game, just playing the game,” she said.

And who knew that better than her?

Just then, a short, svelte woman with long, black hair appeared from the office door behind the half-moon counter and smiled. “May I help you?”

“All yours, Princess,” said Josh. She glanced at his face and saw encouragement and confidence in those blue eyes. She felt nervous, then didn’t.

She flashed her ID and went to work. “We’re from the FBI, and we have some questions for the owner.”

The warm reception grew cooler.

“Doctor Donald Flores, but Doctor Flores is busy with a class.” Her low voice was heavy with Latino accent. “Can I tell him what this is about?”

“Yes. You can. It’s about seven murders.”

Her mouth dropped open as her eyes widened. “You mean the ones in the rainforest? I read of them in the paper this morning. You think—?”

“Just go get him. Like I said, we have some questions.”

The receptionist recovered her composure. “That class will be over in about ten minutes. Would you care to go watch the end of it and then speak to Dr. Flores?”

She shifted her feet and considered walking back to the back and pulling him out of the class, then remembered something Manny always talked about. Give and take. Give a little and take a lot. That man knew his shit.

“Okay. Deal. Take us back, and we’ll wait.”

She led them through a hallway smelling like mold and sweat as Josh moved beside her and whispered. “Good control. Good call.”

There was that damn gratitude thing again. She could get used to it.

“I freaking hope so.”

They entered the wide, metal door escaping to a mid-sized gymnasium. About twenty-five feet to her right stood a tall, thin man in his forties dressed in fencing white with his mesh mask under his arm talking quietly to a group of ten- or eleven-year-old kids, maybe twenty of them. She quickly noticed there were only four girls in the group. Some things never change.

A few minutes later, he demonstrated a touché move that Baryshnikov would have been proud of, spoke to them again, and then dismissed the class.

The receptionist strode over and spoke to him. He frowned, then nodded, handing her his foil and mask, and approached Sophie and Josh. His stride was confident and probably held the blue-blood mentality that sometimes permeated sports like fencing.

“Good morning, agents. I’m Donald Flores, owner of this establishment and head instructor.”

He carried an American accent, definitely not Puerto Rican born and raised. Midwest maybe.

“I’m Agent Lee, and this is Agent Corner. That was an impressive move at the end of your class.”

He raised his thick eyebrows, making his brown eyes seem smaller than they were. He definitely had a charm and a sense of who he was.

“Do you know this leisure pursuit, Agent?”

“I do, or at least did. I was no Mirtheska Escanellas, but I didn’t hurt myself either.”

“Ah. You know of our Olympian. But I suspect you aren’t here to discuss the highlights of Puerto Rican fencing.”

Flores shifted his feet, and Sophie made a mental note of his nervousness. It could be nothing because most people get nervous when they talk to the Feds.

“You’re right. We have questions regarding murders in the rainforest.”

“Yes. I saw the paper this morning. But they didn’t really go into much detail on how the people died.”

“We didn’t release much information,” said Josh.

Dr. Flores nodded, his thin lips keeping a straight line.

“Okay. Let’s get to it. The people murdered in El Yunque were butchered, Dr. Flores. Someone used a sword, apparently an old one, and had a slash-and-dash party.”

“Oh my,” he answered. “That’s awful.”

“It is. So you understand why we’re here?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be blunt.”

“I can see you’re good at that, Agent Lee,” he smiled.

“This person is accomplished at the game, as you call it. They’re in good shape, bright, and may have a hobby for collecting old swords. Do you know anyone like that, Dr. Flores?”

He shrugged. “Well, yes. Half of the male members in this club could fit that description.”

“I didn’t say male, I said ‘person’. Why did you assume the killer’s male?”

Flores never hesitated. “It was just that, Agent Lee, an assumption. We don’t have many female adult members, so if your suspect is female, that would narrow the search.”

“And . . .”

“And I teach criminal justice at the University down the street. I know about percentages and profiles, that’s all.”

“Interesting. So you’d be familiar with forensic processes?” asked Sophie.

“I also know how to apply counter-forensic measures,” he added. “But since I just got back from the States about two this morning, I’m not your guy.”

“Fair enough, and of course, you won’t mind if we check that out.”

“Not at all. See Rachel on the way out, and she’ll give you my itinerary for the last three days.”

“Thank you, we will. Dr. Flores, who is your current club champion?”

“The open club champion is Dr. Royce Major. He also teaches at the University. But he’s not really the sword collector that some of the others are. He loves the competitons, and he regularly beats me, especially with a saber in his hand.”

“Anyone else that might fit that profile?”

“Like I said, there are several who could. I’ll have Rachel get you a list of members who fit that bill, if you think that would help.”

“What? Not asking for a subpoena?”

“Heavens, no. I—we’ve nothing to hide, as far as I know. These are all upstanding men. If they’re not, then I don’t want them here anyway.”

“Anyone here get real pissy when they lose a match, or at least frustrated?”

He opened his hands. “There is always a high level of energy in practice and the weekly matches. So again, I’d say that’s most of us.”

Sophie moved closer to Flores, looking up to the man eight inches taller than her. She scowled. “Listen, Flores. I don’t give a shit about club politics or how much money any of these people pay to keep this dive in the black, but you’re not telling me everything I want to know. So, one more time: who are the hot heads that come here and swing swords at the other members? Now.”

His eyes darted at the floor, then back to Sophie. “There are two men who hate one another and get ‘pissy’ as you say when they lose to each other, and to anyone else, for that matter. Charles Johnson and Dr. David Collins. I’ve had to suspend both of them at least twice, and they are on probation and unable to participate in any events regarding Puerto Rico’s Fencing Federation sponsorship. Their information will be on the list we'll provide. Now, if you’re done, I have another class.”

“For now, and don’t leave the island. We may want to talk again,” said Sophie.

He nodded, smiled, and turned back to the gathering class.

“I’ll get the list from Rachel, you get the ride. We still have another club to visit,” said Josh.

Flores stopped and moved back to them. “That one closed last week and most of the members transferred here. But you can check with Rachel on that too. I had part ownership, and we decided to put all of our resources here.”

“Kind of convenient,” said Sophie.

“Actually, it wasn’t. It was quite inconvenient. Closing a business isn’t good for anyone.”

“Thanks again,” answered Sophie.

Watching him walk away, she wondered if she’d asked all the right questions. She saw Manny’s face and wondered what he’d do, then it hit her.

“Dr. Flores? I have one more question.”

She met him halfway. “Is there someone, a member that recently had a tragedy in their lives? Lost a job, divorce, death of a loved one?”

“Not many divorces. Wait. One of our members lost his mother in a tragic accident in the rainforest four months ago.”

“Did his behavior change? Like from outgoing to Mr. Lonely?”

“He was always pretty much to himself, but come to think of it, he got into a shouting match with one of our members over the price of an ancient Japanese Katana. That was about three weeks ago, and he’s not been in since.”

Josh came up beside her, wielding several pages of printed paper.

“He’s close enough. What’s his name?”

“He can’t be your man. He’s world renowned for his environmental research and an absolute pillar in the academic community.”

Josh’s phone rang. He looked at the display, rolled his eyes, and handed the papers to Sophie as he moved away. She didn’t like the look on his face.

She turned back to Flores. “The name?”

Exhaling, he tapped the paper in her hand with a long finger. “He’s the first one on the list, Samuel Crouse. His ex-wife is a detective, I believe.”

Chapter-49

He tossed the smoldering cigarette onto the warm sidewalk and flipped the next page of the paper as he leaned against the squat palm tree, all the while never taking his eyes from the security entrance of the Federal Building.

He’d watched the Asian bitch and her pretty boy boss leave, but that wasn’t why he was here, was it?

Watching the Irish tart leave with the stupid-looking LA boy had got to him a little and he wondered if it would have been the right time to start this journey, but decided against it. The grand prize hadn’t made an appearance, and that’s why he’d come to San Juan—to see firsthand the object of his attention, then destroy him, in every way possible.

Karma, Agent. Karma.

The door swung out, and two men stepped through it. The first was the overweight CSI; the second, well, the second was the mother lode.

He watched as Manny Williams clapped Alex Downs on the back and then climbed into the white SUV.

“So good to see you, Agent. So good to see you,” he whispered, unable to wipe the smile from his face, and caring to even less.

Chapter-50

“This sure beats the hell out of Michigan in January, even if we are chasing after some deranged prick who may have a big project on his agenda,” said Alex.

Manny watched as Alex held his face out of the window, reminiscent of his big, black Lab, Sampson, on a summer day. Funny. He hadn’t thought that much about it, but living in this climate could most certainly taint the place he called home. Lansing was a good area to live, but warm wasn’t on its resume.

“Good point. But there’s the whole hurricane season.”

“Yep. There is, but life’s full of tradeoffs. Freeze ass nine months or stay warm and meet an oversized rainstorm once in a while,”

Just then, a police cruiser, lights flashing, honked. As Manny pulled over, the cruiser zoomed past as fast as a vehicle could zoom on the winding road. He frowned.

What the hell was that?

Before he could speak, two more came around the bend, sirens blaring, blasting by on his left.

“Shit,” whispered Manny.

“Shit what? Oh, man.”

The sweet sound of Celtic Woman’s rendition of one of his favorite Irish ballads told him his phone was open for business. He pulled it out of his pocket and saw that Detective Crouse was calling.

“Hello?”

“Agent. We’ve got—” Then she was gone. The bars on his phone explained why. Damned dropped calls. Even though the rainforest was remote, he’d noticed several towers on the way in.

“That was Detective Crouse, and I lost the call.”

A second later, Nat King Cole was singing one of his all-time greats as Alex’s phone came alive.

“You’re the one taking those CDs out of Gavin’s office, aren’t you?”

“Hey, he was one of the best ever, and I always put them back. And you should talk. Celtic music isn’t exactly mainstream.”

“Yeah, but they’re hot and talented; and Chloe loves them too. Better answer that.”

“It’s Crouse,” said Alex, fingering the cell.

“Downs here.” Alex frowned. “What? You’re breaking up. . .”

Alex listened for a few more seconds and swore. The resignation scribbled on his face said that he was hearing her loud and clear.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes, hustle ass and bring at least one more of your CSU teams. I’ll see if we can get another from the office. Okay. I’ll tell him,” said Alex