The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (2 page)

“What don't I know, Jack?
What
should you tell me?” I knew I sounded angry. I was.

“Did Bud have any
ID
on him when he was picked up?” was Jack's reply.

I sighed impatiently and spread out the mound that Bud had created on the counter. “I don't think so. His credit cards, his wallet, his passport, his phone—I'm using it now—they're all here. I think he just had some cash with him.”

“Which passport is there?” Jack snapped.

“What do you mean ‘which passport'? His
Canadian
passport, of course. How many has he got?” I sounded as puzzled as I felt.

“Well, I don't know how many he's got now, or which ones he brought with him or traveled on, but he's often had several, and I'm guessing that, even though he's retired, he's still got his Swedish one.”

I could hear myself splutter, “Why's he got a Swedish passport? He's
Canadian
.”

“You've got a British one
and
a Canadian one, right?” Jack sounded very sensible.

“Yes, but I'm Welsh. I kept dual citizenship when I emigrated, so of course I have a British passport. Bud was born in Canada; why would he have a Swedish one?”

Jack hesitated. “You know that his parents are Swedish?”

“Yes.” I knew in my gut that a shoe was about to drop.

“Bud was born in Sweden and brought to Canada as a baby, but he sometimes used his Swedish
ID
for his
CSIS
work. Well, his Swedish one and some alternate Canadian ones with a few different names on them. I think one of them even used his real name.”
Okay—so not just a shoe dropping, but an entire collection of heavy boots.

I sat down on the corner of the sofa and felt my multi-purpose right eyebrow shoot toward my hairline. “
CSIS?
The Canadian Security Intelligence Service? Bud's a
spy
?”

“Don't be silly, Cait.” It was Sheila's voice cooing at me from my distant homeland. “Look, over the years, Jack and Bud have worked on some cases that needed
CSIS
clearance, that's all. Right, Jack?” I pictured Jack nodding at his wife, or else glowering at her. “So they have all these special papers for when they travel doing stuff like that. Of course, Bud's last job meant he had to use them a lot, but maybe he's told you all about that?” She sounded hopeful.

“Not a word,” was all I was able to say, though I suspected that my tone alone spoke volumes.

Sheila and Jack cleared their throats. In unison.

“Well, we're not really supposed to talk about it. I guess Bud stuck to that. Better you don't know,” said Jack, a little too quickly.

“What, in case somebody arrests me, too, and points shiny lights at me till I talk?” This was all sounding quite ridiculous. Bud, and Jack, working for
CSIS
? And Sheila knew all about it? And me?
Not a thing.

Jack paused, clearly trying to decide what to say next. “So, back to the question of passports. If one of his Canadian ones is there, the chances are that's the one he traveled on. So he's got no
ID
on him. And I know he won't say a word. Literally.”

“How? How do you
know
that?” I was beginning to panic. The world I knew was melting around me.

“Petrov, Cartagena, that's how I know,” replied Jack. “It's a case we studied during a
CSIS
training course. How to deal with being picked up by the locals when you're in a highly compromising situation. Petrov was a Russian operative who was found on the roadside next to a dead street vendor in Cartagena, a port city in Colombia, back in the 1980s. He tried to talk his way out of it, then tried to bribe his way out. It's used as a case study of what
not
to do. Rule of thumb: say nothing. That's what Bud will do. If he hasn't got a passport, they won't know where to start. They won't be contacting any consulates, because they won't know which one to talk to. That gives us time. Where did they take him, by the way? I'm going to guess they started by dumping him into the cells at the local police station, but do you know if that's the case?”

I was grappling with everything that Jack was throwing at me. “What?
Where?
I don't
know.
They bundled him into a car and took off. How on earth would I know
where
? I'm not leaving. I'll find him somehow. I must. I have to save him—”

“Cait! Stop it!” Jack shouted at me. His voice echoed in the cab of his distant truck.

“Jack . . . shh . . . don't speak to her like that,” hissed Sheila.

Jack sighed. “Cait, listen. This is serious. Very serious. You
must
get out of there. Clear out. Completely. Do
not
connect with Bud, don't even try to. Find a flight and get back here as soon—”

“I'm
not
leaving him, Jack, and that's that. There is no way I'm running away from this. From Bud. I'm staying, and I'm going to help him. When it comes to fight or flight, you'd better realize that we Welsh do not run—we stand our ground, and fight it out if necessary . . . if we can't talk our way out of it, of course.” I was close to tears, but every molecule of my body was determined that I would stay in Mexico to help Bud. Somehow.

Jack sighed heavily. “Right. New plan. Cait—I still need you to clean up the apartment, clear everything out, drive back to the airport, and wait there until another flight comes in from Vancouver. Then get back in the car and drive to . . . have you got a pen handy?”

“Hang on.” I scrabbled in my purse, hunting for my always-disappearing reading-cheats, and ruing the fact that I needed them at all. Finally, I found them, shoved them onto my nose, and got ready to take notes.

“When you eventually leave the airport, drive as though you're going back to the resort, but stay on the main road for about a mile beyond the turn you took to get where you are now. You'll see a sign on the right for the Hacienda Soleado
,
got it?”

“Got it.”

“Turn there. Once you drive off the main road, you'll have to get yourself along a pretty poor track, up into the hills, until you come to the place itself. It's an agave plantation where they make tequila. One of the owners is a buddy of mine and he's got a place there. All the owners have. I happen to know he left for his home in the States last week. I'll make some calls. Tell him a friend of mine wants to borrow his place for a week. When you get through the entrance, you'll see a big adobe building: that's the tasting room and restaurant. Go there. They'll have the keys and codes you'll need, and someone will tell you where to go. Clear?”

“Clear.”

“I'll get myself down there as fast as I can. In the meantime, just get to Henry's place at the ranch and lay low. His full name is Henry Douglas. If anyone asks, you are who you are, he's a friend of a friend, and you're there for some sort of—I don't know—academic retreat or something. Okay with you?”

“Yes, okay.” I could hear my voice quiver. “Jack, what happened to Petrov?”

Silence.

“I'll get this sorted, Cait. The fact that Bud was covered in blood makes me think he was trying to help someone who'd been injured.”

“
Of course!
” I blurted out. “It was the victim's blood, not Bud's. Why didn't I think of that?” I felt so relieved, but dim.

“Because you're not thinking clearly, dear,” came Sheila's overly soothing tones. “Just do as Jack says, and he'll come down and help straighten everything out. It doesn't need to become some huge international incident.”

“No, it doesn't,” butted in Jack. “That's exactly what we don't want.
None
of us. Down there the municipal cops don't deal with murders, so they'll be looking to hand Bud off to their federal colleagues as soon as they can. As it's a Sunday today, maybe I can get there before they pack him off to Tepic or Guadalajara, which is likely what they'll do. From your descriptions, Cait, it must have been Al and Miguel at the scene. Al's the tall one. Nice guy. Though why they were in their dress uniforms, and in Bob's Bodega next to Margarita's flower shop, is beyond me.”

It had completely escaped me that, with Jack being a “local” in Punta de las Rocas for part of the year, he would know all the people involved. It also dawned on me that he might even know the victim.

“Who might it have been, Jack—on the floor?” I asked as reasonably, and gently, as I could.

Jack tutted. “I don't know. I can't be sure. It's Margarita's store. She's the florist, and a wonderful plantswoman. She can grow pretty much anything. She has a nursery up in the hills, not far from the plantation I'm sending you to. In fact, her father, Juan, is the jimador at the Hacienda Soleado—he's the one who cares for the agaves there. He's also the mayor of the municipality, the intendente. Important guy, in his own way. If it's her—well, I can't imagine what happened, or who would have wanted to harm her. I've always thought of her as well respected in the area, and all she does is grow plants and sell flowers. It's puzzling. And worrying.”

“Jack, look, I'll do as you asked, and maybe I can call you again when I get to the hacienda?” I was looking around the apartment and beginning to focus on my tasks as I spoke. This was better. There was something I could
do
.

“Sure. By then I'll have made some calls, and I should be able to tell you when I'll arrive.”

I had a thought. “Hang on a minute, Jack—why would I have your car? I mean, if I'm not supposed to be connected to Bud, then should I be connected to you? Why would I be driving from the airport in
your
car? Wouldn't I just get a cab?”

Jack didn't answer immediately. “You make a good point, Cait, and you're right. I'll need to think through whether or not it might be alright for us to ‘know' each other. I'll tell you when we speak again. Meanwhile, park my car in the short-term parking lot and leave the ticket in the glovebox. I'll collect it from there when I fly in. I've got my keys here; you've got the spares. You have the keys, right? Bud didn't keep them in his pocket?”

I double-checked. “They're here. No worries.”
Huh! No worries!

“Okay, Cait, when you're at the airport and you see a flight getting in from Vancouver, keep an eye open for when folks are leaving the baggage area, join the crowd, and jump in one of the government cabs that park right outside the terminal. There's no point you dragging the luggage across the road to get a city cab, even though they're a bit cheaper. Have you got local cash?”

I checked in my purse. “Yes, I brought a fair amount with me, so I should be fine.”

“Good. And how's your Spanish?”

“My comprehension's excellent. Speaking it takes a bit of time, but I can get there.” I allowed myself a wry smile as I thought about the book of conversational Spanish that Bud had given me when he told me about this vacation. He knows how lazy I am when it comes to languages, but he told me I had to learn Spanish before we left, which isn't as easy as it sounds, even for someone like me who has an eidetic memory. Language isn't just about remembering stuff; it's about putting all the right bits together in the right order and making it sound right. Now I was glad that I'd applied myself.

“Good,” replied Jack, “you might need it with the cab driver. Use the details I've just given you. You'll be fine out at the Hacienda Soleado. Everyone speaks English there. You'll be a bit isolated at the plantation, of course, but that fits better with the idea that you're trying to get away from everything. Just lay low. You know, just be quiet and generally uncommunicative. Act like a brain-box taking a break.”

I felt another wan smile creep up on me. “Okay. I'll keep a low profile. And I'll peer at people over my sunglasses to make myself appear more forbidding.”

“I know you're a quick study, Cait. Bud's always boasting that you belong to Mensa. Which reminds me—there's something you
can
do that could help Bud. Do that memory thing he's told me about—you know, when you recall the exact details of an event, or a place, or a person. You might have seen something that could help.”

“Bud told you about that?” I was surprised. I had thought that Bud respected my choice to keep my special skill set private. Then again, the last fifteen minutes had been full of surprises about Bud, and none of them, so far, had been pleasant.

“Yes, he told us, but he also told us not to tell anyone else, and we won't, right, Sheila?”

“Oh, of course not. I know lots of things I don't
really
know.” Sheila sounded conspiratorial.

“Is there anything else I should do? Or
not
do?” I thought I'd better check. This cloak and dagger stuff was all new to me, and seeing Bud hauled into custody, leaving a corpse in his wake, was a new and frightening experience.

“Cait—concentrate, and call me when you're settled. Go on, get going. We'll head back to our place now. It'll be a better base for getting in touch with the people who can help Bud. Talk to you in a few hours or so. And Cait?”

“Yes?”

“Don't panic. This
will
be sorted out. Bud will not be held, or charged, or incarcerated for something he didn't do. Right?”

“Yes, okay. Jack, you never told me what happened to Petrov in Colombia. Tell me. Please?”

“Cait, it was a case study of what
not
to do, so don't give it any more thought.”

“Jack,
please
?” I needed to know.

Jack sighed. “He was tried, found guilty, and executed. He did everything
wrong
, Cait. That won't happen to Bud. We won't let it.
He
won't let it. Now stop thinking about the idiot Petrov and get going!”