The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (31 page)

I sat down and waited for it to all go off, which it did. Miguel was up on his feet, as were Al and Juan. All three made for Rutilio, who fell to the floor and curled up into a ball. He started to cry and wail. “It was an accident, my brother, an accident. Angélica Rosa drank too much. I couldn't get her to breathe. I did my best. It was an accident! But, brother, when I saw how you felt—that she was pure and safe with God, that you were celebrating that she was with her Maker, at peace—I knew it was alright to take the others. I
saved
them, my brother. Like your daughter, Juan, all of them were saved.”
Is Rutilio really trying to make it sound as though his multiple murders had been some sort of sacrificial act? I wonder how that will play out in a Mexican courtroom.

Captain Soto instructed his guards to break up the melee, which they did, quite quickly. It's amazing what a few automatic weapons can achieve when pointed at a person.

In a matter of moments, Bud's handcuffs were off, and he was being addressed, very formally, by Captain Soto. Rutilio was being hauled away by the Federales. Dean and Jean George were making a beeline for me, smiling from ear to ear.

“I'm sorry,” I said to them quietly. “I didn't know you were ‘the operative' that Jack White had referred to until we were here. Dean, when you threw me that challenging look, the penny dropped. But who do you work for?” I still didn't know who they
really
were, only that they weren't who they said they were.

“
US
government,” said Dean quietly, and conspiratorially. “Let's leave it at that. Working with Mexican authorities, multiple border authorities, and
US
officials. I got a call from some ‘friends' in Ottawa—I've been watching your back. I informed them of your arrest, and I'd been cleared to take action before the Federales took you two away. And, like I said earlier, don't beat yourself up about it. We were pretty well ready to move on this group. We might have lost a few drivers in the wind, but I just heard from my superior that we've got everyone important, both sides of the border, in custody.”

I couldn't help but be curious, so I pressed on. “I'm pretty sure I've worked it all out. I'm guessing it's pretty big?” I asked. I turned to find Bud at my shoulder. I smiled and hugged him. Good grief, he smelled awful!

“So, will someone tell me what's been going on here?” Bud asked.

“It's the tequila,” I explained. Dean and Jean nodded. “The Hacienda Soleado is selling more bottles of tequila than they have barrels in which to age it properly. Tequila starts life as a clear liquid, is aged a little in vats, or for longer in barrels, and is then sold at a much higher price for the older spirit. Callie Booth spotted the discrepancy between the number of bottles of the older stuff being sold and the number of barrels owned by the
FOGTT
s in which the tequila needed to be aged. I'm guessing they're coloring it and selling younger tequila as añejo?”

Dean nodded. “They're breaking any number of the very strict laws governing the production of tequila on this side of the border, and because so much of it is sold in the
US
, it's creating all types of fraud cases over there. We were sent in because it's the Americans who are running the show down here.”

“Greg's not Australian, is he?” I asked, knowing the answer.
He couldn't be—he was too Australian to be real.
Dean shook his head. “It's him, Dorothea, and Juan?” I asked.

Dean nodded. “Juan's the one with all the local contacts; he knows which palms to grease to get the right certification. Of course, once it's off the hacienda it's a lot safer to transport than drugs: you get caught with a truckload of tequila that's been incorrectly labeled, there's deniability . . . not the case when you're talking about drugs.”

“It's why we're here as a team,” Jean said. “They wanted a couple on the case, so we could get to know what systems they were using, which locals were involved. And when poor Margarita was killed, and the Federales were bound to be called in, I just knew that something would happen to spoil our set up. They interfere. I guess that's their job, to be fair. We'd tried to build an atmosphere where everyone here supported Al as much as possible in everything he did, so outside forces were rarely called on. I was angry when I first met you—not with you, but because of the situation. I'm sorry I was hostile. You see, we've been at it a long time, on both sides of the border. It's not just these guys, and it's not just this plant, you see. It's big. Big money. At least the call from Ottawa gave us a chance to get everything sorted out.” She gave me a huge hug.

“The Taylors—do they even know what's going on?”

Dean smiled and shook his head. “They don't have a clue. They're in their own little world. We'll protect them. Henry Douglas—the guy whose house you've been staying in? He's away in
LA
too often to have noticed anything. It's just Greg, Dorothea, and Juan, plus the officials who've been on the take. In a way, I'll be sorry to leave this place. We've liked it here. By the way, Cait, the reason I couldn't tell you where we were when Margarita was killed was because we were having a meeting with a local . . . resource . . . down on the beach at that exact time. Sorry that I,” he squeezed his wife's hand, “that
we
must have seemed suspicious. I didn't dare break cover sooner than today—Al locking you up last night gave us just enough time to get things all lined up in case this happened.” He gave an embarrassed smile.

At least I better understood what had been going on with the Georges. As I looked around I could see Captain Soto, Al, and a weeping Miguel moving toward Al's office. I turned to Bud and whispered, “Just one more minute, and I'm all yours, okay?” He shrugged.

I called to Al and gestured for him to come to me for a moment, which he did, carrying my purse. “Here's all your stuff, Cait. Mr. Anderson's things are in there too.”

I took the bag and thanked him. “Sorry to butt in, Al, but one quick thing?” He nodded. “When are you going to tell the people around here about your rights to the García land?”

Al blushed and shook his head. “I don't know what you mean . . .” he stammered.

I sighed. “Your Gram Beselleu? Her maiden name was Dubois. I looked it up. Juan Carlos García García, or should I say García Dubois, is not just ‘the father of Punta de las Rocas' as you put it so passionately yesterday, he's also your great-grandfather, right?” Al nodded. “Are you due to inherit a lot of land?”

“I believe I might have a better claim than Juan does to the land that Margarita inherited from her mother's side of the family. Not that Margarita and I were closely related—it goes way back, and . . . well, it's complicated. The charter is clear—every child has their right. And I am one of those children.”

“So it wasn't just fate that brought you here?”

“Not exactly. I didn't know at first, but I researched the area, and, of course, I knew my gram's maiden name, so I did a bit more digging. I was always pretty good at research.” Al studied his shoes. “I don't think this is the time to make myself known as a García Dubois. I'm not even sure I'll stay. You know, maybe I'm not cut out to be a cop. Given everything that was going on in Punta de las Rocas, right under my nose, and I knew nothing! I'm feeling pretty useless right now, Professor Morgan.”

I smiled. The poor guy looked pretty sorry for himself. “It's still Cait, okay?” He nodded. “Listen, I've learned in my life that not everything's for everyone. With Juan Martinez out of the picture, you might not just get your hands on that beautiful shoreline and save it for posterity, but there's likely to be an opening for mayor around here too. You'd make a good mayor. You should think about it. You love history, art, and literature—who knows, with time, maybe this wonderful old hall could become some sort of cultural center for the tourists who are thirsty for a taste of the real Mexico.”

Al nodded, though he didn't look convinced. He said quietly, “I'm sorry about accusing you.”

I cut him short. “It's alright. I understand.” And I did. I didn't
like
it, but I understood it. “I'm off.
We're off
, okay?”

Al held up his hands. “Go. Stay. Do as you please. It's been a pleasure to meet you, Cait, but I wish it could have been . . .”

“You don't have to say it, Al, I know. Different circumstances?
Context,
right?” Al nodded. “Good luck, and goodbye,” I called as I waved. I grabbed Bud by the arm and we both,
finally,
stepped out into the sunlight together and walked away from the strange building.

Bud threw his arms around me and held me tight. “I am so glad to be out of that place,” was all he said, then he kissed me. It was a very bristly experience, but it was wonderful.

As we finally pulled apart I said, “So . . . 
who
are you?”

Bud smiled. “What, not used to the beard?”

I hit him on the arm—not too hard. “You know what I mean, Bud. If that's your name at all. Who
are
you?”

Bud stepped back, holding on to my arms as he looked into my eyes. “When I was born in Sweden, which is where I grew up until I was all of ten months old, I was named Börje Ulf Dyggve Anderson.”

“That's quite a mouthful,” I replied.

Bud smiled. “
Exactly.
In my first Canadian school I was known as Bud, using my three initials, and I have always
thought
of myself as Bud. But it's not my real name.”

“And what about the work you've been doing for
CSIS
since you ‘retired'? Jack, with Sheila's help, let the cat out of the bag.”

Bud paused. “I can tell you that
CSIS
sees me as a resource. I've got a lot of knowledge in this old noggin of mine,” he said, patting his messy hair. “Of course, I'm not the brain-box that you are, but they do like to keep using what I know. But as for the details—you know I can't tell you.”

“Is it over? Are they done with you? Or will you keep running off to foreign countries without me knowing about it?”

“Maybe after this they'll take more notice when I tell them I'd like to stop. After all, I'm pretty well known in these parts now.”

I nodded. “Bud. We need to talk. Not today, maybe, but
soon.
There's a lot I don't know about you. And that doesn't feel good. Understand?”

Bud nodded. “Cait, we will talk. And, yes, very soon. Right now, I need to decompress a bit, and . . . I don't know . . . have the holiday we've been looking forward to for weeks?”

We hugged again. It felt like I was home.

“Want a ride, you two? Then we can tell you some more background on our case against ingratiating Greg, domineering Dorothea, and slippery Juan.” It was Dean George's unmistakable voice.

I didn't wait for Bud to answer. “Yes, please. Could we go to Henry's place, so we can check on how Jack is doing back at home, clean up, and collect our stuff? Then I suggest we take ourselves to one of those big hotels on the seafront in Puerto Vallarta for the next few days, get some sun, drink lots of cocktails with little umbrellas in them, and feast our faces off! I want to find some
good
food to eat—I know there must be a lot of it in the area. I want local snapper, fresh salsa, chicken with a light mole sauce . . .”

Bud smiled. “Hey, hold your horses! Getting clean to start with sounds great, and, of course, I'm anxious to know how Jack's coming along!” He hugged me tight. “As for your suggestion about staying in Puerto Vallarta and hunting down some excellent food, I'm all for that. My diet since we arrived has been, shall we say, ‘bland'? Let's do it, Cait! Let's indulge for the time we have left before our flight home.”

It was only as we were being driven toward the shimmering sea at the bottom of the hill that I remembered the promises I'd made to my mirror-self that morning about everything I'd give up if only Bud and I managed to survive our ordeal. But I told myself that what happens through a looking glass doesn't really count, especially if it happens in a world that's full of fake . . . 
everything.
So I would allow myself to indulge for the next few days, then I'd make a fresh start when we got home. I'd make a list of things about myself that I could work on.
I like lists.

An excerpt from
The Corpse with the Platinum Hair
, the next book in the Cait Morgan mystery series

The past few hours had been an indulgent blend of delicious food, engaging conversation, Bud's wonderful company, and some exciting wines, all in a setting I'd never dreamed I'd get the chance to visit—the owners' private dining room at the fabulous Tsar! Casino and Hotel on The Strip in Las Vegas. I'd left our table for a moment and had just finished using the washroom's fancy, if deafening, hand dryer, when there was an ominous clanging noise. The subtle lighting in the washroom cut out. Luckily, the pulsating neon beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass end wall provided some illumination. I pulled open the washroom door to check whether the restaurant, too, had been plunged into darkness. It had. Even the piped operatic arias that had accompanied our dinner had fallen silent.

A woman called out, “Everybody stay where you are, please. The emergency generator will come on in just a few seconds.” It was Julie Pool, head of the legal department at the casino, to whom I'd been introduced before dinner.

“I not afraid of dark; I afraid of furniture. Is
moving
.” Svetlana Kharlamova's operatic Russian tones had been heard and praised around the world for decades, but now she was simply whining.