Tourist Trapped (12 page)

“You could have at least made an attempt to—”

“Who reported the fisherman missing?” Chad said.

Amanda’s stare burned into the side of his head, but he didn’t flinch. The officer scanned the file. “His wife, Rosa Hernandez.”

“If you have photos of the boat and captain, we’d like copies,” Chad said. “And of the police report.”

“Of course.” Rodriguez took the folder to the copier.

“Why did you—”

“Boss, I know you’re used to conducting cross examinations, but in this situation we’d get further if we cooperated with the authorities instead of pissing them off. Remember, we have to work with them to secure Rebecca and Trent’s safety.”

Lucky for Chad, they sat in the middle of a police station, otherwise Amanda would have ripped his hide for insubordination. Unfortunately, if she wanted the ordeal to end, she needed to play by the rules. True, a rock would have produced more information on the case by now, but insulting the authorities in a foreign country lacked…finesse.

“Do you think all cases are treated so poorly in the Yucatán or just ours?” Amanda said.

“Sorry, I’m clueless about the police force down here.”

“Sadly, me too.”

The officer returned with copies and handed them to Chad.

“Lieutenant Rodriguez, I sincerely apologize for my outburst,” Amanda said. “Please attribute it to the stress of not knowing the condition of my dear sister and her husband. The agony increases with each passing day.” Tears welled up in her eyes. “If we don’t get my baby sister back, I’ll be devastated.” She pulled a tissue from her bag and wiped her cheeks.

Another one on her way to Broadway.

“Señora, I understand. Completely.”

She tossed the Kleenex into the officer’s wastebasket. “Should we focus on the missing boat?”

“I’m at your disposal,” Rodriguez said.

Chad leafed through the report, mainly consisting of white space, as short as the one on Trent and Rebecca. A black line obliterated the boat captain’s home address and phone number.

“What did the fisherman’s wife—Cooper what’s her name?”

“Uh…Rosa Hernandez.”

“Thanks. What did she say about her husband’s disappearance?”

“You mean other than the fact that he didn’t come home?” Rodriguez said. He thumbed through the file.

“Anything about favorite fishing spots or the waters he normally traveled?” Amanda said.

Rodriguez continued flipping through the whole three pages of the report. “No.”

“Did she mention if anything unusual occurred that last morning? Or had he gone missing previously—maybe an engine problem or a storm?”

“No.”

“Were there any calls from him before she realized he wasn’t coming home?” Amanda said.

“She doesn’t mention much more than he left the house at five in the morning and she expected him back by nine that night. He didn’t show up and no one at the marina saw his boat.”

“I can’t read the address or phone number. May we have that information so we can chat with his wife ourselves?” Chad said.

“We’re not allowed to give out that data.”

“What are you investigating—who are you talking to?” Amanda said.

“Señora Sloane, as I mentioned, his wife and the other boat crews gave us nothing to go on.”

Talking to Rodriguez reminded Chad of having a conversation with a tree stump—except the stump would be more helpful.

With each question Amanda’s voice tightened. The pot started to boil again. “Did your team visit Isla Mujeres?”

“Yes they spent the day investigating various locales.”

“What about the mystery man Trent met at Buho’s?” Amanda said.

“He’s a retired American who lives on the island, a Green Bay Packers fan. Evidently the two of them argued about football.”

“May I summarize my understanding?” Amanda’s heel tapped a steady rhythm against the dingy white vinyl floor.

“Of course.”

“My sister and her husband—both American citizens—have been missing for almost a week and you don’t have any leads.”

“That is correct.”

“And you’re not going to give us the address of the boat captain’s residence.”

“I’m sorry, but unless Señora Hernandez agrees to it, I cannot give you that information. It’s an invasion of her privacy.”

Chad had been mistaken. Conversing with the tree stump would have been far more productive.

The lid on the pot clattered away, ready to blow. “What are you pursuing next?”

“We’ll follow up with the charter captains again, but they’re not very cooperative. We bust them regularly for expired permits.”

“The American embassy and the FBI?”

“We’re pursuing, no answer yet. At this point, my gut tells me we’re dead in the water,” Rodriguez said.

She jumped up and leaned over the startled policeman. “That is not an acceptable answer. Who’s in charge here? Who do I need to call to light a fire beneath your—”

“Amanda, I think it’s time we left.” Chad jumped up, grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the entrance.

She yanked it out of his grasp. “Stop it, Cooper.”

He leaned in and whispered in her ear, “May I remind you, it’s probably best not to piss off the Mexican police department when you’re in Mexico.”

She looked around at the room full of eyes staring at her.

“Sorry, officer, as she mentioned earlier, she’s terribly distraught over the kidnapping—can’t sleep or eat and cries all the time. Don’t mind us,” Chad said, pulling her toward the door. “Lieutenant, if you come across anything, would you please contact us? In the meantime, we’ll go sightseeing—maybe take in a bullfight.”

The officer smiled. “Keep your amiga out of the ring, otherwise the bull won’t have a chance.”

FIFTEEN

Saturday December 12, Late Afternoon

Cooper dragged Amanda
out of the police station just in time. She had contemplated grabbing Rodriguez by the shirt collar and shaking him until his eyes rolled. How in hell were they going to find Rebecca and Trent if the police sat on their asses?

“I don’t know about you, but I’m starving,” Cooper said.

“You can eat after that encounter?”

“I’ve learned, over the years, that you can’t rely on the police. You use them as much as possible, but in the end, you’re on your own.”

“Then why did you stop me from telling him what I thought?”

“Because you don’t want them to become a roadblock. They’re human; they have egos. You dent Rodriguez’s pride and he’ll spend more energy setting up obstacles than he will helping.”

Once again, she had to wonder how Cooper knew so much about this world of kidnappings and death threats.

He pulled her toward Plaza Kukulcan. Again with that damned place. “What is your obsession with this mall?”

He raised his hands. “What are you talking about?”

“On our first day you wanted to buy a hat here; now you want to go in again.”

He shrugged. “I’m looking for place where we can fill our stomachs and plan our next steps.”

Amanda feared she might run into Miguel if they wandered the southern hotel zone much longer—but on a Saturday night? He probably needed to work. “Give me a minute.” She pulled a visor out of her tote bag, along with a pair of sunglasses that Audrey Hepburn would have killed for.
Just in case.

“What in the world—we’re going into the building, not coming out,” Chad said. “Are divorce attorneys that famous in Cancun—or are you worried about running into someone? Maybe a disgruntled ex-husband of one of your clients?”

Amanda thought of Lauren, once bruised beyond recognition by her former spouse. “Laugh all you want, but aggressive ex-husbands are the reason I took self-defense courses—look, you want to go in, so let’s do it.”

She clenched her teeth and followed Chad into the shopping center, fixing her gaze on the glistening marble floors that reflected the lights of the storefronts: Taxco, Cartier, Louis Vuitton, Ferragamo…store after store. It felt as if they crossed the entire shopping center. “Cooper, where are we going?”

“You’re the expert, not me. I’m trying to find a decent restaurant.”

“It’s been years since I’ve been here—you’re on your own, but find someplace quickly.”

Sounds of a mariachi band drifted down from the second level and they followed, ending up at a place called Tequila Grill.

A photographer plopped sombreros on the heads of a couple sitting at one table and handed the man a wooden rifle. Grinning from ear to ear—probably after a few too many Margaritas—they posed for a photo. Another group sat around two well-dressed, life-sized sculptures of skeletons. “Say cheese,” a patron said and snapped the picture. A waiter swaggered by with three drinks stacked on his kerchiefed head.

A hostess seated Cooper and Amanda by a window that overlooked the boulevard, the lagoon in the distance. Cooper’s phone rang and he answered while Amanda soaked in the view. A few rose-stained puffs of clouds hovered over the water. In her “old life,” she relished sitting by the lagoon at sunset to watch Mother Nature paint the sky in hues of red and orange that darkened as the afternoon waned, only to be snuffed out with the onset of evening.

“That was Art,” Cooper said. “He found some loose associations between Harding and Command Commodities, but nothing concrete. He said he usually finds the name Bradford Montgomery every time he sees Gordon Harding.”

“Isn’t he the CEO of Typak Foods?”

“That’s what Art’s telling me.”

“Two CEOs of factory farms plus photos of Ag Committee members taking advantage of some sexual perks in a Miami condo.”

“He said another name popped up frequently. Nicolas Fischer,” Cooper said.

“Never heard of him.”

“Art’s looking for more information.”

Their waiter, Gustavo, sauntered over with their Margaritas balanced on his head, squatting down so they could pluck the glasses off his skull. In spite of the hoopla, the Margaritas were excellent. In barely a minute Gustavo returned with a tray of ingredients and a stand. He set up and proceeded to mash avocados and combine all of the ingredients to produce their very own, fresh batch of guacamole.

With a flourish he set the stone bowl and warm chips on the table and disappeared. She tried the dip—nice balance of tomatoes, onion and cilantro.
I wonder if he’d fit in my suitcase.
“I think I’m taking a souvenir home this trip: Gustavo.”

“If you don’t, I will. This is some fantastic guacamole—and, after eating this stuff by the pound over the last few days, I consider myself to be quite the connoisseur. I swear I cut myself shaving this morning and bled guac.”

She lifted the glass to her lips, tasting the salty rim before the sweet and sour combination of the Margarita. The tequila burned the back of her throat on the way down. A little pain to go with the ache. “Do you think they’re alive, Cooper?”

He ran his hand through his “hat hair” and looked her in the eye. “I don’t know. We’re in a foreign country and don’t have a lead on who abducted them—is this the result of Trent’s stupidity or did somebody figure out that your family had money, making Rebecca and Trent a juicy prospect?”

“I feel so helpless—every time we get a lead, we end up at a dead end. It’s one wall after another.” She played with her spoon.

He rested his hand on hers, his palm white hot against her skin. “Boss, I know this is unfamiliar territory. Your ‘take no prisoners’ approach to the problem is failing miserably.”

“Thanks for the pep talk, I feel so much better.”

“I’ve been there, Amanda, I know the feeling of sitting in the middle of the ocean without a paddle. But we will find them.”

“Okay, Sherlock, how do we crack the case?”

“We go over the evidence as many times as it takes until we find a lead.”

“We looked at it already.”

“We go deeper,” he said.

Her phone rang, but she didn’t recognize the phone number. Maybe the police had new information. “Hello?”

“Señora Sloane. Mujeres who play with el fuego get burned. Stop looking for the boat and start paying.”

Amanda set her jaw and ignored the tightening in her chest. Which Cancun lowlife arranged the call? The bartender? Somebody from the boat? Or worse?

* * *

Even with kidnappings
and missing family, Chad savored his morning and evening walks on the beach. They gave him a feeling of the world moving forward, in spite of death threats and ransom demands. The tide rolled in and out, over and over. No matter what action he or Amanda took, life marched on.

Moonlight reflected off the water, transforming the daytime turquoise into a silvery shimmer that reminded him of a sequined-covered dress that Danny wore to a New Year’s Eve party many years ago. The gown hung in their closet.

He called Vince for an update. No news on Jason and Skye.

“How’s the search going at your Shangri-la by the sea?” Vince said.

“Incompetent police force, missing fishing boat, and another threat.”

“What was it?”

“Amanda received a call warning her to stop looking for the fishing boat and to pay the ransom—but how did they know we were searching for it? The only people we spoke to were the captain of another fishing charter and the officer in charge of the case.”

“Last time we talked you mentioned that documents were planted. How do you know?”

“There are pictures for about a week’s worth of activities when they’d been in town only a few days.”

“Anything else odd?”

“On our first morning the concierge seemed to know our day’s agenda, and today we got the feeling we were being followed.”

“Did you find any bugs in your room?”

“Hey, this isn’t a James Bond movie. Bugs?”

“Have you left any electronic equipment in the rooms, unattended?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I’m just sayin’…it sounds like somebody’s listening in. If I were you I’d scan the rooms for bugs and replace your laptops with new equipment and never let it out of your sight. I’ll have Sally send you a bug detector. Gimme your address.”

Stomach acid sloshed around Chad’s belly. They were mired in some serious shit.

* * *

“Jonathan, incompetence doesn’t
become you. Especially if you want to remain in my employ…and in good health,” Gordon Harding said. He leaned against a stark white wall of the Civic Opera House’s Malott Room, annoyed he had to abandon his voluptuous date, leaving her alone in their Mezzanine box. Now that Gordon and Celeste were separating, he enjoyed venturing into society with an assortment of femmes fatales. He found tonight’s choice particularly alluring and didn’t appreciate the interruption—especially with disappointing news.

“I understand, Mr. Harding. It won’t happen again and we’re taking steps to mitigate the risk surrounding the error,” Wallace said. “We’ve embarked on a multiple-pronged approach, now that they’ve discovered the connection to the Ocean Fox.”

“If that wench finds the boat, she’ll be back in Chicago within twenty-four hours, digging into my business. Keep her away.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has she been sufficiently distracted?”

“Ms. Sloane received photos of Senator Moore’s visit to the condo. She accessed them through a new email account we discovered today. No discussions occurred pertaining to Celeste or you.”

“They caught Mel with his pants down? Must be some pretty nasty photos.”

“Thanks to the email, we’ve found the photographer. Would you like us to call on him?”

“Definitely. What’s the status of the searches?”

“Our substitute housekeeper hasn’t found anything associated with the case in Ms. Sloane’s condominium so far. She returns on Monday.”

“How about the law firm?”

Wallace cleared his throat. “Mr. Evans failed to complete his scan of the office before the assistant turned up and ushered him out.”

Voices filtered into the special event room from the grand foyer.
The Mikado
had progressed to intermission. He tapped his polished, Gucci oxford on the crimson carpeting. Gordon didn’t want to leave his date unescorted for too long. “When is he trying again?”

“Well, um, the assistant reported the incident to security and had the locks changed for Amanda Sloane’s area. Mr. Evans isn’t allowed back into the building until Monday morning when they begin an investigation.”

“Check out the assistant. See what we need to do to get back into that office.”

“I hear she’s pretty loyal, Mr. Harding.”

“Nonsense. Everybody has their price point…or their pain threshold.”

* * *

Terror dipped and
swirled around Rebecca, threatening to swallow her once again. She heard the jeep return before sunset, but no unique sounds came with its arrival, nothing to give her a clue of activities outside her hut. For the last two days she listened for her husband’s voice, but nothing.
Trent, where are you?

Had they taken him away? Did they kill him? She pounded her fists against the walls closing in on her, the space barely larger than a latrine at scout camp. She pummeled the sides of her cage until her hands ached.
Are they going to let me rot in this concrete coffin?
Exhausted, she slid down the wall to the hard earth.

It had been forever since the attack, when their captors dragged them into this purgatory in paradise. How could their vacation have gone so horribly wrong? Although Trent hadn’t been as attentive as she’d hoped, Rebecca enjoyed the catamaran excursion to Isla Mujeres and loved swimming with the dolphins. The surprise fishing trip had given Rebecca a relaxing chance to have Trent all to herself. She had married a handsome man and wherever they went, women flirted with him. A day on the water with no other female for miles had turned into a memorable one…before their abductors overran the boat.

Rebecca had sat next to Trent on the back of the yacht, sunning herself while he fished. When he hooked something big, Hector stopped the boat to help. Together the men hauled in a fish the size of a small child. Rebecca hightailed it to the galley to avoid witnessing the grouper’s final struggle for life.

While she mixed herself a screwdriver, she heard the engine of another boat and voices she didn’t recognize. The door whipped open and Hector and Trent rushed in, followed by two men gripping guns.

One of the intruders bound their hands with rope and shoved them to the floor. He covered their heads with black cloth sacks and sat down behind them, every movement echoed by the squeak of the vinyl cushion. She heard the lighting of a match, followed by the odor of a burning cigarette.

They had sailed for hours, the chain-smoker holding them hostage. He scolded them in Spanish any time they moved or tried to speak. Rebecca had prayed, over and over, for their safety while she struggled to breathe in the stuffy, smoke laden air.

But Rebecca no longer prayed.
God doesn’t exist in this hell.
She picked up the pebble she had worn smooth on one edge and scratched it against the mortar between two of the concrete blocks. Back and forth, back and forth. With each stroke, a few tiny granules of cement fell to the ground, like a scalp shedding dandruff.

When the kidnappers had finally stopped the yacht, they threw her into waist-high water, dragged her onto shore and forced her to tramp through dense vegetation. Rebecca kept tripping and falling.

Someone had whipped the bag off her head and three men armed with assault rifles and machetes stood before her, their faces covered with bandannas. They directed Trent, Hector and Rebecca to march into a jungle. They trudged over fallen logs and through thick brush, long into the night. They arrived at a cinderblock shed and one of the men shoved Rebecca in. Trent had started to shout and a gun went off. Rebecca feared they had hurt or killed Trent, but he had called out to reassure her.

She rubbed stone against stone, her arm aching from the repetitive motion.
They’re trying to break me—in case Trent doesn’t give in, they’re waiting for me to crack.