Pleasure Cruise Shot To Hell (The Bullet-Riddled Yacht Book 1) Read online

  He was at the door, watching me expectantly.

  Reluctantly, I followed him down the high school hallway to the same elevator bank. This time, we rode to ‘B’. When the door opened, I was assaulted by a stench so pungent my hand flew to my nose. My stomach let me know it wasn’t happy to be here, either.

  I recognized Charlie Brown’s odd smell: formaldehyde.

  Ahead was a cavernous room with clusters of stainless steel tables arranged in three neat rows. Bright-white ceiling light bounced off the tables and reflected from the far wall of stainless steel drawers. The walls to the left and right were covered in bilious green ceramic tile as was the floor. Five tables were in use with two to four people working at each table. A momentary lull occurred in the murmur of voices as they all stopped to peer over their masks at us.

  I couldn’t keep from looking at the closest table. Two men in light blue scrubs, their arms red up to the elbows, were bent over a body. Carts next to the table held stainless bowls into which various organs had been placed. Judging by the number of bowls, it looked as if the only thing they’d left intact was the poor person’s feet.

  Diaz had taken my elbow and was trying to gently guide me into the room. My stomach served notice it was about to part ways with my steak and potato dinner. I planted my feet. “Oh, no.”

  “Squeamish?” Diaz asked understandingly.

  Nodding, I forced my gaze away from the table with the body that had been reduced to feet and tried to stare at a spot on the floor. For the smell, I tried to breathe through my mouth.

  “I’m afraid I must insist,” Diaz coaxed.

  “I’m afraid I’m going to throw-up.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first.” He pulled harder on my arm. “Come with me.”

  I wasn’t budging. “There’s no reason for me to go in there. I shouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Please, Mr. Taggert. I thought you Americans were made of sterner stuff.”

  Hand to my nose, I shook my head. Baiting me wasn’t going to do it for him.

  “I understand your reluctance,” Diaz said in that soothing voice. “I don’t want to force you to do something against your will. However, you must appreciate that I am charged with protecting the public and for me to effectively do my job, I must sometimes ask individuals to make sacrifices. That is the case here, I must ask you to make a small sacrifice for the good of all.” He finished with a sad smile designed, I’m sure, to win me over.

  It creeped me out. “Not until you tell me why.”

  A flicker of irritation showed behind his glasses. “Please,” he said, quickly back in kind understanding mode. “In less than a minute this will be behind us.”

  The smell was so hideous, I had to get this over with or I was going to pass out. “Fine.”

  He led me to the metal wall, gripped the round metal handle of Drawer 24—third tier from the left wall; second from the floor—and pulled. The drawer slid out smoothly and silently on metal rollers, revealing a black body bag. Diaz bent over, unzipped the body bag and I saw the paper white face of a dead man with two dime-sized holes in his forehead.

  I felt Diaz staring at me. “Do you recognize this man?”

  “Never seen him before.”

  “Yet, you called him twice last night.”

  The recognition was all it took. I lost my dinner. It landed on Ray Nunez’s dead face.

  Chapter 8

  I sat at a scarred Formica-topped table in the building’s claustrophobic lunchroom. My elbows were on the table, my head in my hands, the smell of death up my nose. The small cardboard cup of tepid coffee in front of me was a peace offering from Diaz. I was vaguely aware he was talking to me. “You were his attorney?”

  “What?”

  “You were Mr. Nunez’s attorney?”

  I lifted my head and met his gaze.

  Sitting across from me, a beige file folder open in front of him, Diaz held a page up in the air to look at what was on the page beneath. “Mr. Nunez was a man who could benefit from the help of a good attorney. You are a good attorney, aren’t you, Mr. Taggert?”

  “I think I am. My practice is corporate law. I don’t do criminal defense.”

  He found amusement in that. At least, the corners of his mouth tugged up a bit. “So noted. Have you heard the names Jan VanGroot or Victor Gutierrez?”

  “No.”

  He studied me over the top of his glasses. “Those are aliases Mr. Nunez has favored in the past. He has, as you Americans say, a rap sheet as long as your arm.”

  Rap sheet? “I was told he worked for the DEA.”

  “According to his file, he has been known to work for the Colon drug cartel and a man named Moreno, but nowhere do I see mention of your DEA. It says he has been arrested for smuggling, extortion, terroristic threatening, armed robbery. He was convicted of extortion in 1994 and served three years in prison.” Diaz paused. His gaze traveled from the file to me. Undoubtedly, watching for my reaction. “This is the man who was to pick you up at the airport.”

  Yeah, I’d walked blissfully into this one. Much as I wanted to put the late Mr. Nunez behind me, I needed to know as much about him as possible so I could get a grip on what kind of trouble I was in. “Does the file say what Nunez was doing now?”

  Diaz flipped through several pages, settled on one. “It says he was suspected of illegal import/export activities.”

  That could encompass anything from dope to human trafficking. “Pretty vague. Anything more specific?”

  Diaz went back to the top page of the file, read to himself, his index finger tracing the lines of text. Finished, he looked over his glasses at me. “No. Most of this is assumption. When the police searched his apartment, they discovered stacks of Reais—worth about 200,000 in U.S. dollars—hidden under the floor. They also found a first class ticket for an airline flight that leaves for Thailand tomorrow. What do you make of this, Mr. Taggert?”

  Pretty obvious. He was blowing town. “Have you checked who bought the ticket?’

  “He did.”

  “Do you think Nunez—doing whatever he was doing—was acting alone?”

  “Ah,” Diaz smiled, “good question.” He flipped through the pages of the file till he found what he wanted. “It says here he had a female accomplice known only as Angel. The name seems to be all we have on her.”

  “Think she killed him?”

  Diaz got a handkerchief from his pocket and polished the lenses in his glasses. He held them up to the light to see if he’d gotten all the smudges. He found one he’d missed and worked on it. “He was shot at extremely close range which usually means someone the victim knew and trusted. That would make Angel a suspect.” He put his glasses back on, blinked a couple of times. “Sadly, we have nothing that ties her directly to the crime.”

  Seemed to me Diaz didn’t have much concrete on Nunez. It all seemed flimsy. The important question, Diaz couldn’t answer for me. How did Ban Sloane know Nunez?

  Diaz must have decided I wasn’t giving him much, either. He gave me his card, thanked me for my cooperation, and had an officer trainee drive me back to the Hilton. Back at the hotel, I found they’d put my room back together and bestowed upon me a fruit basket. I read the note—Our sincerest apologies—before jumping in the shower to get rid of the stink from the morgue. I got out, toweled off, and noticed a lingering hint of morgue. Got right back in the shower. That second shower did it. Dressed and smell free, I called the concierge to have my smelly clothes laundered. After he left, I used the sat phone to call Sloane.

  “About time you called,” he answered in a snippy tone. “I told you I wanted regular reports. I expected a call as soon as you got in, Will. This isn’t accep—”

  I’d been through too much to listen to his whining. “Ban, tell me how you know Ray Nunez,” I demanded.

  A moment of silence ensued. Shock at a mere serf daring to challenge the lord of the manor. “Will,” he said sternly, “I don’t apprecia—”

  “Nu
nez was murdered. I saw his body in the morgue and was questioned by police. Now tell me how you know him.”

  “My, God. What happened?”

  “Well, I can tell you what didn’t happen. He didn’t meet me at the airport like you said he would. Instead, he was getting shot twice in the face.”

  “How awful,” he said, “but I don’t understand—if he didn’t meet you, why were the police questioning you about him?”

  “Because my calls from the airport were the last numbers on his cell phone. Answer my question, Ban. How do you know Nunez?”

  “It’s complicated. There are details you don’t need to know.”

  “Then I’m catching the next plane out,” I was so hot I was spitting my words out. “To hell with your boat.”

  “Jesus. Don’t go getting all pissy on me. I’ll tell you.” He took a deep breath, probably trying to figure out how to paint whatever it was in the most favorable light. “I, um, hired a private detective to research Cabrera’s assets.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll get a laugh out of this. His name is Bruce Willis. Great name for a PI.”

  “Yeah, hilarious. Keep going.”

  “Willis called week before last and said that Cabrera had hidden a boat under his wife’s name. Willis said he knew a guy in Rio who could confirm this. That guy was Nunez. He was the one who took the photos you saw. I had Willis arrange for Nunez to meet you and get you to the boat. That’s all I know, Will.”

  So self-serving. “There has to be more to it than that, Ban. The other thing is the Cabrera file was stolen from my hotel room. How do you explain that?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Only three people knew I’d be in Rio, Ban—you, Nunez, and this PI Willis. And since Nunez was off getting dead, it’s doubtful he stole the file.”

  “Will, I can tell you’re upset. You’re making accusations you shouldn’t. When you’re rational, you’ll know I would never do anything to put you in jeopardy. Willis wouldn’t, either. He’s a professional. He’s been very upstanding in all our business dealings. I trust the guy.” He paused. “Willis did tell me there was a rumor—just a rumor, mind you—that Cabrera had people down there getting ready to bring the boat north. I have to think his people are responsible.”

  I was so angry, if I hadn’t been a continent away, I’d have smacked him. “Wouldn’t put me in jeopardy, huh? The police said Nunez was never a DEA agent; he was a criminal. A criminal, Ban. He’d been arrested for armed robbery, extortion, and get this, terroristic threatening. That’s the guy you had meeting me in at the airport. Now I find out you sent me down here without warning me about trouble from Cabrera’s people. But you wouldn’t put me in jeopardy, would you, Ban?”

  “Again, you’re upset. What I heard was his people wanted to bring the boat north, that’s a far cry from people causing you trouble.”

  “Explain the difference to Ray Nunez.”

  Silence on his end.

  “If there’s anything else you’ve neglected to tell me,” I pushed him, “now would me a good time.”

  Must not have been. The line went dead.

  I sat there a minute and debated what to do. The smart thing would be to take the next plane home. Unfortunately, that felt a lot like quitting. And then there was the financial consideration. If I didn’t finish this job, I’d never do any more bank work for Inland. My income stream would dry right up.

  I sighed, knowing I really had no choice. I used the sat phone to call LeeAnn. I was going to need her to rebuild the Cabrera file.

  After I told her what had happened, she sprang to my rescue. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, sugar. I’ll get to work on those documents and FedEx ‘em to your hotel in no time. Meantime, you watch your back, you hear.”

  After I rang off, I used the room phone to call Antonio and ask him he could recommend a law firm.

  He hesitated. “Does this have to do with the police, yesterday?”

  “No, it’s a business matter.”

  “Well, then. I would suggest you call the hotel’s firm.” He rattled off the firm’s name and phone number. “Ask for Mr. Sank and tell him I recommended you call.”

  “Thanks, Antonio.”

  I called and learned from the firm’s receptionist that Sank was unavailable. “Do you have an associate fluent in English and Portuguese with banking knowledge?”

  “Yes, we do. Chris Wullenwebber, he’s one of our associates. Would you like me to connect you?”

  “Sure.”

  When he answered, he sounded young, inexperienced, and eager. Not a bad combination for what I needed. I spelled it out for him. “I’m your man, Mr. Taggert,” he assured me. An associate trying to make his bones.

  After the documents arrived five days later, Wullenwebber met me in the firm’s lobby. He stuck out a beefy paw and burst into a lopsided grin that emphasized his chipmunk cheeks. “Mr. Taggert, thanks for coming in.” He was a big guy—a couple of inches shorter than I was and twice as wide. I’d put on an extra 40 pounds after giving-up sand volleyball to care for my dad. Wullenwebber, however, was probably packing an extra 180 pounds. He could have tipped the scales at 340, easy. Still, for a big guy, he moved gracefully. He finessed a business card out of the side pocket of a dark blue suit that had lost all its shape, smoothed a red and silver striped tie ripe with multi-color food stains, and said, “C’mon, back.”

  I followed him to a conference room that, if you craned your neck, offered a partial view of Sugarloaf. After I gave it a peek, we took seats at a conference table so long you could have landed a Cessna on it.

  Wullenwebber wiggled into his seat and leaded forward expectantly. “I’m looking forward to working with you, Mr. Taggert.” Sincerity rolled off the kid in waves.

  I placed the FedEx box serving as my briefcase on the table and began excavating documents. “Here’s what I have,” I began and, over the next 30 minutes, walked him through what needed to happen for me to gain legal control of the Venetian.

  When I finished, he gave me the lopsided grin, again. “Well, yeah, I can do that for you, Mr. Taggert.” He looked at his watch. “I may even be able to catch Judge Tellez, yet today.”

  He did but the judge blew him off. Wullenwebber wasn’t about to be denied and, the following day, dogged him until he’d secured the official documents we needed. Flush with success, he met me in the Hilton lobby for the drive to the boatyard.

  “That’s mine,” he said when we were outside and pointed nonchalantly at a small black Hyundai parked at the curb.

  I looked at it in disbelief. How he was going to fit his bulk into that clown car? When we got in, I found out. He had the driver’s seat jacked so far back it rested against the rear seat. Even at that, it was tight. I thought he might need one of those seat belt extenders like the airlines use.

  I got in my side and found a party size bag of Cool Ranch Doritos open on the console between the seats. “Help yourself,” he said as he extracted one, popped it in his mouth. “I’ve got more.”

  “I’m good,” I told him, thinking now was a great time to cut back on junk. “How long till we get there?”

  He eased the Hyundai into traffic. “About thirty minutes,” he glanced over at me. “I spoke with Mr. Pena, and he’s expecting us.”

  “Did you—”

  He popped another Dorito. “Tell him what this was about? No. Too complicated. Better to do it in person.”

  “Yeah, this may get awkward. I’m sure Mr. Pena is owned money and my boss wants to pay him as little as possible. Part of my job is negotiating his costs down.”

  “Oh.” His face fell, then brightened. “So we could be working together for a while?”

  “Possibly.” I had no idea what to expect. Pena might be cooperative or this could be a true train wreck. Judging by the way things had gone so far on this trip I feared the worst: Pena would demand an exorbitant amount of money. Sloane would refuse to pay it. Pena would kick us out, refusing to talk to us
until we agreed to a higher settlement. Sloane would demand I talk him down. Things would drag out. God knows how or when it would end.

  With traffic, it was closer to an hour before Wullenwebber slowed the car, said, “This is it,” and turned right onto a gravel driveway. Ahead of us was a ten-foot high chain-link fence with concertina wire at the top. Beyond the fence, two eight-tier covered boat storage facilities bookended an open area were larger boats rested on wooden cradles. At the far end of the yard, was a corrugated metal building with a row of windows on the upper level and a sign that read Pena Boatworks.

  Wullenwebber pulled the car up to the entry gate, cranked down his window, and announced our arrival into a rusted metal speaker box. The box squawked feedback, the gate jerked with a clank clank clank as the chain hauled it out of our way.

  Wullenwebber drove in slowly and we both gawked at the boats in the yard. “There are some real beauties here, Mr. T. Do you know which one’s the asset?”

  I didn’t. But he was right. There were yachts, sailboats, sportfishers, one prettier than the next.

  A faded sign over a weathered wooden door in the corrugated building announced Entrada. Wullenwebber parked the car as close as he could, we got out and, being a good associate, he hustled to open the door for me.

  Inside, we found the structure was a three-sided shell that extended over the water, covering a series of wooden docks. There were two boats tied-up. The larger one could have been a small cruise ship. The second might have been an exploration vessel, given the garden of antennas and radar dishes sprouted from its roofline.

  Wullenwebber nodded toward a set of metal stairs that led to the building’s second floor. He led the way and was wheezing after the first five steps.

  Waiting for us at the top, an older woman smiled pleasantly as she leaned on a cane. Her gray hair was loosely pulled back in a bun and she wore a white blouse with embroidered flowers and a gray skirt that went to her ankles.

  When we reached the top, she looked aghast as Wullenwebber put his hands on his knees and struggled for breath. She said something in Portuguese but Wullenwebber waved his hand he was fine.