Tourist Trapped (8 page)

“How big?” Cooper said.

Enrique’s dark eyes twinkled as he rubbed the tips of his fingers together. “Mucho dinero.”

Amanda kneaded her temples. “So far we have a womanizing, hydrophobic, hypochondriac husband orchestrating a drug deal or a gambling payback who tips big…and they say all the good men are gone.”

Her disposable phone buzzed. “Hey Ian, what do you have? Anything else on our Cayman corporation?”

“Their staff list has to be stashed in Fort Knox. We’ve got nothing—but, there’s been more action at our little hot spot. How about another senator.”

“This one on the Ag Committee, too?”

“Yep—and evidently our host is bipartisan, this one’s a Republican.”

“Email the photos; I’ll check them out tonight. Thanks, Ian.”

Amanda updated Cooper on their progress.

“No leads on the big fish at Command Commodities?” Cooper said. “Maybe I can help. I’ll make a call tonight, see what we can dig up.”

“You know a gang of DVAs who run investigations in their spare time?”

“That’s DBAs and I’ve got one better. My friend Art? He’s one hell of a hacker.”

ELEVEN

Friday December 11, Midday

Chad clutched the
side of the golf cart every time Amanda took a corner. He swore he heard the poor little cart pant. His boss had two modes: flying down the road or stopping on a dime. Evidently Ms. Sloane had lived in Chicago way too long.

“I told them to leave the island without us if we’re not finished. I don’t think two hours gives us enough time,” Amanda said. “If we need to, we can grab a ferry tonight.” One hand on the wheel, tearing over a dusty narrow street, she reached into her bag and dug around. When she looked down, Chad prepared to grab the wheel. She wouldn’t like it, but he wanted to see his kids again.
In this life.

Amanda extricated a map and wedged it into a cup holder. “I’ll need this later.”

They had rented the cart immediately after disembarking from the catamaran. He hated to rush off so quickly; the white-sand beaches in the downtown area provided a view into the residents’ working lives. Boats of all shapes, sizes and colors floated at a myriad of piers while another motley fleet rested on land. Palm trees and tiny open-air restaurants peppered the shores—each establishment a meager Sol-logoed canopy and a few Coke-branded plastic chairs and tables. Next to the boats, large racks built from timbers held fishing nets that hung in the sun to dry, like the whites his mother clipped to their clothesline when he was a boy. She had said the sun bleached them light again.

He sensed Isla Mujeres had its own rhythm to life.

“We’ll start here.” Amanda pulled the vehicle over and screeched to a stop. Based on her abrupt demeanor, Chad suspected she still stewed over the extended lunchtime break. She was in “bulldozer mode,” so he kept quiet and drank in the captivating world around him. The afternoon sun seared his shoulders and sweat collected in his armpits.

They walked a half block and arrived at the cemetery seen in some of the photos. At first Chad thought he saw dozens of little doghouses crowded together on a sea of concrete slabs, but on second glance he realized an assemblage of small shrines stood before him. Similar to the boats, they displayed a rainbow of colors. Some of them were open, sheltering statues and artificial flowers. Others had closed doors, their contents known solely to the family of the deceased.

Amanda slowed her pace and entered the cemetery, meandering through. “I know we won’t find anything here to help us out, but I wanted to stop—Rebecca stood in this spot,” Amanda said, comparing the location to one of the photos. “I know it’s silly, but…”

“Nothing’s silly about family,” Chad said, thinking about the many hours he stood in his kids’ hollow rooms. “She’s your sister and she’s missing. I get it.”

“Thanks, Cooper.” A smile passed over her lips. They gazed around, quiet and yet connected.

Wooden crosses stood guard at many of the tiny plots, often a loved one’s name etched upon it. Statues of the Virgin Mary, Jesus, or angels perched atop many of the shrines. Every little house for the dead a unique act of love. How many of these monuments to honor the departed memorialized a spouse or child lost unexpectedly, like his brother? He shuddered at the thought. Hopefully Amanda’s search would conclude with a happier ending.

Chad spotted a pair of sunglasses lying next to one of the shrines. “Can I see the picture of Rebecca?” He compared the glasses to the ones the missing woman wore while at the same spot. “These might be hers.”

Amanda removed her sunglasses and replaced them with the forgotten pair, clasping the frames as if the eyewear emitted Rebecca’s thoughts, possibly replaying the images her sister had viewed through the lenses. An aura of stillness emanated from Amanda as she stood beneath the hot sun, her face vacant of expression. “Did she leave these here on purpose, some sort of sign?”

“In a graveyard? Let’s hope not.”

They left the cemetery and strolled down a pedestrian-only street. Small shops and restaurants stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Souvenirs poured out of the open-air stores and onto the streets. Jade, iris and firehouse-red hammocks hung above displays of vivid fuchsia and turquoise striped blankets. Stacks of sombreros lined doorways and racks of elaborately embroidered Mexican dresses fluttered in the breeze. Aromas of grilled beef, barbecued pork and fried fish swirled through the air. Tourists, most of them wearing shorts or sundresses with bits of swimwear peeking out, roamed the streets, haggling with shopkeepers or stopping for a cold Corona at a corner alfresco bar.

A tiny restaurant found in some of the pictures appeared before them.

“Hola señor,” Amanda said to the manager. “A table for two, por favor.”

A table? Wasn’t she in a tear barely an hour ago about wasted time?

When the gentleman sat them down, Amanda ordered the standard guac and chips and two Sols.

“I’m a little confused…I thought we were in a hurry,” Chad said.

“We have a lot of territory to cover, but we have to be respectful. It’s a tough life. The least we can do is buy a snack and a couple of beers.”

In a matter of moments the proprietor returned with the drinks and chips.

“Gracias señor. May I ask a question?”

“Sí, señora.”

She handed a photo to the wiry little man. “Do you remember this woman?” She pointed to Rebecca. “She was here about a week ago.”

“No recuerdo. I don’t remember her.”

“How about him?” Chad raised up a picture of Trent from Señor Frog’s.

“No, not him either. Lo siento.”

“Gracias, señor,” Chad said. He caught Amanda’s smirk. Well, he could try his hand at the local language, too.

Even after a steady stream of libations on the boat and at the yacht club, a beer tasted so much better when sitting on a hot, dusty walkway, surrounded by milling tourists, restaurants the size of his Chicago bedroom, and even smaller shops bursting with technicolor souvenirs.

Amanda finished a chip and wiped her mouth. “Interesting that we found a place where a visit from Trent wasn’t memorable.”

* * *

“Mierda,” Amanda muttered,
slamming on the brakes. The road dead-ended at the gateway of a resort, plopped in the middle of jungle-covered nowhere, on the bloody Isle of Women. A headache pulsated in the back of her skull.

“Lost?” Cooper said. “Give me a minute and I’ll find the place on my GPS—”

“Perdón, señor. Dónde las tortugas?” Amanda yelled out to an attendant in the hotel guardhouse.

The man pointed northward. “Go back to Rueda Medina and turn right. Stay on it. At a curve it turns into Capitán Dulché. That’ll take you there.”

“Gracias.”

Cooper poked at his phone while Amanda found her way back to the main road.

“Got it,” Cooper said.

“A man looking up directions. How refreshing.”

“Yeah, well, I usually don’t have the luxury to waste half a day trying to figure out something on my own—unless I get stuck with an off-shore call center. Then I’ll go it alone just on principle.”

They passed jungle, broken up by small settlements of businesses and houses wedged into the tangle of trees and undergrowth. It looked like the wild flora fought every moment to retake the land beneath the buildings, reminding Amanda of how the body tries to rid itself of a splinter.

What a day
. The illuminating chats about her brother-in-law’s escapades set her off, and waiting around at lunchtime exacerbated her mood. “So…Trent. What do you think?”

“I’ve never met the guy, but we have to consider that he negotiated a drug deal or got mired in some financial mess. What’s your take?”

“Dad has always liked him, from what I can tell. He’s never said anything negative about Trent and they appear to get along well in the business.” She thought back on conversations she had with her father over the years. “On the other hand, considering the frosty relationship between us, my father probably wouldn’t have said anything about the guy unless Trent held a gun to Dad’s head.”

How sad. Rebecca married such a…a…turd. One big, steaming, stinking turd.
Amanda had surprised herself by the comments she made to Cooper over dinner. She hadn’t realized she possessed any feelings toward Rebecca—other than unabashed annoyance mixed with a pinch of hatred. Empathy? Evidently, for a little girl unable to acknowledge her father until he announced the relationship to her oblivious, older sister. Amanda shuddered when she considered how much she would have resented herself, looking through Rebecca’s eyes.

“My dad’s a grade A, USDA-certified asshole, who can thank himself for his missing daughter. Chances are, if she had been raised to have any self-respect, she’d be married to a solid, no-drama guy like you, Cooper. Somebody who’d keep her safe.”

* * *

Chad prayed no
wild animal wandered onto the road and into the path of Amanda’s bulleting death cart. He had been especially concerned when they passed through a long stretch of jungle. He felt like an intruder, as if the dense branches wanted to reach across the pavement and intertwine, barring human interference.

Amanda’s words ran through his head like the refrain of a song: “Somebody who’d keep her safe.” Trent may have involved himself and Rebecca in trouble, but had Chad allowed his wife to go down alone? Had he jumped ship like a rat and let her sink into the dark, chilly depths? He didn’t think he abandoned her, he tried to help, but she had refused to see a professional. Unless he committed her, Chad couldn’t force Danielle into therapy.

But could he have done more in other ways? If they had seen a fertility specialist, would the outcome have changed? The question bobbed at the top of his psyche day after day, like an empty soda bottle tossed off a boat.

Amanda turned at the Tortugas sign and they stopped at a set of buildings edging the ocean. “Here we are, the turtle farm.”

For a split second Chad considered kissing the ground, but instead followed Amanda into the main building, after paying the paltry entrance fee. They entered an auditorium-sized room filled with tanks of turtles. Wall aquariums exhibited other aquatic life: lion fish, sea horses, and other wonders.

A leather-faced man with a mustache that spread from cheek to cheek held up an enormous conch shell, with its formless, slimy inhabitant draped over the side. More than enough for a meal, if you had a hankering for conch. The tourists responded in a mixture of “oohs” and “blechs.”

Amanda and Chad wandered through the facility and out to the seashore where circular pools contained more turtles. “Here, this is the place.” She clasped a photograph of Rebecca standing in front of a fenced area used to incubate turtle eggs.

A trail of tourists followed the mustached fellow to the outdoor pools.

This time Chad decided he’d start the conversation. “Perdón, señor. Un momento por favor?” He’d looked that up.

“Sí, señor.”

“Do you remember this couple?” Amanda held out the picture of Rebecca, and Chad pulled out one of Trent from on the boat.

The fellow rubbed his chin. “No, lo siento.”

Chad had a thought. “Amanda, can I have a picture of Rebecca and the other woman from the restaurant?”

He showed it to the fellow and the weathered face brightened. “Ahh, recuerdo ahora—sí, I remember them.” He pointed at the other woman. “They came with her husband. No man came with this one,” he said, indicating Rebecca.

Two spots without Trent. What had occupied his time while his wife went sightseeing?

* * *

“On the boat,
Jorge mentioned a bar called Buho’s,” Amanda said. “Maybe Trent hung out there while Rebecca toured the island.” She drove the golf cart down a road that ended at Playa Norte. Literally. Steps from the beach, she slipped off her sandals and let her feet sink into the warm sand.

Salt-white beaches extended into glistening, turquoise waters. A line of tourists, doused in sunscreen, sprawled across the beach. Another crowd splashed about in the warm, gentle surf. Vacant boats floated nearby while their passengers swam in paradise.

Besides the stress of searching for Rebecca, Amanda yearned for the water, and few beaches compared with this one. She wanted nothing more than to jump into the sea, to immerse herself in the beauty surrounding the island. It had taken willpower not to plunge in with the snorkelers, flailing flippers and all. She’d never gone so long in Cancun without feeling the ocean waves push her through the water, or tasting the biting salt of the sea.

A pair of palapas made up Buho’s. A bar filled one, and another bar sat at the far end of the larger palapa. Tables and chairs filled the area between. The bar closest to the water offered the option of swings instead of chairs. A slight pang passed through her chest; the swings reminded her of a happier, simpler life.

Like a beacon, they drew her in. “Let’s visit with the bartender,” she said and hopped on a swing. The breeze moved her back and forth, building its own rhythm. Her shoulders relaxed and she breathed in the marine air, mixed with the aroma of grilled fish. Amanda allowed herself to remember the love and gaiety of lost times. It hadn’t been all bad; she recalled the way her heart fluttered every time she had landed in Cancun.

“I think it’s time for a Margarita.”

“New place, right? Are you entering unchartered territory?” Cooper said.

“I’m feeling adventurous.” A laugh escaped her.

The bartender bantered with a couple of drunken patrons as he mixed a half dozen Piña coladas, his white teeth gleaming against his dark skin. He delivered the drinks, turned his attention to Amanda and Cooper, and concocted their Margaritas.

The drink tasted of green sweetness and the cut of tequila. Perfect. She took another sip and let the complex flavors sit on her tongue for a moment before feeling them burn down her throat.

A young man restocked the drink garnishes. “Buenos tardes, señora.”

“Buenos tardes.” She didn’t want to break the mood, but they had work to do. She pulled out the worn picture from the boat. “I’m looking for my sister. Can you help me? Were either of these two people here about a week ago?”

He leaned over to look at the photo. “He was here, talking to another man.”