Read Just Needs Killin for Free Online
Authors: Jinx Schwartz
his call the night before. Was it only the night before? Good grief, it felt like a lifetime.
As soon as we were safely back on the boat, we feasted on PB&Js Jan made for us. I'd requested eggs Benedict, but Jan said something rude and shoved a sandwich in my hand. Good help is so hard to find these days.
Jan, revived by peanut butter, had a twinkle in her eye that screamed she was keeping a juicy secret, and I was right.
"So," she finally said, "guess what I've got?"
"Is it treatable with penicillin?"
She laughed, dug into her pocket, withdrew a piece of paper, and waved it in front of me. When I held out my hand, she raised it over her head, out of my reach. "Not so fast, Chica. You owe me a big fat apology."
"For what?"
"You called me a prostitute."
"I did not. I called you a hooker, but I was wrong. I meant to say, more like a high-priced call girl."
"Hey, I turned down the fifty grand.”
"I know, dammit. Was he, by any chance, going to pay up front?"
"For me to know, and for you never to know. And you're also gonna owe me big time for this little gift." She jiggled the piece of paper. "That's two big fat 'I'm sorrys'."
"What I owe you is a kick in the rear for getting us into this in the first place."
She let down her guard and I jumped up and snatched the paper. I took it to my desk, put on a pair of cheaters, and saw the resort's letterhead at the top of the page. "Holy crap! I take back the kick, and okay, I'm sorry for whatever."
"That was pretty lame, but I'll take it."
"How in the hell did you get the road guard's log sheet?" I peered closely, and sure enough, at 15:45 he'd noted my pickup's license number, description, and my name.
"Let's just say the sweet man was a mite distracted."
"My hero! Okay, lookee what I've got."
I fired up the laptop and downloaded the body and body-snatcher photos from my camera, filling Jan in on the details of the encounter as I did so. I was surprised how well they turned out, considering there was virtually no natural light.
The first photos, of Ishikawa, were shocking, even though we'd both seen the real thing. Jan and I said, in unison, "God rest his soul." We were raised right, no matter how we turned out.
The next few shots were of the bag luggers and their snarky overseer. Much to my surprise, more detail emerged than I could have even hoped for. On a garbage dumpster behind them, the name of the resort was clearly stenciled in bold letters, logo and all. I also captured a brief video clip of the men heaving the plastic bag into that Navigator, and by some miracle, another still of the license plate.
Jan gave me a high five. "Jolly good work, Sherlock. Too bad we can't see their faces."
"Stand by, my dear Watson." I clicked back a couple of shots and up popped the Navigator, interior lights ablaze. The two men in the front seat were facing directly into the lens. I zoomed in on them, and Jan spit peanut butter all over my computer screen.
Back in October, when Jan and I first cruised from Northern California to Magdalena Bay, on the Pacific side of the Baja, we had a serious dustup with a Mexican real estate developer by the name of Ricardo Lujàn, a scuzzbag of the highest order who never builds anything he doesn't plan to later steal. He is what the Mexicans call a cacique , after a bird that steals the nests of others. And yes, he richly deserved all the grief we were able to dole out for him after all the crap he pulled on us, but making an enemy of a man of his ilk is never a good thing. Not that that's anything new for me, as I piss people off on a regular basis. It's a gift.
El Señor Lujàn oozed into our lives as our Mag Bay contact for the giant Japanese firm, Tanuki. They'd hired Hetta Coffey, LLC, for a feasibility study for a desalination/salt plant, or so I thought. Turned out that my boss in Tokyo, a Mr. Ishikawa—at that time he still had his head—and this Lujàn character were conspiring to use the cover of the project to trap,
As soon as we were safely back on the boat, we feasted on PB&Js Jan made for us. I'd requested eggs Benedict, but Jan said something rude and shoved a sandwich in my hand. Good help is so hard to find these days.
Jan, revived by peanut butter, had a twinkle in her eye that screamed she was keeping a juicy secret, and I was right.
"So," she finally said, "guess what I've got?"
"Is it treatable with penicillin?"
She laughed, dug into her pocket, withdrew a piece of paper, and waved it in front of me. When I held out my hand, she raised it over her head, out of my reach. "Not so fast, Chica. You owe me a big fat apology."
"For what?"
"You called me a prostitute."
"I did not. I called you a hooker, but I was wrong. I meant to say, more like a high-priced call girl."
"Hey, I turned down the fifty grand.”
"I know, dammit. Was he, by any chance, going to pay up front?"
"For me to know, and for you never to know. And you're also gonna owe me big time for this little gift." She jiggled the piece of paper. "That's two big fat 'I'm sorrys'."
"What I owe you is a kick in the rear for getting us into this in the first place."
She let down her guard and I jumped up and snatched the paper. I took it to my desk, put on a pair of cheaters, and saw the resort's letterhead at the top of the page. "Holy crap! I take back the kick, and okay, I'm sorry for whatever."
"That was pretty lame, but I'll take it."
"How in the hell did you get the road guard's log sheet?" I peered closely, and sure enough, at 15:45 he'd noted my pickup's license number, description, and my name.
"Let's just say the sweet man was a mite distracted."
"My hero! Okay, lookee what I've got."
I fired up the laptop and downloaded the body and body-snatcher photos from my camera, filling Jan in on the details of the encounter as I did so. I was surprised how well they turned out, considering there was virtually no natural light.
The first photos, of Ishikawa, were shocking, even though we'd both seen the real thing. Jan and I said, in unison, "God rest his soul." We were raised right, no matter how we turned out.
The next few shots were of the bag luggers and their snarky overseer. Much to my surprise, more detail emerged than I could have even hoped for. On a garbage dumpster behind them, the name of the resort was clearly stenciled in bold letters, logo and all. I also captured a brief video clip of the men heaving the plastic bag into that Navigator, and by some miracle, another still of the license plate.
Jan gave me a high five. "Jolly good work, Sherlock. Too bad we can't see their faces."
"Stand by, my dear Watson." I clicked back a couple of shots and up popped the Navigator, interior lights ablaze. The two men in the front seat were facing directly into the lens. I zoomed in on them, and Jan spit peanut butter all over my computer screen.
Back in October, when Jan and I first cruised from Northern California to Magdalena Bay, on the Pacific side of the Baja, we had a serious dustup with a Mexican real estate developer by the name of Ricardo Lujàn, a scuzzbag of the highest order who never builds anything he doesn't plan to later steal. He is what the Mexicans call a cacique , after a bird that steals the nests of others. And yes, he richly deserved all the grief we were able to dole out for him after all the crap he pulled on us, but making an enemy of a man of his ilk is never a good thing. Not that that's anything new for me, as I piss people off on a regular basis. It's a gift.
El Señor Lujàn oozed into our lives as our Mag Bay contact for the giant Japanese firm, Tanuki. They'd hired Hetta Coffey, LLC, for a feasibility study for a desalination/salt plant, or so I thought. Turned out that my boss in Tokyo, a Mr. Ishikawa—at that time he still had his head—and this Lujàn character were conspiring to use the cover of the project to trap,
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