Old Poison (22 page)

“Yes, it is. Thank you.” I eyed the old
orange and pink knitted cardigan that Maria had hanging on the
line. “Maria, the plane sometimes gets so cold, and I forgot a
sweater. If I promise to mail it back, could I borrow that
sweater?”

She seemed nonplused by the request, but
like most of the Ticos I had met so far, she was too polite to
refuse. “It is very old, but if you want it, keep it.”

“Thank you, but I will mail it back to
you.”

I went back upstairs and made myself a cup
of coffee and sat out on my balcony for the last time. While part
of my mind tried to work out all the variables and all the things
that could go wrong with my improvised plan, another part was
thinking what a pleasant place this would be to come back to.
Coffee finished, I reluctantly turned to the next task.

Change of plans meant change of packing.
Years of business trips taught me to travel light: one small
suitcase on wheels, like the ones the flight attendants use, and a
large tote-bag purse with an ‘across the body strap’ for security,
and a few secrets of its own. Both can go onboard with me, and I
never have to check baggage unless I am carrying a firearm.

From my suitcase I took my plastic makeup
bag, a dark brown wig, and my laptop, and loaded them into the
purse. I checked out the rest of the stuff, making sure there was
nothing but the thrift shop clothing I had bought for Aunt Tillie.
There could be nothing that could be traced. As a backup plan, I
took a pair of wrinkle-proof polyester pants and a blouse, rolled
them into small tight little balls, and stuffed them in the purse.
I zipped up the case, headed out the front door, and flagged down a
cab.

As my taxi carried me downhill, we drove
right past the surveillance car. The man in it chose that moment to
turn and reach into the back seat, so I could not be sure it was
Woods. All the way to the airport, however, that car shadowed us.
He was very good, his tail loose and unobtrusive, but a single car
surveillance can never be invisible.

At the Juan Santamaria Airport, my driver
set my suitcase up on its wheels and pulled up the handle so I
could wheel it in. I draped the distinctive orange and pink sweater
over the case and settled the security strap of the purse strap
over my head , across my chest and under one arm. Using the cane
and pulling the case, I entered the airport in my now practiced old
lady walk. My shadow left his car in the loading zone and followed
me as I waddled through the airport, past the metal detectors, and
into the area where my airline had six gates.

I could now see that it was someone other
than Harriman Woods. Dressed in blue jeans and a navy colored
T-shirt, this guy was younger, blond, very muscular, and not so
stupid or arrogant as to wear a company cap. So there were at least
two of them in Costa Rica. Which one had made his way into the Key
Largo and killed Patricia last night? Where was Woods and what was
he up to while Muscles was following me? What would Muscles’
instructions be? They were still searching for something, and since
Aunt Tillie was probably the last person to see Patricia alive,
Aunt Tillie would be the next logical target to be searched.

My flight didn’t take off for hours and that
was just fine for my plans. I didn’t go near the check-in counter
but settled into a chair and opened a magazine.

My shadow went out to the ticket counter and
checked the outbound flights. Finding no easy answer there, he
wandered back to watch me for a clue as to which flight I might get
on.

Two hours went by before I finally saw what
I had been waiting for. Three flight attendants came off a plane
and headed for the ladies’ room each pulling a small flight bag
identical to mine. I rose stiffly, picked up my purse and cane,
grabbed hold of my suitcase and pulled it along, entering the
restroom right on the heels of the flight attendants. I picked the
one closest to my size and watched as she and the other two parked
their bags beside the vanity mirror in the front corner of the
room. Two of them entered the little booths, but, unfortunately for
me, one stayed out combing her hair, washing her hands, and
watching the bags. Plan B.

I walked in until my bag was right beside
the others. Then I stumbled, catching myself against the booth with
my left hand and dropping the cane so it clattered to the tile
floor just the other side of the stewardess at the washbasin. When
she turned away from me toward the noise, I reached down with my
left hand, picked up the sweater from my case, draped it over the
stewardess’s case and then rested my hand on the handle of her
case. The one at the mirror bent over, picked up my cane and
carried it to me, asking, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, just clumsy I guess. Thank you.”

I entered the first booth, pulling the
suitcase with me. When the helpful stewardess at the wash-basin
took her turn in one of the booths, I walked back out to the
waiting area.

Watching me sitting there reading my
magazine was driving Muscles nuts. Patience was not his virtue.
When my plane was at the gate and almost ready for the first
boarding, I finally stood and collected my gear. Muscles followed
me as I limped over to check-in. He stood near, trying to be
nonchalant, until he was sure this was my flight. Then he raced for
the ticket counter, leaving a cloud of Aramis cologne in his
wake.

I asked to board early because my hip was
hurting me, and was obliged by a very nice young man. Once out of
sight of the waiting passengers, I shoved the cane into the pocket
of the case and walked rapidly down the jetway to the plane. Timing
on this maneuver was going to be tricky.

Flight attendants were fully occupied front
and rear of the plane, and I made my way to the restroom in the
middle of the aircraft. Opening the bathroom door, I shoved the
case through and wedged it into a spot on top of the toilet. As I
stepped in and shut the door I tried not to think about how small
this little room seemed.

Now the question was, had my long wait at
the airport been worthwhile? I unzipped the case and was relieved
to find one dirty flight attendant’s uniform. The polyester pants
and blouse that I had in my purse would do in a pinch, but the
uniform was much better. As long as people in uniforms are in
places they are expected to be, they might as well be
invisible.

I took all the stuff out of my purse and
balanced it on the laptop on the floor. Turning my purse inside out
changed its color from worn-out tan to shiny navy blue and changed
its design from open tote-bag type to one with a pocket flap and
lock. I checked the secret compartment, putting Aunt Tillie’s
passport in and taking Dolores Gomez’s out.

First I applied the cleansing cream Richard
had given me to remove my wash-proof makeup. The problem was I
didn’t have the necessary fifteen to twenty minutes that Richard
recommended to soak loose the makeup. I stripped off the Tia Tillie
dress and slip and put on the flight attendant’s uniform. The skirt
and blouse were snug but workable and the jacket, worn unbuttoned,
disguised the tightness. The shoes, however, were torture.

The cabin speakers crackled with brief
status checks between the flight attendants and the pilot and
indicated that boarding was almost finished. Using a damp paper
towel, I wiped off the years along with the cream. Amazingly, it
worked fairly well. At least it would get me out of here, and I
could do a second application later. Too bad we can’t do this with
real age lines.

Someone knocked on the restroom door and
said, “You need to take your seat now.”

“OK,” I replied. I dabbed on a little
lipstick, crammed my salt-and-pepper gray hair into a skull cap,
and pulled the brown wig down snugly. I put the laptop, makeup bag,
and other belongings in my purse, crammed the sweater and Aunt
Tillie’s clothes into the flight bag, and opened the door.

While the real flight attendants were
occupied with getting their passengers belted and upright, I made
my way to the front station and looked for anything that looked
like a passenger manifest. With Tia Tillie no longer on the plane,
those flight attendants were going to come up short on their nose
count. I saw nothing and wondered if the manifest was on computer.
Then I heard the captain order the doors to be closed and the
jetway withdrawn. Shit, if I didn’t get off now, I would be on my
way back to LA for real.

A stewardess entered the station and did a
double take. “Are you on our crew?”

“No, I, ah, I just came aboard to let you
know one of your passengers escaped.”

“Escaped?”

I laughed. “Just joking.” She didn’t crack a
smile. “An old lady, she was feeling ill and got back off, almost
passed out in the waiting area. She’s with the paramedics.”

“One off, and one unauthorized. It’s going
to be one of those flights. OK, did you by any chance get this sick
passenger’s name?”

“Yes, Matilda Ferguson.”

“Okay, thanks, you better get off unless you
want to try for a deadhead to LAX.”

“Right, have a good flight.” I smiled, she
glared, and I backed out of the work station and headed down the
jetway.

As I passed the ticket counter I could see
Muscles pounding on the counter, and the entire airport could hear
him demanding a ticket. The poor ticket agent, wilting back from
him, was backed up by two supervisors, all trying to explain why he
was too late to purchase a ticket for an international flight. When
one of them told him that the plane was already pulling away from
the gate, he gave them a royal cursing in an accent that was
British, probably London’s south side.

Tia Tillie was safely on her way home, and
Dolores Gomez of El Paso was on her way to a lovely large suite at
the Aurola Holiday Inn.

* * * * *

The wide windows of my luxurious tenth-floor
suite provided a panoramic view of San Jose. I wrote Maria’s
address on the label of a new box and started to pack her sweater,
but the view and my own thoughts stopped me. Looking down across
Parque Morazan, I could see the dark mansion that was the Shady
Lady, and I sat for several moments just staring at it. Maybe this
case was just making me nuts, but all of a sudden I had a vision of
Maria, wearing this sweater and dying because she was mistaken for
Aunt Tillie.

I pulled a small pair of scissors from my
purse and began cutting the sweater into bits of knotted yarn. The
tiny scissors had to gnaw their way through the thick hunks of
knitted flowers and soon my cutting became an attack. Tears flooded
my eyes, almost blinding me, as I tore into the sweater as if it
were responsible for the deaths of these two young women who had
briefly touched my life. I quit cutting and gave in to a cry that
had been building since I first saw Evelyn in the morgue in
Flagstaff.

When I could no longer breathe, I was forced
to get myself under control. Then calmly and methodically, I
continued the destruction of the sweater. No one would ever take
the chance of wearing that sweater and being killed because of my
investigation. Dropping the pieces in the garbage, I vowed that no
one else was going to get killed, period. I would go after Woods
and his black operations team and maybe even the entire Blue Morpho
Petroleum corporation. I even had a glimmer of how I was going to
do it.

I set up my computer, plugged into the
electricity and phone, turned on the encoder, and sent Sam a short
message. “Dolores in place. Is her CV ready?”

Within an hour I had received and decoded a
file attached to a note from Sam.

The note said, “The new plant manager down
there has container loads of Paso Nuevo records and has no staff in
place to deal with them, so Dolores is now a records management
specialist. This is a new field growing out of the ‘paperless’
world of computers, which is manufacturing paper records at an
alarming rate. Corporations all over the country are running out of
warehouse storage room and are employing specialists to figure out
what to store, what to scan, and what to toss.

“I gave Dolores a librarian’s background so
that part would be something you already know. Planting a
curriculum vitae that could be traced and verified was easy
compared to finding enough information for you to bone up on this
field. It’s too new for anyone to have written much on it, but
since many of the people doing it seem to be flying by the seat of
their pants, that shouldn’t be a problem. Some material will be
delivered to you along with your credentials. The attached file has
some websites you can check. Read fast. An old pal of mine has
arranged for you to attend a dinner party at the U.S. ambassador’s
home tomorrow night. Get acquainted with James Nolan, the new plant
manager for the Blue Morpho research facility, and see if Dolores
can get hired to help him with his paper mess.”

The phone rang as I was finishing the note.
It could be only one person. “Hi, Sam.”

“Hi, beautiful. You get the stuff?

“Yeah, looks great. Thanks.

“Got one more little piece of equipment
coming. Tonight a special messenger will arrive with a new laptop,
loaded with a records specialist’s working file. Stash your old
laptop in the hotel safe. Someone at the new location might try to
take a peek at your hard drive. Understand?”

“Yes, thanks. By the way, in case I need a
backup, who is your old pal? Is it someone down here?” There was a
long silence and I realized I had asked a stupid question and
wasn’t going to get an answer. Working with Sam meant that I
stepped over that line, out of the world of private, legal
investigation, and into the shadow world of ‘spy guys’ rules. Sam
would never expose his contact. “Sorry, Sam. Dumb question.”

“You won’t be completely alone, but Harriman
Woods is chief of security at the plant. Watch your back,
beautiful.”