Free JET - Escape: (Volume 9) by Russell Blake Page A

interrupted by his cell phone chirping. He took the call, held a short conversation, and then hung up. “That was Viega. He’s down near the river. Apparently a boat was found yesterday afternoon by a fisherman.”
    “Where?”
    “About two kilometers south of town. An agricultural area. Portobelo. He’s there right now with the police chief, interviewing the man. Do we want to join him?”
    “Absolutely. I don’t trust Viega to ask the way to the bathroom, much less parse descriptive nuances from a witness. He doesn’t strike me as being particularly sharp at fieldwork.”
    Ramón shrugged. “That would make sense. Probably pilots a desk most of the time. The higher you climb in the force, the less you actually do.”
    “That’s consistent the world over.”
    The drive to Portobelo took ten minutes, and as they crossed a two-lane bridge, Fernanda eyed the brown swirl of the river snaking from the mountains to the east.
    “That’s a much bigger river. Does the other feed into it?” she asked.
    “Yes. The boat was found west of here.”
    Portobelo turned out to be a string of shanties scattered along a dirt road that paralleled the shore. Fields of crops on either side framed the tiny community of agricultural workers and fishermen. When they reached the end of the muddy track, they spotted Viega’s SUV pulled under a tree and a police pickup truck parked beside it. Ramón eased onto the shoulder and shut off the engine.
    They opened the doors and nearly choked as they were assailed by the stench of human waste in the muggy air, and Fernanda had to breathe through her mouth to avoid gagging. Ramón’s nose twitched, and he scowled in distaste.
    “They use the river for everything, obviously. Probably not a septic system in the entire place,” he said, and then pointed at the riverbank. “There they are.”
    The fisherman turned out to be a youth of sixteen named Theo who had little to add to his discovery of the boat. Fernanda took him through a series of questions designed to trip him up, in case he’d found something in the craft and pocketed it, but she got nothing for her efforts but the blank stare of a marginal intellect. She was finishing up when the local police chief’s radio erupted in a burst of static and an excited voice came on the air.
    Viega approached her a moment later, his face haggard from lack of sleep. “They found someone in town who might have seen them,” he reported. “A woman who sells meals to migrant workers near the park.”
    “Let’s go talk to her,” Fernanda said. “Tell the locals to cease and desist until I arrive. The more they speak to her, the more likely she is to omit details when I question her – it’s common for those undergoing interrogation to simplify their stories on multiple passes. We don’t want that. You can see how well it served us with this boy.”
    Viega nodded. “I’ll convey your request.”
    Fernanda frowned at him. “It wasn’t a request,” she snapped.
    Ramón and Viega exchanged a glance, and Ramón shrugged before trailing Fernanda back to the Suburban. He started the motor and put the big truck in gear and, as they were bouncing down the rutted track, looked over at her. “Might want to dial back the intensity a little. You’ll find you get more cooperation with a little honey than with vinegar.”
    “Thanks for the advice, but we’re out of time, and I don’t care about anyone’s bruised feelings.”
    Ramón swallowed hard and focused on the road, biting his tongue. The fog was burning off as they re-crossed the bridge, and when they reached the park, Viega and his entourage close behind, the air was clear and already warming.
    Fernanda eyed the gathering of vehicles as they neared the square, mostly geriatric produce trucks parked in the shade. Ramón had barely coasted to a stop when she was out the door and marching to where two uniformed police were talking to an old woman with a tobacco complexion, her food cart