Читать книгу Into the Deep - Virginia Smith - Страница 9

October 13

Mexico

At the sight of the morning paper, a lump of ice dropped into Ben Dearinger’s stomach. His brain did a quick translation of the Spanish headline screaming across the front page.

LOCAL MAN FOUND DEAD

DRUG CONNECTION SUSPECTED

Cesar Ramirez, the owner of Blue Waters Scuba Shop and Ben’s boss, tapped the newspaper on the sales counter with a sturdy finger. “I worry about you last night, amigo.” The trademark smile that normally split the man’s darkly tanned face was absent, replaced by a concerned frown. “You hear nothing? No guns?”

“No, nothing.” Ben swallowed against a dry throat. “Why? Did it happen nearby?”

“Sí. Two businesses were vandalized on this road last night.” Cesar pointed southward down the beach. “And the man was killed not a kilometer from here. That way.” His finger switched to point up the beach in the opposite direction.

Ben’s brain kicked into overdrive to translate as he scanned the article, searching for the victim’s name. Sergio Perez Rueda. Though bright Mexican sunlight flooded through the dive shop windows, the room darkened as Ben’s head started to spin. He took a backward step and slumped against the wall beside a rack of scuba tanks.

Cesar stepped toward Ben, hand outstretched. “What is it, amigo? He was a friend of yours, this Sergio?”

Ben scrubbed at his forehead, thoughts whirling. “No. I’ve seen him around, but I barely knew him. He…was here last night.” Ben jerked his head toward the rundown two-room apartment he rented from Cesar at the back of the scuba shop. “For less than five minutes. He came to the door and asked to use the baño.”

Ben had been sitting on the back porch, watching the sunset over the crystal blue waters when Sergio rounded the corner of the shop. He’d seen how jumpy the guy was, the way he kept glancing over his shoulder. His breath reeked of stale beer. Ben hadn’t wanted to grant the request to use his bathroom, but what could he do? Be rude and tell the guy no? Instead, he’d led him into the tiny apartment and kept a vigilant watch outside the door until he emerged.

Ben lowered his voice, hating the question he was about to ask, but knowing he had to. “Should I contact the police, Cesar?”

His boss didn’t answer at first. He ducked between the scuba regulator hoses dangling from overhead hooks like rows of rubber snakes. The whites of his eyes nearly disappeared as he narrowed his lids and considered Ben’s question. Ben waited, breath halted in his chest, until finally Cesar shook his head.

“No, that is a bad idea. This Sergio, I heard about him. He is involved with bad people.” His voice dropped to a low whisper. “Reynosa, I heard.”

A chill zipped down Ben’s spine. The Reynosa drug cartel had gained in strength and prevalence in the Mexican state of Quintana Roo in recent years. Their violent reputation had increased with reports of kidnappings and execution-style murders, both within their ranks and among those who opposed them. If the Reynosa cartel was responsible for Sergio’s death, they might not look too kindly on a possible witness.

A car door slammed in front of the shop. Cesar’s eyes darted in that direction. “Unless somebody asks, say nothing. That is my advice, amigo.”

The first of the tourists scheduled for a morning of scuba diving entered the shop. Ben gave Cesar a single nod, then slipped into the back to begin readying the equipment they’d need to stow on the boat.

Though he had nothing but respect for the local police, whispered rumors of foreigners languishing in Mexican prisons had strengthened Ben’s desire to stay below their radar during the three years he’d lived and worked as a dive master in Cozumel. And the Reynosa cartel… He suppressed a shudder. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced that Cesar was right. Sergio had gotten himself mixed up with some nasty people, and now he was dead. Nothing Ben did or said could change that. But he was still very much alive, and he intended to stay that way.

Still, why had Sergio showed up at his place last night? Maybe it had nothing to do with the Reynosa cartel. Maybe he’d vandalized the two buildings Cesar mentioned and was running to escape the police.

On the other hand, surely the news report would have included the detail that a police chase had occurred. No, more likely he’d been running from someone else, someone not necessarily official.

Reynosa.

Ben shook his head. But then why stop to use his baño? It didn’t make sense. Unless…

His pulse kicked up a notch as a possible reason occurred to him. With a quick backward glance toward Cesar, he slipped out the rear of the store and into his small apartment. A steady salt-scented ocean breeze filtered through the open window. Standing with his back against the door, he scanned the cramped room that served as bedroom, living room, dining room and with the aid of a microwave and coffee pot, the kitchen. Sergio had carried a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, which he’d taken into the second room of Ben’s apartment, the bathroom. Was he being chased because of something inside the bag? Something he’d stolen? Money? Drugs? Acid surged into Ben’s throat. Whatever it was, would Sergio have tried to stash it somewhere so he wouldn’t be found with it?

Ben crossed to the baño and scanned the tiny room looking for anything that hadn’t been here yesterday. Clean towels lay more or less folded on exposed shelves in one corner. No medicine chest, so his toothbrush and toiletries rested on the top shelf. The shower stall was a single unit—not possible to hide anything there. In fact, there was no place to conceal an item of any size.

I’m imagining things. He didn’t stash anything here.

Ben turned to go. As he did, his gaze slid across the toilet.

It looked no different. But somehow, he knew. After all, there was no place else within the confines of this cramped room. Moving slowly, he lifted the tank lid. Peered inside.

On the surface of the water was a plastic bag.

He recognized the waterproof pouch instantly. He and Cesar used a similar one on the scuba boat to keep their valuables, such as cell phones and cash, dry. This pouch was folded slightly to wedge it inside the tank in a way that wouldn’t interfere with the operation of the toilet. He couldn’t immediately identify the item inside the clear vinyl bag. Not the cash or drugs he was expecting, though. Stomach in his throat, Ben lifted the bag out. He tore open the Velcro seal, unfolded the top flap and emptied the contents into his palm.

A flash drive.

He almost caved in to the impulse that urged, Put it back. Pretend you never saw it. But what if someone from the Reynosa cartel came looking for it? What would they do to him if they found it in his toilet?

Ben stared at it, his mind cataloguing a list of possible data that might be stored on this device. It would have to be something big, something worth a man’s life. If it involved the Reynosa cartel, there was no telling.

The storage device gripped in his fist, Ben wrestled with his thoughts. One thing was certain. No way could he take this to the police. He’d be signing his own death warrant. And he couldn’t leave it here, either. He had to ditch it, someplace it would never be found. But where?