We pass through an industrial area, new factories with signs and foreign names, European, American, and Asian. All the while, Herman is looking over his shoulder to see if we’re being tailed. He shakes his head. “Can’t see ’em if they’re there.”
A half hour later we’re jammed up in downtown traffic heading for the center of San Jose. I notice there are no street signs or address numbers on the buildings. The streets are crowded with pedestrians, and vendors hocking their wares. The taxi takes a sweeping right turn, then a quick left, and we find ourselves on a broad one-way street, five or six lanes, though none of the vehicles seems to stay within them, all jockeying for position as they move uptown. We pass a children’s hospital and a large white cathedral on the right. A half mile farther on, we drive past a large plaza on the left. It is flanked by a beautiful colonial building under the patina of a coppered roof. Herman asks the driver and is told that the building is the Teatro Nacional, the national theater.
A few blocks farther on he makes a left and we cut through traffic on a narrow street, stop and go for several lights, then under an old concrete overpass and around another plaza.
Some of the buildings on the side streets are old metal corrugated structures with design features that date them to the end of the nineteenth century when fruit, sugar, and tobacco ruled the region. There are old mansions mixed in, some of them in disrepair, others restored. The driver gestures toward a large yellow colonial house. It is situated behind a high wrought-iron fence. He tells us this is the Casa Amarilla, the yellow house, the offices of the Costa Rican Foreign Ministry.
It takes the driver a few more minutes navigating one-way streets before he makes a turn and pulls to a stop in front of a low-slung building fronted by a low yellow masonry wall and gated entrance covered by a large green awning.
“Your hotel,
Herman and I have no idea what the rooms are like. Harry and I selected the lodge from a listing of downtown hotels because of its location. Using the directions on the slip of paper from Katia, a map of downtown San Jose, and satellite images from Google Earth, we determined that from the Sportsmens Lodge, it is less than two blocks to the house where Katia lived with her mother. It is here that we hope to find the camera with the Colombian photographs, assuming they are still there, and if we’re lucky, Katia’s mother.
A little research informed us that the Sportsmens Lodge is owned by an American and is a hangout for weekenders flying in from the States. Here, Herman and I can mingle with the other guests and blend in until we can lose the FBI and disappear on the next leg of our journey.
We grab our bags out of the back of the taxi, pay the driver, and head into the hotel, down a long corridor, tiled floor flanked by doors leading to some of the rooms. Farther on, the hallway opens onto a large central patio covered by an expansive fiberglass roof that forms a kind of open-air entertainment area. It is part of a sports bar with overhead flat-screen televisions, each one showing a different event, baseball and golf from the States, soccer from Europe and Latin America.
The reception counter is a small kiosk with a pretty girl working inside. She takes our names, finds our reservations, signs us in, and gives us keys to our rooms. I ask her about the exercise area that is supposed to be downstairs. She points toward the bar at the rear of the building and tells me where the stairs are. She has the bellman take our bags, except for the one Herman was carrying with the phone tucked inside.
“How ’bout a beer?” says Herman. He has spied the bar at the other end of the patio.
“Sure.”
The guests seem to be mostly Americans in casual dress, shorts and cutoffs, jeans and T-shirts, with a few locals mixed in, Ticos and Ticas, sitting at the tables in the patio. There is a louder crowd inside in the more formal bar area, watching one of the games and downing drinks.
I tip the bellman and ask him to take our bags to my room as Herman and I grab two stools on the patio side of the bar.
The phone rang on Harry’s desk. He picked it up.
“Mr. Hinds, a Mr. Rhytag for you on line two,” said the receptionist.
“Thanks.” Harry punched the button for line two. “Mr. Rhytag, what can I do for you?”
“One of our people is in your neighborhood. He has some information you might be interested in.”
“Why don’t you just tell me over the phone?” Harry smiled to himself as he asked the question.
“Not something I want to discuss over the phone,” said Rhytag.
“I see.”
“The man’s in the Brigantine right now, the restaurant out in front of your office. He’s African American, he’ll be wearing a dark blue suit and a maroon-striped club tie. His name is Agent Sanders. If you go now you can catch him.” Before Harry could say another word, the line went dead.
Harry got out from behind his desk and headed out of the office, through the plaza and into the side door of the Brigantine. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, so the restaurant was mostly empty. He saw the FBI agent seated at a table by himself out near the front windows. He had his hands folded on top of a large manila envelope resting on the table in front of him.
Harry walked up and introduced himself then sat down.
“You wanted information on one John Waters,” said the agent.
“You found something?” said Harry.
“We found six bank accounts in that name all in the greater San Diego area. But only one of them was newly opened under a fresh taxpayer ID number and shows activity in the amount that you described-a near six-figure deposit just after the time Emerson Pike was murdered. Of course, there is no way to know if this is your man, but there was one other thing.”
“What’s that?” said Harry.
“The depositor, this Mr. Waters, also rented a safe-deposit box at the same bank on the date that he opened the account.”
“What’s in the box?” said Harry.
“We have no idea.”
“What do you mean? Now that you know it’s there, you can move on the account, freeze it, and get an order to open the safe-deposit box.”
“We have no legal basis,” said the agent. “You asked us for information, we got it for you.” He slid the envelope across the table to Harry. “The account number, everything you need is in there. Of course, it could be just a coincidence, a perfectly innocent deposit with nothing in the box but a home deed or an insurance policy.”
“Great,” says Harry.
“Let me make a suggestion,” said the agent. “And if you tell anyone where this came from, we’ll deny it. You could put together a declaration claiming the account constitutes the proceeds from the sale of the coin in question, and the box contains physical evidence from the crime scene.”
“Based on what?” says Harry. “My good looks?”
“Think about it. Who’s going to complain? You issue a subpoena based on the declaration seeking to tie up the account and obtain a court order to freeze the assets in the box, pending a hearing before the court. Why would the prosecution complain? They don’t own the box or the account. The only interested party is the deposit holder.”
“Your boss Rhytag is insidious,” said Harry.
“That’s how he became the boss,” said the agent. “When the depositor receives notice through the bank that the assets are frozen, he can come forward and object at the time of the hearing. If he does you can be sure he’s not involved in Pike’s death.”
“What if he doesn’t show up? What if he just sends counsel to object?” says Harry.
“Then the court may want to know who the client is and what’s in the box. And if he doesn’t show up at all, well…”
Rhytag was using the criminal defense team to smoke out John Waters while the feds hid in the shadows and bugged the lawyers’ offices. Harry hated it. If the whole thing blew up and Mr. Waters filed a civil claim for damages because his funds were cut off, the FBI and Rhytag would be nowhere in sight. Still, it was the only avenue available, and it might work.
