“?Cono!”she said, and Paz chuckled. “Yeah, that explains why your books are fucked up.”
“I figured out that much myself. What’s your advice,mi hermano?”
“Total transparency. Fire the old fart accountant, let him and Dad carry the can. Did you have guilty knowledge?”
She laughed. “Are you serious? I have half a dozen witnesses that’ll say he reamed my ass for even asking about a load of funny money I spotted on a balance sheet.”
“Then you should be all right personally. The company could go down, though.”
“I’ll work something out. If we fold, maybe someone will let me waitress in the family restaurant.”
“A done deal, Sis.”
“And thanks for the heads-up. I don’t even know you and I love you already.”
Paz closed the call feeling better and more comfortably Cuban than he had in a while.
There were police cars and a crime scene van parked at the Zenger property. Paz had to wait for Morales to let him through the gate.
“Anything interesting?” Paz asked, taking in the scene.
“Not much, but we’re still tossing the place. The late Voss had a collection of anarchist-type literature and a stash of high-grade marijuana. Also someone had secreted Baggies full of what looks like white bread at various places. They’re going to give it the full lab treatment.”
“Far more dangerous to the health than pot, if you ask me. Get anything out of the Professor?”
“Not much. The abducted girl was some kind of lost soul according to him. Epileptic, too. He seems like he’s a lot more concerned about her than about Voss getting killed.”
“What does he have to say about jaguars?”
“I don’t know. I was saving all that for you. Want a crack at him?”
“Lead on,” said Paz.
They found Cooksey sitting at the table on the patio, looking forlorn. When the two men approached, Cooksey asked, “Have you found her?”
“No, sir, I’m sorry, not yet,” said Morales and introduced Paz as a consultant on the murders of the two Cuban businessmen.
“I don’t understand,” said Cooksey. “What have they to do with what just happened?”
Paz smiled and pointed to the garden. “We don’t know, sir, that’s what we’re trying to determine. How about you and me take a stroll around the grounds. You could show me around and we could talk about it.”
They strolled. Paz asked questions about the pond and the plantings, about the work of the Alliance and Cooksey’s own work. Cooksey was formal, constrained, answering the questions but not allowing a natural flow, which Paz thought was a little off. He’d had much to do with experts in various fields (mainly women) and had learned that when experts got going on their chosen fields, it was if anything hard to shut them up. Another thing that was off about Cooksey was the way he moved down a path. He made very little noise when he walked and his head moved slightly from side to side at each step. Perhaps field biologists also learned to walk like that, but the last time Paz had observed such a walk was when he was in the marines. Guys who had been in close combat walked that way.
They were on a shady sun-dappled path under large mango trees when Paz noticed something glinting against a low trunk in a thin bar of sunlight. He knelt to examine it, then stood and asked, “What’s that?”
“It’s a hook for a booby trap trip wire,” said Cooksey.
“Really?”
“Yes. Raccoons come in at night and steal fruit and try to catch our fish. One can often annoy them by stretching wires across the paths rigged to let off flash-bangs.”
“Raccoons trip over wires?”
“Not precisely. But they have a fascination with any sort of wires, as you’d know if you’d ever had one in the house as a pet. They pull on them, and the thing goes off and they run away.”
“Very interesting. I didn’t know that. They tell me you’re an expert on tropical animals.”
“Mainly wasps, I’m afraid. But I did some general zoology when I was younger.”
“Know anything about jaguars?” Paz watched the man’s face as he said this, and was surprised to see a faint smile form.
“This is about those two Cuban businessmen, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, it is. But I’d be curious to learn how you came to that conclusion.”
Cooksey gave him a long look. “I read the papers.”
“The papers didn’t mention any jaguars.”
Now a real smile. “No, sir, you have me there. Speaking of ferocious beasts, and the press, I must feed our piranhas. Would you like to watch?”
Paz made an acquiescent gesture and Cooksey led the way into the kitchen of the main house, where he took from the refrigerator a large plastic bag containing a whole beef liver. They returned to the paths, on a route that took them through thick lily thorn and wild coffee on a mild upward slope toward the sound of rushing water. When they came into sunlight again they were on a hill of coral rock some fifteen feet above the pool, with the waterfall pouring forth below them.
“We always feed them from here. The force of the water sends the meat down to where they tend to gather. It also helps keep the other fish from unfortunate accidents.”
The red mass hit the boiling foam and disappeared. Within seconds there appeared another boiling below and the water blushed pink. Paz could make out a churning mass of gray forms near the bottom of the pond.
“Can they really strip the flesh off a cow in three minutes?” Paz asked.
“A shoal of a thousand could. We’ve only forty-two. Still, I wouldn’t want to go for a swim in there with any sort of bleeding wound. I don’t say you’d be an instant skeleton, but it would be distinctly unpleasant.” Cooksey washed out the meat bag and put it in the pocket of his shorts.
“About that jaguar, Professor…?”
“You’re not a policeman, are you?”
“No, I was. Now I’m just consulting.”
“On…?”
“Crimes involving uncanny phenomena?”
Cooksey laughed. “Oh, well, then you’ve come to the right place. Since you’re not a policeman, you can join me in a drink. I’d very much like a whiskey just now.”
They went to Cooksey’s rooms. While Cooksey attended to the drinks, Paz looked around with interest and the policeman’s casual disregard for good manners. He noted the ex-laundry room and the sleeping arrangements therein, the neat piles of female clothing and the worn backpack, a framed photograph of an insect fixed to the wall. On what he took to be Cooksey’s desk were three other framed photos, one of a pretty woman holding a child of about two, smiling into the sun, another of an elderly couple in safari clothing, and the third was of three men in military gear, floppy hats, and battle dress, holding automatic rifles. Their faces were darkened for combat, but Paz could see that one of them was a younger Cooksey.
Cooksey didn’t comment on the poking around. He handed Paz a glass of amber liquid, no ice.
“Cheers,” he said and took a swallow. Paz did the same.
“Good stuff.”
“Talisker. It tastes of seaweed. An acquired taste, although I seem to have had no trouble acquiring it. I see you’re looking at my little gallery.”
“Yeah. That picture-you were a soldier?”
“A marine, actually. We were dropping some waffles just then.”
“Excuse me?”
“A joke. When Maggie sent us to the Falklands, Labour was somewhat muddled in their response, yielding the newspaper headline, British Left Waffles on Falklands. A famous victory, although those two men didn’t happen to survive.”
“And the others are your family?”
“Dead, too. All those people are dead but me.”
“I’m sorry.”
