Operation Tropical Affair: A Poppy McVie Adventure (Poppy McVie Series Book 1) (7 page)

He nodded. He understood my obsession. “I know a tree cavity where I’ve seen a family of toucans. You interested?”

My eyes lit up. “Yeah!” I yanked the map back out of my purse and opened it on the counter. “Where?”

“I’m done here in an hour. I could show you.” His eyes had that hungry-for-me look. My breath caught in my throat.
 

“Well, I, uh.” Darn, I had work to do. “I really have to get back right now. But, maybe later?”

He nodded, looking disappointed. “Sure.”
 

My gaze lingered on his lips. “No, I’d really like that,” I stammered. “I’ll stop back by.” I scooted out the door before I could spontaneously combust.

For my next stop I needed to be sure to ditch Yipes. He wasn’t that difficult to spot, but I had to be careful. There are two tried-and-true ways to lose a tail: the covert maneuver or the distraction. Yipes seemed like the type who’d fall for a good old-fashioned distraction. I walked back to the bungalows and knocked on his door.
 

“Buenos días, Señora Fuller,” he said. “How may I help you?”

“Would you please call a taxi for me and point me in the direction of a drug store. I need, well, some woman things.”

His cheeks burned and he nodded. “Uno momento.” He slipped back into his room. That ought to do it.

I had the cab drop me at the drug store in town where I picked up a new beach bag, yellow flip-flops, and some cheap sunglasses, then went around the block, rented a moped for the week, and headed for the beach.

Most people would be thrilled to spend the afternoon sipping pineapple drinks on a sunny tropical stretch of sand. I am not most people. I hate the sun. Or I should say, the sun hates me. Red hair, freckles, pasty white skin. While my high school girlfriends strived for the tanned little bunny look, I worked hard to avoid the crispy lobster imitation.
 

The Toucan palapa bar was more my style. Its giant thatched roof was nestled among the palms, providing glorious shade. Brightly-colored, hand-painted signs directed beach-goers down a roped path toward shrimp skewers and ice cold margaritas. (Obviously for tourists who have no knowledge or interest in true local fare.)

I tucked my hair under the hat, donned the sunglasses, and strolled in.

The place was packed. Jimmy Buffet blared from speakers mounted at every corner. Waitresses bustled about delivering metal pails filled with Cerveza Imperials. The mixed scents of stale cigarettes and spilled beer hung in the open air.
 

Every inch of wood in the place—supporting posts, table tops, chairs—had names and dates crudely engraved, testaments to memorable drunkenfests. At the bar, a group of six college kids simultaneously tipped a bamboo log with shot glasses attached while their friends pounded on the bar, making memories of their own.

I sidled up to the bar and elbowed in. A young tica with her hair pulled back in braids hollered, “What can I getcha?” as she hustled by, her arms loaded with fried fish baskets. Her name tag read Isabella.
 

“Do you have a local IPA?”

She dropped the baskets in front of the bamboo shot meisters, grabbed a bottle from the cooler, and popped the top as she headed back toward me. “Eight dollars,” she said, but kept walking. I pulled out a ten and before I could drop it on the counter she was back, plucked it out of my hand, and was off again.
 

“This place always this busy?” I asked the guy holding down the bar stool next to me.
 

He leaned over. “Cruise ship lunch rush.” His lip curled up on the left side in an attempt at a grin, his blood alcohol content apparently causing partial facial paralysis.

I looked in the direction he was making a valiant attempt to point. The shipping dock jutted out into the ocean directly to the south of the bar where a large white vessel with bright orange lifeboats was docked.

I ordered some gallo pinto, Costa Rican style rice and beans. I was going to be here awhile.

At the other corner of the bar, a couple college boys posed for a picture holding a six-foot boa constrictor. One of their drunk pals held out a twenty to take his turn to look macho holding a snake that was probably nearly comatose.
 

A sign hanging behind the bar read: Animal photos, $20 - Birds, snakes, monkeys. Above the sign, two scarlet macaws perched in the rafters. Scarlet macaws are highly intelligent, and with their bright red, yellow and blue plumage, they make popular pets. For that reason, they’re endangered in most of their habitat, making them a CITES class I species. One bird can sell for thousands of dollars on the black market. Someone in possession really should have a permit, but in Central America, keeping animals like these is culturally ingrained and rarely prosecuted. The Costa Rican government concerns itself primarily with illegal export. At this point, these two birds couldn’t go back to the wild anyway. They’d probably been in this bar their entire lives.
 

I sipped the beer, killing time, watching the staff. This seemed like an unlikely place for a wildlife poaching connection. A lot of money was being passed over the bar, though. I watched one of the bus boys put every third bill into his front shorts pocket. Interesting, though not my concern. I was keeping an eye out for anyone named Paco. Maybe I’d get a glimpse of my fellow agent.

Every once in awhile, a man came from the back, went straight to the cash register, took out some cash, then went back out. Some buying of something was going on out back.

After about an hour, most of the patrons staggered toward the boat gripping plastic souvenir cups in the shape of pineapples in their sweaty hands. The music was turned down and I could actually hear the surf as it rolled on the beach. The bartender came back by. “Another IPA?

“Sure, why not?” I dug out another ten spot.

A young couple lingered at the end of the bar. Newlyweds. The girl pointed at the rafters. I glanced in the direction she was looking. A white-faced capuchin swung from a rope. The girl giggled and nodded and her pink-cheeked husband tossed a twenty on the bar. The monkey swooped down with a screech, snatched up the bill, and raced back to his perch. The newlyweds frowned. “Hey,” the husband called.

Isabella whistled and gestured to the monkey. He skittered and chirped, then reluctantly descended to the bar. The wife opened her arms and the monkey curled up in her embrace. He cowered, his eyes darting from her to her husband. How could no one see how terrified he was? She cooed at him like he was a baby.
 

I had to admit, he was cute with his round, black eyes set in that adorable little human-like face. That’s what made them highly sought after for pets. Unfortunately, it’s often people like this, animal lovers, who do the most harm. They don’t stop to think; these are wild animals. Sure, they look like cute little babies when they’re young, their faces and hands so much like ours, but once they hit puberty, they can be aggressive. Wild animals are meant to stay in the wild, not interact with people. If I wasn’t undercover, I’d be over there explaining all that to them right now.

Isabella kept a close watch on the monkey. She knew. The husband snapped a few pictures, no doubt for their honeymoon Facebook page. That’s when I noticed the monkey’s right hand was missing. Poor thing. Often, monkeys are caught in primitive snares which can do all kinds of damage as the monkey freaks out trying to get free. Most likely that’s what had happened to this little guy.

The monkey loped across the bar where Isabella provided a treat, then he scampered back up to his ropes. So sad. “How long as he been here?” I asked her.
 

“Clyde? Oh, dis one a few years.” She ran a wet rag down the length of the bar. “De owner has had many, all named Clyde. You know, from de Clint Eastwood movie.”

“That was an orangutan,” I said.

With an eye roll, she said, “I know.” She headed for the beer cooler, but made an abrupt turn, headed back toward me and quickly started restocking the plastic cups. A tico in his fifties, his dark hair slicked back, entered the bar area carrying a black satchel. He reminded me of an old, washed up Hispanic version of Vinnie Babarino.
 

“Who’s that?” I asked.

She kept her head down. “Oh, dat Carlos. He de owner.”

Carlos grabbed handfuls of bills from the cash register and stuffed them into the satchel. He called Isabella over to him. Her shoulders turned inward and, with her eyes downcast, she obeyed. He whispered something to her and glanced around the bar. I turned to the side and tipped up my beer so he couldn’t see my face. Then he was gone.
 

Isabella returned to the bar. “Another?” she asked.

I shook my head. “He looked familiar. I think he’s a friend of my brother. What’s his last name?”

She glanced his way as though she wanted to be sure he was gone. “Mendoza.”

“No, not him,” I said. “Oh well.” I shrugged. “How long have you worked here?”

“Too long,” she said and moved away. I finished my beer, set the empty bottle on the bar, and gave her a wave. That’s all I was going to get for today.

I took a walk down the beach and punched up Mom on my cell phone. It rang five times before Mr. Strix picked up. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I was hoping you could look someone up for me.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Carlos Mendoza. He owns The Toucan, the bar on the postcard.”

“How’d you get his name?”

“Long story. Could you also scare up a picture of García?”

There was a pause. “I’ll see what I can do. Hey, Roy called. He said to tell you they nailed the guy.”

I smiled. “And Honey Bear?”

“Roaming free.”

I smiled wider.

“So, Mendoza. How’d you—”

“Sorry. Gotta go.” I hit end and headed back toward the bungalow. I didn’t want to have to explain.

Within ten minutes, I got a text with a photo. It could have been the man who’d gone to the cash register, but I wasn’t sure. Mr. Strix called back. “You’re not going to believe this. The Mendoza family is quite large. Most live in Nicaragua. Besides the bar, a few years back, the family purchased a coffee plantation in Costa Rica. It’s no longer producing, but get this: it borders George’s property.”

Bingo
.

If Carlos was the buncher, he needed a remote location to house the illegal animals, keep them fed, alive. It needed to be far from the eyes of the law or meddling neighbors. Like an old coffee plantation.
 

After a quick exploration with Google Earth, I had a pretty good sense of the lay of the land. Only one structure still stood on the property, one that looked large enough to house animals—the old roasting shed. That had to be it. But I needed to find out for sure.
 

Field trip!

The farm sprawled across a steep hillside, quite rugged terrain compared to some of the larger plantations, leaving few locations for coffee trees. The rest appeared to be wild jungle. A river ran through the property from the northeast, meandered through the east quarter, then exited its boundary just north of the southeast corner.
 

The driveway, a rutted two-track, would likely be under surveillance. The best place to enter the property unnoticed was at that southeast corner, south of the river. It was going to be a trek.
 

I strapped my binoculars on my chest, tossed my new bird book in my backpack, laced up my boots, and was out the door. What better disguise than a bird nut, hopelessly lost in search of the resplendent quetzal?

From the edge of the dirt road where I stashed my moped among the tangle of jungle, I followed a power line for about five hundred yards, then headed up the side of the hill. I was in pretty good shape, but the humidity was stifling. My T-shirt was soaked in minutes. Flashes of color flitted through the trees—motmots and trogons, parrots and toucanets—birds I’d loved to have the time to stop and identify.
 

I did keep a sharp lookout for snakes, though. Central America is not a place to underestimate when it comes to poisonous creatures, especially the slithering kind. I didn’t want to stumble across a fer-de-lance. There was a reason it was known as the ultimate pit viper. Most snakes will avoid contact. When threatened, the fer-de-lance rears up and advances. The darn thing can strike above the knee cap. It produces an overabundance of deadly venom and isn’t afraid to use it. Forty-six percent of snakebites in Costa Rica come from this guy and they aren’t pretty. Symptoms rival that of simultaneously stepping on a land mine and being sprayed with poison gas. Yeah, I was watching my step.

I turned twenty-five degrees and walked another four hundred yards figuring I’d arrive just south of the shed. When I got to within one hundred yards, I stopped dead. Good thing I’d been watching so diligently for snakes. About six inches above the ground ran a primitive tripwire—a thin cable stretched horizontally through eye hooks that had been drilled at the base of trees, then upward to an iron bell that hung about twenty feet in the air. Clever. Simple, yet effective. I stepped over it and crept forward more cautiously. Someone was definitely guarding something.
 

 
I found a perch in a banyon tree with a decent view of the shed. On the southwest corner, a guard paced back and forth in a way that was clear his training came from watching Schwarzenegger movies. Not good. He could be unpredictable, therefore dangerous. He carried an old rifle of some sort, its barrel wrapped with electrical tape.
 

The sturdy old structure he guarded was tucked into the hillside, longways. Corrugated tin walls supported a split-style roof that provided a three-foot gap at the peak for air circulation and natural light. Large bay doors stood open on either end, east and west. The driveway came up from the east.
 

On the open, flat land south of the shed, large, flat concrete slabs had at one time been used to spread coffee beans to dry in the sun. Beyond that was jungle. Two more guards with similar technique to the first paced at the edge of the clearing.