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  Jungle of Glass

  Jungle of Glass

  The New Ed Rogan Mystery

  Gerald J. Davis

  Copyright 2002 by Gerald J. Davis

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed online, in a newspaper, magazine or journal.

  Any resemblance to actual people and events is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  Insignia Publishing

  Bridgeport, Connecticut

  CHAPTER I

  She knocked on the outer door of my office. Three sharp raps. Christ, no one ever knocked on my door anymore. People just opened the door and barged right in. What ever happened to good old-fashioned common courtesy? Guess it went the way of carbon paper.

  I debated whether to yell "Come in" or get up and open the door for her. She’d sounded like a real lady over the phone, so I got up.

  I was right. When I opened the door, there stood the Czarina. Regal, she was.

  And stunning, too.

  She looked to be in her sixties. There was an air of cool superiority about her. Her face was finely-chiseled and her bone structure was superb. Her mouth was small and tightly-drawn. The eyes were large and luminous.

  And she had been crying.

  She just stood there in the hallway even though I held the door open for her.

  "Please come in, Mrs. Roderick," I said.

  She forced a grim smile and stepped past me into the outer office and stood there like a Botticelli image forty years later.

  I let the outer door close by itself with a soft click and ushered her into my office. She surveyed the room with an obvious look of disdain. She didn't sit down until I offered her a chair, and she sat with a graceful movement that could have come from the stage. By the way she looked around, you could see she wasn't used to such cramped quarters. Her bathroom was probably bigger than the inner and outer offices put together.

  She was wearing a full length black Russian sable coat that could've cost anywhere between a small fortune and a large fortune, depending on whether she’d bought it at the Salvation Army Store or Saks Fifth Avenue. December in New York can get pretty frigid, especially for someone from the tropics.

  Without even a sideways glance, she shrugged off the gross domestic product of your average third-world country and tossed it over the ratty chair next to her. It was the kind of lazy gesture that's second nature to someone who doesn't often think about money.

  I walked around the desk and dropped into my chair.

  She sat there primly facing me, her back straight as a flagpole, her hands interlocked in her lap, her knees tight together. She could have been a statue.

  I tried to lighten the atmosphere.

  "Would you like a martini or a banana daiquiri, Mrs. Roderick?"

  There was a small fixed smile on her lips. The smile extended another millimeter on each side. "Mr. Rogan, it is nine o'clock in the morning. I hope you are attempting a little humor." Her voice was a little softer than you'd expect from her appearance. She didn't have an accent, but there was a tone that said English wasn't her first language.

  I leaned back. "Yup, that's what it was. A note of levity to make you feel more comfortable."

  She fixed her gaze on me and I had the feeling she'd done it many times before with a misbehaving servant. "There is no need for such an effort, Mr. Rogan." She straightened her neck even more and stuck out her chin. "I am a strong woman."

  She sure gave that impression. Her hair, which showed traces of the original strawberry blond, and which was now mostly defiantly white, was drawn back severely in a bun. Her skin was flawless, except for those tiny wrinkles around the mouth and eyes. She’d obviously had a facelift or two. It was a clear demonstration of what a little cash can do for your appearance.

  She wanted to get to the point, so I let her. "Go ahead, Mrs. Roderick. Tell me what the problem is."

  Then she surprised me. This royal creature lost her composure. She burst out crying. Or should I say bawling. She sobbed like a six year old girl, her chest heaving and her breath coming in short gasps.

  I kept a box of Kleenex in the lower right hand drawer of the desk next to the Old Bushmill for just such a contingency. So I opened the drawer, eyed the whisky, took out the box and shoved it across the metal desktop toward her. She probably would have been embarrassed if I had done any more.

  She ignored the tissues and used her own handkerchief. It was silk with delicate lace embroidery that didn't do a good job of drying her tears. She kept on sobbing for a couple of minutes. I didn't know what to do, so I got up and went to the outer office and got her a cup of Polish Water from the cooler.

  I gave her the water. As I did, I caught a whiff of her perfume. It was faint, understated. The scent reminded you of a meadow of blossoms on a sunny summer afternoon.

  She took a sip, and from the way she held it, it was evident she wasn't used to drinking from paper cups.

  Finally she pulled herself together, took another sip, and handed the cup back to me. I tossed it into the basket, water and all.

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Rogan," she said and I could see she meant it. I would have bet even money she hadn't cried since primary school when some smart-alec boy had twisted her arm.

  She pulled herself forward and sat on the edge of her chair. Her eyes looked deep into mine as she took my measure.

  "Mr. Rogan," she said. "I called you because Mr. Jim Broadbent said you were a man of confidence." She had translated the expression directly from the Spanish.

  I nodded but didn't say anything.

  "Mr. Broadbent said I could rely on you." She put her fingertips on the edge of the desk. They were perfectly manicured and the polish was a flaming red. It was the only thing about her that was overstated. "My husband has been kidnapped."

  "That's not a job for me. The FBI handles kidnappings. You have to talk to them."

  She shook her head. "No, no. The kidnapping happened in El Salvador."

  "What about the local authorities?" I knew what the answer would be.

  She rolled her eyes. "The local authorities have begun working on this matter but I do not have a high level of confidence in their ability to find my husband"...she paused..."alive."

  "But why come to me in New York? You..."

  She cut me off. "The ransom note was mailed from New York to my flat in New York." She opened her large Hermes pocketbook, fished around for a minute and came up with a plain white number ten envelope.

  "Here it is," she said as she handed it to me. She held it between her thumb and forefinger as if it reeked to high heaven with some foul poison.

  The postmark said December tenth. Four days ago. It had been stamped at the main post office at Thirty-third Street and Eighth Avenue. There was a regular first-class stamp. Nothing else on the envelope except her address. I knew the building. Fifth at Eighty-second. Across from the museum. It was a very elegant address.

  How long did it take a letter to get across town? Two days? Three?

  I shook the letter out of the envelope and opened it by the edges. "Did you have a lab check this?"

  She gave me a blank look.

  The letter was on plain bond paper. Times Roman typeface on a laser printer.

  PUTA

  TU ESPOSO MORIRA DE MALA FORMA SI NO NOS ENTREGAS CINCO MILLIONES DOLARES EN EFFECTIVO EN BILLETES NO MAS DE CIEN DOLARES. ESPERA NUESTRAS INSTRUCCIONES.

  ATLACATL.

  The salutation was somewhat less than cordial. It threatened her husband with an unpleasant death unless these
miscreants got five million dollars in small denominations.

  I didn't get the closing. "What is Atlacatl?" I asked her.

  'It is the name of an Indian chief of long ago."

  "And what relevance does it have now?"

  There was a flash behind her eyes. "I do not know. It has no meaning to me."

  "When was your husband kidnapped?"

  "Four days ago-on the tenth of December."

  "The same day the letter was postmarked?"

  She nodded. "Yes."

  "Where were you when it happened?"

  "I was in New York."

  I looked into her large coffee-brown eyes. "Do you live in New York?"

  She stuck out her jaw. "We live in El Salvador."

  "But..."

  "We have homes in several locations-New York, Miami, El Salvador, Ireland."

  "Ireland?"

  She nodded grimly. "Yes. My husband is the honorary consul for Ireland."

  "But you were here and he..."

  "My husband's business..."

  "They knew you were here."

  She gave a short nod. "They know a lot."

  Then she fell silent.

  I was about to ask her another question when she said, "Will you handle this matter for me?"

  My smile was as reassuring as I could make it. I tried to add some warmth for effect. "I took the case when I first heard your voice on the phone."

  Her smile was bittersweet. "Mr. Rogan, you are very gallant." She put the accent on the last syllable.

  "That's what all my ex-wives used to say."

  She got up. "How much is your fee?"

  It was a smooth segue. She’d put me in my place, which was obviously not quite on her level. Talk is cheap.

  "Five hundred a day plus expenses."

  Without a blink, she pulled out her checkbook and wrote me a check. She wrote with one of those oversized fountain pens with a gold nib and it made a scratching sound as she scribbled out a lot of zeros.

  She handed it to me. The check was for twenty grand.

  Either she was being overly generous or she didn't think I was Sam Spade.

  The check was drawn on Morgan Private Banking. I knew I wouldn't have to call the bank to see if the check was good.

  CHAPTER II

  The TACA flight left Miami at two-thirty seven the next afternoon. I took American Airlines non-stop to Miami and then it was direct to the new airport an hour outside San Salvador. Ilopango, the old airport, was now being used for military aviation.

  Transportes Areos de Centro America had never inspired much of a feeling of confidence in me. Travelers had a sardonic habit of referring to it as "bota tuercas" which meant "dropping screws."

  Good thing I was a fatalist.

  There was no movie going down so I read a copy of the ransom note over and over between chapters of a tourist guide to El Salvador. Mrs. Roderick had filled me in on the details of the kidnapping, or as much as she knew. But the only way to get the feel of it was to be boots on the ground.

  The stewardesses in their freshly-pressed navy blue uniforms were friendly, polite and accommodating, unlike the help on some domestic airlines I could name. They tried to make the best of the rudimentary amenities on the ancient 707. They served me a meal loosely referred to as steak, but it would've been much easier to chew on a Kevlar crotch protector. At least I was able to wash it down with a passable version of the local brew.

  The flight landed in the middle of a late-afternoon downpour. It didn't seem to bother the crew much, so I didn't let it bother me. Besides, these jockeys could land a C5-A on a floating cork in the middle of a hurricane. And most of them had been flying longer than I cared to remember.

  The airport was modern and sterile. I passed through immigration and customs quickly. Nobody asked me about the Glock 9mm that was tucked neatly between the skivvies and the socks at the bottom of my suitcase, or maybe they were just too fastidious to go rooting about in the middle of a person's intimate garments.

  I stepped outside the glassed-in reception area into a blast of tropical air that hit me in the face like a hot thick wet blanket. A cabby pulled up in front of me, but I didn't like his lean and hungry look so I waved him on and pointed to the next car in line. It was a rickety ten-year old gray Toyota without air-conditioning and there were more dents in it than the loser of a demolition derby. The driver was a little guy with a scraggly mustache and a smile that never left his face. He told me his name was Luis and that he'd be glad to be my driver while I was in country. I told him he had a deal. In any case, it was cheaper than renting a car and I wouldn't have to waste my time folding and unfolding tourist maps.

  The ride in from the airport was humid and dusty. We passed desolate stretches of vegetation interspersed with shantytowns of tin-roofed shacks and open sewers. The rain had stopped but this was the dry season, or summer as the locals called it, and the landscape was arid and brown.

  The shocks on this so-called taxi had completely given out who knows how many years ago and my head kept hitting the roof of the goddam car, sending little twinges down my spine and bringing unspoken curses to my mouth. The road was so full of potholes it looked like someone had shelled this stretch of the countryside.

  I leaned forward. "Luis, tell me. Have you heard about the kidnapping of the honorary consul?"

  "Si, Senor." He spoke as he stared straight ahead. "All the world has heard of it."

  I stared at the bald spot on the back of his head. "And who do the people say are responsible?"

  He shrugged. "A saber. There are many rumors. Some say the leftists, some say the criminals..."

  "And what is your opinion?"

  He shook his head. "In this country it is best to have no opinion."

  Short and sweet. I grinned at the back of his head.

  ***

  As we got closer to the city, more and more people appeared by the side of the road. When we finally reached the outskirts of San Salvador, there were masses of people everywhere. The sea of humanity was overwhelming. Just wave after wave of sad bastard souls ground down by the condition of simply being human in an underdeveloped country.

  "Luis," I said as I leaned forward and talked into his ear, "Tell me, which is the best beer?"

  He turned all the way around to grin at me, oblivious of the road. "Senor, without a doubt Suprema."

  I'd made a reservation at the Camino Real to be close to the US embassy. By the time we got to the hotel, I was sweating like a water buffalo in a mud hole and very thirsty to boot.

  "Luis," I said. "Do me the honor of joining me in the bar for a drink."

  He turned around again. His eyes had brightened and his grin showed a gap where a couple of teeth should have been. "Si, Senor. You do me a great honor." Tentatively, he extended his hand over the back of his seat. I took it. His hand was small and rough, but his grip was dry and firm.

  We got out of the car. I put my hand on his shoulder. He looked up at me. I was about three times his height.

  "Leave the bag in the car," I said. "I have a great thirst." I grabbed my suit jacket from the car and slung it over my shoulder.

  We walked through the lobby of the hotel and turned left into the lounge. It was dark and cool and almost empty. There were a couple of Americans at the bar who I took to be reporters, or even lower forms of life.

  The bar could have been in Singapore, Johannesburg or Rio. It was the same demented interior decorator at work in every hotel in the free world and selected locations in the former second world. If you had gone to sleep and just opened your eyes, you wouldn't have known where in the world you were. To paraphrase a former Vice President of Greek extraction, you seen one hotel, you seen them all.

  Luis followed me to a small table in the corner with a view of the doorway. The waiter was there before we sat down. I was impressed. The bar was a good-sized room and the guy had a long distance to traverse.

  "Luis, what will you have?"

  He stuck up hi
s index finger. "Una Suprema."

  "Dos Supremas, por favor," I said.

  I put my elbows on the table and looked at Luis' face. He couldn't have been more than forty but his face was deeply lined. There was a quiet dignity in his eyes.

  "Tell me, if I wanted to find out more about the kidnapping who should I talk to?"

  He dropped his gaze and spread his hands on the table. They were dirty and callused. "Senor, you should speak to Adolfo, the chauffeur."

  "Can you take me to him?"

  He nodded. "Si, Senor. The cousin of my wife lives across the street from his house."

  "Excellent," I said. "We'll see him tomorrow. Today I want to go to the embassy of the United States."

  "Senor, the embassy is closed. It is too late."

  "Very well," I said. "Tonight we drink. Tomorrow we go to the embassy."

  CHAPTER III

  I went down to dinner at eight-ten that night. I'd showered and changed and called Jim Broadbent at home to set up a meeting at nine the next morning. Broadbent wasn’t there so I left a message with his maid and hoped she’d remember to tell him.

  The dining room of the hotel was half-full, mostly with locals, from what I could tell. Almost everybody was smoking and a blue haze hung over the room. No point in asking for the no-smoking section. If they had one, it was probably located in Milwaukee.

  No more than half a second after I sat down, a guy slid into the chair across from me and pulled it up to the table.

  "Mind if I join you?" he said in English.

  I shrugged. "How can I mind a fait accompli?"

  He was one of the characters I'd seen drinking at the bar that afternoon. Thin and sallow with a stubbly beard that looked about a week old. His hair was a little too long. His voice had the rough edge that came from too many shots of bourbon at too many late night jazz joints.