Clint Faraday Mysteries Collection 5 books: Murderous Intent Collector's Edition Read online

  Clint Faraday Mysteries Collection D

  Murderous Intent

  5 books 16-20

  Collector’s edition

  The Time Factor

  A Long Way to Fall

  Dead Low Tide

  A Moving Target

  Dead Ahead

  Collector’s edition © 2014

  Smashwords edition © 2014

  all rights reserved: no part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any other information retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright holder/ publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  About the author

  C. D. Moulton has traveled extensively over much of the world both in the music business, where he was a rock guitarist, songwriter and arranger and in an import/export business. He has been everything from a bar owner to auto salvage (junkyard) manager, longshoreman to high steel worker, orchid grower to landscaper, tropical fish farmer to commercial fisherman. He started writing books in 1983 and has published more than 200 books as of January 1, 2014. His most popular books to date are about research with orchids, though much of his science fiction and fantasy work has proven popular. He wrote the CD Grimes, PI series and the Det. Nick Storie series, Clint Faraday series and many other works.

  He now resides in Puerto Armuelles, Panamá, where he writes books, plays music with friends, does research with orchids and medicinal plants – and pursues his favorite ways to spend his time: beach bum and roaming the mountain jungles doing his botanical research. He has lately become involved in fighting for the rights of the indigenous people, who are among his closest friends, and in fighting the extreme corruption in the courts and police in Panamá.

  He offers the free e-book, Fading Paradise, that explains what he has been through because of the corruption.

  Clint Faraday Mysteries

  #16

  The Time Factor

  © 2011 & 2013 by C. D. Moulton

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblances to actual persons or events is purely coincidental unless otherwise stated.

  A call about trouble between neighbors – but the caller was dead at the time the call was received. Blah people in town. Too blah to believe.

  Contents

  Police Report

  Strange?

  Start from Nothing

  Blah People

  From Nowhere

  Finding Hidden Things

  Scientific Non.facts

  Checking Things

  Passports

  Reverse the Scam

  Update

  Clint Faraday #16

  The Time Factor

  Police Report

  Clint Faraday, retired PI from Florida, USA, now living in Bocas del Toro, Panamá, brought in the corvina, a nice one, and put it in the bait well with the other he caught only a few minutes earlier. That would be enough fish for now. He decided to see if there were any langosta of a decent size at the mouth of the pass between the Zapatillas, then he’d laze around a bit, then maybe go home.

  He started the engine and headed out toward the pass when his cellular buzzed so he answered. It was Sergio Sanchez, captain of the police in Bocas Town, who Clint often worked with. Clint was retired (Hah!), but was back in the detective business only a couple of weeks after moving to Panamá six years ago. The cases here were different and looked at from a somewhat different perspective than in the states.

  “Buenos!” Clint greeted. “Que pasa?”

  “Hi, Clint. We seem to be having quite a bit of trouble from that John Benton character and the Sanders. Sandy and Herb. Benton called to say they were threatening him because his horse got into their garden and ruined something or other. He says they opened the gate themselves. He’s not responsible for anything if they left the gate from his property open – with which I agree.

  “He said to tell you they were sneaking around your house and Judi’s (Clint’s attractive nextdoor neighbor who helped him in a lot of his cases). He doesn’t trust them since that incident with the missing TV.”

  “When was this? The call from him?”

  “About five minutes ago. Four thirty three on the book.”

  “I don’t picture him calling you. Not John. He might smack Herb in the puss, which he needs at times. He wouldn’t call you.”

  “His voice? It was him, I’m sure. No one else has that raspy a voice around here. You can listen to the recording. I already sent Jorge and Gino over to see what’s happening. I just wanted to tell you about the sneaking around your place.”

  “I really don’t see Herb or Sandy sneaking around my place or anyone else’s. Something big must have happened to make him call you that he isn’t talking about.”

  “I agree there! I was ... wait a moment. Jorge is calling on the radio ... great lord! Benton is dead! His head’s nearly cut off his body!”

  “I’ll be there as fast as this rig will make it!”

  Strange?

  He made it to Bocas in sixteen minutes, which was good for his rig. He tied to the police dock and went into the office to find that Sergio had gone to Benton’s place. It was close to Clint’s so he got in his boat and went around to tie to his own deck. He could walk the six or seven blocks to Benton’s house (if they had blocks on that road).

  Judi (Judi Lum), his attractive neighbor who helped him with a lot of his cases was waiting for him and said Sergio had called her to tell him Doc had come up with something strange.

  “Strange?”

  “Something about him being dead for more than an hour. Probably more like an hour and a half. Maybe that means something to you?”

  “Yeah! He called Sergio less than half an hour ago!”

  “I see.” Nobody ever said Judi was slow. She walked along with him to Benton’s place. Half the police department was there, it seemed. It was a strange conglomeration of police and Doc’s crew. Doc was the ME for Isla Colón. Sergio met Clint and said it was the kind of thing that he seemed interested in. He had always helped the police when asked and they might need his experience with this kind of thing. It was rare in Bocas to have murders. This one was more than a bit puzzling.

  Oh. There were two reporters who liked to hammer at the police there. If Clint just showed up and started doing anything or asking questions they would print that he was intruding into the investigation and the police had enough of a problem when they had to actually solve a case – or something worse. This made it plain that his help as an expert was requested.

  “What’s this crap about him being dead awhile before he called your office about it?” Clint asked when the reporters were enough of a distance away that they couldn’t hear.

  “I can let you hear the recording. I could have sworn that it was Benton’s voice and even his phrasing. I talked to Sandy and Herb and they said there wasn’t any problem with him about his horse or anything else. They’d gotten along well enough since they made it plain to him they weren’t backing down and letting him intimidate them like some of these spineless gringo wimps do or something. You can talk to them if you like. They’re out back and Jorge is questioning them about people being seen looking into the houses in the area. So far they haven’t known anything about any of the things Benton was supposedly complaining about.

  “You know how I can tell a disguised voice, Clint. This one fooled me.”

  “It tells us one very important thing. Whoever it was is
someone who knew him and the people around here pretty damned well!”

  “Yes. They would have to be around him to know the phrasing he would use.”

  “But there’s another little detail we probably should consider. They haven’t been around him for the past month or so.”

  Sergio thought for a minute, started a shrug, then brightened. “Ah! They didn’t know the trouble with Sandy and Herb was resolved!”

  Clint nodded, then said he was going to nose around a bit. He’d go to the station later to listen to the recording of the phony complaint. He might be able to catch something.

  He looked over the outside, found nothing out of place, then went in. Doc had the body on the Gurney for transport. Clint opened the bag and took a quick look-see, then said it was someone pretty powerful to cut that much with one swing, with which Doc agreed. “Also tall. The cut was slightly downward from the side. Benton was only five eight or nine, but this one will be over six feet.”

  “That reduces the suspect list to only five thousand people here,” Clint replied – which got him the finger. He said he would look over the place as soon as the CSI team left. They’d be there for another three or four hours. Clint knew forensic science procedures as well or better than the team. He’d be damned careful not to damage anything that could be called evidence. Clint pointed to the two reporters. Doc grinned and called, “Okay boys! Transport! I’ll want to know a few answers about this one so be careful. I have the equipment at the morgue to find what I don’t understand about this pretty fast. Go, people! The trail grows stale!”

  He winked to Clint and headed outside. The reporters were crowding around him (as much as three people can crowd around anyone). He was telling them he had to have some equipment to answer a question or two and he wasn’t about to stick his neck out through stupid speculation. He’d leave that kind of thing to them. He said it in a good-natured way, but many a truth is spoken in jest. They’d follow him back to the morgue and hang around as long as he wanted. He’d call for some piece of equipment, swear and go back into the lab. The reporters would wait. He’d drop a few tidbits about “... the time factor, it has to be about the time factor!” or something and they’d die of curiosity. Clint already knew what that would be about.

  Clint waited until the van and the reporters had left, then went over the house and murder room carefully. The forensics team was good. They hadn’t missed anything he could find.

  He soon went out and to the police station. Judi had been talking with the neighbors the whole time. She was a genius about getting information people didn’t know they’d given. She walked back to his place with him. All she’d learned was that there were three or four men and a woman who had been hanging around the past two days. One of the men had been here before, maybe six or eight months ago, and had been on what seemed to be friendly terms with Benton. They were just normal people.

  “They big?” Clint asked.

  “Well, two are tall. They played soccer and basketball when they were here before. They may have been Panamanian. They seemed Latino, at least. At least a couple of them spoke English and all of them spoke decent Spanish. Not exactly Panamanian Spanish, but very good. They would sometimes speak in English when they weren’t including a native.

  “Some people say they were all here, some say only the one. I think they stayed in town and the one came here with Benton before. This time they all came a couple of times and the one by himself once that they knew about. They didn’t see any of them today.”

  “I imagine they were careful not to be seen,” Clint said. “I’ll have to find them. Quietly. We don’t want anyone to know I’m even looking for them.”

  “I figured. I let them tell me all kinds of things without asking about anything.”

  “I know your method. It works once in five times with me. It always works with you.”

  “Not always! I’ve told you fifty billion times not to exaggerate!”

  They laughed and chatted, Clint got his moto out and headed for town. He wanted to know which one of them was a good mimic, too.

  Sergio set the recording to the time received. Benton’s voice came on asking for him. “Yes. Go ahead.”

  “This is John Benton, on the Saigon road.”

  “Yes?”

  “I gotta ask you to get those lousy damned jaw-flapper Sanders slugs off my back! They even had the balls to threaten me because my horse got in their flower garden! Hell, they left the gate open themselves! It ain’t no fault’a mine if they leave the damned gate open themselves! Back to home the heat would arrest them!

  “They was sneakin’ around my place and that Clint guy’s place at night, his and that Chink woman right next door to his place. They done threatened to slice me up if I don’t pay for their dam flowers or somethin’ like. You gotta do somethin’ about those shits!”

  It went on like that for about a minute. Sergio said he’d send a man over to warn them to stay off his property. Clint had smirked at two spots, making Sergio deeply thoughtful. He suddenly brightened.

  “Themselves?”

  “Uh-huh. He would always say ‘hisself’ and ‘theirselfs’ when he was ranting about someone.”

  “I should have caught those items. I’ll have to give myself a severe reprimand for shirking my duty!”

  They talked a bit about the case. Clint said he had a little information to check out. He’d be in touch as soon as he learned anything. It was hard to picture someone like Benton being involved in anything that would get him killed.

  Start from Nothing

  Clint would have to start from nothing here, really. What he knew about Benton was next to nothing. He hadn’t cared for the ass from the first time they met at El Toro Loco when he had just moved down there from the states. Benton had inherited the place when his spinster aunt died, being her only living relative. From the things he knew about her he could deduce that she had moved to Bocas Town to get away from him and his friends in Mississippi or Missouri or somewhere in that area. He was a typical redneck – which Clint had enough of to last a lifetime from a few recent cases. Of all the places a redneck shouldn’t come, Panamá was near the top of the list and Bocas del Toro, Panamá, was on top or as close to the top as could be imagined.

  That could be behind this. It looked, from the way he was sliced, that there was a lot of emotion behind the swing. Clint wanted to know about the three or four men and a woman.

  Bob, at the Golden Grill, knew the woman’s name was Lucia Aumond. She was recently from Louisiana, but was born in Panamá in the canal zone. Her father was a gringo from the states. One of the men she had called Lyle. He was the closest to a gringo in looks. Lucia had a good figure but a more-or-less plain face. Lyle was about six two, 250 or a few more pounds. They were all staying at the Olas. They weren’t popular with the gringos or the natives, though they weren’t necessarily unpopular. Sort of neutral. People didn’t seek them, but they didn’t avoid them, either.

  “They’re just ... there, if you know what I mean,” Billy explained. “You know the type. Sort of background figures. Like, ‘We were sitting on the deck and he came out and nodded. I don’t remember when he left’ sort of thing. The kind of people you don’t really notice. I doubt I could describe any of them very much. Two men who were sort of mousy and two who were tall – I think. Even that’s like trying to bring it up from the haze.

  “You think they were mixed up in the Benton thing?

  “I don’t suppose he’ll be greatly missed. He could be an ass, but that was the way he was raised. It’s not entirely his fault. He’s just being his Poppa. Lots like that in the states, particularly around the Ozarks and surroundings and down through central Florida. Very cliquish types. Ten friends and fifty enemies. That’s why I can’t believe any of those five did it. They’re the type who don’t have real friends or real enemies. That’s all he had so they just wouldn’t fit.”

  The others nodded their agreement. Clint said that was sort of his impression.
There just wasn’t anyone else around who fit the picture of his killer, either. He was the type you wanted to punch out, but you felt sorry for him more than hating him.

  “Yeah,” Jim agreed. “Half the time you wanted to smack him in the puss. The rest of the time you sort of felt sorry for him. This wasn’t the place for his type. A few of us are a little bigoted and maybe one or two are real bigots (Tom was there. He was the type Clint didn’t like. There was something wrong with anyone who wasn’t of white European ancestry and from Vermont or New Hampshire or wherever he was from. Jim got along with him pretty well most of the time, but he could grind on anyone’s nerves at times. He was the last one who might glom onto the fact he was the object of the statement.), but most are pretty open. Boquete’s got the snobby bigot types more than here. It’s why I avoid the place.”

  They chatted about various things. Clint had what he could learn from them so soon excused himself and went on to talk to others. He didn’t learn more than that everyone who encountered the five had much the same to say about them. It was fairly obvious killing Benton had to do with something that had happened somewhere else.

  Somewhere at least one of the five was at the time it happened.

  Clint walked on down past the super and to the old ferry dock. A few people were fishing and some kids were swimming on the other side of the building, ducking each other and making a lot of happy noise. Two of the Indio children about nine or ten years old came running up to hug him and say, “Yantoro! Moga me dende?” (“Greetings! Where are you going?”) He played his game with a quarter in one hand and a dime in the other. He put his hands behind his back and passed the coins back and forth, then brought his fists out front for them to slap the hand they wanted. They got the coin in the fist they slapped.

  “I’m just walking around looking for the four men and a woman from the states, but born here.”