CHAPTER 8
Policia
As we cruised at 35,000 feet over the Carribean in a big American Airlines jet, I thought about Tex and all the great times we had enjoyed together. Although Tex was twenty years older than I, he had a youthful spirit and a great positive attitude. Many times when he would call he’d find me depressed over a difficult case or poor finances. Each time he would quickly pick me up and have me laughing before he hung up. When I first started my practice, he got me off to a quick start with dozens of referrals and lots of encouragement. Rebekah liked Toni too and always looked forward to our get-togethers over the years. I prayed that our mission would be successful and I could return Tex to his home and family.
Monty seemed excited by the assignment and eager to get to Ecuador. He was a Vietnam vet, an expert on weaponry, and had converted his garage into a gun shop. An ex-Dallas cop, he liked action and wasn’t afraid of anyone. He had lost his job due to his inability to control his temper. The straw that broke the oxen’s back was his assault on a pimp who had beaten up one of his girls. Monty didn’t cut any slack to men who beat up women. He made the pimp look twice as bad as his lady of the night. Internal affairs made him a deal he couldn’t refuse—resign or get fired and charged with assault and battery.
Monty was tired of following unfaithful spouses and dishonest employees. He longed for some real action like what he saw when he was on active duty. As we got closer to our destination, we discussed strategy. I handed Monty a manilla envelope.
“Toni managed to get me some credit card receipts from Tex’s Citibank Visa account. One is for a Café Cultura for about $80, another one for an establishment called Il Grillo for $3.95, and the last one is to a store in Jardin Shopping Mall for $8.99.”
Monty opened the envelope and studied the receipts. “This will give us something to do if we strike out with the banker. I can’t believe Tex was so stupid to fall for this scam.”
“He’s always been a sucker for this kind of stuff,” I replied. “Last year it was a silver mine in Mexico. I thought I had talked him out of it, then I learn he had sent the promoter $10,000.”
Monty shook his head. “If he’s been kidnapped we’ll have to find him and break him out.”
I laughed. “We? I washed out of the Marines, remember?”
“Right. What I mean is: I’ve got a contact, if need be, where I can get a few mercenaries to help out.”
“Really? I don’t think I want to know about this.”
“Okay. We never had this conversation.”
I smiled and then turned my attention to my carry-on bag where I had stuck our tickets and a travel brochure. As we approached the Quito airport, UIO-Mariscal Sucre, I began reading the travel brochure about Ecuador that I’d managed to get from AAA the previous day.
Quito, the capital of Ecuador, was founded in the 16th century on the ruins of an Inca city and stands at an altitude of 2,850 m. Despite the 1917 earthquake, the city has the best-preserved, least altered historic centre in Latin America. The monasteries of San Francisco and Santo Domingo, and the Church and Jesuit College of La Compañía, with their rich interiors, are pure examples of the 'Baroque school of Quito', which is a fusion of Spanish, Italian, Moorish, Flemish, and indigenous art.
As interesting as the travel brochure was, somehow I didn’t figure we’d have much time for sightseeing. After we deplaned, we were herded into a large room where there were three long customs lines. Armed guards stood at each exit of the building. After an hour-long journey through customs, we were directed to a baggage claim area where all the luggage from the flight had been delivered. More armed guards were strategically placed throughout the airport, which I found a little unsettling. Finding our luggage wasn’t an easy task as hundreds of bags had been dumped in the middle of the room without any attempt at organization. Fortunately I had a distinct SMU decal on my suitcase which made it easier to spot. Monty traveled with a suitcase and golf bag. The golf bag was full of guns and ammunition that I feared might be discovered. If it was, our rescue effort would be ended before it got started. I suggested he buy his weapons once he got down to Ecuador, but he said he wouldn’t trust anything made in South America.
The taxi driver who won a spirited battle with three other drivers to get our business was named Juan. He said he would stick with us during our entire stay in Ecuador. He explained with the current state of unrest in the country that it wasn’t safe to take the trolebus, particularly in the Old City where rebels were known to be hiding. As Juan drove us through the city, I noticed guards armed with shotguns at every bank, every shopping center, and many of the buildings that we passed. Jeeps full of soldiers with machine guns were patrolling the streets and police cars were everywhere. It seemed we had ventured into a war zone.
We asked the taxi driver for a recommendation for a hotel for us to stay in. He surprised us when he said, “Café Cultura,” which apparently was a hotel as well as a restaurant. Tex must have gotten the same recommendation. The hotel was a post colonial two-storey building with a white terracotta tile roof. It was actually the former home of one of Quito's older families that had lived there thirty-five years earlier and subsequently became the French Cultural Centre. The building had been carefully restored, with special detail given to maintaining the unique characteristics of the original interior. It was surrounded by a lush garden, with secluded seating areas for relaxing or watching the resident hummingbirds do their thing—at least that’s what the postcard they were selling proclaimed.
After we checked in, Juan took our bags to our room and said he’d hang around the hotel lobby until we needed him. I asked him what I owed him and he said not to worry about it. We’d settle up at the end of each day. Once we were settled, I called home to tell Rebekah where we were staying. She wasn't home so I left a message. Later on we went down to the hotel restaurant, Café Bistro, for dinner. I asked Juan to join us. He declined at first, but finally agreed when I told him I wanted to ask him some questions. After we ordered, I showed him Tex’s picture. He said he hadn’t seen him. We asked him about the United Peoples Bank of Ecuador.
“It’s a big bank not too far from here. I can take you there in the morning,” Juan advised.
“Do you know anyone at the bank?” I asked.
“Sí, I drive Senor Lantz to his favorite restaurant once a week.”
“Who is Senor Lantz?”
“Why he is the assistant cashier—the second in command of operations.”
“Good, we need to meet with Victor Alfaro, a credit officer at the bank. It might be helpful if you introduced us to Senor Lantz.”
“Of course, I’d be happy to do so first thing in the morning.”
“Good. I think we are done with you for today. What do I owe you?”
Juan pulled out a small pad of paper and started doing some calculations. After a minute he said, "$16.00 U.S.”
I nodded, handed him a $20 bill, and said, “Keep the change.” He thanked me and left with a promise to meet us at 9:00 a.m. the following morning. Before going upstairs to our room I stopped by the front desk and showed everyone on duty Tex’s photograph. I wanted to know if anyone remembered him. One of them remembered him vaguely, but didn’t know much about his stay at the hotel. Apparently he had stayed there only one night and hadn’t made any friends. They suggested I check back in the evening when the rest of the staff would be on duty.
We were beat after getting up at 5:00 a.m., a nine-hour plane ride, and two more hours to finally get to our hotel, so we decided to go to bed. It was only 9:00 p.m. but it felt much later. Before we crashed I called Rebekah, as I had promised to do, to let her know we had arrived safely. She was greatly relieved to hear from me as she worried incessantly when I traveled. I promised her I’d call her again the following day.
When my head hit the pillow, I fell into a dreamless sleep and didn’t stir until the glare of the sun woke me the following morning. I stretched and then looked over at Monty. He was snoring. I fumbled
for my watch and was shocked to see it was already 8:30 a.m. “Jeez!” I exclaimed as I stumbled out of bed. Monty opened his eyes and looked over at me.
“Time to get up. Only 30 minutes until Juan gets here.”
Monty moaned and rolled over. I laughed and headed for the bathroom. Miraculously, at 9:00 a.m. we were downstairs drinking a cup of coffee when Juan showed up. We asked him if he wanted to join us for breakfast. He declined, stating he’d already eaten with his wife and family. After promising him we’d be only ten or fifteen minutes, he went back outside to wait.
“So how are we going to play this?” Monty asked.
“I don’t know. Should we be honest and straightforward or play it close to the vest?”
“I don’t think we should tell him we know about the scam or the money. Let's just ask him if has seen Tex and see what he says. We can play it by ear after that.”
“Okay, I agree,” I said. “I’ll go tell Juan we are ready to go.”
The ride to the bank was as exciting as a roller coaster ride at Six Flags. Traffic was brutal and Juan darted through it, tailgating the cars in front of him, slamming on his brakes and changing lanes continually. I breathed a sigh of relief when Juan pulled up in front of the United Peoples Bank of Ecuador and parked. We all got out and walked into the bank. The lobby was spacious with a high ceiling supported by thick wooden beams. It looked like it had originally been built as a church. Juan stopped at the reception desk and spoke with the receptionist. She got up and walked into an interior room. A few moments later she returned followed by a short, thin man with a mustache. He was wearing an expensive suit and a Rolex watch. The man shook Juan’s hand like he was an old friend and then Juan turned to us.
“Gentlemen, this is Senor Lantz.”
We all shook hands and I said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. This is a beautiful facility you have here.”
“Thank you,” he said smiling. “It was once a monastery. The bank bought the building when the monks moved to the countryside in 1957.”
“I see.”
Juan excused himself and went out the front door. He said, “So, gentlemen. What can I do for you?”
I looked at Monty and then said, “Well, I’m an attorney from Dallas and I'm searching for a client who seems to have disappeared.” I pulled out the picture of Tex and showed it him.
Senor Lantz looked at the picture and nodded affirmatively. “Yes, I know this man. This is Dr. Wells’ brother from Texas. Dr. Wells was a longtime customer. His death was so tragic. Did you know him?”
“No, Tex never mentioned him.”
“He was actually a half brother. They were not close apparently. It's unfortunate that you never met him. You would have liked him. He was a most honorable gentleman.”
“I bet I would have,” I said. “When did you last see Tex?”
“A week or ten days ago. After he wired his inheritance to his bank in the Cayman Islands, he left to go back to America.”
“Was there some kind of probate procedure or something that he went through before you turned over the money to him?”
“Of course. He had the appropriate papers to prove he was the next of kin and sole heir of Dr. Wells’ estate.”
“Did you handle the transaction?” Monty asked.
“No, Victor Alfaro handled it. He was our assistant cashier.”
“Is he around?” Monty asked. “Tex might have told him something that would help us locate him.”
“Of course, but unfortunately Senor Alfaro is no longer employed by the bank.”
“He’s not?” Monty said.
This wasn’t a shock to me as had I suspected Senor Alfaro wouldn’t want to be around when the bank found out they’d been robbed. Besides, he had to go collect his cut of the inheritance. I wondered if he’d gone to the Cayman Islands. That might be the next place to look for Tex.
“No, he resigned to take a position with another institution,” Senor Lantz replied.
“Do you have a home address for him?” Monty asked.
“Yes, but I’m afraid I can’t give that information out.”
I said, “Senor Lantz, I understand your reluctance to give out personal information, but my client is missing. His wife is sitting at home worried sick about him. Victor Alfaro may know where he is. We need his address and the name of the bank where the money was wired.”
“Okay, I’ll give you his telephone number but not his address. The name of the bank is no problem.”
“Thank you. We really appreciate your cooperation.”
“I’m only helping you because I was very fond of Dr. Wells. He was a true comrade and if I can help you find his brother, then, of course, I would want to do that.”
“Of course,” I said.
The bank was called NCB. It was an old bank that had been around since 1886. We borrowed a telephone and called the number that Senor Lantz had given us but the number had been disconnected. We thanked Senor Lantz and went back to the hotel. There was a message from Paula to call the office so I did.
“Paula?”
“Stan, I’m so glad I caught you. Are you two all right?”
“Yes, we’re fine. How’s everything there?”
“Okay, listen. Tex called here a few hours ago. He’s in jail at a police station in the Old City. You need to get there soon. He says they plan to move him to the Garcia Morena Prison in a few days. He’s been told once he’s moved there he may never get out.”
“Why is he in jail?”
“I don’t know. He only had a minute to talk. That’s all he told me.”
“They must have figured out he wasn’t Dr. Wells’ brother.”
“God, I hope not,” Paula said. “Is there anything I can do here?”
“No, just tell Toni that we’ll do everything we can to get him out of prison.”
“All right. I will.”
“How’s your investigation going?”
“Fine. I’ve been interviewing witnesses trying to find out who else had a motive to kill Tuttle.”
“Any luck?”
“Yeah, he wasn’t Mr. Popularity. I’ll tell you about when you get back.”
“Sure, I’ll call you if anything positive develops.”
“Please keep in touch. We are all worried about you.”
The news that Tex was in jail hit me like a Mack truck. How in the hell was I going to deal with a client in prison in Ecuador for bank robbery. How was I going to explain how I ended up with the loot? A loud banging on our door interrupted my contemplation.
“Policia! Abra la puerta! Policia!
The door burst open and half a dozen armed policemen stormed through the door. Two of them grabbed Monty and slammed him against the wall. A third tackled me and pinned me to the floor. Terror swept through me as I felt the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. We were both rudely jerked to our feet and escorted downstairs to a waiting police van. Monty looked at me with anguish in his eyes as he stepped inside and took a seat. I felt like I needed to puke.