Tourist Trapped (6 page)

“Zilch.”

“Great, we got a dud team.”

They passed stores such as Lacoste and Puma, but Chad wanted to pick up a Cancun-inspired baseball cap. “What, exactly, is Mexican about this shopping center? Most of these stores could be found at any upmarket mall back home.”

“Based on where you go and what you do, a person could spend more than a week in Cancun and never know they were outside the States,” she said.

A smattering of gondolas, canvas covered motorboats and paddleboats floated down a manmade river that cut through the mall and out to the lagoon, gracing the locale with a touch of Venice. Familiar businesses also lined the canal: Chili’s, Coach, Benetton. One of the motorboats crawled down the waterway with a single passenger, a young guy wearing a green baseball cap and sunglasses.

“Kinda boring to ride alone.” Chad nodded toward the guy.

Amanda surveyed the fellow in the runabout. “His wife’s probably shopping.”

The path dead-ended at a boardwalk that ran along the edge of the mall. Diners sat in front of open air restaurants, munching on shrimp and hamburgers while enjoying an unobstructed view of the lagoon.

“Sorry, I’m probably taking the longest route possible. It’s been a while since I’ve been here.” Amanda turned back and steered them through another route, passing a wall that resembled a Mayan ruin—something straight out of an Indiana Jones flick.

It didn’t seem real, any of it. Chad Cooper, wandering through Cancun with Amanda Sloane, passing shops and tourists while they searched for a missing woman and her husband. No leads and little to go on, they roamed a shopping mall.

How typically American.

“Let’s get your hat.” She stopped in front of a souvenir shop that touted T-shirts, baseball caps, and anything else that had enough room to plaster a logo on it. He paid a king’s ransom for a white cap with “Cancun” embroidered on it.

They crossed over a bridge and Chad caught sight of the bored dude in the boat, fiddling with his smartphone. So much for enjoying the scenery.

“Finally,” Amanda said.

Chad spotted the aquarium, set against the lagoon.

Day one: dolphins and a mall on an island. Searching for Rebecca wouldn’t be dull.

NINE

Thursday December 10, Late Afternoon

“I think you
might enjoy this, Cooper.” Chad followed Amanda into a nondescript restaurant—except for the tables overlooking a large pool. A half dozen swimmers stood in the water, while two dolphins cruised around them.

“Cool.” Barely a wall separated the glistening, aquamarine pool from the steely blue lagoon. The dolphins swirled and glided among the patrons.

“The staff throws fish next to the swimmers so the dolphins will come in close. The tourists can touch the animals as they swim by, as long as they avoid the dolphin’s face and blowhole,” Amanda said.

At first it unnerved Chad—a bit like sharks circling—but, as he watched, he sensed the swimmers’ awe as they extended their hands and skimmed the sides of the large, gentle mammals. Exclamations of delight reverberated around the pool.

He wondered if the dolphins could jump high enough to see freedom on the other side. “Swimming with dolphins has to be an incredible experience, but what does PETA say about it?”

“I’m certain it’s on their list, as it should be.”

While they waited for a supervisor, Amanda and Chad ordered a couple of beers and watched as the eager participants moved to the side of the pool. One tourist waded out about five feet in the chest-deep water and lay belly-down, spread-eagled. The trainer signaled and simultaneously the two dolphins propelled the swimmer by her feet, skimming her across the water to the other end of the pool.

The rest of the group took their turns flying across the water and the session ended. Chad envisioned his thirteen-year-old Skye hurtling across the surface, laughter bubbling out of her. Pain, like a needle, shot through his heart.

“Señora Sloane? Please come with me.” A supervisor led them out of the restaurant and toward the aquarium facility. Chad spotted the boat guy continuing his slow cruise down the canal.

They crossed over a catwalk, passed behind a small indoor pool, and arrived at the interactive pool. The swimmers from the last dolphin session milled around, dressed in shirts and shorts, snapping pictures of the marine mammals. The supervisor introduced Amanda and Chad to the trainers and explained the situation. Chad found it difficult to focus on the business at hand while hanging around a tropical paradise—commercialism and all, he found Cancun enchanting.

A considerably more focused Amanda showed the trainers pictures of Rebecca and Trent.

Chad’s gaze kept wandering to the dolphins gliding through the water a few feet away. A single flick of the tail propelled one animal halfway around the pool. The other rolled over a couple of times and then surfaced and emitted a high-pitched squeal. Chad swore the dolphin called to him. Although he pitied the creatures for their captivity, he understood the attraction.

“Isabel, this is the couple, isn’t it?” Trainer Marco pointed at the picture. “Isn’t he the guy who said he didn’t feel well and left?”

The woman examined the picture. “Sí. They both came down and changed into their swimsuits, but right before we jumped into the water he said he felt sick and had to leave. He told his wife he’d meet her at the hotel.”

Marco nodded. “She stayed—said she wasn’t going to miss her chance with the dolphins. He changed and left.”

“It was strange,” Isabel said. “He’d been joking and then he said he needed to go. He didn’t look ill—you know, sometimes sickness comes on so fast you turn green. Not him.”

“Did he appear drunk?” Amanda said.

“No—you know, I think he complained his wife wouldn’t let him drink until after the dolphin swim,” Isabel said. “Maybe that was his problem, is he an alcoholic?”

“I don’t think so,” Amanda said. “But who knows what we’ll uncover about Trent Adams before we’re finished.”

* * *

“Some of us
come for the sun, sand and sea, but others come for the booze, bands and bad boys—or bimbos, depending on your preference. Welcome to the original gateway to the wild side, Señor Frog’s,” Amanda said. She watched Cooper size up the establishment’s flamboyant facade, which featured a frog the size of Godzilla.

“It doesn’t look any more Mexican than La Isla mall,” Cooper said.

“Exactly.”

It took forever to make their way to the bar. Cooper’s head swiveled, surveying his surroundings. Crazy signs covered the walls and ceiling, and giggling families waved their arms overhead while standing on their chairs, engaged in antics led by waiters. The lunacy would increase as the night wore on.

“What do you think?” she said.

“Same designer used for the law firm?”

“As a matter-of-fact, you’re beholding the original plans for my office—right down to the giant plastic frog and the water slide into the lagoon. Mine would have dumped our clients’ husbands into Lake Michigan.”

“What the—?” Mouth agape, Cooper stared at a section of the ceiling crafted to resemble the world from a fish’s perspective. Simulated bottom halves of relaxed tourists floating in water hung from above. Fiberglass butts—in a variety of swimsuit styles—peeked through inner tubes, each paired with dangling feet.

“The first time I saw the ceiling I decided fish had a lot to put up with—and notice the barstools?” She pointed to seats molded into plump keisters sans the inner tubes. “Check out the one at the end of the bar.” A pudgy, white-haired senior citizen had settled himself into one of the bikini-butted barstools. He chose a big-booty seat boasting a tiny, painted-on thong bikini.

“My brain can’t reconcile gramps and the shapely derrière. Synapses are shorting out; I have to turn away before my head explodes.” Cooper shook off the sight and resumed casing the joint.

“Good news, you won’t have to see him.”

She steered Cooper to the other side of the bar and pointed to a stool with a Superman logo on the trunks. “Have a seat.”

Cooper ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “Not exactly what I imagined searching for Rebecca would be like.” He ventured onto the seat as if slime covered it.

Amanda chose a barstool with a polka-dotted behind.

Barely settled, a smooth, young arm slid its way up to Cooper’s shoulder. He glanced at the palm planted on him and then eyed up the owner of the appendage.

“Kamikaze shot, señor?” A scantily clothed, dark-eyed beauty sidled up to him, whistle around her neck and a bottle full of booze in hand.

“Maybe later, señorita,” Amanda said.

The gal flashed a wide smile at Cooper and sashayed off.

A virile young bartender bounded over, a bandanna across his forehead and a lanyard with a plastic card around his neck, he rested his hands on the bar. “Welcome to Señor Frog’s. I’m Eduardo. What’ll you have?”

“Negra Modelo for me,” Amanda said.

“Make that two.”

Amanda opened her sisal tote bag and retrieved the pictures of Rebecca and Trent that Cooper had generated from the forgotten camera. Dragging along a full-fledged member of the techie squad had its perks: one minute a lone camera, a half hour later a pile of printed photos tracking the couple’s activities.

“Where are they?” Amanda said. “Cozumel? Playa del Carmen? If Rebecca and Trent took a group tour and disappeared, we should have heard something—the tour agency would contact the hotel at least.” She shuffled through the photos until she found the series of snapshots from Señor Frog’s. A beaming Trent and a stiff Rebecca posed beneath balloon hats with half yards sitting in front of them, emblazoned with the establishment’s logo. A couple of the photos included a waiter kissing Rebecca’s cheek.

Something didn’t feel right. Romance wafted through Cancun like the scent of cheap rum, and Amanda knew the seduction of sun and sea better than anybody, her stomach tightening with recollections of her long-ago past. The Adams couple should be all over each other. Why no pictures of Trent—instead of the waiter—smooching Rebecca?

The bartender delivered the beers. “You’ve been to Cancun before, sí?”

“Sí,” Amanda said.

“On your honeymoon?”

Cooper’s hand waved. “No, no. We’re not married.”

Don’t go there, Cooper.

The waiter’s eyebrow flew up and a shit-eating grin covered his face. “Oh…yo comprendo. You two—” He waggled his finger at both of them, winked and made a clicking sound.

Cooper’s hand shook again in protest. “No. Amanda’s my boss. There’s nothing…” He turned a lovely hue of eggplant.

“So Señorita Amanda is single?” The bartender’s hand settled on Amanda’s arm. “Muy bien.”

Here we go.
Amanda prepared herself for an evening of unabashed flirtation from Eduardo. Feigning marriage would have been so much simpler. She knew lothario wouldn’t quit until he dragged her onto the dance floor.
Good luck, kid
.

A waiter ran up to the counter with an order, distracting Eduardo for the time being.

Amanda took a swig of her Modelo, enjoying the cold bite. Cooper hadn’t touched his, so focused on the action around him. He absently twisted his wedding ring.

“Now that you’re more familiar with Cancun, do you think you’ll make a trip down?”

“Me?”

“You,” she said, nodding toward his ring, “and your family. You know, the rest of the Coopers?”

“Um, I don’t think that would work right now.”

“Jaz mentioned you had little kids, probably would be best to wait until they got older.”

“Little kids?”

Amanda blushed. “I’m sorry; she said you have pictures of youngsters in your office. I assumed they were your children.”

Cooper’s eyes didn’t smile with his lips. “They’re old pictures. My favorites.”

Time to drop that subject.
Evidently she’d struck a nerve—divorcing maybe? But, then, why the ring?

Amanda flipped through more of the pictures. “I see a lot of snapshots of Rebecca at Isla Mujeres. I think we should check it out tomorrow.”

A pair of eyes bored into her back. She turned around, expecting to see Eduardo, but she didn’t recognize anyone. Their bandannaed Casanova then strutted over with a couple of compliments and another pair of beers.

She showed the Señor Frog’s photos to him. “Do you by any chance remember this couple? They were here a few days ago. Or do you know the server?”

He pointed at the kissing waiter. “That’s Pedro.” He whistled and waved over another handsome employee. All the male staff at Señor Frog’s had good looks and reeked of testosterone. Dancing with these young men kept the ladies coming back—even dragging their husbands along.

Pedro scanned the pictures. “I remember them. Her name’s Rebecca, I think.”

“Is there anything special you can recall about her or her husband? Something unusual?” Amanda asked.

Pedro cocked his head. “She’s a great dancer, but so sad.”

Sad? On a trip for two to Cancun?
“What do you mean?” Amanda said.

“I felt really sorry for the lady. Her husband didn’t mind hitting on other women on the dance floor—right in front of her. He was a skank.”

Trouble in paradise?

* * *

“Is Trent Adams
a bit of a bad boy?” Chad said, before the final bite of his tasty lasagna—impressive, coming from the kitchen of a Mexican resort.

“Sounds as if he could be trouble—it figures Miriam’s spawn would pick a dud.” Amanda gnawed on a shrimp fajita, the juices running down her chin. She wiped her face and stared out the open patio doors of her room, into the darkness, as if she could see the ocean that lay beyond the lighted pools and restaurants.

“Why do you say that?” He set his empty plate on the desk and poured another glass of Malbec for both of them, noticing the order in Amanda’s room. Not a blouse or a shoe in sight.

“The girl was denied an identity the first decade of her life.”

“Come again?”

Amanda raised her hand and chewed a mouthful of tortilla and seafood before answering. “My father didn’t acknowledge Rebecca as his daughter until he left Mom and me. I was twenty-one, so Rebecca had to be about eleven. She’d been around us a lot. Dad said Miriam and her daughter didn’t have many opportunities, so they came along with us on a lot of day trips to places such as museums or the zoo. In later years I think Mom suspected. She bowed out a lot and let the four of us go. Dad and I would joke together and Miriam and Rebecca tagged along, like an afterthought. It had to be hard on what little ego remained.” She popped the last bit of fajita into her mouth, jumped up, and cleared the coffee table.

Chad wondered how much ego had been left intact in his own kids as he helped her remove dirty napkins and silverware.

Amanda pulled piles of papers out of her briefcase and spread them across the table in the sitting area. “We’ll start tomorrow with a visit to the catamaran before it departs and then take a ferry to Isla Mujeres. There are quite a few pictures of the boat trip and their time on the island.” She flipped through the photos from the camera. “A lot of pictures correlate with some of the trips, but I don’t see any snapshots for others.” She picked up some of the souvenir photos. “I don’t see any for the discos or the jungle tour.”

A cell phone rang and Amanda grabbed it. “Hi Matt.” She pointed at the phone and lipped, “Give me a minute,” walking onto the balcony.

Chad examined the photos and thought back to the early years with Danielle and their family vacations. Camping in the Dakotas, touring the landmarks of D.C., beach bumming in South Carolina. One of them always had a camera—of course, one of them!

Amanda returned to the room. “I’ll let her know. Love you.” She tossed the phone on the table and resumed surveying the photos.

“Boss, do you think there’s a second camera? Could they have his and hers?”

“This one looks expensive, but I suppose they could have another one.”

He remembered how Danny avoided his SLR, complaining of its complexity. “Maybe they have a spare one that’s cheaper and simpler.”

“Could be…possibly a waterproof one they used on the jungle tour.” Amanda picked up the envelope from Ian and opened the clasp. “Now that we’re not in public, let’s see who Ian caught.” Her eyes lit up as she pulled out the prints. “Well, well, lookie here.” She raised the blown-up snapshot so Chad could see it. “If I’m not mistaken, that big belly belongs to Senator Roger Kelly. Isn’t he a Democrat on the Ag Committee?” She handed the first photo to Chad and shuffled through the others. “I don’t recognize any of his cohorts.”