Deadly Honeymoon

CHAPTER ONE

The wedding was glorious. Katie was beautifully radiant. Mac was noticeably nervous. And Ben Norris was beaming in a manner that only the father of the bride can.

Attending the ceremony at the magnificent Saint Bartholomew’s Episcopal Church on Park Avenue was a veritable ‘who’s who’ of the New York business and advertising community along with many civic and political leaders. The church was near to overflowing.

After taking their vows, the couple and their guests moved across 50th Street to the Waldorf Astoria Hotel for the reception and an evening of celebration. It was a perfect day from beginning to end.

The bride and groom spent the night in a suite at the Waldorf. They had breakfast in the room before a limo picked up the newlyweds and took them to JFK to catch a plane for San Juan, Puerto Rico and a ten day honeymoon stay at the Caribe Hilton where a suite awaited the couple.

* * *

A little turbulence shouldn’t spoil the flight, Mac said as the plane tried to climb over a patch of rough weather somewhere off the coast of Florida.

You know how I feel about flying, Katie replied.

Well, unless we took a boat, this is the only way to get to Puerto Rico.

I’m sorry for being such a scaredy-cat. Sooner or later I’m going to go to a psychologist and find out what’s behind my fear of flying. She held up her hand. Don’t tell me it’s about control.

Okay, I won’t, but you’ll end up paying some shrink a couple of hundred bucks an hour to tell you what I’ve been telling you for nothing.

But it feels different when a professional tells you things like that.

Hey it’s your call. I’m not going to let this discussion turn into our first argument as Mr. and Mrs. Scott McFarland. Here’s a better idea; let’s have another planter’s punch. They come with the territory up here in first class.

So if the drinks weren’t free, you’d let me white knuckle it the rest of the way? Katie laughed.

By the time the flight attendant delivered the drinks the plane had avoided the weather and the flight smoothed out. Katie began to relax. A second drink assured it.

How many times have you been to Puerto Rico? Mac asked.

Daddy took Molly and me to the islands many times. His ad agency handles the Rums of Puerto Rico account; and we always stayed at the Caribe Hilton, which later became a client too.

So we’re getting a deal on the room? Mac asked.

The suite is a gift from Hilton management along with the lovely present they sent us.

Will we be getting some rum on the house when we visit the factory, the distillery or whatever they call the place where they make rum?

Always trying to avoid spending money. You’ll find out when we take the guided tour.

If we play this right, the McFarland’s will be able to eat, sleep and drink for free. That’s what I call a perfect honeymoon.

Is that all it takes to make our honeymoon perfect for you?

None of it would matter without you. He leaned over and kissed her.

Even though you’re a cheapskate, you can be so sweet at times. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it affectionately.

* * *

The couple walked through the hotel lobby; as they did heads turned. Katie was pretty, some may say beautiful, in a wholesome collegiate way even though she was thirty-three. At a trim five-eight with an erect carriage, she appeared taller. Katie had a natural charm and grace, which was amplified when she smiled or simply expressed herself with the light blue eyes she inherited from her father. Her stylish streaked blonde hair effectively topped off whatever she wore, and today was no exception. In contrast, Mac was a year older than his wife and nearly six-two with a tight sinewy body, not unlike that of a long-distant runner. His Irish heritage was displayed on his friendly face, with these strong features chiseled out of his very white skin. Mac’s thick jet-black hair was accented by his pale, almost sad, blue eyes.

After completing the registration process, Katie and Mac were taken to their room. Enjoy your stay at the Caribe Hilton, the bellman said as he opened the door to the spacious suite for the couple to enter.

This isn’t right, Katie said after opening the glass doors leading to the balcony.

Looks great to me, Mac said.

No, we were promised a corner suite overlooking the lagoon and the ocean. This is not the view I wanted. She shook her head in disapproval.

Katie called the front desk and had the situation resolved in a matter of minutes.

You’re right. This view is terrific, Mac said when they arrived at their new suite. I even like the color combination better."

Me too.

Of course, I would have stayed where we were.

I know that, but I want the best and I’m willing to pay for it.

But this is free.

That’s not the point. They promised us something and now we have it.

Ah, you ad agency people are really demanding. Mac laughed.

If that’s how you see things, I demand you come here and kiss your wife.

After an early dinner and a stroll around the grounds, Katie and Mac were ready to turn in for the night. They opened the complimentary bottle of champagne placed in the room but only had a few sips before they both fell asleep.

A loud knock at the door woke them. Mac turned on the light, put on his bathrobe, and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. It was five in the morning. Before opening the door, Mac called out, Who is it?

The night manager, a voice said.

Show me some identification, Mac said and placed his eye to the peephole. Satisfied, he opened the door and was greeted by the manager and another man along with a uniformed policeman.

Sorry to arouse you so early in the morning, but there was an incident last night in the room originally assigned to you.

We never occupied the room.

It was not to our liking, Katie said as she entered the living room and finished tying the belt on her robe.

What was the nature of this incident? Mac asked.

Someone was shot and killed, the other man said and flashed his badge. I am Detective Sanchez of the Puerto Rico island police.

Why would we know anything about a shooting? Mac’s response was sharp.

We are exploring all avenues as part of the investigation. Did you know a Gabriel Silva or an Isabella Castillo? Sanchez said ignoring Mac’s protest.

You mean two people were killed in that suite? Katie asked?

No. The Castillo woman was found dead in bed, but the room was registered to Dr. Silva. And, sadly, he is missing. We wondered if he contacted you.

We don’t know these people, never heard of them. Other than our finding the room unsatisfactory, which the hotel later assigned to someone else, there’s no connection, Mac said.

Well, we need to follow up on all possibilities, the detective said in a nearly apologetic tone. I understand you’ll be spending ten days here.

Katie and Mac both nodded.

There may be a need to talk with you again, so don’t be surprised if you get a call from the police. Enjoy your stay in San Juan.

After the men left, Mac said, I need to find out what’s going on.

We’re on our honeymoon.

There might be a story here.

CHAPTER TWO

Hubbub engulfed the lobby area when Katie and Mac went downstairs for breakfast. Local television news reported the woman’s death and the disappearance of Silva with no more detail than the detective provided the couple in the early morning interview with him.

What’s going on? Mac asked the desk clerk as if he had no knowledge of the murder.

The authorities are here to investigate the death of the person in a room last night. The rest of the people are reporters.

Either you have a large police force or lots of reporters covering the story, Mac commented.

There are representatives from the local police, the Puerto Rico police, the coroner – they’re all here, the man said.

Plus the reporters, Mac added. As a reporter he knew how the news media always flocked to a crime scene, each hoping to scoop the others and be the one to uncover something unique to build a story around. There was no reason to suspect things would be different in Puerto Rico.

Oh yes, this is going to be a big news story, the clerk confirmed and added, It certainly will not be good for our occupancy rate."

Who can I speak with to get some information?

The man from the San Juan paper over there might know something. He is very friendly with the police. Or the pretty woman with the camera crew always seems to be the first with TV news reports.

Is the hotel manager available?

He’s involved with the police at the moment.

The woman was killed in the room that was once ours, so please ask him to join us. We’ll be having breakfast. Mac handed the man a business card and looked around the lobby for his wife.

Find out anything new? Katie asked when he joined her at the rack filled with tour package brochures. She held several in her hand, suggesting sightseeing plans were on her mind.

What do you have there? Looks like we’ll be busy. Mac wanted to hold off with his thoughts until they were seated.

I wouldn’t have all these brochures if you hadn’t taken so long at the front desk. Some of these are sure to interest you, because they offer discounts off the regular price. Why did it take so long to find out if the patio restaurant is still serving breakfast?

Let’s get seated and I’ll tell you all about it.

Katie held off on the questions until they were shown to a table.

Okay, now give me the scoop Mr. Reporter.

What if the killer wasn’t after Isabella Castillo?

Who else would they be after?

This is a stretch, but maybe the people behind the funding of the SAM program want us out of the way? That situation was supposed to have ended six months ago, but maybe to them it’s not over.

Really?

Just thinking out loud. If they were after us it would have been easier and smarter to do it in New York. They could have made it look like an accident anytime they chose to. But why bother, the subliminal messaging story never received more than speculative coverage. No reason to redirect attention to it, Mac concluded.

Then why bring it up? You know I don’t like to talk about that ordeal. What should we do? Katie asked.

We don’t do anything, but I plan to talk with the reporters and the police. This time I’ll be asking the questions. I want to know what’s happening and make sure it does not involve us in any way. Now let’s see what’s good for breakfast.

As they finished eating, the hotel manager came to the table and introduced himself. I am Jorge Rodriquez. How may I help you?

Please sit down. I have a few questions for you.

Mac was not sure if mister was proper in Puerto Rico. Maybe senor was correct. So he decided to use neither.

The manager relieved him of the problem by saying, Please call me Jorge.

Fine, Jorge. What can you tell me about the murder?

That is a question best answered by those currently conducting the investigation.

Are you aware my wife and I were assigned to that suite earlier but changed to another one?

Yes, I understand the view was not to your liking.

Actually, it was not the view we were promised, Katie was quick to add.

Of course, that is what I meant to say. Jorge nervously tapped Mac’s business card on the table.

"What can you tell me about Gabriel Silva and Isabella Castillo?

I really cannot answer that.

But I’m sure there are questions you can answer.

The authorities have asked me not to discuss any of the details regarding this unfortunate incident.

I have been interviewed by the police and know more than that group of news hounds over there, Mac said and pointed to the pack of reporters in the lobby. So are you ready to answer my questions?

Would you be so kind as to repeat them?

Do you have a pen and paper? I need to make some notes, Mac said.

Jorge summoned a waiter to the table and got a pad and pen, both with the hotel’s logo emblazoned on them. He handed them to Mac and waited.

The occupant’s name is Gabriel Silva. Right?

That is correct.

Do you know why he was in San Juan, business or pleasure?

He was to speak at a symposium scheduled in the hotel’s conference center, which begins tomorrow.

What is the symposium about? Do you know the title of Mr. Silva’s speech?

That’s Doctor Silva, Jorge said and searched through the folder he always carried and pulled out a flyer.

The gathering is for scientists and others involved in alternative energy development. Jorge skimmed the information while he spoke.

"The theme is Fuels of the Future. He is a PhD specializing in the processing of fuel from sugar cane and was going to talk about what Brazil is doing in the area of environmentally friendly fuels. We were quite pleased to be the location selected for this prestigious event with people attending from around the world, and now this," he said with a tone of sadness.

I may need to check out the meetings in search of a clue as to why someone wanted him dead. I’m sure you can help me get in. Mac stopped short of issuing a command but believed Jorge was concerned enough about the hotel’s image to find a way to honor this request.

Let me see what I can do, Jorge said reluctantly.

And the woman?

I know nothing about Isabella Castillo. You must discuss that with the police. If you will excuse me, I have much to attend to.

Certainly, but don’t forget to get me a pass for the symposium.

Jorge left in a hurry.

Are you with me on our honeymoon or what? Katie asked the moment they were alone.

Something about this case doesn’t ring right. I need to snoop around and learn what I can. You might want to enjoy the sun while I put on my investigative reporter’s hat. I want to get to the bottom of this.

CHAPTER THREE

Katie left the table in a huff. She went back to their room, changed into her bathing suit, and went down to the lagoon area to sunbathe and read one of the novels downloaded onto her Kindle. Katie hoped this would be a distraction from the recent events and quell the disturbing thoughts her mind was manufacturing.

Meanwhile, Mac was working. He had no hunches or preconceived notions just a desire to get to the truth, so he took the appropriate action.

Mac approached the stunning TV reporter standing next to the camera crew and sipping a Diet Sprite. "My name is Mac McFarland. I’m a reporter with the New York Post and staying at the hotel. I’m here on a vacation not an assignment. May I have a word with you about the murder?"

Well, if you’re on vacation, why don’t you enjoy it and leave the investigation to us working folks, the blonde Puerto Rican woman replied in perfect English.

Inez Rivera’s harshness made her seem older and less attractive than at first glance. Her dark roots were more noticeable and the facial lines deeper as Mac focused on the reporter’s face.

Come now, Ms. Rivera. This is not a competitive situation. A woman was killed in the hotel where my wife and I are staying. Surely you don’t find that threatening.

"I have a job to do and television calls for instant reporting. If you want to chat about the case, talk to Hector Hernandez over there. He’s with El Nuevo Dia and the two of you can talk newspaperman-to-newspaperman. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for a live report."

Undaunted, Mac took her suggestion and walked over to Hector Hernandez of El Nuevo Dia.

"Mr. Hernandez, my name is Mac McFarland. I’m a reporter with the New York Post and staying at the hotel. I’m here on a vacation not an assignment. May I have a word with you about the murder?" Mac waited for the man’s reaction to the exact same question posed to the television reporter.

It is a pleasure to meet you, sir. I read the piece you wrote about subliminal advertising earlier this year. It was heralded online. Most informative. It raised a lot of questions about the dangers of secret messaging should it be put to use in the future. Now, what is it you want to know about the woman’s death?

Hector Hernandez’s response was pleasantly unexpected to which Mac replied, I want to know everything.

Let us go over to the bar. You can buy me a drink and I will tell you what I know. The more drinks you buy, the more you will learn.

Mac could smell the booze on the man’s breath. It also seemed to be seeping from his pores, thanks to the island’s warm temperature and ever-present blanket of humidity. The rumpled reporter, overweight and somewhere in his mid to late fifties, reminded him of some of the old school guys he met as a cub reporter more than a decade earlier. Those old-timers have since been weeded out of most big city newspapers, but word of their dispensability had obviously not yet been received in San Juan.

Okay, Mr. Hernandez. What’s your pleasure? Mac asked as they pulled a couple of stools up to the bar.

My pleasure would be doing something other than working for a living. But if you’re asking what am I drinking? The answer is vodka and tonic. No reason to smell as if I have been drinking on the job.

His English, like the TV reporter, was spoken without the hint of an accent although it was a bit formal. This surprised Mac. He expected an island where all the people sounded more Spanish than American.

Guess I’ll have a Beck’s.

Why not try a local brand? Medalla Light is brewed here. It is Puerto Rico’s favorite beer.

Sure. Why not. Mac was not about to screw up this fact-finding mission over which beer to drink.

So, you are vacationing? Hernandez asked.

My wife and I are on our honeymoon.

That is wonderful. Congratulations. The old reporter lifted his drink high to suggest this occasion was worthy of a toast. Salud!

Thank you, Mac replied as their glasses clinked.

If you are here on your honeymoon why are you pursuing a murder story instead of pursuing your wife?

You see Mr. Hernandez—

Hector, please.

The murder happened in the room assigned to us before my wife managed to have the hotel switch us to another suite.

Why the switch?

The view.

Ah, women. Their senses are keener than ours.

I don’t see what Katie’s senses had to do with it, she simply wanted a view of the ocean and the lagoon.

It is their extra-sensory perception we refuse to accept and can’t explain.

That’s a whole other subject and has nothing to do with last night’s murder.

Do not disregard what I say. God has bestowed women with a special gift. They can feel the future. My dear wife could. She predicted her death before the doctors discovered the cancer in her body. I am ready for another drink. Are you?

Hector Hernandez had an audience. He knew Mac would listen as long as he thought there was a payoff. So he told his life story, a rambling tale of a sad and lonely man.

Mac learned about Hector’s childhood in San Juan; and, at nine, going to live with an aunt in New York City, where he excelled in school and obtained a scholarship to the Columbia School of Journalism. Soon after graduation, he returned to Puerto Rico and got a job with a local newspaper and moved from paper to paper until he ended up with the prestigious El Nuevo Dia.

He and his wife celebrated twenty-five years together before she passed away after suffering with cancer for the last four years of their marriage. They had no children, so his sick wife occupied all of Hector’s non-working time. When she died, he turned to drinking to fill the time when he was not working. For the last five years alcohol filled all his time, even when he was on the job.

Please tell me what you know about the murder, Mac said after Hector downed several drinks and his story reached the point where the man was repeating himself while providing little new information.

No one knows much about Silva, at least not yet. So there is no established motive. No one knows what the relationship was between Isabella Castillo and him. If it was know, the last thing a reporter would want is for that barracuda, aka Inez Rivera, to break the story and start speculating all over TV. Can I count on you to keep your mouth shut?

Are you kidding? She ripped me a new one when I tried to question her earlier.

Oh yes, I observed some tension on the set. Hector smiled knowingly and took a healthy draw on his vodka and tonic before continuing. I will contact you when more information becomes available.

Mac allowed Hector one more drink before calling for the check. The men exchanged business cards. Mac left and went upstairs to change for the beach.

He expected to find Katie in the shade of a palm tree somewhere, but discovered her asleep in the direct sun

Ouch, Katie said as he gently touched her shoulder.

What’s wrong?

"Too much