A Dangerous Harbor (3 page)

They gave the chief inspector an abbreviated version of their childhood friendship, omitting that awkward and embarrassing episode during her second year of college. The inspector looked from one to the other, and though he kept his own council, Katy noticed that little bit of amusement remained on his handsome mug.

She would have to sort out this incredible coincidence somewhere out of earshot of the inspector. Gabriel Alexander here in Mexico. What was he thinking, threatening to go back to the States, do his time, clear his name and complicate her life? Her life before Gabe was all innocence; finish college, become a lawyer, follow in her daddy's footsteps, become a judge. Then there was life after Gabe, where her plans seemed to be cast in an ever-shifting line of sand.

And to think, only a week ago she thought that all she had to do was serve her time with this enforced paid leave of absence until the department hearing and then get back to work.
At least, she was pretty sure she would still have a job. It wasn't as if her sister's stalker wasn't armed when she wrestled him for that gun.

Unless Gabe ruined it all by turning himself in to the police.

Finally they were released and politely instructed not to leave the country. Not likely, since the inspector had, with a knowing smile, slipped her passport back into his folder and tucked it under his arm.

Gabe mumbled something about not having his with him but if the inspector would allow, he'd have it for him the next day. Then he scurried after Katrina, exited the double doors she had let swing back into his face and went to stand on the sidewalk next to her.

 
She gave him a sideways glance. That was it, she was in shock from seeing him again after all these years. What was it—eight, no ten years? And he had the nerve to act like her reaction to him was a bit over the top? She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter threatening what was left of her composure.

She held her chin up like a boxer about to take a hit, but the effort proved to be too much, and when she started to teeter off the edge of the pavement and into oncoming traffic, Gabe reached out and pulled her back onto terra firma.

She righted herself and jerked her arm out of his grasp.

Oblivious to the insult, he said, "What do you say we get a bite to eat. You'll feel better."

She decided she'd been wrong about Mexico and certainly this stupid idea that she could outrun her problems if she left them seven hundred miles behind her in San Francisco. It was a truism her dearly departed dad had vainly attempted to pound into her head:
"
You take your problems with you, Katrina."
Her dad, Judge Roy Hunter, spent a goodly amount of time and money to make sure her secret wouldn't become known by anyone except himself and a few trusted aides.

Never mind the warm sun, the perpetual blue skies, the friendly people, the cheap rum and those fish tacos her mouth was watering for; the emotional roller coaster she'd endured over the last hours made the hardship of her week-long solo sail look like a cakewalk. As for reporting any more dead bodies to foreign police, she would forget about her pledge to "Do your duty" and give it a wide berth. Let somebody else take the heat.

Gabe, keeping his distance in case she thought to smack him again, stuck his hands in his pockets and asked, "So—which way?"

Sergeant Moreno was standing next to his patrol car. He opened the back door and waited for a sign that she hadn't decided against his offer for a ride to Baja Naval.

Katy marched over to the squad car and, silently declining the sergeant's offer of a potentially urine- or vomit-stained back-seat ride, slid into the passenger side. She adjusted her seatbelt, rolled down the window and curled a finger at Gabe.

Pretending he wasn't uncomfortable with his proximity to a police car, he sidled up to the window and said, "I'll pass. Thanks anyway."

 
She grabbed him by his Hawaiian shirt collar and growled through her teeth, "You broke every promise you ever made to me, Gabe Alexander, so I don't know why I should expect you to keep this one, but I'm asking you, begging you, stay away from me." And then because her mother taught her to be polite, added, "Please."

Gabe jerked back as if he'd been slapped.

The sergeant, carefully ignoring anything that might keep him from his appointed task, plopped a size-too-large policeman's cap on his small head, scuttled around to the driver's side, got in, put the car in gear and pulled out into the thick afternoon traffic.

Katrina glanced back at Gabe, taking in his sun-bleached hair flopping over the aristocratic forehead, and sighed. The man actually had the audacity to look hurt.

She turned around and stared out the window, noticing the sergeant's driving was typical for Mexico—tapping his brakes lightly at every stop sign, then speeding through, all the while keeping up a running dialogue.

"You like the movies?" he asked cheerfully. The side of his police car did have the words 'Tourist Officer' printed on the side. "Yes? Did you see
Titanic
? Excellent. They made the ship for the movie outside
Rosarito
." He snapped the wheel to the right, missing a couple of jaywalkers. "It was only half a ship, not the whole thing, but I was a—how you call it—extra? Yes, that is the word, no? I was behind the fence with a baby in my arms. Not a real baby, of course, only a bundle of rags. They told me to yell some words, didn't matter that it was in Spanish. You aren't from LA, are you? I have cousins in LA, none of them legal—
stupid cousins
. They get homesick and come home every year and then I have to pay some coyote to smuggle them across again."

His driving was amazingly capable, even if he wasn't watching the road. "My friends tell me I look like John Travolta. I think it's the chin. What do you think?" he asked, thrusting out his chin for her approval. Katy gasped. It was a big one alright, and so was the
Tecate
truck bearing down on them. The sergeant swerved back into his lane and avoided clipping the truck with only a grunt to acknowledge the near miss.

He continued. "They did
Zorro
here too, with Antonio Banderas.
 
Did you like that movie? Yes? Excellent. It was my very good fortune to have been an extra in that movie, too. I was an officer for the governor."
 
He took his eyes off the road and slowed to ogle a couple of American girls in shorts and halter tops, then punched the accelerator again. "I take the governor's cape and then give him a message. They cut my lines, but you can see me in the background, holding his cape."

Relieved to see the marina building ahead, Katy pointed at the gate and envisioned walking through it to her boat and settling in with a nice cup of tea and some peace and quiet. The sergeant slowed to take the roundabout that led to the marina. Idling at the curb, he nodded at the guard by the gate and said, "I have enjoyed our talk,
señorita
. I am also available for tours of the city should you wish and I am very cheap." When she didn't answer, he shrugged and nodded at the guard, who acknowledged the sergeant's divine right to park wherever he wanted. "The guard is my cousin, Manuel. If you need anything, he's the man to ask."

Katy ignored the suggestion that she should hire either of them, and looking through the car window found the top of her mast peeking through the forest of sailboats in the marina.

The sergeant tried one more time. "Groceries, a nice map for all the best places to visit?"

Her hand went for the door handle.
Pilgrim
was there waiting, all her personal belongings…tea… hot herbal tea would do the trick, chamomile to soothe her jittery nerves. Then a shower and she'd walk the mile or so to the fish market, get some of those hot, crispy tacos she'd been craving.

"Nightlife? Whatever you want."

But the memory of the girl in the water ground her hopeful ruminations to a halt. She turned back to the sergeant and he popped his head came out of the window. "
Sí
,
señorita
?"

"There is one thing…"

"
Sí
?" he asked hopefully.

"The dead girl I found in the water, was she from Ensenada?"

He swept the big police hat off his head and fidgeted with the brim. Stealing a glance at his cousin, he said, "You shouldn't think about it anymore,
señorita
. Nightlife, maybe a few beers at a nice place like Carlos Murphy's, and then you go home, no?"
 

"I'm not much for bars, Sergeant. And as you well know, Chief Inspector
Vignaroli
has kept my passport. Did he tell you when I might be getting it back?"

The sergeant licked the edge of his mustache, his expression showing his indecision. Her expression said she wasn't going to budge, so he switched to a rapid Sonoran Spanish.
"Ay, qué lastima. Ella era una de las putadas que trabaja donde
Antonio's
.
Y solo
tenía
dieciseis
años
. I myself have three young daughters her age." He crossed himself, ending with a kiss on his thumbnail.
"
Pobrecita
."

"
Tienes
razón
,"
she answered, using her police department Spanish. She was sad to hear the policeman confirm what she'd suspected; the girl was indeed only sixteen and already a prostitute at a local bar. "I have seen a lot of bodies in my work," she said in Spanish, "sometimes young women, drug overdoses, even murder. It is the same in the States as it is here." Then she switched to English, hoping to draw him in with the next statement. "I saw no signs that she was strangled, however, that doesn't mean she wasn't murdered."

The black mustache quivered uncomfortably as he answered in Spanish. "That place is known for its wild parties where men buy whatever they desire. It is not on the list for tourists and certainly not for young ladies of good family. No, you would not want to go there for any reason… not if you want to go home."

"Where is this place you're talking about?"

"I have said too much already,
señorita
. The
jefe
would not want me to speak so much about his investigation."

 
Then why did he send me off with this chatterbox who obviously can't keep a secret under his big hat? Something's afoot here, I just don't see it yet.

She reached out and lightly patted his arm. "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. I guess I'm just at a loss as to why he would keep me at the police station for so long."

He flapped his hands around. "
Sí
,
sí
, but he didn't want the
conejo
to run." Then he rolled his eyes. "
Entiende
?"

He didn't want the rabbit to run? There it was again—bunny feet. The expression and its meaning were the same in either language.
She went through the events of the long day and then she did a mental head smack. Putting herself in the inspector's shoes, she ticked off the list of suspicious behavior: Young woman sailor reports finding a floater, then encounters Gabe, shackled and stumbling into the police station between two officers. And because she was quite frankly sleep deprived, she'd blurted out the one thing that gave the chief inspector reason to suspect Gabe. "
Is he being arrested for the murder?
"

Never in her ten-year career as a police officer had Katy Hunter been so careless, and certainly not when someone's life depended on it. Gabe might have been brought in on some misunderstanding about some pilfered oysters, but now he was a murder suspect, and to make sure they both stayed put, the inspector kept her passport. Now she would have to talk to Gabe again, clear up this misunderstanding, get her passport back, get the boat hauled and onto a truck, and get the hell out of Mexico.

Katy made a show of cheerfully thanking the sergeant for the ride and then waving as he left. She brightly smiled at a clutch of gawkers and then headed for the upstairs offices of Marina Baja Naval to start the process of checking in and, even if it was wishful thinking, a quick haul-out and trailer home to northern California.