Wolf in the Shadows (25 page)

“I’m beginning to believe that your mother is right to worry about you. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is there any way
I can help?”

I pressed my lips together, oddly reminded of my last visit to the confessional: Father Halloran’s kind, concerned voice offering
the solace of faith; my refusal to accept it because deep down I didn’t believe anymore—and that made my sins unpardonable,
my soul irredeemable in his eyes. I hadn’t been Catholic for many years, but now I felt an inbred urge to make a confession
of sorts. For a long time I hadn’t believed anyone else could shoulder my burdens, but now I wanted to lay them at this old
man’s feet.

But the old man was practically a stranger, and I couldn’t involve him, anyway. I said, “No, I’m not in trouble. And I thank
you for the information. May I ask you not to mention you’ve seen me to either Melvin or my mother?”

He nodded with obvious reluctance, brow furrowed, eyes still concerned.

I got up, said an awkward good-bye, and moved quickly along the waterfront to the parking lot where I’d left the car. Once,
I looked back; Professor Haslett was watching me, and he raised his hand in farewell.

When I arrived at Sunset Cliffs Boulevard on Point Loma, I stopped a man who was walking his beagle along the sidewalk and
asked him if he knew where the Fontes house was. He gave me a suspicious once-over, then apparently decided I looked okay
and motioned to an imposing Mediterranean-style structure half a block away. I thanked him and drove down there, pulling over
to the curb and shutting off the car’s engine.

The house was well kept up, the lawn well barbered, but there was a touch of loneliness about it, in spite of its proximity
to its neighbors. Loneliness and abandonment, a sense that nobody lived there anymore and hadn’t for a long time. A caretaker
might check it periodically; Fontes’s friends might be in and out; the gardeners might come and go; automatic timers might
turn on lights; automatic sprinklers might play on the lawn. But only a shadow of life went on here, and to me the house seemed
more desolate than if it had been allowed to fall into ruins.

The man with the beagle passed my car, giving me another wary look. I smiled at him and got out. “It’s in good shape for a
place that’s not owner-occupied,” I said, gesturing at the house. “Roof looks like it could pass inspection. Of course, you
don’t know about termite damage; that can be the killer. Still, I’ve got a client who would make an all-cash deal and waive
inspections, providing I can get hold of the owner.”

The man’s wary look faded. “Oh, you’re a real-estate agent.”

“Broker. Rae Kelleher, Century Twenty-one.” I offered my hand.

He shook it enthusiastically. The beagle began sniffing my shoes. “Owen Berry,” he said. “I live down the block, and I’d be
thrilled if that place sold.”

“Why? It’s not rented to undesirables, is it?”

“
Used
by undesirables is more like it.”

The beagle moved from the toes of my shoes to the heels. Its leash began to wind around my calves. In the interest of preserving
my newfound rapport with Mr. Berry, I ignored it.

“Now, that worries me,” I said—meaning the so-called undesirables rather than the dog. “Will you explain?”

“Fontes is a beaner,” Owen Berry said. “Very well off, but still a beaner, if you get my drift. He’s got a grudge against
the neighbors—something that happened before my wife and I moved here—and he takes it out on them by letting all sorts of
lowlifes use the place. He keeps it up, so they can’t cite him for creating a nuisance; can’t condemn it, either. But you
should see what goes in and out of there.”

The leash was wrapped tight around my calves now; the beagle was energetically snuffling my jeans. I thought, If he pees on
me or sniffs my crotch, I’ll smack his inquisitive little nose—rapport with his owner be damned. “What
does
go in and out of there?” I asked.

“Beaners. Probably drug dealers. Women with skirts up to their asses and hair out to here.” The hand that wasn’t holding the
leash described a big perm. “Probably call girls. The only thing he hasn’t loaned the place to is a faggot, but I hear that
in Mexico they don’t like fags any more than we do.”

Now it was Berry whom I wanted to smack. The dog didn’t know his behavior was disgusting. Come to think of it, Berry probably
didn’t, either. I curbed the impulse to tell him what I thought of him and instead said, “Well, maybe my client and I can
solve the problem. Do you have Fontes’s address in Mexico, or know anyone who does?”

“I don’t have it, but my next-door neighbor might. He tried to buy the place about a year ago, had some correspondence with
Fontes.”

“Would you ask him for it?”

“I’d be happy to.” Berry yanked on the dog’s leash. It cut into my calves. The animal made a gagging sound and staggered backwards
on its hind legs, leash unpeeling from me like the skin of an apple. Now my sympathies were fully on the beagle’s side; if
there was any justice, someday he’d rip his owner’s vocal cords out.

Berry began dragging the hapless dog along the sidewalk. “You coming?” he asked me.

I’d had all of him I could take. “I don’t want to intrude on your neighbor. I’ll wait here, if you don’t mind.”

As he left, I turned and looked off at the brilliant blue water beyond the sandstone cliffs, trying to clear my head of the
muddying effects of Berry’s bigotry. I told myself he was essentially a small and stupid man, but that didn’t help. Owen Berry
was a symptom of everything that was reeling out of control in our society—everything I felt powerless against.

After a while, though, the motion of the sea off the rock-strewn shoreline calmed me. When Berry came back, without the unfortunate
beagle but with a slip of paper, I was able to be civil to him. Quickly I retreated to the Tercel, calling out my thanks;
several blocks away, I pulled to the curb and looked at the paper: 117 Vía Pacífica, El Sueño, Baja.

*    *    *

La Encantadora’s courtyard seemed an oasis after my trek from Point Loma in the unair-conditioned Tercel. I parked near the
office, thinking to check out after I made a quick phone call and gathered my things. The air was hot, without a breath of
breeze from the cove below, but the shade of the jacaranda trees provided a measure of relief. I walked toward my bungalow,
then slowed when I saw a figure move far back under the trailing branches of the tree nearest my door. An abrupt turn took
me down a path between two of the other bungalows.

The bungalow to my right was surrounded by tall camellia bushes. I slipped behind one and worked my way along the wall until
I had a good vantage, then peered through the shiny leaves. The figure had moved forward and was now clearly visible: tall,
very thin, craning its neck toward the path I’d just taken.

Gage Renshaw.

My breath caught and I began working my way back again. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how he’d found me; given RKI’s considerable
resources, it probably hadn’t been difficult. I didn’t have to question his intent, either; I’d seen the bulge under his suit
coat. Armed and dangerous.

I inched along the bungalow wall to its rear, then pressed flat against it. Now what?

Renshaw had spotted me as I walked from the car—no way he could have missed me. But something about his posture—alert but
indecisive—told me he hadn’t quite recognized me. New hairstyle, different type of clothing, and if he’d checked with the
motel office they’d have described my Clunker ’n’ Junker. He’d probably sensed something familiar, however; it might only
be seconds before he made the connection.

My things didn’t matter. They could stay in the bungalow—although I briefly entertained a dismaying vision of them being
the first in a trail of possessions discarded from here to wherever this case took me. The car posed a problem, though; I
needed to create a diversion so I could get to it.

The path onto which I’d detoured led to a side street. I moved through the bushes, looked out. Saw no one and headed for the
pavement. Directly across the street was a cafÉ. I ran over there, found a pay phone, and called the motel office.

“Unit seven, please,” I said to the desk clerk.

“One moment.” She connected me and let the phone ring several times. “Sorry, she doesn’t answer.”

“I wonder if you could go back there and check on her. She wasn’t feeling well when I left her after lunch, and I’m worried.”
When the woman hesitated, I added, “Please? She’s a diabetic.”

“All right, hold on a minute.” She sighed and set the receiver down with a clunk.

I hung up, rushed out of th e cafÉ and across the street. As I rounded the corner near the motel office, the clerk was heading
toward the rear of the court. I crouched behind another camellia bush and watched as she went to the door of my bungalow.
Renshaw came out from under the tree and spoke to her. She motioned toward the door, explaining. Then she unlocked it and
stepped inside. As I’d hoped, Renshaw followed.

I ran for the Toyota, key in hand. Jumped inside and jammed it into the ignition. Got the engine started, turned the car,
and was out of there, seat-belt warning signal beeping furiously. As I sped away, I tried to remember if there was anything
in the room that might tip Renshaw to the lead I’d turned up. The paper I’d doodled names on last night? No, the maid had
gone in to clean the room when I left, and I’d seen her empty the wastebasket. W.C.? The sales slip for him was in my purse.

I smiled, trying to imagine what Renshaw would make of my crotchety old parrot.

*    *    *

I now had an errand to run and a call to make. First stop was Gooden’s Photographic Supply on University Avenue in the city’s
predominantly gay Hillcrest district. Gooden’s has been there since the 1920s when Hillcrest was an exclusive suburb linked
to downtown by a trolley line—a lily-white suburb, thanks to pioneer developer William Wesley Whitsun’s concept of “restricted”
housing tracts. I’ve often wondered what the bigoted old boy would think of the lesbians and gays who have renovated the charming
cottages he built; given the way upscale boutiques and restaurants have driven out many of the old-time merchants, I’ve also
wondered how Gooden’s has survived. But that afternoon it was doing a turnaway business in its vintage building half a block
from the huge arch that marks the beginning of the Hillcrest shopping district at Fifth Avenue and University.

Inside, the store was as I remembered it: a photographer’s dream, with case after case full of the widest variety of cameras,
lenses, supplies, and darkroom equipment I’d ever seen. Back in the days when I considered myself a budding professional photographer—before
I discovered that I had absolutely no eye or originality when it came to taking pictures—I would spend a good deal of every
visit home in Gooden’s, composing mental shopping lists. Now I recalled exactly where the telephoto lenses were kept and headed
straight there.

It took me about twenty minutes to determine that the lens that best suited my purposes was a Meade 1000 that converted to
a long-distance spotting scope, with eyepieces that would magnify up to eighty-three times. Light and portable, it would give
me great resolution, even when photographing in substandard light. Not that I expected to take many pictures; I wanted the
lens more for its spying capabilities, and when mounted on a camera it would lend me the protective coloration of your basic
overequipped tourist.

The young clerk with the neo-Nazi haircut who was helping me seemed to sense an easy sale to an ignorant but affluent customer.
He said enthusiastically, “With that lens, ma’am, you’ll be able to count the pinfeathers on a baby bird’s head at two hundred
yards.”

Baby birds and their pinfeathers were the last thing on my mind. Perplexed, I stared at him.

He colored. “I just assumed you wanted it for bird-watching.”

“Do I look like a bird-watcher?”

“I didn’t mean any offense.”

“No, I want your opinion. Do I?”

“Well … no. Whale-watcher, maybe.”

I had to smile at his pathetic effort to extract his foot from his mouth. “Okay, I’ll take the lens. I’ll need a camera and
some film, too.”

He beamed, then began steering me toward the new-camera department. Firmly I shook my head and pointed him toward the used
equipment. My own camera is a twenty-three-year-old Nikkormat that I bought used; I like a single-lens reflex with as few
automatic options as possible. The Canon that I selected was even more primitive than my Nikkormat and cost less than a quarter
of what I paid for the lens and all its attachments.

“I don’t know,” the clerk muttered as he carried my merchandise toward the film counter. “It’s like dressing up a warthog
in a diamond necklace.”

I didn’t reply; I was wondering how the hell I’d pay back the cash advance I’d taken from RKI, knowing I’d have no job when
I returned home.

*    *    *

I’d forgotten to eat lunch, so I stopped at a restaurant a few blocks away, had a quick sandwich, and used the phone to call
Gary Viner at the SDPD. Viner didn’t sound surprised to hear from me; I suspected there was very little that did surprise
him.

“Have you gotten an I.D. on that body that was found on the mesa?” I asked.

“We have.”

“And?”

He was silent.

“Are you going to make me guess?”

“That’s not a bad idea.”

“Stanley Brockowitz, late of San Clemente and Blossom Hill.”

Now his silence had a different quality. He finally said, “Thought you had no idea who he was.”

“I didn’t—then.”

“And now?”

“He may have something to do with my case after all.”

“Then you better come in and make a statement.”

“Can’t. I’m … not in San Diego.” My association with RKI had turned me into a paranoid and, apparently, a liar.

“Where are you?”

“South.”

“The South Bay? Then you can—”

“Farther south.”

“Mexico? Why’re you—”