Wolf in the Shadows (26 page)

“I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Have you notified Brockowitz’s wife of his death yet?”

“McCone …”He sighed in defeat. “We’ve tried, but she’s not at their home or her place of business.”

“Then nothing’s been released to the press?”

“Not till we get in touch with her. I don’t suppose
you
have any idea where she might be?”

“Me? I don’t even know the woman.”

“Look, McCone, I want—”

“Will you be on duty all weekend?”

“Will I— No, I’m out of here in a couple of hours, and then I’m going home to paint the living room.”

“Give me your home number.”

“Why?”

“Because I might need it.”

“McCone, you’re not investigating this murder, are you? Because in this state you can’t investigate a murder—”

“I’m not even in the country.”

“I want you to get your ass back here and—”

“What’s your home number?”

“It’s unlisted.”

“I
know
that. What is it?”

“McCone—”

“Please. For your favorite cheerleader?”

“Christ, you hand me a pain!” Then he sighed and recited the number. “This is emotional blackmail, you know. When you get
back here, we’re going to have to discuss your conduct—”

“What?”

“I said—”

“God, this is a bad connection!”

“I can hear you fine.”

“Of course it’s mine. I called you.”

“I
know
you called me.”

“
Balled
you!”

“
What?
”

“What?”

I hung up and made a run for the border.

I decided to take the fast toll road to Ensenada, then pick up old Mexico 1, the highway that in the early seventies linked
Tijuana with La Paz and forever changed the face of Baja California.

The 800-mile-long peninsula is a harsh, arid land, ridged by barren mountains and cut off from mainland Mexico by the Sea
of CortÉs. Its desert region remains pretty much the same as a century ago: peppered with cactus and hardscrabble ranches,
many of which have long been abandoned. But with the advent of the highway, American tourists discovered Baja’s scenic Pacific
beaches and the quiet anchorages and villages along the Mar de CortÉs; the 1990s have brought an increase in international
trade to the peninsula’s few cities.

After a brief stop at a Pemex station to buy a map, I sped along Tijuana’s Calle Internacionale and turned south toward the
first tollgate, noting changes. The border town’s slums and shacks still existed, as did the gaudy souvenir shops and booze-and-sex
traps, but mirrored-glass skyscrapers appeared on the horizon, lending the city a new sophistication. Farther south along
the coast, the inevitable billboards, RV parks, condominiums, and hotels marred the beauty of some of the most breathtaking
cliffs this side of Big Sur. When I reached Rosarito, which I remembered as a quiet fishing village, and found several posh-looking
resort hotels, I realized that the Baja I’d loved as a child was on its way to disappearing forever.

The dry heat had pursued me from San Diego, and even in these coastal regions it didn’t let up, rising with a vengeance from
the dust-blown desert. It took me about an hour and a quarter to get to Ensenada. At first I thought the long arm of commercialism
hadn’t yet extended this far; fishing boats, a number of them bearing the insignia of Gilbert Fontes’s Corona Fleet, bobbed
in the harbor, and a few donkey carts crept along the streets. But then I spotted a sign in English proclaiming Ensenada the
birthplace of Mexico’s wine industry and offering tours and tastings; new hotels and restaurants and cantinas lined the waterfront
boulevard. I got out of there as fast as I could and picked up the old highway.

About thirty minutes later I came upon a road that I thought should be the one to El Sueño. I pulled over, consulted my map,
then turned toward Punta Arrejaque, a finger of land extending northwest into the Pacific. The road was new, recently paved,
running parallel to a riverbed choked with scrub vegetation. Down in it, I thought, was probably an older road; the dry riverbeds
had for centuries been routes to the fishing villages that perched beside their mouths at the edge of the sea.

After several miles I noticed that the weather had changed; afternoon clouds stood on the horizon above the slate-gray sea,
and the air was cooler. The road wound past ramshackle stands laden with produce and jars of olives and chili peppers; past
a campground and a lookout point; past an airfield where small planes were tethered. Then it topped a rise, and I saw houses—
some traditional white stucco and red tile, others of outlandish modern design—rambling over the gently sloping terrain.
Pelicans wheeled above the sea as I coasted into the small commercial district of El Sueño—the dream.

The place
did
have a dreamlike quality: in the buildings’ raw newness, in the smell of cooking oil and spices that drifted on the air,
in the welcome cool breeze that played on my bare arms. The streets of the village were narrow but, like the road, recently
paved; expensive cars crowded their curbs. The shops looked equally expensive: a jeweler, a sports outfitter, a florist, a
wine broker, several galleries. A small professional complex held the offices of attorneys, doctors, and dentists. A branch
of an American stock-brokerage had a sign that flashed the Dow-Jones average. People wandered along the sidewalks and in and
out of the shops, stopping at produce stands heaped with corn, tomatoes, lettuce, and chilies. The majority were Americans,
and all were well dressed, mostly in golf or tennis attire. No one hurried; no one seemed to have a care.

The town made me somewhat twitchy. I didn’t dislike it, didn’t like it, either. Its edges were simply too rounded, its ambience
too manufactured for my taste. I felt as if I’d stepped onto a stage set for a drawing-room comedy that had absolutely no
connection to the often grim realities of life in Baja.

I found a space to leave the car and went into a grocery that mainly stocked imported wines and gourmet items. The Mexican
woman whom I asked for directions to Vía Pacífica spoke better English than some members of my family. She hesitated, then
shrugged and drew me a little map, showing a winding road that branched off near the far end of town. Said “It’s a fancy place,
big villas. No trespassing,” and looked askance at my rumpled clothing. I’d planned to buy some mineral water from her, but
got my revenge by walking down the block for it. At a produce stand I allowed myself to be tempted by some cantaloupe slices.
As in the shops of Tijuana, U.S. money was cheerfully accepted.

According to the woman’s map Vía Pacífica looped off the main road toward the sea, then rejoined it at the base of the point.
I found the turnoff, marked by stone pillars but no security kiosk or gate, and followed the blacktop past stands of yucca
and prickly pear and barrel cactus; the strange and somewhat unpleasant scent of Indian tobacco traveled on the breeze. Houses
in widely divergent architectural styles began to appear: pueblo-style with rough-hewn timbers and solar panels on the roofs;
a steel-and-glass structure that put me in mind of the starship
Enterprise
; traditional weathered-wood beach houses like the ones you find up and down the entire Pacific coast; something that looked
to be a cross between an Aztec pyramid and a bomb shelter. They clustered to the right of the pavement, on a small rise above
a white sand beach. The sun was sinking toward the water now, its outline glaring through the layers of high-piled clouds.

Fontes’s villa, number 117, turned out to be relatively conservative in appearance. Tan stucco with a muted blue tile roof,
it was long and spacious; at one end stood a three-story wing resembling a church’s bell tower; a one-story section connected
it to a two-story wing at the opposite end. Unlike most of its neighbors, it was surrounded by a high stucco wall with jagged
shards of glass embedded in its top; the upper-floor windows were secured with bars that did their best to blend with the
architecture. A security-conscious man, Gilbert Fontes.

The automobile gate stood open, however. I slowed down and looked inside. The front yard held a fountain and an elaborate
cactus garden bordered by a half-circular crushed-shell drive. A detached garage stood to the left. And in front of it was
parked a maroon Volvo with a familiar California license plate.

I continued down the road a short distance, U-turned at a wide place, and went back to a beach access I’d noticed earlier.
Several vehicles were drawn up there—not the sleek luxury cars belonging to El Sueño’s affluent residents but rusted old
sedans, one of which had been abandoned and cannibalized for parts. I parked the Tercel there, took my photographic equipment
from the trunk, and spent about fifteen minutes assembling it and familiarizing myself with how it worked. Then I put on my
jacket, shed my shoes, stuffed them into my oversized purse next to my father’s .45, and carried it and the camera down to
the beach. The sand was powdery soft and very clean; a few people were walking there, and others surf-fished. A young mother
watched her two children as they splashed in the water, impervious to the chill on the air. I walked along looking at the
houses until I spotted Fontes’s.

It perched lower than its neighbors, with a walled terrace outfitted with clear glass baffles to protect it from the wind.
The windows on this side were small and barred, too, but large doors opened to the terrace. No one was out there, but I saw
a portable bar and moments later a man in a white waiter’s jacket appeared, carrying some glasses. Preparing to entertain
the guests from California?

The beach ended a hundred or more yards down from there at the mouth of the dry riverbed. The vegetation was thick: scrub
cactus, yuccas, sycamores, and—farther back, straggling up the incline—greasewood. I kept walking that way, past a couple
of old rotted wooden
pongas
—fishing boats—that Fontes and his neighbors probably allowed to remain there because they considered them picturesque.
A few newer Fiberglas
pongas
were beached closer to the riverbed. As I neared it, I saw the outlines of buildings in among the vegetation— rough board
shacks painted turquoise and lavender and pink, with rusted metal roofs and sheets for doors. Here and there a clothesline
hung with bright garments stretched between the sycamore trunks, and in a clearing next to a trash dump strewn with shells
and old car parts, children played. Women moved back and forth bearing baskets and buckets. I’d found the slums of El Sueño,
carefully concealed so as not to mar the content of the hill dwellers.

After a while I turned and walked back toward the rotting
pongas
. Looked them over, then perched on one facing the sea, setting my bag beside me. I began to experiment with the camera, focusing
on the swooping gulls and pelicans. As I homed in on them, I remembered the claim of the clerk at Gooden’s: “You’ll be able
to count the pinfeathers on a baby bird’s head at two hundred yards.” How right he’d been! I swiveled, focused on the settlement
in the riverbed. A woman’s face confronted me unseeing, dark eyes cast down. I moved the lens to see what she was looking
at; a knife slashed expertly into a plump tomato.

If I could make out that much detail at this distance, think what I might observe at Fontes’s villa. The situation here was
so perfect for my purposes that I crossed my fingers superstitiously against anything going wrong.

Spying on Fontes was one thing, but covertly watching this woman prepare her supper made me feel like a voyeur. I set the
camera down and continued to contemplate the sea. If the people at the villa had noticed me, let them watch. Let them get
used to a solitary tourist looking out at the Pacific and occasionally trying to photograph the curious muted sunset. After
a while I’d become part of the landscape to them, merely another expensively equipped traveler displaying an unwarranted fascination
with a phenomenon that happens every evening.

My back was turned to the villa, but my thoughts were very much on what might be happening there. First there was the Volvo,
the one I’d followed last night when Ann Navarro drove Diane Mourning to the border. Ann Navarro, who in all likelihood didn’t
yet know she’d been a widow since Sunday night. Sunday night, when Stan Brockowitz had been shot to death on the mesa. Shot
by Marty Salazar? No way to know for sure, but if Salazar hadn’t personally shot Brockowitz, he knew who had.

Which brought me to an unpleasant possibility that I thought I’d better face right now: the possibility that Hy had shot Brockowitz.
According to Ann-Marie, there was bad history between Brockowitz and Hy. And Hy had been on the mesa that night. While he’d
never said it in so many words, I knew he’d killed at least once. He, like me, had stepped over that line because there had
been no other choice.

No other choice
. That was the key. If Hy had shot Brockowitz, It was because he’d been placed in an untenable situation. His motive would
have had to be stronger than an old antagonism. Stronger than retaining possession of a two-million-dollar letter of credit.

Letter of credit. Who had it now? Hy? Doubtful. I’d begun to suspect that somehow it had been taken from him and he hadn’t
contacted RKI because he was attempting to recover it. Taken by whom? Salazar? Possibly, but if so, what did Salazar intend
to do with it?

And then there was Gilbert Fontes. Fontes, whose estranged brother operated the firm the L.C. was drawn to. And Terramarine—that
was the odd number in this equation. As was the apparent relationship between Fontes, Ann Navarro, and Diane Mourning. And
there was Timothy Mourning, missing for twelve days now. If the body on the mesa had been Mourning’s or even a Terramarine
member’s, this whole scenario would have made more sense….

Most of the other people on the beach had departed. The young mother called to her children, and they reluctantly straggled
up from the surf. She bundled them in towels, put her arms around their shoulders as they walked to the stairway to one of
the villas. Dusk was falling fast. The smell of cooking fires began to drift from the riverbed; voices, too, in musical counterpoint.
A white-haired man walked past along the shoreline, his Irish setter leaping joyously through the waves. The man gave me an
incurious nod; the dog paid me no mind at all.