The Rover could hold everything he needed and he’d be on the road by nightfall. Ai Chihuahua, here I come!
Chapter 54
Rob threw the last of his belongings into the Land Rover, stopped at the post office to get rid of his tax obligations, then called for directions from the woman whose condo he had rented in Puerto Peñasco.
“You’re heading out from where?” she asked.
“Los Angeles. Thought I’d drive down to San Diego and cross the border at Tijuana. I just need to know the way to your place from there.”
She seemed hesitant. “Well, it’s pretty far, the route you’re describing. You’d be driving through the desert at night. I really don’t advise that. We always go west and south out of Tucson.”
“So, what should I do?”
“I’d take I-8 through Yuma, cut south at Gila Bend, and cross the border at Lukeville. Just be aware the border closes at midnight there. I’d at least stay the night in the States so you’re crossing the border and navigating the Mexican roads in daylight. They don’t have many signs and … well, it’s just safer by day.” She didn’t seem inclined to say more.
Where the hell was this Lukeville? He stared at the map again. Next to the post office, Rob had spotted a bookstore where he’d purchased the road map in case his cell phone maps wouldn’t work at his destination. He’d also picked up a CD set called “Learn Spanish in a Week.”
The crossing at Tijuana was a lot closer, and surely it was a busy enough place it didn’t close halfway through the night. What the heck, he decided. I’ve got hours to spend in the car, no matter how I go at it. I’ll learn the language along the way.
The stretch of urban sprawl between greater L.A. and San Diego went on, basically non-stop, making a person feel as if the world was one huge, gigantic city. He almost didn’t realize he was about to cross into Mexico until he was already in one of the eight traffic lanes for the huge port of entry at Tijuana. The border guards were bored and ready for a shift change, he could tell, and all they wanted to do was keep traffic moving. They waved him through with barely a glance.
Immediately, all the signage became Spanish. Women with children, beggars with missing limbs, and slick types shouting about timeshare deals crowded toward the cars, many risking their lives in hopes of selling tortillas or getting a handout. Rob felt a jolt of culture shock. He guessed the meaning of certain signs by the context—cerveza over a familiar Tecate can, mercado above the door of a small grocery—but, added to the intensity of the crowds and lights, most of it was a blur.
Ahead, he spotted a green and white road sign indicating Highway 20 and the city of Mexicali. For that particular stretch, the highway paralleled the US border. He imagined if he changed his mind he could somehow turn north again, but knew he would need to go south and follow the shoreline of the Sea of Cortez before he got to his destination. He took a deep breath for courage and proceeded.
The highway was of decent quality and as he left the bustling city of Tijuana behind he began to feel a bit more confident. He quickly figured out the speed limits were posted in kilometers per hour, when he found himself passing several cars in a row. He’d better be careful—he’d heard about encounters with the Mexican police.
Mostly, other drivers were simply minding their own business, going home after a long day at work or whatever they did around here. Delivery trucks with pictures of potato chips and loaves of bread poked along, but they willingly edged to the shoulder when others wanted to pass. Once he came upon a heavy-duty truck with no lights. It was full of big boulders and could barely drag itself down the highway at twenty miles an hour. He hit his brakes, looked ahead, and had enough room to swerve around the hulking behemoth. After that, he drove with his bright lights on.
Within a short time traffic had thinned and he settled into the trip, still keeping an eye for unlighted vehicles after the truck scare. The CD in his player had cycled through the first set of lessons, but he let it start over. He hadn’t retained a thing.
“Good day,” it said to him. “Buenos dias.”
He repeated the greeting.
“How are you? Como esta?”
He kept up the rote recital and saw the lights of Mexicali after about an hour. His next turn would take him south to Golfo de Santa Clara. He hadn’t spotted one single turn back to the north. The night became blacker and blacker.
Only one other vehicle made the southbound turn ahead of him. Obviously it was someone who knew the route. The car zoomed ahead and the taillights were out of sight within minutes.
“Now let’s combine what we know so far,” the recording told him. “Buenos dias, como esta?”
He kept his brights on and settled in with the lesson.
“Now let’s learn the response. Say ‘Muy bien, y usted?’”
Rob copied what he thought he heard, although he had no clue what it meant, and the words were blurring together in a rapid flow. His upper-Midwest upbringing was not serving him well. He should have paid more attention during his years in southern California. Maybe he was just tired. He ejected the CD, deciding maybe some talk radio would keep his attention.
He was reaching for the Scan button on the radio when he saw the bright lights behind him. Someone was coming up on him—fast. He gripped the wheel.
The other driver didn’t slow until he was right on Rob’s back bumper, blinding him with the lights.
What is this? Am I about to be run off the road—hijacked?
His fingers gripped the wheel so hard he heard it creak. He concentrated on watching the center yellow line on the road. His instinct was to speed up, try to leave the other driver behind. But he couldn’t see ahead well at all. He dared not touch his brake pedal. All he could do was keep his eyes on the road and pray.
Chapter 55
The Heist Ladies had decided to take two vehicles for the jaunt into Mexico, just in case some of them needed to stay longer. Sandy had taken a week’s vacation; as manager of the bank she didn’t answer to anyone within the branch, but management higher up had already looked askance at some of her absences. Mary’s partner in the gym had told her it was no problem—stay as long as she liked—but she led classes certain days of the week and her women martial arts students liked it better when she was there. She’d told Billy she would do her best to be back within one week.
As for Gracie, she was still on the edge of panic about her mother, sister, and two nieces invading her home. Of the group, she was pushing hardest for a quick resolution to the case. Pen was treating it as a research trip—who knew when a Mexico location could come in handy in one of her novels? Amber would act as tour guide, being the only one who’d ever visited the small beachside town before.
They’d purchased their Mexico car insurance, packed their bags to include a number of special items, and hit the road early Friday morning. Rob’s vacation rental began tonight, and they wanted to be in place before he arrived. One of Sandy’s clients had offered the use of her three-bedroom condo and, fortunately, it was in a different complex than the one Rob rented, although the woman told Sandy it was only two or three buildings away from the other place. It seemed like an ideal setup.
Amber recommended a lunch place called Pollo Lucas, which turned out to be an open air grill with a palm frond roof and dirt floors where, once they placed their order, they watched a man grab a split chicken off the hot grill with tongs. Three or four whacks with a cleaver and the meat went onto a serving plate. Containers of beans, rice, and salsa plus garnishes of pickled red onion and cabbage, and the meal was served. The women carried the bounty to one of the picnic tables beneath the palapa, mouths watering at the heavenly, charred meaty scent.
“If we get to keep eating like this, I’m staying forever,” Sandy commented, partway through her second tortilla-wrapped piece of chicken.
Nods all around, although no one stopped chewing long enough to answer.
Amber eventually spoke. “I’m sure our condo will have a kitchen, so we
can always get more of this and eat at home. But you’re going to find there are so many great restaurants in town, we could eat somewhere different every meal and not have time to come back.”
As always, Pen was the voice of reason. “We may not have time for restaurant meals, girls. Remember our purpose is to follow Rob Williams and figure out what he’s up to.”
That put a damper on the vacation-like mood until Mary suggested they get a couple more orders of the fantastic grilled chicken to go. “You know, in case there isn’t time to eat out. We’ll make tacos and carry them along on surveillance.”
No one could disagree.
Thirty minutes later, completely sated, Amber cleared the disposable plates and plastic forks. “Ready to head to the beach?”
She rode in Sandy’s car, while the others followed in Gracie’s van. Amber knew the general direction to the stretch of beach that had blossomed with high-rise buildings in the late ’90s, but she only had a sketchy map of where the various developments fit in. They cruised along, watching for the name of their building, turning and stopping at a closed iron gate where a security guard stepped out of his little hut and asked where they were going. Sandy handed over the authorization letter from her client, and the guard courteously indicated which of the three buildings they would be in and where they should park.
“Nice digs,” Amber commented as they drove over a cobbled path, past palm trees and flowering hibiscus.
They had caught glimpses of the sea, but it wasn’t until they rode the elevator to their third floor unit and walked inside that the majesty of the place really hit.
“Oh, my god,” Mary said as she stepped over to the sliding glass doors which entirely made up the western walls.
The glass opened to a spacious terrace with cushioned chairs and a couple of cocktail tables; beyond, the sea spread out below in brilliant, glorious blue. Amber had scouted the various doorways opening off the central greatroom, and she reported that all three bedrooms managed to face the same direction with views of the sea, the boat harbor, and the hill in the distance from which the town got the nickname Rocky Point.
“Okay, I could easily just kick back here for the rest of my life. I say we forget about Rob Williams.”
Gracie gave her a light punch on the arm. “I say we don’t. But, we could still kick back and enjoy the place for several hours until he gets here.”
“We passed the development where he’ll be staying,” Sandy said. “I noticed it—the white building with dark blue trim. There was a gate and security guard there, as well. We’ll have to figure out how to access it.”
“The beach,” Amber said. “I remember that from my last trip. It’s easy to walk down the beach, go through the bar or pool area of any complex, and go inside. As long as we know which condo he’s staying in, we can figure it out.”
“I’d be happy to spy on his balcony from the beach,” Gracie said. “I brought two bathing suits, but I’m surprised it’s not warmer. I may be down there in sweatpants and a windbreaker.”
Amber laughed. “It is January, silly. We may be slightly south of Phoenix, but it’s also a lot more humid here. Humidity intensifies the chill, or the heat.”
However, out on their balcony, midday, with the sun casting golden beams across the tiles, the temperature was perfect. They claimed rooms and set their bags inside, then voted that all strategy meetings should take place on the terrace and margaritas would be allowed, at least after lunch. Gracie reached into the coolers and bags they’d brought with a few basic grocery items and proceeded to blend the refreshments for their first afternoon.
Mary, ever practical, had brought binoculars and was scanning the beachside face of the white and blue condo unit. “Can’t tell how to figure out which is his,” she said.
“I have a solution for that,” Amber told her. “When I get in there, I’ll mark it for us.”
Chapter 56
The rude driver with the bright lights had roared past Rob, the black pickup truck evil and frightening in the dark night. The woman’s words kept coming back to him. Well, I sure wouldn’t drive that road at night. Cross the border in the daytime—it’s much safer. He’d talked to himself for hours, looking for assurance that the darkness wasn’t filled with drug lords and highway robbers. He didn’t even allow himself to consider coyotes and rattlesnakes.
Rob’s heartrate only slowed down when he reached the outskirts of Peñasco as the sun was coming up over the desert. The Land Rover was low on fuel and he pulled into the first Pemex station he saw. When he got out and reached for the fuel nozzle, an attendant in a dark khaki green uniform called out to him in rapid Spanish. Apparently, they pumped gas for you here.
“You speak English?” Rob asked. Somehow he didn’t think buenos dias was going to get the job done.
The man shook his head and proceeded to lift the nozzle on the gas pump.
“Just fill it up,” Rob said, loudly, in case that would make the guy understand him better. He needed to learn some more phrases, and quickly.
He’d had the foresight to convert some dollars to pesos before leaving California, but he was astounded at how quickly the price was clicking upward on the gas pump. When it finally came to a stop, he owed more than six hundred pesos. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a fistful of cash, Mexican and American currencies mixed.
The attendant gave the money a long stare and Rob realized what a stupid move that had been. He found a 500-peso note but it wasn’t enough. He gave the attendant a stupid smile and shrug.
The man smiled and said, “Dolares okay.”
Rob held out a twenty but the man shook his head. He reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a smart phone. With a couple of taps, he came up with a currency converter app and showed Rob on the screen how much he owed. It came to eight dollars.
Hmm, Rob thought. Maybe it’s not such a backward place after all. “Thanks, amigo. Muchas gracias.”
The attendant rewarded him with a wide smile.
Okay, good, Rob said to himself when he got back in the Rover and started the engine. I’ve already made a friend. And I need to get that app.
He’d been told he could check into his condo at any time. But first he wanted some breakfast. He started looking around. Should have asked the guy at the station where was a good place to eat, but that idea seemed a little iffy. He might get sent to a taco stand where the special included parts of the pig you didn’t even want to ask about.
He drove a few blocks, noticing many of the signs here were in English. The benefit of settling in a popular tourist destination, he supposed. He saw signs indicating the way toward Sandy Beach, the area the rental lady had said where the condo was. What he saw in front of him was a packed row of high-rise buildings. That must be it.
He aimed toward the buildings, keeping his eyes open for indications of a breakfast place that would include some eggs over-easy and lots of coffee. Finally, it was a photo that caught his eye, a plateful of the exact food he had in mind, with the word desayuno hand lettered boldly in red. He parked next to a battered pickup truck that had probably once been white. Huge patches of rust left both rear quarter panels dangerously ragged. The rest of the cars in the lot were newer, but nothing as stand-out shiny as his. If he hoped to blend in, he’d better pay attention to little details like this, get himself less-obvious wheels.
When he walked into the little café, conversation came to a momentary halt and two dozen dark eyes raised to look at him. He gave a wary smile and looked for a hostess. In a couple of seconds the other patrons went back to their meals, and a waitress with a friendly smile greeted him in halting English, telling him to sit wherever he would like.
He picked up a newspaper someone had left on an empty chair near the door and carried it to a corner booth. After a little back-and-forth with the waitress, during which he pointed at pictures on the menu rather than trusting his limited Spanish, he picked up the paper again and looked at the front page.
The largest item on the page was a lurid picture of two dead bodies, complete with blood dripping down the sides of the faces, bulging eyes, and arms that showed the hands had been roughly chopped off. He concentrated instead on the headline, trying to translate.
Resultado de las drogas y narcos durante la noche
The references to drugs were fairly clear. Rob tried to piece together some of the sentences in the article, but it was way over his head. A twenty-something guy at the next table must have noticed.
“A terrible thing,” the guy said in accented English, “those narcos. They give all of Mexico a bad reputation.”
“Yeah. We hear a lot about it in the States,” Rob said. He glanced uneasily at the picture again.
“This one, it is not here in Peñasco. It happen in Sinaloa.”
“Is that nearby?”
“Oh, no. Sinaloa, she is much south. The only problems never happens near here—it’s always out in the desert, late in the night. Most the people here, we love la paz. Um, the peace, and the quiet.”
Rob nodded. His eggs arrived, and the other man turned back to his own coffee. He drained his cup as Rob was buttering his toast and said goodbye. Rob watched him get into a newer model Jeep with only two long cracks across the windshield.
The only problems happen out in the desert, late at night. Bright headlights, the black truck—the panicky feeling came back, and Rob had to set down his toast and the knife to hide the way his hands were shaking. Apparently, he’d gotten very lucky.
Chapter 57
Amber walked along the beach in shorts and a t-shirt. She’d slicked back her wild curls and tamed the whole mass into a bun in the style favored by the young local women. With her creamy-coffee skin, she fit right in. A couple of young locals addressed her in Spanish and she responded in kind.
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