“It looks like your gringo found the cave, emptied it, then killed his two friends.” I said. “History repeats itself in reverse.”
“Sí,” Guzman sighed.
As I painted the cave with the beam from my flashlight, it reflected off something deeper inside. Guzman saw the reflection and rushed closer, dropped to a knee, and scraped away sand. It was a skull, and he held it to my light and studied it like a latter-day Hamlet. Then he dropped it, grabbed the flashlight, and started scanning the cave. A moment later, he spotted what he was looking for and again knelt and dug into the earth with his hands. Another skull and along with it, the remains of a skeletal torso. Guzman sniffed loudly, choked, and gently caressed the skull.
“Your father, Manuel?” I took the flashlight from his hand and shone it directly on the skull.
“Sí.” Guzman wiped at his eyes. “Mi padre.”
“Are you certain?” I glanced at the other skeleton.
“Yes, Pedro, I am.”
Guzman held the skull up to the light. Its anterior structure was shattered from a gunshot just as Guzman had seen his father killed.
“It is my father,” he said. He started picking up bones, using his guayabera shirt like an apron to hold them.
“We’ll take his remains back for burial,” I said.
“No,” Guzman said. “Mother said to never speak of this. I promised her I wouldn’t.”
Guzman turned his face into the light. Tears streaked his dirt-and-dust smeared face.
“But I would like to bury him,” he said. “Properly.”
He glanced around the cave searching for a means of internment.
I touched his shoulder.
“There’s a shovel in the Land Rover, Manuel,” I said. “I’ll go get it.”
CHAPTER 23
WE BURIED GUZMAN’S FATHER on an inland hill with a view of the ocean and no land crabs. We left the German sailor and the two latter-day progenies of his Fuhrer in the cave with the crustaceans. It seemed a fitting resting place for members of a superior race.
When I got back to San Diego the next day, I drove straight to a gun shop in Kearny Mesa. The man behind the counter greeted me with a small nod as he tended to another customer. His name was Darwin, an ironic moniker since he looked like an example of stalled evolution. He was large, overweight, with long arms and a simian face. When he finished, he sauntered over to me.
“Hey, Pete,” he said, “come by to practice with that pea-shooter of yours?”
“I told you before, Darwin, the walls in my bungalow are paper thin,” I said. “If I had to fire anything larger, the bullet would go through the wall and the next two bungalows.”
Darwin smirked. “Who’d care? Nothing but hippies in OB.”
I ignored his remark and said, “Need some information.”
I pulled the bullets I found at the muelle from a pocket and laid them on the counter. Darwin studied them a moment, then said, “Look old.”
The dark lens of my aviator sunglasses hid my rolling eyes.
“Yes, but how old?” I said. “And from what kind of weapon?”
Darwin pursed his lips and shook his head. “Maybe Jerry will know,” he said. “He’s the ballistics guy.” He turned toward a door leading to an indoor shooting range. “Hey, Jerry! Get your ass out here.”
Jerry was Darwin’s partner and the complete physical and intellectual opposite of him. Tall, thin, slightly stooped with diminishing gray hair, and half-framed reading glasses perched on his nose, Jerry looked more like a college professor than a gun dealer and firearms expert. He nodded to me in greeting, but said nothing.
“Pete wants to know what kind of rounds these are.”
Jerry picked up a bullet, adjusted his readers, and studied it. He reached into a drawer, pulled out a pair of calipers, and measured the length and width of the least damaged bullet.
“Seven-point-nine-two millimeters by fifty-seven millimeters,” he said. “A Mauser round.”
“A Kraut bullet?” Darwin said.
Jerry ignored his partner. He removed a magnifying glass from the drawer and focused it on the bullet. “Well, German designed. The Germans adopted the seven-point-nine-two in the early 1900s and it served as their main military rifle round through both world wars. But it was also widely manufactured by other countries, particularly between the wars when Germany was prohibited from manufacturing war materiel.”
“Can you tell what era these rounds are from?” I asked.
Jerry looked at the remaining the rounds and nodded.
“What you have here, Pete, is a version known as the spitzer round,” he said, “They were very aerodynamic. Their predecessors had rounded tips, but you can see these have a pointed full metal jacket. And these were a class of spitzer called the boat-tail because of the tapering at the bottom of the bullet. See?”
I looked and nodded.
“Spitzers were only used during the Second World War. But these aren’t ordinary spitzers, the type you would fire from the standard Mauser infantry rifle.” He picked up one of the more damaged rounds, removed a pen from his breast pocket, and pointed at the bullet’s exposed interior. “These have a hardened steel core for penetrating heavier targets like tanks and aircraft. My guess is a machine gun, probably the German MG34 or its successor the MG42, fired these. The Germans used both in World War II. The Allies called the MG42 Hitler’s Zipper because its rate of fire was so fast you couldn’t hear the individual shots.”
“You said tanks and aircraft,” I said. “Would this round have been used by the German navy?”
“Oh, yes,” Jerry said. “I think it was the only kind of round used by the Kriegsmarine. You’d need a heavier, reinforced round against attacking aircraft or boats.”
“Can you tell how old these bullets are?” I asked.
“I can only guess,” Jerry said. “Certainly, they weren’t recently fired. Look at the corrosion. They could very well be from the war. Where did you find them?”
“Didn’t,” I lied “Friend sent them to me. Said they were from the war, but I wasn’t sure.”
Jerry handed the bullets back. “Well, I’d say your friend was right.”
☼
When I got home, I expected to find Jack happily ensconced in Jo’s lap. Instead I found an empty living room with what looked like the aftermath of a bar brawl. The floor lamp next to the lounge chair was knocked over, its shade askew. Books lay scattered on the floor beneath the bookshelf. The kitchen table stood on its side. Papers from my desk were strewn over the floor.
I called out for Jo, then Jack. No reply. I swept through the front room and the kitchen into the bedroom. Still, no one. I opened the drawer on the nightstand and took out the little .25 automatic, jacked a round into the chamber, and went back into the living room. There I noticed a note taped to the back of the front door. It was from Jo.
“Peter,” it read. “Took Jack to your vet for a checkup. He’s okay but we had an incident last night…”
I looked at the mess surrounding me and muttered, “An incident?”
“…I will explain everything when we get back. Love, Jo.”
“An incident?” I said again.
Jack could throw a hissy fit if some strange animal came sniffing around the bungalow, but other than that he was a…well, a pussycat. No way could I imagine him raising a ruckus causing this much damage. I was regretting letting Jo sit with him instead of Cindy.
I took the handgun back into the bedroom, cleared the chamber, and put it back into the nightstand drawer. With nothing else to do, I started organizing the living room. I had just finished replacing the books in their shelves when I heard Jo’s car drive up. I dashed out the door just as Jo walked up the path with Jack in his carrier.
“What’s wrong with Jack?” I demanded.
“And hello to you, too, lover,” Jo said. “He’s fine. He just has a leg sprain. He was limping so I looked up your vet and took him there. Sorry about the mess.”
“What the hell is wrong with him?”
“The vet gave Jack a sedative to keep him off his feet for a while,” Jo said.
She took Jack and laid him in his bed. He tried to make himself comfortable but it seemed too much trouble and he gave up. Jo sat on the floor beside him, stroking Jack’s fur, and cooing to him. He started purring.
Frustrated and worried, I couldn’t hold back anymore. When I spoke, my voice was harsh and demanding.
“Jo, damn it, what the hell happened here? What the hell happened to Jack?”
Jo looked up from Jack. Tears glistened in her eyes. One broke loose and rolled down her cheek.
“Jack saved my life last night,” she said.
CHAPTER 24
“IT WAS A LITTLE after midnight,” Jo said. “Jack had been sleeping next to me, but I woke up when I heard him pacing back and forth at the door, growling and hissing.”
“He does that when there’s a strange animal in the yard,” I said.
“And that’s what I thought it was at first,” Jo said. “I opened the door to let him out, but he just stood in the doorway, his ears perked up and pointing forward, his fur on end, and he growled again. Then I heard the hushed voices—men’s voices.”
Jo paused and shook her head.
“I was stupid, Peter. I left my nine-mil in my purse in the kitchen. I made a dash for it, but they spotted me—two men, shaved heads and black fatigues.”
“Skinheads?”
Jo nodded. “As far as I could tell. One of them caught me off balance and pulled me over the kitchen table onto the floor. The other grabbed my purse and found my pistol and turned it on me. All I was wearing was a slip, which tore open when I got pulled over the table. It was obvious the guy with my gun was enjoying the view. The son-of-a-bitch called me ‘prime Aryan breeding stock.’ The other guy was angry and cussing. Apparently, they thought the bungalow was empty.”
Jo paused, looked at me, and laid a hand on my knee.
“Peter, they knew you had gone to Mexico,” she said. “How would they know that?”
The thought made me swallow hard. I remembered the cars following us, the dark sedan and the green compact. Whoever they were must have followed me down to Tijuana and saw me catch a plane south. Did they even follow me to La Playa de Cortés? I tried to recall any suspicious characters but none came to mind. Especially not skinheads. Like Guzman said, people like that would be hard to miss in a small Mexican fishing village.
“Go on, Jo,” I said, stroking her hand.
“The first guy, the one who dragged me over the table, wanted the other guy to shoot me so they could get going. But the one with my pistol had other ideas. He leered at me and rubbed his crotch with his free hand. I tried to cover myself, but he told me not to move. He started unbuckling his belt when I heard a howl and saw Jack leap up, all teeth and claws, and attach himself to the man’s face. The guy dropped my nine and went wheeling backwards into the bookcase, trying to pull Jack off his face, but Jack held on. I slammed the heel of my bad leg into the other guy’s knee and felt it crack. He went straight down, screaming. I found my pistol and started to stand, but my leg was hurting so bad I stumbled. About that time, the other skinhead pried Jack off his face and tossed him across the room. The man’s face was a bloody mess of bites and lacerations. He saw I had my pistol, and he yelled at his friend to run, and they both tumbled out the door.”
She stopped to stroke Jack again.
“I found Jack on the floor, not moving,” she continued. “He must have had the wind knocked out of him. I picked him up and after a bit he came to. When I put him down, I saw he was limping. So, this morning I looked your vet up in your Rolodex and took him in.”
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
Jo shook her head.
“You said it yourself, I’m still their number-one suspect in Frank’s murder,” she said. “They’d just think I staged this or, worse, think you were involved in Frank’s death.” She shook her head again. “No, I just went back to bed and curled up with Jack and my gun, and cried over Jack. That’s some mouser you have there, Peter.”
“Yep, a true thoroughbred,” I said, “and I think you own a percentage of him now.”
Jo smiled and laid her head on Jack. Despite the sedative, Jack purred like a kitten.
☼
I called Glasgow’s cell phone, but only got his voice mail. I left a message to call me back. While I waited for Glasgow, I briefed Jo on what I discovered in La Playa de Cortés—The Battle of the Muelle, the spent German machine gun rounds, Crane and his two skinheads, and the meal Crane left for the land crabs in the sea cave.
“Frank murdered them,” Jo said. It wasn’t a question, only a statement of fact, the sad resignation of a woman who had just watched die her final flicker of affection for the man she once loved.
“That’s the way it looks,” I said. “And he took off with whatever was buried in that cave by Manuel’s father and the two German sailors.”
“The gold,” Jo said.
“That would explain the gold ingot in your floor safe.”
Jo shook her head. “Not my floor safe,” she said, her voice harsh and bitter. “Frank’s floor safe. His safe, his house, his gold. I want nothing to do with anything that belonged to that man.”
“You’re selling the house?”
“Yes,” she said, “and my share of World-Wide. I need to pay off the asshole’s debts. At least as much as I can.”
She stood and paced the room. Her limp was more pronounced.
“Your leg’s hurting,” I said.
She nodded and rubbed it absentmindedly.
“From kicking that bastard’s knee,” she said. “I hope he’s limping more than I am. What do you think they were looking for?”
“The men who attacked you?” I shrugged. “I don’t know. I think we have to assume there’s some connection between the two skinheads Frank murdered and the two who broke in here. Maybe they killed Frank as revenge for the two Frank left in that cave. But why break in here?”
I mulled that over a moment, then continued.
“I don’t think anyone knows about Frank’s gold bar. And if they did, I don’t see them thinking I had it here. It might have something to do with the League for Freedom and Responsibility. Maybe MacIntosh wanted to know what I had on them, if anything. But I really don’t know.”
I thought about it some more and remembered my meeting with Glasgow in the meditation gardens, how he said he was taking precautions not to be overheard. A warning from a colleague, he said. If someone was bugging Jonathan’s phone or office, could they also be behind the break-in of my bungalow?
“I think I should go home, Peter,” Jo said, rubbing her leg.
“I have some pain pills,” I said.
“No, I think I need to sit in the hot tub,” she said, “while I still have one.”
“You’re probably safer there,” I said. “World-Wide still have a guard outside?”
She nodded. “Not that I trust them.”
Jo leaned down, stroked Jack, and murmured, “My little hero.” Then she stood and kissed me, and left.
☼
I spent the rest of the afternoon straightening up the living room, repairing the broken floor lamp, and organizing the papers on my desk. By evening, Jack had pulled out of his stupor and was eagerly making up for all the snacks he’d missed throughout the day. He was still limping slightly, but it wasn’t slowing him down. I opened a can of tuna, gave him half, and threw the other half on two slices of bread layered with mayonnaise. Jack ate part of that, too.
By eight, Glasgow still hadn’t phoned me. I called his cell and got his voice mail again. His office number just gave me his answering machine. By nine, I was thinking about ge
tting some shut-eye. A knock on the door cancelled that idea.
Two men stood beneath the porch light. One was my friend Mike McCarty, SDPD’s super surfer. The other man I didn’t know. He was shorter than Mike, and rounder, and his eyes weren’t as friendly. Mike introduced him as Detective Sergeant Olasko from the Orange County Sheriff’s Department.
“You know a Jonathan Glasgow?” Olasko asked me without fanfare.
“Sure,” I said. A deep, yawning dread opened up inside me. “He’s a colleague of mine. Why?”
“Mr. Glasgow is dead,” Olasko said, his eyes studying my face for a reaction. “Murdered.”
CHAPTER 25
“CAN YOU TELL US where you were yesterday or the night before?” Olasko asked me.
“Sure,” I said. “La Playa de Cortés. It’s a small fishing village on the east coast of the Sea of Cortés in Mexico. I got back this morning.”
I showed Olasko my stamped passport and my plane ticket. That seemed to mollify him.
“What happened to Jonathan?” I asked.
“Cleaning lady found him yesterday morning,” Olasko said. “He was shot twice in the back of the head.”
I shot a glance at Mike. He studied the carpet. Olasko caught the side-glance and his eyes narrowed.
“That mean something to you, Mr. Brandt?” he asked.
I nodded toward Mike. “Maybe you should ask Lieutenant McCarty.”
Olasko turned to Mike. Mike, in turned, grimaced and sighed.
“We had a murder here a couple weeks ago,” Mike said. “The guy’s name was Frank Crane. He was shot twice in the back of the head, too, and his body burned.”
Whether that surprised Olasko I couldn’t tell. The man would be murder in a poker game.
“Two .22 caliber bullets?” he asked.
Now it was Mike’s turn to glance at me. “Yeah.”
“What’s the connection between this fellow Crane and Glasgow?” Olasko asked.
“None that I know of,” Mike said.
He looked at me.
“The only connection was me,” I said. “I was working on a story about Crane’s murder—”
The Fourth Rising (Peter Brandt Thrillers Book 3) Page 12