“That’s Stan. When he’s unsure of a situation, he tries to avoid it entirely.” The woman gave W.C. a final pat and moved back to the sales desk.
“I don’t suppose you could help me with his home address,” I said. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s for a good cause.”
She examined me thoughtfully through her glasses. “Why do you really want to see Stan?”
I was silent, trying to come up with a believable explanation.
“Look,” she added, “I don’t like Stan one bit. Don’t like Ann much, either. They’re both opportunists without any real ethical base, so I don’t feel bound to treat them in an ethical manner. But I would like to know what I’d be getting myself into.”
I took out my wallet and showed my identification. “Stan’s connected with a missing-person case I’m investigating.”
“Oh.” She seemed disappointed that the reasons for my interest in her employer’s husband weren’t more damning. “Well, I’m not supposed to give the address out, but I guess nobody will ever need to know where you got it.”
“Of course not.”
Her fingers tapped against the desk and frown lines appeared above the nosepiece of her glasses. “All right,” she said, “I’ll give you the address on one condition.”
“Yes?”
“Buy W.C. from me. I work on commission, and if I don’t make a substantial sale today, Ann’ll dock my weekly draw.”
I glanced at the cranky old parrot, who had slumped on his perch once again; it was the best trade I’d ever been asked to make for information. “Wrap him up and write down the address,” I told her.
* * *
Navarro and Brockowitz lived not in San Clemente but in a rural area to the east near the Riverside County line. It was citrus country, and the gently rolling hills were covered with acre after acre of orange, lime, grapefruit, and avocado trees. As I drove through it I reflected that this was the way the whole of Orange County had once been, before oil pumping stations reared their bobbing heads and the developers arrived to pump their own riches from the burgeoning economy. There wasn’t nearly so much money to be had from tending groves of shiny-leafed trees, but to my mind they were far more scenic than the housing tracts that sold out before their rafters rose or the condominium complexes that stretched for miles of pseudo-mission sameness.
The woman at the Swallow’s Nest had given me explicit directions, and I soon reached a little town called Blossom Hill. It wasn’t really a town at all, just a post office, grocery, and gas station. I paused at its four-way stop, circumvented a mongrel that was lying in the middle of the intersection, and continued until I came to the first road on the right. It took me deeper into the groves, about a mile, and then I spotted a white Victorian on a hill.
It was one of the big country-style Victorians—totally different from the narrow citified houses of San Francisco. Wraparound porch, three stories, square and substantial. A drive wound up through the trees and bisected a spacious lawn. Roses bloomed along the house’s walls—ancient ramblers. A maroon Volvo stood at the top of the drive, and in the old-fashioned porch swing sat a dark-haired woman in a flowered dress.
I kept driving, then pulled over when I was sure the trees and slope of the hill concealed me. Navarro’s clerk had told me that her employer and her husband owned seven acres, most of it in groves that a caretaker looked after. She’d visited the property only once and said she’d found the lack of fencing and other security precautions strange for a man of Brockowitz’s paranoia. I looked around, then got out of the car and moved into the shelter of the grove. The trees hung heavy with oranges; their leaves brushed against me as I climbed.
The grove ended where the lawn began. A rose arbor, overgrown by gnarled vines, stood between me and the house. I inched forward and peered through it. The woman was still in the porch swing—not doing anything, just sitting with her hands clasped in her lap. Waiting?
I’d asked the clerk to describe Navarro, and this woman fit what she’d told me: around thirty-five, short and plump, with a cap of straight black hair and prominent Hispanic features. I wondered if she might not have some Indian blood; something in the shape of her nose and jaw put me in mind of an old Paipai woman who had run a campground where my parents used to take us on the coast of Baja.
The woman—Navarro—continued to sit quietly. A car drove along the road, and her posture stiffened, then relaxed as it went by. I sank down on my haunches, balancing myself with one hand against the rose arbor. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. It was hot here on the edge of the grove, and my shirt clung damply to my back. I pulled it loose, lifted my hair from my neck, and was momentarily surprised by its shortness.
The sound of a car engine approached. Navarro rose this time and went to stand at the edge of the porch, leaning forward over the rail. A BMW came up the driveway—a BMW in an odd teal blue with a mobile-phone antenna on its trunk. I’d seen a similar one recently.…
Navarro went down the porch steps and moved toward the car. It stopped; then its door opened and another woman got out. A thin woman with chin-length blond curls, wearing a long blue summer dress that accentuated her slenderness.
Diane Mourning.
The two greeted each other, shaking hands not as if they were friends but with a certain wary reserve. For about a minute they remained beside the car, talking. Then Mourning opened the back door of the BMW and removed a suitcase. She carried it over to the Volvo, where Navarro was raising the trunk lid, and set it inside. After that they went into the house.
Going away together?
I began to backtrack through the grove, heading for my car. As I went downhill, I spied a windfall orange and picked it up—sustenance, in case this proved to be a long stakeout. I got the car turned around and into a position where I could see the driveway. Then I waited.
One hour. One and a half. One and thirty-eight minutes—
The Volvo came out of the driveway and turned toward town. I gave it a good lead, then started my clunker and followed. The Volvo went through Blossom Hill’s one intersection without pausing, took county roads to California 74, and picked up I-5 at San Juan Capistrano. I followed it south, past San Onofre and Oceanside, past Carlsbad and the state parks and little beach communities, past Del Mar and the racetrack, and on into San Diego. Dusk fell; I switched on my lights and closed the gap between us. By the time we reached Chula Vista, I suspected the Volvo was headed for the border. I closed the gap a little more so I could check out its occupants, recognized Navarro and Mourning by the shape of their heads.
At San Ysidro caution signs appeared, the same kind I’d seen at San Onofre. A high chain-link fence separated the freeway from the frontage road, but its top was bent and broken down by frequent climbing. In the drainage ditch between it and the pavement I spotted six Hispanic men running in single file toward the north. The evening’s influx of illegals had already begun.
The Volvo sped past the last U.S. exit. The port of entry loomed ahead, “Mexico” emblazoned in blue on the roof over the six auto gates. Four lanes narrowed to two, then fanned out again; traffic was light, and there wasn’t much of a slowdown. I gave the Volvo three car lengths and edged in behind a camper. The Mexican guards were glancing casually at the vehicles and waving them through—
And then I realized I had to turn off.
Taking the car across the border would pose no problem. Mexican immigration doesn’t care who you are or what you’re driving; no tourist card is required for short trips to Baja. But coming back through U.S. Customs in a rental car whose papers were clearly stamped “This vehicle not to be taken into Mexico” would cause me all sorts of problems—and the words were there in big red letters across the top of the contract.
“Dammit!” I smacked the steering wheel in frustration. Ahead, the Volvo was passing through the gate. I signaled and began edging into the left lane where there was an exit marked “U-turn to U.S.” An angry driver behind me leaned on his horn; I ignored him
and moved over, glanced again at the Volvo, which had picked up speed on the other side of the border control. Then I swung onto the exit, passed over the freeway on San Ysidro Boulevard, and took the northbound ramp.
So Diane Mourning and Ann Navarro were going to Baja together. Why? What was the relationship between them? Not close, that much I could tell. But I hadn’t sensed hostility, just a mutual wariness—
The blast of a horn interrupted my thoughts. A Porsche that I’d cut off roared around me, its driver flipping me the bird. I gripped the wheel and concentrated on the road all the way to La Jolla, using the mechanical activity to calm my anger at losing the best lead I’d had all day. Before I went to La Encantadora, I stopped at a shopping center and bought coffee, more sandwich fixings, a deli salad, and a bottle of chilled white wine.
The bungalow had trapped the day’s heat. I opened a couple of the windows to let in the cool breeze that blew up from the cove. Still too tense to eat, I poured some wine and sat down at the little desk. There were a few sheets of stationery in its drawer, also pilfered from Hotel Del. I pulled them out and began scribbling.
“What relationship betw. Navarro & D. Mourning? Husbands? Why Baja? Where Brockowitz? Who man in morgue? Where his Jeep? Where Hy’s rental? Call Avis. H’s credit card used since Bali Kai? Call Kate.”
Now I drew a diagram with the names Brockowitz, Navarro, T. Mourning, D. Mourning, and Hy inside circles and linked by dotted lines and arrows. Around its periphery I added Marty Salazar, Terramarine, RKI, Phoenix Labs, and Colores Internacional. Under Colores, I drew another arrow and inked in the name E. Fontes. Added that of his brother, Gilbert, for good measure.
All of it was intermeshed. None of it made any sense.
I pulled the phone toward me and tried to call Kate Malloy. The Spaulding Foundation offices were closed, and Information had no listing of a home number for her. Then I tried to call Gary Viner to see if he’d gotten an I.D. on the body in the morgue. Viner was off duty, his home number unlisted. I phoned the nearest Avis office, but they couldn’t give me any information on Hy’s rental car. Yes, the man said, their cars could be taken into Baja. I reserved one for the next morning, just in case.
Finally I went to the kitchenette, found a fork, and wolfed down my salad, barely tasting it. Made a sandwich and poured another glass of wine. Wolfed that down and went back for seconds. And decided to call it a day and see if there was anything worth watching on TV. Maybe tomorrow things would seem clearer.…
But what was that big pink plastic bag on the bed? Oh, my God—W.C. I’d totally forgotten about my seventy-five-bucks-plus-tax silk parrot! I pulled him out of the sack, glared into his eyes as grumpily as he glared into mine. “You cost me a bundle, fellow,” I told him, “and my cats are going to hate you.”
Then I set him on the bed, leaning against one of the pillows. Stripped off my clothes and switched on the old TV. A rerun of “Cheers” was on—one of the wonderful old episodes with Shelley Long. During a commercial break I picked up W.C. and checked under his wing to see if the saleswoman had removed the price tag. She had, but there was another tag attached near the seam where the wing joined the body. I flipped the feathers up and leaned toward the dim bedside lamp to read it.
Colores Internacional, Mexico City.
The firm owned by Emanuel Fontes, environmentalist. The firm to which the Mourning kidnap letter of credit was drawn.
I clutched W.C. in a stranglehold. Flopped back against my pillow. Coincidence? I doubted that.
At first the kidnapping had appeared to have been engineered by its victim. Then a photograph of him that radiated terror had erased that suspicion. Now his wife had traveled to Baja with a woman who bought merchandise for her store from the firm to whom the L.C. had been drawn. A woman who supposedly had made contact with Hy the day he disappeared. A woman whose husband was involved in the kidnapping …
But why had Mourning and Navarro gone to Baja? If their journey had to do with the missing L.C., why hadn’t they gone to Mexico City?
On the TV screen, Ted Danson was tossing Shelley Long’s collection of stuffed animals out the window. I looked at W.C. and considered giving him the same treatment. The damned parrot had provided a clue, but I didn’t know what to make of it. Now I’d probably be awake all night.
I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, as it usually did when I watched late reruns. Images of the past few days played against my eyelids. When I opened them again, a Sea World commercial was on, showing bottle-nosed dolphins frolicking in the petting pool as kids fed them sardines. I stared at it for a moment, then smiled.
The creatures of the air and the sea were certainly being good to me tonight.
Nineteen
Saturday, June 12
Saturdays can be damned discouraging from an investigative standpoint. Offices are closed, sources of information are unavailable, informants are off at the beach. I got up early anyway, made some coffee in the little percolator in the kitchenette, and crawled back into bed to contemplate my options. Almost immediately I got up again and checked the phone book for a couple of names; one I found, one I didn’t.
The idea I’d had the night before while watching the Sea World commercial seemed farfetched—perhaps wine-induced—in the light of morning. I told myself I’d be better off trying to get a lead on Hy’s recent activities. Trouble was, I needed Kate Malloy’s help to access transactions on the foundation’s American Express account, but even if I could reach her, the billing office at Am Ex would be closed for the weekend. Ron Chan at Pacific Bell might be able to find out if there had been any activity on the foundation’s calling card, however. I looked at my watch, decided eight-thirty was too early on a Saturday morning to bother an acquaintance from whom I was requesting a favor. As it was, I’d be stretching Chan’s and my Christmas-party rapport pretty thin.
I finished my coffee, showered, and with some trepidation faced the task of fixing my newly shorn hair. The stylist’s prediction proved correct, though; with little encouragement from me it fell perfectly, as if it had been wanting to do so for years. Relieved, I dressed in another shirt and pair of jeans belonging to my former sister-in-law and set out for Imperial Beach to return my rental car to Clunkers ’n’ Junkers. I wasn’t certain I’d again need to cross into Baja, but it struck me as foolish to be driving a vehicle that I couldn’t take there.
From Clunkers ’n’ Junkers I walked five blocks along Palm Avenue to the Holiday Market. Even so near the beach the sun bore down relentlessly—another unseasonably warm day, part of the screwy weather patterns that seemed to be developing all over the country. Of course, the climate has always been changeable in my old hometown, which boasts of four weather reports a day ranging from damp and foggy to cold and windy to hot and dry. Growing up there had fully prepared me for life in my new hometown, where the climate is equally schizoid.
This morning few men loitered in the drive-by hiring lot, and those who did were just there to pass the time, getting started early on bottles in paper bags. Inside the market Vic stood behind the checkout counter, rolling a cold can of Pepsi against his sweaty forehead. After an initial hesitation, he recognized me and flashed a gapped-tooth smile.
“Still no tengas inglÉs?” I asked, smiling back.
“Nah, tengo. Sorry about the other day, but you know how it goes. La migra, they got people all over, lookin’ like you or anybody else.”
“That’s okay. After I was in here that morning, did you say anything to anybody about me and what I was asking?”
“Well, sure, some of the guys outside. I warned ’em you might be trouble. But don’t worry none about them. Those guys, they don’t call ’em pollos for nothin’, you know what I mean? Chickens. Scared, they don’t want to make waves. You try to help ’em, they’re so goddamn grateful, after a while you want to slap ’em around.”
A sailor with a bag of chips came up to the counter. I stepped back and waited until Vic had completed the transaction before I
asked, “Do you know Marty Salazar?”
His eyes narrowed, hard little points of light flashing in their depths. “Yeah.”
“He ever come in here?”
“He tried, I’d cut his cojones off, and he knows it. Salazar keeps his distance.”
“What about the men who hang around in the parking lot? Would they deal with him?”
“If they get hungry enough—and most of ’em do. Why?”
“Somebody’s been following me, probably since the morning I came in here. If one of the men told Salazar about me—”
Vic shook his head. “Don’t make no sense. I warned ’em about you after you left. Nobody could’ve followed you. And like I said, Salazar don’t hang around … Ah, shit!”
“What?”
“That goddamn Pete!”
“Pete who works for my brother?”
“Yeah.” Vic’s expression soured. “Pete’s my cousin’s kid, and he’s okay, but he’s one of these guys who, you know, plays the angles. He does things for Salazar—I don’t even wanna know what. I bet he’s the one put him onto you.”
“You mean after John asked him to find out what you knew about the Anglo who came in here?”
“Uh-huh. Pete came around with his picture—same picture you showed me—and I told him what’d gone down. Then I gave Ana Orozco a call, and Pete took down her address to pass on to you. He probably peddled the info to Salazar.”
“But why would he think Salazar’d be interested in me—or in what I was investigating?”
Vic shrugged. “Salazar’s interested in everything that goes on in the South Bay. And he pays good.”
So it probably had been one of Salazar’s people watching me later that afternoon as I sat in the Scout outside Luis Abrego’s building. Which meant Salazar had been more or less prepared for the questions I’d asked him that night. Those were Salazar’s people outside my father’s house, too. The man in the Padres cap whom I’d lost in the maze of Huston’s department store? And what about right now?
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