12
“SHERIFF GRANZ ?” The man in the Málaga airport terminal was dressed in a black military-style uniform with field jacket and a stark white shirt, but no visible weapon.
Granz shook the proffered hand. “I’m Granz.”
“Captain Ésteban Huerta of the National Police—N.P. we are called. Do you have baggage?”
“Just these two carry-ons.”
“Are either of you carrying a firearm?”
“No.”
“Very well, then, if you will follow me, we shall be on our way.”
Huerta led them to a single gray door marked:
Aduana de Diplomático &
Funcionarios Gobiernos
Por favor presenta su formularios de aduana
He punched a button, a buzzer sounded, then the door swung open into a small room furnished only with a single wooden table and two matching straight-backed chairs. No one else was present.
“This is the Customs station used to process diplomatic and government officials,” Huerta explained. “National security and Customs are the responsibility of the Guardia Civil, but the N.P. are empowered to exempt foreign law enforcement officers. I cleared you through customs, so you will only need to present your Customs forms for validation at Torremolinos. It is no more than a formality.”
Outside, Huerta leaned in the window of a police car and spoke rapidly in Spanish to the driver, a young man in a blue uniform with TORREMOLINOS POLICÍA on each shoulder patch. His name tag said he was Officer Alonso Segundo, and, unlike his N.P. counterpart, Segundo carried a big automatic pistol in a basket-weave holster.
“¡Hola!” Segundo opened the trunk, placed their bags carefully inside, and returned to the driver’s seat.
Granz climbed in behind the driver while Huerta held the rear passenger door open for Mackay, then sat in front beside the driver. Once the car merged onto the highway, Huerta turned sideways and leaned over the seat so he could see Granz and Mackay.
“Simmons is being held at the Torremolinos Municipal Police station,” he told Granz. “It will take about fifteen minutes to get there.”
“You’re sure it’s Simmons?” Granz asked.
“I faxed his fingerprints to Madrid. Interpol confirmed his identity.”
“Has he made a statement?” Mackay asked.
“In Spain, suspects aren’t entitled to a lawyer before interrogation, but I assumed you wish to comply with your ‘Miranda Rule.’ He is being held incommunicado, pending your arrival. I trust that is satisfactory?”
Mackay nodded. “Definitely, thank you.”
CHAPTER
* * *
13
THE PALACIO DE CONGRESOS rolled past the right side of the car as Captain Huerta gave instructions to Segundo in rapidfire Spanish. Mackay picked up “estación de policía” and “ayuntamiento.”
“Did you catch what he said?” Mackay asked Granz.
Huerta turned around and smiled. “Lo siento, Señora—Corporal Segundo doesn’t speak English. I told him to take us to the main police station at the town hall, where Simmons is being held.”
“You have more than one?” she asked.
“Sí, a substation near Meliá Costa del Sol Hotel, mostly to assist tourists. Incidentally, I reserved you rooms for tonight. The Meliá is convenient to the beach and shopping, if you have time to indulge yourselves.”
Segundo stopped in front of El Ayuntamiento, a whitewashed stucco building from whose flat roof the Spanish and Andalusian flags flapped furiously in an onshore breeze. Huerta escorted Granz and Mackay inside the marble-floored foyer, where an archway opened to the police station. A receptionist buzzed them past a security door into a tile-floored corridor.
Huerta stopped at the first door on the left and held it open. It looked like every detective’s room in every police station in the world: institutional gray walls, several metal tables, and half a dozen beat-up chairs. One table held a steaming coffeepot and half a dozen cups, one filled with cigarette butts.
He pointed at the wall. “Simmons is waiting for you in the interrogation room on the other side of that one-way mirror.”
Simmons sat in a metal chair, an empty coffee cup on the table in front of him, wearing a dark blue jail jumpsuit. His head snapped up at the sound of the door opening. He frowned when he realized Granz was with her.
“I figured you’d come personally, Kathryn. Did you have to bring him?”
Granz and Mackay sat in chairs across the table. “Give us any attitude, we’ll let Captain Huerta transport you to their prison in Málaga,” Granz told him. “It’s not a nice place, and you won’t buy your way out this time.”
“I’m afraid you’re right, I tried as soon as they arrested me. Cops in Spain are paid better than in Costa Rica, and more ethical.”
“Then you have a problem,” Mackay told him. “Do you want to talk?”
“I’m entitled to an attorney before you interrogate me.”
Granz shook his head. “You can’t tell us anything we don’t already know. We came to take you back to stand trial, not to interrogate you.”
“Then why talk to me at all?”
Granz leaned forward, elbows and forearms on the table, and stared at Simmons. “It’ll take months to process an extradition order through the courts in Madrid. Until that happens, the N.P. will hold you at the provincial prison in Málaga, where a rich, smartass gringo’s life isn’t worth a hundred pesetas. By the time the extradition order goes through, we’ll be hauling your body back to Santa Rita in a plastic bag.”
Simmons looked at Mackay. “So, what’s the point of this discussion?”
Mackay took a sheet of paper out of her briefcase and slid it across the table.
Simmons read it and looked up.
She explained. “Under the U.S.-Spain Extradition Treaty, you sign this extradition waiver, the local court certifies it, we fax it to the Spanish Ministerio de Justicia and the U.S. Embassy in Madrid. We’ll be on our way home in twenty-four hours.”
“Home! That’s a laugh.” Simmons thought for several seconds and ran his fingers through his hair. “You’ll have the N.P. hold me here rather than Málaga?”
Granz nodded. “We don’t want to stay any longer than necessary.”
“May I use your pen?” Simmons asked.
Mackay handed him her black Mont Blanc roller ball, a birthday gift from Granz several years before. Granz grabbed it and handed it back to her, then gave Simmons a beat-up PaperMate.
Simmons picked the pen up, studied it, started to sign, then replaced it gently on the table. “There’s one thing,” he said.
Granz grabbed the PaperMate. “Give him a break and what does he give us back? Bullshit. Let’s book a flight to Madrid and let N.P. send him to Málaga.”
“No!” Simmons’ voice rose. “Hear me out.”
“Make it fast,” Granz told him.
Simmons looked at Mackay. “When you tried to extradite me from Costa Rica, you insisted on seeking the death penalty.”
Mackay’s eyes narrowed. “You commit a capital crime, you face the maximum penalty.”
“Why should I waive extradition if I’m looking at the death penalty? I’ll take my chances at Málaga, maybe I’ll find a money-hungry guard. At least I won’t rot on death row waiting for the State to kill me. I can die here without knowing when it’ll happen.”
Mackay lifted her shoulders. “Your funeral.”
Simmons ignored the pun. “Here’s my offer—I’ll waive extradition right now if you agree in writing to not seek the death penalty.”
Mackay grabbed the paper. “Forget it.”
Granz stood and tapped her on the shoulder. “Can we talk outside?”
In the hall, he said, “You’ll never get a death sentence in Santa Rita, Babe.”
“I’ll force a change of venue.”
“Prosecutor can’t file for a change of venue.”
“I said I’d force one, not file one. I’ll make pretrial publicity so ug
ly he can’t get a fair trial in Santa Rita.”
Granz stared at her. “In all the years we’ve known each other, I’ve never heard you threaten to do anything unethical.”
“What’s unethical is letting a monster like Simmons off with less than he deserves. And he deserves to die.”
“You can’t be judge, jury, and executioner.”
“Yes I can.”
“Take his deal, Kate.”
“All right, but I’ll never forget you saved that bastard from dying.”
CHAPTER
* * *
14
HUERTA AND GRANZ CHATTED in the front seat of the unmarked police car as it crept down the narrow streets from El Ayuntamiento. Mackay gazed silently out the rear-seat window at the tightly packed houses with red tile roofs, but as they approached La Zona Playa, homes yielded to tidy iglesias, mercados barrios, restaurantes, and other commercial structures, all built in the same clean Mediterranean style.
The Beach Zone’s main street, Paseo Marítimo, was bordered on the ocean side by Playa del Bojondillo; to landward, standing shoulder to shoulder, were highrise hotels that sprouted from the beach and hillsides like whitewashed stucco weeds.
Huerta pulled into the Meliá Costa del Sol Hotel valet station, switched off the engine, flashed a badgeat the doorman, and held the door open for Mackay.
Granz grabbed their bags and handed them to a bellman, who hovered discreetly.
“We should receive the court order for Simmons’ extradition by noon tomorrow,” Huerta told them.
“Should we make flight reservations?”
“I’ll do it. Spanish law grants N.P. authority to bump other passengers off any airline, if necessary.”
“Gracias.”
“De nada.” Huerta pointed to the southwest. “If you prefer to not eat at your hotel, La Carihuela—the original fishing village—is a few blocks that way. Along the Paseo are many good marisquerías—seafood restaurants.” He checked his watch. “One of my officers will pick you up at nine A.M. tomorrow.”
They entered the huge, marble-floored, open-air lobby and Kathryn excused herself to use the ladies’ room. She returned to find Dave watching TV on a lobby sofa, two frosty bottles of beer on the glasstopped table. When he spotted her, he turned off the television.
“The rooms aren’t ready yet,” he told her.
She sat down beside him, leaned back to rest her head on the sofa back, closed her eyes, and hugged her arms to her chest.
He studied her for a few seconds, then leaned forward and picked up his beer, which left a wet ring behind. He sipped the beer, wiped the table, and set the bottle back on the damp napkin. “You haven’t said a word for the past hour. What’s wrong?”
She opened her eyes. “I screwed up by giving up the death penalty so Simmons would waive extradition.I should have let him stew in the Málaga prison while I petitioned the Spanish Supreme Court.”
“He wouldn’t have lived long enough for you to get the order.”
“No big loss.”
“The court could deny your petition.”
“They could, but I’d push the State Department to apply pressure. Under our treaty with Spain, they’d order him extradited eventually.”
“Could’ve taken months, maybe years.”
“Justice isn’t always expedient.”
He slipped his arm around her shoulder. “Your sense of duty and justice sometimes makes you impractical, Babe. The deal made sense because no Santa Rita jury would sentence him to the death penalty.”
She sat up. “The penalty should fit the crime, and if a criminal ever deserved the death penalty, Simmons does. If a jury’s too wimpy to give him what he deserves, at least I’d know I did my job.”
“You always do your job.”
“I do my job best by being a strong advocate! I’m not sure I should’ve listened to you.”
Dave sighed. “I’ll take responsibility if it makes you feel better.”
“It doesn’t.” She paused. “Oh, damn, I apologize. You didn’t talk me into anything, I made my own decision. It’s just that in retrospect I think it was the wrong one.”
“Maybe, but you can’t second-guess yourself.” He checked his bottle and found it empty. “Aren’t you going to drink your beer?” he asked.
“I’m not thirsty.” She surveyed the lobby. “Nice hotel.”
“Don’t want to talk about it anymore, right?”
“Right.”
He picked up the TV remote, punched the On button, and scrolled through the channels until he found something he liked.
“How can you watch so much football?”
“This is Europe, Babe. It’s soccer.”
“Same thing. Why don’t you check on our room.”
“Huerta booked two adjacent rooms.”
“Cancel one of them.”
CHAPTER
* * *
15
SHE HAD NAPPED for half an hour when Granz sat on the edge of the bed. She was sleeping on her stomach, and he started massaging her back.
She yawned, but made no attempt to roll over. “I must’ve fallen asleep.”
“You did.”
He kneaded deeply along both sides of her spine, and she moaned contentedly.
“Jazzbo Miller called a few minutes ago,” he told her. “Bonnie Keefe denies being with Sanchez the night Tucker was murdered.”
“Really? I believed him.”
“Me, too.”
“Did they follow up with Sanchez?”
“Not yet.”
“Well, we can’t do anything about it from here. Besides, I don’t want to talk about work anymore.”
“Me, neither.”
He continued to massage her for several minutes. “Wanta get something to eat?”
“Not yet.”
She rolled over, letting his hand slip inside her robe, then she untied it and pulled it open.
He caressed her breast. “I love you.”
His other hand started at her ankle, moved up to her calf, the back of her knee, then her thigh. Slowly, he massaged both inner thighs in gradually expanding circles, each pass of his fingertips brushing against her pubis with increasing intensity.
She gasped when his fingers found her warm, soft wetness and slipped inside. Her hand squeezed the front of his Levi’s. His fingers probed, teased, tantalized. She responded, but then grasped his hand to stop its movement and prolong the moment.
“I want you in me,” she whispered. “I want to make love with my future husband.”
CHAPTER
* * *
16
BY THE TIME THEY WALKED to the Paseo de la Carihuela, the deepening purple evening sky had melted into the water at the horizon. Tourists and shoppers crowded the walkway that separated the sand from the cafés and shops, and umbrellas still dotted the beach.
The outdoor courtyard-garden of La Comida de los Pescadores adjoined the esplanade, but wellplaced potted plants shielded their table from the view of passersby. They held hands and sipped Spanish Chablis while they waited for dinner. They ate slowly, and when the waiter cleared the table, Dave asked Kathryn if she wanted dessert.
“No, I want to go to that Catholic church we passed walking here.”
“What for?”
“To speak with the priest.”
“About what?”
“A favor I want him to do for us tomorrow morning.”
“I don’t get it. What favor?”
“You’ll see.”
CHAPTER
* * *
17
“¡BUENOS DÍAS ! I apologize that my officer didn’t pick you up this morning until almost ten-thirty. Was your evening at the Meliá satisfactory?”
Granz and Mackay sat in high-backed chairs facing Captain Huerta’s desk.
“Yes, but this morning was even better,” Granz told him.
“Did you walk to La Carihuela for breakfast?”
“We went to church.”
“Many people visit our ancient church to admire its beauty. Did you enjoy it?”
“We sure did.” Granz glanced at Mackay, who nodded permission. “We were married there this morning.”
“Married! Congratulations!”
“Gracias.”
Huerta handed Granz an official National Police envelope. “After your news, this seems rather ordinary, but the Tribunal Supremo—the Supreme Court—faxed Simmons’ extradition order from Madrid about fifteen minutes ago.”
Granz opened it and pulled out a stack of papers.
“Three sets of travel documents,” Huerta explained, “exit visas, departure-tax exemptions, airline tickets and boarding passes—seats 6A, B, and C on each flight. I assumed you prefer to sit in the forward section of the plane, with your prisoner between you.”
Granz passed the envelope to Mackay. “Excellent.”
“From Málaga to Barcelona you fly on Air Europa Líneas Aéreas, then British Airways from Barcelona to London, and London to San Francisco. You arrive at four twenty-five this afternoon, California time.”
Huerta stood and extended his hand to Granz, then to Mackay. “If you will wait here while I place Simmons in restraints, one of my officers will drive you to the airport, help you clear Customs, and secure the prisoner on board the plane. Shortly before takeoff, he will release Simmons to you, and ask you to sign a custody receipt.”
He walked to the door, opened it, then turned. “It has been my pleasure to work with you. You have a long, tiring flight ahead of you. Vaya con Dios. And again, my congratulations on your marriage.”
CHAPTER
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Until the Final Verdict Page 4