The Attorney

by Steve Martini

  We get out and climb, first up the sidewalk, then the stairs. To the left and down the hill are the tourist hangouts and nightspots, Cabo Wabo, the Giggling Marlin, and Squid Row.

  Up the hill ahead should be the plaza. There are fewer tourists here. We cross the street, what appears to be the last busy intersection, one-way traffic down into town, then climb stairs into what is the city square, an open area with a few trees. It covers a small block.

  Susan and I look like two tourists. She’s wearing a large straw hat, something to keep the sun off her head and out of her eyes. She’s left the rope, the tape, and the ether back in the car, under the seat. For the moment, we are just trying to find the place.

  We locate the mission, the Catholic church on the map. The Mexican customs office is next door, and farther down is an antique shop, a two-story building with a veranda reaching out over the sidewalk.

  Susan heads in that direction, and I follow her.

  We cross the street, pass the storefront, MAMMA ELIS’S ORIGINAL CURIOUS SHOP, antiques and knickknacks. In the cool shade under the overhanging veranda we hug the building and come to the end of the block. As we step around the corner, Susan suddenly stops. Up the street no more than a hundred feet away is a set of wrought-iron gates where the street dead-ends. The gates open onto a driveway, and overhead is a large wooden sign, LAS VENTANAS DE CABO.

  Susan takes a deep breath. “That’s it.”

  We step back into the shade of the veranda. The condos are nestled into the terraced hillside with a steep driveway that disappears around a turn. From the street it is clear we’re not going to be able to see much. The units are carved into the hillside high above us. It looks as if there may be ten or twelve separate units.

  “Do we know which one she’s in?”

  Susan shakes her head. “I just have the name of the place.”

  “Let’s hope the information is correct. Otherwise we’ve made a long trip for nothing,” I tell her.

  I start up the hill.

  “Where are you going?”

  “See if there’s an office.”

  “You can’t just go barging in.”

  “Why not? Jessica doesn’t know us. We tell whoever’s up there we’re looking for a rental. Check it out.”

  Susan comes out of the shadows of the veranda, adjusts her hat, one hand on top of her head to hold it on as she cranes her neck to look up at the units on the hillside. I begin trudging up the hill, Susan following me.

  Once through the gates, we climb steeply to the left until we find ourselves in front of several garage units, a series of overhead doors with a set of narrow steps leading up the hillside through gardens planted between the units. There is no sign telling us where the office is, or whether there is one.

  The heat of the afternoon sun is withering, taking its toll on both of us. My dark glasses are beginning to fog up. I stop on the steps to wipe them, take in the lay of the land. Small paths branch off from the steps in different directions, winding through landscaped gardens toward the condos nestled into the hillside.

  “Can I help you?” A woman’s voice comes from behind on a lower level.

  As I turn to look I notice, for the first time, a good-sized lap pool built into the hillside, over the garage units, a patio with a railing around it and a commanding view of the town below.

  “We were looking for the office.”

  “You found it. I’m the manager,” she says.

  Susan and I make our way toward the pool.

  The woman is in her early thirties, wearing shorts with a tank top. She has on dark glasses and seems to be studying us with some interest, as if perhaps this far off the beaten path they don’t get many visitors.

  “Hello. My name’s Paul. My wife, Susan. We saw your place from down below. It looks pretty nice. We’re looking for a place that has privacy. We were wondering if you might have any vacancies?”

  “At the moment we’re full up,” she says. “I could take your name, and a phone number.”

  I remove my dark glasses. Offer her my best smile. A friend once told me that the key to conversation is not the mouth, but the eyes.

  The woman doesn’t reciprocate, still studying me from behind smoked glass.

  “Are you looking for short-term or something longer?”

  “Through the fall,” says Susan.

  “Actually we might be interested in leasing for a year,” I tell her.

  With this, the glasses come off. She smiles. “I might have an opening at the end of the month.”

  “Do you take children?” Susan with the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.

  “Usually I would say no. But we have one woman with a child right now.”

  Bingo.

  “Really. We weren’t sure if we wanted to bring our daughter down here,” says Susan. “She’s eight . . .”

  “Same age as the child who’s here. Very quiet,” she says. “Both mother and child. Not sure if it’s a boy or a girl, to tell you the truth. Doesn’t seem to ever come out. They’re paid up to the end of next month. But it could be vacant any day now. She told me just this morning they would be leaving.”

  “When?”

  “She didn’t say exactly. Sometime before the end of the month.”

  Susan smiles, but I can sense some desperation in her expression as she looks at me. If it’s Jessica and she gets away, we’ll never find her again.

  “As I said, if you want to leave a name and a phone number I could call you,” says the woman.

  “Any chance we could see the unit?” I ask.

  “I’m afraid not,” she says. “I tried to show it last week, and she said no. The tenant likes her privacy.”

  I nod as if I understand. I’m running out of questions.

  “Does the unit have an ocean view?” Susan is good at this.

  “I’m afraid not.” The woman’s gaze travels up the hillside over my shoulder. Susan’s eyes follow it. I turn and look.

  “One of those up there?” says Susan.

  “Unit three,” she says. “The one on the right.”

  “It looks very nice,” says Susan. “You’re sure we can’t take a peek? We’d be very discreet. Very quiet.” Susan can be so sweet. Just let us get our rope and ether.

  “I can’t do that. I’m sorry.”

  “How many rooms? Maybe you have a floor plan of the unit?” Susan is not missing a beat.

  “Afraid I don’t have any floor plans. There are two bedrooms, a kitchen, and living area. Two and a half baths. Some of them have a small den. I can’t remember if that one does or not.”

  “I suppose you have to come down here to get your car?” Susan looks down over the railing toward the driveway, and up toward the endless stairs.

  “Actually there’s a road that runs up behind,” she says. “You can drive right up to the units and down into town.”

  “Oh, really. That is convenient.” I can see Susan giving me a glance as she hears this, both of us thinking the same thing, wondering if this road shows up on our map.

  THIRTY–TWO

  * * *

  I check my watch. It’s seven-fifteen. The sun has begun to set over Lovers’ Beach, the bright orange ball of fire slowly descending behind the sandstone cliffs of Land’s End.

  After some searching, we managed to find the road that winds up the hill behind the condos. We have driven it twice, making U-turns up top and coming back down. There is a small parking area behind each of the units.

  The one for unit three has no car, and we are left to wonder if anyone is home.

  “Maybe she doesn’t drive,” says Susan.

  “Maybe we’ve got the wrong place,” I tell her.

  “No.” Susan is certain of this. She is reading the instructions on the
can of ether, trying to make sure we don’t overdo it.

  “Do you know how to use that stuff?”

  “Put it on the cloth and hold it over her mouth and nose,” she says. Susan has purloined a small washcloth from the hotel for this purpose.

  “All we want to do is put her out for a few seconds,” she says, “get her on the floor until we can tape her mouth, tie her hands and feet.”

  “You better make sure you don’t breathe while you’re holding it on her face,” I tell her.

  “I know.”

  “And if she’s smoking, forget it. That stuff will go up like a zeppelin.”

  Like two moron outlaws, we’re sitting in a rented car reading the instructions off the back of a can on how to kidnap somebody. I’ve seen others with similar streaks of brilliance, all long-time and repeat customers of various correctional institutions. “One question.”

  “What?” Susan says it with some irritation.

  “What if it makes her sick? What if she throws up?”

  This is something Susan hasn’t thought about: Jessica drowning in her own vomit with tape over her mouth. She puts the can back in the large beach bag on the floor next to her purse, hiding it under the washcloth next to the rope and duct tape.

  “Okay. We don’t use the ether. We’ll just have to talk our way through,” she says.

  Despite her steely resolve, Susan is beginning to lose her nerve. “If she puts up a fight, we’ll just have to tape her mouth before she makes too much noise.”

  “I’ll hold her. You can tape her sharp, pointy little teeth,” I say.

  Susan gives me a noxious smile. “We can’t afford to leave her free to call the cops. We’d never get to the airport.”

  “I know.”

  We have checked the flight schedules out of Los Cabos. There is nothing to San Diego, but there is a night flight to L.A. It departs a little after nine, which doesn’t give us much time.

  We have studied the pictures of Jessica and Amanda from the file, the ones Jonah showed me from his wallet that first time he came to my office.

  If somehow we’ve got the wrong place, if it’s not Jessica and Amanda, the plan is we are out of here in a heartbeat, offer some story about viewing the unit, and leave, but only after we’ve seen the child.

  The condo units each have a single entrance, no back doors. The units are small, a lot of rooms in a compact space. On the back side, as you climb the steep incline of the hill, the property turns to rock: sandstone and desert brush.

  An old concrete water tank is embedded into the hillside about halfway up the back road. Somebody has spray-painted graffiti in black letters across the front of it. We park just off the road in the shadows of this tank. I pull the lever on the side of my seat and recline while we wait.

  It is almost seven twenty-nine when a light comes on in a window of one of the units.

  “Is that it?”

  “Yes.” I sit upright in the driver’s seat.

  “At least we know there’s somebody home,” she says.

  “Maybe. It could be a light on a timer.” I’m looking at my watch.

  The illumination suddenly changes, subtle flashes on the window shade. Somebody’s watching a television inside.

  We leave the car where it is. Grinding gravel under the tires as we slowed down to park in the space behind the unit would only draw attention.

  Susan grabs the beach bag and her purse, slings them both over her right shoulder. She is wearing shorts and sensible shoes: Nikes designed for running.

  We start up the road. It’s about a hundred yards from the water tank to the condos. We watch in silence the flashes of light dance on the window shade as we draw closer. When we reach the small leveled parking area behind unit three, we can hear the sound of the TV inside, the purple dramatic music of some Mexican soap, followed by the quick clip of Spanish as they try to sell something in a commercial. If it’s her, Jessica has clearly picked up some Spanish in her stay. I try to get a glimpse through the window. Nothing. The shade is drawn tight.

  We work our way around the building, toward the entrance at the front. From here we can see the pool below, and lights on in some of the other units, as well as the knee-high shafts of illumination from garden lamps along the path leading down.

  “Let me knock on the door.” Susan whispers in my ear as we head down the narrowing path. I let her take the lead.

  The door is painted Chinese red, and Susan taps on it with her knuckles. I can tell that it’s too light. Whoever’s inside didn’t hear. Susan tries again, this time louder.

  Suddenly the television goes mute. There are footsteps on the other side of the door. I expect it to open a crack, cautious eyes peering out from behind a security chain. Instead the door opens wide, and before we can say a word, the woman standing there turns her back and walks away. I don’t even get a good look at her.

  “You’re early,” she says. “I didn’t expect you till eight.” She says it as she walks with her back to us through the shadows of the dark living room, toward a door on the other side, a well-lit room.

  She leaves us standing on the porch with the door wide open.

  “I’m packed. Just one bag. That’s what you said, right?” She shouts from the other room.

  “Right.” I look at Susan. She’s as puzzled as I am. Still, we step inside and close the door behind us.

  We follow the path the woman took through the living room. I’m in Susan’s ear: “Don’t say anything.”

  “I just have to write a check. Take me a minute,” says the woman.

  We come through the doorway into the kitchen. She is leaning over the countertop, pen in hand, filling out a check. The small television, maybe thirteen inches, one like Susan used to own, is turned off. It’s pushed under the overhead cabinets on a corner of the countertop for viewing from the kitchen table.

  “Where did you park? I didn’t hear your car.”

  “Just down the hill,” I tell her.

  “Take me a minute,” she says. “You people really complicate things. Now I gotta pay the movers.” She looks up from the counter. The overhead fluorescents light up the features of her face. For the first time, I get a clear view.

  “Are you sure we can’t take my stuff with us? I just have the TV, a laptop, and some clothes.”

  Her hair is dark, longer, not the pixie blond from Jonah’s photograph, and the clothes are different, more refined, a black pants outfit and high heels, but the face is similar, something about the eyes. She has Jessica’s fine features, thin nose, and high cheekbones. And the height looks about right. It could be her, but I’m not sure.

  “Sorry. There’s no room in the car,” I tell her. It seems to be what she’s expecting, so I give it to her.

  “Yeah. I know. Same old shit,” she says. “Assholes are probably gonna steal all my stuff.” It’s not clear whether she’s talking about us, or the movers.

  “You’re gonna have to stop on the way out of town, though, so I can mail it.”

  I don’t say anything, so she looks at me again. I nod.

  “Where’s the child?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth Susan does a double-take, like she wasn’t expecting me to be this direct.

  It doesn’t faze the gal with the checkbook. She keeps on writing.

  “Sweetheart, come on out here. We’re getting ready to go.”

  As I turn I see a little boy in the doorway, slender shoulders, dark brown hair, a few freckles around the nose. He’s wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, high-top sport shoes like every kid I know, laced up only halfway with the baggy bottom of his pant legs caught on them.

  The tension goes out of my body like an inverted hot-air balloon. I look over at Susan, wondering what the hell’s going on, about to tell her it’s time to leave.
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  When I do, Susan’s not there. She’s down on one knee.

  “Honey. How are you?”

  At first the child doesn’t say anything. Then in a restrained, tiny voice: “I’m okay.”

  I look at the child again. When I do, I realize it’s not a boy at all, but a little girl dressed up to look like a boy. The long hair is gone, and it’s a different color, but the face, as I concentrate, is Amanda Hale’s.

  In that moment so much happens. Susan puts her arms around the child, lips to Amanda’s ear, and in a whisper that is barely audible to me three feet away, “Your grandma and grandpa sent us.”

  Amanda’s eyes light up.

  “Who are you? You get the hell out of here.” Jessica throws the checkbook at me. I catch it an inch from my face, ballplayer shagging a hot line drive.

  She heads for Susan and the child, fingernails flaring, but I catch her from behind before she can get there, swing her around and pin her against the counter. She is wiry and strong for her size, flailing, trying to reach back over her head to scratch me, feet off the ground, kicking, calling me names, epithets I would not repeat.

  Susan still has her purse and the beach bag over her shoulder. She reaches in the bag and comes out with the tape.

  “Leave my mom alone.” Amanda’s now hitting me in the behind, little overhand punches hardly perceptible, child’s imitation of an eggbeater. Still, I feel like a thug.

  Susan comes around the other side of the counter, the roll of tape in one hand. “Hold her still.”

  “No. Don’t.” I stop her. Instead I snap Jessica around, do it quickly so that she can’t get a free hand.

  Now she’s facing me. Spits at me. Dry mouth. She tries to knee me in the groin, but misses. I grab her by the arms just above the elbow and block her knees with my thigh.

  “Let me tape her hands behind her,” says Susan.

  “No.” Taping or tying Jessica, leaving her here is no longer an option.

  I look her in the eye. “Listen to me. I only have time to say this once. The people who are coming here are coming to kill you. Do you understand what I’m saying? They’re going to kill you and whoever else happens to be around at the time.”