by Tim Maleeny
“God never tried to bite me in the ass.”
“You obviously weren’t raised Catholic.”
Another turn in the road and the lights disappeared, replaced by trees that swallowed the moon.
“So now what?” asked Sally.
“I try to connect the dots.”
“How many dots do you have?”
“Dead Senator, dead Senator’s dead kid. Client who might be an ex-client, daughter of dead Senator. Mexican drug lord. Out-of-town muscle for said drug lord. Local police inspector. You. Me.”
Sally wiggled her outstretched fingers and frowned. “That’s eight dots.”
“More than enough to make a straight line,” said Cape. “But right now it leads to nowhere.”
“So where to next?”
Cape patted the side of the briefcase. “Now that we’ve taken his money, I think Salinas is going to want us close at hand.”
“So?”
“So I say we skip town without telling him.”
“I just unpacked.”
“We’re not checking out of our rooms,” said Cape. “We’re just leaving suddenly.”
“Take the money and run?”
“Exactly.”
“You think he’ll send someone after us?”
“Only one way to find out,” said Cape.
Chapter Twenty-four
An hour into the flight Cape was locked in the lavatory. He sensed other passengers waiting but stood transfixed by the small sign posted above the toilet bowl.
Caution! Disposal of any articles other than toilet tissue can cause external leaks which could be hazardous.
“External leaks?” Cape muttered, wondering what sort of article besides toilet paper might send the plane into a flat spin. On the back of the toilet lid was a graphic of a circle with a red slash across it, the circle filled with line drawings of paper clips, dental floss, coins, and what appeared to be a toothbrush, which only served to reinforce Cape’s growing suspicion that dentists were to blame for all the troubles in the world.
Cape glanced around the cramped space, searching for bits of plastic, cracks in the mirror, anything with potential for tearing through the fuselage. After a long minute, he took a deep breath and opened the door. A small queue had formed. Cape made eye contact with the first person in line, a heavyset woman wearing a Hawaiian print blouse. He gestured at the sign as she brushed past and shut the door in his face.
He took his seat next to Sally and asked, “Ever notice how turbulence always occurs shortly after they serve you the meal?”
“Never.” Sally put down the book she’d been reading, the vertical rows of Chinese characters like tiger stripes across the pages.
“I mean, do you think it’s intentional, an effort to shake up your stomach just enough to facilitate digestion of the rubber chicken they serve? Or maybe the pilots eat at the same time and take their hands off the controls, flying the jet like a truck driver eating fries with a Coke stuck between his legs.”
“I never eat when I fly.”
“You’re missing the point.”
Sally smiled. “And you’re pretty neurotic for a guy who carries a gun.”
Cape didn’t respond but exhaled loudly, stretching his arms above his head, feeling his fingers bend against the closeness of the overhead compartment.
“You want to fly the plane?”
Cape looked at Sally across the empty seat between them. “What do you think?”
“I think that you can’t control everything.”
“You seem to manage.”
“I only control myself,” said Sally. “Everything else…” She let her voice trail off.
Cape looked past Sally and out the window. An ocean of pillows extended all the way to the horizon, an unwelcome reminder of how exhausted he felt.
“Sorry you had to leave your bag of tricks behind.” Cape knew the trouble Sally had gone to smuggling their weapons into Mexico.
“We thought things were going to be more exciting.”
“I wouldn’t call getting hired by a drug lord boring.”
“So who are we working for?” Sally raised an eyebrow. “You never told me about your call with our client.”
Cape shrugged. “Not much to tell.”
“That bad, huh?”
“Shitty.”
“How did she take the news about her brother and father?”
“Badly.”
“Are we fired?”
“Not yet.”
Sally watched while Cape worked the muscles in his jaw. “You want to talk about this later?” she asked. “When we’re on solid ground.”
“No,” said Cape, “I’m just…”
“Pissed?”
“Exactly,” said Cape. “Royally pissed.”
“You want me to quote a Zen scripture about the healing power of mistakes?”
“God, no.”
“Good, at least you’re not getting soft.”
Cape took a deep breath. “She sounded devastated. She loved her brother, and even if you’re estranged from your father, hearing that he floated to the surface of a water hazard probably isn’t the epitaph you had in mind.”
“And yet we’re not fired.”
“She doesn’t blame me.”
“Does she know you blame yourself?”
Cape didn’t take the bait. “She wants to find out what happened.”
“She wants revenge,” said Sally bluntly. Cape didn’t challenge the comment. Lots of people talked about revenge, but Sally had spent half a lifetime in pursuit of it.
“I told her I’d find out what happened—didn’t make any promises beyond that.”
“She might not like what she finds.”
Cape said nothing.
“What next?”
“I called Linda and asked for a deep dive into the Senator—I’ll meet her when we get back. Then I’m going to Burning Man.”
“Burning Man.” Sally arched an eyebrow. “Is that a person, place or thing?”
“All of the above. It’s a festival in the desert. You really haven’t heard of it?”
Sally shook her head. “Why should I?”
“It’s been around for almost a decade, attracts thousands of people every year. There was a big feature about it in the Chronicle last month.”
“I don’t read the local papers.”
“It’s supposed to be a break from civilization. People drive into the Nevada desert, have a big party, and disconnect from the rat race.”
“I’m not a rat,” said Sally. “I don’t race.”
“That’s why you haven’t heard of it.”
“Are drugs involved?”
“Of course,” said Cape. “It was started by Californians.”
“Nudity?”
“It’s hot in the desert. Don’t need a lot of clothes there.”
“Have you been?”
“Never,” said Cape. “But I’ve seen pictures. Imagine a peace rally from the sixties, only with ecstasy instead of acid—better tents, and the Nevada desert instead of Woodstock.”
“Somehow I don’t imagine you in that picture.”
“Me neither, but that’s where our client is going.”
“Why?”
“She goes every year—says it’s like therapy.”
“She should study martial arts.”
“Besides,” added Cape. “I need to see her in order to get some answers.”
“But have you thought of any questions?”
“Sure. Why does a Mexican drug lord care about a U.S. Senator?”
“Or his son.”
“Exactly.”
Sally frowned. “Didn’t you ask about her father and brother when she hired you?”
“Maybe this isn’t solely about them—maybe it’s about her, too.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I’m desperate,” said Cape.
“And suspicious.”
Cape met her gaze, a half-smile on his l
ips. “How do you know?”
“I know you.”
“OK.”
“You have a reason for being so paranoid?”
“Sure,” said Cape. “She’s the only one in that family left alive.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Juan Molina used to enjoy being head of hotel security. Compared to being a cop in Mexico City it was like he’d died and gone to heaven. Blue skies instead of pollution, rich women in bikinis instead of back alley whores, and no bureaucracy except for a monthly staff meeting in the general manager’s office which got cancelled half the time. For a man whose early retirement plan had been to get shot in the line of duty, this was more like a vacation than a job.
He knew he could never repay the debt of gratitude to the man who got him the job, and every night before he went to bed, he prayed that he would never have to try.
But this past week the job had almost made him miss being a cop. The sore feet, aching shoulders, and the constant river of sweat between his shoulder blades all seemed pleasant by comparison to the inexorable pressure on his balls since those two corpses appeared on the golf course.
Every day he received the same note in his mailbox, written in a simple, nondescript hand.
¿Qué le tienen visto hoy?
What have you seen today? An innocent enough question, taken out of context. But even though the notes were never signed, Juan knew who sent them.
Just as he knew the risk of ignoring the sender.
Juan ran his hands through his hair, feeling the gel stick to his fingers but not caring. He sighed and stared at the telephone a good five minutes before picking up the receiver and dialing. He heard ringing on the other end, and then the sound of someone lifting the receiver. But no voice. No matter how hard he listened, he never heard a voice.
Juan took a deep breath. “The detective left about an hour ago.” He waited for a response but none came, which implied a question. “For the airport.”
Silence.
“The cab driver dropped him at departures, in the international terminal.”
Silence. Only the click of the call ending would signal satisfaction.
“I searched his room, and his bags are still here.”
Silence.
“That means he didn’t check out. I think—I think he’s coming back.”
Juan couldn’t be sure, but he imagined that he heard the whisper of a laugh on the other end of the phone, just before the line went dead.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Thanks for meeting me.”
Linda Katz didn’t answer right away, but her hair bobbed up and down in greeting. Cape chose a spot on the blanket sufficiently close to seem friendly but far enough away to avoid being blinded by a loose strand or runaway ponytail.
Linda’s hair could have been the stunt-double for Rapunzel, impossibly long tresses that seemed to move simultaneously in all directions. Of course it could have been the wind, always intense at Chrissy Field, but Cape had seen Linda indoors on countless occasions and the effect was very much the same.
“You’re late.” Linda said it calmly. “As usual.” She squinted into the glare off the ocean and Cape followed her gaze. A container ship was passing below the Golden Gate Bridge, two sailboats cutting across its wake. Directly below them a woman with a stroller worked her way down to the beach. The hill where they sat was covered in long grass bent backward from the constant breeze off the water. The movement of the waves and the undulating grass combined to create a sense of motion that Cape could feel deep in his gut, as if the blanket they were sitting on was really a sail.
“My flight was delayed landing.”
Linda nodded. “SFO or Oakland?”
“SFO.” Cape took off his shoes so he could feel the grass. “Nice spot.”
Linda made a gesture that encompassed the entire hillside. “No towers.”
For as long as Cape had known her, Linda avoided electromagnetic radiation the way Tweetie Bird avoided Sylvester. Dodging between wireless hotspots, detouring around cell towers, generally staying outdoors except when she was at home. No small trick for a reporter working in a major city. She had a computer that she used for short periods of time but didn’t own a cell phone. Tracking her down always took two or three tries.
“What do you think of my Senator?” Cape shifted on the blanket.
“Not much.”
“You found something?”
“Not yet.” Linda frowned. “But I was going through the archives at the paper, especially during the election periods. I even found a few of his speeches. You were right, he was big on urban development at first, but then all his energy shifted toward the environmental movement. Almost overnight.”
“A cause close to your heart.”
“Dobbins only jumped on board when it became fashionable.”
“Didn’t he drive a hybrid—I saw a picture.”
“Turns out he parked it right next to his Hummer in front of his 6000 square-foot house.”
“Must have been quite a heating bill.”
Linda nodded. “He was living large.”
“That’s not a crime, Linda.”
“I know.” Linda’s hair shifted uncertainly. “Call it a hunch.”
“Did you vote for him?”
“Yeah, I did, and maybe that’s what bothers me. He said all the right things, all the things I wanted to hear, but looking at him with a fresh perspective, some things don’t add up. It got me thinking.”
“About?”
“Hypocrisy.” Linda twisted a wayward strand of hair around her right index finger, then unwrapped it slowly. “This guy was painting himself Johnny Appleseed, but I don’t think he ever planted a tree in his life.”
“Maybe not, but he was a politician. He’s supposed to listen to the voters.”
“His speeches about the environment didn’t offer any solutions. Just rhetoric. In fact, they were apocalyptic.”
“Maybe he wanted to wake people up.”
“He played off people’s fear to get elected.”
“It worked.”
“I’ve lived a certain way my whole life, because I believe in it.” Linda looked at the water. “I never tried to be politically correct—I just tried to do the right thing.”
“And you resent having your cause hijacked for political gain.”
“Maybe.”
“He’s dead, if that makes you feel any better,” said Cape. “And I need something I can use.”
Linda nodded. “I know—I’ve got the Sloth looking for connections. Voting records, investments, phone records. There isn’t a database on the planet Sloth can’t hack.”
“A couple of days?”
“One should do it.”
“Thanks.”
Linda turned to face him, her hair stretching out like a kite behind her. “Want to know why your flight was delayed?”
“They said fog.”
Linda’s hair contracted in frustration. “They said fog—might’ve been rain. But you want to know the real reason?”
“Did I mention I was a nervous flier?”
“They only have two runways at SFO, and they’re too close together, so the pilots have to land by sight. That means that if one plane can’t see the other plane—”
“—the other plane gets delayed.”
“Exactly, which begs a question.”
“Why not build another runway?”
Linda’s hair practically hugged him. “Want to know why not?”
“I sense you’re going to tell me.”
“Because so-called environmentalists say that another runway would require building a concrete strip into the bay.”
“Would it?”
“Yeah,” said Linda. “No way around it. And they should start tomorrow.”
“Wait one minute,” said Cape. “You’re the one who wanted to meet away from the cell towers.”
“You don’t like the view?”
“Don’t dodge the question
. You don’t eat meat.”
“True.”
“You only take public transportation.”
“I prefer to walk.”
“You separate your paper from your plastic, your glass from aluminum.”
“Don’t forget about composting. I’m big on composting.”
“You’re greener than Kermit the Frog. A friend to all plants and animals. I’ve never known anyone more concerned about the environment than you.”
Linda’s hair nodded its assent. “Thank you.”
“So help me out with the rant about the airport.”
“You know how much jet fuel gets pumped into the atmosphere every hour a plane circles overhead, waiting for an open runway?”
“Lots?”
“More than your car burns in a year. Now multiply that times thousands of flights a day, across the entire air traffic control system, because a delay in San Francisco means a delay for the next flight when it lands in Chicago or New York.”
“Never thought of it that way.”
“Neither did the nimrods who keep protesting the new runway.” Linda sighed. “They say it will displace the fish and ruin windsurfing near the airport—that’s the real issue. God forbid we worry about the atmosphere more than windsurfing.”
“There’s always Half Moon Bay for windsurfers. As for the fish…”
“I bet everyone on the action committee eats sushi,” said Linda. “I know their type.”
Cape noticed the deep lines around Linda’s eyes, the streaks of gray in her hair. She looked older than he remembered, until she suddenly smiled and the lines on her face flattened out.
“I don’t think things are ever as simple as the Senator made them out to be.” She spoke quietly, as if talking to herself. “He learned the vocabulary of the environment, but he never understood what he was saying.”
“Words can be pretty powerful.”
“Until they become bankrupt,” said Linda. “I used to be a feminist until that word got co-opted by a bunch of strident women with chips on their shoulders. Now I’m just a woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone, especially a man.”
“Duly noted.”
“And I was an environmentalist before anyone knew what the word really meant. In the seventies, when Newsweek was warning the world about global cooling and the coming ice age.”
