As he left, I turned and looked off at the brilliant blue water beyond the sandstone cliffs, trying to clear my head of the muddying effects of Berry’s bigotry. I told myself he was essentially a small and stupid man, but that didn’t help. Owen Berry was a symptom of everything that was reeling out of control in our society—everything I felt powerless against.
After a while, though, the motion of the sea off the rock-strewn shoreline calmed me. When Berry came back, without the unfortunate beagle but with a slip of paper, I was able to be civil to him. Quickly I retreated to the Tercel, calling out my thanks; several blocks away, I pulled to the curb and looked at the paper: 117 Vía Pacífica, El Sueño, Baja.
* * *
La Encantadora’s courtyard seemed an oasis after my trek from Point Loma in the unair-conditioned Tercel. I parked near the office, thinking to check out after I made a quick phone call and gathered my things. The air was hot, without a breath of breeze from the cove below, but the shade of the jacaranda trees provided a measure of relief. I walked toward my bungalow, then slowed when I saw a figure move far back under the trailing branches of the tree nearest my door. An abrupt turn took me down a path between two of the other bungalows.
The bungalow to my right was surrounded by tall camellia bushes. I slipped behind one and worked my way along the wall until I had a good vantage, then peered through the shiny leaves. The figure had moved forward and was now clearly visible: tall, very thin, craning its neck toward the path I’d just taken.
Gage Renshaw.
My breath caught and I began working my way back again. It didn’t occur to me to wonder how he’d found me; given RKI’s considerable resources, it probably hadn’t been difficult. I didn’t have to question his intent, either; I’d seen the bulge under his suit coat. Armed and dangerous.
I inched along the bungalow wall to its rear, then pressed flat against it. Now what?
Renshaw had spotted me as I walked from the car—no way he could have missed me. But something about his posture—alert but indecisive—told me he hadn’t quite recognized me. New hairstyle, different type of clothing, and if he’d checked with the motel office they’d have described my Clunker ’n’ Junker. He’d probably sensed something familiar, however; it might only be seconds before he made the connection.
My things didn’t matter. They could stay in the bungalow—although I briefly entertained a dismaying vision of them being the first in a trail of possessions discarded from here to wherever this case took me. The car posed a problem, though; I needed to create a diversion so I could get to it.
The path onto which I’d detoured led to a side street. I moved through the bushes, looked out. Saw no one and headed for the pavement. Directly across the street was a cafÉ. I ran over there, found a pay phone, and called the motel office.
“Unit seven, please,” I said to the desk clerk.
“One moment.” She connected me and let the phone ring several times. “Sorry, she doesn’t answer.”
“I wonder if you could go back there and check on her. She wasn’t feeling well when I left her after lunch, and I’m worried.” When the woman hesitated, I added, “Please? She’s a diabetic.”
“All right, hold on a minute.” She sighed and set the receiver down with a clunk.
I hung up, rushed out of the cafÉ and across the street. As I rounded the corner near the motel office, the clerk was heading toward the rear of the court. I crouched behind another camellia bush and watched as she went to the door of my bungalow. Renshaw came out from under the tree and spoke to her. She motioned toward the door, explaining. Then she unlocked it and stepped inside. As I’d hoped, Renshaw followed.
I ran for the Toyota, key in hand. Jumped inside and jammed it into the ignition. Got the engine started, turned the car, and was out of there, seat-belt warning signal beeping furiously. As I sped away, I tried to remember if there was anything in the room that might tip Renshaw to the lead I’d turned up. The paper I’d doodled names on last night? No, the maid had gone in to clean the room when I left, and I’d seen her empty the wastebasket. W.C.? The sales slip for him was in my purse.
I smiled, trying to imagine what Renshaw would make of my crotchety old parrot.
* * *
I now had an errand to run and a call to make. First stop was Gooden’s Photographic Supply on University Avenue in the city’s predominantly gay Hillcrest district. Gooden’s has been there since the 1920s when Hillcrest was an exclusive suburb linked to downtown by a trolley line—a lily-white suburb, thanks to pioneer developer William Wesley Whitsun’s concept of “restricted” housing tracts. I’ve often wondered what the bigoted old boy would think of the lesbians and gays who have renovated the charming cottages he built; given the way upscale boutiques and restaurants have driven out many of the old-time merchants, I’ve also wondered how Gooden’s has survived. But that afternoon it was doing a turnaway business in its vintage building half a block from the huge arch that marks the beginning of the Hillcrest shopping district at Fifth Avenue and University.
Inside, the store was as I remembered it: a photographer’s dream, with case after case full of the widest variety of cameras, lenses, supplies, and darkroom equipment I’d ever seen. Back in the days when I considered myself a budding professional photographer—before I discovered that I had absolutely no eye or originality when it came to taking pictures—I would spend a good deal of every visit home in Gooden’s, composing mental shopping lists. Now I recalled exactly where the telephoto lenses were kept and headed straight there.
It took me about twenty minutes to determine that the lens that best suited my purposes was a Meade 1000 that converted to a long-distance spotting scope, with eyepieces that would magnify up to eighty-three times. Light and portable, it would give me great resolution, even when photographing in substandard light. Not that I expected to take many pictures; I wanted the lens more for its spying capabilities, and when mounted on a camera it would lend me the protective coloration of your basic overequipped tourist.
The young clerk with the neo-Nazi haircut who was helping me seemed to sense an easy sale to an ignorant but affluent customer. He said enthusiastically, “With that lens, ma’am, you’ll be able to count the pinfeathers on a baby bird’s head at two hundred yards.”
Baby birds and their pinfeathers were the last thing on my mind. Perplexed, I stared at him.
He colored. “I just assumed you wanted it for bird-watching.”
“Do I look like a bird-watcher?”
“I didn’t mean any offense.”
“No, I want your opinion. Do I?”
“Well … no. Whale-watcher, maybe.”
I had to smile at his pathetic effort to extract his foot from his mouth. “Okay, I’ll take the lens. I’ll need a camera and some film, too.”
He beamed, then began steering me toward the new-camera department. Firmly I shook my head and pointed him toward the used equipment. My own camera is a twenty-three-year-old Nikkormat that I bought used; I like a single-lens reflex with as few automatic options as possible. The Canon that I selected was even more primitive than my Nikkormat and cost less than a quarter of what I paid for the lens and all its attachments.
“I don’t know,” the clerk muttered as he carried my merchandise toward the film counter. “It’s like dressing up a warthog in a diamond necklace.”
I didn’t reply; I was wondering how the hell I’d pay back the cash advance I’d taken from RKI, knowing I’d have no job when I returned home.
* * *
I’d forgotten to eat lunch, so I stopped at a restaurant a few blocks away, had a quick sandwich, and used the phone to call Gary Viner at the SDPD. Viner didn’t sound surprised to hear from me; I suspected there was very little that did surprise him.
“Have you gotten an I.D. on that body that was found on the mesa?” I asked.
“We have.”
“And?”
He was silent.
“Are you going to make me
guess?”
“That’s not a bad idea.”
“Stanley Brockowitz, late of San Clemente and Blossom Hill.”
Now his silence had a different quality. He finally said, “Thought you had no idea who he was.”
“I didn’t—then.”
“And now?”
“He may have something to do with my case after all.”
“Then you better come in and make a statement.”
“Can’t. I’m … not in San Diego.” My association with RKI had turned me into a paranoid and, apparently, a liar.
“Where are you?”
“South.”
“The South Bay? Then you can—”
“Farther south.”
“Mexico? Why’re you—”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Have you notified Brockowitz’s wife of his death yet?”
“McCone …”He sighed in defeat. “We’ve tried, but she’s not at their home or her place of business.”
“Then nothing’s been released to the press?”
“Not till we get in touch with her. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might be?”
“Me? I don’t even know the woman.”
“Look, McCone, I want—”
“Will you be on duty all weekend?”
“Will I— No, I’m out of here in a couple of hours, and then I’m going home to paint the living room.”
“Give me your home number.”
“Why?”
“Because I might need it.”
“McCone, you’re not investigating this murder, are you? Because in this state you can’t investigate a murder—”
“I’m not even in the country.”
“I want you to get your ass back here and—”
“What’s your home number?”
“It’s unlisted.”
“I know that. What is it?”
“McCone—”
“Please. For your favorite cheerleader?”
“Christ, you hand me a pain!” Then he sighed and recited the number. “This is emotional blackmail, you know. When you get back here, we’re going to have to discuss your conduct—”
“What?”
“I said—”
“God, this is a bad connection!”
“I can hear you fine.”
“Of course it’s mine. I called you.”
“I know you called me.”
“Balled you!”
“What?”
“What?”
I hung up and made a run for the border.
Twenty-One
I decided to take the fast toll road to Ensenada, then pick up old Mexico 1, the highway that in the early seventies linked Tijuana with La Paz and forever changed the face of Baja California.
The 800-mile-long peninsula is a harsh, arid land, ridged by barren mountains and cut off from mainland Mexico by the Sea of CortÉs. Its desert region remains pretty much the same as a century ago: peppered with cactus and hardscrabble ranches, many of which have long been abandoned. But with the advent of the highway, American tourists discovered Baja’s scenic Pacific beaches and the quiet anchorages and villages along the Mar de CortÉs; the 1990s have brought an increase in international trade to the peninsula’s few cities.
After a brief stop at a Pemex station to buy a map, I sped along Tijuana’s Calle Internacionale and turned south toward the first tollgate, noting changes. The border town’s slums and shacks still existed, as did the gaudy souvenir shops and booze-and-sex traps, but mirrored-glass skyscrapers appeared on the horizon, lending the city a new sophistication. Farther south along the coast, the inevitable billboards, RV parks, condominiums, and hotels marred the beauty of some of the most breathtaking cliffs this side of Big Sur. When I reached Rosarito, which I remembered as a quiet fishing village, and found several posh-looking resort hotels, I realized that the Baja I’d loved as a child was on its way to disappearing forever.
The dry heat had pursued me from San Diego, and even in these coastal regions it didn’t let up, rising with a vengeance from the dust-blown desert. It took me about an hour and a quarter to get to Ensenada. At first I thought the long arm of commercialism hadn’t yet extended this far; fishing boats, a number of them bearing the insignia of Gilbert Fontes’s Corona Fleet, bobbed in the harbor, and a few donkey carts crept along the streets. But then I spotted a sign in English proclaiming Ensenada the birthplace of Mexico’s wine industry and offering tours and tastings; new hotels and restaurants and cantinas lined the waterfront boulevard. I got out of there as fast as I could and picked up the old highway.
About thirty minutes later I came upon a road that I thought should be the one to El Sueño. I pulled over, consulted my map, then turned toward Punta Arrejaque, a finger of land extending northwest into the Pacific. The road was new, recently paved, running parallel to a riverbed choked with scrub vegetation. Down in it, I thought, was probably an older road; the dry riverbeds had for centuries been routes to the fishing villages that perched beside their mouths at the edge of the sea.
After several miles I noticed that the weather had changed; afternoon clouds stood on the horizon above the slate-gray sea, and the air was cooler. The road wound past ramshackle stands laden with produce and jars of olives and chili peppers; past a campground and a lookout point; past an airfield where small planes were tethered. Then it topped a rise, and I saw houses— some traditional white stucco and red tile, others of outlandish modern design—rambling over the gently sloping terrain. Pelicans wheeled above the sea as I coasted into the small commercial district of El Sueño—the dream.
The place did have a dreamlike quality: in the buildings’ raw newness, in the smell of cooking oil and spices that drifted on the air, in the welcome cool breeze that played on my bare arms. The streets of the village were narrow but, like the road, recently paved; expensive cars crowded their curbs. The shops looked equally expensive: a jeweler, a sports outfitter, a florist, a wine broker, several galleries. A small professional complex held the offices of attorneys, doctors, and dentists. A branch of an American stock-brokerage had a sign that flashed the Dow-Jones average. People wandered along the sidewalks and in and out of the shops, stopping at produce stands heaped with corn, tomatoes, lettuce, and chilies. The majority were Americans, and all were well dressed, mostly in golf or tennis attire. No one hurried; no one seemed to have a care.
The town made me somewhat twitchy. I didn’t dislike it, didn’t like it, either. Its edges were simply too rounded, its ambience too manufactured for my taste. I felt as if I’d stepped onto a stage set for a drawing-room comedy that had absolutely no connection to the often grim realities of life in Baja.
I found a space to leave the car and went into a grocery that mainly stocked imported wines and gourmet items. The Mexican woman whom I asked for directions to Vía Pacífica spoke better English than some members of my family. She hesitated, then shrugged and drew me a little map, showing a winding road that branched off near the far end of town. Said “It’s a fancy place, big villas. No trespassing,” and looked askance at my rumpled clothing. I’d planned to buy some mineral water from her, but got my revenge by walking down the block for it. At a produce stand I allowed myself to be tempted by some cantaloupe slices. As in the shops of Tijuana, U.S. money was cheerfully accepted.
According to the woman’s map Vía Pacífica looped off the main road toward the sea, then rejoined it at the base of the point. I found the turnoff, marked by stone pillars but no security kiosk or gate, and followed the blacktop past stands of yucca and prickly pear and barrel cactus; the strange and somewhat unpleasant scent of Indian tobacco traveled on the breeze. Houses in widely divergent architectural styles began to appear: pueblo-style with rough-hewn timbers and solar panels on the roofs; a steel-and-glass structure that put me in mind of the starship Enterprise; traditional weathered-wood beach houses like the ones you find up and down the entire Pacific coast; something that looked to be a cross between an Aztec pyramid
and a bomb shelter. They clustered to the right of the pavement, on a small rise above a white sand beach. The sun was sinking toward the water now, its outline glaring through the layers of high-piled clouds.
Fontes’s villa, number 117, turned out to be relatively conservative in appearance. Tan stucco with a muted blue tile roof, it was long and spacious; at one end stood a three-story wing resembling a church’s bell tower; a one-story section connected it to a two-story wing at the opposite end. Unlike most of its neighbors, it was surrounded by a high stucco wall with jagged shards of glass embedded in its top; the upper-floor windows were secured with bars that did their best to blend with the architecture. A security-conscious man, Gilbert Fontes.
The automobile gate stood open, however. I slowed down and looked inside. The front yard held a fountain and an elaborate cactus garden bordered by a half-circular crushed-shell drive. A detached garage stood to the left. And in front of it was parked a maroon Volvo with a familiar California license plate.
I continued down the road a short distance, U-turned at a wide place, and went back to a beach access I’d noticed earlier. Several vehicles were drawn up there—not the sleek luxury cars belonging to El Sueño’s affluent residents but rusted old sedans, one of which had been abandoned and cannibalized for parts. I parked the Tercel there, took my photographic equipment from the trunk, and spent about fifteen minutes assembling it and familiarizing myself with how it worked. Then I put on my jacket, shed my shoes, stuffed them into my oversized purse next to my father’s .45, and carried it and the camera down to the beach. The sand was powdery soft and very clean; a few people were walking there, and others surf-fished. A young mother watched her two children as they splashed in the water, impervious to the chill on the air. I walked along looking at the houses until I spotted Fontes’s.
It perched lower than its neighbors, with a walled terrace outfitted with clear glass baffles to protect it from the wind. The windows on this side were small and barred, too, but large doors opened to the terrace. No one was out there, but I saw a portable bar and moments later a man in a white waiter’s jacket appeared, carrying some glasses. Preparing to entertain the guests from California?
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