A DANGEROUS HARBOR

by RP Dahlke

  Then realizing her mistake she backed up and bumped into Inspector Vignaroli.

  His brief nod to his sergeant indicated there would be a detour in the prisoner's march for the holding cells and Katy's freedom.

  Chapter Three:

  Chief Inspector Raul Vignaroli herded them into the same tiny interrogation room where she again flopped down into the nearest plastic chair, leaving the blond American man to stand awkwardly next to her.

  The inspector looked from Katy, who preferred to stare at the clock rather than meet his eye, then to the prisoner, noting the alcohol-blurred expression, the fresh cut above his left eye and the fading bruise along his neck. Raul Vignaroli knew that in other circumstances the blond man would be pushing back his floppy surfer's hair, re-buttoning his shirt, shoring up his image, if not for the chief inspector, then certainly for the attractive young woman. He looked from one to the other. About the same age and there was an air about the two of them, something the inspector could almost smell. Ah yes, that was it—money. The man may have had it at one time, but obviously had lost it. A refugee from some kind of trouble in the States? He would have to look into it. Ensenada was rife with Americans in one kind of trouble or another. The woman—vacation, she said. A police detective from San Francisco, yet he had the feeling there would be more to her than what was written in his sergeant's report. Under other circumstances… well, it was better not to go there.

  Raul was glad he'd listened to his instincts and told his men to wait and bring in the drunk American as the young policewoman was about to leave. This should be interesting and perhaps useful.

  The chief inspector, with satisfied amusement in his voice, asked, "Ah, then you know each other?"

  The man, squirming at the cuffs on his wrists, answered for her. "Of course she does. She can vouch for me."

  Her cheeks went a deeper shade of pink and she looked to be trying to swallow something disgusting. Then, as if leaping at an unbidden thought, she blurted, "Is he being arrested for the girl's murder?"

  "Murder! Chris' sake, Whisper, I traded a twelve pack of beer for those oysters. How was I to know those kids filched 'em from the college agri-pond?"

  The inspector's expression of amusement deepened to that of a shark about to bite. "Excuse me for a minute?"

  When he left, Katy looked over at the aging blond surfer and sighed. "There's no two-way mirror in here, but they could have a microphone somewhere. Oh, what the hell, this day is already screwed. So, Gabe, what happened to Canada?"

  "Too cold. What happened to San Francisco?"

  "I think it's safe to say we both picked the wrong border. And to think, only moments ago I was thinking about bunny feet and here I am again with the biggest bunny of them all."

  "It was no picnic, I can tell you that much. I hitched so many hay and animal trucks just to get this far I can still smell goat."

  "Oh my God! Don't tell me you're thinking of sneaking back across the border?" Katy reached over and punched him on the shoulder. "All you had to do was keep two promises and now you're reneging on both? You dumb shit—you're going to ruin my life, yet!" She began to pummel him in earnest.

  They were interrupted by the shark-like grin of the chief inspector as he and his sergeant stepped back into the room. The sergeant left, but the inspector stood where he was. With a flickering light now dancing in his eyes he said, "Now, who wants to go first?"

  Chapter Four:

  They gave the chief inspector an abbreviated version of their childhood friendship, omitting that awkward and embarrassing episode during her second year of college. The inspector looked from one to the other, and though he kept his own council, Katy noticed that little bit of amusement remained on his handsome mug.

  She would have to sort out this incredible coincidence somewhere out of earshot of the inspector. Gabriel Alexander here in Mexico. What was he thinking, threatening to go back to the States, do his time, clear his name and complicate her life? Her life before Gabe was all innocence; finish college, become a lawyer, follow in her daddy's footsteps, become a judge. Then there was life after Gabe, where her plans seemed to be cast in an ever-shifting line of sand.

  And to think, only a week ago she thought that all she had to do was serve her time with this enforced paid leave of absence until the department hearing and then get back to work. At least, she was pretty sure she would still have a job. It wasn't as if her sister's stalker wasn't armed when she wrestled him for that gun.

  Unless Gabe ruined it all by turning himself in to the police.

  Finally they were released and politely instructed not to leave the country. Not likely, since the inspector had, with a knowing smile, slipped her passport back into his folder and tucked it under his arm.

  Gabe mumbled something about not having his with him but if the inspector would allow, he'd have it for him the next day. Then he scurried after Katrina, exited the double doors she had let swing back into his face and went to stand on the sidewalk next to her.

  She gave him a sideways glance. That was it, she was in shock from seeing him again after all these years. What was it—eight, no ten years? And he had the nerve to act like her reaction to him was a bit over the top? She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter threatening what was left of her composure.

  She held her chin up like a boxer about to take a hit, but the effort proved to be too much, and when she started to teeter off the edge of the pavement and into oncoming traffic, Gabe reached out and pulled her back onto terra firma.

  She righted herself and jerked her arm out of his grasp.

  Oblivious to the insult, he said, "What do you say we get a bite to eat. You'll feel better."

  She decided she'd been wrong about Mexico and certainly this stupid idea that she could outrun her problems if she left them seven hundred miles behind her in San Francisco. It was a truism her dearly departed dad had vainly attempted to pound into her head: "You take your problems with you, Katrina." Her dad, Judge Roy Hunter, spent a goodly amount of time and money to make sure her secret wouldn't become known by anyone except himself and a few trusted aides.

  Never mind the warm sun, the perpetual blue skies, the friendly people, the cheap rum and those fish tacos her mouth was watering for; the emotional roller coaster she'd endured over the last hours made the hardship of her week-long solo sail look like a cakewalk. As for reporting any more dead bodies to foreign police, she would forget about her pledge to "Do your duty" and give it a wide berth. Let somebody else take the heat.

  Gabe, keeping his distance in case she thought to smack him again, stuck his hands in his pockets and asked, "So—which way?"

  Sergeant Moreno was standing next to his patrol car. He opened the back door and waited for a sign that she hadn't decided against his offer for a ride to Baja Naval.

  Katy marched over to the squad car and, silently declining the sergeant's offer of a potentially urine- or vomit-stained back-seat ride, slid into the passenger side. She adjusted her seatbelt, rolled down the window and curled a finger at Gabe.

  Pretending he wasn't uncomfortable with his proximity to a police car, he sidled up to the window and said, "I'll pass. Thanks anyway."

  She grabbed him by his Hawaiian shirt collar and growled through her teeth, "You broke every promise you ever made to me, Gabe Alexander, so I don't know why I should expect you to keep this one, but I'm asking you, begging you, stay away from me." And then because her mother taught her to be polite, added, "Please."

  Gabe jerked back as if he'd been slapped.

  The sergeant, carefully ignoring anything that might keep him from his appointed task, plopped a size-too-large policeman's cap on his small head, scuttled around to the driver's side, got in, put the car in gear and pulled out into the thick afternoon traffic.

  Katrina glanced back at Gabe, taking in his sun-bleached hair flopping over the aristocratic forehead, and sighed. The man actually had the audacity to look hurt.

  She turned around and stared out the
window, noticing the sergeant's driving was typical for Mexico—tapping his brakes lightly at every stop sign, then speeding through, all the while keeping up a running dialogue.

  "You like the movies?" he asked cheerfully. The side of his police car did have the words 'Tourist Officer' printed on the side. "Yes? Did you see Titanic? Excellent. They made the ship for the movie outside Rosarito." He snapped the wheel to the right, missing a couple of jaywalkers. "It was only half a ship, not the whole thing, but I was a—how you call it—extra? Yes, that is the word, no? I was behind the fence with a baby in my arms. Not a real baby, of course, only a bundle of rags. They told me to yell some words, didn't matter that it was in Spanish. You aren't from LA, are you? I have cousins in LA, none of them legal—stupid cousins. They get homesick and come home every year and then I have to pay some coyote to smuggle them across again."

  His driving was amazingly capable, even if he wasn't watching the road. "My friends tell me I look like John Travolta. I think it's the chin. What do you think?" he asked, thrusting out his chin for her approval. Katy gasped. It was a big one alright, and so was the Tecate truck bearing down on them. The sergeant swerved back into his lane and avoided clipping the truck with only a grunt to acknowledge the near miss.

  He continued. "They did Zorro here too, with Antonio Banderas. Did you like that movie? Yes? Excellent. It was my very good fortune to have been an extra in that movie, too. I was an officer for the governor." He took his eyes off the road and slowed to ogle a couple of American girls in shorts and halter tops, then punched the accelerator again. "I take the governor's cape and then give him a message. They cut my lines, but you can see me in the background, holding his cape."

  Relieved to see the marina building ahead, Katy pointed at the gate and envisioned walking through it to her boat and settling in with a nice cup of tea and some peace and quiet. The sergeant slowed to take the roundabout that led to the marina. Idling at the curb, he nodded at the guard by the gate and said, "I have enjoyed our talk, señorita. I am also available for tours of the city should you wish and I am very cheap." When she didn't answer, he shrugged and nodded at the guard, who acknowledged the sergeant's divine right to park wherever he wanted. "The guard is my cousin, Manuel. If you need anything, he's the man to ask."

  Katy ignored the suggestion that she should hire either of them, and looking through the car window found the top of her mast peeking through the forest of sailboats in the marina.

  The sergeant tried one more time. "Groceries, a nice map for all the best places to visit?"

  Her hand went for the door handle. Pilgrim was there waiting, all her personal belongings…tea… hot herbal tea would do the trick, chamomile to soothe her jittery nerves. Then a shower and she'd walk the mile or so to the fish market, get some of those hot, crispy tacos she'd been craving.

  "Nightlife? Whatever you want."

  But the memory of the girl in the water ground her hopeful ruminations to a halt. She turned back to the sergeant and he popped his head came out of the window. "Sí, señorita?"

  "There is one thing…"

  "Sí?" he asked hopefully.

  "The dead girl I found in the water, was she from Ensenada?"

  He swept the big police hat off his head and fidgeted with the brim. Stealing a glance at his cousin, he said, "You shouldn't think about it anymore, señorita. Nightlife, maybe a few beers at a nice place like Carlos Murphy's, and then you go home, no?"

  "I'm not much for bars, Sergeant. And as you well know, Chief Inspector Vignaroli has kept my passport. Did he tell you when I might be getting it back?"

  The sergeant licked the edge of his mustache, his expression showing his indecision. Her expression said she wasn't going to budge, so he switched to a rapid Sonoran Spanish. "Ay, qué lastima. Ella era una de las putadas que trabaja donde Antonio's. Y solo tenía dieciseis años. I myself have three young daughters her age." He crossed himself, ending with a kiss on his thumbnail. "Pobrecita."

  "Tienes razón," she answered, using her police department Spanish. She was sad to hear the policeman confirm what she'd suspected; the girl was indeed only sixteen and already a prostitute at a local bar. "I have seen a lot of bodies in my work," she said in Spanish, "sometimes young women, drug overdoses, even murder. It is the same in the States as it is here." Then she switched to English, hoping to draw him in with the next statement. "I saw no signs that she was strangled, however, that doesn't mean she wasn't murdered."

  The black mustache quivered uncomfortably as he answered in Spanish. "That place is known for its wild parties where men buy whatever they desire. It is not on the list for tourists and certainly not for young ladies of good family. No, you would not want to go there for any reason… not if you want to go home."

  "Where is this place you're talking about?"

  "I have said too much already, señorita. The jefe would not want me to speak so much about his investigation."

  Then why did he send me off with this chatterbox who obviously can't keep a secret under his big hat? Something's afoot here, I just don't see it yet.

  She reached out and lightly patted his arm. "I wouldn't want you to get in trouble. I guess I'm just at a loss as to why he would keep me at the police station for so long."

  He flapped his hands around. "Sí, sí, but he didn't want the conejo to run." Then he rolled his eyes. "Entiende?"

  He didn't want the rabbit to run? There it was again—bunny feet. The expression and its meaning were the same in either language. She went through the events of the long day and then she did a mental head smack. Putting herself in the inspector's shoes, she ticked off the list of suspicious behavior: Young woman sailor reports finding a floater, then encounters Gabe, shackled and stumbling into the police station between two officers. And because she was quite frankly sleep deprived, she'd blurted out the one thing that gave the chief inspector reason to suspect Gabe. "Is he being arrested for the murder?"

  Never in her ten-year career as a police officer had Katy Hunter been so careless, and certainly not when someone's life depended on it. Gabe might have been brought in on some misunderstanding about some pilfered oysters, but now he was a murder suspect, and to make sure they both stayed put, the inspector kept her passport. Now she would have to talk to Gabe again, clear up this misunderstanding, get her passport back, get the boat hauled and onto a truck, and get the hell out of Mexico.

  Katy made a show of cheerfully thanking the sergeant for the ride and then waving as he left. She brightly smiled at a clutch of gawkers and then headed for the upstairs offices of Marina Baja Naval to start the process of checking in and, even if it was wishful thinking, a quick haul-out and trailer home to northern California.

  With the paperwork and bathroom visit done, and marina keys in her pocket, she walked through the boatyard for the gate and her boat. She gave the guard her name, boat name and the slip of paper from the marina office and tramped down the ramp to where a cluster of American boaters parted to let her through to her boat.

  Her boat was chained to the dock.

  She felt the heat rush up her face. He's impounded my boat? The bastard!

  Ignoring the puzzled questions and offers of assistance, she turned on her heel and stomped back up the ramp and back into the office, where she asked a secretary to make the call. The secretary, a round-faced young woman who looked to be more Indian than Mexican, gave her a sympathetic smile, calmly punched in the number and listened to someone making excuses. A few expletives went with her demand that the inspector call. She hung up, giving Katy a rueful grin. They both knew that it could be any time between now and next Christmas. After all, this was mañana land.

  Katy spent the next two hours taking out her frustrations on her boat, washing the salt water off the brightwork and stainless stanchions, vigorously scrubbing the topsides with a stiff brush and, in honor of Chief Inspector Vignaroli, practicing her hangman's knots while she secured her boom to its cradle. She also gave the curious boaters on the dock a
truthful, if condensed, version of her encounter with the floater.

  "I expect to have this chain off tomorrow, latest."

  Clucking sympathetically, the crowd finally thinned out, probably because the story was now being transferred via the ham net, aka the "Coconut Telegraph." Guilt or innocence to be decided along with tomorrow's weather report.

  Her cabin fan had been on the fritz since San Diego, and since there was still no return call from the inspector, she decided that a trip to replace it would be just the ticket to get away from the curiosity of the other boaters. Gathering her purse, she swept out the gate and took a taxi to a downtown marina store she thought might have one. Surely, replacement boat fans would be a popular item in any marine store. She also expected it would be a high-ticket item.

  The inside of the store was cool from a hardworking, if somewhat noisy, air conditioner. It also had the friendly and familiar smell of rope and teak of marine stores everywhere. No one was at the sales counter so she snagged a small, rusted, wobbly-wheeled grocery cart and walked up and down the aisles while she thought.

  Why would the chief inspector chain her to the dock if she was free to go? No return call and not available when a fellow police officer wished to speak to him? Obviously his cell number wasn't available to the likes of her. Probably home having a siesta. What was the man up to and what could she do about it? She could take it up with his superior, if he had one. He had the look of the top man, and unless her eyes fooled her, she also knew a handmade Italian suit when she saw it. The man was an egotist to think he could pull this kind of stunt. Well, we'll see about that, Inspector Vignaroli.

  Gabe was a complication she certainly didn't expect. While she was cogitating on the whereabouts of Gabe Alexander, she passed up the display for electrical wall fans. Backing up and going down the aisle again, she slowed down and looked on both sides, knowing as she did that Mexicans didn't always stock their parts as Americans would. Teak decking could show up next to toilet paper and her fan just might have taken up residence next to marine toilets. Finally giving up, she found a ship's bell anchored to the counter, and in her frustration she gave the short monkey's knot a hard pull. The clanging bell brought a short, thin Mexican from the back of the store. He signaled for her to wait, then wiping his face with a napkin he scurried down the aisle to take his place behind the counter. Giving her a toothy, gold-filled smile, he wiped his hands on his shirt and asked in broken English if he could help.