“Maybe I can help.”
Beth focused on the source of the voice.
He was an American of about thirty, unshaven, sitting alone at a table close by. He was nursing a beer, and looked unhurried and unconcerned, just biding his time. Not a tourist, but not exactly a local, either. He was wearing a T-shirt with a fish on front surrounded by the words MEAT WITHOUT FEET.
A fisherman, apparently. Who looked like half the guys she’d prosecuted.
She went to him, wary but optimistic.
“I’m something of a people watcher,” he said. “And I’ve been here pretty much all day. Why don’t you let me see that picture?”
Beth hesitated, then handed him the passport.
He squinted at Jen’s photo, took a sip of beer. “Now there’s a face you don’t forget.”
“So have you seen her?”
“Matter of fact, I have. She was in here about an hour ago. With some guy.”
Thank God, Beth thought. “A Mexican man? Good-looking? Wearing a ponytail?”
The fisherman nodded. “That’s the one. They hung out for a while, then they met up with a few other people. I heard one of them say they were headed up the street. To Emilio’s.”
“Where’s that?”
The fisherman took a long last sip of his beer, then set the bottle on the table and stood up.
“My name’s Eric,” he said. “Why don’t you let me show you.”
Beth shook her head. “That’s okay. I’ll find it.”
“I’ve gotta head back to my boat pretty soon anyway. And I need to walk off some of this cerveza. ”
Turning, he headed for the door, weaving his way through the crowd, which seemed to have grown denser in just the few minutes Beth had been there. The mariachi band was now playing Santana. Badly.
When he got to the door, he gestured for Beth to follow him outside, showing her that he still had Jen’s passport in his hand.
Shit, Beth thought, then went after him as he disappeared out the door.
When she got outside, he was already several steps up the street.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Give that back.”
He stopped in his tracks, held out the passport. He was smiling slightly. Amused.
Beth caught up to him, snatched it away. “I told you I’d find the place myself.”
“How long has it been?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Since your sister disappeared.”
“A few hours,” Beth said.
He looked surprised. “And you’re already passing her picture around? Isn’t that a little premature?”
“It’s a long story. Just point me in the right direction, okay?”
He shrugged. “Two blocks up, take a right, then a left into the alley. You can’t miss it.”
Beth thanked him and headed up the street.
40
She was halfway up the first block before she realized she was angry again.
Now that she knew that Jen had been at Armando’s-getting drunk and yukking it up with her new pervy friends-the worry that had plagued Beth for the last few hours had all but disappeared.
She’d had it with the girl.
All of the promises to behave, to devote this weekend to sisterly bonding, had been empty lies designed only to placate. To put out the fires before they burned her.
Jen was all impulse and no brain. She was incapable of thinking beyond the moment. That whole life-sucks-I’m-thinking-about-going-to-s chool-I-miss-Mommy-and-Daddy-my-friends-talk-to-dead-people routine was a complete crock, and Beth’s skepticism had now been officially validated.
This was the very last straw. Beth had devoted too much of her life and energy to Jen, and when she got back to Los Angeles-which she hoped would be soon-her sister’s phone calls would no longer be returned, her e-mails deleted, the text messages ignored, just as Beth was being ignored right now.
She wondered why, at this point, she was even bothering with this little trek. So what if Jen and her friends had moved on to another bar? She obviously didn’t care about Beth, so why should Beth care about her?
But before Beth headed back to the ship to grab her suitcase, she wanted to see Jen, just to let her know exactly what she thought of her. Right now Beth was savoring-was fueled by-the thought of telling Jen off once and for all.
This was, of course, based on the assumption that she’d be able to find her. Jen’s crowd seemed to be migrating, and just because Meat Without Feet had overheard them talking about going to this Emilio’s place didn’t mean they were still there.
But one could hope.
When Beth reached the top of the second block, she turned right as instructed and found herself on a street that didn’t quite jibe with the Playa Azul the tourists usually see. A simple turn and she seemed to have stepped into another world. A world that was a shade or two dingier, more run-down. Like some of the side streets in downtown Los Angeles.
One of the gangbanger cars, a souped-up Civic, was parked at the right side of the road, a cluster of cigarette-smoking locals around it. Among them was a petulant-looking Mexican girl with bleached-blond hair and jeans pulled down so low that you could see the whale tail of her thong.
Beth crossed the street to avoid them, but she couldn’t help thinking that the girl reminded her of Jen.
The alley leading to Emilio’s was about half a block up, a faded hand-painted sign pointing the way.
Beth hesitated as she approached.
Was this somewhere she really wanted to go?
Reaching the mouth of the narrow alleyway, she peered inside. The sun was blocked by the buildings, the lighting dim. She saw the entrance to the place at the far end, past a row of battered aluminum trash cans.
The door was closed, with an unlit neon sign above it that read: EMILIO’S CANTINA.
Were they even open?
A muscular Mexican man in a white T-shirt-who looked as if he’d feel right at home with the gangbangers across the street-was leaning on the wall near the trash cans, a cell phone glued to his ear.
He looked up when Beth appeared, assessing her about the same way Peter used to look at her whenever she stepped out of the shower in the morning.
Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all.
Stopping just inside the alley entrance, she pulled out her own cell phone and dialed Jen one last time. But again it went straight to voice mail, and Beth immediately hung up.
The guy near the trash cans was still staring at her. Smiling now as he continued to talk on the phone.
Beth quickly texted a message to Jen: FUCK YOU. I’M GONE.
Thinking that that pretty much summed it all up, she turned to leave but found Eric the fisherman standing directly behind her. He snapped his own cell phone shut and pocketed it.
“You find your sister?”
Startled, Beth stepped back. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry,” he said. “Bad habit.”
She didn’t know what he meant by that but didn’t like the sound of it. “Were you following me?”
“Didn’t have to. I already knew where you were going.”
Beth studied him, suddenly realizing what this was about. “You never saw my sister at Armando’s. You made it all up.”
“A little bit of improv. I tend to go with what works.”
Frightened now, and feeling foolish for letting herself be duped-especially since she should know better-Beth tried to move around him, but he sidestepped and threw his hands out, blocking her way.
“What’s your hurry, sweet stuff? You don’t find me attractive?”
She glanced across the street at the gangbangers but knew they wouldn’t be any help. Without a word, she brought her knee up into the fisherman’s crotch.
He grunted and doubled over and Beth started around him again, but before she could clear the alleyway, hands grabbed her from behind and swung her around, slamming her against the wall.
The imp
act knocked the wind out of her, and standing in front of her now was the Mexican man with the cell phone.
Without a word, he brought a fist up and smashed it against the side of her head.
She felt as if she’d been hit with a club.
Pain blossomed in her skull and her legs buckled. She sank to the alley floor as a whirlwind of darkness swirled inside her.
And although she fought as hard as she could to keep it at bay…
…a moment later, the darkness won.
41
For the next several minutes (hours?), she drifted in and out of consciousness, voices hovering somewhere above her.
Jesus, you really smacked the hell out of the bitch
You still got your pelotas, white boy?
Fuck you.
She felt hands on her body, patting her down, checking the pockets of her jeans, and she tried to resist, but the darkness was pulling at her again.
She was gone for a while, then:
How much?
Hundred twenty bucks
Shit
Better than the last one. At least she’s got some credit cards, too
Then she was gone again, only to be awakened by hot breath in her face, a hand squeezing her right breast, finger flicking the nipple.
Looks like we’ll have to take a rain check, sweet stuff
She wanted to scream, but then the darkness came again and she floated there for a very long time.
T HE SUN WAS down when she awoke.
Her head was pounding.
She lay there a moment, trying to get her bearings, not sure where she was, then suddenly remembered the alleyway and Emilio’s Cantina and the two men who had attacked her.
Meat Without Feet.
Bringing her hand to her chest, she discovered that her blouse had been ripped open and her bra was askew.
Oh, Jesus.
She patted the rest of her body and found that her jeans were still fastened, which meant (at least she hoped it did) that she hadn’t been raped. She also didn’t seem to be leaking anywhere. No blood or other fluids.
Another good sign.
But none of this kept her from feeling violated, and she started to cry.
How could she be so fucking stupid?
She dealt with victims of violent crime every day of her life and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself fall prey to these bastards.
Wiping her face on her sleeve, she pulled herself upright and looked around, half-afraid they might still be nearby.
But they were long gone.
She was alone in the alley, the sounds of the city like some distant familiar tune filtered through a throbbing membrane.
She slowly got to her feet, wobbling slightly. Straightened her bra, buttoned her blouse.
She looked around at the grimy alley floor. It was dark in there, but there was enough light from the adjacent street that she could see that her purse was gone, along with her money and credit cards. The only thing they’d left behind was Jen’s passport, which lay near the trash cans.
She crossed to them, bent down, and picked it up, then opened it to the photo page and stared at Jen’s smiling face.
Had they gotten to her, too?
Was that why she had disappeared?
Was she lying in an alleyway like this one, unconscious or worse, unable to call for help?
The police.
Beth had no choice but to go to the police.
Head still pounding, she moved out of the alleyway and searched the street, seeing nothing but parked cars.
The gangbangers were gone.
She headed toward the lights of the main drag, its sidewalks teeming with tourists. And when she reached the top of the block she saw one:
A blue and white police car, parked near a taco stand.
She moved toward it, waving her hands, signaling to the officer for help.
42
“Cuales tu nombre?”
“What is your name?”
The cop behind the desk didn’t speak English, so he had pulled over a bilingual secretary to translate.
“Elizabeth Crawford,” Beth said. Her head was pounding worse than ever and she was convinced that she was on the verge of a full-fledged migraine.
The officer nodded and scribbled on the piece of paper in front of him. “?De donde eres?”
“Where are you from?”
Beth was no stranger to police stations. Her job required her to work closely with the Los Angeles police, and a week didn’t go by without a visit to one of the substations located throughout the city.
But this was her first experience with a Mexican station. And so far, it hadn’t been good.
When she’d flagged the cop near the taco stand, his first reaction had been to tell her to move along. She was just another in a string of drunken American turistas who had interrupted his dinner.
It took her a while to convince him that she’d been attacked, and after a medic had been called and she’d been cleared of any major physical damage, the cop finally drove her to a nearby station.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, she heard the distant blast of the cruise ship’s horn, and she knew it was leaving port, taking her suitcase and Jen’s belongings with it.
She wondered for a moment if Jen was back on board, partying with Rafael and Marta, but that didn’t seem likely. After hours of battling her fluctuating emotions, she was convinced now that something terrible had happened. That, for once, Jen was in trouble not of her own making. She was also convinced that Rafael and Marta were behind it.
Beth had spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the police station next to a pair of hookers in handcuffs who had rattled on endlessly. Despite the language barrier, she figured they were complaining about what every hooker in the known universe complained about: asshole johns and abusive pimps.
Every once in a while, they’d glance in her direction and laugh, and she could only be thankful that at least somebody had something to laugh about on this godforsaken day.
She, on the other hand, just wanted to cry, her face already streaked with dried tears.
But she hadn’t let herself. It was time to be strong. Assertive. She might not have been in LA, but that was no reason to play the submissive victim.
Unable to take the wait any longer, she had gotten to her feet, gone over to the reception desk, and demanded that she be seen immediately.
After being passed through three or four different people-most of whom spoke only broken English and had no idea what she was ranting about-she had finally landed at this desk, sitting across from an overweight man in a tight blue uniform.
“?De donde eres?” the cop asked again.
Before the translator could speak, Beth held a hand up. She was tired and cranky and her vision was starting to double. She suddenly felt detached from the world, as if she were observing this moment through a dream of some kind.
“Is there any way we can get past all this and concentrate on finding my sister?”
The translator, a cute twentysomething with bloodred nails that were long enough to give Fu Manchu a run for his money, smiled politely, then did her job and came back with: “Your sister was also attacked?”
Beth was at her wit’s end. Tried to remain calm.
“How many times do I have to say this? She’s been missing since just before noon. She went into a leather-goods store and never came out. I think I may know who’s behind it, and if you can just contact the cruise company, I’m sure we can get the information we need.”
After the translation, the cop nodded, then tapped the paper in front of him, as if it were the most important document in the world. “?De donde eres?”
This was going nowhere fast.
“California,” Beth said sharply. “I’m from goddamn California. You happy now?”
Her head was killing her, and she needed to talk to someone who (a) gave a damn about what she had to say, (b) had some muscle around here, and (c) spoke fuck
ing English.
“Look,” she said to the translator, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Is there someone else who can help me?”
The girl shook her head. “You must understand, senorita, that we see many turistas who are missing loved ones.”
“Which means what?”
“People come here to drink and have fun. Sometimes they get lost; most times they are found. In between, there is paperwork.”
“In other words, I’m out of luck.”
“That is not what I said. I heard you talking to Eduardo at the front desk and I know you are worried about your sister, but it is our experience that such matters usually resolve themselves. You will see. She will be with you before the night is over.”
If only, Beth thought. But this was a waste of time. Without somebody lighting a fire under these people’s asses, she might as well A sudden thought occurred to her.
Peter.
Peter had recently prosecuted a drug-smuggling case that was brought to him by a joint American-Mexican task force. He was bound to know somebody with some pull down here. At least it was worth a shot.
She needed to call him.
She looked at the secretary. “My cell was stolen. Is there a phone I can use?”
“Si, senorita,” the girl said, then pointed. “You’ll find a pay phone around the corner and down the hall.”
The fat cop said something abrupt and nasty sounding and the secretary snapped her head toward him, giving it right back. Beth had no idea what they’d said, and figured that was probably for the best.
Thanking the girl, she stood up and immediately felt a rush of dizziness. Had to grab the chair for support.
“Are you all right, senorita?”
“Yes,” Beth lied, then headed across the room in the direction of the phone.
43
The hallway around the corner seemed different from the rest of the station. Cleaner, better lit.
It almost looked like a hospital corridor.
But this could simply have been Beth’s imagination. The migraine was in full blossom now and her vision kept going in and out of focus, making it difficult to see.
Down Among the Dead Men Page 12
