Stevenson sprawled on his polished hardwood floor, his good left hand pointed toward me. He didn’t move. I watched his chest, but there was no rise and fall. Keeping the gun aimed at his body, I got up and went into the bedroom to make sure.
He was dead. Four entry wounds circled his chest like a Catholic benediction. Father, Son, Holy Spirit. Amen.
Chico was cleaning house, getting rid of the nonessential members of the crew. Most likely he’d already shot de la Peña. It didn’t matter to me. I wasn’t building a case against these people and I didn’t care if they lived or died. My job was getting the money back for Claire.
That would be Chico’s next stop.
They’d dig it up and find it already gone. With Stevenson dead, they wouldn’t know who took it or when. I smiled when I thought about it.
Sirens whined in the distance, coming closer. I wiped the revolver and put it in the lawyer’s right hand.
Let the police chew on that one. Paraffin tests would show he had fired it. Slugs from the gun were all over the house. Let the cops figure out why it had been wiped clean of fingerprints. And let them wonder at his injuries.
I calmly walked through the front door and the gate, got into the Range Rover, and drove up the hill. There would be another route down Soledad, one the police couldn’t block. In the dark it would be easy. I picked up the phone while I threaded the needle, looking for an avenue that would take me to the southbound interstate, toward Mexico.
36
“Thomas.” We did not yet have a land line on the Olympia. The detective answered his cellular phone on the first ring.
“I’ve just left Stevenson’s house. He’s dead.”
A profound silence greeted my statement. “Did you do it?” he finally asked, his voice flat and disapproving, the way he’d spoken when he didn’t have a contract, when it bothered him that Claire had spent the night in my room.
“No.”
“Farrell called. He told me the police just left Claire’s house. They were looking for you.”
It was too soon for anybody to make a connection between the lawyer’s death and my presence at his house. “Why would they be looking for me?”
“Some official in Tijuana’s been assassinated, a top cop down there. The Mexican police make you as the prime suspect.”
De la Peña, I thought. It had to be de la Peña. Apparently Chico and his friends had taken care of their Mexican problem before going north to close out Stevenson’s account. Thomas wasn’t sympathetic to de la Peña, knowing his history, but he was a retired police officer, and cop killers weren’t high on his list of favorite people, regardless of their motives.
I shook my head. This wasn’t happening. Maybe I had fallen through the looking glass.
“I didn’t do that one, either,” I said. “Tell Farrell to be cautious. Stevenson paid a gang to torch Claire’s house tonight. It got shut off. I don’t think they’ll do it now, but there’s an outside chance they’ll follow through.”
“You’ve been busy.”
I was driving south, near the airport. An orange airliner floated above the freeway, lit up like a Christmas tree, flying so low I felt I could reach up and touch it, landing with roaring engines that overpowered the Range Rover’s sound insulation as it passed overhead. The cluster of brightly lit office buildings stood beyond, a reminder of my first night in this city.
“Tell Claire it’s almost over,” I said, hoping I was right, deciding that I was. Regardless of what happened, she would be safe by morning. “Tell her she can go home tomorrow.”
“How many more people are you going to kill tonight?”
“I didn’t kill anybody, Ed. I don’t expect to kill anybody, either.” The qualifier wasn’t lost on either of us. A totally innocent man would have said he won’t kill anybody. I’ve never been that innocent. “Who were the cops that came to see Farrell? Did he know them?”
“They were your buddies, the ones who took you to Mexico. Sergeant Esparza and another Intelligence type. Esparza is steamed.”
“If he thinks I did it, I can see why. He must think I used him.”
“Uh-huh. Where are you?”
“Headed south on Interstate Five.”
A stunned silence, interspersed by cellular crackle, was my only answer. “You’re going back to Mexico?”
“That’s where Claire’s money is, Ed. Once I recover that, I’m coming home.”
“The Mexican cops will kill you the moment they see you. You cross that border, you’re dead.”
“Why are they looking for me?”
“Turn on the radio. It’s on the news. That federal you suspected? De la Peña? He was out walking his dog this evening. Somebody ran up behind him and put eight forty-five-caliber bullets in the back of his head and two more in his dog. An eyewitness put you at the scene. Described you, described the car you’re driving, the jacket you’re wearing. Either you did it, or you got a twin.”
“It’s a frame, Ed.”
“Turn yourself in up here to the San Diego PD. That’s the smart thing to do.”
I thought I’d hidden the money well, but I wasn’t certain. At best it would only slow them down. A thorough search might find traces of my passage. A metal detector would locate the footlockers buried below the sand. It wouldn’t be difficult if they were motivated. And if five million American dollars was motivation enough to kill three or four people, it would be motivation to search a small beach. Thomas was right. The smart thing would be to turn myself over to the San Diego police and let the legal system straighten it out. In time I’d be released. I’d still have some explaining to do, but in time the truth would come out.
By then Elena and the boys would be gone. And maybe Claire’s money, too.
“It’s not smart,” I told Thomas, “but it’s the only thing I can do.” That little voice I keep in the back of my head, the one who is smarter than I am, the one who tries to keep me on the right track and out of trouble, that little voice gave a big sigh and said, “Oh, shit.”
“Stand by on this number, Ed. I may need your help later on.”
“You’re really going to go?”
“I found the money, but it’s still there. I found those responsible. They’re cleaning house, first de la Peña, then Stevenson. They’re shutting down their operation. Shine a little light on them and they scurry, like cockroaches. I hid the money again, but it was only a temporary solution and if they really looked, they could find it. If they do that, Claire’s in deep water and there’s no way I can help her.”
A California Highway Patrol car edged up beside me, gave me the once-over, and moved over, more interested in an old pickup truck with expired tags. His lights came on and the truck pulled over.
“Besides, remember what Frederick asked the boys at Kolin? They were retreating as fast as their legs could carry them, away from an overwhelming force, and old Fred got in their way and asked them if they wanted to live forever?”
“What?”
A woman’s voice said something behind him. I couldn’t understand the words, but her tone was insistent. Ed Thomas answered, repeating the news of finding the money.
“It’s the same question we used to ask ourselves in Vietnam. ‘Hey, man, what the hell, you wanna live forever?’”
“You’re a fool, Caine,” said Thomas. “A ballsy fool, but still a fool.” The woman’s voice in the background asked questions, identifiable by rising inflections.
“It’s one of those handicaps I’ve learned to live with,” I said. “Stay tuned, Ed. It’ll get done.”
“There’s somebody here who wants to speak with you.”
“John?”
“I’m here.”
“What is happening? Ed said you found the money but you don’t have it.”
I debated how much to say over the cellular airwaves. Even with digital, there’s always someone listening in these days. “It’s almost done, Claire. Just a couple of details to get right.”
�
��Did you find the—”
“Did Paul ever speak of a real estate investment near Ensenada?”
“A little harbor down on the coast. Sand something. Baja Sand. Baja Sand Dunes. Baja Dunes!”
“Baja Dunes.”
“That’s where—”
“If something happens, take Ed and Hat and a metal detector. Check the beach directly in front of the first peak north of the harbor.”
“But—”
“But nothing’s going to happen. It’ll be all right.”
“Don’t patronize me, John Caine. I know where it is. Should we come down?”
I liked the way she said ‘we.’ “No. Not yet. You may not like sitting and waiting, but this time it’s best.”
“‘Oink, oink,’ said the pig.”
“It’s still too hot, Claire. If I fail, you’ve got the location.”
“If you fail …”
“It’ll get done.”
“Good luck.”
If what Thomas had said was accurate, I’d be better off getting rid of this car and getting another one. I couldn’t rent. The San Diego police might be looking for me and they might have alerted all the rental agencies in town. Esparza would have figured it out and broadcast my identity on the American side of the border. The only question was whether he would share it with the Mexicans. If he really thought I’d killed de la Peña, he would. In a cocaine heartbeat.
They didn’t have me by name in Mexico unless Esparza had told them after he ran the check. He’d been by the house. I wished I’d asked how long ago that had been.
One way to find out.
I punched in the numbers on the cell phone, watching the freeway signs. The border was less than five miles ahead.
“You have reached the office of—” I hung up on the voice-mail announcement. Sergeant Esparza was not in. I dug around in my wallet and found Ambrosio’s business card. He had also given me a cellular number. I dialed it, hoping he had it close at hand.
“Ambrosio.”
“This is Caine. Why is everyone looking for me?”
“Caine! Where the hell are you, man?”
“What’s going on?”
“You know, Caine, you ask questions, and I ask questions, and then you ask questions again and nobody answers. It’s better if you answer first.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “I just spoke with Thomas. Why are you looking for me?”
“Been to Mexico this afternoon?”
“You know I was there. I told Esparza before I went. Border patrol strip-searched me when I came back. Took my car apart looking for drugs. It’s easy to check when I went either way.”
“Did you go back?”
“No.”
“Tijuana police want you for the murder of Teniente José Enrique de la Peña. We know he set you up for that border search. An hour or so after that, someone pops him. Somebody calls it in, tells the Tijuana police that a big blond, bearded gringo—just like you—ran up behind him on the street, caps him and his dog with a whole clip and a half, runs back and drives off. They all but name you.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Problem is, nobody knows where you were after you crossed the border. It’s easy to turn around and head south again.”
“It’s a frame, Ambrosio. I need your help.”
“I don’t know that, Caine. I saw you once for what, maybe ten hours? You buy me lunch, tell me a bunch of stories, we take a ride together. You get us to introduce you to de la Pena. That’s all I know about you. What you think, I’m some dumb, stupid Mexican?”
“Hey—”
“No. Hey, yourself! How do I know you’re not some assassin, using us to ID your target? It’s been done. Not to me, but it’s been done.”
“I haven’t crossed the border yet, but I’m heading that way.”
“It’s better you come in here. Mexican cops, they’ll shoot you down.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re the one they’ll shoot.”
I had a perfect alibi for the de la Peña murder, except one witness was dead, a victim of another shooting, and the other was a gang of black youths, two of whom I’d beaten badly a week ago. That wasn’t something I wanted to share with this police officer, who might feel compelled to do his job. Then there was Lucius, who might or might not speak up for me, a white man. The very act of sending the police onto his street, even to check out an alibi, might make Lucius angry. If he was angry, he would deny knowing me at all.
“Can I talk to Esparza?”
“Doesn’t matter, Caine. He might shoot you himself, he’s so pissed. Or he might turn you over to the Mexicans, let them use you for target practice. May not matter to him. He don’t like being used any more than I do.”
“Where’s Esparza?”
“In Tijuana.”
“Give me his cellular number. I want to talk to him.”
“No can do, Caine. Better you come in here.”
“Then I’ll just have to do this on my own.” I studied the road ahead. I had just passed the sign warning against firearms in Mexico, marking the final off-ramp before commitment. I drove past the off-ramp, toward the international gate and the unknown.
“Okay,” I said to Ambrosio, feeling a pucker and a rush of adrenaline as I came up to the border and was waved through, watching the soldiers lounging against the barricades, their rifles slung. “Give my number to Esparza. Page him with it. Have him call me.” I read off the Range Rover’s telephone number and hit the END button.
37
Tijuana at night is like center ring of a gigantic circus. Wild patterns of neon, fluorescent, and incandescent lights cover every building on the main streets, money traps, designed to ensnare American dollars from across the line. From nightclubs to whorehouses, elegant restaurants to street vendors, anything is available for a fee, a fee considerably lower than could be found a few hundred yards to the north.
My stomach rumbled. It had been at least twelve hours since I’d eaten. Pungent food smells greeted me as I passed the street vendors and the restaurants, kick-starting an appetite and a hunger I hadn’t recognized. Now it would have to wait.
I was going into battle. From my days in Vietnam, when the commanders offered steak and eggs before patrol, I’d eschewed the traditional meal before battle. I’d seen what happened to men with stomachs filled with food after a bullet sliced through the membranes. I’d always waited until I returned, even if it meant going hungry for days. The thought was that if I didn’t return, I wouldn’t need the meal, anyway.
If the Tijuana police were looking for me, they didn’t show it. I passed two of their blue-and-white squad cars, the Range Rover receiving no more than a curious glance. Of course, I was headed into Mexico. The guards at the border, the ones watching those leaving the country, would be certain to have the description of the cop killer, alert to my departure.
The report had to be the work of the woman. Cagey like a fox, she missed few options. To Elena I was a loose end, something to be tied up before closing out the operation. If she could use me as a smoke screen for de la Peña’s death, so much the better. I had to admire, even if I was on the receiving end of her vicious construct.
I transited the city without incident, not even getting a second glance from the police officers I passed. Esparza didn’t call. Whether it was because the Range Rover’s car phone wasn’t compatible with the Tijuana cellular system or because he refused to converse with a suspected cop killer, I had no idea.
The first toll booth south of Tijuana is below the bullring, near the ocean. The attendant took my American money without pause, offering valid coin in change. The soldiers, ever present yet thankfully not vigilant, ignored me. I drove on.
In an hour I passed Baja Dunes, abandoned like a bad habit at a Baptist convention. As I drove by the empty sales office, my headlights exposed more tracks leading back into the dunes, toward the lagoon.
I turned off the paved road and
drove down the sandy lane to the base of the mountain, parked the Range Rover under the same scrub tree, locked up and got out. I might never come back to it, regardless of how the night ended. The rich man’s Jeep was a good, solid machine. It had served me well. Paul Peters must have hated leaving it. Just as he must have hated leaving his company, his houses, and his wife.
When my eyes adjusted to the dark, I started up the hill, fingering the Buck folding knife I always carried. That and my brain were my only weapons. Often it’s been that way. In a life filled with opportunities for violence, I usually rejected the customary carrying of a gun. Oh, sure, I own one. I used to have more before they were swallowed by a hurricane along with the rest of my possessions.
I’d always figured I could sense when a gun was needed and kept it where I could get to it. This time was different. I was in an alien nation without authorization, and maybe a price on my head. I was in a country that regarded the private ownership of firearms, and particularly the old .45 ACP, the gun I favored, as an especially heinous crime, punishable by forty years in one of their penal institutions. With a charge for murder lodged against me, the man shot with a .45, I didn’t want to risk having the gun with me if I were stopped.
I could have gone to the Olympia and retrieved the pistol, but I rejected that for a number of reasons. If the boat was under surveillance, I’d have other explanations to make to the law. The gun is registered to me anyway, easily traced back to its owner. If there was shooting to be done down here this night, I didn’t want anything traced back to me.
I had the knife. That was enough. With the knife, and a little luck, I could get all the guns I needed.
I hoped a gun wouldn’t be necessary. If I thought Elena’s gang would give up the search and go away, I’d wait them out and pick up the money after they’d gone. That was the plan. The little voice inside my head mocked me, telling me it was a fool’s game, echoing Thomas’s sentiments. Elena and the boys had killed too many people to give up easily. They’d look, keep looking, find the tracks, and dig up the money. Then I’d have to stop them.
Sand Dollars Page 21
