Someone Always Knows

by Marcia Muller

  “Do that, please,” I said.

  He nodded. “Now, about the stuff you found out from the RKI files, here comes the interesting stuff. I called that town in Baja—Santa Iva. Lousy phone service, but I managed to get hold of Pedro Santos, the chief of police, who speaks excellent English. He claimed not to know the Smithsons.”

  “They might’ve been using an assumed name. After all, they were fleeing the US because they’d committed a crime.”

  “Normally I’d say yes, but the chief seemed nervous. Evasive too. He was lying, or at best distorting the truth.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “No clue.”

  “Mmm.” I leaned back in my chair, contemplating the heavy blotter/calendar Ted had insisted on setting before each of our places at the conference table so we wouldn’t gouge its rosewood surface with our frequent scribblings.

  Mick asked, “How’s your Spanish, Shar?”

  “Not too bad.”

  “Maybe Chief Santos would be more open with someone fluent in his own language.”

  “What about your Spanish?”

  “I’ve been away from it too long. It’s been years since I lived near the border. I do better in cyberspeak.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.”

  “You’ve kept up with the language better than I have, though.”

  “It’s been an effort, but I’ve always believed that Californians need to be reasonably fluent in both English and Spanish to get along. The Hispanic population has topped that of whites in this state, you know.”

  “So it would follow that the people in Santa Iva would deal better with you. Especially if you spoke to them face-to-face.”

  Now I understood what he was getting at.

  He added, “You look more like them too. I mean, the Indian blood and all. And you’re really good at asking the right questions.”

  “But I can’t just leave—”

  “Yes, you can. You may have noticed that you’ve built up an impressive staff here. Team McCone can probably deal with your absence for a few days, weeks, months—maybe forever.”

  “Thanks, you little bastard.”

  Mick scowled. “You know, that’s the problem between you and me. You started calling me obscene things when I was a baby, and then you went and dropped me on my head when I was only a few months old.”

  “As I’ve repeatedly told you, that was an accident. Besides, it’s why everybody calls you a genius. Head injuries often produce interesting results.”

  “I might’ve been more of a genius if you hadn’t dropped me—”

  “Shit happens, kid. Get over it.”

  The newer staff members were looking alarmed at this exchange, but the others were grinning.

  Mick came around the table and hugged me. “You’re all right, you know?” he said. “More than all right.”

  “Hey, don’t destroy the McCone family legend. I’m the evil aunt, who intended to do you egregious harm. And you’re the evil nephew, just waiting to give back as good as you got. Now everybody get to work.”

  Rae said, “Even me? I’m not even officially on staff.”

  “You’re on staff. You’ve never left.”

  She grinned. “Nobody ever really leaves Team McCone.”

  Mick asked, “In the meantime, what’ll you be doing?”

  “If all goes well, when you hear from me next I’ll be down May-hi-co way.”

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 15

  4:33 a.m.

  I had had mixed feelings about making the trip to Santa Iva. For one thing the landline, cellular, and Internet services probably weren’t very good in remote Baja Sur. That would put me at an even greater distance from Hy should he try to contact me. The same with my staff, upon whom I so greatly rely for information. And the machinations of actually getting away for God knew how long were tedious. Fortunately, since Chelle was staying at my house, I didn’t have to worry about the cats’ being tended to. But I still had to check the weather in Baja and pack accordingly, and then there was the problem of how to get there.

  Ted had tried valiantly, but he wouldn’t have been able to book me on a commercial flight earlier than the next morning. So I’d called Oakland Airport’s North Field, where we tied down our 170B, and asked if anybody was heading out for San Diego or Mexico and might be willing to take on a passenger who could spell her/him at the controls. Yeah, an old friend of Hy’s, Bob Benson, who kept his plane at North Field, was making a late-night run into San Diego, and agreed to let me ride along. I didn’t ask what he was carrying in the hold of his old Beechcraft Baron. I was better off not knowing, and he wouldn’t have told me anyway.

  In San Diego I found that there were no flights to Santo Ignacio—the nearest airport to Santa Iva—until late the next day, so again I asked around the FBOs and found another of Hy’s ubiquitous friends, Trip Adams, who offered to take me to a small—very small—sandy beach strip a mile or so from town. He had a drop to make there and, after all, he said, he owed Hy a favor. Again I didn’t ask what the drop contained; I was just grateful to be able to enter the country in such a way that I could conceal my .38 Special in my carry-on bag.

  Still, as I often did, I wondered how many favors were owed my husband—and what had occasioned them.

  6:13 a.m.

  Trip Adams followed the Mexican coastal road—like ours, named Highway 1—along the ocean until it turned east into a thickly forested national preserve, and finally landed at the beach strip, which wasn’t so much sandy as rocky. The rocks didn’t faze him, however, and soon we’d made a relatively smooth touchdown and taxied to a stop next to an old red Honda Civic that was waiting there. The pilot introduced me to its driver, Enrique Valdez, who had done some work for RKI in the past, and—after accepting a few small packages from the driver—he loaded my small bag into its trunk and wished me a nice stay in Santa Iva. Valdez started for town, regaling me on the way with tales of his adventures with my husband.

  “Oh, sure, me and those RKI guys go long back. Your husband is a real fine fellow. I remember the time in Guadalupe when we…”

  I leaned back, shut my eyes and ears. Over the years I’d heard dozens of “I remember the time when” stories about Hy. Most of them were probably exaggerations or outright fabrications, but they were all flattering. If people wanted to tell them, that was okay with me.

  8:11 a.m.

  In Santa Iva we went to the small green stucco building that housed the police station. The chief, Pedro Santos, with whom I’d spoken briefly on the phone last night, welcomed me into his office, where the walls were papered with US and Mexican wanted posters, most of them yellowed and out of date.

  Santos was a young, slender man with what I call a lounge-lizard mustache. He smoked small cigars, lighting one from another. He seemed to harbor the feelings toward women that were prevalent in his part of the world, and examined my credentials for a long time, then quizzed me exhaustively about my qualifications. I sensed it was his way of putting off my questions about the Smithson family.

  Finally I said in Spanish, “Señor Santos, I’ve probably been a private investigator since you were a child. As I told you last night, my husband and I own a prominent San Francisco agency, McCone & Ripinsky. Why are you concerned with my credentials?”

  He flushed slightly, fidgeted, then continued the conversation in English. “I do not understand why you are here.”

  “Then why don’t you ask me?”

  A flicker of a smile played at the edges of his mouth. “Why are you here?”

  “The Smithson family. And Señor Bernardo Ordway.”

  I’d mentioned the Smithsons earlier, but the name Ordway disconcerted him.

  I went on, “Who is this Señor Ordway?”

  “How do you know of Señor Ordway?”

  “His name has been in my agency’s files for many years.”

  “In connection with what?”

  “What do you think?”

  He looked away, didn
’t speak.

  “Chief Santos…”

  “Señor Ordway is an Americano, but has lived here for two decades. He contributes generously to the schools, the hospital, the libraries. He is muy importante.”

  “What does Señor Ordway do for a living?”

  Santos spread his hands widely. “He has independent means.”

  Probably a crook who escaped the States with his spoils.

  Santos added, “As I say, he has lived here many years. He knows many people and many things. He is also a very private man; it would be very difficult to arrange an audience with him.”

  God, he made it sound as if Ordway were the pope! “Do many people seek audiences with him?”

  “Very many.”

  “And are they all refused?”

  “…Not all.”

  “Tell me this, if you will: do you know a man named Gage Renshaw?” I described him in detail.

  Santos considered, as if paging through a mental photo album. “No, I do not.”

  “Is it possible Mr. Ordway knows him?”

  “Mr. Ordway knows many people from all over the world. I have no way of ascertaining their identities.”

  “Will you please speak with Mr. Ordway? Ask him to meet with me? Mention Gage Renshaw’s name?”

  “I will, señora. But I know what his answer will be.”

  I doubted Santos would even bother.

  4:02 p.m.

  By late afternoon I felt as if I’d brought the plague to Santa Iva. The mayor was unavailable to me. The Hotel de Ignacio had no rooms. The beer I was brought in a café was overly warm and full of foam. I decided not to return there for dinner; God knew what they would’ve served me.

  Enrique Valdez seemed to sympathize with me, but that was probably due to my being Hy’s wife. My command of Spanish intimidated him: gringas were not supposed to be so fluent. When I asked him if he could find me a place to stay the night, he pondered some, then drove me to an attractive stone-and-mortar house in a quiet part of town, the equivalent of a B and B in the States.

  The room that Yolanda Ibarra, the pleasant landlady, showed me to was comfortable and airy. The bathroom was sparkling clean. I asked Enrique to come back for me at eight and then took a long soak in the claw-footed tub. Señora Ibarra had told me she would be playing cards at a friend’s house till at least eleven, so I had the place to myself. I reveled in the quiet: a dog yapped outside, and a few ratchety motors drove past, but by and large, I could have been home in my big bedroom at the back of our house on Avila Street.

  The thought of home washed over me. The cats, lonely in the absence of both Hy and me, either wrapped up together on our bed or wrestling in the way they do, which starts out as play and then turns into full combat. And Hy—a skitter of anxiety ran up my spine. Was he right now trying to reach me? He must know by now that I’d been trying to locate him. Usually, even when apart, we feel a strong psychic connection that tells each the other is all right, but it had faded as the days went by.

  8:12 p.m.

  I’d had a light dinner of tortilla soup at a café that Señora Ibarra had earlier suggested, and by eight was back at her house to meet Enrique Valdez. The driver had been eager to comply with my wishes all day, but when I asked him to drive me to the Ordway house, he scowled and thrust out his chin stubbornly.

  “Strangers are not welcome there, señora.”

  “I can test the rule, can’t I?”

  “Test? What is this test?”

  “To go up and ring his doorbell.”

  “You would only meet one of his subordinados. I have heard they are not very pleasant to strangers.”

  “In my business, Enrique, many people are unpleasant to me.”

  He let out a sigh that said he didn’t want to be the one who facilitated the unpleasantness.

  I relented. “At least take me to someplace from which I can observe his home.”

  “As you wish.” Reluctantly he put the Civic in gear.

  “Pardon me,” he said after we’d left the town and were traveling across a flat land where the distorted shapes of giant cacti dotted the desert floor, “but what do you know of Señor Ordway?”

  “He seems to be Señor Grande around here.” Mr. Big, Mr. Upstairs, as such characters are known in the old B movies.

  “Si, señora, he is.”

  “And what do you know of him?”

  He shrugged. “How is one such as myself to know someone of his importance?”

  “Come on, Enrique. This is a small town; people talk.”

  “Me, I do not listen to gossip. It is for womenfolk.”

  I gave up and leaned back with half-closed eyelids, watching the terrain change as we drove into the eastern hills. Scrub grass gave way to larger fields of cacti, and then to profusions of flowering shrubs. A light scent floated on the air—jasmine? Another plant? I sneezed. Also pollen. I sneezed again.

  The terrain became steep, and at the top of the mountainous slope a large two-storied hacienda-style house with a tiled roof and roughly plastered cream-colored walls loomed, awash in many lights. Music and laughter and voices filtered down. Mr. Big was giving a party. A half-circular paved area in front of the house was clogged with cars.

  Enrique looked at me and made a helpless gesture. “No hay entrada,” he said. “There will be chauffeurs, parking attendants, perhaps security guards.”

  “None of them will be stationed this far down the hillside,” I said. “Let’s keep going until we find a wide spot where you can turn the car around. That way we can leave quickly if noticed.”

  He looked dubious, but complied.

  The wide spot we finally came to was flat and paved. More importantly, it had an unobstructed view of a brightly lit terrace where music played and people mingled. A couple of newish cars were parked there. Enrique pulled between them.

  “This,” he said, “is where the help parks.” In a bitter tone he added, “Look how far uphill he makes them walk.”

  Figures stirred in the cars to either side of us; two sturdy men in khaki uniforms equipped with shoulder holsters and rifles slung over their shoulders stepped out.

  I stiffened and reached in my bag for my .38.

  “No te preocupes,” Enrique said. No worries. “These men are my amigos.” He added, “Nada que temer.” Nothing to be afraid of. He reached under the passenger’s seat and removed a paper bag, handed it to the closest one.

  “Jose Cuervo,” he confided to me. “The tequila will be added to your bill.” To the men he said, “Media hora, por favor.” He added to me, “That will give us enough time.”

  I scanned the two-story white mansion. It had expansive windows angled to let in the brilliant colors of the setting sun. But massive bars on all of them would only serve to mar the view.

  “Señor Ordway must be very afraid of something,” I said, more to myself than to Enrique.

  “He has reason to be. He has many secrets.”

  The party sounds grew louder as I got out of the car: laughter and muted conversation; faint music with a Latin beat; what sounded like ice blocks being smashed for cubes. A man’s voice yowled; I guessed he thought he was singing. A woman’s voice answered, screechy and off any key on the musical scale.

  “I have binoculars,” Enrique said. “Very powerful, left over from the days when I worked with those guys like your husband.” He rummaged under the passenger seat and placed them in my hands. I wondered what other treasures that seat harbored.

  I aimed the binoculars at the terrace with a low rock wall, sharpening the focus. They were of excellent quality, their definition strong and clear. Various formally dressed men and women, cocktails in hand, were visible beyond the wall. Waiters in white uniforms moved among them, offering canapés and trays of drinks. The yowling man had started up again. A tall gray-haired man put his hand on his shoulder, spoke into his ear. The yowler slunk off.

  Enrique laughed slyly.

  I said to him, “Can you pick Bernardo Ordway out of
this crowd?”

  He took the binoculars from me. “Sí. He is the tall one with the red carnation who just made the singer shut up.” He handed the glasses back to me and guided them to follow Ordway’s progress across his terrace.

  Bernardo Ordway cut an impressive figure among his guests. As he moved, men shook his hand or clapped him on the back. Women brushed close to him, planted kisses on his cheeks, their formal gowns often flowing in the wind to envelop his legs.

  I’d known many Bernardo Ordways: some had sought my investigative services, then attempted to take control of whatever case they’d brought me. Glenn Solomon, to my sadness, was one of those. Hy’s world was riddled with them, all with some ulterior motive and a need for power.

  More cars were arriving at the Ordway mansion. The guards, so far as I knew, were performing their jobs competently in spite of the tequila, but the parking area was filling up. When I mentioned that to Enrique, he said, “There are otras up the way to the house.”

  After a while, when I’d seen all I needed to, I tugged at Enrique’s sleeve and we drove back to town.

  FRIDAY, OCTOBER 16

  9:10 a.m.

  In the morning I did the sensible thing in this age of advance appointments: I called Bernardo Ordway’s office and asked for one.

  “Why do you wish to see Señor Ordway?” The woman’s voice was brusque.

  “I’m thinking about buying a home near Bahia Tortuga”—a pricey community that spans the dividing line between Baja California Norte and Sur—“and given Señor Ordway’s prominence in the community, I’d hoped he might advise me.”

  “Has someone referred you to him?”

  “Yes, Pedro Santos.” Surely the chief of police’s name would have some influence, at least with Ordway’s staff, if not with the man himself.

  “Your name, please?”

  “Judy Bolton.” It was that of a heroine in a series of girls’ mysteries I’d enjoyed during childhood. “You may have heard of me, or at least my family. We have large holdings in Central and South America.”