Wolf in the Shadows Read online

  Tomás was shaking Hy’s hand. He nodded to me, then slipped out of the backseat and walked toward his truck. “Where’s he going?” I asked.

  “Home. He’s lost his morning’s fishing as is.”

  “What about us?”

  “We can’t go back there.”

  “I know. But now what?”

  “Good question.”

  We were silent for a while, watching the gray of the sea pale as the sun silvered the cloud cover. The VW bus started with a puff of dark exhaust, lurched into reverse, then drove toward the road. As it passed us, its driver waved jauntily.

  I said, “Mourning wasn’t shot on the beach, you know,” and explained.

  “You think she was shot inside the villa, then.”

  “Probably.”

  “By whom?”

  “Salazar?”

  “Guy’s got to be the world’s worst shot, then. And why’d he let her live?”

  “I suppose it could have been an accident.”

  “So they moved her to the beach and tried to throw suspicion on us.”

  I shook my head. “They may have moved her, but I don’t think they were the ones who alerted the police to us. What probably happened was that the Federales canvassed the neighbors and came up with our descriptions.”

  “Huh.” He was silent for a moment. “Back to the immediate question: what do we do now? We can’t stay around here.”

  “Go back to San Diego?”

  “And do what? Besides, look at us. You’re grubby, and I’ve seen spiffier guys than me being brought into detox. You really want to brave the border control in this condition, when the Federales may have requested them to pick up and hold?”

  “No, but I suppose appearances can be improved.”

  Again we fell silent. I knew his objection to returning to San Diego wasn’t based on a fear of being held by the border control; he just plain wasn’t willing to give this thing up yet.

  After a bit I said, “Okay, Ripinsky, if you had a choice, what would you do?”

  He answered without hesitation. “Snatch Mourning and the L.C. Take them both across the border and turn them over to RKI. Clear my name with the people who—” Abruptly he stopped speaking.

  “The people who what?”

  “Give it a rest, McCone. Let’s just say they’re the people I knew when I was a better man than I am now. The people I knew when things like a good name still mattered.”

  And that was all I’d get on the subject for now. “Okay, how do you propose to do that?”

  “Damned if I know.”

  I bit my lip, thought for a while. There were a few possibilities, but I wasn’t sure they were good enough to stake my freedom—maybe my life—on.

  I got out of the car and walked over to the wall by the sea. Waves smashed against rocks far below, their spray spurting up, then cascading down the cliffs. For a moment I tried to calculate risks, weigh odds, estimate my margin of error. Then gave it up because I knew—finally, once and for all—that I wasn’t the kind of woman who hedged her bets.

  Hy came up behind me, put his hands on my shoulders, his body warm against my back. “It’s not your job, McCone,” he told me.

  He’d said something similar to me on a moonlit night several months before when we’d driven into a place called Stone Valley. “This isn’t your fight, McCone,” he’d told me then. And I’d replied, “In some ways, no. But in another, it is.”

  Now I thought of Timothy Mourning’s horror-stricken face in the photo that had been sent to RKI. Of his numb bewilderment as he’d stumbled onto the terrace last night. And I thought of the promise I’d made myself when I set out to find Hy.

  I repeated my words of months ago. “In some ways, no. But in another, it is. Besides, I know you won’t go back to the States, and I’m not leaving without you.”

  His hands tightened on my shoulders. I sensed him struggling to speak.

  I added, “So how about it, Ripinsky? Let’s take Tim Mourning and his two million dollars home.”

  Twenty-Four

  The first thing we needed to do was make ourselves more presentable. We washed in ice-cold sea water. Hy shaved off his stubbly beard and changed to a rumpled but clean set of clothing; I made what improvements I could with a comb and some makeup. Then we drove north toward Ensenada.

  We encountered no police patrols, no roadblocks. Fontes, a wealthy and influential citizen, had probably convinced—or more likely bribed—the authorities not to put themselves out investigating a crime that seemed to be the end result of a dispute among Americans. At most they might circulate the descriptions of the man seen on the beach and the woman with the camera to the U.S. Border Control stations and ask for cooperation, but that would be about it.

  As I drove, we discussed how to proceed. I’d pinpointed something that might conceivably be used as leverage with Navarro, but that would bear further checking. My main concern was how long everyone would remain at the villa. Diane Mourning was temporarily out of the picture, but the others couldn’t be sure what she might eventually tell the authorities—or what she might do when she recovered. My take on the situation was that Fontes and Navarro would strike a quick deal and put the letter of credit through as soon as possible. As for Tim Mourning, his wife’s shooting had in effect guaranteed his safety for a little while longer; a second casualty at the villa would pose more of a problem than even cops who were conditioned to look the other way could ignore. Of course, Salazar or one of his people could take Mourning to the desert, kill him, and dump him there, but I doubted they’d try that on a day when the household had come under police scrutiny.

  One factor working in Hy’s and my favor was that it was Sunday; nothing could be done about the L.C. until the next morning. Possibly one of them would fly to Mexico City with it today, but maybe not, and the L.C. was of secondary importance, anyway. The prime objective had always been to rescue Tim, and to do that we’d have to move fast.

  Before we arrived in Ensenada, we’d figured out the details. So many to be arranged, and so carefully. Omit even one, and we’d condemn Mourning to a certain death. Tacitly we agreed not to discuss what we might condemn ourselves to if the plan failed.

  In Ensenada we stopped at a phone booth and Hy called the trauma unit where Tomás had said Diane Mourning was taken. They told him that she’d been stabilized and flown at the request of her personal physician to Cabrillo Hospital in San Diego. No, the police had not questioned Señora Mourning; she was in critical condition.

  Again we drove north, this time to Tijuana’s Avenida Revolución, the gaudy tourist shopping area. While Hy waited in the car, I hurried along the crowded sidewalk, avoiding peddlers hawking jewelry and ignoring the entreaties of shopkeepers who stood outside like barkers at sleazy sex shows. In a clothing store I bought a colorful embroidered dress and sandals; a few doors down I stopped at another shop and bought typical tourist things—a serape, marionettes, a piñata, a sombrero, some wood carvings. Laden with them, I hurried back through the carnival atmosphere to the car and piled them on the backseat. It was after two when we finally checked into Hotel Fiesta Americana Tijuana on Boulevard Agua Caliente.

  Initially Hy objected to my choice of hotel; it went against his Spartan grain to spend so much money for a place to stay. But he consented when I pointed out that in case the federal police actually were looking for us, they wouldn’t be likely to check the best lodgings in town for a drifter who’d been seen sleeping on the beach down south. He stuck to his principles, though, by making me put it on my credit card.

  As soon as the bellhop left our room on the nineteenth story of one of the hotel’s twin towers, I dug through my bag and found the fax of Phoenix Labs’s letter of credit that Renshaw had sent to me at the Bali Kai. My four-digit RKI security code was noted at its top. I dialed their La Jolla number, was told that the offices were closed but in case of emergency I should press 1, enter my code, and stay on the line. I pressed, entered, stayed. A man came on
. I identified myself and said I wanted to talk with Gage Renshaw.

  After the most brief of hesitations, the man said, “Give me your number, Ms. McCone, and I’ll have Mr. Renshaw return your call within fifteen minutes.”

  “No,” I told him, “get him into the office, and I’ll call back.”

  Another pause. “I’m paging him.”

  And trying to trace my call. “Have him there in fifteen minutes,” I said and hung up.

  Hy was watching me, a faint smile on his lips. “You’ve learned to play in the majors, McCone.”

  “Hardly. It may look that way, but inside I feel like a little kid who doesn’t even know which direction to run around the bases.”

  He shrugged disbelievingly and went to see what was in the mini-bar. In principle he might disapprove of such luxuries, but he was demonstrating remarkable adaptability.

  Fifteen minutes later I dialed the La Jolla number again. “Renshaw here,” the familiar voice said.

  “Don’t try to trace this call,” I told him.

  “Ms. McCone, why don’t you give it up? Come in to the office, we’ll talk.”

  “Yes, we have to talk, but we’ll do it my way. I want to meet with you—just you, none of your other people, and with no surveillance. In a public place.”

  “… All right. Where and when?”

  “Hotel del Coronado. The terrace bar by the beach, south end. Five o’clock this afternoon. I’ll be alone, unarmed. You should be, too. They don’t tolerate disturbances at Hotel Del, and if you try to have me followed after I leave, you’ll never see Ripinsky, Tim Mourning, or Phoenix Labs’s letter of credit again.”

  Total silence.

  “Agreed, Mr. Renshaw?”

  “Agreed, Ms. McCone.” Damned if he didn’t sound surprised.

  I hung up, turned to Hy. He was grinning. “Way to kick ass, McCone.”

  “You think that was long enough for them to trace the call?”

  “No, and I’ll bet they didn’t even try. Gage isn’t stupid, and he doesn’t underestimate other people, either.”

  I got my bag, took my father’s gun out, and set it on the small table by the window. After removing the roll of film from the camera, I set it there, too. Then I stuck the film in my bag, slung the bag over my shoulder, and gave Hy what I hoped was a confident smile. “I’d better get going.”

  He stepped forward, put his hands on my shoulders. “You’ll be okay, and I’ll handle what I have to on this end.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lied.

  “I am,” he said, proving he’d lied, too. “Don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

  “You won’t.” I went up on tiptoe, touched my lips to his. “By this time tomorrow, it’ll all be behind us.” Then I hurried out of the room before all the bad, scary possibilities that lay unsaid between us could grow into even scarier probabilities.

  * * *

  As we’d driven toward Tijuana, the sky had cleared and the heat had intensified. It grew stifling as I waited in the Sunday-afternoon traffic jam at the border control. The U.S. Customs officials seemed to be questioning returning Americans with more than the usual thoroughness; as I inched toward the gate, refusing the overtures of peddlers who hawked flowers and jewelry and soft drinks between the cars, I saw several vehicles being turned aside for searching. When the car ahead of mine cleared, I put on my best tourist smile.

  The man in uniform leaned down to my window, studying my face unsmilingly. His eyes moved over my colorful, flowing clothing to the souvenir-laden backseat. “How long have you been in Baja, ma’am?”

  “Just the day, for a little shopping.” I motioned at the piñata—in the shape of an exceedingly stupid-looking donkey—that now rode in the passenger seat.

  “And where’ve you been?”

  “Avenida Revolución.”

  “No farther south than T.J.?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you own this car?”

  “It’s a rental.”

  “May I see your contract?”

  I handed it to him.

  “Is this San Francisco address correct?”

  “Yes. I’m down visiting my brother in Lemon Grove.”

  The customs man handed the contract back to me. “You have a nice day, ma’am,” he said as he waved me through.

  I waited until I’d passed under the flashing sign that said “Watch for pedestrians crossing freeway” before I let out an explosive sigh of relief at crossing this first hurdle. My next stop would be Gooden’s Photographic, which operated a one-hour developing service even on Sunday. After that I’d head for nearby Cabrillo Hospital.

  * * *

  It was a small private facility on a quiet side street off Sixth Avenue across from the southwestern edge of Balboa Park: three nondescript stories of beige stucco with beds of longstemmed purple agapanthus bordering the path to the lobby entrance. Its sign said that it was a care provider for Marin County–based Sequoia Health Plan, probably the reason Mourning’s personal physician had selected it. I parked in the lot beside it and got out of the car, looking around for a police cruiser. There wasn’t any, and that didn’t surprise me. While California law requires hospitals to report gunshot wounds to the police, this one had been sustained in Mexico; they might eventually question Mourning, but they weren’t likely to devote too many valuable man-hours to a shooting that had occurred in a jurisdiction where they’d get little or no cooperation from their counterparts.

  The lobby was empty except for a nurse who leaned against the information desk talking with an older woman in a volunteer’s pink uniform. When I asked about Diane Mourning, the two exchanged guarded looks. “I’m sorry,” the volunteer said, “she’s not allowed any visitors.”

  “I’d like to speak with the attending physician, then. It’s important; I have a message for her from Mr. Mourning.”

  The volunteer glanced hesitantly at the nurse, who said, “That’d be Dr. Henderson. I believe he’s making rounds now.”

  “I’ll be glad to wait.”

  She considered, then told me, “Go to the second-floor nurses’ station. They’ll page him.”

  “Thanks.”

  As I moved toward the elevator, the women were silent. I glanced back after I pressed the up button and saw them staring at me with frank curiosity.

  Dr. Henderson was standing at the nurses’ station when I arrived there. A heavy, balding man with a fringe of gray hair, he scrutinized both me and my identification carefully, then led me to a lounge area.

  “You say you have a message from Mrs. Mourning’s husband?”

  “Yes. He asked me to deliver it to her personally.”

  “Just where is the husband?”

  “Baja.”

  Henderson frowned. “He remained there, in spite of his wife being shot?”

  “He was unavoidably detained,” I said vaguely. “Has Diane asked for him?”

  “When she was first brought in, she seemed concerned as to his whereabouts. You understand, she’s been drugged for pain. She’s quite restless, keeps mumbling his name, among other things.”

  “Other things?”

  “Something about a letter and being inside a house.”

  “I see. What’s her condition?”

  “Critical, but stable. Gunshot wound with questionable kidney compromise.”

  “Were the police notified?”

  He nodded.

  “Have they talked with her?”

  “Not yet. As I said, she’s in considerable pain and has to be drugged.”

  “Would she be able to understand the message from her husband?”

  “Probably.”

  “May I see her?”

  Henderson rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “It might reassure her. Five minutes, though, no more.”

  He had a nurse take me to Diane’s private room. She lay on a bed by the window, an I.V. inserted in her arm. The high hospital bed diminished her; she looked even smaller, paler, more fragile. As the
nurse left us and shut the door behind her, I approached and touched Mourning’s arm.

  She opened her eyes groggily; their pupils were dilated, her gaze unfocused.

  “Diane,” I said, “it’s Sharon McCone, from RKI.”

  “No.” The word came out a whisper, tinged with fear.

  “It’s all right. I’m not here to hurt you. What happened at Fontes’s villa?”

  She shut her eyes again.

  “Who shot you?”

  No reply.

  “Were you shot in the house?”

  After a moment she nodded.

  “Who did it? Salazar?”

  “… don’t know. Didn’t see …”

  “Where in the house were you?”

  “Living room.”

  “And who told the police you were shot on the beach?”

  “… Don’t know. Blacked out …”

  “Was Timothy there?”

  Her eyes opened again, fear glazing them now. “Timothy …” She pressed her lips together, shook her head from side to side.

  “Diane, this next question is important. Does Ann know her husband is dead?”

  “Stan? Not dead. In Mexico City.”

  “Who told you that?”

  She closed her eyes again.

  “Diane, who said so?”

  “… Gilbert … said …” She was fading—or pretending to.

  “Diane, what did Gilbert say?”

  No reply. Her lips were white-edged now, and her breathing was faster and shallower; perspiration beaded her forehead. I looked for the call button and rang. The nurse bustled in and took charge.

  “Doctor’s an idiot for letting her have a visitor,” she told me. “And if you see him on your way out, you can tell him I said so.”

  * * *

  As I left the hospital I felt a certain amount of guilt about my insistent questioning of a critically injured woman, but I banished it by reminding myself that said woman had arranged the kidnapping of her own husband. Besides, the information I’d gleaned—that Fontes had lied to Navarro, telling her Brockowitz was in Mexico City when he was actually in the San Diego County morgue—gave me even more leverage than I’d hoped for with Navarro. If I could get to her, I was sure I could convince her …