The Mexico Run (17 page)

    I am afraid I had been inclined to discount the calibre of the man I had been dealing with. It was obvious that he knew a great deal more about me and what I had been doing than I had realized.

    I couldn't figure it out; it didn't add up. If he knew Captain Morales why did he particularly need me to deliver the stuff? Why hadn't he purchased direct? There was, of course, a certain calculated risk in bringing it in, but I felt sure he could have done it at a cheaper price than I was giving him. There had been nothing particularly complicated about my
modus operandi.
I was sure a man of his criminal genius was quite capable of figuring it out, quite capable of putting it into operation. Why had he needed me?

    My intelligence told me that operating the way I had done this first time, the risks would geometrically increase, and sooner or later I would be picked up. Maybe he was prepared to pay that profit margin so that I, rather than one of his own people, took that risk. It was possible.

    As I drove back across the Golden Gate Bridge, I couldn't help feeling a peculiar sense of nervousness. I didn't like the idea that he knew about my contact with Captain Morales. These people apparently knew a hell of a lot more about me than I knew about them.

    I had my Cantonese dinner after all, but I had it in a restaurant in San Francisco's Chinatown, and then I went back to the motel and packed in ten hours of solid sleep. When I got up the next morning, I carefully counted the money in the canvas bag, and it added up correctly.

    I had one other thing to do in San Francisco. In spite of what had taken place since I had been in the city, I hadn't been able to get Ann Sherwood out of my mind.

    I knew that I was still in love with her. But I also knew something else. I knew the kind of person she was, the kind of life she lived, and would want to live. And, unfortunately, I knew the kind of a person that I had become.

    My conscience bothered me. I had left San Francisco abruptly and I had not called her. I had only told her on that second occasion when we had lunched together that I was going to be away for a while and that I would be in touch with her when I returned.

    I put in the telephone call reluctantly and with certain misgivings. I called her at the law offices where she worked.

    She seemed surprised to hear from me. Surprised, but neither particularly happy nor unhappy about it. I made it as brief as possible.

    "Ann," I said, "I'm back in town, but only for a couple of hours, and I've got to leave again immediately. But I did want to call you and see if everything was all right."

    She said everything was fine and that she'd missed hearing from me.

    "I've been down in Mexico," I said, "and I'm going back. If there's anything I can do, or if you need me for anything, I'll give you an address and phone number where you can reach me. I'll be down there for a couple of weeks at least, and when I return, I'll get in touch again."

    "I wish you would," she said. "I want to see you."

    "I want to see you too, Ann," I said. "It everything all right with Lynn?"

    "She's a problem, but she's always been a problem. I can handle it. Let me get a pencil and take your phone number and your address."

    I gave her the phone number and the address of La Casa Pacifica and told her not to hesitate to call me if there was anything at all I could do for her. That I would look forward to seeing her soon.

    I hadn't planned it, but before I hung up I said, "I love you, Ann."

    I felt like a double dyed son-of-a-bitch as I returned the receiver.

    One thing I must do. I must get rid of Sharon. I had to get her out of my life. I had to have a chance to think things out. I had to be alone with myself for a while.

    Running pot into the country was one thing. I didn't consider it any more criminal than importing booze or tobacco. But sleeping around with some little tramp was something else.

    I had to get my head screwed on straight and figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. I had to know if I really wanted Ann Sherwood to be a part of that life. I was pretty sure I did.

    I checked out of the motel and went to the Wells Fargo Bank and rented a safety-deposit box. I put twenty thousand dollars in cash in the box and most of the rest of it in cashier's checks.

    At four-thirty that afternoon I returned the pickup truck to the rental agency in Santa Barbara and then went down to the harbor and got back aboard the
South Wind.
I loosened the mooring lines and then cruised around to the gas dock and gassed up, had them check the oil and top-off the water tanks. I spent that night at the dock in Santa Barbara and the next morning headed south for San Diego, arriving late that afternoon.

    After pulling into Monahan's slip, off Shelter Island, I went to a telephone and called him. He wasn't in his office, but I finally reached him at his home. I explained to him that I'd had a sudden illness in my family and that I was going to have to cancel the rest of the charter time.

    He started to sputter over the phone, so I explained to him that I didn't expect a rebate and I'd enjoyed the boat thoroughly.

    He immediately changed his tune and told me he would be delighted to let me have it any time, but to try and let him know in advance if possible. I thanked him and hung up.

    An hour later, I was leaving San Diego in the Jaguar, heading back for the Mexican border. I was tired and so instead of going on to Ensenada after I got into Tijuana, I checked into the El Camino Hotel for a night's sleep. The following morning, I once again headed south, arriving at La Casa Pacifica just before noontime.

    I was hoping that I would find Sharon long gone. The moment I walked into the lobby, dropped my bag at the desk, and looked up at Billings, who was standing behind the counter, I sensed something was wrong, very wrong.

    "It's nice to be back," I said.

    He avoided my eyes and said nothing.

    Of course, I thought. She's missing and he's probably hesitant to tell me that she's flown the coop. I had a momentary sense of relief. It was obvious. She had disappeared and must by now be hiding out with Angel's relatives.

    He finally looked at me.

    "Good to see you back, Mr. Johns," he said.

    "Is Mrs. Johns in?" I asked.

    Again he avoided my eyes, but this time I thought I understood why.

    He shrugged his shoulders. "I am afraid not," he said. Well, it was what I expected.

    "I'll go in and wash up and then I think I'll come out and have a drink," I said.

    "Fine. I'll be in the bar. It's nice you're back."

    I went to the room, dropped my bag and closed the door, and immediately checked the closet. Her clothes were still there, her junk jewelry was still spread around the desk dresser, but the place looked as though it hadn't been lived in for several days.

    I wasn't worried. I was relieved. I unpacked, took a quick shower, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, went out to the small barroom overlooking the ocean. My host was behind the bar.

    We had a Margarita, and he was amazingly uncommunicative. I thought I knew why. That Margarita began to make me feel a little better so I decided to have another one. I invited Billings to join me, but he shook his head. Muttered something about not feeling very well. It was pretty obvious he didn't want to talk with me.

    I had time to kill, as I wanted to wait until dark to contact Angel Cortillo. I was anxious to hear how things went with Sharon but I wasn't worried. I more or less suspected that her disappearance was the reason for Billings' surliness. I could imagine what happened when Captain Hernando Morales showed up looking for her and found her missing. He probably put the blame on Billings for not keeping a better eye on her during my absence, and had very likely given him a hard time.

    I was sipping the Margarita, taking my time, when I heard the screech of tires as a car pulled up and braked to a sudden stop outside. The door opened, and Billings started to circle the bar to go to the lobby, but before he reached the door, the visitor barged in.

    He was a short, stocky man, dressed in a rumpled Palm Beach suit, a white, silk shirt opened at the throat, and a pair of high-heeled, Mexican boots. He looked more Indian than Mexican, and he had a surly, unfriendly face. He was wearing dark glasses and smoking a thin
cigarillo.
He crowded next to me at the bar, staring at me curiously for a moment, and then ordered a bottle of cold beer.

    If Billings knew him, he didn't indicate it. For some reason, he made me feel uncomfortable, and so I finished off the Margarita and returned to my room. I would still have an hour or more to kill before going into town and looking up Angel.

    I hadn't been in the room for more than five minutes when there was a knock on the door. A sharp, peremptory knock, as though whoever made it had a silver dollar in his fist. I was sitting in one of the leather chairs next to the window, looking out at the Pacific, and I called over my shoulder.

    "The door's open, come on in."

    I turned as he entered, and it was my friend the surly Indian-Mexican whom I'd left at the bar.

    "Senor Johns," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.

    He stepped into the room, turned and closed the door carefully behind him and snapped the night lock. Then he walked over and took the chair opposite me. He reached in the breast pocket of his Panama coat, took out a wallet, and flipped it open, exposing a silver badge. He let me see it long enough to read the legend, "Federal Police."

    I didn't say anything.

    "When did you last see your wife?"

    I was beginning to get the picture. Captain Morales had not taken it lying down, and he was going to make things tough.

    "My wife?" I asked.

    "You are married, aren't you?"

    I half nodded. "In a manner of speaking," I said. "Let us say a common-law marriage."

    He wasn't amused. Again his hand went to his pocket and he took out a photograph. He handed it to me.

    "This is your wife, isn't it? Or at least your common-law wife?"

    But I didn't hear the question. I was staring at the picture he had given me and, for a moment, I had all I could do to keep from throwing up.

    It was obviously an official police photograph, and it must have been taken in a morgue. The body was entirely nude, and for the first moment or two I was so shocked that I didn't recognize it as Sharon.

    It was a flashlit photo and it spared no details. They had wiped off the blood, but what was left of the face was hardly recognizable as anything human. They hadn't used a knife on the face itself, but apparently had been satisfied to smash it in with some sort of bludgeon. No human fist could have done the job that had been done on her.

    They'd used the knife around the breasts to cut off the nipples. They hadn't stopped there, but it is pointless to go on and describe it any further.

    I dropped the photograph to the floor between my feet and took three steps to get to the bathroom. This time I did throw up.

    The face had been unrecognizable, but the hair was Sharon's and it was Sharon's body. Whoever had wielded the knife had carefully avoided the area just above the kneecap on her right thigh, on which had been tatooed the legend, Love me.

    The murderer had wanted to be sure that she would be identified.

    It was several minutes before I was capable of returning to the sitting room. He hadn't moved.

    I again sat down opposite him, and he didn't look at me when he spoke. The picture still lay on the floor.

    "When did you last see your wife?"

    "I left her here last weekend to return to the States."

    "And you just got back. You have been in the United States since then?"

    I nodded. "When did this happen?" I asked.

    He ignored the question. "Why did you return to the States without your wife?"

    "I had to go up on business," I said.

    "And you can substantiate that you have been there all during this last week?"

    "I can. Tell me, when did this happen? Who did it? Where is she now?"

    "The body is at an undertaking parlor in town, and I must ask you to come in with me to make a positive identification. I realize this has come as a considerable shock, but I must ask you to cooperate with us. If it will be of any comfort to you we have the man in custody who is responsible."

    I looked up, startled. "You have the man who did this to her?"

    He nodded. "We have the man who committed the actual murder," he said. "But we have not closed our investigation. You see, it is possible that others might be involved."

    "Others?" I looked at him curiously. "What others?"

    "Well, you see," he said. "We have the man who committed the crime, but there's always the possibility that there could be an accomplice. Let us say, possibly an accessory before the fact."

    "I don't believe I follow you," I said. "Anyway, tell me, who did this? Why?"

    "We are holding a man named Cortillo," he said. "Angel Cortillo. He runs a commercial fishing-vessel. The body was found aboard his boat. That is why the Federal Police, rather than local authorities, are handling the case."

    I looked up at him, startled, unable to keep the shocked surprise out of my face.

    "Angel Cortillo?" I asked. "You must be insane. He couldn't have committed this crime."

    "You know this man Cortillo?"

    "Of course, I know him," I said. "I've known him for years, since we were boys together. Angel could not have done this. You have the wrong man."