Wolf in the Shadows (31 page)

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 …

All the way to my next stop, I puzzled over Mourning’s shooting. An accident? Perhaps someone had mistaken her for a burglar.
The early hours of the morning were a bad time to be wandering through the home of someone as security-conscious as Fontes.
Well, I told myself, no amount of worrying at the question would provide an answer now. My immediate business deserved my
undivided attention.

When I got to Gooden’s, I found the pictures were ready early, thanks to a slack Sunday business. They’d also turned out focused
and clear. Next I went to a nearby branch of Bank of America and drew out the maximum—two hundred dollars—on my automatic
teller card. That, coupled with what was left from the check I’d cashed in Coronado on Friday, came to a little over six hundred
dollars; I hoped I wouldn’t have to use it all.

*    *    *

No one was home at Luis Abrego’s apartment in National City, but I wasn’t too concerned. If I didn’t find him waiting to arrange
one of his coyote jobs at the Tradewinds, I could always contact Vic at the Holiday Market. I left the car in front of the
apartment building and walked the few blocks to the bar. The streets were pretty much deserted; even on Highland traffic was
so light that I could hear the rattle and hum of the Tradewinds’ air conditioners at a fair distance. Inside, the bar was
as dark and smoky and crowded as it had been the last time I was there; Abrego sat on the same stool, idly watching a Padres
game on the big-screen TV. Again a hush fell over the room as I entered; Luis looked around to see what had caused it, saw
me, and got up, grinning. Immediately the rest of the patrons lost interest and resumed their conversations.

I took the stool next to him; he offered to buy me a drink, and I asked for a club soda. When it came I drank half of it down,
feeling a rush of cold as it hit my empty stomach. If I was to get through the rest of the day, I’d have to eat sometime.
Maybe some fast food on my way back to Tijuana.

Abrego said, “You cut your hair since last week. You’re looking better, too.”

“That’s because I found my friend. He’s not dead, after all.”

He raised an eyebrow. “So who’s the guy Salazar shot?”

“I’ll tell you the whole story someday. Right now I need some information from you—the name of somebody in Colonia Libertad.”
It was the poorest section of Tijuana, where things and people were bought and sold cheap.

“Why?”

“I need somebody to help some people get where they need to go.”

“Your friend?”

“And two others, maybe three.”

He seemed to understand that one of the others would be me. “You’re Americans. You should be able to clear the border control.
Or are you bringing in something illegal?”

“Nothing illegal. It’s not Customs I’m worried about. There may be somebody waiting for us on the T.J. side.”

“That’s bad.”

“Yes, you know how it is there. You’re in a car, standing in gridlock; a person with a rifle on the other side of the fence
in Colonia Libertad can pick you off easily. If you’re on foot, it’s even more dangerous: you’re closer to the fence, funneled
through that outdoor corridor before the customs building. Then there’s that long inside corridor before you come to the officials;
anybody can slip inside, fire a round, run back out.”

“You really think somebody’s gonna go after you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I can’t go into it now.”