He clutched his side. “This hurts,” he said.
I nodded. “It'll feel better in a week or so. Maybe two. Tell me more.”
“Once she gets a man in this situation, he thinks he's dead.
He's a pariah. He can't go back to where he was, so then she loves him to death, keeps him from thinking about going back to his wife. Makes it impossible for him to go to bed with his wife again. She makes plans for their future together. Turns tragedy into a triumph.”
“When did this start?”
“We thought it out years ago, after she came down with herpes,” murmured Stevenson. Now that he started telling me, it was like he wanted to get it all out, confess the whole thing. Maybe the Catholics have it right. Confession is good for the soul, although it can also be detrimental to your health if you're not careful who you confess to.
“We had a similar thing going when she looked young, underage. It was a chicken trap. She played a teenage kid and seduced wealthy men. We had another partner then, her brother was too young. He would come in and discover them in the act. The target was always married, always successful, and always liquid enough to buy his way out of the problem. That's where I came in. They took it to their lawyer. I drew up the paperwork. Legal documents always scare people. They were good legal documents, too.”
Stevenson almost smiled, proud of his craft.
“It never failed,” he continued. “But it was small money. Then her partner died, and one of her targets gave her herpes. We never knew which one. About that time the AIDS scare came up. We knew we'd have to change direction.”
“What happened to your old partner?”
“Died in a traffic accident. Chico took care of him when he started to get greedy. Her brother was coming up, too, and we didn't need the man anymore.” His eyes were glassy, staring past me, looking at something a thousand yards distant.
“Since the mid-eighties?”
“Yeah. We've gone after the big money since then.”
“How many?”
He shook his head, and winced, his face pale. Sweat ran down his cheeks. I felt his forehead. It was clammy. He was going into shock.
“Her victim doesn't know what hit him,” he continued, the
words flowing as if he couldn't stop himself. “He can never sleep with his wife again. And he can never tell her. He believes he's dying. Elena made it seem like they would die together, a tragic couple facing life's cruelties ⦠. Oh, shit!” Stevenson's face turned white as a wave of agony passed through him. He vomited.
Then he passed out.
I cleaned him up as well as I could so he wouldn't drown in his own fluids and then splashed water on him. That had no effect, so I looked in his medicine cabinet and found smelling salts. They did.
“You know where the money is?” I asked him when consciousness returned. It was time to focus on the problem.
“Buried.”
“You know where?”
“Yeah. Me and Elena. We never told the boys. But you said you knew.”
“I just took a wild guess and said that to see what you'd do. Where is Elena?”
“Don't know.”
“Where were you going?”
“It's falling apart. I was getting out.”
I considered that. It didn't make any sense. Trust a lawyer to lie. “Where does de la Peña fit?”
“He's the Mexican connection. We work both sides of the border. He protects us down there.”
“That's all?”
“He's also enforcement, working with Chico.”
“So he sent the two kids to Claire's house? To do what, clean the slate?”
“Yeah. He and Chico. After you snooped around with those San Diego cops, he thought you were onto him. He went around the bend. I gave you his number knowing he'd never talk to you. I never dreamed you'd get the San Diego cops involved.”
“People underestimate me all the time,” I said. “It's a gift.”
“He sent the boys up to the house after you left. They were already in Chula Vista, waiting for the order. He'd already set that up when he found out a private detective was on the case, looking around. I didn't know about it. I didn't want Claire hurt.”
“Nice to see you have ethics. Steal her money, kill her husband, ruin her company, destroy her life, but don't hurt her.”
“Things just got carried away,” said Stevenson.
“De la Peña was so hinky when I talked to him he didn't leave anything to the imagination. He sweated guilt.” I remembered Ambrosio's reading of him on the way back from Ensenada.
“He's not bright,” said Stevenson, gritting his teeth. “He's just powerful.”
“That's a bad combination.”
Stevenson grunted. “You know why I'm telling you all this?”
“Because nothing you say can be used against you?”
“No. Because right now Chico and the boys are after de la Peña. He's become a liability. He's a dead man, or soon will be. Once they get rid of him, they're going to dig up the money and vanish. It's too dangerous with him alive. If he knew where the money was, he'd kill all of us. That's why we never told him.”
“What were your plans?”
“I'm joining them as soon as we get rid of you.”
“You aren't going anywhere, Joe.”
“Chico will be here soon. He'll take care of you, and then we'll head south to meet Elena. Once we dig up the money, we all vanish. There are places in Mexico and Central America that are lovely all year, where you can live like a king.”
“That's your dream? That's why you kill people?”
“Well, it was more before, but it'll do now. You've limited my options.”
I heard the front door open and pulled the revolver from my pocket.
“Chico! In here!” Stevenson shouted, then held his side as the force of the shout caused the ends of his broken ribs to rub together. The sound of footsteps echoed off hardwood floors.
“I'll see you, Caine.” Stevenson smiled. “Don't send me a bill.”
I saw a door near the bathroom and opened it. It led to a service corridor. Another door at the other end opened to the outside. I could see the lighted pool through a sidelight.
I ran through the hallway, crossed the backyard, and made it to the cover of trees on the steep slope at the back of the property and hugged the earth, facing the house. The little revolver with its single cartridge was next to useless, but it was something. I cursed myself for leaving the big Colt in my briefcase aboard
Olympia.
It wouldn't do me any good there. What was it I told Claire the first time I met her? Only people who made mistakes needed guns and I tried not to get into situations where guns were necessary? It sounded good at the time. Made me sound smug and smart and a little superior. Well, at least those who carried had their guns when they needed them and weren't hiding in the ivy in somebody's backyard armed only with a borrowed, nearly empty popgun.
Nothing happens the way you expect. The sound of four spaced gunshots came from the house. Then I heard the front door opening and closing and the wrought-iron gate slamming against the brick. A motor raced, tires chirped, and the sounds receded into the distance.
I approached the house, holding the little revolver in front of me. Nothing moved. No sound came from the house. I entered the way I'd exited and moved down the corridor to Stevenson's bedroom. I listened at the closed door for anything that might tell me someone was inside. I lay on the floor, cocked the gun, and pushed open the door until it swung wide.
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.
“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. âHey, 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 theâ”
“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 whereâ”
“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.”
“Butâ”
“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 âwe.' “No. Not yet. You may not like sitting and waiting, but this time it's best.”
“âOink, 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 ofâ” 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 gringoâjust like youâran 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?”
“Heyâ”
“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.