“On our last night there we went to dinner at a place just below Rosarito. Calafia. It's kind of a hotel and restaurant, right on the top of the cliffs above the ocean.
“We had a good time. We had lobster and good Mexican wine. We laughed a lot. I decided my life probably wasn't over, after all. When we were ready to leave, Edith had to go to the ladies' room.
“This place sells T-shirts and I decided to buy one to remember the trip. You know, a kind of commemoration of Claire Peters coming back to life. The gift shop is right there, next to the entry. I had just decided on the one with the Mexican flag on it when he walked in.
“I sensed something and turned around and there he was. I spoke his name. He ignored me and went back outside. I called to him, but he didn't respond. I ran after him. When I got outside, he'd disappeared. He must have run.” She took another sip of the wine. Watching her in the waning light of a winter's evening, I wondered what it was that made the man run from her.
“You've got to understand Calafia. It's a warren of little cobblestone streets and alleys running in all directions. He could have gone anywhere.”
“You're certain it was your husband?”
“I could not mistake the man I lived with for fifteen years!” She looked around, startled by her own outburst. Heads turned in our direction. I smiled and nodded to them and they went back to their conversations.
“He'd lost weight,” she continued, quietly. “He was very tan. Like you. He was wearing clothes I'd never seen before. But it was Paul.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Jeans and a cheap plaid shirt. Work clothes. Paul wore a white shirt and tie everywhere, except on the boat. And then only a polo shirt and khaki slacks or Bermuda shorts. No blue jeans. No plaid. Nothing cheap. Not ever. Not even when we didn't have money. He had changed, but he was still Paul.”
“What did you do next?”
“We went home that night. The next day I called Joe.”
“What did he do?”
“He called the police. When nothing happened, he called them again. They told him they were trying, but the Mexican police refused to reopen the case.
“I pushed him into doing something else. We needed someone who could cross borders without asking permission.
He came up with nothing. He says he's working on something, but he's vague and mysterious about it. He's the expert. He should know what to do, but he doesn't seem to. I'm frustrated. This is out of my expertise.
“I told Barbara about it. She told me she knew someone and insisted that I meet you. I didn't know who or what you were until we were introduced. If I was rude in any way, I apologize.”
“What do you want out of this?”
The question troubled her. It was visible in her face that she had considered the ramifications of finding her husband alive, if it was her husband, and if he was alive, and she didn't like her conclusions.
“I'm hurt and confused. If I've been duped, I want to know why. The money's secondary. It would make things easier, to get the money back, but what I really want is the truth.”
“The truth is usually painful.”
“Not knowing is worse. Right now I feel foolish and stupid. I don't like feeling foolish and stupid. I'm not used to it and I have no intention of doing so.” She took another long drink of the wine, holding my gaze over the rim of the glass. “Will you do it, Mr. Caine?”
Behind her, bright white lights illuminated the office buildings at the city's center, traced the shoreline of the harbor, and outlined the sensual, curving bridge to Coronado. Powerful lights on North Island silhouetted the aircraft carriers at the quay. Far out in the Pacific the sun had set, leaving a thin, pale line of orange painted on the black, cold backdrop of the winter sky.
“I'll do it,” I said.
She smiled. It was a dazzling smile, bright enough to dim the lights across the bay.
“Then we'd better order dinner. You were right about getting drunk. Even then,” she said, “you may have to drive me home.”
“You got her approval, all right.” Joseph Stevenson, Esquire, was not what I expected. Six foot three, 250 pounds of big bones and muscle, he could have been a defensive end for the Chargers as easily as a tax lawyer, except he was beyond his playing years, beginning, like many ex-athletes, to go to seed. Excess flesh bulged above his collar and rolled around his waist, but I still wouldn't have wanted to get past him on the gridiron.
Barbara Klein and I sat in the office of Stevenson and Stapleton, a plush enclave near the top of one of the skyscrapers I'd seen last night from the restaurant. Framed photographs of sports heroes posing with the lawyer and autographed footballs and baseball bats covered every vertical and horizontal surface in the room. It looked like a fanatic's garage sale.
“You took her home last night?”
“Give him a break, Joe,” Barbara said. “She'd had more chardonnay than the law allows.”
Stevenson ignored her. “You're driving her car?”
“I left the rental at the restaurant and turned it in this morning. She told me to take Paul's Range Rover. She said I could use it instead of a rental to save expenses.”
“You could stay at her house, too. That'd save money.”
“Mr. Caine is not moving in on the widow, Joe. This is strictly business. Why don't you turn off your testosterone and help him do what your client wanted you to do?”
He nodded. He wasn't satisfied, but he would accept it. He had to. “He's not licensed in California.”
“That's okay,” said Barbara, pressing. “I checked the law. Technically, he'll work for you. Realistically, he works for Mrs. Peters. You both do.”
Stevenson sighed. “She called me this morning and told me what a gentleman you were last night. She instructed me to hire you. So you're hired.”
“I'm an employee?”
“A ten-ninety-nine consultant. Fees and expenses. And the per diem, as discussed.”
“And the money?”
“Five thousand dollars against per diem and expenses. Keep track. Your fee will come at the end.”
It was as expected. I nodded and he handed me a pale green check stapled to a thick manila envelope.
“Files and reports are in there. Everything I've got. Names, dates, places. Any questions?”
“Do you think she saw Paul Peters?”
Joseph Stevenson leaned back in his leather captain's chair, steepled his fingers in front of his chin, and closed his eyes. I waited for the solemn pronouncement that was certain to follow.
“I don't know,” he said.
I waited for more. Outside, an airliner made its landing approach to Lindbergh Field, passing below the floor where Stevenson and Stapleton had an office. It was weird, watching the airplane from above.
“Do you think it was Paul Peters?”
Stevenson shook his head slowly from side to side, his eyes still closed as if he were trying to picture something in his mind, the reception eluding him.
“Oh, come on, Joe,” said Barbara, her voice sharp. “Tell him what you really think.”
He opened his eyes and glared at her, opened his mouth to retort, then shut it again, visibly rethinking the entire situation and his position in it.
“She wants him to be alive,” he said, softly but pedantically, as if he were explaining a complicated formula to a child. “I understand that and I understand why. But the Mexican coroner compared the dental records I supplied. I know they were Paul's, because I drove them down myself. The coroner said there was no doubt after a police investigation. He issued a death certificate. No foul play suspected. It was
an accident pure and simple. Some gas fumes in the bilge, a little spark, and boom. Nothing tricky about that.”
Stevenson looked at me as if he'd said something significant. If he did, I'd missed it.
“I told Paul to replace those gasoline engines, but he liked the speed that diesels couldn't give him.”
“Did he know a lot about boats?”
“Power Squadron all the way. Safety-minded. Never had a bit of trouble.”
“Turn on the bilge blowers before he started the engines?”
“Like he was a religious fanatic. Same way he flew. Went through the checklist every time.
“Look,” he said. “Paul Peters was damned smart and he was an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive bastard when it came to things that had to be done, the same way a good surgeon is. If it has to be done, and if it has to be done in a certain way, Paul Peters would do it exactly as specified. I was his tax attorney. If a report was due IRS by February fifteenth, it had to be in at eight A.M., February fifteenth. He knew how to play the game the way it was supposed to be played. And he never took chances.”
I nodded encouragement.
“So if he liked gasoline engines because of their pickup, I never worried about him. Compared to Paul Peters, the Coast Guard is slack. He never once bent the rules.”
“Until he blew himself all over downtown Ensenada.”
“You know boats?”
I nodded.
“Then you know they can turn on you, just like a woman can turn on you. Any number of little things could have happened.”
To her credit, Barbara Klein didn't explode, but she gave me a compelling look, rolling her eyes. I'd never known a boat or a woman to turn that wasn't abused or neglected, but I kept silent. It was more important that I learn about Joe Stevenson's views of the universe.
“Exactly what did happen down there?”
Stevenson shrugged. “I don't know. There wasn't much left of the
Santa Clara
. The Mexicans put it down to misadventure.
An accident. The explosion was so large the exact cause will never be known.”
“Insurance company interested?”
“The boat was self-insured, so there was no insurance company asking questions. As for life insurance, it looks like they'll pay off without much of an investigation.”
“So who did she see?”
“Yeah, Joe. Who did she see?”
“Barbara, I'm not going to fight with you.”
“Just answer the man's question,” she said. I was getting used to being talked about as if I were an inanimate object. Stevenson looked at me and rolled his eyes. Maybe it was a California thing. He expected me to come to his aid in male solidarity. I remained impassive. If they were going to talk about me as if I were insensate, I could at least play the part.
“A lot of men look like Paul. And to listen to Claire, this guy was skinny. Paul had put on weight over the last couple of years, all that sitting around the office trying to make the company run and dream up new software at the same time. He had a lot of stress. He didn't exercise.” Stevenson's hands smoothed the silk tie over his own budding paunch.
“She swears it was her husband.”
“Did he acknowledge her? Did he turn his head when she called his name? No. Claire says he ignored her, as if she were calling to someone else. He was a genius in his own way, but he was a computer wizard, not an actor. He would have turned his head if he heard his name called.”
“So it wasn't Peters.”
“No, Mr. Caine. I'm satisfied that Paul is dead. The problem is the missing money.”
“Seven million dollars.”
“The Internal Revenue Service is screaming. They're threatening to bring in the FBI. The state of California is ready to seize everything Claire has. I'm holding them back, but I don't know how long I can do that. SEC and California are both launching investigations into the disappearance of corporate funds. There may be criminal charges. Those people don't believe she's as innocent as she claims. There's one
shareholder lawsuit already. Another one will probably be filed within a few weeks.
“This is a mess. If we can at least trace where the money went, I might get them off her back. There's a meeting with the IRS in two weeks. If I just walk in there and say, âWell, gee, guys. I dunno,' they'll crucify me. And her. These people are sharks. Do you have any idea what it's like, swimming with sharks?”
“Claire wants to find out who the man in Mexico was, Joe.”
“I know, Barbara. We've got two jobs.”
“They're related.”
“Since she likes your Mr. Caine so well, he can keep her happy.” He turned to me. “Go down to Ensenada and look at the pier where Paul died. Talk with Teniente José Enrique de la Peña of the Mexican Judicial Police. Go down to Calafia and chase ghosts. Spend the woman's money. Meanwhile, I'll chase the funds because that's the heart of the matter.”
Barbara rose abruptly. For a minute she looked as if she might do violence. “I'll be downstairs,” she said after a long moment, her voice almost a growl.
Stevenson watched her leave. “I hired an ex-Treasury agent,” he continued, “who used to specialize in that kind of thing. He's one of the best there is. We'll work that side of the street. You work yours.”
The meaning was clear. He objected to my presence. He didn't dare cross the widow Peters, but he didn't have to like me. He would provide the barest help and cooperation, if that.
“And one more thing. Claire's vulnerable right now. She doesn't need you trying to get into her bed. You understand that?”
“I understand, Mr. Stevenson.”
“Fine. That's fine. You do your part and I'll do mine. It'll be a kind of contest.”
“Well, I've got one thing going for me that you don't,” I said, getting up and walking toward the door, following Barbara Klein.
“What's that?”
“I believe her.”