Until Judgment Day (13 page)

“
Y
OU
'
RE SUCH A LIAR,
”
Kathryn told him.

For an extra twenty dollars, the taxi driver agreed to tour Manzanillo on the way to the restaurant. To the taxi's right, between a dirty brown beach and the highway, cargo cranes loomed over the waterfront like disjointed blue and white hawks, and an overloaded diesel locomotive tugged a mile-long string of car carriers toward the city.

“I'd be surprised if you shot under two hundred,” she added.

“Me too.”

The driver circled the wrought-iron-fenced plaza and crept through dirty one-way streets lined by throngs of shoppers; open-air clothing, shoe, and appliance stores; auto repair shops; bars and restaurants; portable food carts; and a fleet of rusting, abandoned cars.

When they had seen enough, he headed toward the beach. As the cab neared the plaza's back side, the driver slowed and pointed upward.

“Mira. Muchos pájaros.”

Thousands of small-bodied pigeons perched wing to wing on every power line, telephone wire, pole cross arm, fence, and hotel balcony rail. Thick, gooey, smelly guano coated every horizontal surface.

“Nice town,” Dave murmured under his breath.

Going into the restaurant he tripped, fell down the stairs, and opened a small gash over his eyebrow.

“Damn loose step.” He couldn't tell Kathryn he'd suddenly felt dizzy and lost his balance. The restaurant's owner, a skinny man sipping a Pepsi, gave him a Band-Aid.

An hour later, as they headed back to the resort, Kathryn said, “The food was terrible, wasn't it?”

He stared vacantly and didn't answer.

“Dave?”

He snapped his head around as if jolted from a deep sleep. “Huh?”

“I said the food was terrible.”

He was sweating heavily. He wiped his forehead and the bubbles from the corners of his mouth, grateful for the dark interior of the taxi. His stomach churned and his dizzy head pounded with a horrifying, merciless fury he'd never before felt.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

As a cop, he feared for his life at times, but this was different—real fear—an inexplicable terror of an untamed evil deep within that he could neither control nor understand. He dared not admit that he had no memory whatsoever of the time between his fall and that instant.

“I'm fine, just full of food and tired,” he lied.

“Let's eat in the resort's restaurants every night, rather than waste time going out.”

“Good idea.”

He glanced at his wife, who was watching the lights of Manzanillo's suburban strip malls slide past the cab's open window. The nausea and confusion had waned, the headache had subsided to a dull ache. “Kate?”

“Yes?”

He struggled to sweep away the mental cobwebs. “I don't care whether we have a son or a daughter, I just care that Emma's happy and you and the baby come through it healthy and safe.”

“I know.”

When the cab dropped them off, they strolled through the lobby, around the pool, over the wood-planked rope bridge that Dudley Moore stumbled across while pursuing his Perfect 10, past the piano bar, through Plaza de Doña Albina, and back toward their suite.

“I was wondering,” Dave said.

“Wondering what?”

“You promised that if you beat me badly on the links, you'd assuage my bruised and battered male ego. Is a beating of fifty to two hundred bad enough?”

“I thought you were tired.”

“I feel fine now. I was wondering what assuagement you came up with.”

She slowed her pace and let her hand brush against the front of his trousers, which were stretched taut over his growing lust.

“Trust me,” she told him, squeezing gently, then promised, “You'll like it.”

T
HEY SETTLED INTO
a lazy routine of sleeping late and making love, with the added indulgences of eating fresh-fruit breakfasts, lounging on the beach, taking warm late-afternoon walks and cool early-evening showers.

Their nights started with beer, pretzels, and intimate conversation in El Palmar Piano Lounge, followed by a leisurely dinner at Los Delfines, where the maitre d' had learned their names, which table they preferred, and their favorite food. He said the chef knew how to cook more than three dishes, but they stuck with red snapper, spicy mahimahi, and coconut flan in a fuzzy coconut shell.

On Sunday morning, they arose early, packed, walked to the beach, and claimed their favorite palapa near the Oasis Bar for their last few hours.

Just before noon, Kathryn said, “I feel sad. It was too short.”

“The biggest gifts come in the smallest packages—thanks for the best vacation of my life.”

“You're welcome.” Kathryn kissed the tip of her finger and leaned over to touch it to his lips. “I'm not ready to go home either, but it's time to check out.”

They dropped off their beach towels at the toallero, trudged reluctantly up the hill to their suite, stacked their suitcases by the door, and waited for a bellman's cart to shuttle them to the front desk.

The concierge flagged a cab. “Is your last day at Las Hadas, no?” he asked as he loaded their luggage in the trunk.

“How did you know?” Kathryn asked.

“You look so sorrowful, señora.”

Lost in their private thoughts, they rode to the airport without noticing the speed-bump stops; melon, lime, and papaya farms; banana and coconut plantations; green-canopied papaya groves; or the villages with thatch-roofed homes that lined the busy two-lane road.

The Boeing 737 rumbled south on the lone runway, lifted off, and nosed up into a deep blue cloudless sky above a long, skinny stretch of virgin shoreline crowded into the surf by mangrove swamps. After the flaps retracted, the pilot banked inland over dense jungle and continued the slow circle until all they could see below was the shimmering Pacific.

As the plane climbed toward cruising altitude, Kathryn skimmed a month-old
Alaska Airlines Magazine,
a SkyMall catalog, and a
Consumer Reports
that someone had left on the empty center seat. Dave absorbed the final melancholy-sweet pages of
A Painted House
.

When the plane turned north along Baja California's western coastline, he closed it and slipped it into his carry-on.

“Finished?” Kathryn asked.

“'Fraid so.” He adjusted the air vent, switched off the overhead light, reclined the seat, and listened to the big jet engines eat up the miles between paradise and San Francisco.

Eventually, he turned sideways in his seat so he could see his wife's face. Her eyes were closed.

“Are you asleep?” he whispered.

“No, I was thinking what a wonderful time we had.”

“We sure did.” He paused. “I'm going to be the best husband to you, and the best father to Emma and the baby, for as long as I can.”

Kathryn turned to face her husband. “Why would you say such a strange thing?”

“I just wanted to tell you before we get home, in case I don't get another chance.”

“Is there something you aren't telling me?” she asked. “Why wouldn't you get a lot more chances?”

“Just covering all the bases—you know how afraid I am of flying.” His hands gripped the arm rest tightly.

She reached over and covered his left hand with hers. “You know it's an irrational fear. Flying's safer than driving a car, especially in the Bay Area.”

“Tell that to the people who were aboard those four airplanes that crashed on September Eleventh.”

M
ONDAY
, J
ANUARY
6, 8:30
A.M.

M
ACKAY WAS SHUFFLING
through a lopsided stack of papers when Inspector Escalante carried in two cups from the Starbucks cart in the courthouse atrium, handed a decaf to Mackay, and dropped into a leather chair and crossed one long leg over the other. As usual, she wore impeccably tailored trousers and an expensive jacket.

“Welcome back,” she greeted her boss. “How was your trip?”

“Couldn't have been better. Thanks for telling me about Las Hadas, it was perfect.”

“Someday I'd like to spend a few days there with a special man.”

“You have someone in mind?”

Escalante paused. “Maybe, I'm not sure.” Then she emptied a cream container into her cup and asked, “You told Sheriff Granz you're pregnant?”

“Yes, he was waiting when the lab opened at seven o'clock this morning, to have blood drawn.”

Mackay patted the pile of newspapers, memos, mail, and reports on her desk. “No priest murders while he and I were in Mexico. Maybe we've seen the last of them.”

Escalante blew on her coffee and sipped cautiously.

“Don't bet on it. We'd better catch this wacko fast, or there'll be more.”

“Unfortunately, I agree. Did DOJ come up with anything helpful?”

“The slug in Thompson's head can be matched to the Beretta .25 that fired it, if we can find it. Same with Duvoir—the bullets can be matched if we can find the rifle.”

“What kind of rifle?”

“A .308 Remington.”

“That narrows it down.”

“A little. A hundred thousand of that model have been manufactured for civilian hunting, and thousands more in a modified version for worldwide military and police sniper duty.”

“So, it's as common as the Beretta?”

“Not quite, but finding either weapon would be like—how do you say looking for a small thing?”

“Searching for a needle in a haystack.”

“That's it. We could start by test-firing weapons belonging to all licensed hunters in the county.”

“It'd be a waste of time unless we did the same for members of the military. What else?”

“The shoe prints at Holy Cross gymnasium are men's Nike Airliners, also identifiable. But we have the same problem—locating the shoes for comparison.”

“Dave wears old Nike Airs on weekends, just like thousands of other men.”

“James too.”

Mackay froze, cup halfway to her lips. “James?”

“I meant Lieutenant Miller.”

“Fess up
.”

“What do you mean, Ms. Mackay?”

“Kathryn,” she corrected. “When
you
call a man by his first name, something's going on besides work.”

“No big deal, we went out a few times while you were in Mexico.” A hint of color crept into her bronze cheeks and climbed to her ears. “We worked, too,” she tacked on unnecessarily.

It sounded feeble to Mackay. “You're blushing.”

“I'm not!” The purple flush spread to her neck and chest. “He's a gifted musician and an even better cook.”

“A man doesn't cook for a woman unless—”

“It was just a couple of dinners.” She unconsciously flicked her tongue over her lips.

Escalante swallowed the last of her coffee, squished the empty cup, tossed it into the wastebasket, and changed the subject. “I should drink it without cream—fewer calories.”

“As if you need to worry. Did you get over the hill to see your credit-card-investigator friend?”

“We figured a phone call would be faster.”

“Uh-huh,” Mackay said skeptically. “What did you find out?”

“R-O-L deposits its credit card receipts at Silver State Bank on Plumb Lane in Reno. I phoned the bank's branch manager. Deposits come by mail, never over the counter.”

“Are they ever made at an ATM?”

“I didn't ask, why?”

“Deposits are date-and-time stamped and ATMs have cameras. Federal law requires banks to archive their tapes.”

“¡Maldita sea! I should have thought of that. We might catch a glimpse of the person who made the deposit.” Escalante jotted a reminder in her notebook.

“Whose name's on the account and signature cards?” Mackay asked.

“The bank manager told me it's in the name of Howard Ira Roller—H.I. Roller—I don't think she got it.”

“High Roller—cute. Where does the bank send the monthly statements?”

“Mail Boxes Etc on Smithridge Lane in Reno.”

“Did you check it out?”

“One of my old Police Academy friend's a Washoe County homicide detective. She interviewed the mail drop's owner—High Roller's address is a vacant lot on Rock Boulevard in Sparks.”

“Figures,” Mackay commented. “Who picks up from Mail Boxes Etc?”

“Nobody. Once a week they package the mail up and ship it to another drop in Carson City.”

“Sneaky. How did High Roller pay for the boxes?”

“Cash up front for a full year rental plus weekly shipping charges. The Carson City drop's behind a dildo display at a dirty-book and sex-toy shop. My friend said the floor was sticky. The owner never sees the clients pick up, because boxes are intentionally tucked away so mail can be retrieved any time of the day or night anonymously.”

Mackay laughed. “Get mailed and nailed in one stop. More dead ends.”

“Es verdad, lo sciento. We have no idea if it's just a simple mom-and-pop cash cow, an organized offshore scam, or the underground arm of a major Nevada casino.”

“Much less whether they hired a professional hit man and if so, how to track him down.”

Escalante shook her head and raised an eyebrow. “NCIC computers turned up nothing on R-O-L or Roulette-On-Line, neither did the Sec-State corporate database. We haven't contacted other states yet.”

“FBI and Interpol?”

“No recently reported contract hits. And no known mechanics whose whereabouts they can't account for.”

“That's a profession with a lot of turnover,” Mackay speculated. “There are hundreds of paid hitters they don't know about. How about IFCC?”

“No similar complaints.”

“Did you check the e-mail address on R-O-L's web site?”

“The web site's been rolled up. I got the address off the letter they sent Scalisi, but the e-mail account's closed, too.”

“I had to give a credit card number to my ISP to open an account.”

“Me too,” Escalante agreed, “but there are dozens of free ISPs that don't keep records and most pay ISPs wouldn't cooperate with cops if we found them. They're like on-line casinos, lots of them are run out of garages, spare bedrooms or anyplace big enough to house the server. They come and go faster than an eighteen-year-old sailor on shore leave.”

Mackay shot Escalante a look but didn't comment on the unusual off-color remark. “The credit card they paid monthly fees with would probably be in H.I. Roller's name anyway—same address, same dead end.”

“That's how we saw it.”

Mackay slurped her coffee and made a face. “Cold coffee would gag a maggot. Just what I don't need, I'm already queasy in the morning.” She didn't mention that her barely swelling tummy and breasts forced her to wear what she considered her loosest, dowdiest wool suit.

She set the cup on the corner of her desk. “You seized Benedetti and Duvoir's computers?”

“We searched the hard drives the night you left for Manzanillo,” Escalante told her.

“That was New Year's Eve.”

“We worked on the computers, then ate dinner at James' house.”

“Did you get anywhere?” Mackay asked, then quickly explained, “I meant with the computers.”

The corners of Escalante's mouth tugged upward. “En ninguna parte—con ordenadores.”

“I don't speak Spanish well enough to know what you just said.”

“It's just as well. If anyone was gambling on-line using those computers, they removed the casino software.”

“Can't erased files be recovered?”

“Sometimes. I dragged the County's computer guru, Ellie Nottingham, down here on New Year's Day. She was ticked off and hungover.”

“She shouldn't've drunk so much on New Year's Eve.”

“Exactamente. She found CyberScrub on both computers.”

“Found what?”

“CyberScrub,” Escalante repeated. “It's a first-rate, over-the-counter security software program that scrambles and removes web-browser tracks, and eliminates all traces of old e-mails and other deleted files.”

“Sounds suspicious.”

“That was my first reaction, but Nottingham said it's a common security measure. Most organizations, including the County, use similar programs to foil hackers or other unauthorized users who might try to retrieve sensitive data after it's been trashed.”

Mackay asked if a computer-forensics lab might be able to recover them.

“No,” Escalante told her. “CyberScrub exceeds U.S. Defense Department standards for permanent removal of digital data—the church's computers are dead ends.”

“What isn't—besides your relationship with Lieutenant Miller.”

“It's not a relationship yet.”

“Yet?”

“Ms. Mackay!”

“Call me Kathryn, and—” The phone buzzed and she punched the speaker button.

“It's your gynecologist, Doctor Burton,” Mackay's secretary announced. “She said it's urgent.”

Mackay placed a hand over the mouthpiece and turned to the inspector. “I need to take this.”

“Should I leave?”

“Not necessary.”

Mackay switched off the phone's speaker and picked up the handset. “Good morning, Diedre.”

“The lab called with your husband's blood test results. He's RH-positive.”

“That's not necessarily a problem, right?”

“In your case it is. Your blood screen came back O-negative, with a significant RH-antibody presence.”

“How significant?”

“Enough to escalate very quickly into a life-threatening condition for the baby. I want you to see an RH-disease specialist right away.”

“Of course, if you think it's important.”

“It's not important, it's critical. The doctor I want to refer you to is at the Cleveland Clinic in Ohio. Is that a problem?”

“Nothing I can't work out.”

“Good. His name is Satish Singh. I spoke with him this morning. He agreed to consult with me as I monitor your pregnancy, but only if he can examine you immediately and call the shots.”

There was a short silence on the line, then Burton said, “Kathryn, Singh's a bit eccentric, but in my opinion he's the best high-risk pregnancy OB-GYN in the United States. After he examines you and evaluates your amniocentesis, we'll work together to deliver a healthy baby. How soon can you get away?”

“I'll try to make airline reservations on tonight's red-eye out of San Francisco, then call Cleveland Clinic to firm up an appointment time. Thank you, Diedre.”

Mackay dragged in a breath, blew it out loudly, then set the handset into the cradle as gingerly as if it were a priceless five-hundred-year-old porcelain Ming vase.

“I have to fly to Ohio for prenatal testing. Let's wrap up this briefing.”

“There's nothing that can't wait until you get back. I'll bring Chief Fields up-to-date and keep him posted.”

“I'd better book a flight before it gets any later and there are no empty seats.”

Escalante stood, then bent over the desk and put her hand on Mackay's arm. “Kathryn, as I said before, whenever you need another woman to talk to—”

“Thank you, Donna, that means a lot to me.”