Wolf in the Shadows (12 page)

Home? No—former home. Years and years since I’d lived here. The landscape had changed: high-rises, the Coronado Bridge, tracts
that spread as far northeast as Escondido. The north county was now referred to as “north city”; the South Bay bore more resemblance
to Tijuana than to San Diego proper. I’d heard the spirit of the city had changed, too—warped by the pressures of too much
growth, too much crime, too many immigrants from Mexico. Racial prejudice, both covert and overt, was evident in the statements
and actions of many residents. People in the north locked their doors and security gates against Hispanics; people in the
south struggled to survive crime, overcrowding, and a swelling drug problem.

Still, the city had been my home for nearly twenty years. There would be landmarks to guide me. And alien and dangerous as
the territory might seem on this particular evening, I knew I could make my way across it to familiar, safe ground.

Brer Rabbit was born and bred in a brier patch; when predators threatened, he lay low there. Later on tonight I’d find a brier
patch of my own.

As soon as I saw the Bali Kai, I remembered it from prom night. Pseudo-Polynesian was all the rage back then, and for those
of us who considered ourselves the high school’s smart set, nothing would do but to commandeer a wing of rooms for our post-prom
party. Parents objected, were cajoled, and gave in. Tuxes and limos were rented; formal dresses and corsages were bought.
Actually, what went on in the wee hours of that morning was pretty innocent. Oh, three girls got drunk and threw up, and two
couples had sex for the first time, but most of us just drank a little and necked a lot, gobbled up the warmed-over hors d’oeuvres
that passed for exotic South Seas fare, and stifled yawns as we waited for the glorious, interminable night to be over.

The intervening years had not been kind to the Bali Kai. The tiki heads that guarded the lobby entrance were cracked and weathered;
the bamboo and fake thatching merely looked silly; even the palms flanking the reception desk seemed to suffer from a fungal
ailment.

Renshaw’s fax of the letter of credit had arrived, and at its top he’d written and circled a four-digit number, presumably
my emergency security code. I stuffed it into my purse, showed the desk clerk my identification, and asked if the night manager
or security officer was available. He checked, said both were on break but should be back within the half hour. I told him
I’d come back later.

Carrying the map of the motel grounds that the clerk had given me, I went out to my rental car—a tan compact of some indeterminate
breed, whose lethally fast automatic seat belt had serious potential to decapitate its driver. The map, on which the clerk
had drawn an intricate series of circles and arrows showing how to get to my room, only served to confuse me. After studying
it both upside down and sideways, I slipped it into my purse and set off unaided.

The Bali Kai was one of a long string of establishments on the south side of Hotel Circle. It sprawled between the frontage
road paralleling Interstate 8 and the cliff face rising to the Mission Hills district where I grew up. Next door to it was
an even larger motel where my brother Joey, a man of many trades, had been working as a bartender a couple of summers ago
when I’d paid my annual duty visit to my family. Beyond that was an Italian restaurant; I made a mental note of its name.

Finally I found my room in one of the far-flung wings, carried my bag inside, and went straight to the phone. Alicia Ferris,
Renshaw’s friend who had acted as Hy’s local contact, was at home and expecting my call. When I asked about her conversations
with Hy, she said they’d spoken only the one time, around nine on Sunday evening.

“Can you repeat what he said—the exact words, if possible?” I asked.

“Well, it was something like ‘This is Ripinsky. Tell Renshaw it’s a go for eleven. I’ll be in touch afterward.’ And then he
thanked me and hung up.”

“How did he sound? Tense? Anxious?”

“Neither. I’d say controlled. He had a job to do, and that was it.”

I sighed. Not much to go on.

“Ms. McCone,” Ferris said, “you should give me your room number there at the motel, in case I need to reach you.”

“One thirty-three.” I glanced at the key that lay next to the phone for confirmation.

“Good. Feel free to call me if you need anything at all.”

As I hung up, I contemplated Ferris’s request for the room number. It was possible she was simply trying to be helpful, but
she wouldn’t need the number to reach me by phone. Perhaps Renshaw was using her in his surveillance, was planning to have
his people search my room when I went out. For all I knew, Ferris was one of their operatives. But why ask such an obvious
question that might tip me? Why not just get the room number from the desk clerk? Of course, the clerk might mention to me
that someone had asked—

Whoa, I told myself. I was starting to think in as fully paranoid a fashion as anyone at RKI. Then I reminded myself that
paranoia has its uses. Even though I hadn’t spotted anyone maintaining surveillance on me at any point during my journey,
I had that feeling of being covertly watched.

I took the motel map from my bag and familiarized myself with its layout. Then I dredged up my memories of the place next
door, where Joey had worked. The bar stretched between the lobby and swimming-pool area, with an entrance at either end, and
as I recalled, the ladies’ room ran beside it, also with two entrances. Beyond the pool enclosure was a maze of paths leading
through the gardens, among which the wings of guest rooms were set. Dark gardens, spreading from the main building to the
cliff face, with parking lots on either side …

It might work.

I removed the phone book from the nightstand drawer and looked up the number for Reliable Cab Company—a firm whose reputation
fit its name, if my mother, who dislikes driving and does as little as possible, was to be believed. I reached for the receiver,
then pulled my hand away. Paranoia striking again. It wasn’t possible RKI could have bugged the line in the minutes since
I’d given Alicia Ferris the room number, but how could I be certain that their operatives didn’t have an in with someone on
the staff? Ferris’s question could be a smoke screen; they might have known for hours what room was assigned me. When dealing
with people like them, it was better to err on the side of extreme caution.

I copied the cab company’s number down and put the slip of paper in my pocket. Then I got started on the room. Opened my travel
bag and hung some things in the closet. Draped a robe over a chair and scattered toiletries on the bathroom vanity. Then I
added a rolled-up T-shirt and some extra underwear to the oversized purse, gave the room a final once-over, and headed back
to the main lobby.

A man in western wear sat reading a newspaper in one of the rattan chairs, and two women in shorts were studying brochures
in front of the tourist information rack. All three looked at me as I crossed to the reception desk, but that didn’t necessarily
mean anything; there was little enough to look at here at eleven-thirty on a sultry Tuesday evening.

Mr. Perkins, the night manager, was barely out of his teens, and the sight of my I.D. made him nervous. He withdrew to his
office to call his daytime counterpart about their policy on opening guest records to investigators. While he was in there,
I placed ten dollars on the counter, and the desk clerk brought the information up on his computer screen.

Hy had checked in shortly after midnight on Sunday; he’d had breakfast from room service at nine, and there was a coffee-shop
charge at four-thirty and a bar charge at eight. The only phone charge was for the one call to Alicia Ferris’s number at nine.
His room key and credit-card authorization had been retrieved from the express checkout box on Monday morning. I asked the
clerk if the room had been occupied since then; he checked and told me it was currently in use.

Mr. Perkins emerged from his office and said he’d been unable to contact the day manager. Perhaps I could speak with him when
he came on in the morning? I said I would, waited until he disappeared again, and asked the clerk if the security man had
come back from his break yet. He hadn’t, but the clerk thought he might be in the coffee shop. His name was Ken Griffith;
I should look for a balding heavyset man in a tan uniform.

As I crossed to the coffee shop, one of the women by the tourist information rack gave me a curious look. The man in western
wear kept his eyes on his newspaper.

Ken Griffith was the coffee shop’s sole customer. He sat in a rear booth, picking through the remains of a salad, and when
I showed him my I.D., he invited me to join him. I scanned the menu, thinking I should eat something, but the offerings—Pago
Pago Burger, Tahitian Fruit Salad, Castaway’s Low Calorie Plate—looked singularly unappetizing in the unnaturally bright
color photos. Griffith applauded my abstinence; even the Chinese Chicken Salad he usually had, he said, sucked.

I took the picture of Hy from my bag and passed it across the table. “This man was a guest here on Sunday. Do you remember
him?”

Griffith scrutinized the photo with trained eyes—former cop’s eyes, I was willing to bet. “Yeah, I remember him. Paid particular
attention to him, as a matter of fact.”

“Why?”

“He’s got a way about him. Quiet, but he could be trouble.”

“
Did
you have any trouble with him?”

Griffith shook his head. “Shows you never can tell. Why’re you looking for him?”

“Routine skip trace. How many times did you see him?”

“Twice. When he checked in and late Sunday afternoon, maybe quarter to five, when he was driving out of the parking lot.”

“You notice which way he went?”

“Left, like he might be picking up the freeway west.”

“And that’s the last you saw of him?”

“Right.” Griffith looked at his watch; he’d be wanting to get back to work soon.

I glanced around the coffee shop at the two waitresses who were clearing tables. “Tell me, are the waitresses on shift now
the same ones who would have been working around four-thirty on Sunday?”

“Probably.” He turned and called to the woman nearest us, “Hey, Emma, your shift’s four to midnight, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You want to come over here a minute? Lady’s got a question.”

Emma set down the tray she was loading and moved toward the booth, wiping her hands on her apron. She was well over retirement
age, very thin, and walked as if her joints ached. Griffith got up and gave her his place. “You set awhile. I got to get going.”
To me he added, “You need anything else, the desk clerk’ll know where to find me.”

Emma heaved a weary sigh as she sank onto the banquette. “What do you want to ask me, honey?”

I handed her the by now well-thumbed photo of Hy. “Did you see this man in here on Sunday afternoon?”

She squinted at it, then nodded. “He was one of my first customers. Kind of quiet. Good tipper.”

“Did he say anything? Ask you anything?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, he did. When I brought the check he asked how long it would take him to drive to Imperial Beach.
That’s where I live, so I could tell him practically to the minute. Then he asked if I knew where the Holiday Market is down
there. I told him right on the main street—Palm Avenue. I kind of wondered what he’d want with a place like that.”

“What sort of place is it?”

“Mexican hangout. Open twenty-four hours. There’re always at least a dozen Mexes there, loitering in the parking lot.” She
glanced toward the kitchen door, anxious lines puckering her forehead. “Honey, I got to get back to clearing those tables.
The boss’s looking.”

“Thanks for your time, Emma.” I fished a bill from my wallet and passed it across the table to her.

“Thank
you
.”

I got up and moved toward the lobby door, fitting what Emma and Griffith had told me into my mental picture of Hy’s movements
on Sunday. At four-thirty, more or less, he’d asked about the Holiday Market in Imperial Beach, one of the communities in
the South Bay, between downtown San Diego and the border. At around quarter to five he’d driven out of the parking lot, possibly
headed that way. But at nine he’d been back in his room here to make the call to Alicia Ferris telling her the drop was set
for eleven. What had been the purpose of the trip to Imperial Beach? An intermediate contact with the kidnappers? Part of
what Renshaw called the “usual nonsense”? Very possibly. But why send him all the way down there, to a place where he would
be conspicuous? So the kidnappers could be sure who they were dealing with, or so someone could make an identification of
him?

As I crossed the lobby toward the cocktail lounge, I noticed that the man in western wear was the only person left there.
He’d swiveled his chair slightly, giving himself a good view of the coffee-shop entrance. I looked directly at him as I passed;
he seemed aware of me, but kept his eyes on his newspaper.

That made me suspect he was part of a surveillance team. According to the motel map, the coffee shop had an entrance from
the parking lot, as did the bar. If Renshaw’s people had done their homework—and I was sure they had—they’d have someone
outside as well.

Getting out of here was going to be more difficult than I’d anticipated. Still, I knew the territory….

The interior of the bar had a steamy, tropical feel—probably because the air conditioning wasn’t functioning properly. A
waterfall flowing over lava rock into a pool that contained two bloated koi further added to the humidity. The decorator had
been heavy-handed with fishnets and seashells, stands of fake bamboo and plastic bird-of-paradise plants, capiz-shell tables,
and rattan chairs. Thus inspired, he or she seemed to have gone berserk: a replica of an outrigger canoe outlined with winking
blue and green lights, hung from the ceiling; more tikis supported the thatched roof of the bar; the ashtrays were shaped
like giant garish pineapples. I half expected to see a conga line of bare-breasted hula dancers wend its way from the rest
rooms. I slipped onto a stool and ordered a glass of white wine from a tropical-shirted bartender whose shoulders bore the
burden of an enormous plastic-flower lei.