Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [102]
Before we arrived in Ensenada, we’d figured out the details. So many to be arranged, and so carefully. Omit even one, and we’d condemn Mourning to a certain death. Tacitly we agreed not to discuss what we might condemn ourselves to if the plan failed.
In Ensenada we stopped at a phone booth and Hy called the trauma unit where Tomás had said Diane Mourning was taken. They told him that she’d been stabilized and flown at the request of her personal physician to Cabrillo Hospital in San Diego. No, the police had not questioned Señora Mourning; she was in critical condition.
Again we drove north, this time to Tijuana’s Avenida Revolución, the gaudy tourist shopping area. While Hy waited in the car, I hurried along the crowded sidewalk, avoiding peddlers hawking jewelry and ignoring the entreaties of shopkeepers who stood outside like barkers at sleazy sex shows. In a clothing store I bought a colorful embroidered dress and sandals; a few doors down I stopped at another shop and bought typical tourist things—a serape, marionettes, a piñata, a sombrero, some wood carvings. Laden with them, I hurried back through the carnival atmosphere to the car and piled them on the backseat. It was after two when we finally checked into Hotel Fiesta Americana Tijuana on Boulevard Agua Caliente.
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