Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [112]
Our footsteps were muffled, barely audible. We moved silently toward the rotting pongas. The riverbed was quiet tonight, faint firelight flickering; the fishermen got up early, their day usually done by noon. Even the villas on the hill showed few signs of life.
When we came to Fontes’s property, Hy went into a crouch and moved swiftly across the last open stretch of sand. I followed suit, stretching out flat on my stomach behind the pongas and reaching into the bag for the camera. After removing the lens cap, I shoved it into the empty space between the boats, where the piece of wood I’d used as a shim the night before still lay.
Lights shone in the villa and on the terrace, but no one was outside. I focused on the glass doors and saw that the drapes had been drawn across them. The lens’s magnification was so great that I could make out their rough weave; I refocused for a bigger picture and saw shadows moving behind them.
“Anything?” Hy whispered.
“Not yet. The drapes’re closed.” I adjusted the focus some more. “Give me a minute. People are moving around in there. I’m pretty good at reading body language, and I may be able to identify who they are by the way they walk.”
Hy fell silent, crouching behind me, his posture alert as he kept watch along the beach. I observed the shadow play on the hill.
I watched for about five minutes, comparing heights and nuances of movement. One figure entered carrying something, set it down, then left. A maid, perhaps, or the bartender. Another appeared to be pacing back and forth the length of the room. A third got up from a chair, crossed to the right where the maid or bartender had stopped, and after a while went back again.
“I don’t think Fontes is there,” I whispered to Hy. “These people are short to medium height.”
“How many?”
“Three, but I think one’s a servant. I’m pretty sure Salazar’s there; somebody crossed the room in that languid gait he has.”
“The other?”
“Pacing. Short, stocky. I’d say it’s Navarro. Hard to tell, though.”
“Not Mourning?”
“Uh-uh. They’re probably keeping him under guard.”
“So where d’you suppose Fontes is?”
I didn’t reply. A heavyset figure had appeared and was standing next to the chair occupied by the person I thought was Salazar. The shadow stood there for about half a minute, then left again, walking in a heavy, rolling gait. Jaime? Shortly afterward a light flashed on in an uncurtained window in the two-story wing to the far right. I moved the lens and adjusted the focus; Jaime came into view, removing a shoulder holster.
“Salazar’s bodyguard is there,” I whispered, “and he’s going off duty.”
“So that leaves us with …”
“Salazar and Navarro. The servant. Whoever else Fontes employs. Maybe Fontes himself.” I continued watching. The short, stocky figure quit pacing and sat down near the other person. For a long time there was no movement.
“Hy,” I said, sitting up and resting my eyes, “how much do you suppose the people in the riverbed know about what goes on at those villas?”
“Probably quite a bit. I got the impression that they watch them the same way people used to watch prime-time soaps like ‘Dallas’ and ‘Falconcrest.’ Nobody I knew would admit to liking those shows, and they flat-out hated the characters, but they were hooked anyway.”
“If we could ask somebody down there what kind of a staff Fontes employs, it would help. Tomás seems to watch that particular villa pretty closely; he might even know if Fontes is home tonight.”
“I suppose I could walk down there. Don’t like to leave you alone here, though.”
More echoes of months ago, when he hadn’t wanted me to go off into the darkness of Stone Valley without him. “I’ll be okay. Just go.”
He nodded and squeezed my shoulder, then got up and moved silently down the beach.
I fended off uneasiness and concern for him by applying my eye to the viewfinder.
Still no movement. Time passed slowly; it could have