Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [40]
“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.
He brought the wine and set it down with a sour look at a quartet of noisy tourists drinking fruit-garnished concoctions and talking about their visit to Sea World. I fished my I.D. and Hy’s picture from my bag and laid them on the bar next to a twenty.
The bartender noted all three, cocked his head, and waited.
“Sunday night,” I said, “around eight. This man was in here?”
He nodded.
“You serve him?”
“One beer. He nursed it, maybe forty-five minutes.”
“You talk with him?”
“He’s not the kind who chats up the bartender.”
“What else?”
“He asked for change for the cigarette machine, bought some, and left.”
But Hy didn’t smoke. So far as I knew, he never had. “You’re sure he bought cigarettes?”
“Winstons.” He motioned to the bar’s left. The machine was the only thing in here that the decorator hadn’t managed to trick up.
The tourists called for another round. The bartender excused himself, muttering under his breath. I sipped wine, glanced through the door to the lobby; the man in western wear hadn’t moved. Quickly I reviewed my options and decided how to handle this.
When the bartender came back, I asked, “Is there anything else you can tell me?”
“That’s it. He was a nice, quiet customer—and from me, that’s praise.” Another sour look at the tourists and he began fixing their drinks.
It wasn’t much information for twenty dollars, I thought, but left the