Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [51]
“Shar?”
See what you made me do? The childish phrase suddenly popped into my head. A convenient way to blame everyone else for your own mistakes. Lord knew I’d often employed it, but I wasn’t a child anymore. I had neglected to explain my problem to Hank. I had asked Rae to lie. I had screwed myself out of my job. No circumstance or person had forced me to do any of those things.
“Rae,” I said, “tell Hank I’m sorry. And tell him I’ll explain when I get back, for the sake of our friendship. You’re not to worry about being blamed for your part in this, either. I got you into it, and I’ll set things right.”
“I’m not sure I care. Without you here, this won’t be a good place to work anymore.”
“Don’t say that.” I heard an engine noise outside. Parted the curtains beside the desk and saw John coming up the driveway on his motorcycle. “We’ll talk more about it when I get back. I’ve got to go now.”
“But where can I reach—”
“Rae, it’s not safe. I’ll try to get in touch tomorrow. You take care.” I hung up and went to greet John.
“So you’re awake,” he said, coming inside and leaving the door open to create a cross breeze. “Here,” he added and tossed me a manila envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Extra copies of your boyfriend’s picture.”
“Thanks. I’ll pay you back—and for a couple of phone calls I made. Did you find out anything?”
He went to the fridge and got a beer. “Pete did. He’s got some family connection to Vic, the guy that owns Holiday Market. The reason Vic was so uptight with you this morning is that the place serves as a sort of information center for illegals—you know, if they’re trying to find somebody or a safe house or a ride north. Whatever they need, Vic helps them get it.”
“Drugs?”
He shook his head. “Not to hear Pete tell it. He says the Holiday’s there to help his people, not to bring them down.”
“So what about Hy?”
John leaned against the back of the couch, sipping beer. “He went in there around five-fifteen on Sunday, bought some coffee, then went back outside and hung around for about half an hour. Talked to two women, that’s all.”
“Did this Vic know the women?”
“One he’d never seen before and could barely describe. Just said she was short with short dark hair. Hispanic. The other—Ana Orozco—he knows, and he called her and asked if she’d talk with you. She will, but it’ll cost.”
I’d expected to pay for information, would do so gladly if it would lead me to Hy. But I was running short of cash. “How much?”
“Seventy-three bucks.”
“That’s a lot. Why such an odd amount?”
“Because she’s got two hundred and twenty-two bucks, and the abortion clinic charges two ninety-five. That’s why they know her at the store; she crossed the border on Sunday and came around asking about clinics.”
“I thought Mexico was where you go for abortions. At least that was what they said in high school.”
John shook his head, eyes solemn. “Even then, abortion was illegal in Mexico, and there’s been a big crackdown on the clinics. The wife of a buddy of mine works at a clinic in the Hillcrest district near U.C. Med Center; she claims that after the early sixties the only abortions you could buy in Tijuana were from cab drivers with rusty knives and pliers. I’m not sure I believe that, but I do know that the methods they use down there aren’t real good for a woman’s health. And they’re expensive.”
“So now Mexican doctors are telling their patients to go to San Diego.”
“Yeah. Gina, my friend’s wife, says that about a quarter of all the procedures they perform at her clinic are on Mexican nationals.”
We were getting far afield from the business at hand. I asked, “Does Pete think this woman is on the level? Or could it be she doesn’t know anything but sees this as a quick way to raise the money?”
John shrugged. “Pete trusts Vic, but he doesn’t know the woman.”
“Well, it’s the only lead I’ve got, so I better follow up on it. Can you stake me to some cash?”
“I’ll put it on your tab.”
“Where is the woman?”
“National City.”
“And her address?”
He hesitated, taking his