Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [75]
I’d asked the clerk to describe Navarro, and this woman fit what she’d told me: around thirty-five, short and plump, with a cap of straight black hair and prominent Hispanic features. I wondered if she might not have some Indian blood; something in the shape of her nose and jaw put me in mind of an old Paipai woman who had run a campground where my parents used to take us on the coast of Baja.
The woman—Navarro—continued to sit quietly. A car drove along the road, and her posture stiffened, then relaxed as it went by. I sank down on my haunches, balancing myself with one hand against the rose arbor. Fifteen minutes passed. Twenty. It was hot here on the edge of the grove, and my shirt clung damply to my back. I pulled it loose, lifted my hair from my neck, and was momentarily surprised by its shortness.
The sound of a car engine approached. Navarro rose this time and went to stand at the edge of the porch, leaning forward over the rail. A BMW came up the driveway—a BMW in an odd teal blue with a mobile-phone antenna on its trunk. I’d seen a similar one recently.…
Navarro went down the porch steps and moved toward the car. It stopped; then its door opened and another woman got out. A thin woman with chin-length blond curls, wearing a long blue summer dress that accentuated her slenderness.
Diane Mourning.
The two greeted each other, shaking hands not as if they were friends but with a certain wary reserve. For about a minute they remained beside the car, talking. Then Mourning opened the back door of the BMW and removed a suitcase. She carried it over to the Volvo, where Navarro was raising the trunk lid, and set it inside. After that they went into the house.
Going away together?
I began to backtrack through the grove, heading for my car. As I went downhill, I spied a windfall orange and picked it up—sustenance, in case this proved to be a long stakeout. I got the car turned around and into a position where I could see the driveway. Then I waited.
One hour. One and a half. One and thirty-eight minutes—
The Volvo came out of the driveway and turned toward town. I gave it a good lead, then started my clunker and followed. The Volvo went through Blossom Hill’s one intersection without pausing, took county roads to California 74, and picked up I-5 at San Juan Capistrano. I followed it south, past San Onofre and Oceanside, past Carlsbad and the state parks and little beach communities, past Del Mar and the racetrack, and on into San Diego. Dusk fell; I switched on my lights and closed the gap between us. By the time we reached Chula Vista, I suspected the Volvo was headed for the border. I closed the gap a little more so I could check out its occupants, recognized Navarro and Mourning by the shape of their heads.
At San Ysidro caution signs appeared, the same kind I’d seen at San Onofre. A high chain-link fence separated the freeway from the frontage road, but its top was bent and broken down by frequent climbing. In the drainage ditch between it and the pavement I spotted six Hispanic men running in single file toward the north. The evening’s influx of illegals had already begun.
The Volvo sped past the last U.S. exit. The port of entry loomed ahead, “Mexico” emblazoned in blue on the roof over the six auto gates. Four lanes narrowed to two, then fanned out again; traffic was light, and there wasn’t much of a slowdown. I gave the Volvo three car lengths and edged in behind a camper. The Mexican guards were glancing casually at the vehicles and waving them through—
And then I realized I had to turn off.
Taking the car across the border would pose no problem. Mexican immigration doesn’t care who you are or what you’re driving; no tourist card is required for short trips to Baja. But coming back through U.S. Customs in a rental car whose papers were clearly stamped “This vehicle not to be taken into Mexico” would cause me all sorts of problems—and the words were there in big red letters across the top of the contract.
“Dammit!” I smacked the steering wheel in frustration. Ahead, the Volvo was passing