Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [77]
But why had Mourning and Navarro gone to Baja? If their journey had to do with the missing L.C., why hadn’t they gone to Mexico City?
On the TV screen, Ted Danson was tossing Shelley Long’s collection of stuffed animals out the window. I looked at W.C. and considered giving him the same treatment. The damned parrot had provided a clue, but I didn’t know what to make of it. Now I’d probably be awake all night.
I closed my eyes, willing sleep to come, as it usually did when I watched late reruns. Images of the past few days played against my eyelids. When I opened them again, a Sea World commercial was on, showing bottle-nosed dolphins frolicking in the petting pool as kids fed them sardines. I stared at it for a moment, then smiled.
The creatures of the air and the sea were certainly being good to me tonight.
Nineteen
Saturday, June 12
Saturdays can be damned discouraging from an investigative standpoint. Offices are closed, sources of information are unavailable, informants are off at the beach. I got up early anyway, made some coffee in the little percolator in the kitchenette, and crawled back into bed to contemplate my options. Almost immediately I got up again and checked the phone book for a couple of names; one I found, one I didn’t.
The idea I’d had the night before while watching the Sea World commercial seemed farfetched—perhaps wine-induced—in the light of morning. I told myself I’d be better off trying to get a lead on Hy’s recent activities. Trouble was, I needed Kate Malloy’s help to access transactions on the foundation’s American Express account, but even if I could reach her, the billing office at Am Ex would be closed for the weekend. Ron Chan at Pacific Bell might be able to find out if there had been any activity on the foundation’s calling card, however. I looked at my watch, decided eight-thirty was too early on a Saturday morning to bother an acquaintance from whom I was requesting a favor. As it was, I’d be stretching Chan’s and my Christmas-party rapport pretty thin.
I finished my coffee, showered, and with some trepidation faced the task of fixing my newly shorn hair. The stylist’s prediction proved correct, though; with little encouragement from me it fell perfectly, as if it had been wanting to do so for years. Relieved, I dressed in another shirt and pair of jeans belonging to my former sister-in-law and set out for Imperial Beach to return my rental car to Clunkers ’n’ Junkers. I wasn’t certain I’d again need to cross into Baja, but it struck me as foolish to be driving a vehicle that I couldn’t take there.
From Clunkers ’n’ Junkers I walked five blocks along Palm Avenue to the Holiday Market. Even so near the beach the sun bore down relentlessly—another unseasonably warm day, part of the screwy weather patterns that seemed to be developing all over the country. Of course, the climate has always been changeable in my old hometown, which boasts of four weather reports a day ranging from damp and foggy to cold and windy to hot and dry. Growing up there had fully prepared me for life in my new hometown, where the climate is equally schizoid.
This morning few men loitered in the drive-by hiring lot, and those who did were just there to pass the time, getting started early on bottles in paper bags. Inside the market Vic stood behind the checkout counter, rolling a cold can of Pepsi against his sweaty forehead. After an initial hesitation, he recognized me and flashed a gapped-tooth smile.
“Still no tengas inglÉs?” I asked, smiling back.
“Nah, tengo. Sorry about the other day, but you know how it goes. La migra, they got people all over, lookin’ like you or anybody else.”
“That’s okay. After I was in here that morning, did you say anything to anybody about me and what I was asking?”
“Well, sure, some of the guys outside. I warned ’em you might be trouble. But don’t worry none about them. Those guys, they don’t call