Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [85]
“Where are you?”
“South.”
“The South Bay? Then you can—”
“Farther south.”
“Mexico? Why’re you—”
“I’ll tell you about it when I get back. Have you notified Brockowitz’s wife of his death yet?”
“McCone …”He sighed in defeat. “We’ve tried, but she’s not at their home or her place of business.”
“Then nothing’s been released to the press?”
“Not till we get in touch with her. I don’t suppose you have any idea where she might be?”
“Me? I don’t even know the woman.”
“Look, McCone, I want—”
“Will you be on duty all weekend?”
“Will I— No, I’m out of here in a couple of hours, and then I’m going home to paint the living room.”
“Give me your home number.”
“Why?”
“Because I might need it.”
“McCone, you’re not investigating this murder, are you? Because in this state you can’t investigate a murder—”
“I’m not even in the country.”
“I want you to get your ass back here and—”
“What’s your home number?”
“It’s unlisted.”
“I know that. What is it?”
“McCone—”
“Please. For your favorite cheerleader?”
“Christ, you hand me a pain!” Then he sighed and recited the number. “This is emotional blackmail, you know. When you get back here, we’re going to have to discuss your conduct—”
“What?”
“I said—”
“God, this is a bad connection!”
“I can hear you fine.”
“Of course it’s mine. I called you.”
“I know you called me.”
“Balled you!”
“What?”
“What?”
I hung up and made a run for the border.
Twenty-One
I decided to take the fast toll road to Ensenada, then pick up old Mexico 1, the highway that in the early seventies linked Tijuana with La Paz and forever changed the face of Baja California.
The 800-mile-long peninsula is a harsh, arid land, ridged by barren mountains and cut off from mainland Mexico by the Sea of CortÉs. Its desert region remains pretty much the same as a century ago: peppered with cactus and hardscrabble ranches, many of which have long been abandoned. But with the advent of the highway, American tourists discovered Baja’s scenic Pacific beaches and the quiet anchorages and villages along the Mar de CortÉs; the 1990s have brought an increase in international trade to the peninsula’s few cities.
After a brief stop at a Pemex station to buy a map, I sped along Tijuana’s Calle Internacionale and turned south toward the first tollgate, noting changes. The border town’s slums and shacks still existed, as did the gaudy souvenir shops and booze-and-sex traps, but mirrored-glass skyscrapers appeared on the horizon, lending the city a new sophistication. Farther south along the coast, the inevitable billboards, RV parks, condominiums, and hotels marred the beauty of some of the most breathtaking cliffs this side of Big Sur. When I reached Rosarito, which I remembered as a quiet fishing village, and found several posh-looking resort hotels, I realized that the Baja I’d loved as a child was on its way to disappearing forever.
The dry heat had pursued me from San Diego, and even in these coastal regions it didn’t let up, rising with a vengeance from the dust-blown desert. It took me about an hour and a quarter to get to Ensenada. At first I thought the long arm of commercialism hadn’t yet extended this far; fishing boats, a number of them bearing the insignia of Gilbert Fontes’s Corona Fleet, bobbed in the harbor, and a few donkey carts crept along the streets. But then I spotted a sign in English proclaiming Ensenada the birthplace of Mexico’s wine industry and offering tours and tastings; new hotels and restaurants and cantinas lined the waterfront boulevard. I got out of there as fast as I could and picked up the old highway.
About thirty minutes later I came upon a road that I thought should be the one to El Sueño. I pulled over, consulted my map, then turned toward Punta Arrejaque, a finger of land extending northwest into the Pacific. The road was new, recently paved, running parallel to a riverbed choked with scrub vegetation. Down in it, I thought, was probably an older road; the dry riverbeds had for centuries been routes to the fishing villages that perched beside their