Wolf in the Shadows - Marcia Muller [89]
I studied Navarro’s with interest. She was plain, almost homely, and apparently had the sense to realize that elaborate trickery with makeup would not enhance her looks. On the whole, her mannerisms suggested she was comfortable with herself; when she spoke she displayed a certain confidence and authority. Without knowing her, it was impossible for me to tell if what her employee had said about her—that she had no real ethical base—was true. But observing her convinced me that this was a woman who, once committed to a plan such as the kidnapping, would carry it through calmly, with attention to detail. If she now had any regrets or any guilt, no sign of either was apparent. While Mourning’s face was drawn with lines of strain, gaunt from lack of sleep, Navarro’s was smooth and rested. While Mourning punctuated her conversation with nervous gestures, Navarro sat still, entirely at ease.
Suddenly Mourning glanced toward the door. Her face tightened and she reached for her drink. Navarro looked that way, too; while her expression didn’t change, something flashed in her eyes—anger, I thought, carefully checked but there nonetheless. I moved the lens and focused on a big man in a white dinner jacket who was crossing the terrace. He was Hispanic, in his sixties, with iron-gray hair and a flaccid, fleshy face; his thick features spread as if they were made of wax that had been left too long in the sun. Beneath the skin, however, was a hardness that hinted at a stubborn will; his eyes were equally hard and sunk deep in their sockets. Gilbert Fontes?
The man smiled in a way that managed to be both polite and condescending before he sat down across from Mourning. She nodded curtly and drained her glass, then set it down—hard, I thought. Immediately the waiter appeared with a drink for the man, took Mourning’s glass away for a refill. Ann Navarro leaned across the table and said something to the man that ended in “Gilbett.” Fontes, all right.
The three chatted idly for a while; I couldn’t make out anything they said. Then their heads turned toward the door. Fontes’s expression was welcoming, but with the trace of condescension I’d noticed when he greeted the women. Navarro’s lips tightened. Fear showed in Mourning’s eyes. I moved the camera and zoomed in on Marty Salazar.
Salazar was dressed as he’d been on Wednesday night, in a pale summer suit. The glare of the terrace’s floodlights threw his sunken cheeks and the rattler-plate scar on his forehead into dramatic relief; my focus was so fine that I could make out the short lashes rimming his hooded eyes. As he crossed the terrace, he took a cigarette from his pocket and lighted it. I followed him with the lens.
Salazar joined the group, taking the chair to Mourning’s right. She recrossed her legs, shifted away from him. He glanced knowingly at her and smirked. Navarro’s nostrils pinched in disgust, but she moved her chair closer to the table and began talking earnestly with the two men. Again, I couldn’t make out many of the words, but the conversation was definitely spirited. Salazar was doing most of the talking. After a few minutes he sat back and extended his arms, hands together, fingers pointing like the barrel of a gun. He jerked them as if firing—one, two, three times—then threw his head back and laughed uproariously.
No one else laughed. Fontes watched Salazar analytically, as if he were observing a rare type of snake. Navarro turned away, pressing her fingers to her temples. Mourning jerked in reaction, as if she herself had been shot. After a moment Fontes signaled to the waiter for another round of drinks.
I felt stunned, a little sick. Could Salazar have been describing how he shot Stan Brockowitz? Surely he wouldn’t do that in the presence of Brockowitz’s widow—unless she’d been an accessory to the killing. Even then,