Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (18 page)

Another good sign.

But none of this kept her from feeling violated, and she started to cry.

How could she be so fucking stupid?

She dealt with victims of violent crime every day of her life and she couldn’t believe she’d let herself fall prey to these bastards.

Wiping her face on her sleeve, she pulled herself upright and looked around, half-afraid they might still be nearby.

But they were long gone.

She was alone in the alley, the sounds of the city like some distant familiar tune filtered through a throbbing membrane.

She slowly got to her feet, wobbling slightly. Straightened her bra, buttoned her blouse.

She looked around at the grimy alley floor. It was dark in there, but there was enough light from the adjacent street that she could see that her purse was gone, along with her money and credit cards. The only thing they’d left behind was Jen’s passport, which lay near the trash cans.

She crossed to them, bent down, and picked it up, then opened it to the photo page and stared at Jen’s smiling face.

Had they gotten to her, too?

Was that why she had disappeared?

Was she lying in an alleyway like this one, unconscious or worse, unable to call for help?

The police.

Beth had no choice but to go to the police.

Head still pounding, she moved out of the alleyway and searched the street, seeing nothing but parked cars.

The gangbangers were gone.

She headed toward the lights of the main drag, its sidewalks teeming with tourists. And when she reached the top of the block she saw one:

A blue and white police car, parked near a taco stand.

She moved toward it, waving her hands, signaling to the officer for help.

42

“
¿CUÁL ES
tu nombre?”
 

“What is your name?”

The cop behind the desk didn’t speak English, so he had pulled over a bilingual secretary to translate.

“Elizabeth Crawford,” Beth said. Her head was pounding worse than ever and she was convinced that she was on the verge of a full-fledged migraine.

The officer nodded and scribbled on the piece of paper in front of him.
“¿De dónde eres?”
 

“Where are you from?”

Beth was no stranger to police stations. Her job required her to work closely with the Los Angeles police, and a week didn’t go by without a visit to one of the substations located throughout the city.

But this was her first experience with a Mexican station. And so far, it hadn’t been good.

When she’d flagged the cop near the taco stand, his first reaction had been to tell her to move along. She was just another in a string of drunken American
turistas
who had interrupted his dinner.

It took her a while to convince him that she’d been attacked, and after a medic had been called and she’d been cleared of any major physical damage, the cop finally drove her to a nearby station.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, she heard the distant blast of the cruise ship’s horn, and she knew it was leaving port, taking her suitcase and Jen’s belongings with it.

She wondered for a moment if Jen was back on board, partying with Rafael and Marta, but that didn’t seem likely. After hours of battling her fluctuating emotions, she was convinced now that something terrible had happened. That, for once, Jen was in trouble not of her own making. She was also convinced that Rafael and Marta were behind it.

Beth had spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the police station next to a pair of hookers in handcuffs who had rattled on endlessly. Despite the language barrier, she figured they were complaining about what every hooker in the known universe complained about: asshole johns and abusive pimps.

Every once in a while, they’d glance in her direction and laugh, and she could only be thankful that at least somebody had something to laugh about on this godforsaken day.

She, on the other hand, just wanted to cry, her face already streaked with dried tears.

But she hadn’t let herself. It was time to be strong. Assertive. She might not have been in LA, but that was no reason to play the submissive victim.

Unable to take the wait any longer, she had gotten to her feet, gone over to the reception desk, and demanded that she be seen immediately.

After being passed through three or four different people—most of whom spoke only broken English and had no idea what she was ranting about—she had finally landed at this desk, sitting across from an overweight man in a tight blue uniform.

“¿De dónde eres?”
the cop asked again.

Before the translator could speak, Beth held a hand up. She was tired and cranky and her vision was starting to double. She suddenly felt detached from the world, as if she were observing this moment through a dream of some kind.

“Is there any way we can get past all this and concentrate on finding my sister?”

The translator, a cute twentysomething with bloodred nails that were long enough to give Fu Manchu a run for his money, smiled politely, then did her job and came back with: “Your sister was also attacked?”

Beth was at her wit’s end. Tried to remain calm.

“How many times do I have to say this? She’s been missing since just before noon. She went into a leather-goods store and never came out. I think I may know who’s behind it, and if you can just contact the cruise company, I’m sure we can get the information we need.”

After the translation, the cop nodded, then tapped the paper in front of him, as if it were the most important document in the world.
“¿De dónde eres?”
 

This was going nowhere fast.

“California,” Beth said sharply. “I’m from goddamn California. You happy now?”

Her head was killing her, and she needed to talk to someone who (a) gave a damn about what she had to say, (b) had some muscle around here, and (c) spoke fucking English.

“Look,” she said to the translator, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Is there someone else who can help me?”

The girl shook her head. “You must understand,
senorita,
that we see many
turistas
who are missing loved ones.”

“Which means what?”

“People come here to drink and have fun. Sometimes they get lost; most times they are found. In between, there is paperwork.”

“In other words, I’m out of luck.”

“That is not what I said. I heard you talking to Eduardo at the front desk and I know you are worried about your sister, but it is our experience that such matters usually resolve themselves. You will see. She will be with you before the night is over.”

If only, Beth thought. But this was a waste of time. Without somebody lighting a fire under these people’s asses, she might as well—

A sudden thought occurred to her.

Peter.

Peter had recently prosecuted a drug-smuggling case that was brought to him by a joint American-Mexican task force. He was bound to know somebody with some pull down here. At least it was worth a shot.

She needed to call him.

She looked at the secretary. “My cell was stolen. Is there a phone I can use?”

“Sí, senorita,”
the girl said, then pointed. “You’ll find a pay phone around the corner and down the hall.”

The fat cop said something abrupt and nasty sounding and the secretary snapped her head toward him, giving it right back. Beth had no idea what they’d said, and figured that was probably for the best.

Thanking the girl, she stood up and immediately felt a rush of dizziness. Had to grab the chair for support.

“Are you all right,
senorita
?”

“Yes,” Beth lied, then headed across the room in the direction of the phone.

43

T
HE HALLWAY AROUND
the corner seemed different from the rest of the station. Cleaner, better lit.

It almost looked like a hospital corridor.

But this could simply have been Beth’s imagination. The migraine was in full blossom now and her vision kept going in and out of focus, making it difficult to see.

Down at the far end of the hall, a man in a bathrobe and pj’s stood at the pay phone, speaking quietly into the receiver.

That was a first. But then it was her experience that just about anything can happen in a police station.

As she approached, the man hung up and moved past her, nodding and smiling as he went.

Beth didn’t return the smile. The anvil being hammered inside her head made it too difficult to think, let alone respond.

She stepped up to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. She was about to reach into her purse for some change when she remembered it had been stolen.

Wonderful. Now what?

Then she realized she could hear a buzzing sound, a dial tone coming from the receiver. Maybe this wasn’t a pay phone, after all, but the Mexican
policía’
s version of a courtesy phone. That didn’t explain the coin slot, but Beth wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Putting the receiver to her ear, she dialed 0 and, to her surprise, got a live operator instead of a recording. One who actually spoke English.

The operator asked for a number and Beth gave her Peter’s cell phone from memory.

It was a long-distance call from here, but the operator didn’t seem concerned, and a moment later the line began to ring.

On the third one, a familiar voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Peter, it’s Beth.”

There was silence on the line. And it went on too long.

“Peter?”

“I’m here. What do you want?”

She wasn’t sure where to start. Over the past several months, things had become so strained between them, even a simple conversation was difficult. Her resentment toward him had been too hard to disguise.

But could anyone blame her?

It’s a unique feeling to discover that you’ve been cheated on. A mix of hurt and rage and complete inadequacy. You feel as if you’ve somehow failed the relationship, you wonder about your ability to satisfy your mate both emotionally and physically, and every good memory you have of the two of you together is now tainted, filtered through a nightmare of stained sheets and writhing bodies.

You have been betrayed. The trust is gone.

And in Beth and Peter’s case, that trust was irretrievable.

So, whenever they spoke, her resentment was clear. But she had to tuck it away for now. There were more pressing things to think about, and her head was pounding so hard that she thought she might pass out before she finished telling him what was going on.

“Peter,” she said. “I’m down in Mexico. Baja Norte. Jen and I took a cruise, and after we docked in Playa Azul she disappeared.” Beth started to cry now. “She’s gone, Peter. I don’t know where she went, but I need your—”

“Beth, stop.”

His voice was a slap to the face.

“What?”

“You have to stop calling me like this.”

“What are you talking about? I hardly ever—”

“You’re up to twice a week now. Do you realize that?” A pause. “Of course you don’t.”

Beth was at a loss. He wasn’t making any sense. Other than curt hellos in the office—which was thankfully big enough for some distance—they hadn’t spoken in over a month.

“Peter, listen to me. This isn’t about us. It’s Jen. I think someone may have—”

“Jen’s dead, Beth.”

Another slap. Followed by a rolling wave of nausea.

“She’s been missing for almost a year,” he said. “And we all know what that means.”

“How can you say something like that? That’s crazy.”

“Listen to me. Take a look around you. What do you see?”

“I—”

“Just do it, Beth. Look around.”

Thoroughly confused now, her migraine going into overdrive, Beth looked around the hallway, but it was the same as before. Clean, well lit—

Wait. No. Not the same.

Through doubling vision, she could see that on the far side of the corridor was what looked like a…

…a nurses’ station.

What the hell?

How could she have missed that?

Turning back to the phone, she discovered that it wasn’t a pay phone at all. Just a small black box mounted on the wall, with no coin slot. A sign next to it read:
PATIENT USE ONLY
.