Rosarito Beach (26 page)

“Don't worry about the money. And leave the clothes to me,” Roman said. “I know how the women who visit Caesar dress, and I have excellent taste. I'll just need your sizes.” This made Kay pause. She couldn't imagine letting a man buy clothes for her, but her instincts told her that Roman probably did have excellent taste; in fact, when it came to clothes, his taste was probably better than hers.

“Okay,” she said. “Have the hairdresser come at four-thirty and have the clothes here no later than six.”

Roman nodded.

“I need one other thing, Roman. I need a specialist.”

“What sort of specialist?”

Kay told him what her plan was. The whole time she was speaking, Roman kept shaking his head—but Kay wasn't going to be deterred and he could tell.

“It's a good idea, Kay, assuming you can get Caesar out of his house, but—”

Kay cut him off. “Do you know someone who can get me what I need? Someone local?”

“Yes.”

“Then call him.”

“Okay,” Roman said. “Let's just hope that God is on your side.”

Kay had never been too sure how God chose sides.

Roman made another phone call, vouched for Kay, then put her on the phone so she could explain what she needed. The man asked a couple of short questions—he didn't ask why she needed what she needed—and told her everything would be ready at one p.m.

“I hope this guy's good,” Kay said.

“He's one of the best.”

There wasn't anything Kay could do but trust Roman.

She gave him her sizes so he could order clothes for her and also told him the kind of makeup she needed. He jiggled his eyebrows like Groucho Marx when she told him her bra size, and Kay couldn't help but laugh.

Kay looked at her watch. Ten a.m. “I need to get a couple hours of sleep. I've been up all night. Please wake me at noon.”

Kay wasn't sure she'd be able to sleep, her mind spinning, thinking about what she was about to do, but she had to try. She needed to be as well rested as possible before facing off against Caesar Olivera in his own home.

K
ay's new ID was ready by the time she awoke from her nap.

The California driver's license made out in the name of Sandra Whitman was flawless. It looked exactly like Kay's California license, and although she'd never noticed it before, the picture on the ID, which was the same as the one on her legitimate ID, wasn't a very good one. She had it taken on a day when she was tired, her hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and the DMV picture was washed out, making her skin look as if it had been bleached. In this case, however, a bad picture was probably a bonus in case anyone had seen her face recently on television.

Claudio's body had also been removed from the office while she slept, and Roman had a chicken salad waiting for Kay's lunch. He was a very thoughtful man. When she finished eating, she decided to call Mora. She had to give him an update on Tito's “medical” status. More important, she had to tell him something to keep him believing that everything was on track.

She used Surfer Rodney's cell phone to call Mora so Mora would see the California area code on his caller ID and think she was calling from California. The other reason she used Rodney's phone was that it was old and cheap and she doubted it had a GPS microchip. But even if Mora tried to find her by triangulating cell phone towers, and since Tijuana was so close to San Diego, he might not be able to tell which side of the border she was on. She hoped.

“It's Kay Hamilton,” she said when Mora answered. “Is my daughter okay?”

She didn't ask to speak to her daughter because Mora might ask to speak to Tito.

“Yes, she's fine. For now. What's Tito's status?”

“Better. The concussion is bad, like I told you, but he'll be okay to travel by tonight. Right now he's completely out of it because of the drugs the doctor's given him for the pain in his shoulder. His shoulder is going to require surgery eventually. Anyway, tell me the plan for making the exchange.”

Mora told her it was basically the same as before. He'd give Kay an address where she would meet a man driving a specially designed transport vehicle. The driver would call Mora to confirm that Tito was with Kay and would stash Tito in the hidden compartment in the transport vehicle. The driver would then leave, and Kay would drive the transport vehicle to the border crossing. As soon as Kay arrived, Jessica would be sent across the border and Kay would be able to see that Jessica was free.

“No way!” Kay said. She couldn't agree too easily to whatever Mora proposed. “I told you, I want the exchange to take place in the U.S.”

“That's not going to happen,” Mora said. “If we make the exchange in the U.S., as soon as you have your daughter, you might call the marshals and they'll arrest Tito before he crosses the border. If you want your daughter back, the exchange must be made in Mexico.”

“But they're looking for me at the border crossings,” Kay said.

“No, they're not,” Mora insisted. “I know from my own sources that the marshals believe you're already in Mexico with Tito. If it will make you feel more comfortable, disguise yourself—wear a wig or something—to make it harder for the border guards to identify you. I don't believe you'll need to take such precautions, but I don't care if you do.”

“If they're not looking for me at the border crossings, then why do we need to use a special vehicle for getting Tito across?”

“It's just a precaution I prefer to take,” Mora said.

Kay didn't understand why Mora wanted to use the transport vehicle to get Tito across the border. Maybe he was thinking that if Kay was driving the transport van and she was arrested Tito wouldn't be found hidden inside the vehicle. Then, when the van was later towed to an impound lot, Mora's men might be able to free Tito. Or maybe Mora was thinking that if his people had to fight the American border personnel, Tito would be safe from all the flying bullets if he was inside the van. But since Tito was dead, and since Kay had no intention of driving the transport vehicle across the border anyway, it didn't really matter why Mora wanted to use the van and there certainly wasn't any point in arguing with him about it. Kay switched the subject.

“But if we make the exchange in Mexico, then you'll be able to take me,” she said.

“I'm afraid that is a risk you must take,” Mora said, “but I wish I could get you to trust me, Agent Hamilton. All we want is to get Tito back. We don't care about you or your daughter. We have no desire to kill you. Once you're back in the U.S., you'll be arrested for breaking Tito out of jail, and as far as Mr. Olivera is concerned, that's punishment enough for having arrested his brother in the first place.”

“You're right, I don't trust you. How do I know the guy driving the transport vehicle won't try to kill me and just take Tito across the border himself?”

“Ms. Hamilton, the driver won't be armed, and I know you have a weapon. If he tries anything, you have my permission to shoot him. We don't care about the driver.”

After a long pause, Kay said, “Okay. We'll do it your way, but I'll pick the place where I'll meet the transport.”

“Fine,” Mora said, sounding as if he thought Kay was being silly.

“And I'm not going to identify the place until the last minute. I'm not going to give you time to get a bunch of your goons there first.”

“That, too, is fine,” Mora said. “Let's make the exchange at nine p.m. Rush hour will be over, and there will be fewer people crossing the border. You should be able to drive into Mexico without any delays.”

If Kay's plan worked, she'd be meeting Caesar at eight. Nine p.m. was too early.

“No,” Kay said, “nine's too early. Make it midnight. By then the drugs the doctor's given Tito will have worn off and he'll be able to function. And it'll give me a chance to scope out the border before we cross. I want to see for myself that no extra precautions are being taken to find me.”

“I don't want to wait until midnight,” Mora said.

“I don't give a shit what you want. And remember, Mora, I'm going to want to speak to my daughter before she comes across. And if you've hurt her, if you've done anything to her, I'm going to give Tito a permanent injury. I'll call you around eleven, maybe a little later, to let you know everything's still a go. Then I'll also give you the address where I'll meet the transport van. It will be somewhere south of San Diego, close to the border crossing.”

Kay wanted to make sure that Mora kept Jessica in Tijuana.

—

W
hen she was done with Mora, something occurred to Kay: Mora had most likely captured Rodney's cell phone number—which meant that Mora would soon have Surfer Rodney's name and address. The human race would not be greatly diminished by Rodney's absence, but Kay preferred not to see him tortured.

The deal she'd made with Rodney for getting his car and phone back was that she would call a woman named Trixie who lived in Rodney's building, a woman who had the hots for him, and she would tell Trixie where Rodney's car was so he could retrieve it. Kay called the woman, who was either high or stupid or both, but was finally able to make her understand that she needed to tell Rodney that they both had to leave their apartments and not come back for a while. When Trixie asked why, Kay said that if they didn't disappear, somebody might kill them. “Wow!” Trixie said.
Wow?
Kay could only hope that Rodney's gal pal could retain the message long enough to pass it on.

—

R
oman drove Kay to a busy shopping district in Tijuana, parked illegally, and they entered a shop that reminded Kay of a RadioShack: electronic equipment all over the place, computers, cell phones, audio equipment, iPods, iPads, televisions. There were three geeky-looking salesmen in the store, dressed in white shirts and skinny black ties, and one of them came rushing over to help as soon as she and Roman stepped across the threshold.

“We have an appointment with Mr. Durant,” Roman said.

“Oh,” the geek said, disappointed, knowing now that Roman and Kay weren't looking for a smartphone. “Please wait right here.”

The salesman walked behind a maroon curtain at the back of the store and a moment later returned followed by a man who wasn't the least bit geeklike: six foot three, a hundred and ninety rock-hard pounds, long dark hair down to his shoulders. He looked the way Kay thought an Apache might have looked back in the days when Geronimo was operating. He was wearing cowboy boots, black jeans, and a white sleeveless T-shirt to show off his muscles. Instead of a pocket protector, he had a large, black, semiautomatic pistol shoved into his belt. He took a long look at Roman and Kay, then gestured for them to come to him.

On the other side of the curtain, sitting behind a worktable cluttered with electronic parts, wire, and a couple of soldering irons, was a dark-skinned, white-haired man in a wheelchair. He looked like he was in his seventies, and Kay noticed the last two fingers on his left hand were missing.

“Mr. Durant,” Roman said, nodding to the old man.

The old man said nothing in return, but he stared at Kay for a moment. He had the lifeless, unblinking, black eyes of a bird of prey. He used his right forearm to sweep aside the clutter on the worktable to clear a small space, then spun the wheelchair around and picked up a cardboard box on a shelf behind him; he slapped it down on the worktable.

“Ten thousand U.S.,” he said.

Roman reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat and placed an envelope on the table. The old man picked up the envelope and, without opening it, held it out to the muscle-bound thug with the gun. The thug opened the envelope, counted the money, and nodded to the old man.

Thank God Roman was rich, Kay thought. But if she lived through this, she was going to owe him a bundle.

There was no place for Kay and Roman to sit, so they stood in front of the worktable as Durant opened the cardboard box and showed Kay the three items it contained. Two of the items appeared to be identical, but they weren't.

“Which is the real one?” Kay asked.

Durant pointed at the one in her left hand, and she saw it had a small dab of white paint on it, whereas the one in her right hand didn't.

She examined each item carefully; they were exactly what she had ordered—and she had no idea if they would work. She was just going to have to trust the old man's craftsmanship. Durant still didn't ask why she wanted the items; he obviously didn't care what his customers did with his products.

“What's the range?” Kay asked in Spanish.

“A kilometer with good sight lines, nothing to interfere with the signal,” Durant said. “That's the best I could do on short notice.”

A kilometer was six tenths of a mile, a little over a thousand yards.

“Then I guess a kilometer will have to do,” Kay said. “Thank you.”

As they were walking back to Roman's car, Kay said, “I hope that guy doesn't know folks who work for al-Qaeda.”

“He might,” Roman said. “Mr. Durant is not political; he only cares about money. He's a very greedy old man.”

—

S
he and Roman returned to the laundromat. Roman wasted a little time again telling Kay that the likelihood of success was nil, then, seeing that he wasn't going to change her mind, he applied himself to helping her figure out all the details. When they were finished, she said, “I need to see this place. I mean, it looks fine on Google Earth, but I need to see it.”

Roman looked at his watch. “Sure. We have time.”

They got into Roman's Mercedes and headed toward Rosarito Beach.

Rosarito Beach is a city approximately half an hour from central Tijuana and about twenty minutes from the San Diego border crossing. It has beachfront resort hotels, upscale retail shops, golf courses, and gated communities. Wealthy Americans—and wealthy Mexicans like Caesar Olivera—buy fabulous homes there with glorious views of the Pacific. Many of the houses are surrounded by high stone walls to increase the owners' sense of security—in other words, to protect themselves from the drug cartels run by men like Caesar. Parts of Rosarito Beach are to Tijuana what Bel Air or Hollywood is to South-Central L.A.

As they passed Caesar's mansion, Kay told Roman to slow down so she could look at the place, but all she could see was an eight-foot white wall. They continued on to Mex 1D—the major north-south highway along the coast of Baja, Mexico—and half an hour later came to the spot that Kay had selected in Roman's office using Google Earth. She and Roman got out of the car, and she looked around.

What Kay saw was a barren strip of land approximately a mile long and half a mile wide between the Mex ID Highway and the ocean. Whatever structures had once occupied the land were now gone and something large was being constructed, maybe another hotel. There was earthmoving equipment on the site—graders and backhoes—and mounds of dirt piled in a few spots, but the foundation for whatever was being built had not been laid. To the south of the construction site was a golf course, and she could see a foursome playing, and to the north was a gated community, the houses all with red Spanish-tile roofs. The gated community was entirely surrounded by a six-foot ocher-colored stucco wall, which was also good from Kay's perspective, as the occupants couldn't easily see the construction site.

“I hope the surf's not that rough tomorrow morning,” she muttered, looking at the waves crashing onto the beach.

Roman noticed a couple walking their dog on the beach about a quarter mile away. “At five in the morning, there won't be many people around. Certainly no one will be golfing.”

Kay didn't really care if there were people around. “Yeah, this will work,” she said. But just like the items provided by the greedy Mr. Durant, she really had no idea if the place she'd picked to make the exchange would work.