The Viking Funeral

Chapter 23

SHANE SAW THE distant lights of Palm Springs shimmering on the horizon like a counterfeit jewel. The motor home was crusted with brown sand from the rutted dirt roads they had taken in Mexico before finally crossing the border at Mexicali, then turning northwest toward the Cochella Valley.

The entire way across Baja and into California, nobody had mentioned the shooting of Rodriquez, but the memory certainly lingered.

Then they were driving through downtown Palm Springs, on North Palm Canyon Drive, past Arby's barbecue joints and faux French restaurants, past golf courses and Bentley dealerships.

They left Palm Springs proper and started to pass through neighboring towns, strung back-to-back along Highway 111 like brightly painted beads. They passed Smoketree Village and Palm Springs Heights, with their estate homes built low on the desert hillsides… Then drove through Cathedral City, the only tarnished bead on this expensive necklace of resort towns. Used-clothing stores and taco stands stood side by side like passengers at a skid-row bus stop trying desperately to ignore one another.

They drove through Rancho Mirage and Indian Wells, finally arriving at the exclusive development community of La Quinta.

The same three architects must have been making a killing in the Cochella Valley. Everywhere he looked, Shane saw Spanish arches and terra-cotta tile. In La Quinta, every palm tree was bathed in its own 2,000-watt xenon "up-light." All of this costly, brightly lit architecture was draped in colorful purple and red hibiscus and bougainvillea.

La Quinta was upscale housing that stretched along several world-class golf courses.

Jody had driven the last leg of the journey and now turned the big, dusty motor home into a new "behind the gates" development project called La Quinta Esperanza. He pulled up to the guard shack and tapped the horn. An octogenarian in a crisp brown uniform decorated with shiny yellow shoulder patches came out of his flower-draped shack with a clipboard and limped over to the driver-side window.

"Howdy," Jody said, grinning. "I'm Lewis Foster. I think I'm expected. I'm a guest of Jose Mondragon's."

The man scowled at his clipboard as if it contained the results of his last prostate exam. "Can't see with these glasses," he muttered. "Gotta get me a new prescription."

"Lemme help," Jody said, reaching for the clipboard. He found his alias and pointed to it: "Lew Foster. Right there," he said, handing over his phony driver's license obtained by the ATF Undercover Documents Section.

The old man grabbed the clipboard back and nodded. "Yep… Yep, sure 'miff, there she is," he muttered. "I'll get the keys." He returned Jody's license, then limped painfully back into the shack.

"They musta got this plastic badge from Geezers 'R' Us," Jody growled. "If this dinosaur is our security, we're gonna have t'post our own watch. Inky Dink, you got the first duty."

There was a groan from Tremaine Lane in the back of the motor home, then the old man came back and handed Jody a set of keys. "It's the big Spanish one… Very end of Desert Flower Drive."

The house was at least five thousand square feet and sat at the end of a cul-de-sac. Jody pulled into the circular drive and parked the Vogue coach in front of a four-car garage. Fairways from the adjoining golf course bordered the hacienda-style home.

The Spanish structure was two stories and, from the landscaping, looked as though it had just been completed. Topiary trees cut into veterinary shapes were lit by pale moonlight and haunted the perimeter of the house, rustling in the desert wind like restless spirits.

They climbed out of the motor home, then passed through the side gate into the courtyard, where a wing of guest suites horseshoed around an Olympic-size pool. A few shanked golf balls were submerged in the deep end.

One by one, Jody opened up the guest suites with his keys, and members of the Vikings picked their accommodations. All of the rooms were big, with kitchenettes, living rooms, and remarkable views of either the fairway or the mountains beyond.

Shane's room had a phone jack but no phone. Not that he would attempt to contact Chief Filosiani under these circumstances. He was supposed to get loose and call in, but so far he'd had no opportunity. Also, he didn't know what to say to the Day-Glo Dago, how to explain the "cop killer" bullet Jody had put in the breech of his gun that resulted in Alexa's death.

He undressed in his bathroom, then put his clothes in the suite's apartment-style vertical washing machine and dryer. He set the wash cycle; then wearing only a terry-cloth robe he found in the closet, Shane went outside to swim a few laps. He hoped some exercise would help get his head clear. He shrugged off the borrowed robe and dove naked into the water. His new, raw tattoo shot pain up his ankle all the way to his knee, but he ignored it and kicked hard to the bottom. Just for the hell of it, he retrieved a Titleist 4 golf ball with a huge smile cut in the side, then he frog-kicked the length of the pool under water. When he came up on the far end, he dropped the ball on the deck, and it rolled slowly to a stop between two patent-leather high-heeled pumps. He glanced up, looking into the jade-green eyes of a blond woman in a black-striped business jacket and matching skirt. A world-class beauty, she was standing at the edge of the pool, holding an ostrich briefcase, smiling down at him with open delight.

"Jose said this place was well stocked," she mused, studying his nude body, "but this is almost too good to believe."

"Jesus, lady… Where the hell did you come from?" Shane blurted.

"Panama City," she replied, deadpan. "And you would be who? The famous but mysterious La Quinta Water Nymph?"

"Funny. You wanna turn around so I can get my robe?"

"Not on your life."

A man's voice called out: "Lisa, let's go! We're late! You can meet these people later." Shane looked over the pool deck. Standing in the doorway of the lit living room, about twenty yards away, was a short but powerfully built dark-skinned Hispanic man dressed in a black suit. Despite the Palm Springs heat, he had an overcoat draped on his right arm.

"Coming, Jose," she called to him, then turned back to Shane, kissed her fingertips, and wiggled them seductively at him. "I guess, as the man says, we're going to have to meet later," she said, smiling. Then she turned and walked away, making a show of it, her calves flexing, her short, tailored skirt flipping playfully against sculpted thighs.