Face of a Killer

24

The temperate offshore wind gusted, then died, and Sydney brushed her hair from her face and her eyes as she stepped out of the Rosarito hotel where she’d spent the night, and taken a blessed shower. A light marine layer covered the sky, made her glad for her leather coat, though no doubt she’d be stuffing it into her backpack as the haze burned off later in the day. Her AFI contact, Pedro Venegas, was waiting for her out front.

“Senorita Fitzpatrick. It is good to see you again,” he said, his English perfect, with only the slightest of accents. He wore a dark suit, a crisp white dress shirt, but no tie.

“Senor Venegas,” she said, shaking his hand. They did not greet each other officially, primarily because she wanted no attention drawn to her. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”

“I regret I can’t offer you more, but perhaps what little I found will be of help. I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of bringing you some good Mexican coffee.” He waved his hand toward a black sedan parked nearby. On the hood was a cardboard carrier with two insulated coffee cups sitting within. They walked over, and he gave her one, took the other for himself. “This is from the best coffeehouse in all of Rosarito. Off the beaten path.”

The scent of cinnamon and chocolate mixed with coffee swirled up from the cup as she lifted it to her mouth.

Venegas wasted no time, however, as he’d made it clear the night before when she’d called him that he could stay but a few minutes. “I worry about your presence here, looking for this Robert Orozco,” he said.

“Why is that?”

“His name is, how do you say it… flagged? in our system. More importantly, there was an automatic audit, in that I couldn’t run him without including which agency was requesting the info. I fear it may present a problem, but your name and mine are now linked to the internal audit. I did, however, say it was via phone call. How am I to say you were actually in our country when you called?” He eyed her as she sipped the fragrant brew, savored the cinnamon and chocolate warming her tongue. “Unfortunately there is much that worries me about this, and if you want some advice from me, I would go back to your country, the sooner the better.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aside from the initial want of money laundering and being armed and dangerous? He remains as elusive now as he did twenty years ago when your government first started looking for him.” Agent Venegas glanced at his watch before turning his somber dark gaze on her once more. “Your statute of limitations has long since run its course on Orozco. It makes no sense that my government still has his name flagged. What, then, is your government’s real interest in him?”

“Precisely one of the reasons I want to talk to him. That and what he might know about my father’s murder.” She showed him the faxed photo of Cisco’s Kid, but he had no suggestions on where she might find it.

She thanked him for his help and the coffee, and after they shook hands, he held her gaze a moment longer. “Be careful, Senorita Fitzpatrick. I am uncomfortable with this flag on Orozco’s name. Computers are fast, and Baja so easily accessible.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He turned, got into his car, and drove away, leaving her standing there, contemplating his words. That there was still a computer link to Orozco down here meant someone had a fair idea he’d been in Mexico all this time, and was just waiting until someone stumbled across him. No doubt the flag was of the sort that would send notification to whomever was looking for Orozco, but that was a detail she had little control over. What she needed to do was find him first, get the information she needed, then get the hell out of there. She’d spent a few hours the night before in Tijuana, asking around about the boat and Robert Orozco before she’d hired a car to drive her down to Rosarito when it soon became obvious that she wasn’t far enough south.

On the one hand, she was disappointed she couldn’t find him so easily, on the other, it confirmed in her mind that her memory had served her correctly, that her father had taken her to someplace south of Tijuana. And Rosarito Beach, one of the fastest growing cities for tourists and locals, fit that description. What didn’t fit, however, were her memories. Hers had been of a much smaller, sleepier town. Now there were high-rise condos built between the pink and turquoise motels everywhere she turned, and multitudes of houses built into the once desolate chaparral-covered hills that looked out over the Pacific Ocean. Urban vacation sprawl, Americans snapping up dirt-cheap villas and condos that if purchased and built north of the border would cost millions for a slice of ocean views and rugged coastlines.

She walked through the town, trying to get a feel for it, see if there was anything she remembered. A giant arch with “Bienvenidos a Rosarito” painted across it welcomed tourists to the town. It was still early, but the shopkeepers beneath tiled roofs were sweeping the storefronts and setting out their pottery and knickknacks in preparation for the day, giving the area an old world feel as they spoke in Spanish too rapid for Sydney to understand. She wandered about, asking about fishing charters, and Robert and Cisco’s Kid, but no one could offer her anything further.

Several times that morning, she felt as though she were being followed, watched, but when she turned around, looked, she saw nothing that stood out. Nothing but workers, tourists, a few locals smoking on the street corner. Perhaps it was Venegas’s warning about the flag on Orozco’s name, or simply a feeling of guilt for all the rules she’d broken in the last few days, the least of them being that she was carrying concealed. Mexico was not the place to get caught carrying unauthorized weapons, and she, not being there officially, was completely unauthorized on many counts. A week ago, she would never have even imagined breaking such a rule. But she was no longer that same person. The day before, she’d deplaned in San Diego, dropped by the FBI field office, picked up the copy Carillo had faxed of her and her father on Cisco’s Kid, before crossing the border on foot, armed not only with her Glock, but also with lots of cash.

The almighty dollar went a lot further down here, and she’d had no trouble hiring a car to drive her down to Rosarito from the border, but as she walked the shops and then the beaches, showing the copy of her father’s photo, asking if anyone knew Robert and Cisco’s Kid, she began to wonder if she’d remembered wrong. She’d spent the hours before sunrise surfing the Internet on the hotel’s computer, trying to look up fishing expedition companies. Most, she’d discovered, were owned and operated in San Diego, even though their boats were docked down here. Those she immediately discounted. Robert Orozco wouldn’t chance any U.S. ties, she was certain. But neither would he chance having a company in his own name, which made it a lot more difficult.

She took a taxi to the marina south of the hotel, had the driver wait, then walked around, and knew without a doubt this was not the right place. Too modern. The marina couldn’t have been more than a few years old, nor were the condos built behind it on the hill. Frustrated, she returned to the taxi. “Are there other marinas around here?”

“Do you want to fish? Or go boating?”

“Neither. I’m looking for a boat and a man who owns it.” She showed him the picture.

He nodded, traced his fingers across the background. “Different now. But maybe near Ensenada. You want me to drive you?”

“How far?”

“Maybe fifteen minutes?”

Robert Orozco’s two-year-old granddaughter, Rosa, picked up a small rock and tossed it into the surf. She laughed, toddled ahead, searched for another rock, not venturing too far from Robert’s watchful gaze as he and Tomas walked behind her, talking.

“I’m getting worried,” Tomas said. Tomas was the brother of Robert’s common law wife, Juana, and the only one who knew his true background.

“We knew this day might come.”

“It was not supposed to turn out this way.”

“Who’s to say how it should have turned out?” They walked in silence for a while longer, while little Rosa chased a seagull, falling into the soft sand on her hands and knees, and Robert thought that all in all, he’d had a good life these past couple of decades. They didn’t live in a palace, but it was still a good life, and one he would sorely miss. Perhaps if he was careful-

Rosa screamed, ran back to him. An odd wave rolled up, catching her chubby little legs. She jumped into his arms, laughing as he lifted her. He kissed her, set her back down, and she was off once more, and he sighed. “A good life, no?”

“What will you do?”

“Just what we planned. I have no choice. What did she look like?”

“An American woman dressed all in black. Wearing a black leather coat. She stayed at a hotel in Rosarito.”

“You have all my account numbers.”

“Yes.”

“My will.”

“In the safe.”

“You know what to do if anything happens. Make sure my boat is ready.”

“Maybe there’s another way?”

“You know that’s not possible. We knew this as soon as we heard the news…” He wondered how much time he’d have to say good-bye, how to say it. “Let’s finish this walk.” His last with Rosa, he thought, but couldn’t say the words as he watched his granddaughter race across the sand, her tiny footsteps disappearing as the foamy water swept across the beach, erasing them as though they’d never been there at all…

Sydney realized all too soon that she’d started at the wrong end of the marina in Ensenada, walking the slips filled with yachts and pleasure boats, wading through passengers disembarking from a cruise ship. When she finally made it to the sports fishing piers, the air heavy with the scent of fish and bait, the gulls thick on the docks, it occurred to her that she was far too late if she was looking for fishing boats. The place was filled with empty slips, the sports fishermen having left at the crack of dawn if not earlier. Nor did she think she needed to talk to anyone in the large commercial ventures. What she needed was the older establishments, the ones who could point out to her the mom-and-pop operations, the sort you found out via word of mouth, assuming Orozco was even still in business.

Or had he ever started it up? Was it simply wishful thinking on her part that she could come down here after twentysome-odd years and hope to find a man who clearly never wanted to be found?

She looked around, tried to figure out where to go next. Early in the morning the place had been filled with fishermen. Now the area was filling with boaters who had no interest in catching fish, unless it came already cooked and served on a platter. The tourists were starting to come out en masse, and for a moment she had no difficulty understanding why they were drawn here, and she took a moment, soaked in the sound of the gulls, the gentle breeze, the salt in the air and the sun on her face.

A brown pelican swooped down, landed in the water beside the dock where several other pelicans floated, perhaps waiting for the boats to come in, or resting after having fed all morning. A sea lion poked its head up, eyed a floating dock that already bore the weight of three other sea lions.

The water glistened, and white sails dotted the horizon. The sun had long since burned through the marine layer, warming the day to a balmy seventy according to the thermometer hanging outside the office of Tomasita’s Fishing Charters, a small building no bigger than a couple of outhouses, paint flaking, hinges rusting at the edges. A sign out front advertised the cheapest rates in all of Ensenada. They probably were, since it was about the last place left to charter a boat. She reached for the door, but found it locked, and when she peeked into the dusty window, discovered it was empty.

“Great.” She turned, looked around. A dark-haired man standing a few slips away stood coiling a rope, speaking heavily accented English to someone onboard a nearby boat. She walked over to him. “You know when they might be back?” She pointed to the office.

“Only early morning when the boats go out.”

She took out the copy of Cisco’s Kid, and showed it to him. “Any idea where this might have been taken?”

“Hmm.” He squinted against the bright sun. “Puerto Nuevo, perhaps?”

“Puerto Nuevo?”

“ Si, a fishing village.” He pointed up the coast to the north. “Famous for lobster. But you might ask at the fish market. Ernesto. He used to live in Puerto Nuevo.”

“How will I find him?”

“Just ask anyone in there. They all know him.”

“Thanks.”

Which meant she was back to square one, because one guy who used to live in a town didn’t mean she was any closer. She didn’t have a clue where this boat was. What was it Carillo had said? Baja was a big place. It would be like walking up and down the coast of California searching, assuming the boat was still in existence. Hell, as far as she knew it could be in San Diego, and she’d remembered it wrong all these years. On that cheery thought, she left the pier. Just before she turned into the fish market, she looked back, saw the man on the boat who had pointed her this way talking to two men, one wearing jeans and a white golf shirt, the other in a pale Hawaiian shirt. Tourists or would-be fishermen, she thought, walking to the fish market that overlooked the waterfront.

Families lined the concrete bulwark, some eating tacos, others eating churros. Kids tossed bites to the gulls, laughing as the birds snapped at the pieces and each other. Pelicans waddled through the trash, poking their bills at it, searching for food that had been dropped. The scent of cinnamon and deep fried dough drifted from one of the many stalls, although most advertised tacos, the vendors shouting out, “Tacos pescado,” as she walked by. The brightly painted signs advertised fresh fish tacos, apparently the specialty. Just beyond that stood a large building with “Mercado de Mariscos” painted at the top. In smaller print was the story of how the marketplace came to be. Sydney stepped into the cool interior, the smell of fresh fish over ice apparent and growing stronger as she wove her way through the various stands inside, asking for Ernesto, always being pointed farther in. She’d been to plenty of fish markets in the States, but there was nothing like the variety here. Everything from octopus and squid, to fresh or smoked tuna, not to mention the jumbo shrimp, albacore, lobster, clams, and many others she couldn’t name.

But as she worked her way through, finally found Ernesto hawking rock cod, and tried to understand his heavy accent as he was directing her through a side door, she had that feeling again that she was being watched, a feeling that went beyond the simple knowledge that anyone holding out a picture, asking questions, would garner attention. She ignored the side door Ernesto wanted her to exit. No one inside was able to help her, most shaking their heads, or saying, “ No habla ingles. ”

She left, bought a couple of tacos at one of the stands out front, was certain she’d never tasted anything so good, the battered fish flaky, the tortilla fresh off the grill, the spicy taste of radish bringing with it the instant memory of eating fresh fish tacos with her father. And she might have gone for that second taco, had a young boy of maybe ten or twelve not walked up to her, his eyes jet-black, with a bit of sunlight glinting from their depths. “Senorita? You are looking for the boat Cisco’s Kid?”

His question surprised her enough that it took a moment for her to gather her senses. “Yes.”

“This way, si?” He beckoned for her to follow.

She crumpled her napkin, tossed it and the remaining taco into the trash, then hurried after him as he raced from the market, then on across the street. “You know this boat?” she called out as she tried to keep up with him. “ Cisco’s Kid?”

“I know it,” he said, darting around several women admiring something in a shop window.

Before she could query him further he was a good twenty yards away. She looked back toward the market, the water, then to the boy, running away from the docks. Away from the boats.

He stopped, waved at her. “Hurry, senorita. There isn’t much time.”

This was what she came for, right? The moment he saw her start in his direction, he was off again, running, zipping around pedestrians, light posts, and trash cans. He made a right, then a left, disappeared down a narrow cobbled street. There were no shops here. It seemed to be mostly residential, older homes. In the back of her mind was the strong sense that she was being set up, but she’d come too far to pass up even the slightest lead. And just when she was about to give up, figured he was definitely setting her up, probably for a robbery, she saw it, a boat, high and dry and filled with flowers as colorful as the painted, tile-roofed house it sat in front of.

Out of breath, she stood there, stared, looked around for the boy. She thought she heard him calling out, “Senorita.”

“Hello?” she said in reply, starting down the narrow street toward the boat, just as a car drove up, parked in front of it.

A slight rustling sent her senses on high alert. Before she could turn, someone stepped from a shadowed alcove. Reached out, grabbed her from behind. With one swift move, he slid her gun from her waist, then clamped his other hand over her mouth. He pulled her against his chest, whispered in her ear. She barely heard him over the pounding of her blood. “Do not move, senorita, and no one will be hurt.”