Retribution

CHAPTER 3

JUST AS HAVING A MALIBU BEACH HOUSE IS A PERK of being a successful model, early morning photo shoots are a drawback.

Lance’s alarm clock goes off at four thirty. I hear it before he does. I prop myself up on my elbows.

We’re outside, on a chaise, with only his robe thrown over us. He’d joined me earlier to watch the ocean and one thing led to another as it inevitably does with us. We’d both fallen asleep after, our limbs tangled, my head on his chest. We’ve been asleep exactly thirty minutes.

I study his beautiful face, relaxed in sleep, brush a lock of long, silky hair out of his eyes and shake him gently awake.

He groans, stretches, kisses me and hauls himself up to go inside to shower.

I haul myself up to start the coffee.

About the same time the smell of fresh-brewed coffee has my salivary glands pumping, my cell phone rings.

The caller ID displays a number and area code I don’t recognize.

“Hello?”

“Anna?”

“Culebra?” I almost drop the coffee mug in my hand. My Mexican shape-shifting friend has never called me. Never. It’s no wonder I didn’t recognize the number or that I blurt stupidly, “What are you doing?”

“I’m calling you.”

“It’s four thirty in the morning.”

“Were you asleep? You don’t sound like you were sleeping.”

“No. Happens that I wasn’t asleep. But it’s still four thirty in the morning. What’s going on?”

“Can you come to TJ?”

“You mean to Beso de la Muerte?”

“No. I’ll tell you where to meet me.”

It could be the lack of coffee, or the shock of having him call me, or the fact that it ’s four thirty. For whatever reason, my brain seems incapable of forming an intelligent answer.

Culebra waits a second before barking impatiently, “Anna. Wake up. I want to see you. Are you coming or not?”

I rouse myself with a mental thump to the head. “Yes. I’ll come. What’s this about?”

Lance comes out of the bathroom. He raises a questioning eyebrow at seeing me on the phone but takes my mug, pours coffee for both of us and hands mine back.

He’s naked and smells of soap and shampoo and my thoughts drift to wondering just how much time we have before he has to go and what might happen if I follow him back into the bedroom . . .

“Goddamn it, Anna.” Culebra’s ire is escalating. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Lance moves back into the bedroom. Not fucking, which is what I’d like to be doing. The bedroom door closes and the vapor lock in my brain releases. “I’m here, I’m here. Where do you want to meet?”

“I told you. Downtown Tijuana.”

“TJ? Why?”

A pause. Then a noisy, impatient exhalation. “I have my reasons. Can you come?”

My turn to pause, impulse to grill him strong. But Culebra never asks favors. This must be important. I relent.

“Where?”

“Thirty-four Avenido Revolucion . In an hour?”

Crap. “Have to make it three. I’m not in San Diego.”

“Where are you?” Then he laughs. “Let me guess. Malibu with that muscle-bound model. Am I right?”

There’s no condemnation or sarcasm in his tone. If anything, he sounds pleased. “With Lance, yes.”

“Okay. I have some things to attend to. I planned to do them after we met, but I’ll take care of them before. Just don’t get sidetracked.

I’ll be waiting.”

He disconnects.

Lance is back, dressed. Too bad. No sidetracking now. He pours his coffee into a travel mug and leans down to plant a kiss on the top of my head. “Who was that?”

“Culebra.”

“At this time of morning?”

I shake my head. “Don’t have a clue what’s up, but he wants to meet me.”

Lance scoops his keys and wallet from the counter. “Have to go. Will I see you tonight?”

“Can you come to my place?”

He smiles and I’m suddenly counting the hours.

“I’ll be there. Lock up when you go.”

I see him to the door and wave him off. It’s a small, comforting gesture, waving a lover good-bye in the morning. Normal. Human.

I like the feeling.

I get dressed and head back for San Diego. A quick stop at the cottage to shower and change clothes and I’m on my way again. When I hit the border crossing, I sail through. It’s a little before eight on a Sunday morning. Too early for most tourists to be entering Mexico but the line coming back stretches a half mile.

TJ has changed a lot in the last twenty years. Especially the border crossing and the area right around it. Where there was nothing but bad road and vendors selling pottery and junk, there is now a mall. High-end stores, air-conditioning, trendy restaurants.

But go on into town, follow Avenido Revolucion to the end, which is where the address Culebra gave me is located, and you’re back in the TJ of my youth. My mom hated coming here, but out-of-town visitors always insisted on seeing the real Tijuana.

Of course my family never made it back this far. Back through narrow streets lined with bars and brothels, a few dicey eating places and shops filled with fake turquoise jewelry and authentic Mayan pottery. Evidently the Ma yans had forged a trade agreement with China.

This is where the shows were, the infamous animal acts. Used to draw a lot of tourists until an attempt was made to shut them down. From the looks of the signs above the bars, the attempt failed.

I haven’t been here in years. Memories flood back. As a teenager, armed with fake IDs and a wad of cash, my friends and I would sneak across the border for cheap booze and adventure. I was never afraid. Stupid, naive, but never afraid. When your brother is run over by a drunk on his way to a college class, your perspective on danger changes.

The bar where I’m to meet Culebra makes me wish I’d driven the car David and I use for work, a Ford Crown Vic, instead of my Jag.

I’m afraid if I park out in front of this dive, I’ll return to a stripped hulk. What was Culebra thinking?

As soon as I pull up, a boy of about twelve steps from inside the bar.

“Are you Senorita Strong?” he asks in heavily accented English.

He’s about fourteen, tall and skinny with a shock of black hair that curls like a comma in the middle of his forehead. He projects an air of hard independence. Hard earned, too, I suspect, looking around at the surroundings. He’s wearing clean but well-worn jeans and a red Harvard sweatshirt.

I nod.

He holds out his hand. “Twenty bucks and I’ll watch your car.”

Must be Harvard Business School. I pull out my wallet and hand him a ten. “You get the other ten when I get back and my car is in one piece.”

He accepts the bill and strolls over to lean against the passenger side door. “He’s in the back room. Go straight through.”

Reluctantly, I turn away from the car. My only consolation is that if I come back and something has happened, David has a friend with a good body shop.

Loud, grinding strip music suddenly starts up from inside. I push through the double swinging doors and the music intensifies. Bad sound system, like a seventies boom box, exaggerates the bass and warbles the treble. It might as well be amplified through tin. The smell of stale beer and overripe male is strong enough to wrinkle my nose.

I forget the smell and the bad music, though, when I look around the dingy interior and see what’s going on.

Ten men in various states of inebriation slouch around a raised platform. A woman, a hard thirtysomething, struts in front of them.

Grinning, leering. She’s dressed in a halter top, breasts barely contained. And a miniskirt. She’s wearing no underwear under the skirt. It’s evident with every calculated step.

Behind her, there’s a girl and a burro. She looks about twelve. She’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her hands and voice are busy, coaxing the burro. Readying it for the performance.

My stomach lurches and I look away.

I think I’m going to be sick. Right after I kill Culebra.