The Girl at the Deep End of the Lake Read online

  “Senseless and stupid,” he finally said, seemingly talking to Emil. “There are six million people in the Phoenix area, a million of them buy drugs of some kind. There is enough to share. This is just greed. So, Mr. Jackson,” he said looking at me. “Where is Gabriela?”

  “There are no ransom demands?” I asked.

  He shook his head, “Not even false ones, and there are a lot of people looking. But most would know that a false demand would be met with harsh retribution.”

  “Detective Boyce says there has been no body found.”

  “No, no body. I think we would have heard.” Again he looked at Emil. Emil shook his head.

  There was a rustling in the hallway and Blackhawk stepped away from the door, his hand going to his hip.

  The ambassador stepped into the doorway. We all stood.

  “Good morning,” he said pleasantly. “Please sit.”

  Escalona moved around the desk, “Please, sir, sit here.”

  The ambassador waved his hand, “That’s not necessary, Santiago.”

  “When you are in this office, it is yours. I insist,” Escalona said.

  “Most gracious,” the old man said, moving around the desk and setting down.

  He looked at us, one at a time, ending with me, “I couldn’t help overhearing the last of your conversation. So Mr. Jackson, you think Gabriela’s alive?”

  “Not to be crass, sir, but there is no evidence otherwise.”

  “At least not yet.”

  “No sir. I believe she is alive. The mystery is who has her. She wouldn’t be out there on her own. The girl I met would need someone to care for her.”

  He nodded, “Yes, that would be Gabriela.”

  “So the question is who benefits from having her.”

  “The obvious answer is Dos Hermanos,” Escalona said.

  “Dos Hermanos doesn’t have her,” I said.

  “You know this how?” Escalona asked.

  “Mr. Bavaro came to Blackhawk’s place, El Patron, to see me.”

  The ambassador’s eyebrows went up.

  “Mr. Bavaro? What did he want?” he said.

  “He was offering me a reward to find the girl.”

  The ambassador looked at Escalona, “They are becoming desperate.”

  He looked back to me. “Because of your connections with the police?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “How much did Mr. Bavaro offer?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars.”

  He studied me. His eyes were brown, flecked with gold. His eyebrows hung over them like white brush over a craggy slope.

  “That is a large sum of money, Mr. Jackson. A sum such as that would tempt any man.”

  “Your Excellency,” I said, “you don’t know who I am. You’ll just have to trust me when I say I just want the girl back safely.”

  He studied me some more.

  “What this says,” I continued, “is that Dos Hermanos doesn’t have Gabriela either. So someone else must.”

  He stood. He shook his head. “This is a mystery, Mr. Jackson.”

  He reached out and he took my hand. He held it firmly. He looked deeply into my eyes.

  “I am going to trust you, Mr. Jackson. Every old man eventually has to trust someone.” He released my hand and moved to the door.

  He turned back to look at me again.

  “You need to know something, Mr. Jackson.”

  “What would that be, sir?”

  “As of this morning, Valdez has put a $100,000 bounty on the head of Mr. Bavaro.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Not to Valdez.”

  He turned and looked at Escalona. “Anything he needs,” he said.

  52

  I left El Patron in mid-afternoon and drove back to the boat. My little light was blinking green, green, green. I took a Dos Equis from the refrigerator and popped it open and sat on the couch.

  There was something I was missing and it was really bugging me. Maybe Gabriela had found another gangbanger to hang with and they were holed up in another hovel somewhere. That could be, but Mendoza had the whole force looking for her. She would have to surface somewhere. Logic told me that Dos Hermanos had to have her, but why would Bavaro offer me money to find her?

  I finished the beer and got a sudden case of the domestics. I started dusting and wiping and vacuuming. I cleaned out the refrigerator. I had two weeks' supply of leftovers. I bagged it and took it up the dock to the dumpster. I hosed the decks down. I cleaned the heads using lots of disinfectant. When I was finished the boat reeked of clean. I was restless. I went out on the bow and looked at the other boats and marveled at how much money was floating on the water. The Moneypenny was still buttoned up and gathering dust.

  I stepped out on the dock and went around to the stern and stepped back aboard. I tossed the garden hose up top and went up. I stacked the chairs and moved them around. I hosed down the deck. The water ran down the sides, so now I had to clean the windows.

  I took the bedding off the bed and put it through the wash. I followed that by washing what dirty clothes I had in the hamper. I hung everything up nice and neat. Now I had killed enough time that I could fix a drink without feeling like a lush. I took the drink to the stern, moved a chair out of the sunlight and sat and watched the water. I told myself to just sip it and make it last, but when I wasn’t watching, it disappeared. I went into the galley and fixed another. This one seemed to go faster than the first. After the third one, I quit counting.

  The sun had set and there was a faint glow left in the western sky when I stood up, said “fuck it” out loud, and went to bed. I lay down, closed my eyes and watched Hayden’s little blue face for an hour. Finally, I gave up. I got up and dressed. I went up the hill to the Mustang. I took the cover off and stuffed it into the trunk. I dropped the canvas top and drove out of there. I didn’t know where I was going. After a while the Mustang seemed to know where I wanted to go.

  53

  It was late the next afternoon, and I pulled into the El Patron parking lot just as the downtown offices were letting out and the parking lot was filling. It had been windy all day and the wind had kicked up the dry top soil of the Valley of the Sun and the dust covered the downtown area like a blanket. Driving in, it had looked like tired, brown cotton candy, hovering just above the downtown skyscrapers. As I parked I thought about covering the Mustang but didn’t, knowing full well that when I came back out, the cover would have been stolen. I put the Rugar in my back pocket. I was wearing a black tee shirt and another short sleeved shirt over it. I unbuttoned the outer shirt and pulled it loose to hang down and hide the pistol bulge.

  Inside, there were a handful of customers in each of the side bars and a couple dozen in the main bar. Most were still wearing their office uniforms. The men were in button down shirts and power ties and the shop girls in crisp blouses and trim short skirts, or business suits with matching pants and jackets. They had collected for happy hour. The serious customers would be in later.

  I slid up on the stool and thought about whether I had the guts to order my cure for a hangover. I had not gotten back to the boat until after sunrise and I had immediately started drinking and continued all morning because there wasn’t anyone to tell me what a fool I was being. Finally, I had fallen on the bed and drooled for a few hours, then was awakened by someone hitting my temples with two simultaneous five-pound sledges. I decided I needed to seek out someone who would tell me what a complete ass I was, so I showered, shaved, dressed and drove down to the El Patron.

  Jimmy came down the bar to me and peered at me, then laughed, “Man, you look like shit.”

  “You should see it from in here,” I said. “Gimme a red Stella with a splash of hot sauce.” It was a compromise.

  A moment later he placed a glass, a bottle of Stella Artois, a small can of tomato juice and a small bottle of Louisiana hot sauce in front of me. I mixed them up and drank it down. He brought me another. This time,
after mixing, I drank half of it, then left the rest on the bar while my body and mind settled. In a few minutes I began to feel better.

  Across the bar from me, a gaggle of shop girls were drinking white wine and cosmopolitans. Every time I looked their way one of them was watching me. She was one of the pantsuit girls with brassy blonde hair and a little too much make-up. The third time I caught her looking I smiled and nodded my head. She leaned in and said something to the other girls and they giggled and looked at me. She picked up her wine and came across the floor. She looked to be a little older than me but had a very good body. She wasn’t shy. She slid up on the stool next to me.

  “Hey, I know you, don’t I?” she said.

  I hadn’t seen her before in my life.

  “How could I ever forget you?”

  “No, no shit. I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere. Do you work at the paper?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Wish I did. Is that where you work?”

  “Yeah, I work in advertising.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  “Boring as hell, but it’s a job. A lot of people don’t have one, right?”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Where do you work?”

  “I don’t,” I said.

  “Well, that’s a bummer. Why don’t you apply at the paper? They are always hiring. May not be the job you want but it’s something until you get what you want, right?” She drained her glass.

  “Absolutely. I think I will. Can I buy you a drink?”

  “Sure,” she said, then, “Uuh-“, she was looking over my shoulder.

  I turned to look and there was Boyce walking straight for me. Her badge was on her belt and the pistol on her hip was obvious.

  She slid up on the barstool beside me, “Hi, sweetheart,” she said wrapping an arm around my neck and kissing me on the mouth. Without releasing my neck, she leaned forward and looked across me. “Who’s your friend?”

  The girl picked up her wine glass and slid off her stool.

  “Uh, well I gotta get back to my friends. Nice running into you. Nice meeting you,” she said to Boyce. She hurried away so quickly she almost tripped.

  Boyce was laughing.

  “That was just plain mean,” I said.

  “Oh, come on,” she laughed. “Don’t tell me you go for the big blond obvious ones?”

  I looked at her. “No, I go for the ones that tease you and leave you.”

  “You talking about the other night?” she said. “I think we both were saved from something we would have regretted later.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  She looked at my drink, “What the hell is that?”

  I explained what a red Stella was. She grimaced. “Sounds awful.”

  “It’s a lifesaver,” I said. “Are you on duty?”

  “Ever vigilant,” she said.

  “Are you on duty?” I asked again patiently.

  “No, I signed out a half hour ago.”

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “You have any money?”

  I laughed, “Yes, I have money. Why would you ask?”

  “You don’t work. Did you inherit money?”

  I shook my head, smiling.

  “Then where does your money come from?”

  “Odd jobs,” I said.

  She looked at me with cool appraisal, then turned and waved at Jimmy.

  54

  We were still at the bar when the band took the stage. Elena came through the upstairs door and down the stairs like the queen she was. She spotted Boyce and me and came over to us.

  Almost every eye was on her as she came to me and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She turned to Boyce.

  “You must introduce me to your friend,” she said to me, looking at Boyce.

  “Elena, this is Detective Boyce, Detective Boyce, Elena,” I complied.

  “Pleased to meet you,” Elena said, sticking out her hand. Boyce took it.

  “Likewise.”

  Elena turned to me, “Is your friend going to stay to hear the band?”

  I looked at Boyce.

  “Love to,” she said.

  “Good,” Elena said. She looked at me. “Blackhawk will be down later, and maybe we can all have a drink together?”

  “Great.”

  She turned and as she moved away she turned with mischievous look, “Oh, by the way, Anita says hi.”

  Boyce grinned at me, “Anita?”

  I shook my head, “Women just like to stir the pot.”

  “Women don’t like anyone else sampling their pot.”

  “Am I someone’s pot?”

  The band began to play. She grinned at me again, “We’ll see.” She took my hand, “Come on, let’s dance.”

  “I don’t dance well,” I said. “I have a bad foot.”

  “You have no foot,” she said. She tugged on me, “And when it comes to dancing, all men have a bad foot.”

  I let her lead me onto the dance floor. Elena gave me an ooh la la look.

  Boyce put her hands around the back of my neck and I put my hands on her waist and tried my best to follow her around the floor.

  Elena kept the songs slow and long for a while. Boyce eventually moved into me and laid her head on my chest. I wrapped my arms around her. Elena did her best for us but finally had to please the growing crowd and lead the band into something loud and rowdy.

  Jimmy had saved our places at the bar and had two fresh drinks waiting for us. He had made mine a tall scotch and soda and I waved my thanks. Boyce and I sipped our drinks and watched the dancers rip around the dance floor. I don’t know if I could learn to do that.

  Nacho had joined Jimmy behind the bar, hustling up and down, mixing drinks. Blackhawk still hadn’t shown.

  We finished our drinks and two more appeared. I noticed Duane, the main door bouncer, come in and go to the bar and signal Nacho. Nacho moved over to him and leaned over the bar and Duane leaned into him talking. Duane had something in his hand. A piece of paper. He handed the paper to Nacho and Nacho read what was on it. He turned and looked at me.

  They both moved down the bar to where we sat. Nacho leaned into me so I could hear. Duane leaned into listen.

  “Duane says there’s a guy out in the parking lot that asked him to give you this,” Nacho said, indicating the piece of paper. He handed it to me.

  Boyce leaned over to read with me. It said, "I have the girl."

  “The guy waved me over,” Duane said, “and said give this to Jackson.”

  “That’s all he said?” Boyce said.

  Duane nodded. “I wrote the license number on the back.”

  Jackson turned the slip of paper over. On the back in Duane’s scrawl was "YLT 1410."

  “This guy still out there?” I asked.

  “Still sitting there when I came in here,” Duane said.

  I looked at Nacho. “Get Blackhawk,” I said, and slipped off my stool.

  Duane led the way, and Boyce and I went through the double doors and down the crowded hallway. We stepped outside and the sky was dark with the lights around the building illuminating the parking lot. There were a handful of smokers standing around the entrance.

  “There,” Duane said, pointing at a black Escalade. It was in the back of the north side of the lot. The motor was running and the parking lights were on.

  I started forward and Boyce grabbed my arm, “You stay here, I’ll handle it.”

  I shook her hand off and started forward again when the rear window of the SUV rolled down. There was a pale female face in the window, but she was in the shadows so I couldn’t tell who it was. The female slowly leaned forward to look at me. The light played across her face.

  It was Gabriela.

  I started forward and the front window slid down. The barrel of an automatic rifle poked out. I could see the shooter's face. It was Diego.

  “Get down!” Boyce shouted, and slammed into me. Diego began firing. I went down on one knee and Boyc
e had drawn her pistol. I was off balance, but had the Ruger in my hand. She pushed me again.

  “Don’t shoot, you’ll hit the girl,” I was shouting, but Boyce was in a firing stance and pulling the trigger. Something was tugging at my shirt. I rolled and the bullets chewed up the asphalt, some whining into the distance, some hitting the building. The lights on the SUV snapped on and the SUV skidded away, tires spinning, throwing gravel and dirt in its wake.

  I pointed the Ruger at the SUV but didn’t shoot. I didn’t want to hit the girl. With squealing tires and a wall of dust the vehicle went over the curb and out into the street and sped away. Then I heard Boyce.

  “Shit, shit, shit!”

  I looked over and she was rolled into the fetal position. Her back was to me and I could see a widening stain on her blouse.

  “Oh, shit,” she groaned as I reached her.

  I tore my shirt off and wadded it. “Here,” I said. “Hold this tight against it.”

  She looked up at me, “They shot me, Jackson,” she said. Her eyes were wide, then they fluttered, then they closed.

  I pressed the shirt hard against the wound in her side and screamed, “Call 911. Somebody call 911!”

  Duane had it on speed dial.

  55

  Blackhawk and Elena were beside me as I held Boyce. Her breathing was ragged but regular. She was losing a lot of blood. I could feel it slipping between my fingers. My shirt, pressing against the wound, was saturated. The parking lot was filling with customers as the word spread. For the first time I noticed that a group had gathered around one of the smokers. He was sitting spread eagled, holding his arm and rocking with pain. Blood was running between his fingers and down his arm.

  I looked at Blackhawk and signaled with my head for him to come closer.

  He leaned down, his head almost touching mine.

  “There will be a million cops here in a second,” I said. “Tell Nacho and Duane to keep their mouths shut. It was a drive by with a dark car.”

  “Yes, of course,” he said. “Who was it?”

  “Diego.”

  “Bavaro’s Diego?”

  “Gabriela was in the back. If he’s pushed, he’ll kill her.”