Authors: Charles Knief

Sand Dollars (7 page)

BOOK: Sand Dollars

5.38Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

ads

You have to understand that in Mexico everything has its price. You can pay for something to happen, or you can pay for something
not
to happen.” Sergeant Gregorio Esparza was a slender man in his mid-thirties, but looked even younger. With his rimless glasses and his Timberlines and Dockers, he looked more like a college student than a cop. Only the stainless-steel 9mm on his left hip confused the image.

We were sitting in an interview room, a tiny cubicle at the back of the small concrete bunker that served as the Southern Division police station. There were no windows and only the one door, and although the walls had an attractive vinyl wallpaper and the desktop was covered with a deep-green plastic laminate, I was glad I could get up and walk out at any time.

“La mordida,”
he continued. “The bite is the law of the land. It's a Third World country. It's not like here.”

I nodded. I knew how Third World countries operated.

“A man secures a position in law enforcement, he's supposed to provide his own equipment. Even his own supplies. So how else is he supposed to make things work?”

I understood what Sergeant Esparza was telling me. He was not defending Mexico's system. He was merely explaining how business was transacted.

“So you think the scenario I outlined would be feasible?” I asked. “A person could go down there, blow up his boat, and arrange to have the authorities confirm that he was dead? Even issue a death certificate?”

“Is that what you think happened?”

“If Paul Peters is alive, that's a reasonable explanation.”

Esparza shook his head. “It's possible. We haven't had much contact with the family. I never heard about the wife claiming she saw him at Calafia.”

That didn't square with Stevenson's version of the facts. I filed it for future reference.

“The family attorney, Stevenson. Did he help much?”

“Not much. Our team handled most of the details. He provided dental records, wrote a few checks to bring the remains back. We took the dental records down to Ensenada. They were a match.” He smiled. “At least that's what the coroner said.”

I nodded. That version wasn't in Stevenson's story, either. “What about Teniente JosÃ© Enrique de la PeÃ±a?”

Esparza shook his head. “He doesn't know you. He doesn't recognize your telephone number. That's why he won't return your calls. If you were to go down there alone, he wouldn't see you.”

“Why not?”.

“It's a culture of âI'll do for you if you can do for me,'” he said. “They work with us because we're
norteamericano
cops, because we represent power. But mostly they work with us because we can do things for them that they can't do for themselves. Some of them are real professionals, they're just handicapped by the system. We can provide backup for them. We cooperate on finding criminals that flee to the United States. There's a lot we can do for them, so they work with us.

“As far as cooperation at this level, there's no problem. It's on their own turf that things get nasty.

“Did you know, for example, that the Mexican government will not allow police officers to carry their own guns? They insist that they only carry issue weapons. So what happens? The government has about half as many guns as they have police officers. They get to the end of the supply and say, âWell, sorry about that. Don't go out alone. Just partner with an officer who is armed.' Of course, the street cops, they say âFuck that,' and carry their own, even though they're in violation of the law. That's where it starts.

“There are many layers of police in Baja, too. There's the
federales
, based in Mexico City. There's the state judicial police, and there's the
municipales
and the
judiciales,
judicial police from each city. It gets confusing if you try to sort it out. Sometimes they can't.

“Remember in nineteen ninety-three when Colosio, the presidential candidate, was assassinated in Tijuana? After it happenedâthat afternoonâthe state judicial police surrounded the
federales
in their own building and laid siege. No shots were fired, but it came close. Very, very close. The thinking, I'm told, was that Colosio had been murdered by the federals. This was right after that Catholic cardinal was shot at the Tijuana airport. No one was ever arrested for that, but the
federales
were suspected.”

“And?”

“And so people like Teniente JosÃ© Enrique de la Pena are in business. There is no real leadership from above. His position is not civil service. It's patronage, depending upon those above him, those with whom he has influence. He doesn't know how long he'll be in power, because it depends on many things, most of which are out of his control. So he gets what he can as he can. If you don't have anything to offer, you'll hit a stone wall. Or worse.”

“So either they won't talk to me, or they'll do what?”

“Seven million dollars is a powerful argument. If somebody did make a deal with Peters and his death was rigged, and then you come down without cover of authority asking all kinds of questions, your presence might be interpreted as a threat. Threats get neutralized.”

“They'd try to kill me.”

“How would you like to spend the rest of your life in La Mesa prison? It could happen. Or they'd kill you, which might be better.”

“How do you suggest I go about meeting de la PeÃ±a?”

“My team is heading down to Ensenada in a couple of days. Come along. We'll introduce you to some people who may be able to help. Get you started in the right direction. Open a few doors. And if there is anything to it, our introducing
you will give you some small protection. Not much, but it might make somebody think twice about killing you if you annoy them.”

“I'm good at annoying people.”

“Then let me know every time you go down alone.”

“You're serious.”

“Uh-huh.” Sergeant Esparza stood up. Our interview was over. “I'll call you when I know when we're going, but it looks like Thursday. Can I reach you at your hotel?”

“Yes. I appreciate it, Sergeant.” I got up and went to the door.

“
No hay de quÃ©,”
he said. “And by the way, that lieutenant in Honolulu said to keep a close eye on you. He said you could be a loose cannon.”

“I do what I can.”

“He told me a little about you. What you did last year. What you used to be. That's why you're getting the cooperation, you know. We wouldn't do this for just anyone.”

“I appreciate it.”

“Think nothing of it. Just don't make me have to arrest you. He said that's possible, too.” Sergeant Esparza held out his hand at the door. He was still smiling, but his eyes were hard. I wondered what else Kimo had told him.

“I'll remember that,” I said, shaking his hand.

Outside, the winter sun was covered by low gray clouds that threatened rain. The temperature had dropped while I was inside. I walked to the Range Rover, wishing. I had a jacket, and wishing that I knew what Stevenson had really done. If I had my choice of the two wishes, I'd take the jacket. I knew I'd find out about Stevenson. Even if it took a year, working my standard daily rate.

I decided to drive to his office and ask him about the number for Sergeant Esparza. He had not called me back as he had promised, and now there were a couple of other questions that deserved answers. Not that I would ask. It was too early for that. But I could work around them and see if he would get nervous or defensive.

His office was downtown, in a high-rise among the cluster
of high-rises that huddled together like a stand of trees on a prairie. I found a parking place on a side street, fed the meter, and walked the two short blocks to the entrance of Stevenson's building.

Standing across the street waiting for the light to turn, I saw Stevenson emerge from a side entrance accompanied by a young Latino male. The kid looked to be in his late teens, dressed in baggy pants and a bulky plaid shirt, the gangster uniform. His hair was buzz cut, the way they do it in boot camp and jail, cut so short he was nearly bald.

The kid was too small to be a sports hero, except maybe a jockey, and too young to be an ex-Treasury agent. He looked dangerous. I wondered what was going on. Stevenson, I noted, treated the young man with deference, as if he were the supplicant and the kid the lawyer.

Lacking explanation, but possessed of curiosity, I followed them to a deli, where they went inside and sat at a table near the big glass windows. The kid kept a busy eye on the crowds passing the restaurant, and seemed only half interested in what the lawyer was saying. Stevenson was animated in his conversation, using elaborate hand gestures and pointing toward the table with a stiff forefinger, careful not to point directly at the kid.

I stayed as long as I could, until the kid looked at me twice with those hard, flat eyes. The second time, our eyes made contact. I broke off the staring contest, not wanting to arouse his suspicion, and walked away. I didn't look back until I was around the corner and he could no longer ensnare me with the cold, bleak stare of a pitiless monster.

The only message waiting for me when I returned to the hotel was from Jack Kinsman. The owner of the schooner was willing to show it on Thursday. I called Kinsman, told him I wasn't available Thursday, and asked him to arrange something for the afternoon. The salesman grumbled a phlegmy baritone in my ear, telling me he'd try.

While I waited, I looked out my window at the gray skies, following them until they met the monochromatic horizon of the Pacific. Somewhere out there was where I felt comfortable. Somewhere out there was what passed as home. I pictured the clear blue skies over my island, and the impossibly green mountains with their leis of cloud over the peaks. Soon, I promised myself. As soon as this was over. I'd go home.

Sometimes you don't know where you belong until you leave it.

It hadn't been in my plans before. There had been no plan after San Diego. I'd been willing to go wherever the urge took me. The Mainland sounded like a place I'd wanted to visit after Kate's death made Oahu impossible. Everywhere I looked, every place I visited, reminded me of her. It ripped open the scabs on my heart each day the sun rose over the Ko'olau Mountains. Honolulu is a big city, but it's on a small island in the middle of a big sea. I needed to get away from all of it for a while.

Now Hawaii was calling. Now I wanted to go home. And I would. Once this was over.

Sometimes investigations take off on their own, needing only a slight nudge to set them off like rockets. This one was
hard to start. I saw several paths, all leading to Mexico, all with signs that warned against going down alone. I'd hit a stone wall, I'd been warned, or the wall would hit me. Sergeant Esparza's trip was two days off. I wanted to visit Petersoft, but with some kind of official investigation going on, it was explained to me that my presence was not desired at this time.

Lacking other leads, lacking any other way to get to the truth, I would have to sit and wait. I wasn't any good sitting and waiting, even earning a standard daily rate.

Kinsman called me back and told me to pick him up. The owner had agreed to meet us if we could come right now.

I put on a long-sleeved denim shirt over my polo. I was learning that Southern California could get chilly, despite what the local chamber of commerce would tell you. The emergency-exit stairs at the end of the hall spilled out across from the marina sales office and I enjoyed the exercise.

Kinsman was dressed as an aging peacock again, this time in a black-and-green aloha shirt covered by a bright yellow duffel coat with red piping. He looked like a hot dog gone bad. He followed me around the grounds of the hotel to the parking garage, smoking the butt end of one cigarette and lighting another before we got inside the structure. He puffed four or five times on the new cigarette before I opened his door, then tossed it away.

“You know where the San Diego Yacht Club is?”

“Shelter Island, right?”

“That's the place.” He settled back, fumbling in his pockets. “You mind if I smoke?”

“I don't mind,” I said, “but the owner might.”

He nodded. “Smoke Nazis. These people are all turning into Smoke Nazis.” He rolled down the window. “You mind if I flick my ash out the window? That way, no one will know.”

“Fine with me.”

“That's the truth,” Kinsman continued. “We're all second-class citizens these days. First they took the ads off the television. Then they kicked us out of places where smoking was
accepted. Used to have our own sections, then the do-gooders came around and forced us out altogether. Now they're kicking us out of the bars! Like if you valued your health you would be in a bar in the first place.

“A man can't have a smoke indoors anymore. If he wants to indulge in a perfectly legal habit, he's got to go outside and risk pneumonia. Damned Smoke Nazis. Pretty soon they'll make it illegal to smoke in your own home.”

“Tell me,” I said, “about the schooner.”

“You know Sparkman and Stephens?”

I nodded. “Local firm. Built classics about half a century ago, didn't they?”

“Yeah. Absolutely beautiful craft. Built most of their hulls back in the thirties. Closed the yard because of the war, the Big One. Vanderbilts had a sloop, so did the Du Ponts. Bunch of movie stars had 'em, too. A Sparkman and Stephens is like a Rolls-Royce, it's about as good as it gets.”

“What about the owner?”

“Owner wants to meet you. His name's Ashton. Supposed to be an old California family, but I never heard of 'em. Boat's been in the family since it was built. Old family. Old money. But nobody sails anymore, I guess. And this thing's a classic. Classics take more work just to keep them afloat. And a lot of dough.”

Kinsman leaned out the window and took a long drag on the cigarette. The windstreain nearly blew the cigarette out, but he puffed on it hard and the little orange tip glowed brightly. He had the technique. He'd done this before.

“The owner wants to make sure you've got the money and the know-how to keep it up, I guess,” he said, once he'd finished that round of inhaling. His sparse hair, blown back, exposed a high, wrinkled forehead liberally covered with liver spots.

He spent the rest of the drive with the window down, inhaling inside the car and exhaling with his head out the window like a happy Labrador puppy. The cold wind bit into my shoulders but I didn't complain. A man needs his vices. Sometimes they're all he has. I had enough of my own that I didn't dare criticize another's.

The yacht club's gate guard checked our names and waved us through, pointing out a parking spot. Kinsman seemed familiar with the grounds and led me to one of the docks behind the clubhouse. I hadn't been to the club since the late sixties, when I sailed Sabots as a guest of a girl whose family belonged. Very few memories of that decade remained, replaced by other, less-pleasant recollections of other times in other places.

Most of the yachts were gleaming white, trophies of successful lives in the business arena, court cases won, or gallbladders removed. They had a kind of bland similarity, with names like
Mama's Mink
or
Jury Rig
, names with no romance or imagination. The yacht at the end of the dock had a black hull topped by a mahogany railing, her wooden masts raked at the perfect angle to catch the slightest breeze, yet stout enough to withstand the strongest gale. Her name was
Olympia
. She was truly magnificent.

The owner led us through a tour above and below. Four staterooms plus a chart room, now an electronic navigation and communications shack that would put the United States Navy to shame. GPS, loran, radar, satellite telephone, she had everything necessary to navigate and communicate. Refitted engines and a fiveâkva generator filled the engine compartment. A new stainless-steel galley featured a microwave convection oven and a double-compartment sink. And throughout, teak, mahogany, and brass covered everything like a pasha's palace. I fell in love.

“The family is asking two hundred fifty thousand for her,” said Ashton, a big, florid man, wedged tightly into a boating outfit that was expensive, but old. He'd had these clothes for a long time and either could not afford to buy new when he'd gained the weight or didn't care how he looked. “At that price, it's a steal.”

I agreed, but said nothing. I looked at Kinsman and cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think?”

“If you want it, we'll have to get a survey done,” he said. He knew. Years of sales had made him sensitive to the lust he must have seen on my face. “Of course, the price seems steep
for the market these days.” He turned to the owner. “It's a buyer's market right now, Mr. Ashton. My client here has the cash, but he doesn't want to throw it away unnecessarily. I'm sure you understand that, sir.”

“I'm in the banking business,” said Ashton. “We take money seriously. That's why the price is set so low. This is a very expensive vessel to maintain. No one in the family uses it any longer. We've decided to sell it. Reluctantly.”

“Of course,” said Kinsman. “We'll get back to you today or tomorrow.”

“It might be sold by then.”

“That would be too bad,” said Kinsman. “But that's life. We'll pay for a survey, if you'll arrange it.”

The banker nodded. “I don't see how that can hurt. If you prefer, you can use your own marine surveyor. I'll let the guest-relations people know.”

“And then we'll contact you, once we've read the report.”

“That seems fair.”

We shook hands and, after a last glance at the
Olympia
, left the yacht club. Kinsman rolled down his window and lit another cigarette.

“I want you to offer two hundred,” I said, louder than I wanted, but necessary because of the wind and the traffic noise. “Cash.”

“Right. Cashier's check, wire transfer.”

“No. Cash.”

Kinsman brought his face into the car, his cigarette bobbing up and down as he stared at me. “You some kind of drug dealer?”

“No. I just have the money in cash. The man's a banker. He'll know how to get rid of it. And this way he can declare it any way he wishes.”

“But there's records, transfers, bills of sale. Things like that.”

“All based on what he claims the price of the sale is.”

Kinsman nodded.

“So if I pay him two hundred thousand for the boat, he can
say he got one fifty, one sixty. Maybe even less, depending on his greed.”

“And he pockets the rest.”

“He look like the most honest man you've ever met?”

Kinsman chuckled, stuck his head out the window, took a deep drag on the cigarette, coughed twice, and pulled his head back in. “I think we can do some business, Mr. Caine,” he said. “I like the way you think.”

“You think we'll get the boat?”

“I'll work this guy the way a whore plays a sailor with a hard-on. He'll want it so bad he'll sell out his own mother. Which, come to think of it, he'd be doing, if she's still alive.”

“Get that survey tomorrow, if you can. I'll be out of town on Thursday, but let's do this Friday.”

“And you got the money?”

“I have it,” I said.

“Where you can get to it fast?”

I nodded.

“I'll make sure that survey happens. Call me when you get back on Thursday, or on Friday morning. We'll wrap it up then.”

“And your commission?”

“Comes out of his cut,” said Kinsman, adding more wrinkles to his permanently furrowed brow. “Which will go down if he lowers the official price.”

“I'll make up the balance to you. In cash.”

“Just what I wanted to hear. It's nice doing business with a gentleman. Don't see many of them these days.”

“We're a dying breed,” I said.

“Just don't become extinct before Friday.”