Just Add Salt (2) (10 page)

Chapter 13

As we made for San Quintin and our reunion with Martinez, I tried to reach Jenks several times, but got either the hotel desk or his cell phone message center. I didn’t bother trying to leave some inane message; apologies are best done in real time and I was determined to get our relationship back on an even keel. Besides, it would give him a chance to eat a little harebrained crow.

The Trob called with big news two hours after I’d talked with Martinez. He’d tracked my mystery e-mailer through cyberspace. The warning messages originated from an Internet café in Ensenada, Mexico. The plot sickens.

“Sooo, Wontrobski, what now? Should we be worried about whoever is sending these e-mails?”

“Nope.”

“Easy for you to say, happily and safely entrenched in your tower of wisdom. I’m out here in the Pacific by-God Ocean, receiving threats. By the way, we’re stopping in San Quintin to see Detective Martinez.”

“I know.”

“Gee, does everyone on the entire planet Earth know what I’m doing and where I am?” Silence. The Trob does not relate to rhetorical questions. “Let me rephrase that. How do you know that I’m stopping to see Martinez?”

“He called me.”

“Silly me. Why?”

“Because Jenks asked him to.”

“Of course.” I blew my bangs out of my eyes. Evidently my life is an open book, which everyone seemed to be reading. “How much did you tell Martinez about what I was doing down here?”

“Not too much. He didn’t ask for details, but already knew it had something to do with work.”

“Fidel, have you told Jenks the details?”

“Nope.”

“Good. Hell, I’m barely in the know myself, and until I am, I’d like to keep both Martinez and Jenks as mushroomy as possible. You know, keep ‘em in the dark and feed ‘em manure.”

Fidel actually chuckled. Or maybe he was choking on tuna fish and Wonder.

“So, in your cyber snooping, did you get a name to go with that Internet message?” I asked, not expecting to get a real answer. The Trob plays his cards close to his black vest, probably so I wouldn’t have to testify against him in a court of law one day.

“I got a return address, but you won’t like it.”

“Give it to me anyway.”

“Oh-kay. Not really a name. It was sent from a hotmail account.”

“And?”

“It was from U-R-P-H-A-T at hotmail dot com.”

I was writing as he spoke and Jan, who was peering over my shoulder, giggled and said, “You are fat?”

The Trob was right, I didn’t appreciate that address one little bit. “Well, I never,” I breathed indignantly, but I had to admit it was funny. “Gee, thanks Trob. And I don’t suppose there was an owner to that rude address?”

“Nope. One time use.”

Crap. “Oh, well, nothing to do. So, what else is new?”

“Allison’s pregnant.”

“Holy crap!” I suppose that wasn’t exactly the proper response, but the picture that flashed through my head wasn’t a pretty one. Two pictures actually: the Trob and Allison actually having sex, and what on earth their baby would look like. “Uh, well, congratulations.”

“Thank you. When will you reach Mag Bay?”

“You mean you don’t know, what with all this info funneling into you. I mean, hasn’t my boat captain called you, for cryin’ out loud?”

“Not yet.”

I gave him an estimated schedule and said good-bye, then I told Jan the baby news. She was as nonplussed as I was, so we spent the next hour trying to conjure up an image of what the child would look like. With any luck, it would get the Trob’s brains, but Allison’s common sense and good looks. We had a field day with possible names, settling on Condaleeza Einsteina Wontrobski, if it was a girl.

I also told her about the mystery e-mailer being tracked to Ensenada.

“So, I got an idea,” she said in a whisper.

“Why are you whispering?”

“Well, duh. Fabio comes from Ensenada. We get hate e-mail from Ensenada. It ain’t rocket surgery.”

“Mike Tyson comes from the planet earth, too, but that doesn’t mean we’re related. Come on, Jan, Fabio was on board, at sea, when we got the last two messages. Besides, why would he not want us to take a trip he’s getting paid to make?”

“I dunno, but I have a really brilliant idea. Maybe like, not having all our plans and everything that happens to us published in the National Enquirer? And, let’s hire Martinez.”

“To do what?”

“Go to Ensenada, stake out that Internet café and bust the perp.”

“The perp? You read too many novels. However, that is a brilliant idea. Not that Martinez can arrest anyone down here, but he can maybe find out who’s messin’ with us.”

Jan wandered off and, unable to resist, I brought up the mystery e-mail, hit REPLY and sent my own message: “I can lose weight, but you’ll still be ugly.”

Okay, juvenile, but I felt better for it.

Martinez arrived by panga shortly after we set the hook in San Quintin Bay. We’d kept in touch via his cell phone when we got within range, so he already had a fishing buddy lined up for the ride out to the anchorage. Retirement seemed to suit the ex- cop. He was tanned and his formerly dour expression appeared relaxed a tad since his days at the Oakland Police Department. Probably something to do with the relief of simply surviving the streets of Oakland for thirty years.

“Just in time for breakfast, Marty,” I greeted him as he boarded
Raymond Johnson
. “Did you bring the tortillas? Thought we’d have fish tacos.”

“I see nothing much has changed. I’m still schlepping groceries for you.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and handed over two bags containing fresh veggies, still warm from the tortillaria corn tortillas, and two bottles of Ron Palmas rum. Jan and I led the way onto the back deck, where Fabio waited.

“Fabio, come meet my friend, Marty.”

The men shook hands and sized each other up. Or at least Martinez was sizing. Fabio seemed intent on playing a stereotypical, buffoonish Mexican
pistolero
straight out of a fifties film. All our captain needed to complete his new persona as a Sierra Madre stand-in were crossed bandoliers on his chest, a rhinestone studded sombrero, and a bottle of Tequila in his non-pistol-brandishing hand.

If Martinez was amused, it didn’t show. When Fabio swaggered off to “check the engines” we stared after him.

“What,” Jan asked, “was that all about?”

“Damned if I know. Maybe he’s afraid of badges.”

“Badges? I ain’t got no stinkin’ badge,” Martinez drawled. “He’s dirty.”

I gave him a look. “Oh, come on. How can you know that? You just met him.”

“Hinky.”

“What?”

“When I get hinky, something’s wrong. And he gives me the hinks. Thirty years in law enforcement and you learn to pay attention to the hinks. He’s hiding something.”

“Aren’t we all? Maybe he just doesn’t like you, Detective Martinez.”

He shrugged. “Could be.” But he looked doubtful. “I’d handle the money if I were you.”

I changed the subject. “Speaking of the hinks, how would you like a job?”

“Wouldn’t. I’m retired.”

“Bet your wife would enjoy a break from house building. Maybe a nice vacation in Ensenada? All bills paid?”

“What you got in mind?”

I told him about the phone calls and e-mail. “Wontrobski narrowed the e-mail to an Internet café in Ensenada. I’ve used those before. They keep a log. With a few pesos greasing a palm, bet you could get a look at it.”

Jan chimed in. “Maybe they’d remember the perp.”

Martinez curled his upper lip, hitched his pants and tilted his head. “Yeah, then I could sweat him,” he snarled in the Cagney mode.

“That’s it?”

“Well, you could off the guy who sent it.”

Martinez looked rattled. “You’re kidding.”

“Of course I’m kidding. Just find out who’s sending me crank e-mail and we’ll nail the caller, as well. Then you can off him.”

“That’s all you want, huh? Knowing you, it’ll probably turn into an international episode of some kind. Probably bring an end to NAFTA. But hey, I’m tired of hammering and painting, so why not? One thing though, no one except you two,” he cocked his head at Jan, “and I, will know what I’m doing. I’m not even going to tell my wife the details. Got that? Not Jenks, not Lars, not Wontrobski, and especially not your so-called boat captain.”

I locked my lips, turned an imaginary key and crossed my heart.

“Marty,” Jan said, “give me an e-mail address where we can forward anything we get from this joker. Got Yahoo or Hotmail?”

“Nope. I got my own domain.”

“Well, la de dah,” I sang. “You can still reach me at [email protected]. What’s yours?”

“[email protected]. You’re my first customer.”

After Martinez left, Fabio came out of hiding and was acting like his old self, whatever that was. I had a sneaking suspicion the real Fabio emerged when he was being a serious boat captain, but since he occasionally morphed into Ricky Ricardo and a cheap imitation of a bandido, it was hard to tell where he was coming from. I sincerely hoped, with his handsome face, brilliant smile and Latin charm, he didn’t have a Ricardo Montalban persona.

Years ago, Montalban’s sexy commercials were directly responsible for my purchase of an overpriced Chrysler LeBaron convertible. No telling what Montalban could have suckered me into if I’d been stuck on a boat at sea with him.

“Don’t look at him like that, Hetta,” Jan whispered in my ear while she dragged me to the aft deck.

“Huh? Who?”

“You know damned well who, you Jezebel. Remember Jenks?”

“Jenks who?”

“Jenks, your fiancé?”

“Oh, that Jenks. See any ring on my finger?” I asked, waving my naked hand under her nose.

“No, but you are committed to Jenks. No fooling around with the hired help. Especially one with criminal tendencies.”

“Oh, come on. So what if Fabio doesn’t like cops? Doesn’t mean he’s a felon, for crying out loud. Relax, I have no intention of snogging the crew.”

“I hope to hell not, because I am crew and you’d better not snog me, whatever that means.”

“Brits use it. Cuddling, kissing, whatever. I kind of like how it sounds.”

“Fine. Just don’t do it.”

“Okay, I’ll just snog with my eyes. Snog in my heart. Snog—” Jan rolled her eyes and stomped off.

“Well, snog you!” I yelled at her back.

Within a few hours of leaving San Quintin, we’d planned to go right back to our routine of rotating watches while plowing toward a refueling stop at Turtle Bay. For the first hour, though, we were all three drawn to the flying bridge, watching a quarter-mile-wide feeding frenzy of diving pelicans, gulls, frigates and leaping dolphins. Fabio diverted our course slightly so his fishing line would drag through the melee, maybe catch whatever was causing such a ruckus.

“I wonder how much fuel will set us back at Turtle?” I speculated as we watched the show. “We’ll have been running a steady eight knots for a little over two and a half days, with a half day sitting in San Quintin. Let’s say around fifty hours at eight knots an hour. We burn four gallons an hour, so I figure we should have burned right at…two hundred gallons. Then there’s some generator time at a third of a gallon an hour. We can check the hour meter. Let’s start a pool. Whoever is the closest to the number of gallons it takes to fill us up at Turtle Bay wins.”

“What do they win?” Jan wanted to know.

“Uh, I dunno. How about they get to skip half a watch?”

“That is fair,
señoritas
. But I warn you, I will win.”

“How come? It’s my boat and I know just about what she burns.”

“I will win, as you shall see,
Señorita
Café.”

And danged if he didn’t.

The gas pier at Turtle Bay is a high, rather rickety looking affair with a rusty set of antiquated pumps and a very long hose. To refuel, you have to drop anchor and back as close as you dare to a bunch of dangerous-looking broken pilings just under the water’s surface. Someone throws a line from above, which you grab after it hits you square on the head, then they slide down the nozzle, which hits you square in the chest. Had the wind been whooping, it probably would have been a bear, but we got lucky. When we were full, the nozzle was pulled back up and replaced with a knuckle-rapping glass jar containing your bill. In goes the money, up goes the jar.

Neither Jan nor I even came close to winning the fuel pool.

“I don’t understand it,” I whined after shelling out a small fortune to the lackadaisical man on top of the pier, who sent back a few pesos in change. “I figured we’d burned about two hundred gallons and according to what you told they’re getting down here for a liter of diesel,” I grabbed my calculator and punched in six hundred bucks divided by 3.7, “we just took on three sixty. Do we have a mechanical problem? Or a fuel leak?”