Menaced Assassin (39 page)

Of course Tim didn’t agree with Dante about possible danger to Dalton, and Tim was a hell of a good homicide cop. Tim had to outthink the bad guys ahead of time as well as sweep them up afterward. Tim’s opinion had weight.

But could Dante take that chance with Dalton’s life?

Moll was gone. Her father was gone. Her mother had been squeezed dry. Dalton’s parents in Wyoming were the only
people left to whom Dalton might have confided some part or all of whatever Moll had sent him in that mailer.

He sighed and called the airlines. More damned snow and wind and cold and blow for Dante.

Dry and still and sunny and hot all at the same time. The road twisted north out of La Paz along the cup of bay that Steinbeck had written about so movingly in
The Pearl
. Tony was behind the wheel, sitting beside him their Mexican guide in an ill-fitted, sloppy uniform with a lot of brass and braid on it. Red Grant sat in back with Mr. Prince, who he knew was worried about Popgun getting popped like that.

La Paz didn’t look much like the novel’s descriptions any more. No little palm-frond huts: the poorer people of La Paz had beaten-out five-gallon kerosene tins for roofs; commercial developments and funky fast-food joints lined the highway. Rich houses with red tile roofs dotted the higher ground, and they passed a large resort hotel complex with wrought-iron gates ablaze with bougainvillea set between ornate concrete and stucco balustrades. Still had nice sandy beaches, though.

Five minutes later, the guide said in slurry, heavily accented English, “Turn left. Up here. Next left.”

Tony slowed the heavy Chrysler, turned in at the sharply angled driveway. Gravel crunched under the tires. The heavy steel gates were open, with a single armed guard on either side of them. Branches brushed the top of the car as they passed.

“Sorta lax security,” said Tony in barely veiled contempt.

The thick tropical foliage abruptly ended as the drive
widened into a broad parking area. On the right a number of small buildings spread out over the open grassy ground. There were a black Mercedes, a red Ferrari, a chunky olive-green Range Rover, a Cadillac Fleetwood sedan, a Corvette.

“You park here,” said the guide, his voice surly.

Several men in civilian clothes lounged about by the cars, eyes watchful. One was wiping down the sparkling Mercedes: a fully auto Ingram MAC-11 was lying on the fender he was polishing. The man working on the red Ferrari had a mini-Uzi on a leather strap worn bandoleer fashion over his shoulder and across his chest. Red got out, his hand hovering by the tails of the brightly colored sport shirt he wore outside his slacks. When he nodded, Tony opened the rear door for Mr. Prince.

The way led through an arbor and on the other side was the mansion. The heavy perfume of tropical flowers swept over them. It was immense, Spanish style, set on a knoll overlooking the bay. They were greeted by a tall lean distinguished-looking man with a beautifully barbered white goatee and flowing white hair.

“Señor Prince, you honor my household.”

Ignoring Tony and Red, as was proper, he shook Prince’s hand. Mr. Prince returned his slight bow.

“You honor me with your hospitality, Governor.”

At the front of the mansion, a cool breeze was blowing up across the face of the low bluff from the achingly blue bay. Below were sparkling waves sweeping up to break upon a creamy white sand beach with gentle thuds before sliding back down to mate with their following clone.

Sandpipers on spindly legs were tiny moving dots at the lip of the advancing and retreating waves. A little girl in a blue one-piece swimsuit was rushing in and out of the water, shrieking with distant laughter sweet as birdsong. A small black and white dog ran in and out with her, yipping to her laughter.

“My daughter,” said the governor with pride in his voice.

“She is very beautiful,” said Mr. Prince.

“I am pleased that she takes after her mother.”

A tall elderly woman in a one-piece cotton dress was standing on the beach watching the girl. She seemed to be alone. Tony nudged Red’s arm.

“Lousy security,” he said.

“Look by the big boulder.”

Two soldiers in uniforms were lounging against the rock with AK-47s. The girl looked up and shaded her eyes and saw her father and waved extravagantly. The governor’s aristocratic face was wreathed in smiles. The smiles drew sharp crinkles at the corners of his eyes and etched lines in his lean cheeks. His eyes were almost black, with warm depths. He waved back. So did Mr. Prince. Their little group returned to the house.

“I am sorry my wife is not here to greet you. She is in Mexico City. Last-minute Christmas shopping. Shall we go in?”

The mansion was dim and spacious and quiet and cool. Everything gleamed, from the red waxed tile floors underfoot to the crystal chandeliers overhead. The carpets were thick and handwoven in bright Indian colors.

“I understand your election was very successful.”

“It was what you North Americans call, I believe, a landslide?” He raised an eyebrow quizzically as he spoke. Mr. Prince nodded. “Of course we are a poor country, but with NAFTA we hope to steal some shipping from Oakland and San Diego…”

In the living room, every wall was covered with paintings, the polished antique furniture had beautifully worked Mexican silver and ceramic artifacts on the surfaces. The chairs were of rosewood with spindly legs and hand-crocheted seats. There was a marvelously handmade model sailing ship five feet long on a davenport table behind the couch which faced the sea through tall front windows.

“I understand your Las Vegas has the fastest-growing economy in the United States,” said the governor.

“It’s got everything,” bragged Prince. “Weather, access to California, cheap labor, entertainment…”

“And the gambling.”

“The backbone, of course,” agreed Mr. Prince seriously.

Red stood with his back to the wall, his head on a swivel. A hell of a lot of firepower around this place, casually displayed. It worried him, a little. Tony, as usual, was out of it, a fucking tourist, walking around touching stuff; Red could see the governor keeping a wary eye on him. Bull in a china shop.

None of the furniture looked as if anyone ever sat on it. To one side was a grand piano with ranks of faded family photos marching across its polished top in silver frames. A grandfather clock tolled the seconds with a pompous pendulum beat.

“Shall we have some breakfast?”

The dining room had a very long polished hardwood table and two walls of glass looking out on the spacious grounds. Red half expected to see strolling peacocks. The other walls were of polished hardwood. There was a museum quality to the mansion, as if nobody lived there.

Tony was already in the kitchen, chowing down with the help. Red took his stance just inside the door, his back to the wall, his hands laced in front of his stomach. The butt of his gun was only inches away.

The governor said to him, a trifle sharply, “There is no threat of danger here, young man.”

“It’s my job, sir,” said Red in his low soft voice.

“I see.” The governor paused, then jerked his silvery head in a little nod. “Yes. Your job. Quite admirable.”

The breakfast was bountiful, beautifully served on fine china and solid silver cutlery. Papayas with limes, eggs done Mexican style with chiles, hot tortillas and warm rolls, juice, coffee in silver pots. The napkins were lace, hand-embroidered, as was the antique tablecloth, its ivory color maintained by washing it in tea.

“The gambling is the backbone, you say, Martin?”

“It makes the rest possible. The house never loses money, its percentage is built right into the odds.”

“A marvelous source of income…” Red finally understood why the governor had invited Mr. Prince to breakfast. “If we here in Baja California
de sud
should locate a casino
in La Paz to bring added revenue for needed government spending…”

“I’m sure you would find our industry supportive,” said Mr. Prince smoothly.

“And the necessary technical knowledge…”

“Would be forthcoming.”

For a percentage, of course, thought Red, and understood why Mr. Prince had
accepted
the invitation. A small percentage; but a toehold here in Mexico! Fun in the winter sun—with gambling! Dynamite.

The driveway in from the main road had been plowed, snowbanks stood four feet high on either side of Dante’s rental car. He fought the wheel; even with chains
crunk-crunk-crunking
against the insides of the fenders he could end up in a snowbank. The sky was deep blue, the sun off the snow dazzled the eyes.

The drive curved across the open rolling ground, he saw the long low single-story ranchhouse. There were barns and outhouses and even a bunkhouse with smoke drifting up from a stovepipe through the roof. It looked like a Christmas card.

Off to the left was a corral with three horses inside, blowing white plumes into the air as they trotted around in a circle. The snow under their hooves was churned and muddy. A cowboy who looked Mexican was sitting on the top railing watching them while he rolled a cigarette with one hand.

Dante heard the dog barking before he heard it thudding against the bunkhouse door. He was glad it was latched; his taste in dogs ran to mutts who waggled all over and licked your face, not ones who wanted to bite it off.

The door of the ranchhouse opened and a tall lean man with silver hair stood there in his stocking feet. Even at a distance and with the white hair, Dante could see Will Dalton in the older man’s features.

“Mind your manners!” the man yelled at the unseen animal.

The barking reduced to snarls, a grumble or two, ceased. Dante went up to the house.

It was cherry pie à la mode, wonderful after a venison stew loaded with big cubes of meat, carrots and potatoes and onions, all in a thick rich gravy. Served with home-made baking-powder biscuits. As he forked rich cherry filling and flaky crust into his mouth, Dante felt that at any minute he and the old man might go outside and start chopping at that tree stump with the huge roots in front of the house like Alan Ladd and Van Heflin in
Shane
.

“Another piece of pie, Lieutenant?”

Dante patted his belly sadly. “I couldn’t, Mrs. Dalton.”

“Please. Marjorie.”

She had insisted, over his objections, that Dante stay for lunch. Western hospitality. She was a woman in her fifties with frankly gray hair and glasses and a kind strong face. She looked as if she still rode, with strong wrists and a sturdy body under jeans and a sweater.

“I saw a cowboy out in the horse corral,” said Dante. “Do you have much work for them in the winter?”

“Must have been Alfonso. Been with us forever. Taught Will how to ride and how to break horses.” John Dalton shrugged. “About half our men are Latinos these days. Hard to find Anglos will work for the wages we can pay. So we find work for our
vaqueros
all year ’round. Works for them, works for us.”

He leaned forward, big hands clasped in front of him. His hard-bitten face was tranquil. His son’s resemblance to him was remarkable. He had refused all discussion until after they had eaten, but pie and coffee seemed to fall outside the ban.

“Now, then, you said on the phone you had some questions.”

Easy and direct, so Dante could be the same.

“How long since you’ve heard from Will?”

“We got a Christmas card,” said Marjorie.

“I did too,” said Dante. “He told me he was coming back in maybe mid-January—anyway, sooner than expected.”

John nodded. “Something about a report of his findings, the funding of his grant…” He paused with a shrug in his voice. “He wasn’t too explicit…”

“I think he might be in danger when he comes back, because of something Moll left him. I can’t get hold of him where he is. He wouldn’t tell me anything before he left. So I thought…”

John chuckled again. “You figgered we might tell you things he wouldn’t?”

“Will always pretty much keeps his thoughts and feelings to himself,” said the mother thoughtfully. She stood up, went to fetch the big enamel coffeepot. “He wouldn’t have told us anything he didn’t want to get out.”

“But you told him you didn’t like his wife,” said Dante. “He didn’t ask you to her funeral.”

“Wasn’t that we didn’t like Molly—we did, a lot. We just felt she wasn’t the right woman for our son,” said the rancher easily. “We don’t have secrets among us, but there’s plenty Will just don’t talk about.”

“We always felt she’d bring him a lot of grief,” said Marjorie. Her eyes looked damp behind her glasses. “She did.”

“Got a little herself,” said Dante sharply, “getting—”

“Before,” she said. “Being unfaithful and all.”

“You knew about that?”

“Always suspected it,” said John. “We could see it in the way she looked at men. There was a… hunger in her eyes. Would have felt sorry for her if she hadn’t been married to Will.”

Dante probed about the package he was sure Moll had mailed to Will shortly before her death. They had never heard of it. He had a hunch they wouldn’t have told him about it if they had. He didn’t really blame them. These were tranquil people, aware of their own worth and dignity. Self-sufficient, lived on the land, with the land, molded the curve of their lives to the curve of the seasons across the land.

There were worse things than danger, even death, in such a life. Such as betrayal of those rhythms of the earth. Such as dishonesty and dishonor. They wouldn’t lie to him. They just wouldn’t tell him anything they didn’t want him to know. Or that their son wouldn’t have wanted him to know.

He finally left, unsatisfied. A little wary. There was something he was missing, some signpost in the right direction; he just wasn’t sharp enough to see it.

It was five days later.
Tosca
held her position off, while Red ran Mr. Prince in to the short plank dock at the Hotel Pez Grande in the rubber dinghy. Miguel was waiting, his ancient seamed brown face split into a huge grin of pure delight.