Wolf in the Shadows (22 page)

“And Terramarine murdered this captain as an example?”

“We think so. At first they claimed responsibility, but when an investigation got under way and the authorities started looking
closely at them, they all of a sudden had alibis.”

“So they commit acts of terrorism to make a statement. How about to make a profit? Would they kidnap someone for ransom?”

She hesitated. “They might kidnap someone, but I think it would be more for the high-visibility factor than for money.”

That didn’t fit with the Mourning kidnapping. “What do you know about a Mexican environmentalist named Emanuel Fontes?”

“Very dedicated, very highly respected.”

And that didn’t fit with Fontes’s company being the agency through which the kidnappers had intended to collect the ransom.

“Interesting you should mention Fontes,” Anne-Marie added. “That tuna-seiner captain whom Terramarine claimed credit for murdering?
He worked for Emanuel Fontes’s brother, Gilbert. Gilbert owns the Corona Fleet. It used to be home-ported in San Diego, but
when Fontes bought it, he moved it to Mexico.”

I recalled Gage Renshaw mentioning that there was bad blood between the brothers. “In your opinion, would Emanuel Fontes have
dealings with Terramarine?”

“Definitely not.”

“Not even if Terramarine’s purpose was to discredit his brother, or perhaps get back at him for his anti-environmental policies?”

“No. Under no circumstances would Emanuel cater to their brand of terrorism. I know, because I met him at the Rio conference
last year. We spoke at length on ethical considerations.”

I sighed; for a moment it had seemed I was on to a good lead. “Only a couple more questions and I’ll let you go. Have you
ever heard of someone named Brockowitz in connection with Terramarine?”

“Stan?” She sounded surprised. “I’ve heard of him, but not in connection with that group.”

“Who is he?”

“Stan Brockowitz is a total asshole. A fund-raiser for anti-environmental causes. You’ve heard of Wise Use? Alliance for America?”

“Isn’t Wise Use the group that held its anti-environmental summit at the same time the Rio conference was going on?”

“Uh-huh. Got a lot of press because of that, too. Their agenda is destructive: to open federal parkland to logging and mining.
They want to get rid of all federal regulation of the environment. Alliance for America is a coalition of groups representing
mining, timber, ranching, and other business interests—sort of the flip side of my organization. Then there’s the Center
for the Defense of Free Enterprise, a nonprofit outfit that raises money for groups fighting environmentalists. Big business
contributes heavily. Needless to say, I don’t like any of them, but their tactics are legitimate and I suppose in their way
they’re sincere. Brockowitz, on the other hand … His firm is called Facilitators, Incorporated—a nice catchall name for anything
that benefits Stan Brockowitz.”

“Where’s it located?”

“San Clemente.”

“Perfect place,” I commented, thinking back to the days of Nixon’s western White House. “Who do they raise funds for?”

“Pretty much the same groups as the Center for the Defense of Free Enterprise. But there’s a difference.” Anne-Marie paused
briefly. “Look, can you hang on a minute? I have to take another call.”

“Sure.” I waited on hold, mulling over this new information. When Anne-Marie came back on the line, I said, “Before we go
on about Brockowitz, do you recognize the name Ann Navarro?”

“Navarro’s Brockowitz’s wife.”

“Okay, as you were saying …”

“Brockowitz is a former Greenpeace member, was fairly high-placed. Around six or seven years ago he made a big power play
and was forced out. He got his revenge by establishing his fund-raising firm and courting big business. His methods … I call
them Green Peril tactics. He portrays major figures in the environmental movement as Fu Manchus and the rest of us as their
dacoits, scurrying around to carry out their evil schemes.”

“Clever,” I said. “The specter of an evil empire is a great scare tactic—and a great way to raise money.”

“Right. And Brockowitz raises a lot of it. What his contributors don’t realize is that he’d turn on their causes in an instant
if he saw greater profit potential elsewhere, and that his administrative costs are padded. A good deal of the money he raises
gets siphoned off into his own Swiss bank account.”

“Is that fact or just speculation?”

“Pretty solid speculation. One of my good friends, believe it or not, is an IRS auditor in Orange County. She goes after big-time
defrauders, and for years she’s been obsessed with nailing Brockowitz. She’s come close, too, and that’s gotten her slashed
tires and a fire in her house that the arson squad labeled suspicious in origin.”

“Brockowitz sounds like a sweetie. Anne-Marie, do you suppose Hy knows him?”

She laughed wryly. “You bet he does. Remember when Hy was arrested at that anti-logging demonstration in Siskiyou County last
March? It was Brockowitz who set him off, taunting him from behind the picket line. The bad blood between the two of them
goes way back to when Stan was still active in Greenpeace.”

Interesting—very. “Okay,” I said, “how would I go about getting to know Brockowitz? Or Ann Navarro?”

“Well, I’m not too sure about Stan. People with so many enemies tend to be wary about letting strangers get too close. But
Navarro … They haven’t been married more than a year, so she probably hasn’t had time to get into quite as paranoid a state.
As I recall … Hold on a minute and let me double-check this.”

Again I waited. Anne-Marie returned quickly. “I remembered correctly,” she said. “Navarro owns a store called the Swallow’s
Nest in San Juan Capistrano.”

“What kind of store is it?”

“I’m not sure, but from the name I’d say it sells tourist crap.”

“Thanks, Anne-Marie. This has really helped.”

“Shar, when’re you coming home? Hank needs to talk with you. He’s been—”

“I know he feels bad about everything, but I’ll try to make it up to him. Tell him …” I paused, unsure what I wanted to say.
Finally I finished somewhat lamely. “Tell him I’ll see him soon.”

To get to San Juan Capistrano, sixty-some miles north of San Diego, I had to pass through the San Onofre checkpoint. The distant
nuclear reactor, its cones like dormant volcanoes against the sparkling sea, filled me as always with a dull foreboding; the
caution signs beside the freeway that displayed the silhouettes of a fleeing family deepened my gloom. No illegals were attempting
to cross the eight lanes of pavement now, and the immigration people looked bored as they waved cars through. But under cover
of darkness, the illegals and their coyotes would begin to move; tensions would rise among the checkpoint personnel. Night
was the bad time here, when nerves frayed and desperate people risked, and often lost, everything.

When I drove into San Juan Capistrano ten minutes later I was pleasantly surprised. It had been fifteen years since I’d last
visited the mission town that had always reminded me of a sleepy Mexican village, but while it had grown, it also retained
its old-fashioned flavor. There was a new restaurant at the train station and a lot more antique shops and other stores, but
the mission looked as peaceful as ever. No wonder the swallows kept returning on schedule from their annual pilgrimage to
Argentina.

I parked on what looked to be the main commercial street, went directly to a phone booth outside a small deli, and started
to look up the address for the Swallow’s Nest. Then I noticed it was right next door. What had drawn my attention was the
window full of silk birds that sat on perches or suspended from near-invisible threads as if in flight. Below them a two-foot-tall
peacock preened its opalescent silken feathers.

How on earth, I wondered as I crossed the sidewalk, did such a specialty shop stay in business?

Inside were more fantastical birds, so beautifully fashioned that each seemed to possess its own individuality. A brilliant
macaw winked slyly from one corner; a raven’s expression revealed a philosophical bent; a crow leered evilly; a cockateel
looked too damn smug for its own good. I’d never been overly fond of birds—at one time, in fact, I was pathologically afraid
of them—but now I found myself completely smitten with a crochety old parrot. If I had to buy something in order to strike
up a rapport with Ann Navarro, that’s what it would be.

I went over to it and found a price tag pinned discreetly under one wing. “Ninety dollars!”

“But handcrafted by fine artists,” a husky voice behind me said.

I turned. The woman was tall and coppery-haired with large silver-framed glasses. Either this wasn’t Ann Navarro or Hy had
never met Stan Brockowitz’s wife and had approached Ana Orozco because he expected Ann to look Hispanic.

“It
is
wonderful,” I said of the parrot.

“We have smaller ones that cost less.”

“No.” I shook my head regretfully. “It’s his personality that drew me.”

“Cranky, isn’t he? I call him W. C. Fields.”

“Where do you get your merchandise?”

“Mostly Mexico. There’s a firm that we order from that employs a stable of talented folk artists.” She hesitated, studying
the parrot. “Look, I think we can make you a deal on W.C. He’s been on inventory for a while. What do you say to seventy-five
dollars?”

I glanced at the bird. “I’m not sure. It’s still a lot of money. If you have a card, I’ll let you know.”

“Of course.” She went to the sales desk and produced a rectangle of brightly colored cardboard: “The Swallow’s Nest, Exotic
Birds That Don’t Talk Back, Ann Navarro.”

“This is you?”

She shook her head. “Ann’s the owner.”

I frowned, staring at the card. “Ann Navarro. Is she married to a man named Stan Brockowitz?”

“Uh-huh. Do you know him?”

“Sure I do. This is quite a coincidence. I’m on my way to San Clemente to talk with him about … a book I’m writing on the
backlash against the environmental movement.”

“Well,” the woman said stiffly, “you’ll be talking with the right person.” She moved away and straightened W.C., who slumped
disconsolately on his perch.

I said, “I take it you don’t agree with Brockowitz’s stance.”

“Let’s just say that I work here because I like real birds, all of them. Stan has raised a lot of money to oppose legislation
that would regulate the oil companies more stringently. If you’ve ever seen what an oil spill does to bird life …” She shrugged.

“I’m glad you told me that. You see, Brockowitz doesn’t know it, but the approach I plan to take in my book is critical of
people like him. He may have sensed that, though, because he was very difficult to line up for the interview—wouldn’t let
me come to his house, just said I’d have to catch him at the office during working hours and he’d see if he could spare the
time. I have visions of waiting around San Clemente for so long that I miss my deadline.”

“That’s Stan. When he’s unsure of a situation, he tries to avoid it entirely.” The woman gave W.C. a final pat and moved back
to the sales desk.

“I don’t suppose
you
could help me with his home address,” I said. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but it’s for a good cause.”

She examined me thoughtfully through her glasses. “Why do you really want to see Stan?”

I was silent, trying to come up with a believable explanation.

“Look,” she added, “I don’t like Stan one bit. Don’t like Ann much, either. They’re both opportunists without any real ethical
base, so I don’t feel bound to treat them in an ethical manner. But I would like to know what I’d be getting myself into.”

I took out my wallet and showed my identification. “Stan’s connected with a missing-person case I’m investigating.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed that the reasons for my interest in her employer’s husband weren’t more damning. “Well, I’m
not supposed to give the address out, but I guess nobody will ever need to know where you got it.”

“Of course not.”

Her fingers tapped against the desk and frown lines appeared above the nosepiece of her glasses. “All right,” she said, “I’ll
give you the address on one condition.”

“Yes?”

“Buy W.C. from me. I work on commission, and if I don’t make a substantial sale today, Ann’ll dock my weekly draw.”

I glanced at the cranky old parrot, who had slumped on his perch once again; it was the best trade I’d ever been asked to
make for information. “Wrap him up and write down the address,” I told her.

*    *    *

Navarro and Brockowitz lived not in San Clemente but in a rural area to the east near the Riverside County line. It was citrus
country, and the gently rolling hills were covered with acre after acre of orange, lime, grapefruit, and avocado trees. As
I drove through it I reflected that this was the way the whole of Orange County had once been, before oil pumping stations
reared their bobbing heads and the developers arrived to pump their own riches from the burgeoning economy. There wasn’t nearly
so much money to be had from tending groves of shiny-leafed trees, but to my mind they were far more scenic than the housing
tracts that sold out before their rafters rose or the condominium complexes that stretched for miles of pseudo-mission sameness.

The woman at the Swallow’s Nest had given me explicit directions, and I soon reached a little town called Blossom Hill. It
wasn’t really a town at all, just a post office, grocery, and gas station. I paused at its four-way stop, circumvented a mongrel
that was lying in the middle of the intersection, and continued until I came to the first road on the right. It took me deeper
into the groves, about a mile, and then I spotted a white Victorian on a hill.

It was one of the big country-style Victorians—totally different from the narrow citified houses of San Francisco. Wraparound
porch, three stories, square and substantial. A drive wound up through the trees and bisected a spacious lawn. Roses bloomed
along the house’s walls—ancient ramblers. A maroon Volvo stood at the top of the drive, and in the old-fashioned porch swing
sat a dark-haired woman in a flowered dress.