A blue and white police car, parked near a taco stand.
She moved toward it, waving her hands, signaling to the officer for help.
42
“Cuales tu nombre?”
“What is your name?”
The cop behind the desk didn’t speak English, so he had pulled over a bilingual secretary to translate.
“Elizabeth Crawford,” Beth said. Her head was pounding worse than ever and she was convinced that she was on the verge of a full-fledged migraine.
The officer nodded and scribbled on the piece of paper in front of him. “?De donde eres?”
“Where are you from?”
Beth was no stranger to police stations. Her job required her to work closely with the Los Angeles police, and a week didn’t go by without a visit to one of the substations located throughout the city.
But this was her first experience with a Mexican station. And so far, it hadn’t been good.
When she’d flagged the cop near the taco stand, his first reaction had been to tell her to move along. She was just another in a string of drunken American turistas who had interrupted his dinner.
It took her a while to convince him that she’d been attacked, and after a medic had been called and she’d been cleared of any major physical damage, the cop finally drove her to a nearby station.
Somewhere in the middle of it all, she heard the distant blast of the cruise ship’s horn, and she knew it was leaving port, taking her suitcase and Jen’s belongings with it.
She wondered for a moment if Jen was back on board, partying with Rafael and Marta, but that didn’t seem likely. After hours of battling her fluctuating emotions, she was convinced now that something terrible had happened. That, for once, Jen was in trouble not of her own making. She was also convinced that Rafael and Marta were behind it.
Beth had spent a good twenty minutes sitting on a bench in the police station next to a pair of hookers in handcuffs who had rattled on endlessly. Despite the language barrier, she figured they were complaining about what every hooker in the known universe complained about: asshole johns and abusive pimps.
Every once in a while, they’d glance in her direction and laugh, and she could only be thankful that at least somebody had something to laugh about on this godforsaken day.
She, on the other hand, just wanted to cry, her face already streaked with dried tears.
But she hadn’t let herself. It was time to be strong. Assertive. She might not have been in LA, but that was no reason to play the submissive victim.
Unable to take the wait any longer, she had gotten to her feet, gone over to the reception desk, and demanded that she be seen immediately.
After being passed through three or four different people-most of whom spoke only broken English and had no idea what she was ranting about-she had finally landed at this desk, sitting across from an overweight man in a tight blue uniform.
“?De donde eres?” the cop asked again.
Before the translator could speak, Beth held a hand up. She was tired and cranky and her vision was starting to double. She suddenly felt detached from the world, as if she were observing this moment through a dream of some kind.
“Is there any way we can get past all this and concentrate on finding my sister?”
The translator, a cute twentysomething with bloodred nails that were long enough to give Fu Manchu a run for his money, smiled politely, then did her job and came back with: “Your sister was also attacked?”
Beth was at her wit’s end. Tried to remain calm.
“How many times do I have to say this? She’s been missing since just before noon. She went into a leather-goods store and never came out. I think I may know who’s behind it, and if you can just contact the cruise company, I’m sure we can get the information we need.”
After the translation, the cop nodded, then tapped the paper in front of him, as if it were the most important document in the world. “?De donde eres?”
This was going nowhere fast.
“California,” Beth said sharply. “I’m from goddamn California. You happy now?”
Her head was killing her, and she needed to talk to someone who (a) gave a damn about what she had to say, (b) had some muscle around here, and (c) spoke fucking English.
“Look,” she said to the translator, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Is there someone else who can help me?”
The girl shook her head. “You must understand, senorita, that we see many turistas who are missing loved ones.”
“Which means what?”
“People come here to drink and have fun. Sometimes they get lost; most times they are found. In between, there is paperwork.”
“In other words, I’m out of luck.”
“That is not what I said. I heard you talking to Eduardo at the front desk and I know you are worried about your sister, but it is our experience that such matters usually resolve themselves. You will see. She will be with you before the night is over.”
If only, Beth thought. But this was a waste of time. Without somebody lighting a fire under these people’s asses, she might as well A sudden thought occurred to her.
Peter.
Peter had recently prosecuted a drug-smuggling case that was brought to him by a joint American-Mexican task force. He was bound to know somebody with some pull down here. At least it was worth a shot.
She needed to call him.
She looked at the secretary. “My cell was stolen. Is there a phone I can use?”
“Si, senorita,” the girl said, then pointed. “You’ll find a pay phone around the corner and down the hall.”
The fat cop said something abrupt and nasty sounding and the secretary snapped her head toward him, giving it right back. Beth had no idea what they’d said, and figured that was probably for the best.
Thanking the girl, she stood up and immediately felt a rush of dizziness. Had to grab the chair for support.
“Are you all right, senorita?”
“Yes,” Beth lied, then headed across the room in the direction of the phone.
43
The hallway around the corner seemed different from the rest of the station. Cleaner, better lit.
It almost looked like a hospital corridor.
But this could simply have been Beth’s imagination. The migraine was in full blossom now and her vision kept going in and out of focus, making it difficult to see.
Down at the far end of the hall, a man in a bathrobe and pj’s stood at the pay phone, speaking quietly into the receiver.
That was a first. But then it was her experience that just about anything can happen in a police station.
As she approached, the man hung up and moved past her, nodding and smiling as he went.
Beth didn’t return the smile. The anvil being hammered inside her head made it too difficult to think, let alone respond.
She stepped up to the phone on the wall and picked up the receiver. She was about to reach into her purse for some change when she remembered it had been stolen.
Wonderful. Now what?
Then she realized she could hear a buzzing sound, a dial tone coming from the receiver. Maybe this wasn’t a pay phone, after all, but the Mexican policia’ s version of a courtesy phone. That didn’t explain the coin slot, but Beth wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.
Putting the receiver to her ear, she dialed 0 and, to her surprise, got a live operator instead of a recording. One who actually spoke English.
The operator asked for a number and Beth gave her Peter’s cell phone from memory.
It was a long-distance call from here, but the operator didn’t seem concerned, and a moment later the line began to ring.
On the third one, a familiar voice answered.
“Hello?”
“Peter, it’s Beth.”
There was silence on the line. And it went on too long.