Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“You have all my account numbers.”

“Yes.”

“My will.”

“In the safe.”

“You know what to do if anything happens. Make sure my boat is ready.”

“Maybe there’s another way?”

“You know that’s not possible. We knew this as soon as we heard the news…” He wondered how much time he’d have to say good-bye, how to say it. “Let’s finish this walk.” His last with Rosa, he thought, but couldn’t say the words as he watched his granddaughter race across the sand, her tiny footsteps disappearing as the foamy water swept across the beach, erasing them as though they’d never been there at all…

Sydney realized all too soon that she’d started at the wrong end of the marina in Ensenada, walking the slips filled with yachts and pleasure boats, wading through passengers disembarking from a cruise ship. When she finally made it to the sports fishing piers, the air heavy with the scent of fish and bait, the gulls thick on the docks, it occurred to her that she was far too late if she was looking for fishing boats. The place was filled with empty slips, the sports fishermen having left at the crack of dawn if not earlier. Nor did she think she needed to talk to anyone in the large commercial ventures. What she needed was the older establishments, the ones who could point out to her the mom-and-pop operations, the sort you found out via word of mouth, assuming Orozco was even still in business.

Or had he ever started it up? Was it simply wishful thinking on her part that she could come down here after twentysome-odd years and hope to find a man who clearly never wanted to be found?

She looked around, tried to figure out where to go next. Early in the morning the place had been filled with fishermen. Now the area was filling with boaters who had no interest in catching fish, unless it came already cooked and served on a platter. The tourists were starting to come out en masse, and for a moment she had no difficulty understanding why they were drawn here, and she took a moment, soaked in the sound of the gulls, the gentle breeze, the salt in the air and the sun on her face.

A brown pelican swooped down, landed in the water beside the dock where several other pelicans floated, perhaps waiting for the boats to come in, or resting after having fed all morning. A sea lion poked its head up, eyed a floating dock that already bore the weight of three other sea lions.

The water glistened, and white sails dotted the horizon. The sun had long since burned through the marine layer, warming the day to a balmy seventy according to the thermometer hanging outside the office of Tomasita’s Fishing Charters, a small building no bigger than a couple of outhouses, paint flaking, hinges rusting at the edges. A sign out front advertised the cheapest rates in all of Ensenada. They probably were, since it was about the last place left to charter a boat. She reached for the door, but found it locked, and when she peeked into the dusty window, discovered it was empty.

“Great.” She turned, looked around. A dark-haired man standing a few slips away stood coiling a rope, speaking heavily accented English to someone onboard a nearby boat. She walked over to him. “You know when they might be back?” She pointed to the office.

“Only early morning when the boats go out.”

She took out the copy of Cisco’s Kid, and showed it to him. “Any idea where this might have been taken?”

“Hmm.” He squinted against the bright sun. “Puerto Nuevo, perhaps?”

“Puerto Nuevo?”

“ Si, a fishing village.” He pointed up the coast to the north. “Famous for lobster. But you might ask at the fish market. Ernesto. He used to live in Puerto Nuevo.”

“How will I find him?”

“Just ask anyone in there. They all know him.”

“Thanks.”

Which meant she was back to square one, because one guy who used to live in a town didn’t mean she was any closer. She didn’t have a clue where this boat was. What was it Carillo had said? Baja was a big place. It would be like walking up and down the coast of California searching, assuming the boat was still in existence. Hell, as far as she knew it could be in San Diego, and she’d remembered it wrong all these years. On that cheery thought, she left the pier. Just before she turned into the fish market, she looked back, saw the man on the boat who had pointed her this way talking to two men, one wearing jeans and a white golf shirt, the other in a pale Hawaiian shirt. Tourists or would-be fishermen, she thought, walking to the fish market that overlooked the waterfront.

Families lined the concrete bulwark, some eating tacos, others eating churros. Kids tossed bites to the gulls, laughing as the birds snapped at the pieces and each other. Pelicans waddled through the trash, poking their bills at it, searching for food that had been dropped. The scent of cinnamon and deep fried dough drifted from one of the many stalls, although most advertised tacos, the vendors shouting out, “Tacos pescado,” as she walked by. The brightly painted signs advertised fresh fish tacos, apparently the specialty. Just beyond that stood a large building with “Mercado de Mariscos” painted at the top. In smaller print was the story of how the marketplace came to be. Sydney stepped into the cool interior, the smell of fresh fish over ice apparent and growing stronger as she wove her way through the various stands inside, asking for Ernesto, always being pointed farther in. She’d been to plenty of fish markets in the States, but there was nothing like the variety here. Everything from octopus and squid, to fresh or smoked tuna, not to mention the jumbo shrimp, albacore, lobster, clams, and many others she couldn’t name.

But as she worked her way through, finally found Ernesto hawking rock cod, and tried to understand his heavy accent as he was directing her through a side door, she had that feeling again that she was being watched, a feeling that went beyond the simple knowledge that anyone holding out a picture, asking questions, would garner attention. She ignored the side door Ernesto wanted her to exit. No one inside was able to help her, most shaking their heads, or saying, “ No habla ingles. ”

She left, bought a couple of tacos at one of the stands out front, was certain she’d never tasted anything so good, the battered fish flaky, the tortilla fresh off the grill, the spicy taste of radish bringing with it the instant memory of eating fresh fish tacos with her father. And she might have gone for that second taco, had a young boy of maybe ten or twelve not walked up to her, his eyes jet-black, with a bit of sunlight glinting from their depths. “Senorita? You are looking for the boat Cisco’s Kid?”

His question surprised her enough that it took a moment for her to gather her senses. “Yes.”

“This way, si?” He beckoned for her to follow.

She crumpled her napkin, tossed it and the remaining taco into the trash, then hurried after him as he raced from the market, then on across the street. “You know this boat?” she called out as she tried to keep up with him. “ Cisco’s Kid?”

“I know it,” he said, darting around several women admiring something in a shop window.

Before she could query him further he was a good twenty yards away. She looked back toward the market, the water, then to the boy, running away from the docks. Away from the boats.

He stopped, waved at her. “Hurry, senorita. There isn’t much time.”

This was what she came for, right? The moment he saw her start in his direction, he was off again, running, zipping around pedestrians, light posts, and trash cans. He made a right, then a left, disappeared down a narrow cobbled street. There were no shops here. It seemed to be mostly residential, older homes. In the back of her mind was the strong sense that she was being set up, but she’d come too far to pass up even the slightest lead. And just when she was about to give up, figured he was definitely setting her up, probably for a robbery, she saw it, a boat, high and dry and filled with flowers as colorful as the painted, tile-roofed house it sat in front of.