Death in the Baja Page 2

  The plan was similar to last year’s, in that there would be eight officers per shift, four state police, like Julia, and four federal police. They would patrol the Malecon and do car checks at the traffic circle on the way into town. The car checks served the double purpose of allowing the police to give visitors a photocopied map showing locations for camping, eating, first aid stations, and restrooms, plus give the cops the chance to see if there were any known criminals coming into town. The Semana Santa plan meant no unscheduled time off and no sick leave for the week unless a person were dying. What was different this year was that the female officers would not be patrolling, but rather responsible for answering the phones, staffing the front desk, and participating in the car checks.

  Last year, Constable Ana Maria Verde had been accosted on the overcrowded Malecon by a group of six drunken teenage boys who thought female cops were a big joke. They had tried, unsuccessfully, to get her gun from its holster. Her arm was broken in the scuffle, though two of the boys were handcuffed to a railing by the time the nearest federali officer showed up to help. Julia, Ana Maria, and Lucia, the three female officers in San Amaro, speculated that perhaps he took more time to arrive than necessary just to see if she could handle herself.

  Sexism was officially against the police code of conduct, but still very much being practiced by nearly all the male officers in San Amaro. The three serving women knew the score going into training, but it didn’t make it any easier to live with. The comandante, though one of the good guys, still did very little to help the women out.

  Julia believed this action of not having them on the front line was likely aimed at improving safety for everyone. If the all-male team of federal officers were going to test their female colleagues in volatile situations such as the one last year, bad things could escalate quickly, putting many people in possible jeopardy. Still, being sidelined like this was not the kind of help she or the other women wanted, and while she understood why the bosses had made that decision, she left the meeting frustrated and disappointed.

  Chapter 3—March 8, 2018, Desert Southwest of San Amaro

  Simon switched to low four-wheel drive as the track to the base of Cañon Del Demonio deteriorated from the more hard-packed desert sand they had been driving over for the last couple of hours into soft sand. The two-and-a-half-hour trip to the parking lot, a euphemism for the large shrub-covered sandy area where hikers left their vehicles, was dusty, bumpy, and beautiful as only a desert can be. Stella and Simon were bringing up the rear of the three vehicles.

  Keeping safety in mind, Stella and her friends always went in a group of three or more vehicles when out in the desert off-roading, as they were today. The occupants of each vehicle had a responsibility for themselves and those in the other vehicles traveling together. There is no cell phone coverage back in the mountains where they were, and the desert is a vicious environment, not one to be taken lightly. Both Stella’s Jeep and Rick’s rig had radio systems allowing vehicle-to-vehicle communication. Jaime’s Jeep did not, so Rick had lent them a walkie-talkie set to the same frequency as the in-rig systems the others used.

  Rick and Rob, in Rick’s RZR, an open desert vehicle that looked like a roll cage with wheels and spoken as the word razor (though spelled R-Z-R), took the lead and determined the best route to their destination. When off-road in the desert, any given track could be obscured by blowing sand within hours or days, so each trip required awareness of the destination relative to one’s present location and careful observation of the shifting conditions. Rick’s rig, in the lead, had a high-end GPS system onboard helping guide them. The occupants of the lead vehicle also needed to be sure to not lose sight of the vehicle directly behind them, Jaime and Molly’s Jeep. They then had the responsibility to keep eyes on their rearview mirror, looking out for Stella and Simon’s Jeep, all while not losing sight of the lead vehicle. The desert can be a dangerous environment for those not taking precautions. Each year people lose their lives by underestimating the beautiful but harsh Mexican deserts.

  In addition to the safety preparation of the vehicles with extra gas, oil, antifreeze, transmission fluid, tow ropes, extra jacks, blocks of wood, first aid kits, tarps, and more, people making a desert run need to have their own safety in mind. They each had a bandanna, hat, sunglasses, sunscreen, lip balm, food, gloves, extra socks, small pack, Band-Aids, and a flashlight at a minimum. This group of travelers was prepared.

  Twenty minutes later, all six of them disembarked their vehicles. Two northern-mockingbirds were trying to outsing each other in a creosote bush off to the left. A desert hare, the black-tailed jackrabbit, its outrageously long ears twitching at the hikers’ arrival, loped casually away as Juba jumped from Stella’s jeep. Even at top speed, the collie would have no chance of outrunning one of these large rabbits.

  The six friends had organized their personal packs before leaving the vehicles. Rob, taking his role as medic seriously, made sure everyone’s gear included a walking stick or two and all the safety requirements. His own pack contained a first aid kit, snake bite antivenom, and what appeared to be several bottles of a beverage in previously used plastic water bottles. He said he’d made electrolyte drinks for everyone to enjoy on the trip back. Rick noticed each bottle had a name on it in black felt pen and asked why they were specially labeled. Rob surprised everyone by explaining that a medical study done five or six years before determined that the proper electrolyte balance was different between men and women and that weight and age also affected the proper balance. Taking those factors into consideration, he had made different blends of coconut water, honey, orange juice, sea salt, and his own secret ingredients for each of them.

  “I’ll carry them to the rock paintings. No need for everyone to be weighed down,” he said. Looking at his younger, superbly fit body, no one argued with him.

  Finally organized, they headed up the trail toward the canyon’s depths where the petroglyphs and drawings were located. The near-white sand was liberally strewn with a wide variety of scrubby bushes, small mesquite trees, and ocotillos. The latter, looked most often like ten-to-fifteen-foot-long dead, spiny sticks thrust into the sand in clumps by a juvenile giant. Because of the rain dumped by a recent hurricane, they were looking spectacular today with their covering of green, spiky leaves and crowns of orange-red, plumelike flower sprigs that resembled small pennants.

  The canyon was wide at its mouth, with the mountain walls of the arroyo over a hundred feet apart. Its sandy floor was dotted here and there with subcompact-car-sized boulders, a wide variety of flowers, barrel cacti, and creosote bushes. The canyon began to narrow almost at once to the point that the main path through the rocks and flora became a trail capable of allowing only two people to walk abreast. The low mountains gave way to higher, more craggy ones. As the sun hit their deeply wrinkled faces at sharp angles, it created a play of light and shadows that Molly thought gave the hike a spooky feeling. She was sure it accounted for the name, Demon Canyon.

  Stella was pleased that she was able to keep up with the others as they trekked, although her blackened toes were causing her some discomfort. How clumsy she had been dropping the frozen pot roast right on her bare toes last week. Nothing to be done with them other than taping them and waiting for them to heal. Her walking stick helped, and Juba trotted along at her heels offering moral support. By the time they got to the boulders lining the sides of the arroyo leading deeper into the canyon, however, her toes were screaming protest. She found herself putting more and more pressure on the wrist strap of her hiking stick. It finally tore away from the stick.

  “Hey, guys, hold up a minute,” Stella called ahead to her companions as she stuffed the ripped leather strap into her pocket. “I don’t think I can make it much farther. My toes are giving me grief. Take some pictures for me. I want to see Simon’s happy face below the cave drawings of the deer. I’ll meet you back at the parking lot.”

  Simon, who had been walking with her, said, “I noticed yo
u’ve been limping the last ten minutes or so. I’m going to stay with you. We can walk back together.”

  “No,” she commanded adamantly. “I have Juba with me. She’ll keep me company. I want you to get the chance to see the area when it’s in bloom. I will be fine. I have lots of water, and there’s more back at the Jeep. I know what I’m doing out here. Don’t argue with me! I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” Stella said stubbornly. They all tried to argue, but they knew when Stella made her mind up about something, nothing would change it. Eventually, they acquiesced.

  Before the rest of the group left their friend, Rob stepped up with a bottle of his electrolytes and one of his hiking sticks. “Here, you might want to drink this back at the vehicles. It will help you rebalance after the hike back. And I don’t need two hiking sticks. I’ve shortened this one a bit for you. If it isn’t a comfortable height, just twist here to make it higher or lower,” he explained, showing her the process.

  Molly started digging through her pack and came up with a baggie-wrapped sandwich. “Here,” she said, handing it to Stella. “Take this, too. I made tuna salad with lots of sweet pickles. Your favorite!”

  Simon took the bottle of electrolytes and the sandwich while Rob explained the workings of his hiking stick and placed the electrolytes in the bottle pocket on the side of her pack and the sandwich inside before settling it back on Stella’s shoulders. She patted Simon’s whiskery cheek, then turned and walked back down the path, calling behind her, “Have fun!”

  With a bit more grumbling from Simon and Rick that she be careful and take it easy heading back to the vehicles, the group of five finally turned back up the arroyo and headed on toward the ancient drawings. Stella whistled to Juba and, using Rob’s hiking pole and her own, now strapless walking stick for extra support, began slowly to head back to the parking lot.

  Chapter 4—March 8, 2018, San Amaro

  Back at her desk after the meeting, Julia carefully reread the file on the robbery she had been assigned. Being acutely aware her dyslexia could cause misinterpretation of written missives, she always read everything at least twice. With this precaution, it was rarely a handicap to her. She noted that the missing, reportedly stolen desert buggy had been last seen parked at Polly’s Place. Polly’s Place was a favorite watering hole of those Canadians and Americans who had retired to Mexico primarily because liquor was cheap. Fortunately, in her mind, that wasn’t the draw for most gringos living in or near San Amaro. She dialed the bar’s number.

  She tended to get cases involving English speakers because of her fluency in English. Luis Flores, a handsome young corporal recently imported from Mexicali, had been assigned to assist her on this case. The previous evening they had pushed their desks together to facilitate more easily working together. Julia was just hanging up the phone as Luis returned from the meeting, having stayed to have a chat with Corporal Javier Bustamante, another ex-Mexicali officer who had joined the San Amaro State Police only a few months after Luis. They were friends.

  “Luis, the bartender on duty the night that Polaris RZR went missing is just opening up Polly’s. Let’s go get that witness statement taken before the place gets too busy. Sign out a cruiser, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Julia said before he could sit down at the desk. As a sergeant, she was his superior officer and, therefore, it was protocol that he would organize a vehicle and drive unless she expressly said otherwise.

  There had been a handful of female officers in his station in Mexicali, but none of them with the rank of sergeant. While it rankled Luis to be getting orders from a woman, he’d heard that she was the old boss’s granddaughter and that open hostility toward her wouldn’t be tolerated by the station higher-ups.

  “Okay, see you outside,” he said without looking at her or without adding that he’d take his own sweet time signing out the car.

  Julia noticed his eyes harden ever so slightly at her command and added in a firm but friendly tone, “I have desk-sergeant duty at eleven o’clock. If you can’t get a car organized in the next five minutes, I’ll have to head out without you in my own car,” she said smiling, without a hint of rancor in her voice.

  Her undergraduate degree in psychology that she earned in Mexicali had provided her with many insights that helped her when dealing with her male colleagues’ macho approach to female officers and life in general. Head-on confrontation, she’d learned, was the worst possible option. She always tried to be clear, firm, and friendly when giving commands to junior officers, and mostly it worked fine. She hoped that Luis would respond to her as a senior officer and not as a woman. Otherwise, she would have to resort to firmer tactics.

  After waiting in the parking lot for nearly five minutes, she was pleased to see him exit the station jangling a set of car keys and sauntering toward one of the late-model, white-and-blue Dodge Charger cruisers against the chain-link back fence of the station. “You driving or am I?” he asked civilly.

  Good, she thought. “You do the honors,” she said simply, sliding into the passenger seat.

  POLLY’S PLACE FEATURED lime-green walls and a palapa roof over the bar area. Outside tables also sported palapa-like umbrellas giving the entrance a Margaritaville feel. Once past the bar, the dining room was ringed with alternating sections of smoked mirror squares and fake wood panels. On the long back wall was a raised bare plywood stage fronted by a dance floor of black and white linoleum squares. The place looked quite sad at nine in the morning. The walls were chipped, gouged, and dirty. Julia knew that tonight and every night this place would be hopping, and the energy of the patrons and the band would transform it into a fun dine-and-dance retiree hot spot.

  The bartender looked up as they walked in. He asked in a hesitant American southern drawl, looking back and forth between Luis and Julia, “How can I help San Amaro’s finest today?” He showed only the slightest raise of an eyebrow when Julia took the lead explaining why they were there and establishing that he was the man they wished to talk with, one Billy Williamson.

  “This is about a Polaris RZR reportedly stolen from in front of this establishment two nights ago,” she explained in very good, only slightly accented English. After showing Billy a photo of the owner who was claiming it stolen, he looked amused. “Yes, ma’am, I was working the bar that night, and Ted was surely here in his RZR. But I don’t think it was stolen, ma’am. Ted is one of our regulars, so I know him and his desert buggy. He left at ‘San Amaro midnight,’ pretty much the same as he does every night, and I’m sure he left in his rig,” Billy explained.

  Julia was familiar with the gringo reference to midnight as meaning nine o’clock at night. Many of the retired expats living in the area called it a night at ‘San Amaro midnight.’ “Was there anything unusual about Mr. Blair’s, Ted’s, evening? Did he sit with his usual crowd, or was there someone new that you noticed with him?” Julia asked while Luis made notes. Knowing his English was nowhere near fluent, she provided words and phrases in Spanish to Luis to include in his notes. These she said in a conversational tone without looking at him. Rather than feeling offended, Luis was appreciative of this assistance.

  “Well, the whole place was full of different folks, ma’am. It being the evening after the Baja Two Fifty, like.” The Baja Two Fifty is an annual 250-mile off-road desert vehicle race that starts and ends near San Amaro. It has run for over thirty years and draws thousands of people to San Amaro each year. “We had several of the race teams here celebrating that night. Ted was chatting with anyone sitting at the bar, and a few of the racers were up here, closer to the tequila.” His slow manner of speaking was amusing to the rapid-fire Spanish speakers, but Luis was glad for his slow cadence as it allowed him to better keep up with at least parts of the conversation. Not being fluent in English, he had a harder time tracking the words and, therefore, spent more of his time reading body language. He believed the bartender, a man about his own age, was telling the truth.

  As he took notes on all he understood of the inte
rview and Julia’s Spanish interjections, he watched her. While appearing open and friendly and keeping a neutral tone of voice, she astutely led Billy through the events of the evening, getting a full accounting of Ted’s time at the pub. “And when you saw Mr. Blair’s RZR leaving, you’re sure he was driving?” she asked, appearing to begin winding up the interview.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Billy replied slowly, dropping his gaze. Julia had been waiting for a sign like this, now knowing there was more to the story than this gringo was telling her. She thought for a moment.

  “Have you ever driven Ted’s RZR, Billy?” Julia asked abruptly, startling both Luis and Billy with the unexpected question.

  “Ah, well, ah, you see,” Billy said hesitantly, looking at the bar for a few moments, struggling with how to respond. Finally, appearing to decide, he lifted his head and continued. “Sometimes Ted needs a hand getting home, like, if he has a few drinks too many. He just lives in Campo Cristal, here.” Billy referred to the community on the beach less than a kilometer behind Polly’s Place. “I take my evening break at nine o’clock, and I’ve driven him home before. Then I just walk back here to the pub.”

  “And the night Mr. Blair’s RZR went missing, did you drive him home, Billy?” Julia asked, keeping her tone nonjudgmental and her eyes glued to his face.

  “He was having trouble walking straight, ma’am. He could have hurt himself or someone else, even in a RZR,” Billy mumbled.

  “So, then he wasn’t driving, was he, Billy? Why did you say he was?” Julia asked probing further.

  “I didn’t steal his buggy, ma’am. I didn’t! I just drove him home. I left the buggy in his driveway and made sure he got in the door of his house. Then I walked back here. That RZR was in his driveway last time I saw it. I swear,” Billy said in a rush. Luis thought it might have been the fastest he’d ever spoken. He was familiar with the language of denial; police heard it all the time. Still, he didn’t get the impression this witness was lying to them.