She walked through the town, trying to get a feel for it, see if there was anything she remembered. A giant arch with “Bienvenidos a Rosarito” painted across it welcomed tourists to the town. It was still early, but the shopkeepers beneath tiled roofs were sweeping the storefronts and setting out their pottery and knickknacks in preparation for the day, giving the area an old world feel as they spoke in Spanish too rapid for Sydney to understand. She wandered about, asking about fishing charters, and Robert and Cisco’s Kid, but no one could offer her anything further.
Several times that morning, she felt as though she were being followed, watched, but when she turned around, looked, she saw nothing that stood out. Nothing but workers, tourists, a few locals smoking on the street corner. Perhaps it was Venegas’s warning about the flag on Orozco’s name, or simply a feeling of guilt for all the rules she’d broken in the last few days, the least of them being that she was carrying concealed. Mexico was not the place to get caught carrying unauthorized weapons, and she, not being there officially, was completely unauthorized on many counts. A week ago, she would never have even imagined breaking such a rule. But she was no longer that same person. The day before, she’d deplaned in San Diego, dropped by the FBI field office, picked up the copy Carillo had faxed of her and her father on Cisco’s Kid, before crossing the border on foot, armed not only with her Glock, but also with lots of cash.
The almighty dollar went a lot further down here, and she’d had no trouble hiring a car to drive her down to Rosarito from the border, but as she walked the shops and then the beaches, showing the copy of her father’s photo, asking if anyone knew Robert and Cisco’s Kid, she began to wonder if she’d remembered wrong. She’d spent the hours before sunrise surfing the Internet on the hotel’s computer, trying to look up fishing expedition companies. Most, she’d discovered, were owned and operated in San Diego, even though their boats were docked down here. Those she immediately discounted. Robert Orozco wouldn’t chance any U.S. ties, she was certain. But neither would he chance having a company in his own name, which made it a lot more difficult.
She took a taxi to the marina south of the hotel, had the driver wait, then walked around, and knew without a doubt this was not the right place. Too modern. The marina couldn’t have been more than a few years old, nor were the condos built behind it on the hill. Frustrated, she returned to the taxi. “Are there other marinas around here?”
“Do you want to fish? Or go boating?”
“Neither. I’m looking for a boat and a man who owns it.” She showed him the picture.
He nodded, traced his fingers across the background. “Different now. But maybe near Ensenada. You want me to drive you?”
“How far?”
“Maybe fifteen minutes?”
Robert Orozco’s two-year-old granddaughter, Rosa, picked up a small rock and tossed it into the surf. She laughed, toddled ahead, searched for another rock, not venturing too far from Robert’s watchful gaze as he and Tomas walked behind her, talking.
“I’m getting worried,” Tomas said. Tomas was the brother of Robert’s common law wife, Juana, and the only one who knew his true background.
“We knew this day might come.”
“It was not supposed to turn out this way.”
“Who’s to say how it should have turned out?” They walked in silence for a while longer, while little Rosa chased a seagull, falling into the soft sand on her hands and knees, and Robert thought that all in all, he’d had a good life these past couple of decades. They didn’t live in a palace, but it was still a good life, and one he would sorely miss. Perhaps if he was careful-
Rosa screamed, ran back to him. An odd wave rolled up, catching her chubby little legs. She jumped into his arms, laughing as he lifted her. He kissed her, set her back down, and she was off once more, and he sighed. “A good life, no?”
“What will you do?”
“Just what we planned. I have no choice. What did she look like?”
“An American woman dressed all in black. Wearing a black leather coat. She stayed at a hotel in Rosarito.”
“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?”