“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.
Out of breath, she stood there, stared, looked around for the boy. She thought she heard him calling out, “Senorita.”
“Hello?” she said in reply, starting down the narrow street toward the boat, just as a car drove up, parked in front of it.
A slight rustling sent her senses on high alert. Before she could turn, someone stepped from a shadowed alcove. Reached out, grabbed her from behind. With one swift move, he slid her gun from her waist, then clamped his other hand over her mouth. He pulled her against his chest, whispered in her ear. She barely heard him over the pounding of her blood. “Do not move, senorita, and no one will be hurt.”
25
Sydney’s heart slammed into her throat. She caught a glimpse of the boy at the end of the alley near the boat. Tried to silently plead with him to run for help-an absurd thought since he was the instrument used to lure her here. The man pulled her against him, held her arm behind her back. His hot breath hit her ear as he said, “Senorita. Slowly we walk to that car. Nod if you understand.”
She struggled against him, and he gave a slight tug on her arm. Pain shot through her. She forced herself to still, waited a moment, knew who had the advantage. It wasn’t she. He could snap her neck in one quick move. Attempting to nod her acquiescence, she felt him loosen his grip around her mouth, slightly, perhaps to test her cooperation.
“Quietly to that car. Do you understand?”
She nodded, figuring any forward movement was good. A chance to get away. Get someone’s attention. But if he thought she was getting in that car, he was dead wrong. Bad enough she’d allowed her desire to find a boat she wasn’t sure still existed get in the way of all rational thought. “I have money,” she said. “Several hundred dollars.”
“Move, senorita,” he said, holding her tight, while he walked her down the narrow street to the waiting car. She could see the boat just beyond it, taunting her, the long tendrils of some hanging plants, rosemary she thought, growing down the sides of the boat, while large pots of flowers filled the middle. And as they neared the car, she eyed her surroundings, saw the boy was gone. There was a man behind the wheel on the opposite side; no one else seemed to be there and the doors were closed. She knew that would be her chance, when he’d be at his most vulnerable. Because he was going to have to let go with one arm to open the door. And she could use the strength in her legs to brace herself, fight back. If nothing else it would cause a scene; maybe someone would report it.
And then they were at the car. He reached out, opened the door, and she put her foot on the floorboard, ready to push off and back, take him down.
Except the wind gusted in that one moment.
Rustled the plants hanging down the sides of the boat. In that split second, her foot poised, her body braced, she read two words: Cisco’s Kid.
And she thought of the picture in her pocket.
And allowed the man to place her in the car.
“Who are you?” the driver asked. “And did you come alone?”
Hispanic man, maybe late forties, he eyed Sydney from the rearview mirror, waited for her to answer, and she thought he looked vaguely familiar, at least the two square inches of him she could see in the mirror. She glanced at the man seated beside her, didn’t recognize him at all, thirties, also Hispanic, busily searching through her backpack. He opened her wallet, bypassed her money, and pulled out her license, reading her name, then replaced it. So this wasn’t robbery. “Sydney Fitzpatrick, and yes, I’m alone.”