Ransacked, or had the woman been looking for something in a hurry? Either way, she’d packed for only a short trip.
Rho shut the trunk and went back to the driver’s side door, where she located the metal plate showing the vehicle identification number. She’d run it and the license plate through the DMV’s central files, get a name and address. The car would be towed and impounded if it wasn’t removed within forty-eight hours.
For a few minutes she stood beside the Mercedes, putting herself in the young woman’s place. Traffic whizzed by on the highway — heavy because it was Saturday — but no one stopped and what few people glanced her way averted their eyes quickly. No one cared about a woman who appeared to be stranded with a disabled vehicle in this isolated place. They were too caught up in their travel plans or their errands or their pursuit of a good time to give a damn.
Too caught up to give a damn — as she herself had been yesterday afternoon. Except it was her job to give a damn, her responsibility to offer assistance and guarantee safety.
Guy lowered himself onto a stool at the hotel bar and ordered a Beck’s. The bartender said, “So you’re back.”
“Yeah, I am.” When the man returned with the beer, he added, “Not much here for a tourist to do, is there?”
“Don’t get many tourists.” The bartender looked pointedly at Guy’s new L.L. Bean shirt that still showed creases from packing. “Not the kind that stay more than one night, anyway.”
“I thought this part of the coast was a vacationer’s dream.” It had been described as such in a giveaway paper he’d earlier picked up at the supermarket. The paper made scant mention of Signal Port, however.
The barkeep shrugged. “Parts of it, yes. Parts of it, no. A town like this, it’s ordinary. Just a place where people live out their lives, working and raising families.”
“Former doghole port, isn’t it? Logging town?”
“Right.”
“Rum-running port during Prohibition?”
“That too.”
“Colorful history. Seems your chamber of commerce could exploit it.”
“If we wanted them to. Which we don’t.” The bartender moved along to another customer.
Five o’clock now, and the bar was filling up. Maybe Saturday nights at the hotel were more lively. Guy studied the other patrons in the mirror of the backbar: men and women who looked as if they spent most of their time outdoors. He tuned out extraneous noise, listened to their conversations. Identified several distinct groups: commercial fishermen discussing the week’s catch, which had been disappointing; loggers complaining of the new forestry rules that had been adopted at the first of the year; ranchers and hands talking about their stock and the possibility of a wet winter. An extended family, all dressed up for a special occasion, occupied a round table toward the rear. From the wrapping on the presents piled there, Guy assumed they were celebrating the older couple’s wedding anniversary. A much younger pair at a small table leaned toward each other over their drinks, heads close. At the start of a similar life’s journey, and Guy envied them.
After a while he began to recognize some of the people who came in. The racially mixed couple who had been quarreling in here last night took a table near the windows and drank, not speaking. Will, the man who had gone over the blueprints with the urbanite, was at the bar with a redheaded woman who would have been stunning were it not for fifty extra pounds and tense lines around her mouth and eyes. Guy’s gaze lingered on her as he tried to identify what her problem might be. It wasn’t Will; he touched her hand often, called her “Virge-honey,” and occasionally brought a faint smile to her lips.
In one corner a couple was half hidden by the jukebox. The man was youngish, in his twenties, with spiky hair and cheap but trendy clothing. The woman was blonde, and when she turned to look for the waitress, Guy realized she was the urbanite’s wife. The two were holding hands, but the man kept looking at his watch. Whenever he did, she pouted and shook her head. Once she said loudly, “Please don’t go, darling!”
Interesting.
The crowd ebbed and flowed. The extended family were called to the dining room and a rowdy group of drinkers claimed their table. The straying wife and her friend finally left, and another pair who had just entered took their place. The man was big and graying, with a gut that hung over his belt buckle. The woman was the black-haired motorist who had almost run Guy over. Unaccountably he felt a stir of disappointment. Such a pretty woman, and seemingly the most pleasant person in town. Was that her husband?
He continued to watch them as they ordered drinks, and finally he saw that while the man wore a wedding ring, the woman did not. They were discussing something seriously, she ticking off items on her fingers, but their body language was wrong for intimacy. Perhaps they were just friends or business associates.
Whatever, she was certainly one pretty woman.
“So what’re you saying, kiddo?” Deputy Wayne Gilardi asked Rho. “That the woman with the Mercedes was the victim of the kidnapping that poacher claimed he witnessed?”
“It’s possible. The situation’s irregular, anyway. The Mercedes’ VIN doesn’t match with the license plate. Plates were reported stolen six months ago in Ventura County. My check on the VIN shows the car’s registered to a Richard Bartlow, address is in Corona del Mar, Orange County. But there’s no phone number for him, listed or unlisted.”
“So he moved, forgot to send the DMV a change of address.”
“And the stolen plates?”
“Maybe he can afford a Mercedes because he knocks over liquor stores for a living.”
She tapped her fingers on the table, irritated. “It’s irregular, I tell you.”
“No, what’s irregular is you going to the trouble to check out ownership of an abandoned vehicle on your day off. I say the girl knew the plates were hot and walked away from a potentially bad situation. Or she’ll be back tomorrow with her boyfriend, who thinks he’s a great auto mechanic.”
She shook her head, sipped wine, looked around. The bar was filling up and— Oh, hell!
“What?” Wayne asked. He could read her only too well.
“Nothing.”
He turned, scanned the room. His eyes came to rest on Alex Ngo, who slouched alone at a table near the windows. “Fuckin’ gook,” he said. “At least Lily’s not with him for a change.”
Rho didn’t point out that the jacket slung over the back of the chair opposite Alex looked like one Wayne’s younger sister often wore.
Wayne turned back to the table, downed half his beer. “God, I’d like to get something on that little bastard!”
“Such as?”
“Come on, kiddo, you’ve heard the rumors.”
“You mean about the abalone poaching.”
“Yeah. One of the Fish and Game guys who went out on the raid this morning said they’re ninety-nine percent sure that Ngo is hooked in with that ring of poachers.”
“What do they have on him so far, other than the fact that he’s Vietnamese and a diver?”
“One of their surveillance photos shows him with a fellow called Phuc Ky Phan of Oakland. Phuc’s one of the middlemen the divers pass the abalone off to.”
“And Alex was photographed in the act?”
“No.” Wayne scowled. “He was photographed drinking beer with Phuc on Calvert’s Landing Pier.”
“And that makes them ninety-nine percent certain he’s hooked in? What if Phuc’s a relative? Or a friend? Their knowing each other doesn’t prove a thing.”
“Why’re you defending the bastard, Rho? You know how he treats Lily. You’ve seen the bruises on her face. You remember when I had to drive her to the clinic because two of her ribs were busted in a so-called fall. I swear, if he’s involved her in this poaching business—”