“The doctors knew something was wrong even before he was born, but at first he didn’t seem that different. Then . . . I knew I had to be in a big city, near a hospital with rehab facilities. We thought for sure Best had gone back east. So we moved back, made a down payment on a land-side house on Rambla Pacifica, and opened the store. Tom figured all his old surfing buddies would give us business, and they did. So we sold the land-side house and bought the place in La Costa.”
Talking about their financial climb had calmed her.
“That’s it. Anyone can go over our tax records with a fine-tooth comb. We never sold dope or chased money. It came to us. When Lowell gave us that bag, we were shocked out of our minds. Kept it in a closet for months, just sitting there. Then I told Tom, What good is this doing, just sitting here? And Greg was already calling us, telling us about the opportunities in Aspen. After we moved there, things just happened.”
“Have you maintained contact with Greg Fowler?”
“I haven’t.”
“What about Tom?”
No answer.
“He lives down in Mexico now, doesn’t he, Gwen?”
Silence.
“Near Mexico City?”
Nothing.
“Gwen?”
“No, a small village near the coast. Far from Mexico City. I don’t even know the name.”
“Still running dope, huh?”
“No!” she said. “Charter fishing!”
“Tom’s been down there, hasn’t he? Brings back a nice catch of corbina or albacore?”
“So?”
“What’s the address?”
“I don’t know, Greg only told Tom. He’s still officially a fugitive. Please don’t get him in trouble, he’s really a good guy.”
“Tom didn’t give you the address?”
“No, he was supposed—” Drumming the table.
“He was supposed to what?”
“Meet us. In Mexico City, with a van; then we were going to drive down together. The tickets were supposed to be at the gate. I bought them myself, made sure we had special boarding help, but they said it had all been canceled—that Tom canceled them. Why would he do that? Why?”
CHAPTER
40
I used her desk phone to call Milo’s home number and was pleased when the answering machine picked up.
“Detective Sturgis? It’s Dr. Delaware. I just had a long talk with Mrs. Shea—no, at her shop. Yes, I know about the airport, that’s where . . . I know, but I figured . . . she gave me what I think is useful information, maybe you’ll think so, too . . . no, I don’t think—do you want to speak to her? When? Okay . . . no, I don’t think so. No, he’s not . . . already in Mexico . . . some fishing village, she claims she doesn’t know where and I’m inclined to believe—what? No. No, I don’t think so. Okay, see you then.”
Hanging up, I shrugged. “I feel a little stupid saying this, but you’re not planning to leave town, are you?”
She hadn’t taken her eyes off me since I picked up the phone. “When are they coming to speak to me?”
“Soon. There are other people they’re talking to. Your name’s on some kind of airport watch list. If you try to leave the country, they’ll confiscate your passport.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’m staying here, what’s my choice.”
I gave a last smile to Travis and headed up the coast, thinking about twenty-one years of pretending.
Accepting a payoff and pretending it was a big tip. Feeding Doris Reingold’s green-felt habit and convincing themselves it was charity.
Five thousand dollars in a paper bag.
Once they’d been able to reduce it in their minds to a rich man’s trifle, the rest had been easy.
Gwen was a mix of callousness and breakability. Waffling, resisting, struggling to paint herself out of any criminal conspiracy. Yet, my instinct was that, over all, she’d been truthful. If she and Tom were killers, they wouldn’t have tolerated Doris Reingold’s putting the touch on them all this time.
I was driving faster than usual. Before I knew it I passed Latigo Shores and Escondido Beach and came to Paradise Cove, where Karen had been picked up on the highway by someone in a red Ferrari.