Murder Spoken Here

(Se Habla Murder)

A

McGraw / O’Grady PI Series

by

Maureen Motola

PROLOGUE

Winter darkness settled over the town of San Felipe like a black cloak. The sun had slid behind the mountains hours ago, yet the air coming off the desert still carried the warmth of the Baja sun. Wind rattled through brittle palm leaves and muted the footsteps of two figures who hurried down the dark deserted sidewalk.

She wore a light dress suitable for dancing; he, a Mexican shirt over dark slacks. She walked with an angry determination; he, staggering slightly from too much alcohol, stumbled on the uneven sidewalk. Anger quickened her step as she hurried in the dark, yet the distance between them shortened.

Then a knife, aptly positioned, slipped between ribs and quickly found its mark.

-1-

It had been two years since I’d visited this idyllic setting. San Felipe is the northernmost town on the west shore of the Sea of Cortez, in Baja Norte. Years ago, this sleepy fishing village became popular with local fishermen who, using their knowledge of the tides, eased their boats at high tide into the natural cove that emptied twice a month, waited for the falling tide to go out—leaving their boats dry-docked for two weeks while they scraped barnacles off the bottom and patched leaks.

For centuries, the entire peninsula of Baja sat forgotten by the rest of Mexico. The rocky terrain, capable of supporting only hardy cacti and small trees, extends from the mighty Sierras until it melts into the Sea of Cortez on smooth beige beaches. Gila monsters, cagy coyotes, and the natives who had dragged themselves here, eons ago across the Bering Sea, were the only inhabitants and had learned to live off the sea.

North of here the Sea welcomes the Colorado River, or what’s left of it after California, Arizona, and Nevada siphon off what they need, and more.

Coming here stirred feelings rooted deep in my ancestral background. My name is Roberto McGraw, private investigator from Temecula; my mother’s forefathers emerged generations ago from Spain and Mexico. Before this strip of land belonged to Mexico, Padres were sent by the Queen of Spain to colonize and Christianize the local Indians. But, unable to conquer the inhospitable desert, they gave up and continued north to settle in what is now California. My own ancestors, on my mother’s side, followed them and were among the first settlers.

I thought about that for a moment: my forefathers, trudging through the sandy terrain or riding donkeys for months, looking for a place they could call home. They stopped their wanderings in the area of southern California, now called Temecula, and eventually held title to hundreds of acres of land on which they raised cattle. That’s where I call home. Generations later I am enjoying the fruits of their pioneering spirit.

I wondered if they looked down as I landed my small plane at the nearby airport of San Felipe. Did they smile in approval or sneer at my softness? Instead of ranching, I had chosen to become a private investigator.

Much of Baja is still considered the last of the frontiers, sparsely populated, with isolated settlements connected by soft sandy roads. However, it has been discovered by Americans, many of whom think that by crossing the border they can escape American authorities and disappear in one of the beach colonies, where they hope the Mexican authorities do not enforce the laws.

San Felipe’s proximity to the U.S. has attracted boaters and fishing enthusiasts for years, and more recently a younger crowd had arrived who worked on perfecting their taste of Tequila and Corona beer.

Since I am bilingual I’ve been here many times, hired by parents whose children had slipped across the border to evade the law. Some I had found and talked into going home to face their sentencing. In at least one case, I failed and later learned that he still resides in a Mexican jail. This time I had come for my own enjoyment, to play tourist.

The Baja sun was intense as I unrolled the straw petate and arranged a large beach towel on top of it. Beige sand shimmered in both directions in front of the El Cortez Hotel in San Felipe. To the east, the Sea of Cortez sparkled as the sun danced on wavelets. For the next week my plans were to relax in the sun, let the warmth soak into my bones, and enjoy the pleasures of the strikingly beautiful date I had brought with me.

Lydia, who had been trying to balance on her platform sandals, hurriedly settled onto the towel. “I wasn’t expecting so much sand,” she said, shaking her shoes and placing them on the petate. “At home we have nice grass and concrete walkways next to the beach.” She rolled her eyes at me.

In spite of her innuendo that this was a bit too uncivilized for her, she had a sensual look that stirred me. What she needed was something to make her relax.

“They make wonderful Margaritas here,” I boasted. “Would you like one?”

“Yes, but I don’t like it blended, ask for it ‘on the rocks’.” She flicked her long fingers at me as if sending me off on an errand and continued to brush sand from the towel as I turned to head for the beach bar.

I trotted up the beach, happy to be away from my practice of private investigations, crime, and the evils that people invoke on each other. There were signs, however, that trouble was brewing in this idyllic setting—subtle signs.

As I headed back, I spotted several shrimp boats returning. The captains of the boats knew what was coming. A strong Northerly was heading into the area. I had seen this happen before. In a matter of minutes, the glassy water of a calm sea would be turned into a frothing monster gnashing at the beach with large breakers. The Northerly, a wind capable of tumbling aluminum boats end-over-end down the beach, halted the fishing industry and drove sunbathers indoors.

I watched a shrimp boat, pushing water aside, hurrying toward the shelter of the breakwater. All indications were there. The sea, usually flat, was heaving with great rollers. Instinctively, I looked up and spotted the frigates. Mere black dots, circling at ten thousand feet, the large thin birds, about the best gliders in the world, sought out the thermals and enjoyed a free ride, like glider pilots who delight in soaring higher and higher, testing their skills, and taunting gravity.

The thermals were yet another indication of the impending Northerly that visits this area of Baja. With winds up to 60 mph, it usually roars into the area like a train at top speed and blasts its fury for three days before it blows itself out. In southern California, they call it the Santa Ana. Here, danger lurks for those who do not heed its warnings.

As I returned with our Margaritas, I glanced down at the blond Lydia, settled on her towel. She smiled as she reached for her ‘on the rocks’ Margarita.

“A Northerly is headed this way,” I said.

“What does that mean?” She sat up and looked at me with alarm.

“It’s our famous Santa Ana. It must have started at home after we left and has followed us here.”

“Well, it isn’t windy now.” Her look said she doubted my forecast.

“We can enjoy the beach until the strong winds hit. After that we’ll play it by ear.”

What I didn’t know at the time was that bigger trouble was brewing; one that would destroy the romantic week I had planned with the luscious Lydia.

My feet dug into the soft sand, warmed by the sun, and I felt its tingling effect rise up my legs. The temperature was in the eighties. I sipped my Margarita and took a deep breath, letting the pungent smell of the sea fill my nostrils and vaporize the tension in my body. It was good to be back. There was something about the Sea of Cortez that mesmerized me. I looked longingly at the water, lapping a few feet from our towel. 

The rollers, dumping unceremoniously on the shiny wet sand, pushed foam onto the beach as if trying to scrub it. Each wave seemed to build in height and power as it pounded the beach. In the distance three more shrimp boats aimed for the safety of the stone breakwater, and farther out, four more headed in.

Nature fascinated me and weather animated it. I stood for a moment enchanted with the developing scene; however, the shapely body next to me had a magnetism no man could resist.

It had taken a lot of convincing on my part to get my lovely date to agree to climb into my small plane, fly from her hometown of San Diego, California, cross the Mexican border and spend a week in the resort town of San Felipe. One: she didn’t like flying, and two: she’d never been to Mexico and didn’t trust Mexicans. That blatant statement on her part had almost ended our relationship since I am half Mexican. My mother, Maria Ortiz McGraw, a mestiza - of mixed culture from a Spanish father and a Mexican mother, was born in Temecula; the fifth generation to live in Early California. My last name of McGraw came from my Scottish father. Lydia Goldstein refused to call me Roberto and referred to me as Rob or Robert.

We had met when I was hired as a private investigator to track down a missing wife. I found the woman, who was living with Lydia, and learned that she was the victim of spousal abuse. She told me tales of being repeatedly beaten and had finally escaped from her husband. She claimed her life was in danger and begged me to not reveal her sanctuary. I decided that her health was more important than my fee and reported to her husband that she had last been seen in another state and I had lost her trail.

My reward was meeting this goddess next to me, the delectable Lydia. Blond hair that curled into a large roll at the end swirled around her white shoulders, like foam in a tide pool. Her skimpy black bikini had me wishing we were not in such a public place. I savored the idea of returning to our room.

Lydia arranged herself on one side of the towel and reached for the suntan lotion. I watched as she stroked her long white legs, slathering them with lotion. Her fingers ended in long acrylic nails painted scarlet to match her lipstick. Large black eyes shed doubt on the authenticity of her blond hair but I didn’t care. It made for a stunning combination. Spade was not dazzled by this, however, and took an indifferent attitude. I chocked it up to his being jealous that my attention centered on her.

Spade, I should mention, was given to me as a puppy for helping on a case. When he came to me, he was small, cute, and all black. What I hadn’t noticed were the size of his feet. Within two years, he had grown into a 170-pound Great Dane. He went with me everywhere and his intimidating size gave me courage to follow subjects into dark alleys. I harbored his secret; he wouldn’t hurt a mouse.

Now, as I eased my long frame down next to Lydia, Spade found a place in the sand, turned around until his majestic head faced away from us, preferring to look at the sea than at our closeness. His nose punched the air, a bored look on his face. I knew he was miffed.

It was Saturday and sun worshipers were filing down to the beach like ants to sugar. The area was beginning to get crowded with them. Colorful towels tiled the sand making it hard to find a path to the water. A family staked out their claim to a piece of beach next to us. I hoped they’d see Spade and move farther away but Spade kept a low profile. The father carried a large picnic basket while the mother arranged towels in the sand. The three kids, each under three feet tall, carried plastic pails. Plastic shovels rattled inside. The oldest kid looked at me out of large liquid eyes. Uncertainty seemed to freeze him in his tracks. Probably with a little encouragement, he would have been all over our towel. Cute as he was, I wanted our privacy. I gave him my most stern look, intended to scare him off. It worked. He backed into his mother and grabbed her legs. I rolled over to face my date.

“How was I blessed to find such a lovely lady?” I said.

She rose up on one elbow. “Rob, you are one gorgeous hunk. Did anyone ever ask if you were a movie star?” Her voice was low and sensual.

I laughed and actually blushed. “Not yet. Did you want my autograph?”

“I’m serious.” She ran one polished fingernail down my chest. “With those muscles you look like a Greek god, and that face—you would look scrumptious on one of those stud calendars.”

“No one has ever described me as a god before.” I chuckled.

“I’m serious. You should go to Hollywood and audition for the movies. It would be much better than chasing down bad guys.”

I frowned. How could I explain that I had no interest in being ogled by a crowd?

“You’ll have to change your name though. You need a stage name, something catchy like—Dominick Stallone.” Excitement showed on her face. “I think from now on I’ll call you Dom.”

I had to get her off this topic. “My name—is Roberto McGraw-Ortiz, and I chase bad guys.” My voice was deliberately low and stern. It seemed to work.

***

Lydia had just handed me the bottle of suntan lotion and turned her back to me when a dark shadow fell across her. Spade sprang up suddenly spraying sand on Lydia’s slathered legs. I looked up to see a familiar face. It was hard to tell if he smiled under his Pancho Villa mustache.

“Comandante,” I exclaimed. “Que milagro.” Literal translation, “What a miracle.” I rose to greet him and offered him a hand smelling like coconut cream pie.

Santiago Dominguez, Chief of Police in San Felipe, and I had crossed paths several times in the past in the course of finding a missing person. I considered him a good friend, and I had permission to call him Santi. In spite of his imposing build, tall and portly with broad shoulders, he still stood six inches shorter than my six-foot-three height. His eyes carried a friendly twinkle as if remembering a private joke. His gun belt hung low under a heavy belly, but his light brown uniform was immaculate.

“Roberto, mi amigo.” He shook my hand then nodded toward Spade. “Is this the same puppy you had with you last time?”

“Yep. He’s grown a bit.”

“What are you feeding him, alfalfa? He turned into a horse!” Santi touched the top of Spade’s head gingerly and almost backed up when Spade edged closer.

“Don’t worry, he’s a pussycat.” I turned and introduced him to my date.

“Lydia, this is Commander Santiago Dominguez.”

“A pleasure Miss….”

“Goldstein,” she said. “Lydia Goldstein. Nice to meet you Commander.” She smiled graciously and offered him a limp hand that reminded me of a cat’s paw.

“At your service.” He bowed, held her hand briefly then ducked his head and looked at me through bushy eyebrows. “I am embarrassed to interrupt your vacation, but if you could give me just a few moments of your valuable talent as interpreter, I would be forever grateful.” His dark eyes pleaded.

“Santi, my friend, what could be important enough to drag me away from this beauty?”

Santi spoke in English but I answered him in Spanish, knowing Lydia’s knowledge of the language ended with Si.

“Ah, I have a big problem. Well, not so big. A little bundle of fire with flame hair, eyes that shoot sparks and a mouth that is threatening to have my head on a platter.” He rolled his eyes. The words poured out in his native tongue as his mustache twitched.

I looked over at Lydia. She had removed her dark glasses and her eyes, shaded by thick false eyelashes, had this “come here” look. How could I explain that I needed to leave her alone while I helped my friend? Perhaps I had made a mistake when, shortly after our arrival, I placed a call to Santi, telling him I was in town. I hadn’t seen him in a couple of years and he invited me to drop by his office before I departed.

I bent down, kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear, “You won’t mind if I’m gone for a bit? I owe Santi a big favor. This is my chance to repay him.”

“Rob, don’t be long.” Her voice was stern.

After we both offered our apologies to Lydia, and I promised to return soon, Spade and I followed Santi to his car. Spade, who had refused to stay behind with Lydia, jumped into the back seat of Santi’s Ford Expedition. The Expedition, with a police sticker on its side, was white with gray interior and looked new.

“Nice vehicle, amigo. Someone is finally recognizing your importance.” I joked and he knew it. In Mexico, in a land where many officials were not above taking bribes, Santi was a saint.

“Sure. I threatened to ride my horse to work if they didn’t get me a new vehicle.”

I shifted to face Santi. “So tell me about this bundle of fire who wants your head on a platter.”

“Last night an American was found with a knife in his back and the only suspect is an American woman who was the last person seen with him. 

“She was vacationing here with another woman. I locked up the suspect, but it is the other woman who is giving me grief.” Santi’s mustache drooped.

“The redhead?” I tried to sort out his women problems.

He nodded. “It could be a nasty situation. She is threatening to bring in the American authorities.”

“And? What rights do they have in this country?”

“This town depends a lot on American tourism and I don’t want to jeopardize that.” He raised one shoulder. “Besides, it always bothers me to put a woman in jail. I’m from the old school that finds it hard to believe a woman would commit a crime of this nature.” His eyebrows shot up. “However, I had no choice but to arrest her. She was the only person seen with the victim.”

He explained that the women were staying at the El Cortez Hotel and when he noticed my name on the registry, he’d been told that I had left for the beach.

As Santi drove, I studied the town and shops that slid by. Downtown San Felipe had grown. It still had a small-town look but had lost its sleepy fishing village appeal. Single-story buildings sat side-by-side and offered everything from clothing to souvenirs. I noticed there was an abundance of shops selling fishing gear, and bars advertising tequila. Broken sidewalks lined the dusty streets that ran parallel to the beach.

The police department, housed in an old stucco building in what used to be the outskirts of San Felipe, was now located in the center of town. The white-washed walls were brown near the ground where rain, a rare occurrence here, splashed mud against them. The parking area was unpaved.

I followed Santi into the building. The Mexican flag stood limp next to the flag of Baja Norte. A deputy sitting behind the receptionist’s desk nodded at Santi when we entered.

Santi’s office was at the end of a long hall. Spade stayed at my side as we passed several cubicles. Each contained a wooden desk which hosted an old typewriter and a mismatched chair. In addition, two wooden chairs in each office served the guests. One officer’s eyes widened when he looked up as Spade’s toenails clicked by on the tile floor. Drab best described the décor. The white tile floor showed bits of sand tracked in by the officers.

I heard her before I saw her. As we entered Santi’s office, a uniformed man jumped out of the chair he was occupying behind Santi’s desk, stepped aside, and froze when he saw Spade. I stepped closer to Spade to assure the man that he was under my control. I assumed he had been interrogating the red-haired woman who paced back and forth in the small cubicle. I was wrong.