 
### MAYHEM IN MAZATLAN

A NOVEL BY RICHARD REYNOLDS

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Published by MilSpeak Books

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Copyright © 2010 Richard Reynolds

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*****

Chapter One

Paul Lorenz entered the Neiman Marcus store and was instantly assaulted by fumes coming from the women's cosmetic section. Normally, he would move quickly through this area's cloying scent of powders, perfumes and body colognes, but he paused when he recognized Victoria Armstrong standing at the makeup counter. Partially hidden by a concrete pillar, he took a few minutes to admire her.

Paul had met her the previous summer while both worked as volunteers for a Southern California fund raising benefit for boy and girl tennis players using wheel chairs. During a busy weekend of matches, widower Paul was strongly attracted to this vivacious woman. But when he learned from a friend that Victoria lived in Corona del Mar and was married to a successful stock broker named Ralph, he didn't pursue her.

Today, a year later, she looked even more beautiful. Instead of a tennis outfit, she was dressed in an expensive looking olive tweed suit, her blond hair brushed back away from her face. Paul left his vantage point and walked slowly in her direction. "Hey there, Vicky. Long time, no see."

She blushed slightly and looked down at the floor. He sensed that she was troubled about something as he extended his hand. "Paul Lorenz. We worked together last June on that charity tennis tournament."

She took his hand and gave him a faint smile. "Sure, I remember now. What are you doing here?"

"Taking the day off and doing some shopping. Do you have time for a cup of coffee? Or maybe some lunch?"

"Sorry, Paul. I've got an appointment. Maybe some other time." She picked up her purse from the counter and headed out the door to the parking lot.

Paul felt disappointed but recovered quickly and moved on to the women's clothing section. There, he bought a maroon cashmere sweater for his daughter, Rachel, who would soon turn twenty-two. By then he was receiving signals from his empty stomach. He decided to have lunch at his favorite pub, a hole-in-the-wall that specialized in spicy Polish sausage on rye and ice cold draft beer. But just before leaving the parking lot, he saw Vicky again. She stood next to the strangest looking vehicle he'd ever seen, a decrepit Volkswagen van that looked like it had been raised in Haight-Ashbury. Its dominant color was a bright lavender, freely sprinkled with black peace symbols and white, yellow, and blue daisies. Replicas of Confederate and Canadian flags covered the rear and side windows.

He eased over and parked next to the van. "Can I help you, Vicky?"

She gave him a look that could scorch paint off the side of a house. "Dammit to hell, I've got a flat and now I'm going to be late for my appointment."

"You mean this hippy van is yours?"

"No, not really mine. My son loaned it to me."

"Open up the back and I'll get the spare out."

She walked around to the rear of the van and lifted the hatch, revealing a crowded enclosure. Clothes, shoes, purses, several suitcases, coat hangers, a tennis racquet, books, magazines, and a battery-powered lantern were all stacked neatly around a twin bed mattress.

"Just move that stuff anywhere you can," she said. "I think the spare is under the mattress somewhere."

After digging around for a few minutes, he found the tire, the jack, and the lug wrench. He went to work on the flat.

Looks like a garbage dump in there. And it's starting to get a little ripe.

"Go ahead. Say it," she said in a strained voice. She was standing next to him while he loosened the lug nuts.

"All right. It looks like you're living in there."

"Well done, Sherlock Holmes. You're very observant."

"I don't get it. Why aren't you living at home with Ralph?"

"Home? There is no more home. No more Ralph, either," she replied. "That son of a bitch did a real number on me. Took off to Mexico with some bimbo named Lisa from his office. Sold the house and took all the money with him."

Paul was so stunned he could hardly look her in the eye. "You mean this is all you've got left?"

"That's right. What you see is what I've got." Then she started pacing. "Well, I may be down, but I'm not out. As soon as I get a job, I'll get a small apartment. Then I'll get a car, something less colorful than this monstrosity."

"I don't understand how this could happen."

"I went to Palm Springs for two weeks with my girlfriends. And when I got back, all the furniture was gone. That bastard even had all the locks changed so I couldn't get inside."

"That's terrible, doing all that while you were gone. But how could he sell the house? Isn't your name on the deed?"

Vicky began pacing and occasionally glanced at her watch. "I just signed all the papers he gave me—couldn't be bothered to read all that legal mumbo jumbo. Serves me right, wouldn't you say?"

He felt sorry for her. "How come you're all dressed up?"

"My appointment is for a job interview. Besides, have to keep up appearances, you know."

The tire was replaced and he struggled to put the flat one and the tools back into the van. "Be sure to get that tire fixed as soon as possible."

"I will and thanks a bunch, I really appreciate this. Do me a huge favor, please. Don't tell anybody what you saw here today."

"Fine with me," he said. Then he handed her his business card. "Call me if I can help in any way. Please. I'd really like to."

She got the van started and moved slowly out of the parking lot. He watched it sputter and stutter, leaving a cloud of noxious fumes and black smoke in its wake. There goes one determined woman. I'm sure I'll never see or hear from her again.

Chapter Two

Vicky took a break in her tennis club's lounge after playing two vigorous sets of doubles with three other women, the same ones she had recently vacationed with in Palm Springs. After taking a shower, she planned to join them for lunch, but decided to first check her voice mail. She had a message waiting from Hector Alesandro, Executive Director of the Pentecost Foundation.

She dialed his number twice and got a busy signal both times. Before trying a third time, she sat in an overstuffed chair next to the phone to catch her breath and think about what she would say when she finally connected. She had interviewed with Alesandro last Friday. Even though she'd arrived late, he went to considerable efforts to make her feel comfortable during the evaluation process. She also spent a half hour with Holly Kenworthy, the foundation's CFO, and met the organization's CEO, Walter Serber.

She tried Alesandro's number again and was successful. "Good morning, Mrs. Armstrong. Thank you for returning my call so promptly."

"Do you have some news for me, Mr. Alesandro?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. All of us here at the foundation were impressed by your credentials. You are one of the strongest candidates we've seen so far."

"Well, I enjoyed the interviews and the opportunity to meet you."

"Let me get to the point. I'd like to have one final interview with you before we make a decision. Something a little different this time, less formal and more social. How does that sound?"

"Sounds all right, I guess. What did you have in mind?"

"I'd like you and your husband to have lunch with Mrs. Alesandro and me. Shall we say noon this Friday at Cano's?"

A sharp pain jabbed at Vicky's temples. "Did you say my husband?"

"I know it's a bit out of the ordinary but, as you know, we are a family-oriented organization, and we'd like to—I hope you'll understand."

"He's pretty busy these days, taking care of his clients. You know how bad the stock market's been lately."

"It won't take that long, I assure you. He does eat lunch, doesn't he?"

Vicky hesitated for a few moments. "OK, we'll see you this Friday."

"Wonderful. You and Maria should get along famously."

After hanging up, Vicky collapsed deeply into the chair and released a loud groan. What in the hell have I done now? And where am I going to dig up a husband by Friday noon?

She pondered the situation for several minutes before reaching into her wallet and pulling out Paul's business card. While studying it intently, his image flashed into her mind. He's about my age and could probably pass as my husband. As long as Hector Alesandro didn't know any different. And as long as Paul agreed to go along with such a crazy scheme. He did offer to help me, right?

She dialed his office number and spoke briefly with Audrey, Paul's secretary. Then he came on the line.

"Hi, Vicky. What a pleasant surprise. Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Paul. My prospects never looked better."

"That's encouraging. So what can I do for you?"

She hesitated briefly before plunging ahead. "I've got this great job opportunity. Director of Public Relations for the Pentecost Foundation here in Newport Beach."

"I've never heard of them, but that doesn't mean anything."

"Remember last Wednesday when you fixed my flat tire? When I was running late for that job interview?"

"Oh yes, I remember. How did it go?"

"It was with Pentecost and went very well. I've got one more interview, but there's a catch. It's for lunch on Friday at Cano's and they want me to bring my husband. I know it's a long drive from Fullerton to Newport Beach but . . . I wonder, can you come? If you're free?"

"You're asking me for a Friday lunch date? No problem. I'll just rearrange my schedule a bit."

"Um . . . no, it's not a date. I want you to pretend you're Ralph so I can get this job."

"You want me to pretend what?"

Vicky's stomach rumbled with hunger and her mind scrambled to think of something convincing to say. "They want to meet you—no, they want to meet my husband—oh hell, they need to check up on my family status."

"I don't get it. Why would Ralph be involved in your job interview?"

"The foundation's mission is to promote family values. So they want all their executives to be squeaky clean. Including their families."

There was a long pause. "I don't know. Sounds pretty strange to me."

"I wouldn't ask you to do anything like this unless I was pretty desperate. I need this job really badly, Paul . . . and you did want me to call you . . . if I needed help. Oh God, this is so embarrassing."

"Well, I did, didn't I. You really think we can pull it off?"

"Sure, we can do it," she said, hoping he wouldn't sense the false bravado in her voice. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't positive."

"Oh hell, why not? What time should I get to Cano's?"

"No, don't go there. Come to the John Wayne Tennis Club on Jamboree near PCH. About noon—in the parking lot. We can drive there in your car."

Paul chuckled. "I get it. You don't want your future boss to see the purple people eater. Am I right?"

"See you Friday, Paul."

Chapter Three

Several minutes before noon on Friday, Paul turned his dark green BMW sedan into the parking lot and spotted Vicky, wearing large sunglasses and standing next to the lavender van. "How do you manage to look so good?" he asked as she slid into the front seat.

She smiled. "I shower and change here at the club. Ralph and I have been members for years. They don't even check my ID card anymore, but I'm sure that will change pretty soon."

As they turned north onto Pacific Coast Highway, Paul gave in to his curiosity. "I'm wondering about something. What do you do about phone calls?"

"I use pay phones but I kept my home number. My incoming calls roll over to voice mail. I should be getting a cell phone soon."

"What about mail to your house?"

"I still use my Corona del Mar address but I've told the post office to forward all of it to a rented box."

"Pretty clever. To the outside, looks like business as usual."

"We need to talk about us—Ralph and me—before we get to Cano's."

"If you want. Where do we start?"

"Well, you know I'm a Santa Barbara girl, went to high school there. Maybe you know my dad, Richard Featherstone. Heart surgeon, very successful. My mom's name is Valerie. Quite the bitch. Never approved of our marriage."

"Mom always knows best."

"Are you going to be a problem?"

"Just kidding. So, when did we meet?"

"We? Oh, you mean Ralph and me. In 73, when I was a sophomore at USC. Ralph, or you that is, graduated in 74 with a degree in business administration. I majored in communications and that's an important qualification for this position with the foundation. We married in July 75, just after my graduation."

"Were you a virgin when we got hitched?"

"That's none of your damned business."

"Will you please relax? That was a joke. Now, tell me about our kids."

She took several deep breaths. "Gary is our oldest. He's almost twenty-five. He has a great job, property manager for a commercial real estate outfit in San Francisco. He married a lovely girl named Stephanie last year. Vanessa is twenty-three, married to Brian Brian's a software developer at Microsoft and she's an engineer with Boeing in Seattle. Mike's our baby, twenty-one and a junior at UCLA. He lent me the van."

"That's a very nice family we have. Any granddads?"

"Do I look like a grandmother?"

Paul gave her a wide grin.

A tanned attendant with a bodybuilder's physique greeted them at Cano's valet parking podium. When they entered the lobby, Hector and Maria Alesandro were already waiting for them. Vicky smiled broadly as the introductions were made, noting that Hector and Paul were dressed like clones: blue sport jackets, gray slacks, and dark red ties. Maria wore a navy blue sheath dress with lots of gold around her neck, on both wrists, and on almost every finger.

Paul cautiously admired Maria's voluptuous figure while trying to hide his appreciative glances from Vicky. He thought Maria was well dressed but gave her poor marks for wearing too much jewelry. She must cost Hector a small fortune.

The hostess led them to the last unoccupied table at the extreme rear of the restaurant, next to large windows overlooking the crowded marina. Hector pointed to a large motor yacht. "That one belongs to Walter Serber, our chairman."

Paul gave a low whistle. "Onassis would have been very jealous."

A waitress took their drink orders. Hector ordered a margarita for himself and a glass of Chardonnay for Maria. Relieved that their hosts had taken the lead, Paul opted for a vodka martini on the rocks. Vicky also chose the Chardonnay.

When the waitress brought their drinks, Hector raised his glass to good health and success. Then he launched into his probe of the Armstrongs' relationship. "You two have been happily married for almost twenty-six years now. What's your secret?"

Vicky spoke first. "One thing we've always insisted on was making time for just the two of us. No matter how busy we were." Paul thought her sweet smile looked a little artificial.

Paul picked up on her line quickly. He took a gulp of his martini, grabbed Vicky's hand and pulled it closer for a loud, wet kiss. "Yes sir, that's my girl. Always eager at the end of the day to share her innermost thoughts or hear how exciting my day was."

Vicky turned a delicate shade of red, pulled her hand back quickly, and hid it in her lap.

Paul talked about 'their' kids, glibly repeating all the information Vicky had divulged before their arrival. After draining his martini, he added a final flourish.

"I just hope our children are as compatible with their mates in the bedroom as we are. Can you believe it? We're still frisky as teenagers."

Vicky gritted her teeth and gave Paul a swift kick in the ankle with her sharply pointed shoe. "What a kidder you are. I'm sure the Alesandros are not interested in that."

Thankfully, the waitress appeared with their lunch plates. Paul took the opportunity to order another drink and Hector decided to change the subject. "Ralph, I understand you're a stock broker. What do you think of the market?"

Paul sat up straight. "It's like tiptoeing through a minefield." Then he grinned. "Without a map. Sure, the market is very volatile right now, but I think Greenspan's on the right track. He'll keep interest rates down until inflationary pressures force him to do otherwise."

Vicky stopped eating and looked first at Hector and then at Paul, dismay in her eyes.

Paul couldn't stop talking. First, he covered a wide variety of subjects including the American and international economies. He ended what had turned into a rather lengthy monologue with some comments on the technical underpinnings of the market.

Hector listened intently, nodding his head and asking pertinent questions whenever Paul took a breath. Gradually, Vicky seemed to relax as well. Paul looked in her eyes and thought he detected a glimmer of approval.

"I'm sure you're concerned about the valuation of the foundation's endowment," Paul wound up. "But I wouldn't do anything drastic right now. Just check your asset allocation percentages and rebalance your portfolio if you need to."

"Sounds like excellent advice," said Hector.

Over coffee and dessert, Hector elaborated on the foundation's current activities and his vision for its expansion in the coming years. He also summarized Vicky's potential role as Public Relations Director, strongly hinting she had a lock on the job. He then paid the bill and the foursome made their way outside to the valet parking podium to pick up their cars. Paul held Vicky's hand and, while waiting for his car, put his right arm around her shoulders.

On the way back to the tennis club, Vicky sat with her arms folded while she stared out the passenger side window. Before they reached the club's parking lot, she could contain herself no longer. "What the hell did you think you were doing back there? That business about us in the bedroom—frisky teenagers? It almost made me gag. And the hand holding and hugging when we were leaving. People married for twenty-six years just don't do that stuff. And another thing—"

Paul suddenly turned the car to the right, pulled into a gas station, and slammed on the brakes. Vicky pitched forward and only her seat belt kept her head from hitting the dashboard. "What are you doing, trying to get us killed?"

He turned to look at her while clenching the steering wheel with both hands. "There's no pleasing you, is there? I take off from work to play along with this crazy idea of yours, but everything I do is wrong. Just what the hell did you expect me to do—act like a henpecked husband?"

"You acted like you were half in the bag. Not like a supportive spouse."

"I was having fun, enjoying myself. What's wrong with that?"

"Everything, if it jeopardizes my chance of getting that job." She pulled a tissue out of her purse and dabbed at her eyes.

Paul's shoulders slumped as he relaxed his grip on the steering wheel. "I don't think Hector feels the same way about that job as you do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Think about it for a minute. When he looks at us, he sees an affluent couple living next to the ocean with a pretty rich life style. The stock broker husband making tons of money so his beautiful and spoiled socialite wife can pursue this job opportunity. Because she's either bored or wants her own mad money. Or both. You see what I'm saying?"

Vicky nodded. "But I really need this job."

"I know you do. But if you ask me, I think you already have it. This little gathering today was more of a pro forma drill than anything else." Paul's reassuring comments seemed to calm her down. He resumed the drive to her tennis club and parked next to the purple van.

She put her hand on the door handle and turned to him. "At least we gave it a good shot. The worst that can happen is they hire somebody else." In a sudden act of gratitude, she kissed him on the cheek and quickly got out of the car. "Thanks again for doing this. I'll let you know what happens."

Paul sat in his car and watched her climb into the van while an image flashed through his mind. Back in the mid-1970's, when he and Helen were newlyweds, they enjoyed watching a popular sitcom together: He distinctly remembered Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat in the air on a wintry Minneapolis street corner while a backup chorus sang, "You're gonna make it after all."

Chapter Four

The following Tuesday afternoon, Vicky used a phone at her tennis club to check her voice mail and heard a message from Hector Alesandro. She returned his call immediately and talked with him for ten minutes before hanging up.

She sat motionless until Barbara, her tennis partner and close friend, came up beside her. "Something wrong, Vicky? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Vicky jumped up and hugged her. "Oh no, nothing like that. I just got some news. Some very good news."

"OK, are you going to share with your best buddy?"

"Later, when I can tell you and the others at the same time. First, I have to make another phone call."

Barbara turned and began walking away. "Better make it quick. We can't hold that court too much longer."

Vicky paced up and down next to the phone, thinking about what she would say. After several minutes, she felt calm enough to dial Paul's office number. This time, he answered the phone himself.

"Hi, Paul, it's Vicky."

"Oh, hello Vicky. How's it going? Heard anything yet from Alesandro?"

Vicky lowered her voice and spoke slowly. "Yep, I just had a short conversation with him."

"Uh, oh. Sounds like bad news. I'm really sorry to hear it."

"Maybe I should be looking for another kind of job, one where my marital status wouldn't be a consideration."

"Now I really feel bad. Pretending to be your husband and sabotaging your career."

Vicky couldn't keep up the pretense any longer and yowled in laughter. "Just kidding, Paul. The news is good, all good. I got the job! Hoo boy, can you believe it?" She continued, alternately humming and yammering, bubbling over with relief and excitement.

Finally, he chimed in. "You little rascal, stringing me on like that."

"You are so gullible."

"I guess I had it coming after my performance last Friday. For a while, I was afraid it wasn't going to do the trick. Hey, that's fantastic news, tell me all about it."

She took a deep breath and managed to calm down slightly. "I just talked with Hector and he told me the position was mine. They've already mailed the offer but he told me what was in it. You wouldn't believe the obscene salary they're going to pay me."

"I'm not surprised. You're worth every penny of it. Of course, they'll work your tail off to justify it."

"You may be right. They want me to start work as soon as possible. So I'm going in tomorrow. I tell you, I intend to hit the ground running."

"That's an excellent idea, making a good first impression." He paused. "Did Hector say anything about our lunch last Friday?"

Vicky giggled. "Actually, he did make a comment about my screwball husband. He thought it was touching, how hard you were working to sell him on our marriage."

"I'll be damned. You mean he saw right through my act?"

Vicky laughed. "No, not quite all the way, but just enough to sense you were way over the top. He did say something about your stock market advice being right on target. Which reminds me, how did you come up with all that stuff?"

"It's nothing special. I manage my own investment portfolio and keep track of everything. Do some charts on my computer."

"Well, no matter. Everything is on track and looking good."

"I think this calls for a celebration," suggested Paul. "What do you say? This Saturday maybe? We can play some tennis and then I'll fix you a nice meal."

"Are you serious? I mean, you can cook?"

"Sure thing. My veal scaloppini would make Wolfgang Puck weep with envy. How about it?"

"Paul, you don't have to do this."

"Oh, but I want to. A real date this time."

"Aren't you forgetting something? I'm a married woman."

"Yeah, but your husband is out of town so the coast is clear."

"Sounds like fun. Wicked and decadent."

"No, no. I'll be on my very best behavior. A proper gentleman."

"Oh. In that case, I'm not coming."

"Then I'll have to join the French Foreign Legion."

Both began laughing simultaneously but Vicky recovered first. "Enough of this Abbott and Costello act. You've got a date. A real one this time."

Chapter Five

Saturday afternoon, Paul was puttering around the second story patio of his Irvine condo, watering his potted geraniums, when Vicky eased the purple van into a nearby parking slot. Paul waved at her and she waved back. "I'll be down in a few seconds."

After Paul found his large duffel bag containing racquets and balls, they retrieved her racquet from the van and walked a short distance to his club. They were assigned a back court and warmed up by hitting balls across the net to each other. Paul was mesmerized by her long tan legs and a rounded butt showcased by snug white shorts. He lost his concentration many times during the first set and, whenever he did, she pounced on the opportunity and piled on the points.

They took a short break after he lost the first set by 6-1. "I didn't realize I was playing a pro," he said. "But now that I'm warmed up, you're in deep doo-doo."

"You talk a good game, Lorenz, but I have yet to unveil my secret weapon."

He fought hard in the second set, but she elevated her game with faster serves and again managed to win, 6-4.

When they returned to Paul's building, Vicky dropped her racquet in the van and pulled out a set of clean clothes. They went up to his condo and Paul pointed to a hallway bathroom. "There's the shower. Why don't you go first? I need to make a phone call."

"Good idea. I won't be long."

A short time later, Vicky came out of the bathroom barefoot wearing black linen slacks and an ivory silk blouse. When she joined him in the kitchen, he looked her up and down, finding it hard to keep his eyes away from her blouse that pointedly confirmed she was not wearing a bra.

"My my, you clean up real good," he said.

Vicky pushed his chest with both hands. "You go ahead and take your shower. I'll put the salad together."

After Paul had showered, he went into the kitchen and opened a bottle of champagne. He walked into the living room with two filled glasses and handed one to Vicky who was standing next to a sofa table. They clinked their glasses as he offered a toast. "Much success and happiness to the new director."

"Thank you. While you were cleaning up, I was looking at your pictures here. Pretty girls."

"My daughters. Jeanette's a buyer for Nordstrom. That's who I was talking with on the phone. Rachel's an accountant with Wells Fargo in L.A. I'm really proud of them."

"So Paul, who's the third woman? The one with the big hair."

"That's Helen. My wife."

"Are you telling me you're a married man?"

"No, nothing like that. I'm a widower—lost her four years ago."

"Oh, Paul. I'm so sorry. How come you never mentioned it before?"

"Didn't seem right to bring it up in casual conversation. Anyway, we had a great marriage for twenty-one years, something I'll always treasure."

"How did it happen? Do you mind talking about it?

"We lived in Belgium and I worked out of our company's office in Brussels. She was driving alone on one of the motorways and got hit by a huge truck. She died instantly. I don't think she felt any pain."

"I'm sure your girls were devastated."

"Yeah, they took it pretty hard. Both were in college at the time, here in California. I brought her body back for the funeral and the company was pretty helpful too. Transferred me back to Fullerton so I could be near my daughters."

"How is it now, between you and your daughters?

"We're closer than ever. They helped me get through that whole terrible experience, more than they'll ever know. I leaned hard on them."

Paul excused himself to cook and asked her to put some music on the stereo. From a hundred CDs stacked in slim vertical racks, she picked out a Neil Diamond, a Celine Dion, and one by Italian tenor Andrea Bocelli. When Diamond started a loud "Cracklin' Rosie," she sang and danced around the carpeted living room. Paul peeked out of the kitchen several times. Her joie de vivre was contagious.

After dancing to several more songs, she came out to the kitchen and offered to help Paul with the meal. He was moving about quickly, preparing the veal, linguine, and asparagus, and asked her to open a bottle of Côtes du Rhone. Vicky took the wine and salad to the dining room table and lit two tapers. Paul called from the kitchen, "We're almost ready to eat."

She pretended to swoon as she took her first bite of veal. "This is wonderful. Just like you promised."

They ate slowly, enjoying the food, the wine, and each other's company. Paul wanted to hear more about her first three days at the foundation.

"There's an awful lot to learn," she said. "Our endowment is pretty large and we have to make sure the money gets doled out to the right groups."

"I should think so."

"But we can't stand still either. There's a real possibility we'll be getting more money from some very wealthy people in our own neighborhood. That's where I come in. Getting out there and selling them on our worthiness."

"Sounds like you were destined for this job," said Paul, refilling their wine glasses.

"I have to tell you something. Remember Hector pointing out Walter Serber's boat at Cano's? He's planning a cruise down the west coast of Mexico to Mazatlan over July Fourth. And he's inviting all the executives."

"Uh oh," groaned Paul. "Do I really want to hear more?"

She put her hand on his. "Could you stand being with me for a couple of days and nights on a boat?"

"You've already got the job. Do you really need me to do this?"

"Well, yes and no. I just thought it would be nice to have you along."

"Yes, it probably would be nice. Pretending to be Ralph for a couple of hours at lunch is one thing, but for several days and nights on a boat? That's a lot different. Who are all these executives?"

"Three other couples. The Serbers, Alesandros, and Holly and her fiancé."

"Can't you tell them that I'm too busy to come on this cruise? Like holding my clients' hands so they don't panic while the market craters?"

"Then I'll be the only single on the boat, kind of like a fifth wheel. The others will wonder what happened to my romantic husband who still thinks we're frisky as teenagers in the bedroom."

"Hey, that's not fair, using my own words against me like that."

"C'mon, Paul. Try to imagine sharing a stateroom, sailing on the Pacific with a full moon overhead. Doesn't that give you some ideas?"

He hesitated while considering the possibilities. "Our design review with the Saudi Air Force will be finished by then and I have some vacation time on the books. I might be persuaded to endure that sort of punishment."

She laughed. "Sure you would. I'm not above a bit of arm twisting if that would make you feel better."

Paul removed their dinner plates and started the coffee. He took two glasses from the freezer, added triple sec liqueur and whipped cream, and carried them to the dining room. "Voilà, Madame. Raspberries Romanoff, s'il vous plait."

"You're spoiling me with all this food. But it's so good. I just can't resist."

When they had finished their dessert and coffee, Paul suggested they move to the living room couch and enjoy a snifter of brandy. Vicky readily agreed. Before sitting down next to her, he lit the gas log in the fireplace. He broke the silence with an idea. "Please don't take this the wrong way, but I have a proposition for you."

"You can't possibly offend me, Paul. Go ahead."

"Well, I'd like you to consider moving out of that van and into my condo. Now that you have that job, you need something better. Something nicer and a bit more respectable."

Vicky sat up sharply. "My goodness, things are starting to move pretty fast." She cocked her head and continued, "The guy who didn't want to go on a cruise suddenly wants me to move in with him. That's a switch."

"Hear me out, now. I've got an extra bedroom here and you could come and go as you please. No strings attached. I want that clear, up front."

"I looked around the place while you were taking your shower and saw a twin bed next to your computer. Is that what you have in mind?"

"It's something to think about. Take all the time you need."

She got up on her knees, crawled closer to him, and planted a soft kiss on his lips. "You are so sweet. I don't have to think about it. I accept, right now." Paul felt uncomfortable with this sudden burst of affection. She seemed to notice and pulled back slightly. "Of course, I insist on paying my way. My share of the groceries, electricity, gas, whatever."

"I'm not concerned about that."

She put her arms around his neck and kissed him again, this time harder and longer. After a moment, she pulled away. The soft look was gone. "What's wrong with you? I'm getting some bad vibes here. Like you don't want this."

Paul's voice was hesitant. "I do, very much, but I don't want to take advantage of you. You're still a married woman and very vulnerable right now. The last thing I want is you doing this out of some sense of gratitude or guilt."

"Oh for God's sake," she said. "Will you quit being such a worry wart? I'm tough and I can handle it. So relax and enjoy. OK?"

She kissed him once more and this time he didn't hold back. He put both arms around her and squeezed hard. "That's more like it," she purred.

Paul slipped his hand beneath her blouse and first caressed her back, then moved to her surprisingly firm breasts, marveling at the smoothness of her body. He nervously unbuttoned her blouse while Vicky watched in amusement. After removing it, he said, "They're gorgeous. No—I mean—you're gorgeous."

"I know what you meant. And just in case you're wondering, they're all natural. Not an ounce of silicone in either one."

After more kissing and nibbling, she whispered in his ear, "Let's get in your bed and do this right. Like adults, instead of frisky teenagers."

Paul led the way and in seconds, Vicky had shed her clothes, pulled the bed covers back, and stretched out on her stomach. He watched her as moonlight filtered through the windows and illuminated her long lithe body. "You are one beautiful sight," he said.

"And you'd better get into this bed quick, Mr. Engineer," she warned, "while I'm still in the mood." That was all the encouragement he needed to undress and slide in next to her.

Their coupling was passionate and frantic with little foreplay. Immediately after entering her, Paul came quickly, exploding with intense spasms of release.

Afterwards, they cuddled in a loose embrace, breathing hard while cooling off. "Sorry to be so fast," he said, "but I was really hot."

"I guess you were. Almost like a firecracker."

"It's been a while since I was with a woman."

"I can relate to that. It's been months since Ralph and I did it."

"Did you get any pleasure just now?"

Vicky kissed and hugged him. "It was all right. You shouldn't expect perfection the first time. It's just not realistic."

They were silent for a few minutes until he yawned. "Sorry, but I'm bushed. Tennis, dinner, and this—too much good stuff for one day."

Vicky rolled over. "Sleep well, my friend. We'll talk some more in the morning."

Chapter Six

Vicky awoke shortly after sunrise, unsure of where she had spent the night. But after she stretched hard under the covers of Paul's king-size bed, it all came back to her. He's a much better tennis player than I expected. A good thing we didn't play a third set. He would have wiped me out. And that dinner was the best meal I've had in a long time. I'll have to watch my diet now or I'll be bursting out of all my clothes before long. And having sex with him wasn't so bad. But it's probably too late to think of sleeping in the guest room's twin bed.

She had to admit that she enjoyed the entire experience, but the best part was not having to sleep in the van. For the first time in many weeks, she felt a small measure of security.

She rolled over, expecting to see her new bed-partner, but his side of the bed was empty. She heard a faint movement on the outside balcony, got out of bed, and drew back the vertical blinds from a sliding glass door.

She could see Paul dressed in a white terry cloth robe, sipping his coffee, and gazing east at the mountains. She stood silently and admired his profile in the morning shadows. A very nice looking man. I like him. Attractive in a goofy sort of way, but not what I'd call handsome. He has a lot more chest hair than Ralph. I love his head of curly black hair but it's showing some silver streaks. Coloring it is probably not his style. He seems to be so innocent and gullible when it comes to women. His tolerance clearly has limits so I'll have to be very careful that I don't push him too hard.

She went into the closet, pulled on a similar robe, and padded barefoot into the kitchen. After pouring herself a cup of coffee, she joined him on the balcony, nuzzling her face into his neck.

"You didn't have to get up," he said softly.

"I'm an early riser. Just like you, apparently. Now isn't that encouraging?"

"This is my favorite time of day. I like to come out here and watch the sun come up and over the mountains. It helps me put the work day in perspective."

"I used to do the same thing, only I'd go walking or jogging along the beach. There's something about the ocean that makes me feel so insignificant, yet so alive. Ready to face anything the world might throw at me."

They were silent again, content to share an intimate moment.

"There's something I need to talk to you about," she said. "I didn't tell you the whole story last night."

He turned to look down at her face and gave her a quick kiss. "Meaning?"

"I talked to my son Mike yesterday morning. He just got a letter from Ralph. Seems the love birds are not getting on as well as expected. I also got the impression that his money may be running out."

"That's very interesting, but how does it concern you?"

"They're in Mazatlan. Mike gave me his dad's address."

Paul stiffened. "And we're going to be in Mazatlan in about a month," he said dryly. "What a coincidence."

She stepped backed. "That bastard's going to get what's coming to him. Nobody screws me over like he did and gets away with it. Nobody. I just hope I get there before all the money's gone."

Paul's jaw dropped slightly but he said nothing.

Vicky put her cup on the balcony's ledge, opened his robe and then her own, and pressed her warm naked body against his with her arms encircling his waist.

"I can't do this alone," she said. "Help me, please. Just one more time."

Paul carefully put his coffee cup on the ledge next to hers, placed both his hands on her bare butt, and pulled her even closer. "Let's go back to bed and talk about this."

Chapter Seven

Paul awoke several hours later and discovered that Vicky was no longer in bed. He found her in the kitchen, dressed in his running shorts and sweat shirt, preparing a large bacon and egg breakfast with orange juice and bagels.

Table talk was minimal as they devoured their meal and browsed the Sunday edition of the Los Angeles Times. Paul focused on the comics while Vicky read the sports section's pre-Wimbledon coverage. At one point, Paul reached over and pressed down the top of Vicky's paper so he could get a better look at her face.

"What?" she said.

"Nothing." After a pause he added, "You look pretty good this morning."

She rolled her eyes. "Like hell I do. Probably more like a Hollywood hooker on the morning after."

Paul smiled. "Absolutely not true." He took their plates and silverware to the dishwasher and asked, "What's on the agenda for today?"

"Is the offer to move in still open?"

He came up from behind, kissed her neck, and massaged her shoulders. "Sure is. I'm game if you are."

"Even after what I told you earlier, about hunting for Ralph in Mazatlan?"

Paul moved around and sat down so he could look at her. "Look, I know what's going on here. But it doesn't bother me because I like you. A lot. And I really like the idea of you living here with me."

Vicky leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss. "I'm a very lucky woman to have a friend like you."

Paul smiled. "It cuts both ways, Vic."

"Then I guess we should unload my van. I need to do some laundry, too. Can I use your washer and dryer?"

"You don't have to ask, Vicky. This is your home now. I'll help you unload as soon as I get the kitchen squared away."

After several trips from the van to the guest bedroom, she sorted her dirty clothes into two piles and started washing a load. Paul busied himself in the master bedroom, making space for her clothes in his dresser and the walk-in closet. The job was completed when Vicky unloaded her cosmetics case on the bathroom counter.

"You have to go now," she said, shoving him out of the bathroom. "I need a shower, then I have to put my face on."

Half an hour later, Vicky came into the living room. "I called Mike and he's going to be home this afternoon. This would be a good time to collect all my things he's been storing."

"Where does he live?" asked Paul.

"Westwood, near the UCLA campus. He's renting a house with three other guys."

"Now I understand why you're down here."

"I wouldn't want to live there, even if they had the space. They'd probably expect me to be their den mother. Or something worse—a domestic servant."

Paul went to his bedroom and returned with a front door key. "Put this on your key ring. Just in case I'm not here when you get back."

"Are you deserting me already?"

Paul chuckled. "Now that we're two instead of one, I have to hit Vons for some groceries. What's your druthers?"

"Veggies and fruit," she said. "Lots of veggies and lots of fruit."

"Good grief, are you a vegetarian?"

"Not really. I rarely eat red meat but I do like fish or chicken occasionally."

"You got it."

"I shouldn't be too long. See you in a couple of hours."

Paul was at his computer when he heard someone enter the front door. "Hello? Anybody home?"

"Back here. Guest bedroom," yelled Paul.

She came to see what he was doing. "What's so fascinating?" she asked.

"Just updating a few stock market charts. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll help you unload."

Vicky went off to the laundry room. "Where are my clothes?" she shouted.

"On the bed."

When Paul looked in on her, she was standing next to the bed, hands on her hips, and looking down at her stacked and folded laundry with a smile on her face.

Vicky turned to face him. "You really get off on this, don't you? Checking out my underwear."

Paul did a fair imitation of a soft shoe dance routine and sang the opening lines of "Getting to Know You" from The King and I.

Vicky giggled and brushed her hand across his cheek. "Very good, Mr. Astaire. Now let's unload the van."

Paul was taken aback when he saw the number of boxes and stacks of clothes piled in the van; three times as much as they had brought in earlier that morning. "Let's put all this in the guest bedroom, for now," he said.

They piled most of it onto the twin bed. Her winter outfits went into the guest bedroom closet for the time being. The last item to be removed from the van was a cardboard box, so large it was awkward to carry.

"What's in here?" he asked, setting it down in the living room.

"Shoes."

"You mean that whole box is full of shoes?"

"A girl can't have too many shoes. Or too much jewelry."

Paul shook his head while Vicky went off to look for more storage places. After a while, she came back to the living room and flopped lengthwise on the couch. "I'm running on empty."

Paul, who was sitting in a sofa chair and reading the newspaper, grinned and said, "I know something we could do that would perk you right up."

Vicky rolled over to face him. "You guys all think alike. Sex has to be the solution to a woman's problems."

"Um . . . actually, I had something else in mind."

"Oh."

He paused for a moment to savor her embarrassment. "Let's take a dip in the pool. Put on your suit and we'll go over to RCI."

"That's a wonderful idea. Let's do it."

Ten minutes later, they reclined on chaise lounges next to the RCI pool, facing west to take advantage of the fading sunlight. "Tell me something about the cruise," said Paul. "Are we expected to earn our passage?"

"Heaven forbid. We'll be completely at our leisure. The boat comes with a cook and a small crew."

Paul grinned. "That's good. It gives me plenty of time to play the role of your loving husband."

Vicky got up from her lounge and walked over to the deep end of the pool while Paul admired her retreating figure. He soon followed and both swam, side-by-side in parallel lanes.

Vicky tired and stood at the five foot end of the pool. Paul swam up to her, placed both hands around her waist, and planted a sloppy kiss all over her lips.

"Are you always this affectionate?" she asked.

"Only since yesterday afternoon."

"Tell me something, and be honest, OK? When was the last time you were with a woman?"

"Couple of months, maybe. No, more than a couple, actually."

She laughed. "Aha, suspicions confirmed."

"Actually, there's good reason. I've been traveling to Saudi a lot this year and you just don't fool around over there. They have this nasty habit of chopping off body parts as punishment."

She laughed again, broke free from his embrace, scooped a handful of water into his face, and climbed out of the pool. Paul was right behind her. After both toweled off and lay back on their lounge chairs, Vicky asked, "What do you think about dinner?"

"I think we should definitely have some."

"Any place around here we could go for a bite?"

"Hudson's is close. Just up University near the 405. The place with the car on the roof."

"Oh yeah, I've seen it. Are their margaritas any good?"

"You bet, the best in Orange County."

"Hudson's it is, then."

She lay back on the lounge, legs fully extended, and closed her eyes. Then she raised her left hand in the air, directly over Paul's chest. He accepted the unspoken invitation, brought her hand down to his face, and kissed it lightly on the knuckles.

"Thanks, Paul."

"For that? It was nothing."

"No, I mean everything you've done. Taking me in and looking after me."

"Not to mention."

In just a few minutes, Vicky was snoring softly. Paul got up, placed her white cover-up over the top of her body, and laid a dry beach towel over her legs.

Chapter Eight

The next three weeks passed quickly for Paul and Vicky. They spent long weekdays at their respective workplaces; she, learning more about her public relations position and he, preparing for a system design review with U. S. and Saudi Air Force personnel.

During this time, Paul slipped in a poker game with his buddies one Friday evening and a Wednesday tennis session at RCI's 'men's night.' He also attended a Dodger baseball game with Rachel, his younger daughter. Another night, he went to a movie at South Coast Plaza with Jeanette, his other daughter. Paul invited Vicky to come along on both outings but she declined, saying any family-like togetherness would be awkward.

Finally, the last Saturday of June came around, the day they were to leave on the cruise. After a late breakfast, they drove to Balboa Island in Paul's BMW, guided by a hand-drawn map that Vicky had picked up at her office the day before. They had no trouble finding Serber's sleek white yacht, not only the largest vessel in the harbor, but the biggest one either had ever seen.

After they parked and grabbed their bulging canvas bags, they were met dockside by a man in a white waiter's jacket and black trousers who introduced himself as Manuel. He took Vicky's bag and led the way onto the yacht, down steep wooden stairs into a narrow passageway. They passed one cabin whose door held a card at eye level bearing the name KENWORTHY. The next cabin had a similar name tag on the door that read ARMSTRONG.

Manuel opened their cabin door and invited them to enter. Their oak-paneled stateroom proved to be larger than either Paul or Vicky had expected and their faces brightened. A small double bed framed by oak panels nestled against the port side bulkhead and the left wall of the cabin was common with Holly Kenworthy's cabin. A single porthole lay just beyond the foot of the bed and a door in the right wall led to a compact shower, toilet, and wash basin.

"You may store your clothing under the bed," said Manuel, pointing to several compartments. "There is also a closet in the corner with hangers." As he took his leave, he added, "Please come to the fantail before getting settled in. All the other guests have arrived and Mr. Serber would like to welcome everyone aboard."

Paul and Vicky dropped their bags on the bed, climbed the stairway, and walked along a narrow outside passageway to the stern. There, they were met by a tall and lanky white haired man holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other. He smiled and called out, "Victoria—welcome aboard. Our cast of characters is now complete." He put his glass down on a nearby shelf and extended his hand to Paul. "Walter Serber," he said.

"Pa—Ralph Armstrong, Mr. Serber."

Vicky caught Paul's near lapse and gave him a nervous look.

"No room for formality on my boat, Ralph. Call me Walter."

Without asking, Walter poured Paul and Vicky generous glasses of champagne. They exchanged 'nice to see you again' greetings with Hector and Maria Alesandro. Then Walter introduced them to Holly and her friend Marvin who, in Paul's mind, resembled an offensive tackle for the Denver Broncos. He gave Paul a bone-crushing handshake. Paul was also struck by Holly's serious demeanor, brown hair cut short, little make-up, and plain wire rim glasses. She held a can of diet cola.

"Walter," said Paul, "when we drove up, I noticed the name of your boat painted on the rear—ART FAY. How did you come up with that?"

"We sailors refer to it as the stern, not the rear. But the name's a play on words. I'm a lifelong art aficionado and collector. And Fay is my wife's name."

A short gaunt woman ambled unsteadily over to them, champagne glass in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. "He thinks he's so god dammed clever."

"Ah yes, this is my wife, Lenore."

Paul looked at her and back to Walter again. "I'm confused. I heard you say her name is Fay."

"My name is actually Fay Lenore, but I hate that name so I just go by Lenore." She placed the cigarette in the corner of her mouth and extended her hand. "So you're Vicky's husband. Pleased to meet you."

Paul hesitated before taking her hand, dismayed by her straight black hair, a long and sharply pointed nose, vertical lines etched into her upper lip, and scarlet lipstick that overran its customary boundaries.

"Do you know Pig Latin, Ralph?"

"It's been a while since I used it."

"Think about our boat's name and relish my husband's sophisticated sense of humor."

Lenore drifted off while Vicky returned to Paul's side after chatting with Maria. "You've met everybody," she said. "What do you think?"

Paul was tempted to make a humorous comment about Holly's flat chest, but changed his mind after realizing Vicky wouldn't think it was funny. "Mrs. Serber is in a real pissy mood. I'd better steer clear of her if we're going to enjoy this trip at all."

"Those two don't get along so well, do they. The office gossip is that she comes from very old Boston money and he was totally broke when they got married. She's probably the real owner of this boat."

Activity on deck suddenly picked up as Manuel and two of his mates worked with lines and made ready to get underway. Soon, the yacht was motoring slowly through Newport Harbor. All the passengers lined the rails and admired the expensive mansions slipping by. After they passed the breakwater and headed into the open Pacific, Vicky turned to Paul. "What's your pleasure, Mr. Armstrong?"

"I guess we can unpack our things in the cabin. Maybe take a shower and get ready for dinner. Let's take a stroll first and check things out."

Around 7:00 P.M., Manuel walked through the passageways ringing a set of chimes, a signal for all passengers to come to the main saloon for dinner. Vicky and Paul soon joined the others, who were standing in the forward part of the enclosed beige carpeted room.

At the rear of the saloon to one side was a rectangular glass table, surrounded by eight chairs, all chrome and red upholstery. A bar and three stools were at the saloon's rear, opposite the dining table. Manuel stood behind the bar making drinks for Hector and Maria.

Paul sauntered over to the table, noted place cards in front of each chair, and continued to the bar where he ordered Chardonnay for Vicky and a vodka martini for himself. He returned and handed Vicky the glass of wine. "Pretty classy operation, don't you think?"

"It's amazing what you can do with an unlimited budget," she said. "I like all these glass window panels. You can still see the coastline from here."

Paul nodded and looked out the starboard side windows. "We should be able to enjoy a beautiful sunset this evening." They were joined by Marvin who was holding a frosted beer mug. "Where's Holly?" Paul asked.

"She's skipping dinner tonight," said Marvin. "I think she's seasick."

"That's too bad," said Vicky. "Salted crackers and club soda might help."

Marvin went back to the bar for another beer. Vicky turned to Paul. "Have you noticed what the other women are wearing tonight?"

Paul looked over at Maria, decked out in a low-cut black cocktail dress and push-up bra. She also had gold dangling from her ears, around her neck, on both wrists, and on a number of fingers. Then he glanced briefly at Lenore who was wearing something in white satin that reminded Paul of a jump suit. Finally he looked back at Vicky in her long sleeved light blue denim dress. "I see the problem. Those two ladies are way overdressed. Your outfit is just right."

Vicky stared at him for a moment with her mouth open but, before she could comment, Walter asked everyone to take their places at the table for dinner. Walter sat at one end, Lenore at the other. Maria sat on Walter's right with Marvin on his left. Paul was on Lenore's left with Hector on her right. Vicky sat in the middle between Marvin and Hector; Holly's empty chair separated Maria and Paul.

Dinner was prepared in the galley to the rear of the saloon and served by Manuel. The meal started with a shrimp cocktail accompanied by chilled bottles of Sancerre and was followed by the main course of lobster tails with melted butter. Over dessert of key lime pie, Walter began his orientation speech. "I think a few words about our itinerary are in order. Mazatlan is about 1100 miles from Newport Beach and the 120 foot ART FAY is capable of cruising at twenty knots—that's twenty-two miles per hour for you landlubbers. I estimate it will take about sixty hours to reach port. That should get us in before sunrise on Tuesday."

Walter rambled on about the more technical characteristics of his yacht while Manuel quietly served coffee and brandy. Lenore took a cigarette from her silver case and held it in front of Paul's face. He got the hint and lit it with her silver lighter. "I understand you're a stockbroker, Ralph. And a financial planner as well?"

Paul squirmed slightly. "That's right."

"I haven't talked with anyone lately about my portfolio," she said. She paused while transferring her cigarette to her right hand and placed her left hand on Paul's right. "If you can spare the time, I'd like you to look over my assets."

Paul eased his hand away, grabbed his brandy snifter, and took a healthy gulp. "Yes, I think I might be able to do that."

Walter was just finishing his remarks. "If any of you would like something special to eat or drink while on board, don't hesitate to ask. As our guests, we want you to have an enjoyable time."

Paul looked at Vicky, hoping she could see the plea for help in his eyes. "Come on, Ralph," she said, "let's get some fresh air."

They made their way along the main deck to the bow area and found two white wicker chairs. Vicky sat in one chair facing forward while Paul turned his chair around and sat next to her, looking generally aft, but also having a close and almost direct view of her face. The strong breeze blew her hair back and away from her face, prompting Paul to caress her cheek with the back of his hand. "Having a good time?" he asked.

"This is great. I love the wind in my hair."

"Thanks for rescuing me in there. Lenore's cigarette smoke was starting to get to me."

"And Hector was boring me to tears, going on and on and on about his damned cars."

"I caught a bit of your conversation. Sounds like he has a bunch."

"He has two Jags, an old Packard, a DeLorean—he just picked up a two-tone 66 Austin Princess, kind of like a Rolls. I wonder where he keeps them?"

"He probably has to rent garage space somewhere."

"What was going on between you and Lenore?"

"That old broad was hitting on me. Can you believe it? Wanting me to check out her assets."

Vicky giggled. "That's rich, but don't knock it. You might get lucky."

"Just what I need. Frigging in the rigging with the boss's wife. No thanks."

"Look over there," she said. "The sun's about to go down." Paul turned his chair around slightly to face the western horizon as they watched the sun's disappearance. "Speaking of the boss, what's your take on him?"

Paul rubbed his chin and paused. "Something about him—not quite right. I think he has some kind of superiority complex—and he's probably a control freak as well. Ask me that question again in a couple of days."

"I think I understand," she said. "I saw something else tonight. I dropped my napkin during dinner and when I bent over to pick it up, I saw Walter had his sandals off and his foot on Maria's ankle. They were playing footsie."

"I'll be damned," he said. "If I were Walter, I'd certainly prefer playing around with Maria before doing anything to or with Lenore."

Vicky got up from her chair, came around to Paul, and sat on his lap. She put both arms around his neck and kissed him softly on the lips.

"What kind of adventure have you lassoed me into?"

"I'm not sure," she said, "but I have this uneasy feeling that we're going to need each other during this trip. Are you having any regrets?"

"Not a one. In fact, I'm happy you seduced me into signing up for this gig."

Vicky kissed him again and spoke directly into his ear. "I'm beginning to wonder just who seduced whom." After a few moments of silence, she continued, "Hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"I think our bed is calling us."

Paul chuckled. "I hope there's enough space in that bunk for both of us."

"We won't need a lot—especially when I'm on top of you."

Chapter Nine

As the ART FAY pulled out of Newport harbor, Ralph Armstrong and Lisa Saunders finished their round of golf at the El Cid Resort in Mazatlan. They put their clubs in the trunk of Ralph's Mercedes, walked back to the club house, and ordered cold bottles of Corona.

Ralph added up the scores and pushed the card across the table to Lisa. "You really skunked me today, honey. My 95 can't compete with your 77."

Lisa smiled and looked over the numbers. "Must be the new clubs you bought me. With those rental clubs, I was shooting in the eighties."

"Next time, I want a stroke a hole."

"Oh no you don't, buddy. You'll just have to work harder on your game."

"I'll never be in the same league with you, Miss Florida State all-star."

"Would you like a lesson?" She giggled. "I'll give you the senior rate."

"That's not funny."

"What, being a senior?"

"I'm only forty-nine. You know that."

"I also know you need to forget about it. How many times do I have to tell you that our age difference is not a big deal?"

"You say that now, but things could change."

"Like how?"

"I may not be able to make you happy, keep you satisfied. Give you . . .well, you know."

Lisa smiled. "Oh, now I see what's bothering you. You're still thinking about last night. Right?"

Ralph looked down. "It's embarrassing. The first time ever I couldn't . . . "

Lisa put her hand on his. "Don't worry about it. There will be other times." She kissed him on the cheek. "We don't have to do it every night, you know."

He looked into her eyes but remained silent.

"Smile, dammit. I still love you."

Ralph managed a weak grin and finished his beer. "Ready to head out? I'd like to take a dip in the pool before dinner."

Lisa chugged her beer and made a dainty burp. "Ready when you are."

As they walked to his car, they passed a foursome of young Mexican men, loading their golf carts and preparing to tee off on the first hole. One of the men, an animated fellow with a wide grin, looked at Lisa and exclaimed, "Ay, qué curvas, y yo sin frenos!"

Lisa blushed but neither she nor Ralph said anything until they were in the car. "What was that all about?" asked Ralph.

Lisa looked straight ahead and said, "Roughly translated, he was saying something to the effect, 'Oh, what curves, and me without brakes!' "

Ralph stopped suddenly and opened his door slightly. "I'll just have to teach that guy some manners."

"Don't you dare," she said, grabbing his arm. "He was just making a piropo. I'm sure he meant it as a compliment."

"I don't care. I don't like the way they looked at you."

"Well, if we're going to be living in Mexico, you'd better get used to it."

Two months ago, when Ralph and Lisa arrived in Mazatlan, they had taken a room in the first hotel they saw. There was nothing wrong with their accommodations but, after staying two nights, Ralph decided they deserved something larger and more luxurious. They scouted the resorts and eventually moved into a suite at the El Cid Castillo, located near the marina and on the beach in the Golden Zone. Ralph liked the two swim-up bars in the hotel's large pool and Lisa's favorite spot was the night club with its live music.

It was Saturday evening and they had dinner reservations in the most expensive of the hotel's three restaurants. They took the elevator down to the lobby. "Check in with the hostess, honey," said Ralph. "I've got to make a quick stop at the front desk."

Ralph joined her and they were seated at a small table with an excellent view of a practically empty beach and a placid ocean. "This is nice," she said. "The sunset should be beautiful tonight."

Their waiter appeared and lit a candle at the table's center. He took their drink orders; scotch on the rocks for Ralph and a margarita for Lisa.

After their drinks arrived, they clinked their glasses and took generous sips. Ralph reached into his jacket, pulled out and opened a small box, and handed it to her. "A little something for the sweetest woman in the world."

Her eyes widened. "Oh Ralph, it's gorgeous. Help me put it on."

She held out her left hand while he slipped a gold tennis bracelet over her wrist, studded with diamonds around its entire circumference. She leaned forward, gave him a kiss, and said, "Thank you, sweetheart, but you didn't have to do this."

"I know, but what good is having money if you can't be generous with the woman you love."

Lisa took another sip of margarita and picked up a bit of slush above her lip. She patted her mouth with her napkin while Ralph smiled, recalling the various pleasures he had received from that mouth during the past year. Her full and provocative lips were the most attractive part of her face. In second and third places on Ralph's list of favorite features were her smoldering dark brown eyes and reddish brown hair that hung a good six inches below her shoulders.

"Your business at the front desk," she said. "What was it about?"

"Oh, I almost forgot. We got some mail." He reached into the other side of his jacket and produced two envelopes; one addressed to him and the other to Lisa. Ralph had already noted the return address on his envelope. "It's from my son, Mike. Do you mind if I take a quick look?"

"No, not at all," she replied. While Ralph opened his letter, Lisa looked briefly at her mail before folding the envelope and tucking it into her purse.

Ralph read the letter quickly and grinned as he folded and returned it to his jacket. "This is great news. Worthy of a celebration."

He snapped his fingers and their waiter responded. In just a few minutes, he returned with a chilled bottle of French champagne and two glasses. "Are you going to share this good news with me?" she asked.

"Sure. Mike gave me some scoop about Vicky. She's landed a nice job with some charitable outfit in Newport Beach. She also moved in with a friend in Irvine, probably one of her tennis pals."

"Clue me in on why this is such good news."

"Well, it's good for me but it probably doesn't mean much to you."

"Go on."

"This is the thing, she's getting on with her life. Without me. I'm off the hook. Does that make sense?"

"Yes, it does. Helps relieve all those guilt feelings, doesn't it. Running off and leaving your wife without any money."

"Hey, I did it for us. Don't you try and lay a guilt trip on me."

She placed her hand on his and said, "Look, darling. I appreciate all the golf clubs, the new clothes, all the jewelry. But I would have settled for a lot less."

Ralph drained his champagne glass and stared silently out the window at the setting sun. Seems like I can't do anything right by this woman. Maybe I should have left her in California.

After the waiter took away their dinner plates, he asked, "How about some dessert?"

"Let's split a cup of flan." While they were spooning up the flan, Lisa asked, "Are you happy with our living arrangements?"

"Sure. Look at all the creature comforts we have. Aren't you happy?"

"Mostly, yes. But this isn't a normal situation. It's like we're on a perpetual vacation. No jobs, no real home."

"What are you driving at?"

"When we came into Mexico, we both got temporary visas. They're only good for twelve months, you know, and we've been here for two months already."

"We've got plenty of time," he said. "We could apply for residency status."

"That might be difficult, given the circumstances of our hasty departure. Why don't we just move back to California?"

"Are you kidding? Vicky would have me arrested and thrown in jail."

"Maybe you could talk to her. Give her back her share of the money from selling your home. Then we'd be free to start our own lives together."

Ralph frowned and became silent, thinking that Lisa was pushing him a bit too hard. Did she want some kind of commitment? "Maybe we could move to Switzerland. You ever been to Europe?"

Lisa's mouth widened in surprise. "How did you come up with that idea?"

"We could have a respectable life there and I'd be close to my money."

"You have money in Switzerland?

"Some. Should I have said our money?"

"That's beside the point. I think I'd like to hear more."

"I would have told you sooner," he said, "while we were still in California, but I didn't want to get you mixed up in my business deals."

"Does this have anything to do with our office back in Newport Beach?"

"That's all ancient history, Lisa. Why do you want to know about that?"

"I just don't think we should keep secrets from each other."

Ralph paused for a relatively long time before continuing. "I figured out how to move money out of clients' accounts to numbered accounts I set up in Zurich."

Lisa's eyes widened in horror. "My god, Ralph. That's a felony. You could go to prison."

"But it was so easy. I picked clients with large sums in their accounts who did lots of trading. The ones I skimmed didn't check their quarterly statements very carefully so it was easy to hide all my special transactions."

She put her hands to her temple and moaned. "Now I understand why moving back to California is not a good idea."

Ralph glanced at his watch. "The band's playing. Let's dance a bit and have a nightcap."

"Ralph?"

"Can we have this talk about money and moving some other time?" They got up from the table and began walking toward the night club when Ralph had another thought. "Hey, I forgot to ask about your letter. Who was it from?"

Lisa blushed as she turned her head away. "Oh, my mom. Probably bitching me out about my sudden move to Mexico. I'll read it later."

Chapter Ten

In the predawn darkness Paul and Vicky snuggled in their bunk, his front against her back, like two spoons in a silverware drawer. The only sounds in the cabin were the faint thrumming of the yacht's engines, the ocean's steady sloshing against the hull, and the couple's faint breathing.

Paul's hand moved from nipple to nipple, then down below her navel. Vicky caught it and placed it firmly on her left breast.

"You awake?" he asked.

"Barely."

"I want to ask you something personal."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. What's your middle name?"

Vicky turned to face him. "Are you crazy?"

"Probably. So what is it?"

"I'm not telling."

"What if somebody asks? Shouldn't I know my wife's middle name?"

"Just make something up."

Paul squeezed her butt hard and said, "Tell me—now."

"All right. It's Olive."

"Really? Like in a martini?"

"Yes. Are you happy now?"

"Why did your folks pick that name?"

"They each got one choice. Dad chose Victoria and Mom picked Olive. Another reason why my relationship with her has gone downhill ever since." Paul reached down for a light blanket and pulled it up over their naked bodies. "OK, wise guy, it's your turn. What's your middle name?"

"That's easy. Andrew."

"Hmm. Then your initials are P-A-L. Are you my pal?"

He rubbed the small of her back and said, "I'll always be your pal."

They both jumped as the cabin wall near their heads resounded with a series of thunk-thunk-thunk noises. "What the hell is that?" asked Vicky.

"It's coming from next door."

"Be quiet." There was no further wall banging but they did hear the unmistakable cries of sexual release. Vicky giggled. "No secrets around here with these thin walls."

"Wonder if they heard us earlier?"

"Shush now. I want to hear what happens next."

Paul whispered, "You know, it's not polite to eavesdrop."

Fully awake now, they listened intently. Vicky heard portions of a conversation between Marvin and Holly before it became quiet again.

"I can't make anything out," said Paul.

"Something about Walter's cabin—no paintings. Alesandro's cabin locked."

After a time, all they heard was soft snoring. "Show's over for tonight," said Paul. "Better get some sleep. Big day tomorrow."

Vicky rolled over to face away from him. "Oh yeah? What's happening?"

"Your turn to entertain me."

She laughed. "In your dreams, pal."

Manuel walked through the passageways, ringing the chimes for breakfast. A short time later, Paul, Vicky, Holly and Marvin emerged from their cabins and greeted each other.

As Holly climbed the steep stairway, Paul's eyes were drawn to the rear of her snug white shorts. He almost made a comment about the nice view, but then had second thoughts. Neither Marvin nor Vicky would appreciate my humor.

The Serbers and Alesandros were already seated at the dining table and welcomed the arriving foursome. As Paul sipped his orange juice, he could contain himself no longer. He turned to Holly. "Glad to see you up and about this morning. Have a good night's sleep?"

"Yes, I did. Thanks for asking."

Vicky gave Paul a sharp look, one that he chose to ignore. "Marvin said you were a little seasick yesterday. We missed you at dinner."

"Well, my stomach was a bit queasy, but it's all right now."

Paul grinned and plunged ahead. "Did you take some kind of pill—some type of miracle drug?"

Holly hesitated, looked at Vicky, and then back at Paul. In a steady voice she said, "No, it wasn't a pill. I had a vitamin P injection."

Vicky burst out laughing and covered her mouth with her napkin. Paul was confused and directed his question to Vicky, "Is there a vitamin P?"

Vicky shook her head. "You're such a dork."

Walter broke into the conversation with an announcement. "I have a special treat for all of you. This afternoon, we'll be pulling into a secluded cove for a few hours, just off the coast of Baja. You can go swimming, walk along the beach, explore rocks and tide pools—whatever you like."

Lenore said to Paul, "He does this just to irritate me. He knows I don't like swimming in the ocean."

Maria, who had been on this same cruise several times before, had a different opinion. "It's such a beautiful spot and the water's so clear. You can see all the fish swimming around."

As they were finishing breakfast and Manuel began clearing the table, Walter made a suggestion. "How about a few rubbers of bridge, starting around nine o'clock? Any takers?"

Vicky and Holly said they would like to play. An awkward silence followed as the others looked around, wondering if a fourth could be found. Finally, Paul spoke up, "I'll join you."

"Splendid, Ralph," said Walter. "Holly and I will be partners—I assume you'll want Vicky as your partner. I'll have Manuel set up a card table on the fantail under the canvas."

Vicky appeared delighted that another aspect of Paul's personality had revealed itself. When they were alone and outside on the bow's deck, she said, "You continue to amaze me. I had no idea you played bridge."

"I learned in college but after graduation there was a long spell of no cards. Then Helen and I played in Brussels with some other American couples. Now I'm a bit rusty so you'll just have to bear with me."

Vicky hugged him and said, "This could be the ultimate test of our—marriage—friendship—relationship. What would you call it?"

Paul smiled as he took her hand. "We don't have to call it anything, Olive."

"Call me that again and you'll be sleeping on deck tonight."

In mid-afternoon the yacht pulled into the cove. It was more beautiful than any of the newcomers had imagined. Behind a wide and gently sloped sandy beach, fifty foot cliffs formed a U-shaped inlet. When the yacht was a hundred yards off shore, the bow anchor was dropped.

Five swimmers soon arrived at the stern, ready to take the plunge: Vicky in her black one-piece suit, Paul in blue boxer trunks, Marvin and Walter in red speedos, and Maria in a yellow bikini that left little to the imagination.

Lenore had already dragooned Hector into staying behind to play gin rummy. Holly pleaded fatigue and told Marvin to enjoy himself while she took a nap.

Walter insisted that all swimmers apply sun block cream. He also cautioned them not to swim on the ocean side of the yacht. All five dove in about the same time and swam near the boat before heading to the beach. Walter and Maria strolled north, giving the clear impression that company would not be welcome. Vicky and Paul walked south while Marvin stayed behind to check the beach and tide pools for rocks and sea shells.

As they waded hand-in-hand through ankle-high water, Vicky said, "You're not a bad bridge player."

Paul smiled. "Thanks, I'll take that as a compliment."

"And thank you, kind sir, for not chewing me out because of all the mistakes I made this morning."

"It's only a game, Vic. No reason to get upset and go in for all that Sturm und Drang."

"I wish Walter had your attitude. He gave Holly a terrible time about her bidding."

"I like Holly. She has a wonderful sense of humor. I hated to see her take all that crap from Walter."

"He's the big boss," she said, "and she wants to keep her job."

"Walter hates to lose," said Paul. "If he doesn't make his contract, he takes it as an assault on his virility."

They walked several hundred yards before the white sandy beach gave way to black jagged rocks. They turned around and headed back. "Did you and Ralph play bridge together?"

"We used to, but we stopped a couple of years ago. Seems like every time we played, we'd get into a big argument. It stopped being fun so we just agreed not to play with each other anymore. One more thing we didn't do together."

"Mind if I ask you something personal?" he said.

"You know all my names now."

"No, this is really personal."

Vicky stopped for a moment, looked at Paul, and continued walking. "The last time Ralph and I had sex was about six months ago. My Christmas fuck."

Paul flinched. "You get right to the bottom line, don't you?"

"No reason to beat around the bush, Paul. Looking back on it now, it all sort of makes sense. He was screwing his little friend, Lisa, on a regular basis so he didn't have much time or energy left for his decrepit wife. I thought he was just getting older and not much interested in sex anymore."

"Do you know when he and Lisa started their affair?"

"I had a talk with Ralph's boss after he ran off. Lisa came to work there last summer about this time. He said Lisa's only thirty-two. How's that for robbing the cradle?"

"I just had a thought," said Paul. "Did Ralph have a 401K at work—any financial assets at all?"

"I asked him about that, too. He borrowed against his 401K—the max—but I'm sure he doesn't intend to pay it back."

"That's actually pretty good for you. If he had cashed out, you'd have a horrible tax problem next year. Anything else?"

"The company has a life insurance policy on him, but it's term—no cash value."

They stopped walking at the center of the cove and looked out at the yacht. "We're being watched," said Paul. "That's Lenore at the rail with binoculars."

Holly checked one more time to make sure that Hector and Lenore were engrossed in their gin rummy game. She walked forward and went below the main deck to the cabins occupied by the Serbers and Alesandros. This time, she found Hector's cabin unlocked and quietly went inside.

She paused to take in the dimly-lit interior, noting that the cabin was larger and more expensively appointed than her own. Then she went to work, looking inside bathroom compartments, bunk drawers, closets, anything that might hold something unusual. She looked into an ornamental cut-glass cabinet and found only the usual toiletry items. But when she closed its door, she was struck by the way the cabinet's front protruded from the wall. She inserted her hand into a recess along the cabinet's left side, pressed a metal button, and watched as the entire cabinet swung away to reveal a small linen closet. Sure enough, all three shelves contained towels and wash cloths but, behind towels on the lowest shelf, she found stacks of American dollars held together by rubber bands.

Holly smiled and took a deep breath before continuing. Pay dirt. Looks like I was right about this guy. She took a few stacks of money, looked them over, and carefully returned them to their original positions. Then she closed the cabinet front and let herself out.

Just as she closed the cabin door, Manuel emerged from the Serbers' cabin and gave Holly a quizzical look. "Can I help you, Miss Kenworthy?"

"Oh, Manuel, you startled me. Can I get to my cabin from here?"

"No, Miss Kenworthy. Go up to the main deck, back to the stern, and down the stairs you'll find there."

"Thank you, Manuel. I'll do that." As she climbed the stairway, she was only about half sure that Manuel bought her lie.

When the swimmers began returning to the yacht, Hector left Lenore and went below to his cabin. Marvin was the first to arrive, soon followed by Paul and Vicky. Lenore looked out over the water and along the beach, concluding that Walter and Maria wouldn't be back anytime soon. She summoned Manuel. "Bring me a vodka gimlet—a double. I'll be topside."

"Yes, Mrs. Serber. Right away."

She sat in a deck chair, just to the rear of the wheel house, with a commanding view of the cove and the long stretches of beach on each side. She chain smoked, sipped her drink, and periodically scanned the beach with her binoculars.

Well into her third gimlet, she spotted Walter and Maria walking in the surf and heading toward the cove. Lenore's cigarette fell from her mouth when she saw that Maria was topless. She watched in angry fascination as they stopped walking and Walter lovingly replaced the missing part of her suit.

"Just as I thought," she said to herself. "Well, you'd better get all the fucky-feelies you can, because your days are numbered."

Chapter Eleven

"You awake?" Around four o'clock the next morning, Vicky cuddled up to Paul, her chest against his back, and ran her fingers through the hair on his chest.

"Barely."

"I want to ask you something personal."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes.

Paul recognized the exchange and began chuckling. His good humor caused Vicky to giggle even louder. Their laughter soon filled the cabin and bounced off its walls. When they heard a tap-tap-tap on the wall behind Vicky's head, Paul rolled over and placed his hand on her mouth. "Walter should have spent more money on soundproofing the cabins. We'll never hear the end of this."

Vicky calmed down and managed to respond, "You'll never hear the end of it, Mr. Vitamin P Injection."

Paul waited until he had regained some semblance of composure to ask, "Did you really have a question?"

"Sure. I'd like to hear about Helen."

"Helen? How come and why now?"

"I just want you to tell me about her. How you two met. How you got along together."

"Oh boy, where do I start? OK, I think you know I was raised in Aurora, near Chicago. When I graduated from high school in 1970, I didn't have the foggiest idea of what I wanted to do, so I joined the Air Force. I met Helen in 1973, at MacDill Air Force Base in Florida. She worked in disbursing and we met on a blind date. We went bowling."

"Ooh, that sounds romantic."

"Yeah, she didn't think so either. Then she got orders to Japan in early 1974, about the same time I was discharged. We were good friends by then, nothing more, but we kept in touch. I went on to the University in Urbana-Champagne and studied electrical engineering. After two years in Japan, she was transferred to Langley on the East Coast and stopped by to visit on her way."

"This is starting to sound interesting."

"It got very interesting. We didn't realize it at first, but we were falling in love by mail, long distance. After we saw each other again, the courtship took off, one of us commuting to spend a holiday or long weekend with the other. We got married just before Christmas in 1976."

"But you were still in college, weren't you?"

"Yes, my junior year and Helen was still in the service. Then she got pregnant with Jeanette and was discharged in the summer of 1977. Most of my senior year was a real grind. Trying to study, support a family, take care of Helen, and being a new daddy on top of all that."

"Compared to you, we had it pretty easy. What happened after graduation?"

"I got lucky. My grades were pretty good and my Air Force experience was a plus. I had several job offers so I picked the best. Yaru Defense Electronics in Southern California."

"Where did you live then?"

"In Buena Park, near the plant. Rachel came along a year later."

"So you worked in Fullerton for . . . how long?"

"Thirteen years and then this opportunity came up in our Brussels office. Neither of us had ever been to Europe before and we were pretty nervous about packing up the girls and heading off to live in a foreign country. But Helen had this adventurous spirit and incredible curiosity about new things. So off we went. The girls loved it and learned to speak French quite well."

"I've never been to Europe," she sighed.

"You'd love it. I had to travel a lot and Helen got to tag along on some of my business trips."

"So, what's your favorite city?"

"Paris, without a doubt. A great walking city. And when you get tired of walking, you can take the subway to just about anywhere. It's a pretty romantic place as well. I just may go back there someday. Not by myself, I hope."

Vicky was silent, choosing not to respond to Paul's thinly veiled invitation. Paul assumed she was tired of his marital history and stopped talking as well. After a few minutes he changed the subject. "I've been thinking some more about Ralph."

"Don't hurt yourself."

"No, really. There's something about this whole thing that isn't right. Why didn't he just move in with Lisa and ask you for a divorce? California's a community property state and you both would have come away with a significant amount of money. He and Lisa could have kept their jobs and got on with their lives. And you wouldn't have had to live in that van."

"It's been bugging me, too. People who suddenly leave the country like that are usually running from the law."

"Do you really think Ralph would do anything illegal?"

"He swindled me, his own wife. And he had this knack of appearing so trustworthy. Hell, he fooled me and I probably knew him better than any of his clients did. Yeah, he might do something crooked, especially if he thought he could get away with it."

Paul yawned broadly and stretched his frame. "It's not the company, Vic, but I'm getting sleepy."

"Me too." She kissed him and he responded by hugging her so hard that she let out a sharp "oof."

The passengers spent Monday enjoying the breezes while sunbathing topside, reading, or playing games. But in late afternoon, after they passed Cabo San Lucas at the tip of Baja, a sudden thunderstorm drove everyone inside.

Since the time for dinner was near, the passengers retreated to their cabins to shower and dress for dinner. Vicky and Paul then went up to the saloon and joined Walter and Lenore for a drink. Manuel brought Vicky and Paul their usual, causing Paul to remark after taking a sip, "That guy mixes a mean martini."

Marvin and Holly arrived several minutes later and Manuel took their drink orders. Lenore used this opportunity to order her second Bloody Mary. Walter scowled but she ignored him.

Hector and Maria were the last couple to enter the saloon and they caused considerable excitement, mainly because of Maria's outfit. Her white dress was cut dangerously low in front and back with a loose arrangement of straps in front.

"Put your eyeballs back in your head," Vicky hissed at Paul.

The passengers mingled, rather obviously trying to ignore the awkwardness of the 'five hundred pound gorilla' in their living room. Somehow, Maria managed to isolate Walter and persuade him to sit next to her on one of the dark brown leather couches. Lenore watched in fuming silence as Maria whispered in Walter's ear, laughed with him, and occasionally touched his hair.

Lenore obtained a fresh Bloody Mary from Manuel and walked unsteadily over to the conversing couple. "Walter. I believe Manuel needs to talk with you."

Walter looked up at Lenore and then turned to Maria. "Excuse me for a few moments. I'll be right back."

Walter got up and walked to the galley. Lenore turned and followed him for a few steps, but then turned around again and faced Maria. She lurched forward, appeared to stumble on the hem of her long black skirt, and dumped her entire drink into Maria's cleavage and down the front of her dress.

Maria screamed as she bolted upwards. "Look what you've done. My dress is ruined."

Lenore smiled and deliberately slurred her words. "Such a clumsy thing to do. Shame on me."

Hector was on the scene immediately with napkins he grabbed from the dining table. He and Maria did their best to sop up the residue of tomato juice but it was clear that the dress was permanently stained. "I think you owe her an apology," Hector said to Lenore.

"I'm sorry I wasted my entire drink on your wife," she said.

Manuel appeared with several wet towels and gave one to Maria while he wiped off the sofa cushions.

As Maria started walking away, Lenore grabbed her by the elbow and said in a low voice, "Go change your dress, Maria. We'll wait dinner until you return. And try not to look like some cheap hooker this time. I'm sure all the men have seen quite enough of your tits for the duration of this cruise."

Chapter Twelve

Several hours before Tuesday's dawn, Paul awoke and cuddled up to Vicky, his hand under her T-shirt exploring her breasts. "You awake?"

"Barely." She sounded sleepy.

"We need to talk."

She rolled over to face him. "What, no comedy routine?"

"No, this is kind of serious. We haven't talked about Ralph. How are you going to handle it when you see him?"

"Oh hell, I'm not really sure. I guess we'll go to his hotel and confront him. He'll shit his pants when he sees me."

"Then what?"

"We have a brief talk and decide how much money he owes me."

"And you expect him to sit down and write you a check?"

"From him, cash would be nice."

"Let's get real. He's not going to have a lot of cash lying around his room."

"Well, maybe we could all grab a taxi and visit his bank."

"That would be cute, with Lisa tagging along."

"Oh, I forgot about her."

"What do you plan to say to her?"

"Nothing. This is just between Ralph and me."

"What if he stonewalls you?"

"Listen, we're not leaving Mazatlan until he gives me my money."

"And if he won't?"

"That's why I brought you along. You'll work him over until he coughs up the do-re-mi."

"You sound like a 1920s gun moll."

"That's enough talk about this. What's your favorite part of the cruise so far? And please don't tell me it's making love."

"Let me see. Waking up next to you before dawn. And the talks we've had."

"I'm so glad you said that. Ralph and I never talked that way."

"Not ever?"

"For the last few years, it was more like slam-bam-thank-you-ma'am. Not much talk. Either before, during and after sex."

Paul draped his arm across her waist. "What happens when we get back to Irvine? I'm talking about you and me."

Vicky kissed him and put her finger tips on his mouth. "Let's not make any plans just yet. We've got a lot to get through during the next couple of days." She snuggled up closer, put her hand between his legs, and discovered he wasn't wearing underwear. "My, my, very impressive."

"A hunk of rebar," he said proudly.

"Amazing. How do you do that?"

"It's not me. It's that Viagra voice of yours."

"Well, I'm ready and I want it. Now."

"Let's keep it down, we don't want to wake up Marv and Holly."

"To hell with them. Let's give them something to be jealous about."

He slipped off her T-shirt and got her flat on her back. When he caressed her between her legs, she began to moan and clutch her hands at nothing but the air. He tickled her nipple with his tongue, slowly, making her arch and groan. He felt her hands on his back, the sharp bite of her nails. He did something then, he wasn't even sure what, that made her climax. Her thighs clamped around his caressing hand and she rolled toward him, forcing a low grinding sound through her clenched teeth. She drew her knees up and hunched her shoulders, and he could feel, actually feel the soft rhythmic pulsing of feminine flesh around his fingers.

She sucked in a huge gulp of air and pressed a soft kiss to his shoulder. "My God, Paul, how did you do that?"

"It's a secret." I don't have the foggiest idea.

Murmuring to her, calling her honey, he nudged her onto her back again. She opened her legs and he hovered over her, using his hand to push himself into her slowly, ready to die from the way she felt, so tight and hot around him.

He lost all finesse. He forgot to be gentle, forgot everything except how it felt to be inside her. And she was with him all the way. And then slowly, imperceptibly at first, she began to stiffen under him, arch her back and grit her teeth. She was coming. She was so beautiful, and he wanted to savor her fierce, silent climax, but it was impossible. Gathering her close, he let himself go, pumping, driving into her with strong, powerful thrusts, not silent at all. He heard his own groaning cries in amazement. In the middle of it, he almost blacked out.

He rolled away and they fell against each other. She didn't even have the strength to return his grateful kisses. He picked her hand up and dropped it, to see what would happen. It fell on his chest in a boneless heap.

"That was wonderful," she said.

"Paradise on the ocean." They held each other in silence for several minutes until Paul looked out the porthole. "I see lights out there, probably the Mazatlan marina. We should be getting in pretty soon."

"Right according to Walter's schedule."

"Want to get dressed and get an early start on our hunt for Ralph?"

"Not really. Let's have breakfast first. We've got plenty of time."

Tuesday's breakfast was relatively quiet. Paul and Vicky were the last to arrive at the dining table and were greeted with subdued good mornings. But Marvin and Holly gave them wide grins and simultaneous 'thumbs up' gestures that made Vicky giggle and Paul blush. As breakfast ended, Walter announced their arrival in Mazatlan and urged everyone to enjoy their visit. He concluded by saying they would be leaving at exactly 11:00 P.M. on Thursday in order to arrive in Newport Beach late Sunday evening.

Paul and Vicky soon left the boat and hailed a taxi. They first stopped at a bank where Paul cashed several traveler's checks for pesos. Their next stop was the El Cid Castillo hotel.

They walked up to the front desk where Vicky launched into a well-rehearsed speech. "Good morning. I'm looking for Mr. Ralph Armstrong. Can you tell me his room number?"

The desk clerk checked his computer and said, "Yes, we have a Mr. Armstrong registered." He pointed to a white phone on a nearby wall and said, "Just give the hotel operator his name."

"Oh, that would spoil the surprise. Can't you just tell me his room number?" The clerk frowned. "I'm his sister. My husband and I just arrived on a cruise ship and we don't have much time. He'll just die when he sees me."

When Paul thrust a handful of pesos at him, the clerk relented and gave them Ralph's room number. Paul and Vicky wasted no time taking an elevator up to the top floor. As they approached Ralph's door, Vicky slowed down and began digging around in her purse. "What the heck are you doing?" asked Paul.

"Ah, here it is," she said, pulling a nickel-plated automatic from her purse.

"What the hell is that?"

"Duh. It's a pistol."

"I can see that. Where did you get it?"

"Ralph bought it for me. Protection whenever he had to travel."

"Is this really necessary?"

"It's just a precaution. In case things get ugly."

"I don't like this, Vicky"

"I don't care. Let's get on with it."

They found Ralph's room and Paul, bracing himself, knocked softly on the door several times. "Hmm. No answer. Maybe they got an early start on their day."

"Try again," she said.

Paul knocked harder and both were surprised when the door gave way. They looked at each other nervously. Paul stepped forward slowly, Vicky close behind him. "That's a careless thing to do. Leaving the door open like that." Moving cautiously, they entered the suite, stopping briefly in the center of the sunlit living room to look around. "Sure is quiet in here," he remarked.

"Maybe they're in bed. I hope we catch them doing it."

Paul ignored her comment and walked to the bedroom door. He knocked again several times. Like the front door, this one opened slowly to the pressure of his hand. "Anybody home?" said Paul.

The bedroom was dark and quiet. Thinking that Ralph and Lisa were out, Paul flicked on a wall switch. When he was finally able to comprehend the scene before him, Paul struggled to breathe. His partially digested breakfast rose in his throat and he fought the urge to vomit. Ralph lay on his back, his underwear and the surrounding bed linens caked in blood. Ralph's eyes stared at the ceiling and his mouth was open, silently cursing his untimely fate.

Vicky looked around Paul, who was stalled in the doorway, and caught a glimpse of the grisly tableau. She cried out in shock and dropped her automatic pistol. Paul grabbed her by the shoulders but she fought him, ran to the bed and knelt down beside it. "Oh, God, this is terrible," she wailed.

Paul came up behind and tried to comfort her while he looked closer at the body. Ralph had been shot several times in the upper torso, near the heart; he had probably died quickly.

Paul thought he heard a noise coming from another part of the suite. It suddenly occurred to him they might not be alone. Thinking the killer may still be close by, he picked up Vicky's pistol and moved quietly to the bathroom. To his relief, it was empty. The noise he'd heard was just the ocean breeze rattling an open window.

He returned to the bedroom where Vicky was now standing next to the bed, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She turned around and fell into Paul's arms, trembling and crying harder. "Why would anyone want to kill him? I could never do anything like this and I had a damn good reason to be angry." Paul had no ready answer. "The kids will be devastated when they hear their father's dead. And I have to be the one to break the news."

He let her go on for several moments. "I just checked the bathroom and it's empty. Wonder where his girlfriend went."

"Do you think she killed him?"

"I have no idea. What reason would she have?"

"Let's go back into the living room," she said with a final, shuddering glance at the bed.

Vicky collapsed on a couch while Paul laid the pistol on a desk. He sat down next to her and took her hand as she turned to him. "I'm so sorry I got you mixed up in all this. I wouldn't blame you if you bailed and took the next flight to L. A."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said. "I couldn't do that. Not now, when you need me."

She leaned toward him and he put his arm around her shoulder. "What the hell do we do now?" she asked in a small voice.

"We should call the police."

Vicky stiffened. "Are you nuts? I'm the number one murder suspect. The abandoned wife confronting the runaway husband and his lover." She jumped up in a panic. "We've got to get out of here. Now."

Paul rose and started to follow her out the door but the way was blocked. Three of Mazatlan's finest faced them, their service pistols drawn, ordering them in heavily accented English to stop and put up their hands.

Chapter Thirteen

Two officers handcuffed Paul and Vicky and escorted them to the elevator. As they passed through the hotel lobby, both bowed their heads in shame and embarrassment.

Sitting in the rear of the police car, they were silent during their ride to the downtown police station. But when they arrived, Vicky's emotions rose to the surface. "I didn't do anything wrong," she wailed. "This is all a big mistake. I demand that you notify the ambassador. I want to call a lawyer."

The escorting officers said nothing and let her continue. After being fingerprinted and booked as murder suspects, she and Paul stood together in a brightly lit, green painted corridor, again handcuffed, while awaiting jailers who would take them to their respective cells. Vicky looked frantically at Paul. "How can you be so calm?"

"What good will it do to fight them? They found us with a dead body. They have to go through their standard police drill."

"But neither one of us killed him."

"I know that and you know that. It won't take them long to figure out the same thing."

"I'm afraid, Paul. What if the police here are incompetent? Or just plain lazy? What if they don't speak English? They've got two dumb gringos that don't know anything about Mexican law. They could lock us up and throw away the key. End of story. Case closed."

A stocky matron appeared, her heavy torso barely contained by a bulging navy blue police uniform. As she led Vicky away, Paul made a feeble attempt to raise her spirits. "Have courage, Olive. We'll be out of here before you can say Dow Jones Industrial Average." Vicky's only reply was an equal mixture of faint laughter and whimpering.

A male guard took Paul to a square cell about fifteen feet on each side. The four men already there were Mexicans of various ages. They watched Paul with suspicion when he walked into the cell; none of them spoke. Paul looked around and noted bunks with thin, filthy mattresses, three stacked on each side of the cell. As he moved further into the room, he almost choked on the air, foul with the smell of urine, vomit, and industrial strength body odor.

Paul collapsed on the edge of a bunk, resting his folded hands on his knees. He lowered his head and began a silent prayer, something he hadn't done in a long time.

Meanwhile, Vicky entered a similar cell that was occupied by three young Mexican women. They greeted her loudly in Spanish, saying things Vicky couldn't understand. She was sure they were insulting. She spotted a stinking toilet in the corner and the urge to pee grew perversely even stronger than before.

She walked over to the cell's single window. It overlooked the rear of a restaurant across a narrow brick alley. A mangy brown and white dog rooted around a pile of discarded food surrounding a knocked-over garbage can. The dog, sensing Vicky's presence, lifted her head and pointed her nose toward the cell's window. Vicky shouted, "What the hell are you looking at, bitch?" and burst into tears.

Soon after Paul and Vicky left the yacht, Hector went ashore in search of a telephone booth. He found one near the marina and dialed a quick sequence of numbers from memory while whistling a nondescript tune.

After three rings, a young man answered, "Yes?"

"Good morning," said Hector. "It's a fine day for conducting business, no?"

"Can you afford—to board—the Chattanooga choo-choo?"

Hector chuckled. "I've got my fare—and just a trifle to spare."

"Buenos dias, amigo. How have you been?"

"Bueno. No complaints."

"Do we need to have a meeting?"

"It would be a mutually profitable event. Tonight then?"

"Tonight is fine. The usual place?"

"Yes, about nine o'clock, if it suits you."

"Ay, caramba, but I have a date. Could we make it eleven?"

"No problem. Eleven o'clock at the usual place."

Detective Ernesto Baca had received a call from an officer at the El Cid Castillo Hotel and was in a foul mood while he drove there. Earlier that morning, his wife had informed him that their sixteen year old daughter, Elena, was pregnant. An abortion was out of the question because of the family's religious beliefs; Elena would not identify the father. The result was a rather unpalatable plan, hatched over a breakfast table filled with tension. Elena would remain in school. She would take a break to have the baby early next year, at which time her parents would become full-time baby sitters until she graduated and could get a job. How could all of them get by on his pathetic salary of 12,000 pesos per month?

Strangely enough, the one bright spot in his day centered around the call he'd just received, the report of a dead Americano in a suite at the El Cid Castillo. Even though murders were an unpleasant business, it would be a welcome break from the type of work he'd been doing lately: cracking down on lap dancers at topless nightclubs and trying to catch young graffiti artists practicing their handiwork during the predawn hours. He was one of the few detectives on the city's police force and a good old-fashioned homicide would allow him to perform the police work for which he'd been trained.

Baca walked into the suite and greeted the other officer present, "Buenos dias, Trompo. What do you have for me?" Both officers wore identical uniforms; navy blue trousers and white short sleeve shirts. The only difference was that Trompo had a holstered pistol but Baca, like all Mazatlan detectives, carried no gun.

"Hello, Ernesto. Let's go into the bedroom first. The coroner wants to remove the body and take it to the morgue. I want you to see it first."

Trompo and Baca moved into the brightly lit bedroom. The drapes were open and all lights switched on to permit a thorough inspection of the crime scene. Baca looked over Ralph's body without touching it, thinking that the autopsy would confirm he died instantly from multiple gunshot wounds to the heart.

After Baca nodded his consent, the coroner placed the corpse in a white plastic body bag, zipped it up, and removed it from the suite on a metal gurney. Baca pointed to several holes in the mattress where Ralph's body had been. "Look there, Trompo. I'll bet we find a bullet or two somewhere inside." He looked at other parts of the bed and moved several pillows. "Find anything else?"

Trompo held up a clear plastic bag containing a black thong. "He had a woman here last night, but now she's somewhere with no underwear." Trompo laughed at his own joke but Baca only scowled.

Trompo went back to the living room and returned with another clear plastic bag, this one containing Vicky's small pistol. "The man and woman we arrested had this automatic."

Baca opened the bag and sniffed the barrel several times. "I don't think it's been fired recently."

"I can't smell anything either," said Trompo.

They were joined by a man and woman from the police lab. "Get them started," said Baca to Trompo. "I want to look around."

Baca went first to the bathroom and looked at the toiletries on the counter and in the medicine cabinet. Many of the items were a man's but a few belonged to a woman. Next, he looked in the closets, dressers, and desk drawers and saw male trousers, shirts, and shoes. Baca could tell that everything was out of place; the murderer had probably been looking for something. Clothing on hangers had been pushed far to the left or right. T-shirts, underwear, and socks had been pulled from dresser drawers and dropped on the floor. He made a mental note to examine these items again, after they were collected and brought to the police station. Back in the living room, he asked Trompo, "What about the two people you arrested?"

"The woman's name is Victoria Armstrong. She said the victim was her husband. The man is Paul Lorenz, a friend of Mrs. Armstrong. She said they just arrived this morning on a cruise ship. Found her husband already dead."

"So, the jealous wife comes looking for her husband and his girlfriend. Finds them in bed together and then wastes him."

"Sounds like you got it figured out already."

"Not so, it's never that easy. Besides, a couple of things don't fit. What about the woman without the black underwear? Why did she run and where did she go?"

Baca walked into the bedroom, then the bathroom, and back again into the living room. "Stay with our lab people and be sure you collect everything that doesn't belong to the hotel. I'm going to talk to the people at the front desk."

While Paul and Vicky were lunching on moldy tortillas, cold beans, and bitter coffee, Walter Serber relaxed at a restaurant table, near the beach, at the Hotel Playa Mazatlan. He glanced periodically at his watch and sipped California Chablis.

A tall woman with long black hair approached his table with her hand extended. "Hello, Walter. Sorry I'm late, but I was detained at the gallery."

After kissing her hand, he said, "Pilar, you are lovelier than ever."

"I'm also very hungry," she said as she sat down. "Please go ahead and order something for me."

Walter obliged with Caesar salads and abalone for both. Over lunch, their conversation centered on business matters.

"I have two paintings for you," began Walter. "They are both by Chagall, taken from a Beverly Hills gallery about a year ago."

"I remember reading about that."

"Both have ancient Hebrew themes. Moses with the Tablets and A Man with the Torah. Their value is around $500,000."

"Ah yes, it rings a bell. I know several individuals who will be interested in seeing them. Those pieces will be easy to sell."

"What do you have for me?"

"Actually, quite a number of interesting items. Four from a French gallery. A Dufy, a Utrillo and two Manets, all liberated in June 99. The rest are from different places in Mexico. Two by Leonel Maciel, three by Guy Rousille, and a rather provocative one by Rosa Garza called 'Background.' I was very tempted to keep that one for myself."

"Describe it for me, please."

Pilar hesitated before answering. "It appears to be male and female organs in close proximity." She waved her hand and added, "Let's just leave it at that."

Walter placed his hand over hers. "Perhaps you could show me what you mean. I've already rented a room here in the hotel."

Pilar pulled her hand away. "We have too much business to discuss and no time for any of that."

Walter frowned. "It's a pity to always be rejected by the woman I love."

"You're not in love, Walter. You're in lust."

He laughed and took a large gulp of wine. After the waitress had cleared the table, they reviewed statements issued by a bank in the Cayman Islands. Walter and Pilar had separate accounts at the same bank and used them mainly for deposits and withdrawals associated with their sales of paintings.

"How long will you be here this time?" she asked.

"We're leaving Thursday evening, just before midnight."

"When would you like to make the exchange?"

"Have your man bring his truck around eight o'clock Thursday evening. I'm having food and other supplies delivered then so he shouldn't attract undue attention."

"Then everything is arranged." She stood and extended her hand. "I have to go. I've a meeting with another client."

Walter got up, moved in close for a hug, and gave her a kiss that she didn't resist. "Next time, let's have less business and more pleasure."

As she turned to leave, she smiled. "Quizas, amigo. Perhaps."

Chapter Fourteen

Detective Baca returned to his office Tuesday afternoon. He had learned the name of Ralph's companion from the hotel desk clerk and the police had broadcast an all-points bulletin for her detention. There was still no information on Lisa's whereabouts, nor did he have reports from Trompo and his fellow officers, the lab team, or the coroner. He decided it was time to question his prime suspects; first Vicky and then Paul.

A matron brought a sullen Vicky to the station's interrogation room where he could question her privately. Baca motioned her to a chair on one side of a table. "I am Detective Ernesto Baca. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Vicky looked around the dingy room. Her stomach roiled as she inhaled the foul air and watched him pour a tar-like liquid into his own cup. "No, thank you."

Baca sat facing her on the opposite side of the table. "Cigarette?"

"No. I just want to get the hell out of here."

"An attitude like that won't help you very much."

Vicky exhaled and stood up. "I don't care. I didn't do anything wrong."

"That may be, but I'd like to hear your story."

"What do you want to know?"

"Let's start at the beginning. Sit down and tell me how you came to Mazatlan."

She sat down and slumped in her chair. "On my employer's yacht. It's tied up in the marina."

"And when did you arrive?"

"We docked sometime before sunrise but I went back to sleep." Vicky hesitated for a few seconds as the vivid lovemaking scene flashed through her mind. "We had breakfast around seven o'clock and left the boat about 8:30."

"When you say we, you mean you and Mr. Lorenz?"

"That's correct."

"This man. What is he to you?"

Vicky was perspiring heavily. She looked around the room for an electric fan; anything that would get the stale air moving. "He's a close friend."

"OK, you left the boat about 8:30. What happened then?"

"We caught a taxi and stopped at a bank so Paul could get some pesos. Then we went to the hotel. Got there about 9:15 or so."

"Why were you coming to this particular hotel?"

"I knew Ralph was living there with his girlfriend. My son, Mike, got a letter from him and gave me the address."

"And then you went to his room?"

"I didn't know his room number. I had to get it from the desk clerk. I told him that I was Ralph's sister."

"How did you get inside the room? Wasn't it locked?"

"No, it was open, so we walked in." Vicky struggled to continue, crying while she described finding Ralph's body. Baca reached into his hip pocket and held out his handkerchief for her.

She stopped crying and stared through her tears at the white cotton square.

"Don't worry," he said, "it's clean."

She took his handkerchief and patted her eyes. "Your English is very good. I didn't expect that."

Baca smiled. "I went to college in Texas. Got my B. A. in criminology there."

She handed the handkerchief back to him.

"Now then. The officers found an automatic pistol in the room. Is it yours?"

"Yes, it's mine." Vicky lowered her head and stared at her dirty tennis shoes. Bringing that gun along was about the dumbest thing I've ever done.

"And you used it to kill him."

She raised her voice. "No, no. I couldn't do anything like that."

"Then why were you carrying it?"

Vicky took a deep breath and related the whole story of how Ralph sold their home and ran off to Mexico with her money and Lisa. She concluded her tale by remarking that her sole intent was to get her fair share of the money. The gun was just for show in case some scare tactics were needed.

"The way I see it," he said, "you confronted your husband and he wouldn't give you any money so you shot him."

"That's not true. I told you he was already dead when we got there."

"Did you look around the suite for any money?"

"We were going to. But when we found Ralph's body, we just wanted to get out of there. The other policemen caught us before we could leave." God, I hope Paul's story agrees with what I'm telling this guy.

Baca tapped his fingers on the table and made some notes on a yellow tablet. "This other woman, Lisa Saunders. What do you know about her?"

"She worked with Ralph at his Newport Beach office. I've never met her." Vicky leaned forward and raised her voice, "Hey, you should be talking to her. Where the hell is she?"

"We're still looking for her."

"She's the one you want. She probably killed him and then ran off."

"Really? What do you think her motive was?"

Vicky looked at the ceiling briefly. "I have no idea."

"This motor yacht you mentioned. Who are the other passengers?"

"Why do you want to know that?"

"I need to talk with them."

"Please don't do that. It could cost me my job. Two of them are my bosses."

"So who are they?"

Vicky gave him the others' names and Baca jotted them down on his tablet. He rubbed his forehead and tapped his pencil on the table several times.

"When are you going to release us?"

Baca scowled. "I need more information, lab results and the coroner's report. We've also impounded your husband's car and we're checking it over. So I don't have an answer to your question right now."

"That boat's leaving here late Thursday night and I want to be on it."

"You may have to change your plans." Baca got up, called the matron in from the hallway, and asked her to return Vicky to the women's holding cell.

Lisa Saunders sat in a corner of Mazatlan airport's cocktail lounge, trying hard not to be noticed. She wore blue jeans, one of Ralph's baggy sweatshirts, sunglasses, and a wide-brimmed, floppy beach hat.

Lisa guzzled a margarita, hoping to calm her nerves, while waiting to board her Los Angeles flight. She had even bought a pack of menthol cigarettes from the cocktail waitress, hoping they would help soothe her. Since she rarely smoked, the cigarettes had the opposite effect, giving her a coughing fit that prompted nearby patrons to eye her with concern.

She ordered a second margarita and began thinking about all that happened that morning. The image of Ralph flashed through her mind, lying in the blood-soaked bed where they had made love the night before. She began weeping audibly and trembled so violently that an older man came over. "Are you all right, miss? Should I call a doctor?"

Lisa grabbed a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. "No, it's OK. Don't call anybody."

Eventually, the time arrived for boarding her flight. She first passed through a security checkpoint where her carryon luggage was searched. Then she walked to immigration control and laid her passport on the counter. The mustachioed clerk inside the booth looked at it, typed her name and stared at his computer monitor for several moments.

Lisa fidgeted back and forth, then leaned forward. "My flight's been called. I need to be moving on now."

"Por favor, señorita. There seems to be some problem with my computer." He tapped his keyboard several times. "Ah yes, here we are." Suddenly, two Mazatlan police officers appeared next to her, one on each side.

"What's going on here?" she said.

The immigration officer spoke directly to the policemen. "This woman is wanted for questioning by one of your homicide detectives."

"Give me my passport," she screamed. "I've got a plane to catch."

One of the policemen took her arm. "Sorry, señorita, but you'll have to come with us."

The immigration officer slid her unstamped passport back across the counter and smiled. "Have a nice day, señorita."

Detective Baca took a coffee break after questioning Vicky, then had Paul brought to the interrogation room. After Baca introduced himself, he was mildly startled when Paul extended his right hand and said, "Paul Lorenz. Pleased to meet you." Paul also accepted his offer of coffee, prompting Baca to think that this interview might go better than the last one.

Baca's line of questioning proceeded according to the same script as his talk with Vicky. Paul's account of their morning's activities coincided almost exactly with her version. When Baca didn't respond verbally to his story, Paul said, "Look, detective, you can check out my story with the hotel desk clerk. And the taxi driver, too, if you can find him."

"We've already done that, Mr. Lorenz. Their stories agree with the information you've given us. And Mrs. Armstrong's story as well."

"Then you should release us. We haven't done anything wrong."

"Not yet. We don't have all the facts."

"What about this woman—Lisa Saunders? You should be trying to nail her."

"We're still looking for her. I'm confident she'll turn up soon."

They talked for several more minutes until Baca sensed that he wasn't going to get any additional information of value. Before Paul was taken back to the holding cell he asked, "How did your officers know to come to Ralph's room?"

Baca hesitated before answering. "An interesting question. Somebody called and reported hearing gun shots."

"Who was that? Who called?"

"We don't know. He hung up before the dispatcher could get his name."

"So it was a man. Have you talked to the bell boys on duty? And how about the room service guys, the ones working on that floor?"

"We're getting their names."

"You should be talking to the men who are staying in the rooms next to his. Could have been one of them."

Paul smiled as Baca continued, "You seem to think like a policeman, Mr. Lorenz. Do you have some experience in our line of work?"

"Afraid not, detective. I'm a system engineer, trained to think logically."

Baca shook his head and said something in Spanish. If Paul had any familiarity with the language, he would have been chagrined to learn that the detective thought his last comment was a truckload of horseshit.

When Baca returned to his office, a message was waiting from one of the airport policemen; they had Lisa Saunders in custody and were bringing her to the station. Baca released a loud howl at this stroke of good luck. Since it would be at least an hour before Lisa would be available for interrogation, he left the station and drove to the marina, hoping to interview some of Vicky's and Paul's shipmates.

Chapter Fifteen

The two policemen brought Lisa to the station shortly after Detective Baca left for the day. They booked, fingerprinted, and placed her in the same holding cell as Vicky and the three Mexican women.

The local trio welcomed Lisa with the same derisive hoots that had greeted Vicky. Lisa stayed at the front of the cell, grasping a steel bar with each hand. Vicky, meanwhile, sat quietly on a bunk opposite the lone toilet. Her curiosity finally got the upper hand. She ambled across the cell to greet the young newcomer. "Welcome to the Ritz-Mazatlan. What's your name?"

"Lisa Saunders. What's yours?" A dazed Vicky stared while her face grew red and a hateful scowl furrowed her brow. "Is something wrong?" asked Lisa.

Vicky lunged and grabbed thick wads of Lisa's hair. "You bitch," she yelled. "You're the reason I'm locked up in this rat hole. You caused me all this grief."

Lisa pulled at Vicky's wrists and managed to pry one hand loose. "What are you talking about? Who are you?"

"Vicky Armstrong. Does that name ring a bell?"

Vicky now had both hands free and swung her fists wildly, trying to connect with Lisa's head, stomach, and any other body part where she could inflict pain. Lisa countered most of the blows, not attacking Vicky, just trying to protect herself. Ralph's sweatshirt protected her arms but Vicky managed to dig into Lisa's cheeks with sharp fingernails.

The three Mexicans clapped and cheered them on raucously, delighted the two Americanas were mixing it up. The duty matron eventually strolled by and tossed the combatants an indifferent, "Basta putas. Behave yourselves."

Vicky finally backed away from Lisa. "What rock did the police find you hiding under?"

Lisa smoothed her clothing. "At the airport."

"Trying to run away, huh? Thought you could get away with it, did you? Why did you kill him?"

Lisa stared at her for a few moments. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Answer my question."

Lisa turned her head away. "I didn't kill him. I couldn't do anything like that, I loved him too much. When I came out of the bathroom, he was dead. Covered in blood. That's when I lost it."

"You loved him. That's rich. While you two were screwing all around Orange County, did you ever stop and think about his wife?"

The Mexican trio edged closer. Avid for more of a gringa cat fight, they began pushing the two foreigners closer together. Vicky turned around and shouted at them, "Get away from us. Vamoose." It worked. The trio moved to the rear of the cell.

"How come you're in Mazatlan?" asked Lisa. "Did you come down here looking for us?"

"I came looking for Ralph, not you. He left Newport with all of our money. Sold our home and pulled everything out of our joint bank accounts. What an asshole."

"I didn't know he'd done that, but I found out after we got to Mexico."

"What other kind of bullshit did Ralph feed you? Did he give you that tired old line about his wife not understanding him?"

"He said you were getting a divorce and all the details were pretty much settled."

"That lying bastard. I never saw any of this coming."

"I would have been happy to stay in California. It was his idea to come down here. He wanted to start a whole new life with me."

"Yeah, right. Some place where I couldn't find him and haul his sorry ass into court."

Vicky shifted her body and paced in a small circle while Lisa leaned against the bars. "How did the police find you?" asked Lisa.

"I came to the hotel and walked right into your room. The door was unlocked. We found Ralph in bed, just like you said. The police arrested us when we tried to leave."

"Us?"

Vicky briefly waved her hands in the air. "Yes, a friend of mine. He's in the men's jail."

"You must have got there after I left for the airport."

"You said you were in the bathroom, and when you came out you found him dead."

"Yes, I hid in there for a long time. I was scared to death. I heard him arguing with somebody, another man. Then I heard gunshots."

"How come you didn't come out sooner, when you heard them talking?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly dressed for company."

"Your story is about as believable as mine. Which isn't saying much."

"I can't help that. It's the truth."

Both women fell silent. Lisa slumped down in a front corner while Vicky returned to the rear window and looked out. The brown and white dog sat outside and looked up at Vicky, wagging her tail. Vicky sighed. For the first time in her life, she envied a homeless mongrel dog scrounging for food in an alley.

Hector and Maria left the yacht that evening and drove their rental car eastward from Mazatlan, beyond the river town of El Recodo. They reached a gas station about eleven o'clock. The station had closed but there were still some lights burning in and around the building to advertise its existence.

Hector pulled into the station and moved the car slowly to a darkened area at the rear of the parking lot. Two men sat in a parked car. They watched silently as he pulled up next to theirs. The driver of the darkened car looked over at Hector and smiled. "Buenas tardes, amigo. Right on time, as usual."

Hector killed the engine. He went around to the trunk and pulled out a briefcase. The other driver came up to Hector with an identical briefcase. "Here you are, my friend. Some very high quality merchandise, even if I say so myself."

The speaker was extremely thin and sported a long mustache that curled at the ends; he was younger and stood a good two inches shorter than Hector. The two men traded briefcases. "Aren't you going to count the money?" Hector said, as the man started to go.

He smiled and removed a toothpick from his mouth. "No need for that, amigo. I trust you."

They stored the briefcases and came back to stand between the parked cars. The man leaned over to the window of Hector's car. He peered inside at Maria and grinned. "I put in a little something extra this time. For your personal use." Maria shuddered when she spotted his yellow teeth and smelled his foul breath on her cheeks. She turned her head away from him.

Hector said, "I need to talk with you about something." The two men crunched gravel as they walked into the darkness away from the cars.

"What do wish to talk about?"

"This will be the last time we do business together."

"And why is that?"

"A number of reasons. It's getting too dangerous and I've already made enough money. You understand, don't you?"

"But you're one of my best customers, Hector. I don't like to lose my best customers, Hector."

"You'll get by. Others will come along to take my place."

"I don't think you can afford to end our relationship."

"Sure I can. I've made plenty of money, thanks to you."

"Let me put it another way. You have this very nice life style. An expensive home in Anaheim Hills with your fine collection of classic automobiles. A beautiful wife who not only can't get enough gold jewelry, but also indulges a bit too often in our merchandise. Oh yes, you with your nice respectable position at that noble foundation in Newport Beach while your politically ambitious wife climbs the ladder of success within the Orange County bureaucracy."

Hector's mouth fell open. "How do you know all this?"

"It's nothing unusual. In business today, you have to know your customers. I made it my business to know about you." Hector turned on his heels and walked rapidly back to his car. Before Hector got inside, the man caught up to him and grabbed his elbow. "So it's not over yet, amigo. Only when I say it's over."

As the Alesandros drove back toward Mazatlan, Hector mopped the perspiration from his forehead with a handkerchief and turned the car's air conditioner up a notch. Maria asked, "What was all that about?"

"Nothing to be concerned about, my darling. Just some boring business details about our next transaction."

"I don't like that man. He makes my skin crawl."

"He gave us some extra merchandise for our own use."

"That's nice, but I still don't like him."

"What if I quit this business? Could you get by without it?"

"I'm not addicted, if that's what you're driving at."

"I should hope not, but you do like the nice clothes and jewelry."

"And you have your collection of automobiles. Of course, you might have to sell one or two of them."

Hector squirmed in his seat. He could taste the bile rising from his stomach. They remained silent as the dark countryside streamed past. Suddenly, following a new train of thought with a scowl, Hector blurted, "Walter seems to like you a lot."

"Walter likes all the women, except for the witch he married. Madre de Dios, I hate that woman."

"I don't like the way he stares at you."

Maria looked over at him and smiled. "All the men enjoy looking at me. Aren't you proud to have an attractive wife?"

"But you flirt with him all the time. Everyone on the boat has noticed."

"Is that so? Well why shouldn't I be nice to your boss? It might help your career at the foundation."

"Damn it, Maria, I'll do it on my own merits. I don't need my wife acting like some cheap whore."

Maria crossed her arms and looked out the side window. "Jealousy doesn't become you, Hector."

Hector glanced over in her direction. "I'm sorry, my love. I just can't bear the thought of you in another man's arms. It drives me crazy."

He turned on the radio and tuned it to an FM station playing soft music. He drove faster, thinking about the evening ahead: he and Maria in their cabin, sampling a few lines of coke, how she would become uncontrollably passionate, how she would give him the sex that he only got when she was high.

Chapter Sixteen

Detective Baca arrived at the station next morning. He was pleased to find several police and forensic reports pertaining to Ralph's death. He read them over carefully while sipping his third cup of coffee, nodding his head periodically and grunting at the thoroughness of Trompo, the coroner, and the lab technicians. After he digested this data, he sent for Paul and Vicky.

Vicky was brought into Baca's office while he was in the men's room. When Paul was led in, he gasped when he saw her scratched face and disheveled hair. "What the hell happened? You been wrestling with a mountain lion?"

"I had a little tussle with one Lisa Saunders last night. The police caught her and dumped her into the same cell with me."

"They caught Lisa? How crazy, finally meeting her in a Mexican jail."

Vicky screwed up her mouth and, in an imitation of Humphrey Bogart, said, "Of all the gin joints in this town, she had to walk into mine."

"Why are you wearing those orange duds?"

"Couple of women in the cell played a trick. Made me pee while I was sleeping so I had to get some dry clothes from the matron."

"How could they do that?"

"With some warm water in a bowl. They stuck my hand in it."

Baca walked in and sat down behind his desk while Paul and Vicky stood in front of him. "I'm releasing both of you," he said.

They were stunned but Vicky eventually spoke up. "It's about time you came to your senses. What made you decide to let us go?"

"Your stories check out. The hotel desk clerk confirmed your arrival time. The coroner established the time of death at several hours before you entered Mr. Armstrong's room. Then I interviewed several people on your yacht. They also corroborated your statements."

Vicky turned slightly pale. "Oh shit, there goes my job."

"Not necessarily," said Baca. "Holly Kenworthy and her friend, Marvin Kemper, were most cooperative. They pledged to keep our conversation entirely confidential."

"They did? Thank you, detective. I'll owe them both for that."

"What about Lisa Saunders?" asked Paul. "Vicky said you brought her in last night."

"That's true. I'll be talking to her later this morning."

"Wait until you hear her story," said Vicky. "It's incredible."

Baca ignored her. "Our lab team found several bullets at the scene and analyzed them. The murder weapon was a nine millimeter automatic pistol. Probably a Glock or a Walther."

"I told you I didn't shoot him," said Vicky.

"Quite true, Mrs. Armstrong. You couldn't have shot him. There is no firing pin in your pistol."

"No firing pin?" said Paul. "Some protection your husband gave you. A pistol that won't shoot."

Vicky barked a short laugh. "That's just the kind of crazy thing he'd do. Give me a pistol for self-defense, then take out the firing pin so I couldn't shoot him."

"Our examination of Mr. Armstrong's car turned up nothing, so we're releasing it to you. It's parked in the impound lot at the rear of the station."

"His car? What am I going to to with his car?"

"We can use it for transportation," said Paul, "while we're here in Mazatlan."

Baca reached into his desk, withdrew a business card, and handed it to Vicky. "One last thing before you leave. You should contact this man at your earliest opportunity. He's a most competent mortician who also knows the correct procedures for transporting your husband's body back to the U. S."

Baca escorted Paul and Vicky to the station's booking area where their personal belongings were returned, including Vicky's soiled clothing. Their mood brightened along with a feeling of mild resentment for being falsely imprisoned. They were also given two large plastic bags containing Ralph's clothes and personal belongings which they stashed in the trunk of Ralph's car.

Vicky handed Paul the keys. "You drive. I'm getting in the back."

"Why are you doing that?"

"I don't want anyone to see me in this jailbird outfit."

Paul got behind the steering wheel. "I don't like the dash on this car. Analog clocks are so old fashioned now and take up too much space. And these air conditioning control's are confusing. The BMW's better."

Vicky was now stretched out on the back seat. "Will you quit screwing around? Go back to the boat first. Get in our cabin and grab us some clean clothes. Then we'll find a motel and get cleaned up."

The matron brought a nervous Lisa to the interrogation room and told her to sit down. She had a rumpled look about her, hollow-eyed from lack of sleep, fighting to hold back her tears. Detective Baca came in a few minutes later. The matron took a waiting position in the hallway outside.

"Coffee?" he asked.

Lisa shook her head.

He sat down across the table from her. "I'm Ernesto Baca. Homicide detective. Investigating the death of Mr. Ralph Armstrong. Is it correct to say that you had been living with Mr. Armstrong for about two months?"

"I didn't kill him," she said. "I couldn't have. I loved him."

"Just answer my questions." Baca leaned closer. "Why were you running away?"

"I was scared. I knew I'd get blamed for his murder so I just panicked and ran. But I didn't kill him. I swear to God I didn't do it."

"Then you knew he was dead when you left for the airport."

Lisa took a deep breath and repeated the story she had told Vicky the previous afternoon. By the time she was done, she was silently shaking. Baca made a few notes on his yellow tablet.

"OK, when you were in the bathroom and heard the argument. Do you know who this other man was?"

"No, I didn't recognize his voice."

"What were they arguing about?"

"I couldn't tell."

"How long did you remain in the bathroom?"

"I don't know. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen."

"When you finally came out, what did you see?"

"It was awful, the worst thing I've ever seen in my life. Ralph was lying there in all that blood. Oh, my God!"

"Then he was dead?"

"I don't know. I was too shocked to check."

"Why didn't you call the police?"

"Are you kidding? You'd put me in prison for life. I'd never get out."

"So, what did you do then?"

"I got dressed, gathered up a few things, and jammed them into a small bag. Then I left the hotel and caught a taxi for the airport."

"That's it? That's your story?"

"Yes, detective. That's all I know."

Baca tapped the table with his pen. Then he went back to the beginning, reviewing the sequence of events with her, step by step. Her second version sounded almost exactly like the first. "May I have some coffee now?" she asked.

Baca got up. He went over to the coffee pot, and poured some grody black liquid into two heavy duty paper cups. He sat back down and allowed her a few sips in silence.

"How long did you know Mr. Armstrong?"

"About a year. I took a job in his office. He was a stock broker."

"Did you work closely with him?"

"Not really, but we saw each other every day."

"You said you were in love with him. How did that come about?"

Lisa smiled faintly. "It was all pretty innocent at first. Going to lunch with him or having a drink after work. I think it was right after we first danced with each other that we started an affair. Just before Thanksgiving."

"Didn't your company have rules about personal contacts like this?"

"Yes, but I couldn't resist him. A handsome man, very generous. Top broker in the office. He could sell refrigerators to Eskimos."

"According to Mrs. Armstrong, he sold their home and came to Mexico with a considerable sum of money. Her money."

"I didn't know anything about that. He told me they were getting a divorce and all the financial arrangements were settled."

"Don't you think that was unusual, suddenly running off to Mazatlan?"

"I guess when you're in love you do some pretty impulsive things."

"Let me put it another way. Why didn't you two stay in California while Mr. Armstrong was getting his divorce? You both had good positions and he was well paid, wasn't he?" Lisa put her head down on the table and folded her arms around the back of her head. Baca waited. "You haven't answered my questions."

"I have to tell you something in confidence. Can I count on your discretion?"

"You're in no position to bargain. Say what you have to say."

She hesitated again. "My getting a job in Ralph's office was no accident. I was planted there by my real employer, the Securities and Exchange Commission. I'm an agent from the Los Angeles field office."

"Is that so? Please go on."

"We suspected that something illegal was going on at the Newport Beach office so my job was to dig around and keep my eyes and ears open. Try to gather evidence. Falling in love with Ralph wasn't part of the plan."

"Did you discover any such evidence?"

"I did find a few irregularities and reported them."

"Was Mr. Armstrong doing anything illegal or unethical?"

"I never saw him actually doing anything wrong. But then again, my investigation never led to him."

"The fact that he left California suddenly and took his wife's money suggests that his conduct was not totally innocent and above board."

"When we got to Mazatlan, I thought that everything was all right. I even wrote a letter to my boss and told him I was resigning my job. He wrote back and said my request was disapproved. I had to stay on the case or he'd tell the FBI that I was a fugitive from justice and probably a coconspirator."

Baca got up, tossed his cup in a wastebasket, and started pacing back and forth. He studied Lisa with a frown. "How do you suggest I verify all this?"

"Check my purse. You'll find my ID card inside a secret compartment behind my driver's license. My boss in LA is Dan Regan. You'll find his phone number as well. Call him. He'll confirm everything, just the way I told you."

"I'll do that, but you'll have to go back to the cell."

"Something else you should know. Just a couple of days ago, Ralph told me that he had some money in a Swiss bank account. He admitted that he'd been taking money out of several clients' accounts and moving it out of the country."

"Why didn't you tell me this right away?"

"Because," Lisa screamed, "I couldn't think straight. Could you, when somebody you love is murdered?"

Baca took a deep breath. "So he was doing something illegal."

Lisa sighed. "Yes, I think he was."

"Have you reported this?"

"No, you're the only person I've told."

Baca shook his head. "Your professional conduct leaves a lot to be desired, Miss Saunders."

Lisa's only response was to wipe her eyes and nose with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

The matron led her away, sobbing, exhausted and dejected, back to the holding cell. Baca went to the booking area to examine the contents of Lisa's purse and her other belongings. He also decided to return to the El Cid Castillo and see if he could find someone who might have spotted a man quickly leaving the hotel in the early morning on the day of the crime.
Chapter Seventeen

It took Paul only a few minutes to fill his canvas bag with some of his and Vicky's clothes and her cosmetics. He left the boat and got back into Ralph's car, relieved that none of the other passengers had been on board to witness his arrival and departure.

Paul drove back through the main part of town. Vicky occasionally peeked out a window to view their progress. He found an elegant single-story beach hotel near the Creston Light House and checked in. Ironically, he had picked the same hotel that Ralph and Lisa had stayed in when they first came to Mazatlan.

Vicky showered first, then climbed into one of the room's queen-size beds, and was soon fast asleep. Paul showered next and fell into the other bed. In early afternoon, Vicky crawled into Paul's bed and snuggled up to him. "Hey there, bub."

"What time is it?"

"Time for us to get moving. I'm starving."

"You mean that prison gruel we had this morning didn't fill you up?"

"Couldn't take much of that stuff. I'm ready for some real food."

They dressed quickly, walked to a restaurant near the cathedral, and hungrily devoured a huge lunch of lobster and shrimp. Over coffee, a somber Paul steered the conversation to their current predicament. "We don't have a lot of time left here. You still want to go back on the boat, don't you?"

"Yes, I think so. My bosses would ask too many questions if we suddenly decided to fly home instead."

"Then we should meet with the mortician. Get him started on the things he needs to do. Next, you have to call your kids and tell them what happened."

Vicky nodded glumly. "Oh God, I dread that. But you're right. They need to hear it from me, the sooner the better."

They drove into the city and found Los Hermanos Salazar Funeraria. They were ushered into the office of Ramon Salazar, the oldest brother, and noticed the plush surroundings: thick beige carpeting, dark leather upholstered chairs, and elegant cherry furniture. Ramon, a short dapper man in his mid-sixties, welcomed them in a low and serious voice. Instead of facing one another over his desk, they sat on chairs around a coffee table. Ramon's cologne made Paul sneeze several times until he finally placed a handkerchief over his nose.

"Ernesto Baca recommended you," Vicky began. "This concerns my late husband, Ralph Armstrong. He was killed yesterday and we need your services."

"How dreadful, Mrs. Armstrong. Please accept my sincerest condolences on your loss." Salazar folded his hands, as if he was going to pray, and touched his chin with his fingers. "Have the police concluded their investigation?"

"Detective Baca said the coroner completed his autopsy so I guess they could release the body to you."

"Very well, I shall make inquiries. Now, a question. Do you wish me to prepare him for the customary viewing and funeral? Or do you wish his body cremated?"

Vicky and Paul gave each other puzzled looks. "I hadn't thought about that," she said. "What do you think?"

Paul paused. "Perhaps your children would like to see him again. A chance to say their goodbyes before he's buried."

"Let's do it that way," she said.

"Then I will make arrangements to bring Mr. Armstrong's body here and comply with your wishes. Would you happen to have any of his clothing that I could use? If you don't, I can provide a suit and other items."

"We have some of his things that the police collected. We'll look through them tonight and bring you something tomorrow."

"Excellent," said Salazar. "I should have copies of the death certificate for you then. Where in America are his remains to be sent?"

"Is it possible to send him to Newport Beach in California?"

"That should be no problem at all. I will advise you tomorrow of the name and address of my counterpart there who will receive his remains and be responsible for the funeral."

Salazar jotted down some information on a form, including Vicky's address in California and her employment situation. He then escorted Paul and Vicky to another part of the building where a number of caskets were displayed. With little deliberation, she selected a metal one whose cost was midway in the spectrum of prices that Salazar quoted.

Thankful to wind up their business with Salazar, they drove back to the hotel. They removed the plastic bags from Ralph's car trunk and dumped their contents onto Paul's bed. As expected, most of the items were clothes that Ralph had once worn. Vicky picked out a pair of gray slacks, a white long sleeve shirt, and a blue blazer for Salazar.

Vicky found Ralph's wallet and a check book from a local bank. She studied them with great interest. Paul said, "You'll need to cancel those credit cards when we get back home."

"No dollars," she said, pulling out almost 5,000 pesos from his wallet.

"What about his bank account?"

Vicky looked at the check register. "Seems like quite a bit of money for a checking account. Nearly 68,000 pesos."

"That's about 8,000 dollars."

"Which makes me wonder about the rest of the money. Do we have time now to find this bank?"

"Probably, but you'll need the death certificate before they give you anything."

"Let's go there tomorrow, after we finish our business with Mr. Salazar."

"Which brings up another question. What about Ralph's will? Did he have one? Can you get your hands on a copy?"

"Oh hell, I don't know. I'll call our attorney when we get back."

Paul put the clothes for Salazar in a plastic laundry bag. "When are you going to call your children?"

"You won't let me forget about that, will you? OK, I'll do it now."

"I'll take a walk. You need some privacy for this."

Vicky gave Paul a sorrowful look. "Thanks for being so considerate. I'll catch up with you later."

Paul returned two hours later and found a note from Vicky saying that she would be waiting for him in the hotel's cocktail lounge. He washed and changed into slacks. He found her in a corner of the darkened lounge, sitting at a small table. He squeezed in next to her and kissed her on the cheek. "You all right?"

"Not really."

A cocktail waitress appeared with a large margarita. She placed it on the table, retrieved Vicky's empty glass and put it on her tray. Paul ordered one for himself. He brushed the remains of a tear from her eye and held her hand. "You want to talk about it?"

Vicky took a tissue from her purse and blew her nose. She used another tissue to dab her eyes and cheeks. As Paul's vision grew accustomed to the darkness he could tell that she was not in good shape. "They took it pretty bad, especially Mike. He was closer to his dad than Gary and Vanessa. But they're all hurt and confused, just like me, and they just don't understand why anyone would want to kill him. They're worried, too, afraid something might happen to me."

"Not with me around. Did you tell them about me being here with you?"

"Of course not. That would really throw them for a loop."

"Did you tell them about our meeting with Mr. Salazar?"

"Yes, I did. They were grateful for a chance to see him one last time before the funeral." She squeezed Paul's hand. "Thanks for that idea."

They talked and drank more margaritas until a mariachi band started playing so loudly that they couldn't hear each other. When they moved on to the dining room, Vicky picked at her food but continued putting away the margaritas.

After Paul opened the door of their room, Vicky collapsed on her bed. "Oh no, you don't," admonished Paul. "Get undressed first, before you fall asleep."

"OK boss, right away boss." Vicky sat up, her feet dangling from the side of the bed. As she bent over and tried to remove her shoes, she fell forward into a ball. "I think I need some help."

Paul reached down and lifted her up. She leaned into him, put her arms around his neck, and dropped her head on his shoulders. "Get me ready for bed, will you sweety-pie? You are so good at taking off my clothes."

He helped steady her while she stripped to her panties and put on one of his undershirts. "I've got a favor to ask," she said. "I'd like to just cuddle for a while. Are you OK with that?"

Paul smiled. "A gentleman doesn't take advantage of a lady when she can't protect herself."

He pulled back the bedcovers, maneuvered her into bed and slid in next to her. They lay close together in the dark for a long time without speaking, covered by a light sheet, while a window-mounted air conditioner made a faint hum. Vicky was first to break the silence. "Do you think I'm a loser?"

"Hell no. What brought that on?"

"This whole business is getting me down. Ralph deserting me. Losing my house and a big portion of my self-esteem in the process. Then finding Ralph's body like that. You know something? Somehow—some way—my kids think I'm responsible for what happened to him."

"You? That's crazy. You're a victim as much as he was."

"Yeah, but they don't know that. I called them with the bad news so that means I'm part of the problem. Like I'm the one who kicked him out and made him run off to Mexico."

"You're upset and not thinking straight right now. That's understandable. In time, you'll feel differently."

"When Helen died, did you feel like this?"

"That was a completely different situation."

"How long did it take for the pain to go away?"

"It never goes away completely. You try to focus on the good times you had together and block out the painful memories. Life goes on. It has to."

Vicky moved closer and stroked Paul's face while he gave her a hug and a kiss on the neck. "So I'm not a loser," she said. "What do you really think of me?"

"I think you're a beautiful, intelligent, sensitive, good-humored, and passionate woman. And I'm honored to be your friend."

"Oh, thank you, kind sir. Flattery will get you anywhere and everywhere. What else?"

"I'm learning to care about you. A lot."

"Any regrets about coming on the cruise?"

"Not really. It's given me a wonderful chance to get to know all the different parts of one Victoria Olive Featherstone Armstrong. So how about you? Any thoughts you'd like to share about me? About us?"

Vicky hesitated. "You're a very special person. I'd be less than honest if I said I didn't have any feelings for you. I'm beginning to think I can trust you. Even with my life, if it ever came down to that. When Ralph left me, I never thought I'd trust a man again. But . . . well, here we are."

"Thanks. It means a lot to hear you say that."

"I'd like to believe that you'll stick with me until we get through all this crap. Is that asking too much?"

"Not at all. I was hoping you'd feel that way. But why cut if off there? What about afterwards?"

Vicky didn't respond to Paul's question. Instead, she sighed in pleasant relief, stretched her entire frame, and was soon asleep. Paul held her close for a good ten minutes, savoring the warmth of her body, the rhythmic beating of her heart, her feminine aroma, and her soft breathing in his ear. She eventually fell into a deeper sleep and began snoring softly. Paul disentangled himself and moved to the other bed. He eventually fell into a light and fitful sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

Paul wasn't sure what woke him up; the bright sun invading their room or Vicky's long, low groans. "Hey there, party girl. It's a brand new Mazatlan morning. Time to rise and shine."

"Did you get the number?"

"What number?"

"The license number of the truck that hit me last night?"

Paul chuckled, got out of bed, and started a coffee pot brewing. He brought her a cup and almost had to force her to take a few tentative sips.

Vicky sat up and partially opened one eye. "What time is it?"

"Almost nine o'clock. We need to get moving."

"Aaack, my mouth tastes like the inside of a longshoreman's glove. And that crew of elves inside my head with hammers, they have to go."

Paul went into the bathroom and came back with an aspirin bottle and a glass of water. "Take a couple of these while I'm in the shower. Then it's your turn."

After breakfast, they drove to the mortuary. This time, Ramon Salazar sat behind his desk and invited Paul and Vicky to take chairs on the other side. "I have transferred Mr. Armstrong's remains to the mortuary. You may see him shortly, if you wish."

"Thank you for offering," said Vicky. "Not just right now."

Paul lifted the plastic bag from the floor. "I have some of Mr. Armstrong's clothes for you."

"That's fine. I'll take care of them after our business is concluded."

"Mr. Salazar," said Vicky, "you haven't said anything about paying you."

He extracted a single sheet of paper from a manila folder. "This is only an estimate. I'll send you an itemized statement after all my activities are completed. You can just mail me a check. Dollars are acceptable."

"But I'd like to make a down payment now." Vicky reached into her purse and withdrew a fistful of crumpled pesos, all the bills that she had removed from Ralph's wallet.

Salazar counted out the money, took a pad from his desk drawer, and wrote out a receipt. He handed it to her and said, "Thank you so much, Mrs. Armstrong. It is very much appreciated." He gave her a large brown envelope. "You'll find the original death certificate inside, along with some copies I've made for you."

"Thanks again, Mr. Salazar. Is that it? Have we taken care of everything?"

"Oh yes, I almost forgot. One additional item, a message for you."

Vicky stared at the small piece of paper. The message was from Lisa Saunders at the Holiday Inn. She wanted Vicky to call her so they could discuss a matter of great urgency.

Salazar got up to leave and shook Vicky's hand. "Please feel free to use my phone to make your call." Then he left the room.

Vicky gave Paul a looked mixed with panic and puzzlement. "What the hell could she want with me? And how come she's out of jail?"

"Better give her a jingle."

Back at the hotel, the operator rang Lisa's room. She answered after two rings. "This is Vicky Armstrong. I got a message to call you."

"Thanks for the call. You have every reason in the world to be angry with me, but I need to see you."

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Detective Baca said you'd probably be seeing Mr. Salazar."

"So why do you need to see me? The scratches on my face are better, thank you very much."

"I have some information. Something very important to you."

"Can't you just give it to me over the phone?"

"I'd rather not. Can we meet somewhere for lunch?"

Vicky looked at her watch. "I guess so. But we have some things to do this morning so it might be late. About one o'clock, maybe."

"That's fine. Let's meet in the lobby of the Playa Mazatlan Hotel."

"Wait a minute. How come you're not in jail?"

"I'll tell you all about that at lunch. See you later."

The next stop for Paul and Vicky was the bank's main office on Avenue Camaron Sabalo. They met a slender young woman in a dark blue suit who identified herself as Miss Rodriguez. She took them to her office near the lobby and politely asked how she could be of assistance.

"My name is Victoria Armstrong. My husband, Ralph Armstrong, has a checking account with your bank. He passed away two days ago."

"I'm very sorry to hear that," said Rodriguez. "Then I suppose you wish to close his account."

"That's correct," said Vicky as she handed over her passport and Ralph's check book. "This may help you find the account information."

Rodriguez typed the account number in her computer. She studied the monitor for several moments. "Ah yes, here we are. This is a joint account, Mrs. Armstrong. The other signatory is a Miss Lisa Saunders. I don't see your name listed anywhere. Do you know Miss Saunders?"

Vicky stood and started to leave. "That son of a bitch did it again."

Paul grabbed her hand and pulled her back. "Sit down. And just cool it. It's no big deal."

She reluctantly returned to her chair. "Yeah, right. It's no big deal."

Miss Rodriguez tapped on her keyboard several times. "But there is more. Your husband had several more accounts with us. Yes, three certificates of deposit, maturing at different times."

Vicky's interest perked up. "Three CDs? How much are they worth?"

"Each one is for 400,000 pesos but that does not include the accrued interest. One matures about two months from now, another in five months, and the third in eight months."

"That sounds like a lot of money. How much is that in dollars, Paul?"

Rodriguez answered instead, "A little over $45,000 for each one."

Vicky pondered this for several moments. "Are these things also joint with the Saunders woman?"

"No, they are not. In fact, it appears that you are the beneficiary of all three."

Paul turned to a stunned Vicky. "Pretty clever of him, laddering those CD maturity dates. He gets high interest rates with better liquidity. See? He never forgot you after all."

Vicky eventually found her voice. "It was probably his guilty conscience. She looked at Rodriguez. "Can I cash these CDs today? I have copies of the death certificate with me."

"I'm afraid not, Mrs. Armstrong. Mexican law is rather strict regarding this point. CDs cannot be liquidated before their maturity date."

"Damn. Is there anything I can do?"

Rodriguez pulled several forms from her desk and started to fill in the blanks. "We can accomplish the necessary paper work today. Then, when each CD matures, we will transfer the funds to your bank in the U. S."

They spent the next twenty minutes completing the forms. Vicky gave Rodriguez a copy of the death certificate and the number of her Irvine bank account. She then made a photocopy of Vicky's passport.

Vicky's mood brightened as they walked to the parking lot. "Well, it wasn't a total loss. But there's still a lot of money unaccounted for."

"How so?"

"In round numbers, those CDs are worth about $150,000. I figure he must have cleared at least $500,000 from selling our house. So where in the hell is the rest of it?"

"Considering Ralph's financial savvy, it could be anywhere in the world."

Chapter Nineteen

Paul and Vicky arrived early at the Playa Mazatlan and took chairs in the lobby where they could see people arriving and departing. A few minutes after one o'clock, a nervous looking Lisa Saunders entered the lobby and searched for a familiar face. "There she is," said Vicky.

As Lisa walked toward them, Paul took her in completely, from her form-fitting white cotton pants and snug yellow T-shirt to her long auburn hair and sensuous lips, and audibly sucked in his breath. Vicky gave him a look of extreme annoyance.

Lisa extended her hand to Vicky. "Thanks for coming. I hope this will be more pleasant than our last meeting."

Vicky ignored her gesture. "This is my friend, Paul. Let's go find a table."

They were seated on the restaurant's patio with an excellent view of the beach. A large green market umbrella shielded them from the afternoon sun. After a waiter took their drink and food orders, Vicky, tapping her foot impatiently, demanded to hear Lisa's story.

Lisa looked at Vicky and then at Paul; she seemed reluctant to begin. "Paul knows everything there is to know, Lisa, so feel free to talk. You can start by telling us how come you're out of jail."

"I guess Detective Baca believed my story, that I didn't kill Ralph. But he still has my passport so I can't leave the country just yet."

"He didn't keep ours," said Paul. "The plan is for us to leave tonight. We're on a boat that's shoving off near midnight. We'll be back in Newport Beach late Sunday evening."

"You claim that you didn't kill him," said Vicky. "What did you tell Baca?"

Lisa told them the entire story, just as she had relayed it to the detective, starting with her going to the bathroom early Tuesday morning and ending with her capture at the airport that same afternoon.

"You're saying that some man shot Ralph and then you bailed to the airport. Is that it?"

"That's what I'm saying. And I swear to God that's the truth."

Paul believed her. "Do you have any idea who the man was?"

"I never got a look at him. I'm not sure I'd even recognize his voice."

"I don't get it," said Vicky. "Why would Baca buy this? You could have made it all up." Their drinks arrived, soon followed by large garden salads. "Is that the information you thought was so important?"

Lisa rested her hands on the table. "No, I haven't given you the rest of the story. My real employer is the Securities and Exchange Commission. I was sent to Ralph's office to gather evidence of unethical and illegal business practices." There was a moment of shocked silence.

"You're a government agent?" Paul was flabbergasted.

"That's correct. Ralph never knew that."

Vicky huffed and flopped back in her chair. "This is unreal. You expect us to believe this?"

"I could show you my ID card," Lisa said with a shrug, "but that's really beside the point. The main thing is that Baca believes me. He called my boss in L. A. and verified my position with the SEC."

"So what did you find out, while you were posing as his lover? Was Ralph doing anything illegal?" Vicky was torn between spite and her need to know.

"I didn't think he was. And you're wrong. I wasn't posing. I was so much in love with him that I overlooked whatever he was doing in the office. And that's my main point. I loved him a great deal, all the way to the end. I couldn't have killed him. No matter what."

They lapsed into silence while the waiter took away their salad plates. He returned immediately with their shrimp and lobster entrees. Near the end of the meal, Lisa reached into her large shoulder handbag and pulled out a small leather-bound journal. "This is what I wanted you to see," she said, opening the book.

Vicky took it with a frown. The visible single page contained numerous entries in Ralph's familiar handwriting. At the top was a man's name, Kurt Oberstdorf, followed by a number: 41-1-779-3245. Directly underneath were six long strings of numbers, all similar to each other. "Doesn't mean much to me," said Vicky as she passed it over to Paul.

Paul studied the page for a considerable time. "Bingo!"

"What is it?"

Paul was excited. "The key here is the telephone number. The country code, 41, is for Switzerland, and the city code, 1, is for Zurich. I'd bet a month's salary those six numbers are bank accounts. Oberstdorf is probably a banker."

Lisa smiled. "That's the way I see it, too."

"So you think Ralph hid money in Switzerland?" Vicky looked as if she could easily believe it.

"Almost a week ago, Ralph and I had a serious discussion about our future together. Where we'd live. He said something about moving to Switzerland, to be near his money."

"He actually admitted having money there?" Paul wanted to hear her say it.

"Yes, he did. He also confessed that he'd been fiddling with some clients' accounts. Skimming money and transferring it to Switzerland."

"I'll be damned," said Vicky. "I never thought Ralph would do anything illegal. He must have been planning this for some time."

The waiter removed their plates and poured coffee for everyone. "May I have this?" Paul pointed to the journal page.

"Afraid not, Paul. When I get back to L. A., I've got to turn it in. It's evidence. But you can copy the information. Just as long as I don't see you do it."

"Thanks, Lisa," said Vicky. Impulsively, she reached out and touched her rival's hand. "That's a very kind thing for you to do. Probably risking your job."

"I have no future with the SEC, not after running off with Ralph. But I figure this is justice served because some of that money is yours. Money that Ralph took when he sold your house."

Vicky leaned back. "This is all so unexpected. I don't know what to say."

Paul prompted her. "You might tell her about our meeting this morning with Miss Rodriguez."

"What about it?"

Paul turned to Lisa and said, "While we were going through Ralph's personal belongings yesterday, we found a checkbook for a local bank. We went there this morning to see if Vicky could draw out the money."

"That's right," said Vicky. "Only it's a joint account. You and Ralph. They wouldn't give me any money from it."

"I'd forgotten all about that account." Lisa looked like she was telling the truth but Vicky eyed her suspiciously.

Finally, Paul broke the silence. "Vicky, wouldn't you like to say something to Lisa? Maybe give her something?"

Vicky reached into her purse, took out Ralph's checkbook and placed it on the table in front of Lisa. "You might as well have this. It's no good to me."

"Yeah," said Paul. "It'll keep you peso-solvent while you're stuck here."

"I just thought of something else," said Paul. "We have to do something with Ralph's car. Why don't you take it?"

"Me? Ralph's car?"

"Sure, why not? Transportation while you're here. Maybe you could drive it back to L. A. Heck, your golf clubs are still in the trunk."

Vicky gave Paul a sharp look. "You're pretty generous with my property."

Lisa gave Vicky an uncertain look. "I'll do it, but only if it's OK with you."

Vicky waved her hand in dismissal and took a sip of coffee.

Lisa continued, "I'll return it to you when I get back to California." Lisa placed her napkin on the table and pushed back her chair. "Would you excuse me while I go to the ladies room? I'll be right back."

Vicky was glad for a chance to talk privately with Paul about Lisa's startling revelation. "Do you think it's going to be a problem? Getting the money out of those Swiss accounts?"

"It could be tricky," said Paul. "We may have to go to Zurich and meet with Oberstdorf. The big question is how liquid those funds are. I understand the Swiss can freeze assets if they suspect the monies are the result of illegal transactions."

Both jumped slightly when their conversation was interrupted by a couple passing their table. "Hello there, Victoria. I see you're also enjoying the Playa's fine cuisine."

"Oh, hello Walter," said Vicky. She gave Lenore a weak smile. "What are you two doing here?"

"We've just finished lunch and we're on our way to the old town. Lenore hasn't got her fill of shopping just yet."

Out of the corner of one eye, Paul spotted Lisa walking toward their table. But when she saw Walter and Lenore chatting with Vicky, her face turned pale. She abruptly turned around and walked away.

After Walter and Lenore moved on, Paul said, "Something's wrong with Lisa. I just saw her coming back to the table and then she turned around. She didn't look so good. Maybe she's sick."

"I'll check the ladies room."

Vicky found Lisa sitting on an upholstered bench in one corner of the rest room, her hands folded while she stared at the floor. When she sensed Vicky's presence in the room, she looked up.

"Good lord, Lisa. You look terrible. What's wrong?"

"That man you were talking to. You know him?"

"Sure, I know him. He's Walter Serber, CEO of the Pentecost Foundation and my boss. Paul and I are guests on his yacht."

"Well, I know him too. Only his name is Lazarus Coffin. He's one of Ralph's clients. I've seen him in the office, talking to Ralph about his investments."

"You must be joking. Are you sure?"

"Hell yes. You don't forget a man like that. Especially with a name like Coffin."

Chapter Twenty

Vicky and Lisa collected Paul and they all piled into Ralph's car. They drove to a sandy park dense with palm trees and found a bench facing the ocean. Paul sat on Lisa's left and Vicky sat on her right. Soft breezes and gently breaking surf flowed toward the trio but they were so anxious that none of them seemed to notice or appreciate the scene's natural beauty.

"Lisa has something to tell you, Paul. About our beloved cruise director."

"I hope this isn't the start of some wild goose chase, but the man you were talking to in the restaurant. I know him." Lisa repeated the story she'd told Vicky. "Ralph wouldn't say much about him but I once checked his holdings, just out of curiosity. I had access to all the office's computers so it was easy to do. Money would come in from a bank in the Cayman Islands and Ralph would invest it. An awful lot of trading was going on in that account. Stocks, options, futures. He even sent money to a bank in Luxembourg."

"Sounds like Ralph was churning Mr. Coffin's portfolio, either to generate commissions or disguise something else going on. Anything being moved to Switzerland?"

"I don't recall any money going there."

"Maybe Coffin just happens to bear a strong resemblance to Walter. They say everyone has a twin somewhere they don't know about."

"I'm certain it's the same man."

They were quiet until Vicky had an idea. "Remember that story you told me, Paul? About how Walter came up with the name of ART FAY for his boat? God, I hate that name."

"Yes, I do. It refers to his art collection and Lenore's first name. What about it?"

"Assume for a minute that Walter wanted to create a new identity for himself. There could be some symbolism behind Coffin's name."

"Then he'd be focusing on death and dying, or maybe coming back to life. The only Lazarus I know of was buried in a cave and Jesus brought him back out. Isn't that the way the Bible story goes?"

Lisa shook her head and Vicky said, "You're asking the wrong person about Bible stories."

"Look at it another way," said Paul. "Suppose Walter—Lazarus—was one of Ralph's clients. With all the trading going on, maybe Ralph figured out a way to send some of that money to one of his Swiss bank accounts." Both women gave him an alarmed look. "Let's take it one step further. Walter finds out that Ralph is stealing from him. He decides to have a heart-to-heart with Mr. Armstrong but then finds he's already bugged out for Mexico with Lisa here."

"What are you driving at?" said Lisa.

"You're painting a very ugly picture of my boss," said Vicky. "That he's a murder suspect, just like the rest of us."

Paul got up from the bench, paced back and forth, and rubbed his forehead. "I just thought of something else. If Walter is really this Coffin guy, then he knows I'm an impostor."

Paul sat down on the bench while the women nervously digested these ideas. For a short time, the only sounds came from the lapping surf and breezes rustling in the palm trees. "What do we do now?" asked Lisa.

"I think you should go to the police," said Vicky. "Tell Detective Baca what you've told us."

"Is that really a good idea?" said Paul. "He'll probably want to question Walter right away. Then what? Where does that leave us?"

"We'll be innocent bystanders. Like the three monkeys. See no evil, hear no evil, whatever."

"How do you feel about this, Lisa?" asked Paul.

"Anything that gets me out of here and back to L. A. is fine with me."

"OK, you drop me and Vicky at the boat. Then take the car and meet with Baca. We'll try to act normal around Walter so we don't arouse his suspicion. And when we're delayed leaving Mazatlan, we'll try to act surprised."

Paul and Vicky boarded the yacht in late afternoon and went straight to their cabin. Paul sat on the edge of their bunk while Vicky washed her face, brushed her hair, and applied fresh makeup. When she came out of the bathroom, she sat down next to him. "I feel so vulnerable right now, being this close to a potential killer."

"I know how you feel, sweetheart. When we get out on the ocean again, it will be even worse. Nowhere to hide if things get sticky."

She threw her hands in the air. "I think we're in this way over our heads. We need help."

"There's Holly and Marvin. Baca said he talked to them and they promised not to spread any rumors. How well do you know them?"

"I know Marvin as well as you do. But I've known Holly for a couple of weeks and I think she's all right. Her I could trust."

"OK, we'll look for them and see what they have to say."

After putting their belongings away, they went up on deck and found Holly and Marvin on the fantail, drinking beer and playing backgammon.

"Come join us," Holly called out. "Tell us all about your exciting adventures in Mazatlan."

Paul took two cans of Tecate beer from a nearby cooler and handed one to Vicky. They pulled up deck chairs and sat opposite Holly and Marvin in the shade of a canvas awning.

"Thanks a lot, guys," said Vicky, "for keeping mum."

Holly grinned. "You mean that business with Detective Baca? No problemo."

"He was rather vague," said Marvin. "All he wanted to know about was what you guys were doing Tuesday morning. What time we first saw you, when you left the boat. That kind of stuff."

"You're not in some kind of trouble, are you?" asked Holly.

Paul and Vicky looked at each other for several seconds. Finally, based on their previously understood agreement, Vicky said, "I guess you deserve to know the whole story. Can I trust you to keep quiet with what I'm going to tell you?"

Without hesitation, Holly and Marvin both said, "Yes."

"It's about my husband. We went to the El Cid Castillo Tuesday morning and found his body. He was murdered. Shot a number of times while he was in bed."

"Wait a minute," said Holly. "This doesn't make sense. Your husband's right here."

"My name's Paul Lorenz. I'm not Vicky's husband. I came along on the cruise to help her get her money back from Ralph."

"Whoa, Nellie," said Marvin. "I'm lost."

Vicky took a deep breath and retold the entire story of Ralph's sudden departure from California, the same one she had told Baca, and gave a few sketchy details of her relationship with Paul. After Holly and Marvin absorbed all this, she described the Mazatlan police department's hospitality and her encounter with Lisa Saunders in the women's holding cell. Vicky did not, however, mention what happened at lunch a few hours earlier.

"I've heard some wild stories," said Holly, "but nothing ever this weird."

"It's all true," said Paul.

"It looks like you two are in the clear," said Marvin. "And Lisa's out of jail even though she's not allowed to leave the country. What about the man she says she heard from the bathroom? Any leads on him?"

Vicky shrugged. "Beats me. Lisa says she heard voices arguing, then gun shots."

Marvin turned to Paul. "What do I call you now? Paul or Ralph?"

"Keep calling me Ralph. This game's not over yet."

Lisa walked up to Desk Sergeant Herrada when she entered the police station. Herrada was a heavyset man in his mid-fifties with black wavy hair and a large brush mustache. When he spotted her, he stopped munching on a taco and blotted some grease on his chin with a paper towel. "Can I help you, Señorita?"

"I need to talk with Detective Baca. It's urgent."

Herrada wiped his hands with the paper towel and called Baca's office. After a brief conversation he hung up. "Sorry, Señorita, but he's gone for the day. Can someone else help you?"

"No, I have to speak with him. Can you get him on the radio?"

Herrada checked a slim loose-leaf notebook and found Baca's name listed. "He carries a cell phone. Let me try that." After calling the number, Herrada said, "His line's busy. I call again in a few minutes."

"When you get him, please tell him to call Lisa Saunders at the Holiday Inn. It's extremely urgent that I talk to him." Herrada jotted something on a note pad next to his telephone.

Lisa began pacing nervously, wondering if she should stay or leave. Herrada watched her movements with growing fascination. He eventually got up, took her by the arm, and led her to a nearby interrogation room. "Please sit down, Señorita, while I try Detective Baca's phone again."

Lisa sat in a wooden chair next to a plain wooden table. Herrada turned and adjusted the venetian blinds covering the door's single window so that anyone outside could not see into the room. Before leaving, he smiled at her and said, "I won't be very long."

Herrada came back in several minutes, an interval that seemed like an hour to Lisa. "The line is still busy, Señorita. He must be talking to his wife."

Lisa did not like the way Herrada was staring at her so she decided to leave the station. But when she got up and started for the door, Herrada moved slightly to block her way. "Don't go yet, Señorita. I'm sure I'll be able to reach him soon."

Lisa caught a whiff of his foul breath and started to panic. "I've got to go. I can try to reach him in the morning."

Herrada reached out and touched her hair, sliding his hand down her back with a clumsy touch. "Do you like tequila, Señorita?"

"Tequila?" She could barely get the word out.

"Si, I have some in my locker. We could have a drink. Relax, talk. Get to know each other better."

Lisa's field training suddenly kicked in and she became Agent Saunders once again. She smiled and appeared to relax. "Why, that sounds like fun. Sure, go get it and we'll have a drink."

Herrada's eyes lit up and he rubbed his fat paws together. "Don't go away. I'll be right back."

He hurried from the room as Lisa followed him to the open door. When he had disappeared up the hallway, she bolted out of the station and ran to Ralph's Mercedes. Only when she was several miles away did her breathing and heartbeat return to normal.

Chapter Twenty-One

Well into their third beer, Paul and Vicky relaxed to the point where the entire experience surrounding Ralph's murder could be temporarily put aside. Paul thought they had made the right decision by confiding in Holly and Marvin. If a future situation required their help, he felt certain it would be forthcoming.

Conversation among the two couples continued in a lighter vein. Marvin suggested that they play a game of team backgammon and Holly heartily approved. "Girls against the guys," she said. "C'mon, Vicky, let's kick some butt."

Holly and Vicky won the first game and crowed loudly in a short victory celebration. The ever-attentive Manuel brought out two large platters of warm nachos, accompanied by fresh salsa, guacamole, and sour cream. The men won the second game and, by the end of it, the nacho platters were wiped clean.

By eight o'clock, the cumulative game score was tied and all four had satisfied their craving for food and drink. "How about a break?" said Vicky. "I'd like to get cleaned up."

"Good idea," said Holly. "I need a shower, too."

The women went below to their respective cabins and Marvin produced a small carton from a canvas bag. "Care for a cigar?"

Paul took one and moistened both ends in his mouth. Marvin lit his cigar first and handed Paul some matches. After both men got their stogies glowing, Paul said, "You haven't talked much about yourself. What kind of business are you in?"

"Me? Oh, I'm a real estate appraiser. Work for a company in Anaheim."

"Really? Residential or commercial?"

"Oh . . . uh . . . residential."

"Any particular areas of Orange County?"

"Not especially. Our office covers Irvine, Tustin, Anaheim Hills. All the more expensive neighborhoods. I just go wherever they send me."

"I live in Irvine," said Paul. "Right across from RCI. How's the market in that area holding up?"

Marvin abruptly walked over to the railing and flicked his cigar ashes into the marina's dark blue water between the boat and the concrete pier. "Look," he said, "our fellow passengers are coming back aboard."

Marvin pointed his stogie toward Hector's rental car that had just pulled up near the boat's gangplank. Walter, Lenore, and Maria emerged, the women lugging shopping bags, and made their way onto the boat. Hector closed the car's trunk and drove off.

"What do you make of that?" asked Marvin.

"Of what?"

"Our friends and their vehicle."

"Looks like they've been shopping," said Paul.

"I'll give you that, but what about the car?"

"What about it?"

"I'm guessing it's a rental car," said Marvin, "and Hector's probably taking it back to turn in."

Paul gave him a curious look. "Sounds reasonable to me."

"Why wouldn't they use taxis?"

Paul's look changed into a frown. "For the convenience? I'm sure Hector can afford it."

"Yeah, I'm sure he can, too."

A few minutes later, two trucks pulled up near the gangplank. The driver began unloading boxes of fruits, vegetables, meat, fish, and other food items. Manuel and another crew member came off the boat to help move the food into the kitchen pantry and the boat's refrigerator.

While this was going on, a third vehicle pulled up; a long gray commercial van with few windows. The driver spoke briefly to Manuel and then boarded the yacht. Several minutes later, the driver and Walter left the boat and went to the van's rear door. The driver took out a flat wooden crate and, with the help of a two-wheel dolly, brought the crate on board. Walter and the driver carried the crate down into a forward storage compartment and returned to the van with another flat wooden crate of a slightly different size.

The loading and unloading continued until ten crates were taken from the van to the yacht and two crates were moved from the yacht to the van. Paul and Marvin, their cigars now only an inch long, watched while all this work was being performed. For Paul, it was only to kill time until Vicky returned. Marvin, however, seemed totally absorbed in this transfer of cargo.

"Looks like we're going to eat well on our way back home," said Paul.

"That's a given," said Marvin, "but I'm curious about all those wooden crates Walter and that guy were muscling around."

"Could be mirrors or stained glass that Lenore bought in town."

Marvin tossed his cigar into the water. "Or additions to Walter's art collection."

Shortly after the last of the three trucks had left the pier, Holly joined Marvin and Paul on deck. Vicky arrived shortly after that. She took Paul aside and spoke to him in a low voice. "Any sign of Baca?"

"Not yet."

"God, I hope Lisa was able to connect with him."

"I'm going below to take my shower. Keep your eyes peeled."

When Paul came back on deck nearly an hour later he found Vicky sitting alone in the bow area, looking out over the brightly lit pier. She smiled up at him. "You missed a gorgeous sunset."

"Did you see Baca?"

"Afraid not, Paul. I don't think he's going to show."

"Damn. I hope Lisa didn't pull a fast one. Shit, she's got Ralph's car and his checkbook. What does she need us for?"

"Don't be so cynical. I believe she's trying to find Baca and tell him her story. She wants him to find the killer a lot more than we do."

Paul sat down and put his arm around her shoulder. "Did you notice? We're twins tonight."

Vicky smiled as they compared their light blue warm-ups and white deck shoes. "Different color hair, though."

They continued sitting close, saying very little. An increase of activity by the yacht's crew, both on deck and on the pier, caught their attention. Paul stood, looked at his watch, and walked to the railing. "Hey, Vic. It's only ten o'clock and we're pulling out."

Vicky scampered over next to him and looked outward. "This is not good, Paul. I'll bet Walter decided to get moving, now that everyone is back on board."

The yacht pulled away from the marina and the lights of Mazatlan began to slide behind as they headed out into a calm and moonlit Pacific. Paul turned to Vicky and made a low moaning sound. "It's you and me now, compañera."

"Yeah, right. Just the two of us against the world. Although I sure wouldn't mind seeing Baca's ugly puss right about now."

"Do me a big favor. Give me one of your world class hugs."

Vicky moved in closer with her arms outstretched. "You got it, pal."

Chapter Twenty-Two

The next morning before sunrise, Paul snuggled up against Vicky, his chest touching her back and his knees tucked behind hers. His free hand rested on the side of his thigh. He didn't want to wake her. He was happy just feeling the warmth of her body, his face nuzzled into her neck, while he enjoyed the faint aroma of her natural scent.

She suddenly turned over and kissed him softly on the lips. "You're not sleeping."

"Nah, I haven't slept much tonight. Too many things on my mind."

"Like what?"

"I guess it's the uncertainty," he said. "Not knowing how things are going to play out."

"You're talking like an engineer, always wanting to see things laid out in a nice orderly schedule. Aren't you supposed to be comforting me?"

"I talked with Marvin last night while you were taking a shower. He said he's a real estate appraiser but he sounded evasive. Like he wasn't too sure of his facts. And it seemed like he didn't want to talk about it. Don't you think it's weird, not wanting to talk about your work?"

"I think your paranoia is getting weird."

"Another thing seems strange. He made a big deal about some wooden crates, ten coming on the boat and two going off. Kept a running count during the whole operation, wondering what was inside each one."

Vicky giggled. "I thought men talked about sex when their women weren't around."

"Lots of strange people on this boat. It's like each person has another identity or some dark secret."

Vicky nudged him in the ribs with her fist. "Looks who's talking, Mr. Ralph Armstrong."

Paul shifted slightly and rubbed her back with his palm, an act that made her hum. "You sure you want to keep this job?" he asked.

"Don't you think I should?"

"If you get your money from that Swiss bank, you won't need to work."

"Well, if Walter turns out to be who we suspect he is, then the whole question is moot. I sure wouldn't want to work for him, if that's the case. But I like what I'm doing. Yes, I want to accomplish something. Something relevant, something meaningful, all on my own."

"Then you won't need me anymore?"

"Silly man. Of course I'll need you. But for other reasons. I also have this funny feeling that I'm falling in love with you."

"Hey, this is interesting. What else?"

"When I stumble, I want you there to help me up again. Get me dusted off and moving in the right direction."

Paul slipped his hand under the back of her panties and pulled her closer. "You won't fall and you won't fail."

"I'm programmed to fail. It's in my genes."

"What a bunch of bull. Haven't your children turned out pretty well? Motherhood has to be one of your successes."

"I guess so. I did well with them when they were little, filling in all the gaps left by Ralph's indifference. I wish I'd spent more time with them when they were growing up."

"Speaking of growing up, how was it for you? Being a pretty girl in Santa Barbara with the whole world at your beck and call."

"Our family was rather well-off so I didn't lack for anything. Plenty of toys, clothes, and family vacations in places like Aspen and Hawaii. I adored my father but he didn't have much time for me. He was too busy with his medical practice."

"Then your mother filled in for him. Like you did for your kids."

"Not really. She was out and about, the rising socialite and philanthropic do-gooder, beautiful wife of the town's leading surgeon. Eric and I had a nanny when we were little. A black woman named Charlotta."

"Eric's your brother, right?"

"Yes, he's two years older. We're not close. He lives in New York."

"You've done a fair share of charity work yourself, haven't you? Just like your mother. We met last summer at that tennis tournament, remember?"

"Kind of ironic, huh? Turning into my mother."

"Did you have lots of friends when you were a kid?"

"Oh yes, mostly girls. Boys didn't enter my universe until I got into high school. Horrid little creatures."

"How come you and your brother aren't close?"

"I'm not sure. We never got along when we were kids. He loved to tease me. One incident I've never forgotten. On my tenth birthday, my mother gave a party and all my girlfriends were there, about a dozen of us. Eric came in while we were having ice cream and cake. Said I should go easy on the sweets or the bathroom scales would explode."

"That sounds cruel."

"Oh, it was and I cried buckets. I was pretty pudgy in those days."

"I would never guess you had a weight problem."

"After that party, I became more weight conscious and never had that problem again. Don't believe I ever thanked Eric for that."

"I'll send him a thank you note. Tell him how much I'm enjoying his sister's svelte body." He moved his hand and squeezed one of her buttocks.

Both became silent, content to hold each other close in the cabin's darkness. After a few minutes had passed, Vicky whispered in his ear, "I'd like you to make love to me. Are you in the mood?"

"How could I not be?"

"Then please make it last as long as you can."

Paul shed his underwear but took considerably longer removing Vicky's T-shirt and panties, kissing and licking her breasts, thighs, and navel. Even though his movements were restricted by the compact bunk space, he managed to maneuver his face into the soft wetness just below her pubic hair. Her clitoris was pungently tangy and twitchy, inviting him to massage it with his tongue and lips. He could tell she was close to orgasm, but he didn't want her to come just yet.

Returning to other portions of her body, it seemed to Paul that every square inch was an erogenous zone. Each time he touched her, he was rewarded with something: a sensuous groan, a passionate sigh, or a cheer such as "that's good," "Oh yes, right there," or "No more, no more. More, more!"

Her mounting passion made his own desire so strong that he couldn't wait any longer. After entering her, he moved in and out carefully, delaying the inevitable climax as long as possible. When they finally came together, crying and moaning in a whooshing release, they hugged each other fiercely. Vicky was so filled with joy that tears ran down her cheeks, droplets that Paul kissed away.

"Oh Paul," she cried, "that was so good. You are the best. I don't care what happens to us now, as long as you're with me."

Several hours after sunrise, Detective Baca called his office from home and asked the department secretary if she had any news. The only thing she had for him was an urgent message from Lisa Saunders.

Baca called the Holiday Inn and reached Lisa in her room. "Detective Baca? This is a pleasant surprise."

Baca hesitated. "I had a message. Didn't you wish me to call you?"

"Yes, but . . . I left it with the desk sergeant. I wasn't sure you'd get it."

"Why not?" Baca's voice sounded strained. "We have an efficient police operation here in Mazatlan."

"I didn't mean it like that. I did have some more information, but it probably doesn't matter any more."

"We should meet. I can stop by your hotel on the way to my office." Baca knew from previous experience that much more information could be gained from a leisurely face-to-face meeting than a hurried telephone talk. Only a conversation in person was likely to yield the small and seemingly unimportant detail that could make a crucial difference in solving a crime.

"OK, I'll see you in the coffee shop. Thirty minutes."

Over coffee, Lisa told Baca the story of her luncheon meeting with Paul and Vicky the day before. When she talked about the man who had been one of Ralph's clients, Baca sat up ramrod straight as his eyes widened. "Are you sure this man was a client?"

"I'm positive. He'd come into the office about once a month to meet privately with Ralph."

"Please describe him for me."

"He's tall, about six-two. On the thin side. A full head of hair but mostly white. And kind of a long, sad face."

"Did you ever actually meet this—Coffin man?"

"Never."

"But the man you saw in the hotel restaurant. Mrs. Armstrong said he was her boss?"

"Yes, she claims the man is Walter Serber, the CEO of the foundation she works for. She and Paul are guests on his yacht."

"Were you introduced to Serber?"

"No. When I spotted him, I turned around and went back to the ladies room." Lisa paused, her face reflecting deep thought. "That was kind of silly, wasn't it? I mean, he wouldn't know me from the Queen of Sheba."

Baca was tempted to say something about Lisa's habit of hiding in bathrooms but instead took a different tack. "As a trained government agent, I would have expected you to be a little more aggressive."

Lisa tossed both hands in the air. "I couldn't help it. There's something about the man that still frightens me."

Baca nodded his head and rubbed his chin. "Did you hear Serber speaking to Paul and Vicky?"

"No, I was too far away."

Baca tapped the table with his fingers for a few moments. "Do you think it's too late to question Mr. Serber?"

"I'm afraid so. They were supposed to leave Mazatlan last night."

"I'll check with the marina police."

"If they're gone, what will you do?"

"Not much I can do. But I have a friend in your FBI. I'll give him a call and see if they can help."

"I want to go home, back to California."

"Soon, perhaps. You must be patient."

Baca left the coffee shop quickly while Lisa lingered over her tepid coffee, wondering what to do next. She decided to take advantage of Ralph's car and head out to the golf course. I'll hit a few thousand balls on the driving range while Baca gets his act together.

She picked up the check and walked to the cashier, noting with some chagrin that Baca had not left a single peso for his share of the bill.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Paul and Vicky entered the saloon hand in hand, still savoring the glow of their earlier lovemaking session. They were also ravenously hungry and headed directly to their chairs, eager to have breakfast.

Holly gave them a wide smile accompanied by a two-fisted 'thumbs up' gesture. Vicky blushed slightly but Paul smiled and chuckled. Walter welcomed them in a loud jubilant tone. "Here's our dynamic duo, all rested and ready to save the world, or wrestle a pack of wolves."

Hector had altered the seating arrangement by taking the place on Walter's left, the one opposite Maria. This move forced Vicky into the chair on Lenore's right, across from Paul. Hector and Maria were talking quietly while Lenore smoked a cigarette.

After they sat down, Lenore turned to Paul and said in a stage whisper, "Wouldn't you just love to smack him in the face with a custard pie?"

Paul managed to croak, "Walter?"

Lenore took a drag on her cigarette. "You see any other assholes at the table?"

"He's in a good mood today," said Vicky. "Wonder what brought that on?"

"Nothing I did," said Lenore. "Maybe he had a close encounter of the sixty-ninth kind when I wasn't looking."

Paul looked at Vicky and said, "A clean getaway, that's why." Vicky frowned but Lenore apparently didn't hear his quiet remark.

After everyone had finished eating, Walter rapped his spoon several times against his juice glass. "I have several announcements to make. As you all know, our fiscal year just ended. When we embarked on this cruise, Holly gave me some preliminary figures on our financial situation. They are even better than I had hoped for. Thanks to all of you who work at the foundation, this will be a record year. Larger endowments and more money disbursed. Therefore, I'm giving each of you an eight percent raise, retroactive to July first."

Walter's announcement was met with polite oohs, aahs, and thank yous around the table, along with faint applause from Vicky and Maria. Walter beamed with pride and imperial generosity as he gazed upon his faithful workers. "The other item is a personal one that concerns my own future. I've decided to retire."

The reaction around the table this time was startled disbelief. Paul and Vicky looked at each other, wordlessly, but understood this was another piece of the puzzle falling into place.

Lenore's face turned pale and her eyes smoldered. "Is that a fact, Walter dear? And what are we going to do with all of this time together?"

Walter ignored Lenore's question but looked at Maria who asked, "You're too young to retire. What will you do with yourself?"

"Two things," he said. "I want to travel more, visit remote places around the world that I've never seen before. But more importantly, I want to devote more time to my art collection. I've got some pieces that should be sold and there are many more works around the world that I'd like to own."

Lenore doused her cigarette in her cup and said to Vicky, "Sounds like he intends to do these things alone."

"What about your position at the foundation?" asked Holly.

Walter smiled. "I'm aiming at October first as a retirement date. I'll also be making a recommendation to the board of directors that I be succeeded by"—he paused for dramatic effect—"our very own Hector Alesandro."

Hector relaxed in a huge smile. With a triumphant squeal, Maria extended both her hands across the table. After he squeezed them, Hector profusely thanked Walter for his vote of confidence. A sullen Lenore lit up another cigarette and muttered, "That should keep Maria's legs spread for at least another three months."

Paul began coughing while Vicky's mouth opened in shock. "Oh, you poor dears," continued Lenore. "You haven't seen a damn thing, have you?"

As Manuel began clearing away the breakfast dishes, Walter invited Holly, Paul, and Vicky to resume their marathon bridge game. Having no other plans, they agreed to play. Since the outside weather was windy and overcast, the foursome remained in the saloon.

While the table was being readied for bridge, Marvin picked up one of the decks and began shuffling the cards. His movements were quick and complex yet as smooth and polished as an experienced Las Vegas casino dealer. Soon, everyone at the table was watching mesmerized. Everyone except Holly. She got up and moved several feet away from the table.

"This is fascinating," said Maria. "Can you do any tricks?"

Marvin grinned. "I thought you'd never ask." He spread out all the cards into a fan, face up, and said, "Pick out a card, Maria. Don't touch it, just memorize the card you picked and concentrate on it very hard."

Maria scanned the deck and frowned. "OK, I've got one."

Marvin picked up the deck, shuffled it several times, and cut it into two equal stacks. He glanced at Maria. "Now point to one of the stacks and tell everyone what your card was."

She pointed to the stack on her left. "It was the seven of hearts."

"All right. Turn over the top card."

She turned it over. "Oh my God, it's my card. The seven of hearts!"

The group buzzed with excitement until Lenore interjected a comment. "I was concentrating on a card, too."

"You know, this trick should really involve only one person." Lenore gave Marvin one of her killer looks. "But if you insist. What was your card?"

"The queen of spades."

Marvin pointed to the other stack. "Take a look at the top card."

Lenore turned it over and laid it on the table face up. "I'll be damned. The queen of spades."

Pandemonium ensued. Everyone expressed admiration and wonder at how he had done it. Marvin affected an 'aw shucks' attitude and begged for their understanding. He said it wasn't kosher to reveal sleight-of-hand secrets. Nobody noticed Holly slip out of the saloon.

He continued his impromptu performance for a good ten minutes, talking between his magical feats. "When I was seven, my dad took me to see Ricky Jay. He was the greatest. After that, I bought books on magic and practiced with the cards for hours at a time. When I got good enough I performed at family and school events. Nowadays I do volunteer shows at hospitals and nursing homes."

When he saw Holly reenter the room, Marvin concluded his final bit of magic and took an elaborate bow. "Time to turn the cards over to Walter and the other bridge players." His rapt audience responded with a hearty round of applause.

Marvin got up, walked over to Holly, and said in a low voice, "Any luck?"

"Yep. A half-dozen bricks in the hidey-hole."

"You think it's coke?"

"I'd bet a month's salary."

He kissed her cheek and patted her butt. "Have good bridge, sweetheart."

After lunch, Paul and Vicky extracted a reprieve from Walter for a bridge-free afternoon, citing the need for some physical activity. They decided to exercise on deck, walking briskly along the narrow passageways of the yacht, from bow to stern and back again.

The weather had improved slightly. The sun broke through patchy clouds but the wind still blew briskly from the west. After nearly an hour of walking, they took refuge from the wind in a small alcove on the starboard side and sat in deck chairs pulled close together.

"Good workout," said Paul. "We need to get more exercise or we'll be putting on some pounds."

Vicky grinned. "You mean our cabin couplings aren't enough action for you?"

Paul laughed. "I may have underestimated Marvin. How did you like that show he put on for us?"

"It was great but I'm still thinking about Walter. The raise he's giving us is nice and it makes a certain amount of sense. But his retirement caught me off guard. He could work a few more years and still do the things he wants to do."

"Looks to me like he wants a new life, away from Lenore. Did you catch all her jabs at him and Maria? She's a bitter old broad."

"Obviously something's going on between Walter and Maria. But there can't be any future in it for them. Picking Hector to be our CEO practically seals the Alesandro's marriage in concrete."

"Something has to happen in the next couple of days," said Paul.

"What do you mean?"

"If we get back to Newport Beach and everyone goes their separate ways, the whole thing falls apart. Walter retires, travels all over the world, and lives off his art collection. He gets a new life, like Lazarus, and doesn't have to rot in the burial cave with ghastly Lenore."

"Hey pal, how much wine did you have at lunch?" Paul gave her a sharp look but said nothing. "I know, you think Walter killed Ralph. Not much we can do about it now, is there, out here in the middle of the ocean?"

"Walter could slip up, make a mistake of some kind before we get back home. Or maybe we could force his hand. Confront him with the evidence."

Vicky took his hand. "We don't have any evidence, Paul. Let's just keep a low profile and enjoy the rest of the cruise. And promise me that you won't do anything stupid, OK?"

Paul squeezed her hand and continued gazing at the receding whitecaps.

Lisa inserted the key and pushed lightly on her hotel room door. She had delayed over dinner as long as possible. What now? Would she have to spend the rest of the evening staring at the four walls, wondering what was going to happen? Why wasn't she being told anything?

The message light on her telephone blinked red. The hotel operator gave her the message and she eagerly dialed Ernesto Baca's home number.

"Miss Saunders, I'm so glad you called. I've got some good news."

"I could use a little good news right now."

"I contacted my friend in the FBI and he did some checking. He actually had an agent go interview the manager of your brokerage office." Baca paused. "A Mr. Travis Nugent, according to my notes. Mr. Armstrong did have a client named Lazarus Coffin and they took some time to review his portfolio. They still consider it an active account."

"Then I was right all along."

"Yes, you were. Not only that, but the manager's description of Coffin agrees with yours."

"Then I guess that about wraps it up."

"Oh no, there's more. My friend wanted to know where I got the name Walter Serber, so I told him what you and Mrs. Armstrong told me. My friend sounded pretty evasive, like he was holding back. So I kept asking questions, trying to get more information. It turns out they've been watching Serber for some time, for reasons totally unrelated to Mr. Armstrong's murder."

"That's a bizarre coincidence, don't you think?"

"Yes, and get this. His description of Serber matches your description of Coffin. They have to be the same man."

"Are they going to do anything about this?"

"That's the good part. He said the bureau has an undercover agent on board Serber's yacht. Can you believe it? Caramba, they're going to get one lively reception in Newport Beach on Sunday evening."

"That's unbelievable. I don't know what to say."

"Come by my office tomorrow morning and I'll return your passport. Thank you for your help, Miss Saunders. You're free to return to the United States."

Chapter Twenty-Four

Paul awoke to the sound of Vicky crying. It was just before sunrise on Saturday morning. He rolled over and placed his hand on her shoulder. "You all right?"

A trembling Vicky turned to face him and buried her face in his neck. "I had a bad dream. It woke me up. I was back in that hotel room, going through the whole damn thing again."

Paul gave her a light hug. "It's OK, Vic. It's going to take some time but everything will work itself out."

Vicky wiped her eyes and dripping nose with the sleeve of his undershirt. "I've also been thinking about Ralph. The early years of our marriage. Remember what you told me? About focusing on the good times and blocking out the painful memories?"

"Yep, it was something like that."

"He was a good husband, before he got caught up in the stock market. We never had a real honeymoon. He kept promising he'd make it up to me one day. And he did. In spades."

"What did you do?"

"About fifteen months after we were married, he surprised me with a two week motor trip up the coast. We just took off and did Carmel, Monterey, San Francisco, Napa Valley. The whole California tourist bit. It was so romantic, especially where we stayed by the ocean."

"You like being near the ocean."

"Can't get enough of it. Does something to my libido."

Paul chuckled and said with a pompous tone, "I'll be eternally grateful for your affinity to the ocean."

"Anyway, Gary was conceived on that trip. We hadn't planned on starting a family right away, but—well, you know how it goes."

"My mom used to call it nesting fever."

"Everything changed after that. I wasn't interested in sex while I was pregnant and then Ralph got even more engrossed in his career. He wanted to be sure he could provide solid financial support for us."

"I felt the same after my girls were born."

"After the baby was born he turned out to be very helpful. He'd get up with Gary in the middle of the night to give him his bottle. Change his diaper once in a while, all the unglamorous parts of raising a kid."

The boat took a sudden roll, almost tipping them out of their bunk. Wrestling and giggling, they returned to their close embrace.

"When did your daughter come along?"

"Two years after Gary. Old dad was so proud of himself, having a little princess to love, cherish and adore."

"Girls are special, you know."

"Yes, I do, and Vanessa knew it, too. She had him wrapped around her tiny little finger from day one. It almost killed him to discipline her or, God forbid, say no to any of her wishes.

Paul laughed. "Even little darlings go too far sometimes."

"Yeah, right. That's when Ralph would call in the heavy artillery—me—to do his shit work. But she turned out just fine." Vicky chuckled. "Except for becoming an engineer."

Paul sucked in his breath in mock horror. "Do I detect a slam against my noble profession?"

"Well, it is better than being a lawyer."

"But not much. Is that it?"

"We thought we were all done having kids until Mike came along. A bit of a surprise, to say the least. Ralph had a vasectomy a short time later."

"I get the impression that you're closer to Mike than the two older children. Did Ralph feel the same way about Mike?"

"I am and he did. When he was a little over two, Mike was in the hospital for several weeks with pneumonia. That was a terrible time, but he pulled through. We've both been rather protective of him ever since. He's a good kid. Hey, he lent me the purple people eater. Must have put quite a dent in his sex life. He and his girlfriend usually go up to Big Bear on the weekend."

Vicky got out of the bunk, blew her nose into a tissue, and returned to the bunk where Paul enveloped her with eager arms.

"The marriage went downhill as the kids got older. Nothing you can put your finger on. We just grew farther apart, he with his job and me with my community activist work. When I look back on it, I can see now that things took a turn for the worse when Mike left home for UCLA. Then it was just me and Ralph, alone together in that big expensive house next to the ocean. We were just not the same people who married each other twenty-four years before."

"Empty nest. That's when stuff happens," said Paul. "You and Ralph were ripe for an affair. Trying to jump-start the romantic juices with a new bed partner."

"To be honest, there were times when I was attracted to another man. But I'd never encourage sexual contact. It's different for a married woman."

"And why is that?"

"It's the old double standard. When a man sleeps around, he's a stud. If a woman does it, she's a slut."

"Are you feeling guilty about us being together?"

"Not at all. When I moved in with you, I didn't consider myself a married woman anymore. What about you?"

"It was a new start for me. An exciting journey with a beautiful, intelligent, and vivacious woman."

"What a bullshitter you are. But I love it."

"And I love you, Vic. But we'd better get some sleep or we'll be a pair of zombies later today."

Vicky kissed him and rolled over. "Right you are, pal."

Maria pushed her sunglasses up to her brow and peeked at Hector, concealed behind Ray-bans, trying to tell if he was sleeping off their big breakfast or deep in thought. "I've been thinking," Maria said, "about when you take over as CEO."

"Planning to buy a new home already?"

"No, nothing like that. It's about this drug business you're involved in."

"We're both involved in it."

"I think we should get out. What if we're discovered, busted? You'd have to resign your position. Now wouldn't that be ironic?"

"It would be much worse than that. How would you like spending the next several years of your life in prison?"

"Then what's stopping you? Let's get away from it."

"That man. Our friend in Mazatlan. He knows all about us. Where we live, where you and I work. He threatened me with blackmail when I told him I wanted to cut our connection."

"He knows where we live? Where I work? When did all this happen?"

"At our meeting several nights ago. He said our business relationship would be over when he said it was over." Maria bolted out of her chair as Hector continued, "That's the bad news. I'd rather think about Walter's retirement and all the good things it means for us. I got the impression he and Lenore may not be together much longer."

Maria grasped the rail with one hand to steady herself. "Yes, she looked surprised when he talked about traveling around the world. Maybe he's going to do those things without her."

"Maybe with some woman other than his wife."

Maria could tell that he was alluding to Walter's open fondness for her and she wasn't about to let the conversation head in that direction again. "This yacht may become a huge liability for Lenore. She's not as fond of the ocean as Walter is. They might even put it up for sale."

"That would be unfortunate," said Hector. "No more cruises and we'd have to drive or fly to Mazatlan. Then the business would become even more risky."

"You could turn the tables on that creepy man and give the Mexican police an anonymous tip about him."

"Are you crazy? He'd come after us, for sure, or put out a contract."

"You're a clever man, Hector. You figure it out. You got us into this business. Now get us out."

"It wouldn't be easy. I don't even know where the man lives. I only know him as Cisco, and that probably isn't his real name."

"Maybe you should have one more meeting with him. The police could stake out the area and move in when you give him the money."

"The Mexican police? That's the last thing I would do."

Maria sat down, folded her arms, and stared straight ahead at the passing ocean. "Well, you'd better think of something."

As Manuel began clearing away the lunch dishes, Walter issued an invitation. "Vicky, Paul, Holly? Shall we continue our bridge marathon?"

"Good idea," said Holly. "Here in the saloon or outside?"

"Let's play on the fantail, under the awning. It's very pleasant out there now. A little breeze and a relative calm sea should make it quite enjoyable."

Walter laughed and joked with the other players. Even when Paul and Vicky took a big lead in the cumulative point score, Walter dismissed it with a wave of his hand, commenting that he and Holly would soon close the gap. After the third rubber, Manuel took their drink orders as the foursome took a welcome break.

"I'm envious of you, Walter," said Paul. "Being able to retire at such an early age. I have to wait another six years before I can do it. And it would be early retirement for me at less than full pension."

"I'm a very lucky man. It's only because of my art collecting successes that I can really afford to do it myself."

"What do you actually do with your art works?"

"Just like you do in the stock market, Ralph. Buy low and sell high."

Paul laughed. "But the stock market is pretty liquid and traders have a good idea of what any given stock is worth."

"You have a point. Dealing in the art world requires judgment, financial discipline, and a cultivated taste. The trick is to find a talented artist when he or she is very young and extremely productive. You buy up all of the paintings that you can afford and hold on to them until the artist is discovered and the average asking price shoots through the roof. Then you sell."

"I get it. Kind of a buy and hold strategy."

"Precisely. But as a collector, I always go one step further. I insist that every piece of art I buy is something I understand and enjoy looking at."

Vicky said, "Last night, you mentioned doing some traveling. Do you have any particular places in mind?"

"Yes, two at the moment. South America and China. But Lenore would be very bored while I'm poking through cluttered shops or drafty studios."

"So where does that leave you?"

"Bottom line? I suppose it means we'll be living separate lives in different locations for the greater part of each year."

Manuel appeared with their drinks and the conversation died off as Vicky and Paul exchanged guarded looks. Walter picked up the cards from the table, shuffled them seven times, and began dealing the next hand.

"You know, Walter," began Paul, "it sounds to me like you've been granted a new life."

"You might say that."

"It's almost like some kind of resurrection."

Walter finished dealing out all the cards in silence. He picked up his own hand but looked at Paul instead of checking his cards. "What's your point?"

Paul fiddled with his cards for a few seconds before speaking. "Oh, I don't know. Some crazy thing just popped into my head, something from my boyhood days. My Sunday School teacher used to tell us stories from the Bible. Her favorite was about this guy named Lazarus."

"Really."

Vicky folded her hand and looked nervously at Paul, then at Walter.

"I'll open one club," said Walter.

The bidding progressed and Walter wound up playing the hand with a two club contract. He played it so carelessly that he failed to make his bid by two tricks. After Holly recorded the score, Walter stood. "Please excuse me. I've got a pounding headache and I need to lie down for a while."

After Walter left, Paul smiled faintly but Vicky scowled back at him. Holly gathered up all the cards and said, "What happened to Walter? He should have made that last hand with no problem. He could have even made an overtrick."

Paul cleared his throat and looked away from Vicky toward the yacht's wake behind the stern. "I guess he was a little distracted."

Holly excused herself and headed toward the ladies room. As soon as she was out of earshot, Vicky hissed, "What the hell were you trying to pull with that old Bible story crap?"

"Just testing the waters."

"I asked you not to do anything stupid, right? He's not a dumb guy. He'll figure out that your crazy thing that popped into my head was no coincidence."

"Did you see his reaction? I think my observation rattled him. But he kept his cool better than I expected."

"You made your point, Sherlock. Now I want you to drop it. He's a dangerous man and we're no better than prisoners while we're on his boat."

"Can't argue with that."

"Promise me that you won't provoke him again."

"OK, I promise."

Vicky slumped in her chair. "If we get back to Newport Beach without any more trouble, it will be a miracle." Paul grinned and started to say something, but Vicky said, "NO. I don't want to hear about any more Bible story miracles."

Chapter Twenty-Five

Paul awoke suddenly to a darkened cabin. He knew where he was but couldn't recall what day it was. Oh yeah, now I remember. Sunday morning, our last day on this damn boat. It will be good to get back home. Protect Vicky from Walter, back in my condo where we can get on with our lives. Wrap up all those loose ends. Convince her that we have a future together.

He rolled over to face the side of Vicky's head. He hoped for some kind of reaction, sensing that she was partially awake, but she played possum instead. Finally, he placed his tongue in her ear and got results, although not what he was hoping for. "Go away," she said in a mildly irritated tone.

"Are you mad at me?"

"Not really." Paul reached over, placed his hand on the bare spot between her sleep shirt and panties, and twirled his little pinkie finger in her navel. She took his hand and dropped it on his side of the bunk. "But I'm not in the mood for any fun or games either."

"You're going to miss out," he said. "This will be our last predawn conversation on the boat."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I owe you an apology. Needling Walter with that Lazarus story yesterday."

"He's dangerous and we're in no position to be sparring with him."

"I feel so frustrated with this whole situation. Like I should do something."

"Well, it wasn't the smartest thing I've ever seen you do, but your story did seem to strike a nerve."

"He was a different man at dinner last night. Very serious, talking business with Hector throughout the whole meal."

"Pretty boring stuff," she said. "I'm surprised you even noticed, with Lenore hitting on you again."

"That's one more thing I won't miss after today."

Vicky giggled. "Something good did come out of your talk. Walter evidently doesn't want to play any more bridge."

"It's just as well. I'm pretty much bridged out."

"That means we'll have plenty of time to ourselves today. What would you like to do?"

"Let's see. I could get Marvin to teach us some card tricks. Or maybe have that meeting with Lenore and look over her assets."

"Nothing for you and me to do together?"

"We could spend the day here in our bunk."

Vicky poked him in the ribs with her elbow. "I had something different in mind. Something a little less physical, maybe?"

"I saw board games and jigsaw puzzles in a saloon cabinet. Scrabble, Monopoly, things like that."

Vicky rolled over to face him and gave him a hug. "Sounds like a plan. And if we run out of games and puzzles, we could always talk to each other."

Paul kissed her. "Hey, I haven't told you about my boyhood days in Aurora. I was a real ladies man in high school."

Vicky giggled again. "What did you do? Dazzle them with dorkiness or baffle them with bullshit?"

Paul and Vicky passed the day playing Scrabble, Chinese checkers, and several games of chess. The last one ended with much hooting and laughter when Paul's king was easily checkmated by Vicky's queen.

Walter continued to avoid the passengers; when he emerged from his cabin he checked the crates in the cargo hold and talked with crew members about engine performance. After dinner, he went to the pilot house to discuss the yacht's fuel status with the first officer and get the latest estimate of their arrival time in Newport harbor. Walter stood on the cabin side of a nearby porthole, casually reviewing a set of charts, when he became aware of Marvin standing outside next to the rail.

Marvin looked fore and aft before pulling a cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a series of numbers and waited for the party at the other end to answer. "Yes, it's me. We're just clearing San Diego so I figure we're about seventy miles from Newport. Another three to four hours before we tie up."

Marvin paused to listen to the voice at the other end.

"Yep, one guy has six packages hidden in his cabin. I'm pretty sure it's coke."

Walter edged closer to the open porthole.

"I saw them load ten wooden crates at Mazatlan just before we left. They have to be paintings, but I don't know if they're hot."

Walter tried to swallow but he could only take a shallow breath.

"Have the customs guys come on board with you. If they're legit, he should pay duty on whatever's inside those crates."

Walter took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead.

"Sounds good. See you in a few hours." Marvin folded up his cell phone and walked away.

Walter remained near the porthole for several minutes, hardly breathing, afraid of making a sound. Finally he recovered. He moved quietly back to the table holding his navigation charts. He picked up a pair of metal dividers, the type used to measure distance, and jammed their sharp points through all the charts into the wooden table top. Goddamn my rotten luck. First I had Ralph to deal with and now this son of a bitch comes out of nowhere to throw a monkey wrench into my plans. How come he knows so much about what's going on here? Well, we're not in Newport yet.

Vicky and Paul were in their cabin. He was taking a shower and she was starting to pack some of her belongings in preparation for their debarkation. As Paul was getting dressed, Vicky said, "Shake a leg there, pal. I want to catch one more sunset before we dock."

"Great idea, Vic. Don't forget your sweater."

When they emerged topside, they walked to the bow and put on their sweaters. Vicky leaned against a rail, apparently lost in thought, her eyes almost closed. She suddenly opened them and moved her head from one side to the other. "Hey, Paul, have you noticed? Something's not right."

"What do you mean?"

"Since we left Mazatlan, sunsets have been on the port side of the boat. Now the sun's on the starboard side."

Paul first looked at the sun, then turned halfway around and looked at a faint outline of the distant shore. "You're absolutely right. We've turned around. We're heading south."

"What do you make of it?"

"I don't have a clue, but I'll bet it's bad news. After everything that's happened on this trip, turning around just before Newport can't be good."

Manuel came up to them. Tension spread across his face, marring his usually tranquil features. "Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong, please come to the saloon immediately. Mr. Serber has an announcement for all the guests."

"Damn," said Paul. "I sure dread hearing what's coming next."

Vicky took Paul's hand. "Let's go hear what the boss has to say."

They were last to arrive. The others already stood in a circle facing Walter; they enlarged the ring to include Paul and Vicky.

"It seems we have some trouble with the main propulsion system," began Walter. "In the interest of everyone's safety, we're making a small detour."

"Where are we going?" asked Maria.

"We're pulling into Ensenada harbor and should arrive about eleven."

"So we can't make Newport tonight?" asked Holly.

"I'm afraid not. Too risky."

"What's wrong with San Diego?" asked Marvin.

"The harbor's too large, very crowded. Besides, I have a contact in Ensenada who knows the engines on this boat like the back of his hand."

Paul gave Vicky a worried look. She slipped her arm around his waist.

"Please don't concern yourselves," said Walter. "This is only a temporary delay. We have plenty of food and drink aboard."

Vicky asked, "When will we get to Newport? Some of us have to work tomorrow."

"Perhaps tomorrow night, if all goes well. Please excuse me while I have another talk with my engineer. I'll keep all of you informed about our progress."

The passengers started milling about, talking to each other about this latest development. Marvin and Holly, seeking some privacy, ambled over to the bar. Marvin chugged his beer and crumpled the can into a small disk with his bare hands. Manuel smoothly gave him another and poured a glass of Chardonnay for Holly.

Holly rubbed Marvin's neck. "Does this blow the whole thing?"

He tossed the crumpled beer can into a wastebasket. "Not necessarily. I'll try some more calls in a minute, but I don't know about the cell coverage down here."

"You think the engine problems are for real?"

"If they are, he has to be luckier than all the Powerball Lottery winners rolled into one."

Paul and Vicky went back on deck and walked to the starboard side of the bow to watch the sunset. "What do you think?" she asked.

He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer. "It doesn't pass the smell test."

"Oh God, I'm so tired of this. I want to go home. I want to sleep in our own big bed again."

He kissed the tip of her nose. "So do I, sweetheart. So do I."

The yacht arrived in Ensenada harbor with little fanfare and docked shortly after eleven o'clock as planned. Because of the late hour, most of the guests had retired to their cabins. Marvin was the exception; he sat on a deck chair for nearly an hour overlooking the dock while smoking a cigar.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Sharp knocks on the cabin door roused Paul and Vicky. Without waiting for them to answer, two policemen barged in and moved swiftly to their bunk. "Please get dressed and come with us."

Vicky yanked a sheet up to her chin to cover her partially naked body. Paul shouted, "What the hell's going on here?"

Neither policeman replied. The only answer was a repeated command to get dressed.

Paul was first out of the bunk, handed Vicky her sweat suit, and started putting on his own.

Vicky snapped at the police. "You guys could at least turn around while I get dressed."

Momentarily inhibited by her bravado, both policemen did an about face. "Hurry it up, lady," said one of the officers.

After Paul and Vicky had hurriedly dressed one of the policeman escorted them to the saloon. They had hardly stepped into the passageway when the other officer began searching their cabin. "Are you going to tell us what's going on?" Vicky asked as they were being hustled away.

"We've got a warrant, that's all you need to know," said the policeman. "We are conducting a full search of all cabins and storage areas."

Vicky and Paul slumped down at the table and Manuel appeared, suave as always, with a freshly brewed pot of coffee. Other guests began to arrive in various stages of undress, all of them escorted by police officers. Maria clutched the front of her blue terry cloth robe and cried openly. Lenore strolled in head high, wearing a white satin robe, a lighted cigarette in her hand.

Paul stood up briefly to look out the saloon's windows. Other Mexican police in brown uniforms were moving about the open deck. Two more policemen stood at the foot of the gangplank, presumably to prevent any of the passengers from leaving. Paul also noticed two men, wearing dark blue jackets emblazoned with FBI in large yellow block letters, talking to one of the Mexican officers.

"I've had enough of this crap," Vicky scowled. "I want off this boat. Now."

"We have nothing to worry about. Let the shakedown begin," Paul assured her. "No contraband in our cabin—at least none that I'm aware of."

Marvin and Holly were the last couple to enter the saloon. The others fell silent when they saw Marvin also wearing an FBI jacket.

"Look at him." Vicky nudged Paul. "We've had a mole with us all this time."

"I'll be damned," Paul muttered back. "I guess I was right about him all along. But he needs a better story than real estate appraisal if he's going to make it in the undercover agent business."

Hector got up from his chair and went over to Lenore. "Where's Walter?"

Lenore cackled. "That son of a bitch flew the coop. He went ashore last night, looking for the so-called propulsion system expert. Almost as if he knew something like this was coming down?" She took a long drag of her cigarette. "What do you think, Hector? Did our boy know we were about to get busted?"

Hector shook his head and remained silent. Maria started trembling so hard that Vicky went over, sat down beside her, and held her hand.

Paul looked at Holly. "Did you know you were bunking with a Fed?"

Holly smiled back at him. "Well, we all have our dirty little secrets. Adds a bit of spice to life, don't you think?"

One of the FBI agents entered the saloon and summoned Marvin with a one finger 'come here' signal. They huddled in a far corner for a brief conversation that ended with Marvin exclaiming "shit!"

He came back to the table and slumped down in his chair. "Something wrong?" asked Holly.

"They didn't find anything."

By now, Manuel was serving orange juice and more coffee to the guests and taking their breakfast orders.

"Just a toasted English muffin for me."

"Certainly, Mr. Armstrong."

Paul leaned forward. "How can you be so calm, Manuel, with all this chaos swirling around us?"

Manuel let the pencil fall away from his small tablet. "I've been working on this boat for five years. Anything can happen."

A Mexican police officer wearing sergeant stripes entered the saloon and went directly to Lenore. "Mrs. Serber? You and your husband are the owners of this boat. Is that correct?"

"Yes, that's correct."

"I must ask you to come with me. We have found some wooden crates in a storage area. We want you present when we open them."

"I don't know a damned thing about those crates. You need my husband here. They belong to him."

"And where is Mr. Serber?

"I don't know."

"Then you will have to come with us."

Lenore flicked her cigarette butt into her coffee cup and rose from her chair. As she and the officer left the saloon, he turned to the others. "Our inspection of your cabins has been completed. You are free to return, move about the ship, or go ashore. Whatever you wish."

Maria suddenly sat up straight, mopped her eyes, and looked at Hector. "I'd like to get cleaned up. Would you come down to the cabin with me?"

"Certainly."

Once in their cabin, Hector hastily locked the door. Maria went directly to the cabinet with the secret hiding place. She pulled out the towels from the rear compartment and turned to face her laughing husband. "What did you do, Hector?"

"We are out of the business now, my darling."

"What happened to the cocaine?"

Hector pulled out a desk chair and sat down. "When Walter made his announcement and turned the boat around, I got a very strange feeling. A hunch that something bad was going to happen. So I threw the packages into the ocean."

"You did what?"

Hector pointed to the bulkhead. "One by one. Right through that porthole."

Maria began pacing back and forth, a faint smile emerging on her face. "Well, I always said you were a clever man. And now I know it for a fact. I should trust you more often."

"We've lost a lot of money," he said, "but the good part is that we won't be rotting away in some Mexican prison. Thank God the police didn't have the sniffer dogs with them."

"Why is that good?"

"They would have detected tiny particles of cocaine left in the hiding place."

Maria pondered that fact for several seconds. "What are you going to do about that Cisco man in Mazatlan?"

"I'll get word to him that we were busted by the police. Tell him they found the cocaine during their search."

"Then how will you explain that we're not in jail?"

"We bribed the police. Also told them how to make a pile of money selling the coke themselves. Cisco won't be able to verify any of this."

Maria walked over and kissed him on the lips. "My knight in shining armor. I'm going to take a shower now. Why don't you go find Lenore? I'm sure she's going to need your help."

Hector went directly to the hold which he knew contained the ten wooden crates. Lenore, three Mexican policemen, and an FBI agent were grouped around one of them that had just been opened. The FBI man carefully removed a framed canvas and held it up to the light for all to see. "It looks very old," said one of the policemen.

The FBI man propped it up on another crate and stepped back. "Impressionist, I'm guessing. French from the 1800s. Looks like a Manet."

Lenore folded her arms across her chest and said, "It's definitely not a Norman Fucking Rockwell."

The Mexican policemen were briefly stunned by her comment but one eventually found his voice. "Mrs. Serber, do you have any papers that confirm your ownership of this painting?"

She looked like she wanted to spit out—I don't have any stinking papers—but only said, "My husband would have them. Feel free to look in our cabin."

The policeman dispatched one of his men to Lenore's cabin while the others continued opening other crates. After twenty minutes had passed and three more crates had been opened, the policeman returned and reported 'no papers.'

The officer in charge asked, "Do you have anything else to say, Mrs. Serber?"

"Only that the bastard left me holding the bag again."

"I'm afraid we have no choice but to place you under arrest. One of my men will take you back to your cabin so that you can get dressed. Then we must place you in custody while the rest of these crates are opened and one of our art experts examines the contents."

Lenore turned to Hector. "I want you to find the best damned lawyer you can. Mexican, American, whatever. Get me out as soon as possible. As for that husband of mine, I'll deal with him later."

"Please don't worry," said Hector. "I'll keep the yacht here until we can get you released and back on board."

In the saloon, Paul, Vicky, Marvin and Holly were finishing their makeshift breakfast. Vicky appealed Marvin, "What will happen next?"

"It's pretty much up to the local police. The boat's probably stuck here for a couple of days while they give it a more detailed search."

Vicky turned to Paul. "We can't afford to hang around here any longer. I need to get back and make arrangements for Ralph's funeral."

Holly thought for a moment. "Marvin and I are leaving soon. Why don't you come with us?"

"Sure," said Marvin. "We're riding back to Santa Ana with the other two agents. They've got room in their van for a couple more passengers. They're dropping us in Newport so I can pick up my car."

"That would work out great." Paul looked relieved. "My car is parked on the dock."

Vicky smiled. "Then it's all settled. When do you think we can leave?"

"In another hour or so," said Marvin. "Let me talk to the agents and find out what other business they have."

A few minutes later, Hector joined the foursome for a cup of coffee. He briefed them on the police's discoveries in the hold as well as Lenore's arrest. "I've got to find an attorney as soon as possible and get her released. So I'll have to remain in Ensenada."

"We've decided to get off," said Holly, "and drive back to Newport Beach."

Hector raised his eyebrows and looked around the table. "All of you?"

"Yes," said Vicky. "I have some urgent personal business to take care of."

Hector pushed his chair back and lowered his head into his open palms for several seconds before raising it to speak. "This is a very difficult time for all of us and the foundation." He looked directly at the two women and continued, "You must carry on our work for as long as I'm delayed here, while our CEO is missing. You will be in charge, Holly, until I return. And Vicky, should the media learn of our misfortunes, I trust you will be both discrete and firm, giving them only the information they absolutely need to know and nothing more. Do I make myself completely clear?"

Vicky's face registered mild alarm. "But I've been working at the foundation for only a few weeks."

"And I'm just a bean counter," added Holly.

"That doesn't matter right now," Hector countered. "Both of you are very competent executives. Besides, this is the only option we have. Remember you can always reach me here if anything serious comes up."

Vicky nodded as Holly said, "OK, boss. Steady as she goes."

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Walter walked away from the yacht as fast as he could, though slowed down by a heavy blue duffel bag which he often shifted from one hand to the other. In his haste to leave, he had crammed clothes and other items into the bag, now threatening to split its seams.

He walked for almost a mile before finding a taxi. The helpful driver found a hotel that had a vacancy. A decrepit old man rose from his chair behind the counter and greeted Walter with a scowl. "How long you need a room, Señor?"

"One night should be enough."

"Some identification, por favor." He plopped a white card on the counter and slid it toward Walter. "Please fill this out."

Walter turned around, rummaged through his duffel bag, and found a credit card and a passport. He handed them to the clerk.

"Welcome to the Ensenada Royal, Mr. Coffin."

Walter found his room on the second floor at the rear of the hotel and immediately collapsed on the bed. I should call Pilar but she's probably asleep. Better wait until morning. She'll be in a better mood.

The next morning, he had breakfast in his room while pondering his predicament. That Marvin guy has to be some kind of government agent. It's only a matter of time before the feds or the police come aboard and demand to see what's inside those crates. I wonder if there's any way I can get them off before they do?

Walter finished his breakfast and then called his art dealer colleague, Pilar, at her Mazatlan apartment. "Walter. What a pleasant surprise. How was your voyage home?"

"I'm not at home. In fact, I'm in Ensenada. Had to make a slight detour."

Walter related overhearing Marvin's telephone call, the change of course, and his hasty departure from the yacht. His news was greeted by silence at the other end of the line. "Are you still there?"

"Walter, darling. This is most unfortunate. I'm very disappointed in you."

"Me? It's not my fault."

"Perhaps not, but you must do something immediately. You must protect our investment."

"Any suggestions? Or would you just rather bitch about it?"

"Don't take that attitude with me, Walter. You do whatever is appropriate. And think about what might happen if you fail. Our associates would be very displeased."

Walter's hands were so sweaty that he almost dropped the phone. "I'll do what I can."

"Whatever happens, Walter darling, I suggest that you not remain in Mexico too long. For the benefit of your continued good health."

Walter took a shower, got dressed, and hailed a taxi near the hotel's front entrance. He told the driver to head for the marina but, when they passed through the cut in the Chapultepec Hills and his yacht was visible, he asked the driver to pull over and stop. He opened his duffel bag and pulled out a pair of binoculars.

Walter got out and walked to a vantage point where he could use the binoculars to observe dockside activity. He saw Vicky, Paul, Marvin, and Holly toss their bags into a van and drive off with two other men. Then his attention was riveted by the sight of four Mexican police removing wooden crates from the boat and loading them into a truck. Shit, they found the paintings!

He continued watching the scene for several more minutes, taking note that Maria and Manuel were also on the dock, apparently supervising the policemen's work. Heart racing and palms sweating, Walter returned to the taxi and told the driver to take him back to his hotel. Pronto!

When he returned to his room, he snatched up his belongings and spread them out on the bed. Should I call Pilar again? No, I don't think so. She'll get the bad news soon enough.

He sorted through the items on the bed and put everything relating to Walter Serber in a single pile: driver's license, passport, credit cards, and business cards. He raced through the room until he found a plastic bag in the closet, supplied by the hotel for laundry. He then placed all these things into the plastic bag. The rest of the items he stuffed into his blue duffel bag: clothes, toilet articles, and a Walther P99 pistol with three magazines, each fully loaded with sixteen rounds.

He checked out of the hotel and walked for some time, hunting for a place to drop the plastic bag. He found a side street where trash cans were lined up along the curb, awaiting pickup by a mechanized dump truck now approaching from the other end of the street. He tossed the plastic bag into a trash can and walked away briskly. He could feel a large smile spreading over his face. Walter Serber disappeared today and the world took little note. As for Lazarus Coffin, it's the first day of the rest of his life. It's the second chance most men never get.

After the FBI agents' van cleared the Tijuana checkpoint, Vicky's spirits rose. "If we weren't moving so fast," she said, "I'd jump out and kiss the ground."

Marvin chuckled, "I wouldn't blame you."

"Hey Holly," said Vicky. "Are you an FBI agent too?"

Holly looked at Marvin and they both burst out laughing. "No, I'm just a plain old bean counter. The Incredible Hulk here is the duty fed."

"So how did you guys ever get together?"

"We both went to Cal State Long Beach and graduated at the same time with accounting degrees. We didn't date then. We were just good friends."

"Then what happened?" asked Paul.

"Marvin went off to the FBI Academy in Virginia for training and I got a job with a bank in Long Beach."

"When I graduated from the academy," said Marvin, "they assigned me to the Orange County office. My specialty is white collar crime with an occasional drug bust among the Republican rich and famous."

"When did you see each other again?"

"It was ten years later," said Holly. "Our class had a big reunion in 1998 and we both came to the dinner dance without dates. Wound up dancing practically all night with each other. Then we dated a whole year before we began living together. Dick Tracy here doesn't like to rush things in the relationship department."

Marvin's face turned red. "They don't want to hear about that."

Paul and Vicky laughed. "Yes we do, yes we do."

Holly jumped up from her seat, leaned across the open space, and gave Marvin a messy kiss. Marvin gave her a gentle push away, allowed himself a sheepish grin, and wiped her red lipstick off his face.

Paul asked Holly, "Were you working at the foundation when you two started dating?"

"I've been there for five years. If you're wondering about whether the FBI was watching the foundation—or is now—I can assure you that the answer is no. I watch the books very carefully and make sure that every dollar gets to the right place, and every dollar that comes in is clean."

"It was just an accident," said Marvin, "that I learned about Hector and Walter from other sources. A nice bit of serendipity."

"Hector?" Vicky's voice was startled. "I know that Walter's not on the level, but Hector?"

Marvin didn't answer.

Vicky persisted. "Is something going on here that we're not supposed to know about?"

"You might as well tell them," said Holly.

Marvin gave them a brief account of Holly finding bundles of cash in the Alesandro's cabin and later discovering the cocaine bricks.

"My god," said Vicky. "This whole situation gets crazier by the hour. The foundation's CEO has deserted his wife, he's dealing in stolen art, and the Executive Director is a pusher."

"The next couple of weeks will be a real challenge," Holly said to Vicky. "I advise you to keep your resume current, just in case."

Vicky looked out the side window for a few minutes in silence, content to watch a San Diego beach slip by. "Penny for your thoughts," said Paul.

"Remember that job interview lunch at Cano's with Hector and Maria? The first time you pretended to be Ralph? I was thinking about how nervous we both were. And your Oscar performance. What a freaking farce."

The van reached the Newport Beach dock in mid-afternoon. Paul and Vicky said their goodbyes, got in Paul's BMW, and headed for Irvine. Vicky stretched luxuriously. "It will be so good to get back home again."

Paul looked over at her and smiled. "I like the sound of that."

As they came closer to his condo, Vicky suggested, "We should probably stop at Vons and pick up something for dinner."

"Let me drop you off at the condo first. Then I'll do the grocery shopping."

"Sounds good to me. I'll get the place opened up and do some laundry so we have some underwear for work tomorrow."

Paul frowned. "Oh yeah, work. The curse of the drinking class."

Once at the condo, they hauled their canvas bags into the laundry room and dumped their dirty clothes on the floor. Paul made an inventory of the refrigerator before heading to the front door. "Anything special I should get for you?"

Vicky kissed him on the cheek and patted his back. "You know what I like."

Paul returned an hour later with two boneless stuffed chicken breasts, apples, oranges and apricots, iceberg and romaine lettuce, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, green onions, a block of feta cheese, and two ripe avocados.

"I'm doing the cooking tonight," he said. "Just kick back and relax."

"Oh no you're not," she replied. "It's my turn for a change."

Paul grinned. "Never argue with a woman with a knife in her hand."

They fell into the routine of a couple returning home from a week's vacation. Paul folded and stacked their finished laundry, then showered and shaved while Vicky washed and chopped vegetables for the dinner salad. Vicky marinated the chicken breasts in a sauce she concocted from several jars she found in the pantry and placed a bottle of Mondavi's best fumé blanc in the freezer for a quick chill. Vicky then took a shower while Paul looked through their mail that had been left in a white basket on the front porch.

When dinner was ready, Vicky invited Paul to join her at a small table on the balcony. He poured the wine and offered a toast. "To the most beautiful woman in the world. You have stolen my heart."

Vicky took a sip and briefly blushed. "What brought that on?"

"I don't know. Guess I'm feeling good about us, surviving the week."

"That's a lovely thought, but we've still got a few more hurdles to clear."

"You're right, but we'll make it. I have no doubts about us."

Paul took several big bites of his salad while Vicky toyed with hers. "What's your week looking like?"

"Nothing critical, but my in basket will be stacked with documents a foot high. It happens every time I go on a business trip. How about you?"

"You heard what Hector told Holly and me. But I also have to take some personal time off and make arrangements for Ralph's funeral."

"Can I help you with any of that?"

"Not really. I'll call the mortician tomorrow. I'm thinking the funeral should take place at the end of this week. Once that's all arranged, I'll call the children and let them know."

"You're going to be very busy. We're both going to be very busy."

She took another sip of wine and looked away from him, gazing over the condo complex for several moments. Then she turned back to him. "This brings up a minor problem. I'll have to move out while my kids are here. They won't be ready to see their mother living with another man right now."

A serious look came over Paul's face. "Where will you go?"

Vicky placed her hand on his. "It's just temporary, sweetheart. I'll get a room at the Sandpiper Motel on PCH. It's close to the funeral home and the cemetery."

"Would I be able to come and visit?"

Vicky smiled. "Sounds interesting, but we'd better play it by ear."

"Wonder what I'll do with myself while you're gone?"

"You'll behave yourself, that's what you'll do. And when my kids have gone back home, I'm moving right back here with you. Understood?"

Paul grinned. "Mi casa es su casa."

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Vicky encountered a veritable maelstrom in her office on Tuesday morning. E-mails were stacked up while other employees deluged her with requests for information or action on various issues.

After a rushed lunch, Vicky took a mid-afternoon break to make two personal phone calls. First she called Roger Sutton, the local mortician suggested by Ramon Salazar.

"So good of you to call, Mrs. Armstrong. The timing is especially good. I received Mr. Armstrong's remains just yesterday afternoon."

"Oh, I see. Well, that's fine. Would it be possible to have the funeral later this week?"

"It certainly would. What day did you have in mind?"

"Saturday morning. Two of my children live out of town. They'll have to make travel arrangements."

"Shall we say ten o'clock? We'll start with a chapel memorial service, then burial at the cemetery. I believe all of that will take about two hours."

"There's another problem. We don't own a cemetery plot."

"I can help with that. We have an arrangement with Pacific View Memorial Park and one will be provided. Would you be interested in purchasing a family plot at this time?"

Vicky had to stifle a sarcastic laugh. "No. Thank you. But I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

"That's what we're here for, Mrs. Armstrong. Now there are some additional details to discuss. I sincerely hate to intrude in your hour of grief but I'd like you to come to our mortuary before we have a public viewing. Would you prefer the casket to be open or closed?"

Vicky paused to consider his question. "Open, I guess. But I'm terribly busy right now."

Sutton coughed. Several silent seconds passed before he continued in a nervous voice. "I believe you should see him before anyone else does. We should also discuss the type of service to be held in the chapel."

Vicky backed down and saw the logic in his request. "How about seven tomorrow evening?"

"Of course, Mrs. Armstrong. Seven it is."

Vicky hung up and made a second call to Travis Nugent, manager of Ralph's brokerage office.

"My sincerest condolences, Vicky. All of us here in the office are still in a state of shock over Ralph's horrible death."

"How do you know about this?"

"An FBI agent came to the office last Friday and told me what happened in Mazatlan. Seems they're looking into his relationship with several clients. Where are you calling from?"

Vicky was having trouble piecing all of this together. What the hell is the FBI up to now? I wonder if Marvin knows anything about this. "Um, I'm at my office, here in Newport Beach. Travis, I was calling to let you and the others know. I just got off the phone with the mortician. Ralph's funeral will be Saturday at ten o'clock at Sutton's Funeral Home."

"It's good to know that. I'm sure the entire office will be there. But how about before then? Will he be laid out in the funeral home? Some of us would like to come by and pay our respects."

"I suppose so. I'm meeting with the mortician tomorrow night to discuss the details. Maybe you could call them on Thursday morning."

"I'll do that. And since you called, I'd like to have a meeting with you next week, at your convenience. It sounds crass, but we have to talk about money. It's your money now. Ralph's pension, 401K, insurance. Those sorts of things."

"All right. I'll call you next week. We'll set up something."

Walter managed to reach downtown San Diego. He checked into a large gray hotel near the bus station as Lazarus Coffin.

He called his brokerage office in Newport Beach and asked to speak with Ralph Armstrong. "This is Rochelle Compton speaking. I was assigned to handle Mr. Armstrong's accounts in his absence. How may I help you?"

Walter smiled knowingly but acted surprised. "He's gone? When will he be back?"

"Mr. Armstrong recently passed away, so all of us here are struggling a bit, trying to help his clients the best we can."

"I'm very sorry to hear that. But I suppose business must continue. Markets don't stand still, do they?"

"I'm afraid that's true. So what can I do for you today?"

"My name is Lazarus Coffin. I'm having an emergency of my own and have to raise cash. I want you to liquidate everything in my portfolio as soon as possible. Sell everything at the current market price. Can you do that this morning?"

"I believe so. May I have your social security number, please?" Rochelle paused while she typed his name on her computer and verified his identity. "I have your account on my screen, Mr. Coffin. Everything looks pretty liquid. And you want me to sell all of it at the market?"

"That's correct. When will the proceeds be available?"

"The options and futures contracts will clear today, but it takes three days for stock trades to settle. All your money will be available on Friday."

"Then I'd like to come by your office to close my account and pick up a cashier's check. Will you arrange that for me, please?"

"I'll take care of it personally. I look forward to meeting you."

Vicky arrived at the condo that evening and was surprised to find Paul not yet home from work. He'd left a message on the telephone's answering machine saying that he'd be late.

She changed into casual clothes and started preparing dinner, a tossed salad and fettuccine. Paul dragged himself through the front door about 7:30 and dropped his briefcase on the sofa. Vicky came into the living room and welcomed him with a strong hug. "I sure needed this," he said. "Coming home to you makes the rat race almost bearable."

"Dinner will be ready soon. You've got time to change your clothes. Can I make you a drink?"

"You betchum, Red Ryder. Scotch on the rocks with a twist of lemon."

Conversation over dinner was mostly about their respective days at work, Paul's story being much shorter than Vicky's. She went into considerable detail about her telephone calls to Sutton and Nugent. "I still don't get it," she said. "Why do you think the FBI is poking around?"

"Marvin is an FBI agent. Maybe he passed the word to his people in Santa Ana."

"But we never told Holly and Marvin about Ralph's shady business dealings. And Travis said the agent came to the office on Friday, the day after we left Mazatlan."

"Then it was Lisa or Detective Baca. Who knows? Does it matter at this stage?"

"It just bothers me."

"Any news about Walter? How about Hector and the rest of the gang? Are they still in Ensenada?"

"Nothing on Walter. He seems to have vanished. But Hector called Holly today. He finally found a lawyer and they've begun a negotiation with the authorities to get Lenore released. It's not going to be easy."

Vicky took their empty plates and put them in the dishwasher. She came back to the couch and snuggled up to Paul, who was finishing a glass of Chardonnay. "Can you come with me tomorrow night when I meet with Mr. Sutton?"

Paul put his free arm around her shoulder. "Of course. I was afraid you'd never ask." Vicky cuddled closer. "Why don't I drive from work and meet you there?"

"That will work out fine. We can have dinner after the meeting." Paul put his wine glass on an end table and started caressing her thigh. Vicky shot up and laughed. "Save it, Romeo. I've got a bunch of phone calls to make."

"Then I'm going to soak in the hot tub for a while. Catch you later."

About an hour later, Vicky slipped into bed with Paul and moved inside his wide embrace. "Get all your calls made?" he asked.

"Most of them, the important ones. The kids will be coming on Friday and probably go home on Sunday. I could not get my mom and dad. Their phone just rang and rang."

"They don't have an answering machine?"

"Yes, they do, but they must have unplugged it. So then I called Eric. He's pissed because I woke him up. I forgot about the time difference."

"For a brother, he's got a poor attitude, considering the circumstances."

"I told you we weren't close and now you can see why. Anyway, he did solve the mom and dad mystery. They're traveling in Europe somewhere. He thinks they're staying at a villa in Tuscany. No phone, of course."

"You don't sound too disappointed."

"Actually, I'm not. Eric won't make it and I can't possibly locate mom and dad in time. I did my duty. Maybe it's just as well. Fewer hassles to deal with."

Paul yawned wide and stretched. Vicky tickled his stomach and kissed him noisily. "Sorry," he said, "we'll do it another night."

Vicky laughed. "You could set the alarm for four o'clock and pretend we're back on the yacht."

Paul turned out his light and rolled over. "Six o'clock will be here soon enough."

Paul pulled into the mortuary's parking lot several minutes after seven o'clock and found Vicky sitting behind the steering wheel of the purple van. As they walked to the building's front door, Paul said, "Sorry I'm late, but the traffic was horrible."

They were met inside by a man in his mid-fifties wearing a black pinstriped suit. His closely cut silver gray hair complemented his dark facial tan. Vicky thought his intense blue eyes oozed great amounts of sincere compassion. "Mrs. Armstrong? I'm Roger Sutton."

After Vicky introduced Paul, Sutton escorted them into his office. Vicky thought his place looked a lot like Salazar's, except Sutton had light oak instead of dark cherry furniture. They declined his offer of coffee or water.

"It's customary to have periods set aside for viewing the deceased," he said. "May I suggest tomorrow and Friday? Say, from five in the afternoon to nine in the evening? This will allow friends and relatives to drop by and pay their respects."

"Sounds appropriate," said Vicky.

Sutton discussed the services he would provide, the hearse, limousines for the immediate family, and went on to the smaller details, care and placement of flowers and the guest register.

Sutton got up from his chair and asked them to follow him to a viewing parlor. It was a large, thickly carpeted plain room with indirect lighting. A closed bronze casket rested on an oak platform that resembled a large coffee table. Sutton opened the left half of the casket and clamped it so it wouldn't move. "Please, Mrs. Armstrong," he said, beckoning her to come closer. "Tomorrow evening, I'll have two kneelers placed here in front. Visitors may say a prayer if they wish."

She looked down at Ralph's body and placed a hand over her mouth as tears formed in her eyes. Paul steadied her. "You all right, Vic?"

"Yes, I'm fine. He looks so different. Much better than he did in Mazatlan."

"Mr. Salazar did a splendid job," offered Sutton. "Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes, he certainly did. There's one thing I'd like you to do. Please put a tie on him. He wore one every day and that's the way he'll be remembered."

"I'll take care of that. Now, if you please, let's go back to my office for a few minutes." After they had returned to their chairs, Sutton continued, "We haven't talked about the memorial in the chapel and at the grave site. Do you have a priest or minister who might perform this service?"

Vicky dabbed her eyes with a tissue taken from her purse. "We weren't a very religious family but Ralph had a friend he often played tennis with. His name is Daniel O'Brien. He's a priest, at Sacred Heart Church, I believe."

"If you like, I'll call Father O'Brien and see if he's available. If not, then I'll call on Reverend Carpenter, a minister we use in situations like this."

"I think Dan O'Brien would bend over backwards to be here and conduct the service. Ralph was also his broker and took good care of him."

Their meeting concluded satisfactorily, Paul and Vicky drove south on Pacific Coast Highway to Laguna Beach where they had dinner at the Beach House restaurant. As they finished their salads, Paul said, "You've been pretty quiet. Something wrong?"

Vicky placed her hand on his. "It's very hard, coping with all this. Thanks for being here."

"Lean on me, Vic."

"I will. But something else is not right."

"What's that?"

"I'm worried about Walter. He's out there somewhere, doing who knows what. I won't relax until they catch him and put him away."

Paul patted her hand. "It will be all right. You'll see." He took a sip of wine. "I was thinking. Wouldn't it be ironic if some of Dan O'Brien's money is sitting in one of those Swiss bank accounts?"

Vicky frowned. "I don't think that would happen. Dan didn't have a lot of money to invest. And Ralph wouldn't steal money from one of his closest friends."

Paul snorted. "After screwing his wife out of half a million, he wouldn't have to."

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Vicky loaded the decrepit purple van with clothes and other necessities for the next four days. Paul offered the loan of his BMW but she declined. "Too awkward explaining it to my children," she said. "Especially Mike."

She struggled through another frantic morning at work; it took her mind away from the looming funeral and the temporary absence from Paul. She felt relieved to slip out of the office about noon and drive to the Sandpiper Motel on Pacific Coast Highway.

Vicky entered the empty reception office and dinged the silver bell on the counter several times. A short heavyset man with silver hair came out from a rear door, wiping his mouth with a paper towel. "Can I help you?" he mumbled through a food-filled mouth.

"Yes, I'm Victoria Armstrong. I have a reservation."

He picked up a stack of white cards and flipped through them. "I see you've booked two rooms."

"That's correct. One for me and one for my son and his wife. They'll be arriving this evening."

"We have several rooms available. Do you have a preference?"

"Put me in the back, far away from this noisy highway. I need some peace and quiet."

Vicky completed the registration form while the man processed her credit card. He handed her a map of the motel's grounds and drew a route from the reception office to her room and the parking slots.

She drove around to the back, found her room, and unloaded the van in three separate trips. Before finally locking the door, she looked around the room. In another time and under different circumstances, this would be a nice afternoon hideout for Paul and me.

After stopping at a fast food restaurant for a hamburger and soft drink, she returned to work. Still feeling desolate without Paul, she telephoned him at his office. "I was hoping to hear from you," he said. "All settled in at the motel?"

"I have a nice quiet room, near the pool and Jacuzzi."

"What's your room number?"

"Fourteen. It's all the way in the back."

"You sound a little sad. My melancholy baby?"

"I'm missing you already."

"I was going to say the same thing." After a brief pause, Paul said, "Speaking of which, am I going to see you tonight?"

"That depends. I'm going to the mortuary from my office. I'll probably be there until they close."

"Would it bother you if I came, too?"

"Not at all, you know that. But you'll have to pretend you're somebody else. Like one of Ralph's friends."

"I'm a good impostor, remember? Maybe we could have dinner afterwards."

"No, I'm having a quick bite after I leave the office. You're on your own tonight."

Vicky heard him slurp something, probably cold coffee. "How's your room?"

"My room? Standard issue motel room, pretty much."

"And the bed?"

"Queen-size, nothing special. Why?" Vicky laughed softly and lowered her voice. "Oh, now I see where you're going with this. The answer is no."

Paul sighed. "Can't blame a guy for trying. Hey, ever had phone sex?"

Vicky laughed out loud. "Sounds like you need a cold shower."

"I have a better idea. Why don't we take a shower together? It would give new meaning to the words good clean fun."

"See you tonight, Paul."

Walter checked out of his San Diego hotel Friday morning and drove a rental car directly to the Newport Beach brokerage office. He took an elevator to the tenth floor and gave his latest name to the receptionist. After a brief delay, she escorted him to Rochelle's office, a spacious suite with large glass windows that gave her an excellent view of John Wayne Airport.

Rochelle extended her hand and motioned him to take a seat. "Good morning, Mr. Coffin. It's a pleasure to meet you finally. I've followed all your instructions and have a cashier's check, as you requested."

Walter gazed at her dazzling smile, bright green eyes, Titian red hair falling to her shoulders, and a dark green form-fitting turtleneck. Holy cow . . . what a gorgeous set of tits. He held her hand a little longer than necessary before releasing it and finally sitting down. "It's unfortunate that we have to meet under such sad circumstances, but I do appreciate your looking after me."

She sat down and opened a folder on her desk, picked up the check, and handed it to him. "I've put all the transaction reports in an envelope so you can review them at your convenience." Walter took the check and stared at it for several moments. "Is something wrong?" she asked.

"It's for nearly $275,000, but I was thinking. At one time, my account was worth just over $600,000."

Rochelle shifted nervously in her chair. "It's been a tough year in the market for almost everyone."

"I suppose so. Even deadly for some, wouldn't you say?"

She rolled her chair backwards and crossed her legs. "It's been no picnic around here. We've lost a good friend and valuable colleague."

Walter leaned forward to get a better look at her legs. "Sorry about that. Have you heard any more news?"

"Our office manager has been in contact with Mrs. Armstrong. Most of us will attend his funeral tomorrow morning. Maybe you'd like to come and pay your respects to his widow?"

Walter suppressed a sudden laugh. "I don't think so. We weren't that close." He looked her over again and felt the enjoyable sensation of a firming erection. "During our telephone conversation, you said that Ralph had passed away. Seems rather odd, given his age."

"It was terrible. Murdered in a Mazatlan hotel room. And Mrs. Armstrong stumbling in to find his body riddled with bullet holes. She must be in a state of shock."

Walter adopted a suitably grave look. "How awful. Absolutely tragic. Have the police been able to find out who did it?"

"Not as far as I know. Supposedly, they're chasing a few leads. Still looking for Lisa. She hasn't turned up anywhere."

"Lisa who? I don't follow you."

"Oh, that's our current office scandal. I probably shouldn't be talking about all this, but I don't much care anymore. Lisa worked here in the office and disappeared several months ago. Same time that Ralph left. Lots of gossip floating around that they actually ran off together."

"What's her name again?"

"Lisa Saunders. They say she was living with Ralph in that hotel but nobody has seen her since the murder. I guess she's one of the prime suspects."

Walter stroked his chin and glanced at his watch. "It's coming up on noon, Rochelle. How about having lunch with me. I'd like to hear more."

"You know what? That's a good idea. I would like to talk with someone about this. There's a nice place just around the corner."

Vicky stood before her office window gazing at the ocean, mentally going over the previous evening. Barbara, Joy, and Paula, her tennis buddies and self-proclaimed 'hot tamales,' had come to the funeral home to cheer her up and give her some greatly needed emotional support. They stuck with her until closing and continued their animated conversations over many drinks at Josh Slocum's, a dark and quiet bar cum restaurant at the north end of Newport Beach. She remembered seeing Paul at the mortuary, watching them with detached amusement.

Vicky was still feeling the pain of a mild hangover when a sprightly Holly bounded into her office. "I just got off the phone with Hector. They've finally come to some agreement with the police. Lenore should be released later today."

"That's good news, I guess."

"It's not going to be cheap. I'm on the way to the bank. I have to wire Hector $50,000."

"That doesn't sound kosher."

"It's not, but that's what it will take to get her out of jail."

Vicky returned to her desk while Holly sat down uninvited. "Where is the $50,000 coming from?" asked Vicky.

"Lenore's personal account. Hector faxed me her power of attorney. God, I hope the bank doesn't give me any crap about this. I've about run out of patience."

"Don't they know that Lenore didn't have anything to do with those paintings?"

"Oh yeah, they know. But the police found a business card in the Serber's cabin with Walter's handwriting on it. From an art gallery owner in Mazatlan named Pilar. The police are checking her out."

"Then why don't they release Lenore."

"They'd love to. She's been making a nuisance of herself, as you can imagine. But they want their kickback money."

Vicky threw her hands in the air and slumped in her chair. "It's a good thing Hector's down there to grease the skids. Or, um, the palms."

"That's for sure. He found some expat lawyer swilling margaritas at Hussong's. This guy arranged everything so he'll get $10,000 off the top. The police will divvy up the rest."

Holly got up to leave but Vicky had one more question. "You didn't mention anything about Ralph or his funeral, did you?"

"Certainly not. I'm sure Hector and everyone else down there think you and Ralph left Ensenada with Marvin and me."

Later that morning, Vicky was astonished to receive a telephone call from Lisa Saunders. Even though they had parted in Mazatlan on relatively neutral terms, Lisa's syrupy voice rubbed Vicky's emotional wounds raw once again. "Where the hell are you?" asked Vicky.

"In my office, back on the job."

"Evidently you were able to convince that detective you were innocent."

Lisa told Vicky of her Friday morning meeting with Baca and his telephone call that same evening. "So I picked up my passport early Saturday and just headed north. Took two days of hard driving, but I finally made it." She paused for a few seconds. "How was your reception in Newport Beach Sunday night?"

"Never made it. Walter turned the boat around and we docked in Ensenada. We had our own little circus on Monday morning." Vicky gave her the hard-hitting abbreviated version of the story, highlighting Walter's desertion, Lenore's arrest, and the Mexican police off-loading the stolen paintings.

"Then my hunch about Coffin wasn't so far off base after all, was it?"

Vicky thought about this for several moments. "So, what's on your mind?"

"I read Ralph's obituary this morning in the Orange County Register. I'd like to attend his funeral. If it's OK with you."

"It's a free country. You can do what you like."

"I promise to stay in the background. I won't make a scene."

"That's good. My children will be there and none of them knows anything about you. I want to keep it that way."

"I promised to return Ralph's car and this would be a good opportunity to do that. My boss will be coming with me. He'll drive me home after the funeral."

Vicky mulled it over and reluctantly agreed with her logic. "Paul will be at the funeral, too. Just give him the keys. I'll tell him to be on the lookout for you."

Chapter Thirty

Leaving her office at five o'clock, Vicky drove directly to John Wayne Airport. Traffic was heavy, the airport parking lot was almost full, causing her spirits to sink even further.

Gary's flight from San Francisco arrived on time; he and his wife, Stephanie, saw Vicky in a waiting area near the baggage carousel. When Vicky spotted them, she cried out and gave her son a warm hug. "Sure glad to see you," she mumbled through tear-filled eyes. She hugged her daughter-in-law. "You too, Steph."

They walked to a four-level parking structure, found the purple van, and loaded their luggage into its rear compartment. Gary eyed the van with a jaundiced eye. "This is the pits, Mom. How much longer will you have to drive this pile of junk?"

Vicky smiled. "Not much longer. I'll be getting your dad's Mercedes back in a couple of days."

"Getting it back from where?"

"Mazatlan." Sensing that Gary was about to pump her for more information, she added, "A friend's driving it back for me. Believe me, Mike will be just as happy to get his van back as I will to be rid of it."

While Vicky, Gary, and Stephanie were being reunited, Mike met his older sister, Vanessa, at the Los Angeles airport. Her husband had to complete a crash software project over the weekend so she made the trip from Seattle alone. Vanessa rented a car and they drove from the airport to the mortuary in Corona Del Mar.

Vicky, Gary, and Stephanie arrived first. With little delay, Vicky escorted them up to the open casket. Stephanie knelt down, said a brief prayer, and started to cry. Gary remained standing and put one hand on his wife's shoulder.

Vicky backed away from the casket to receive the condolences of several visitors. She sat in the front row of the chapel's pews and looked about the room, admiring the many floral tributes from family, friends, and business associates. On the verge of tears, she held a handkerchief at the ready just in case. No, I'm not ready for that kind of release. I have to be strong for my children.

Stephanie sat down next to Vicky while Gary made for the men's room. "I'm really surprised," said Stephanie. "He didn't show any emotion at all."

"He's a lot like his father, he holds it in. He'll grieve, but only when he's ready. Then he's going to need you, big time."

Vanessa and Mike arrived and, after a brief reunion with the others, Vicky repeated the earlier scene. As Vicky expected, her daughter broke down and wept bitterly. Mike cried as well, although not as openly, and hugged his big sister tenderly. Vicky couldn't hold back any longer and cried openly. Vanessa and Mike, instantly recognizing their mother's sorrow, sat down with her in the pew, each holding one of her hands. None of the three spoke; words were unnecessary.

Vicky looked around the room, wishing that Paul was there. He had stayed away to allow Vicky an uncomplicated reunion with her children. She appreciated his understanding but still longed for his touch or just the sound of his voice.

Shortly after eight o'clock, the flow of visitors dwindled. By this time, Vicky was very hungry. She polled her children and none of them had had dinner earlier so they agreed to head for a restaurant.

They drove north on Pacific Coast Highway and stopped at The Arches restaurant in Newport Beach. Vicky took charge and had the waitress immediately bring several different types of appetizers along with their drinks.

Gary reached across the table. "How are you doing, Mom?"

Vicky smiled and squeezed his hand. "I'm doing all right. Better than I expected." She looked across the table. "It means a great deal to have all of you here with me. Thanks so much for coming." Vanessa gave her mother a firm hug.

They devoured the appetizers and dove into their salads. Conversation eventually turned to lodging arrangements. Vicky summarized the situation. "I've booked another room at the Sandpiper for Gary and Stephanie. That's where I'm staying right now. Vanessa, you can sleep with me. I would have gotten three rooms but money's a bit scarce right now. And Mike, it's your choice. In my room or with Gary and Stephanie."

"Do both rooms have an extra bed?" asked Mike.

"Gary's room does, but not mine."

"Then I'll bunk with Gary and Steph. Is that OK with you guys?"

Gary smiled and looked at Stephanie. "Guess that means you won't be able to show off your new Victoria's Secret nightie." Stephanie blushed and poked Gary in the ribs while the rest of the table broke out laughing.

"How long will you have to live in this motel?" asked Vanessa.

"It's only temporary. I'm meeting with your dad's boss next week to talk about money. Everything will work out fine. And my job pays well."

"Then you're planning on staying in California?"

"Oh, sure. I'll probably get a condo, maybe in Irvine."

Mike pushed his plate aside and looked at Vicky. "If you're real short of money, I can drop out of school for a while and get a job."

Vicky shook her head. "Michael, Michael. You'll do nothing of the kind. I'd go on food stamps before I'd see you do that."

Walter and Rochelle entered the bustling Chanticleer restaurant and put the name Coffin on the waiting list for a table. They went into the cocktail lounge, found a small table, and ordered gin martinis.

"What do your friends call you?" asked Rochelle. "I can't keep calling you Mr. Coffin."

"Call me Art. It's less formal than Lazarus. I gather you've had a pretty rough time, ever since Ralph left."

"The work load has been horrendous. After he ran off to Mexico, the boss divvied up his accounts and I inherited a whole bunch of new clients."

Walter smiled and clinked his glass against hers. "My good fortune." Then he paused. "It seems strange that Ralph left his job so suddenly."

"It surprised everyone. The office grapevine said that he sold his house and managed to pocket all the money before his wife found out."

"What a nice guy, doing that to his wife. Must have needed money badly."

Rochelle drained her glass so Walter signaled the waitress for two more martinis. "Probably because his trophy girlfriend is a high maintenance woman."

"Is she the Lisa you mentioned before?"

"Yep, Lisa Saunders. At least a dozen years younger than Ralph. He ought to be arrested for robbing the cradle."

"What does she look like? I don't recall ever meeting her."

"A big piece of fluff, in my humble opinion. Oh, a little taller than me, skinny as a rail. Big boobs. Hair to die for, long, dark brown."

The hostess approached them and told Walter that their table was ready. A waiter took their orders of salads, main courses, and a bottle of Sancerre. Between bites of his Caesar salad, Walter said, "I get the impression that you and Lisa didn't get along very well. Bad blood?"

"It's kind of complicated. Lisa and I were friends at first. I was about to get something going with Ralph and then she stuck her fat nose into it."

"She was poaching, eh?"

"Very clever little bitch. Steals Ralph away from me and they run off to Mexico together. But her story didn't have such a happy ending, did it?"

"And she's out there, running loose, somewhere in Mexico."

"Or California. I wouldn't expect her to show her face anywhere near our office again. Not after what she did."

When their main courses of sea bass arrived, Walter ordered a second bottle of wine. Rochelle made a faint protest but he suggested she deserved a long enjoyable lunch as a reward for her expert liquidation of his assets.

Over coffee, Rochelle asked, "Are you driving back to San Diego this afternoon?"

"No, I'm not. I have some other business in Orange County so I'll just find a convenient hotel."

She put her napkin on the table and caressed his hand. "There's an excellent hotel on MacArthur just two blocks away. Let's go and get you a room."

They walked to the hotel and Walter checked in. Rochelle needed a bathroom so Walter invited her to use the one in his room. He stood near the window and, when she emerged from the bathroom wearing only her underwear, he smiled. "Not the normal attire for a rising young stockbroker."

She walked unsteadily over to the king-size bed, pulled back the covers, and slid under the sheet. "I'm taking the afternoon off. Care to join me?"

Walter began removing his trousers. "I certainly would, but won't you be missed back in your office?"

"The hell with those assholes. They owe me, big time, after treating me like shit for the past three months."

During the three hour afternoon delight which followed, Walter discovered a number of fascinating facts: Rochelle's pubic hair matched the color of the hair on her head; she punctuated her orgasms with loud squeals; and she sported a sunrise tattoo on the upper portion of each breast.

As interesting and enjoyable as all this turned out to be, it was secondary to his main objective. He learned where Lisa Saunders lived before she went to Mexico; a garden apartment located in a residential area of nearby Tustin. By his criteria, the afternoon had been a great success.

On Saturday, the weather in Corona Del Mar was perfect for any type of outdoor activity, even the burial of one's husband. Vicky was relieved this day was finally here, even though everything seemed to move in slow motion.

Vicky and her children arrived at the mortuary, taking their seats in the chapel's front row pews. Father O'Brien began the service promptly at ten o'clock, walking up the center aisle from the rear to a podium at the front of the chapel next to the closed casket. He looked out at nearly two hundred seated people and commenced by reading the Twenty-Third Psalm.

He then gave a personal testimonial about Ralph and spoke in glowing terms of their long friendship and his best qualities. The priest was followed by Ernie, a member of Rotary, who noted some of Ralph's many civic activities. The final speaker was Malcolm, a member of the Elk's Club, who talked with a faint British accent. He told several anecdotes about Ralph that prompted occasional laughter.

Father O'Brien took the podium again and, after reading several passages from the epistles of St. Paul, announced that the service would conclude at the grave site. Roger Sutton brought Vicky and her children to the front and invited everyone to meet them.

Vicky and the children rode in a black limousine, directly following the hearse, from the mortuary to Pacific View Memorial Park. Father O'Brien waited until the crowd was closely assembled around the grave before he continued with his readings.

Vicky looked out over the heads of the gathered mourners and saw a tall white-haired man wearing sunglasses, standing next to a large palm tree. For an instant, she thought the man bore a strong resemblance to Walter Serber. She looked around the people huddled nearby, searching for Paul, but couldn't find him. On the verge of panic, she looked back at the palm tree but the man had disappeared. She groaned audibly as her body sagged against Gary's. God help me, now I'm starting to see ghosts.

Father O'Brien concluded the service by inviting mourners to place a flower on the casket. Vicky was first to do so, followed by each of her children. Suddenly her knees buckled. Gary and Mike helped her to the limousine.

Vicky and her children gathered at the motel after lunch. She suggested the kids take a break and explore their former stomping grounds. They happily agreed and piled into Vanessa's rental car. Vicky stayed behind, changed her clothes, and straightened up her room. She sat next to the solitary window, relaxing and collecting her thoughts. She took a mental inventory of her married years with Ralph, carefully, intentionally recalling the good times and blocking out the unpleasant ones.

Eventually, she was able to place all of it in some tentative perspective, concluding with the realization that his burial today marked another significant milestone for her. It was time to start the healing process and resume her life.

She threw her tearstained handkerchief into the wastebasket, applied a scarlet red lipstick, and slammed the motel room door without a backward glance.

Vicky drove the purple van to Irvine and parked near Paul's condo. She smiled when she saw Ralph's Mercedes in the slot next to hers. She unlocked the condo's front door and called out but there was no response. She was about to leave when she spotted a note on an end table.

V—

I'm at the pool. Come on down!

P —

Vicky laughed out loud and almost tripped in her haste to change into her swimsuit. She found Paul at the far end of an almost deserted racquet club pool, sitting under an umbrella and reading a magazine. He called out, "Come over here and take a load off." She ambled over and gave him a sloppy kiss. "You got my note, I see."

She dropped her towel and sat down next to him. "You're mighty sure of yourself, Mr. Lorenz. How did you know I'd show up?"

He smiled. "I didn't, but I thought you might. Hoped you would."

"What a clever man you are."

"What did you do with your kids?"

"They're looking up some of their school buddies. Then off to the beach to check out the action."

Paul turned his chair so he could look directly into her eyes. "How are you doing, honey? Going to be all right?"

Vicky brushed the back of her hand along his chin. "I had some doubts earlier today, but yes, I'm going to be just fine." She got up from her chair, walked over to the pool's edge, and dunked one foot in the water.

"Cold, but invigorating," said Paul.

She walked back to Paul and took off her white coverup. "I parked next to the Mercedes. You know, I never saw Lisa this morning. She really was hiding."

"I saw her in the cemetery and she introduced me to Dan Regan, her boss. Getting the car back here was the real trick. I drove the beemer, Lisa followed me in the Mercedes, and Dan brought up the rear. They left in his car."

Vicky dove in. Paul watched her swim several laps and decided to join her. He was the first to stop and rest at the deep end, his feet just touching the bottom.

She swam up and they came together in a close embrace. Vicky giggled. "Still the horny guy, huh?"

"With you around, it's a foregone conclusion."

"Are you going to be like this when we're in our seventies?"

"I don't see any good reason not to be."

"Then I'll just have to hide your Viagra."

Paul laughed. "I can't see me ever needing it."

Vicky broke away and climbed out of the pool with Paul close behind her. They toweled off and sat down under the umbrella. "The three women who came to the mortuary Thursday night," Paul asked. "They're your tennis pals, right?"

"That's right."

"You're a pretty close group, aren't you?"

"We've helped each other get through some pretty tough times."

"I wanted to come over and say hello, but decided to remain invisible."

Vicky grinned. "Well, Mr. Lamont Cranston—The Shadow, you were noticed. The consensus among the tamales is that you are a goofy kind of cute."

An amused Paul watched as Vicky stood and put on her coverup. "Have to leave so soon?"

"I want to get back to the motel before the kids do."

"So what time will I see you tomorrow?"

"In the afternoon sometime. After I get all the kids launched and myself moved out of the motel."

Paul stood to give her a goodbye hug and kiss. "I'll cook you a nice meal tomorrow. Your welcome home dinner."

"I expect to be ravenously hungry. For food, drink, and you."

Chapter Thirty-One

Monday morning. Vicky had been at her desk for nearly an hour when Lenore barged in, lighted cigarette in hand, accompanied by Holly. Vicky smiled faintly and said, "Welcome back."

Lenore plumped down in one of the chairs facing Vicky's desk and Holly took the other one. "Lenore wanted a meeting." Holly stated the obvious.

Vicky put her pen down, folded her hands, and looked at Lenore. "What can I do for you?"

Lenore looked around Vicky's desk and scowled. "Don't you have any ash trays in this dump?"

"Sorry, but I don't smoke."

Lenore jumped up and prowled around the office until she found a cup on a bookcase with a half-inch of cold coffee at the bottom. She dropped her cigarette in the cup where it sizzled and stank. Then she returned to her chair and pulled an envelope from her purse. "This is the real reason I came in." She tossed it across Vicky's desk.

Vicky's heart skipped a beat when she opened the envelope and took out two photographs of Walter. "What am I supposed to do with these?"

"Stick them in your press release."

"Press release? I don't follow you."

"I want you to write up a press release for the Orange County Register and the Los Angeles Times about Walter and how that no good bastard ran out on me when we docked in Ensenada." Vicky squirmed uncomfortably and Holly gave Vicky a startled look. "Oh, relax. You don't say it quite that way. Paint the picture of a worried wife seeking information about her beloved husband who is now missing—last seen in Ensenada Harbor—foul play suspected—all the juicy crap. You can even mention a reward being offered."

Vicky raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think of you as the worried wife type."

"My only worry is that he'll get away with all this shit. I want to flush him out of hiding, wherever he is, and have him thrown in jail."

Vicky and Holly simultaneously asked what the charges would be.

"Girls, girls." Lenore shook her head. "The man has been fencing stolen art. And he's probably guilty of another half dozen crimes that we can't pin on him yet."

Vicky asked, "Is that all you want, then?"

"No. Divorce papers get served, we sell that white elephant of a yacht, and I get on with my life."

"You really think a newspaper article will do the trick?"

Lenore looked over at Holly. "It's a start. You, Holly, tell Marvin to have the FBI look into this."

"Are you sure you want them involved?"

"Absolutely. We need all the help we can get."

Vicky wondered why Lenore would think she and Holly were on her side. She jotted down some ideas on a tablet. "Has Walter ever used an alias?"

Lenore gave her a curious look and smiled. "Sometimes he introduced himself as Arthur Rembrandt, at cocktail parties and art gallery receptions. Art Rembrandt—get it? Another one of his pathetic little jokes."

Vicky wrote the name on her tablet, along with the initials L. C., under the heading 'aliases.' "I think Hector should see the press release before I send it out."

Lenore grabbed her purse and got up. "Just make sure it appears in the newspapers tomorrow morning." She sailed from the room, lighting her next cigarette as she went.

Vicky waved the fumes from her face. "Those coffin nails are going to be the death of that woman. And everyone around her."

Holly stood, folded her arms, and gave Vicky a curious look. "You were terribly nice to that old biddy. You realize, of course, that she has no authority here at the foundation to give orders to you or me."

Vicky sighed. "I know that, but it's to our advantage to have Walter caught. Then we can all breathe a huge sigh of relief and get back to work."

As Vicky began writing a first draft of the release, another meeting concerning the same man took place in an office several miles away.

"Good morning, Travis. What brings you down from your ivory tower?"

Travis Nugent frowned as he took the chair next to Rochelle Compton's desk. "We need to talk about one of your accounts." She put her pen down and slid a stack of papers into a manila folder. "By the way, I looked for you all Friday afternoon. Where were you?"

"I was entertaining a client and took a long lunch hour."

"I hope it brings us more business." She managed a faint smile but kept silent. "Anyway, the account I'm concerned about belongs to a guy named Lazarus Coffin. I see from the transaction summaries that he sold everything and cashed out. What's going on?"

"He called me early last week and said he had a financial crisis. Had to raise some cash. So I sold everything in his portfolio, just like he told me."

"I wish you had alerted me about this."

Rochelle leaned forward and stared at his face. "Travis, we have clients selling their holdings all the time. What's so unusual about this one?"

Travis looked out the window and cleared his throat. "About ten days ago, an FBI agent came to my office and asked some questions about Ralph's clients. He was very interested in Coffin and what was happening with his portfolio."

Rochelle stood up. "You are some piece of work. Bitching at me for not telling you something and then springing this little surprise on me."

Travis stood, a pained look on his face. "OK, OK. I screwed up. I'm sorry. Now please sit down and let me explain." She flipped up her hands in resignation and both sat down again. "The agent wanted me to keep quiet about this. That's why I never told you."

"Is Coffin suspected of doing something wrong?"

"He wouldn't say, but he did ask me to keep an eye on his account and notify him if anything happened."

"Have you called him yet?"

Travis got up again and went over to the window. "We're in a touchy situation here. We have an obligation to our clients. We have to respect and safeguard their privacy. But if something illegal or unethical is going on, then we can be accused of obstructing justice if we don't cooperate."

"Are you saying that Ralph was doing something illegal or unethical?"

Travis detected a hint of steel in her last statement. "No, nothing like that. But I intend to have all his accounts audited, just to be on the safe side."

Rochelle snickered. "Covering your ass, eh Travis?"

"Protecting the reputation of our company. Now, please tell me all you know about Lazarus Coffin."

She spent the next several minutes giving him an abbreviated account of her conversations on Friday with the man. She omitted their lunch date, his interest in fine art, and their interlude in his hotel room. Travis left, apparently satisfied with the results of their contentious meeting. Rochelle remained at her desk, nervously tapping a pen against the polished wood, deep in thought.

She was mildly irritated at being so eager to jump into bed with Walter. Yet, she had to admit, at least to herself, that she had thoroughly enjoyed the entire experience. Her eyes were drawn to a vase stuffed with a dozen red roses, resting inconspicuously on a corner file cabinet. That was very sweet of Art to send those. Thank God, Travis didn't notice them. Then she allowed her mind to wander, back to his bedroom, and felt a warm wetness between her legs.

Rochelle snapped out of her reverie, pulled a phone book from her desk drawer, and called the hotel a few blocks away. Mr. Coffin, she was told, had checked out on Saturday and did not leave a forwarding address.

She rolled her chair backwards, crossed her legs, and stared out the window. Now if I were Lazarus Coffin, where would I go from here and what would I be doing right now?

After Walter checked out of the airport hotel, he went directly to a bank in Tustin. The duty manager was clearly delighted to accept his cashier's check and open a new account for him. Walter kept out five thousand dollars in cash, checked into a Tustin motel, and went shopping in the department stores at South Coast Plaza. He had left the yacht with a minimum of clothing and felt now was the right time to start rebuilding his wardrobe.

On that same Monday morning, while Rochelle sat in her office fantasizing about him, Walter was in his motel room, dialing up another woman. He found a listing in the Tustin phone book for L. Saunders and tried the number. He was disappointed, but not surprised, when he got the standard voice message saying that the number had been disconnected.

He had purchased a detailed street map of Tustin in a local drugstore and now spread it out on his bed. Using the address listed in the phone book, he was able to find the street just off Jamboree Boulevard.

He dressed in a sport jacket and tie and drove his rental car around Lisa's apartment complex several times to gain familiarity with the general area. He found her building but intentionally parked two blocks away so he could walk through the area and carefully observe the neighborhood and any residents who might be out and about. He also wanted to be sure that anyone noticing him would not associate him with a particular car.

He found her ground floor apartment, one of a fourplex grouped together, and noted the single name SAUNDERS on the front door. He rang the door bell several times and felt relieved when there was no answer.

He left the front porch, went around to a side window, and looked into the living room. It was apparent that the apartment was occupied but he also noted a number of cardboard boxes stacked around the room, all bearing the logo of a nationally-known moving company. What's this? Has somebody been packing her things to move her out? Or do these boxes mean that she's moving back in?

"Can I help you?"

Walter snapped his head around and stepped backward, almost falling into a large shrub. "Oh yes, I'm looking for Miss Saunders. Does she live here?"

A white-haired woman in her eighties stood on the sidewalk and eyed him suspiciously. "Could be," she said. "Who might you be?"

Walter walked over to her, rubbed his hands together and gave her his sincerest smile. "My name is Arthur Rembrandt, a friend of her father's. He asked me to pay her a visit while I was in town."

"Well, that's her apartment, but you'll have to come back later. I think she's at work right now."

"Then she does live here. I wasn't sure."

The woman made a cackling sound. "She was down in Mexico for a couple of months but now she's back. I think she went chasing after some man but things didn't work out." The woman shook her head and began walking to the ground floor apartment next to Lisa's. "These young women today. The only thing they've been liberated from is good old-fashioned common sense."

Walter chuckled softly to himself as he walked back to his car. The old lady has the right idea. I will come back later. Tonight after sunset should work just fine.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Vicky completed her draft press release by noon. She handed it to Hector's secretary with a note requesting his immediate review and approval. Later in the afternoon, she checked again with his secretary and was frustrated to learn that Hector had left for the day, apparently taking the press release with him.

It wasn't until the next morning when Hector walked into Vicky's office and gave her the press release. "I made a few changes to your draft."

Vicky looked it over. "Lenore wanted it to run in this morning's newspapers."

Hector sat down in the chair opposite Vicky's desk. "Look, the foundation has no responsibility to Lenore. Anyway, I wanted to sleep on it before letting you tell the world about our missing CEO."

"I see you've crossed out the name of our foundation."

"Yes, I have. There's no good reason to call attention to ourselves." Hector stood, ready to leave. "I never knew Walter used an alias. Wonder how he came up with the name of Lazarus Coffin?"

Vicky smiled nervously, knowing but not wanting to volunteer an answer. "Guess you'll have to ask him when he turns up. If he turns up."

After Hector left her office, Vicky breathed a sigh, relieved that he had not pressed for more information about the origin of the Lazarus Coffin alias. The last thing she wanted to do was relive her Mazatlan experience and try to explain Walter's suspected role in Ralph's murder.

She made the suggested changes, handed the press release packages to her secretary, and asked her to arrange for courier pickup. By noon, the documents were on their way to Vicky's contacts at the two newspapers.

Vicky drove directly to Travis Nugent's office after lunch. He invited her to take one of the plush chairs in the corner of his office, well away from his desk. Travis sat in an adjoining chair, facing her at a right angle. "Let me again express my condolences on behalf of the entire office."

"Thank you, Travis. And thanks for the beautiful flower arrangement that you sent. I appreciate it very much."

He picked up a manila folder from a nearby coffee table. "I think you'll be pleased with the financial information I have for you. It should go a long way to make you comfortable."

"That's nice to hear, but I plan to keep my job for a while."

Travis pulled several sheets of paper from the folder and handed them to her. "This pertains to the company's insurance policy on Ralph. The value is $200,000. You'll need to fill out the forms and send them in."

"I can take care of that."

"The next item is his 401K. As you know, he took out a loan against it, the maximum allowed by current regulations. $150,000 in round numbers." He handed her some more papers. "It's now worth about $600,000 and you have three options: pay back the loan, cash out what's left of it, or roll the whole thing over into your own IRA."

Vicky looked over the papers. "Paying back the loan doesn't look too feasible right now."

Travis nodded in sympathy and handed her several pages of computer printout. "This concerns his pension. He was fully vested. Now this gets kind of complicated, but you have sixteen different ways of collecting. Cashing out or getting a monthly income. Different amounts for different periods."

She scanned the printout and her jaw dropped. "My God, this is insane."

"You don't have to decide on any of this today. Take it home and call me when you decide what you want to do."

"I need to talk this over with my financial advisor."

A puzzled look came over his face. "Somebody here in our office?"

Vicky blushed slightly. "No, a friend. I'll get back to you soon, I promise."

Travis got up, paced between the window and his chair.

She looked up at him and asked, "Is that it?"

He sat down again and leaned forward. "I don't know how to say this."

"Lay it on me, Travis. I've got broad shoulders."

"Well, it looks like some of Ralph's client accounts may not be on the up and up. We've already had one visit by an FBI agent and I suspect there will be more."

Vicky smiled and leaned back. "Surprise, surprise."

"You aren't upset by this?"

"This is not exactly new information. Besides, I'm beyond upset."

He leaned back and exhaled audibly. "That's a relief. I didn't want to cause you any more pain."

Vicky gathered up the papers and placed them in a large brown envelope that Travis had provided. "You say the FBI made a visit. Can you tell me anything about it?"

"It happened about two weeks ago. This agent was more interested in one of his clients than about Ralph himself. Then just last Friday, the same client came by and picked up a cashier's check for all his holdings. An unusual name, too. Lazarus Coffin. I'll have to call the agent soon and report this."

Vicky frantically folded and stuffed the envelope in her purse, then stood up. "I have to go."

Travis looked up at her, his face in a troubled frown. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No. I just need to get back to work." As she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder, the envelope fell to the floor. She picked it up, cursed under her breath, and dashed for the door. "Thanks for all your help."

By the time Paul came home from work that evening, Vicky was on her second glass of Chardonnay, still struggling to get a handle on her agitation from the meeting with Travis Nugent. Paul gave her a questioning look, a warm tender hug, poured himself a scotch on the rocks, and sat next to her on the couch.

She told him about her meeting with Nugent, repeating to Paul how the latest news about Lazarus Coffin brought back all her distress. He took her hand and moved closer. "Take it easy now. Everything's going to work out fine."

"I thought we'd seen the last of him and now he turns up in our backyard."

"Looks like he wanted to come back and get his money. Assuming he's already started his new life, he's going to need it."

"What's it going to take before he's satisfied?"

Paul took a sip of his drink. "It's hard to say. I recall Lisa saying that Ralph moved some of Coffin's money to Luxembourg. Maybe that's his next stop."

"Why the hell didn't he stay in Mexico? Go back to Mazatlan."

"He's got his own agenda. We can only guess at his motives."

Vicky went out to the kitchen, poured herself another glass of wine, and returned to the couch. "Travis gave me a bunch of papers to look over, about the money I've got coming. Will you be too tired to look at them after dinner?"

Paul grinned. "No way. I'm curious to see how wealthy my lady love is going to be."

Vicky put down her glass of wine, cushioned her head on the arm rest at one end of the couch, and plopped her feet in his lap. "I just hope all this mess ends soon so we can get on with our lives."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"I don't think he'd harm either of us, unless we pose some kind of threat. What really bothers me is the possibility that he'll get away with killing Ralph. That would bug me for the rest of my life."

"When you moved in with me, you wanted revenge against Ralph. And now, Walter is your target?"

"For me, it's more a matter of fairness."

"Really? Not even a tiny bit of revenge?"

"OK, maybe a little. But it's pointless, now that he's gone."

Paul massaged her feet and pulled at her toes. "Did you ever get that press release out to the papers?"

"Yep, about noon. Should come out tomorrow morning."

"That will make it tough for Walter to move about freely. Maybe the FBI can nab him before he leaves the country."

Walter dressed carefully in his motel room getting prepared for his nocturnal outing. He stood in front of a full length mirror and checked his outfit: black jeans, black turtleneck, and a black baseball cap. He tucked back the snow-white hair peeking out from under his cap and smiled at his reflection.

He left the motel and drove through the dark to Lisa's neighborhood. He found a parking place in a poorly lit area almost directly across from her apartment, a spot that allowed an unobstructed view of her living room. He had purchased a pair of powerful binoculars that morning. When he trained them on her window he found he could easily see Lisa inside and moving about. Ah yes, she's emptying those boxes and putting things away. Like the old woman said, she's moving back in.

A man and a woman approached, out for a summer evening stroll. He slouched down and they passed him without seeming to notice his presence in the parked car. Walter looked through the binoculars again and whistled a single note.

Rochelle's description of Lisa was a bit off the mark. She's a damned attractive woman. Must be a case of sour grapes.

Walter continued his vigil until nearly eleven o'clock. By then, Lisa had finished working in the living room, turned out the lights, and gone to bed. He concluded that she wouldn't be leaving her apartment that evening and drove back to his motel. I'll come back again tomorrow night. I want her place to be empty while I search for the information I need.

Chapter Thirty-Three

On Wednesday morning, at just about the moment when she felt finally caught up with her work, Vicky received a call from Lisa Saunders. "I just read something in the LA Times about your Walter Serber. Have you seen it?"

Vicky snorted. "I wrote it. His wife, Lenore, practically demanded it. She wants him in jail."

"I'm sure all of us want the same thing, especially if he killed Ralph."

Vicky drained the lukewarm coffee from her cup. "There's something you should probably know." She told Lisa about her meeting the day before with Travis Nugent, trembling as she reported that Lazarus Coffin had liquidated his account and picked up a cashier's check.

Lisa let out a faint but audible groan. "This is getting out of hand. I don't feel safe at all, knowing this man is loose and roving around Orange County."

"I feel the same way. Maybe this latest publicity will help catch him."

Before the conversation ended, the women exchanged telephone numbers so they could reach one another, if necessary, during non-working hours.

As Vicky and Lisa talked, Walter was polishing off a large breakfast of bacon, eggs, English muffin and hash browns at a Tustin restaurant, sipping his third cup of coffee. He flipped through the Orange County Register while humming an old Broadway show tune. When he spotted the article and accompanying photo of himself, he smiled. I was wondering when something like this would happen. Looks like the old bitch wants her wayward husband back. Or maybe she wants to get her hands around his throat. His smile quickly faded when he read the last paragraph. Who the hell wrote this damned thing? And how do they know about Lazarus Coffin?

He suddenly felt self-conscious and looked around the restaurant, trying to determine if anyone had noticed him or was looking at him in an unusual way. Satisfied that he had not attracted any undue attention, he relaxed again and stared out the front window, thinking how this news article might affect his plans. I can't screw around here much longer. I'll have to speed up my timetable. Wonder if I should dye my hair?

Walter paid his bill and drove to the bank where he had opened an account only a few days before. There, he made arrangements for all his money to be transferred to a bank in the Cayman Islands.

Rochelle took a coffee break in midmorning and spent several minutes scanning the Orange County Register. When she saw the photograph of Walter and read the article, her stomach recoiled in pain. She felt exactly as if someone had punched her. Damn! I've been had by a pretty slick con man. Why is he using an alias? And what the hell is he running from?

She went back to her office and tried to continue working but found she couldn't concentrate. Something nagged at her, something that made her recall Friday afternoon's activities with Lazarus Coffin. This time she pushed their sexual adventures aside and focused on their conversations. He seemed rather curious about Lisa and asked a lot of questions about her.

Rochelle checked her address book, found Lisa's telephone number and dialed it, only to get the same 'number disconnected' recording Walter had heard. She hung up and stared at the phone, drummed her fingers on her desk, wondering how she could locate Lisa Saunders. Someone had to warn her about Lazarus Coffin.

After dinner that evening, Walter packed his belongings into a suitcase and locked it in his rental car's trunk. About nine o'clock, he donned his all-black costume once again and drove to Lisa's apartment, parking where he could see her living room window. This time, when he looked through his binoculars, he saw a single lighted lamp but detected no movement inside.

He left the car and strolled casually toward her apartment. When he was in the right position he stopped to take a good look through the living room window and then move along the side of the building toward the back door. He entered her back yard through a tall wooden gate and moved directly to the small patio. He checked flower pots, candle holders, and storage boxes, looking for a key. He groped the top of a wall-mounted electric meter. There it was. A small chain holding a single key.

He unlocked the back door, slipped quietly inside, and remained absolutely motionless in the darkened kitchen. After a long minute had passed, and he was satisfied that it was safe to move about, he went to work. He entered the living room, turned off the lamp, and pulled shut the blind at the front window. He took a small flashlight from his back pocket and began searching through cabinets and shelves, careful not to change the positions of pictures, books, and knickknacks.

After checking out the entire room and not finding what he looked for, he moved on to Lisa's bedroom. In her dresser, he found a notebook buried beneath her underwear. He flipped through the pages with one hand while holding the flashlight with the other. When he realized it was Ralph's personal journal, he almost shouted with joy. Working a bit faster, he continued to examine each page until he found Ralph's notations concerning the Swiss bank accounts.

He tore out the page, folded and stuffed it into his back pocket, and placed the journal back at the bottom of the drawer, carefully replacing Lisa's underwear on top. He turned off the flashlight and left the bedroom, but stopped short in the hallway when he heard the front door open.

A woman's voice called out. "Hello? Anybody home?" When no one answered she called out again.

Walter's instinct was to make a dash for the back door but he dismissed this idea since it would point him in the wrong direction. He needed to get to his car and fast. He had found what he came for. Now he should put Tustin, Orange County, and even California behind him as fast as possible.

He quietly removed the Walther P99 from his waistband, disengaged the safety, and took shaky aim at the oncoming shadow. His first shot struck the woman's shoulder, causing her to scream and fall backward. Almost on the verge of panic, he fired three more shots at the slumping figure and bolted past her prone body, out the front door and into his car. Seconds later, his heartbeat pounding in his ears and his breathing labored, Walter sped from the neighborhood, seeking the closest freeway.

Amelia MacGrunge, 89, the elderly white-haired woman Walter had met the day before heard shots. They were loud as firecrackers and seemed to come from her neighbor's apartment. She put her ear to Lisa's front door. She heard moaning, no doubt about it. Amelia tried the door. It swung open. She went inside and turned on a living room light.

The old woman was momentarily stunned. A young woman was lying on the floor, scarlet blood oozing from her shoulder and leg onto the beige carpet. Amelia looked frantically for a phone, but she had to rush back to her own apartment to call 911. She returned with towels and a blanket to do what she could for the wounded woman.

Five long minutes later, a police car drove up, lights flashing, siren wailing. Two paramedics arrived soon after the police and ran inside with a stretcher and first aid equipment. They applied temporary pressure bandages to the woman's shoulder and thigh, started an IV, and made her as comfortable as possible on the stretcher while the police began a barrage of questions.

The paramedics wheeled her to the ambulance and drove off in a blaze of lights and sirens, presumably for Tustin hospital's emergency room. The uniformed policemen stayed behind, questioning Amelia and looking around the apartment for evidence.

When Lisa entered the front door carrying a bag full of groceries, she almost dropped it when one of the officers confronted her. "Do you live here?"

"Yes, I do. What's going on?"

The officer flipped open a notebook. "Your name, Miss?"

Lisa dumped the groceries on the entry floor, ran over to the blood-soaked carpet, and yelled back at the policeman, "I'm Lisa Saunders. What's happened? What's wrong?"

"Do you know a woman named Rochelle Compton?"

"Rochelle? Sure, I know her. Why? Has something happened to Rochelle?"

"Well, it appears that Miss Compton entered your apartment earlier tonight. She had the bad luck to stumble into a probable burglary in progress. It looks like the intruder shot her several times and ran out the front door. We've got patrol cars combing the neighborhood looking for the guy but we don't have a good description. Except that he was wearing black."

Lisa shuddered, realizing that she could have been the burglar's victim instead of Rochelle if she had returned to her apartment minutes earlier. She took the groceries into the kitchen and came back to answer more questions.

One officer found a depression in a wall and remarked that it was probably a bullet hole. He circled it with a pencil, saying that the crime scene investigator would check it out later. The policemen and Lisa checked the apartment, room by room, trying to determine if anything had been stolen. Just before they left, one of the officers volunteered some practical advice on how to remove the blood stains from her carpet.

Lisa sank to her living room couch, knees shaking. A dozen questions whirled through her head. Why did Rochelle come to my apartment? How would she know that I was back from Mazatlan? And why would a burglar break into my apartment? There's nothing here worth stealing.

Suddenly, she stiffened. She raced to her bedroom, found Ralph's journal in her dresser, and opened it. When she saw the jagged edge where a page had been torn out, she flung the book across the room. "Stupid, so stupid," she wailed. "Why didn't I take the damn thing to my office while I had the chance?"

Chapter Thirty-Four

Paul groped for the jangling phone on the nightstand, glanced at the bright red numbers on the alarm clock, and groaned. Midnight. He answered and passed the handset over to Vicky. "It's for you."

"Who the heck is calling at this hour?"

Paul yawned. "She didn't say. Probably one of your tennis buddies. A hot tamale?"

Vicky identified herself and was treated to a long and breathless ramble that she couldn't quite understand. "Lisa! Slow down and say that again."

"I just got back from the emergency room. My friend Rochelle was shot! I know it was Coffin who did it."

Vicky bolted out of bed and turned on her bedside lamp. "Shot? Who's Rochelle? Is she dead? How do you know it was Coffin?"

Lisa took a deep breath. "No, she's still alive. Rochelle works in Ralph's office. She took over some of his accounts and one of them belonged to Lazarus Coffin."

"What's this about her being shot?"

"She came to my apartment tonight while I was out grocery shopping. She caught him searching my place and he shot her several times. Then he ran off."

"And she recognized him?"

"Not really. It was too dark and he was dressed all in black."

"Then how do you know it was Coffin?"

Lisa hesitated and made a whimpering sound. "The police thought he was a burglar but after they left, I went and checked Ralph's journal. A page was ripped out, the one with the Swiss bank account numbers."

Vicky sat down hard on the bed. "Oh shit. Shit, shit, shit." Paul rolled over and squinted at her with one eye.

Lisa moaned. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I should have taken it to the office."

"There's not much you can do about it now. How's Rochelle doing?"

"They've got her all doped up so she's not in much pain. She'll recover eventually, but she'll have some ugly scars on her shoulder and her leg."

"It could have been you."

Lisa sniffled. "I know but I don't even want to think about that."

"Yeah, get that out of your mind. Listen, I have to hang up, but I'll call you tomorrow. Now try to get some sleep. And be sure to keep all your doors locked."

Paul had gone to the bathroom and was now back in bed. Vicky gave him the details of Lisa's phone call. "I'll be damned," he said. "Now Walter's back in Orange County, breaking into apartments."

"Yes, but he's very selective. I'm sure he's come to the same conclusion that we did about those Swiss bank accounts."

"What good will it do him? You're the only beneficiary."

Vicky thought about this for several moments. "He's getting so desperate, he'll figure out something."

Paul rolled over. "Let's sleep on this."

Vicky grabbed his shoulder and shook him. "No! We've got to get there before he does. I can't just let him get away with stealing my money."

Paul propped two large pillows against the headboard and sat up against them. "Wait a minute. You've got money coming from those Mexican CDs, Ralph's insurance, his IRA, and a monthly income from his pension for fifteen years. Why would you need that money in Switzerland?"

Vicky stroked his cheek with her fingers, hoping to put him in a more pliable mood. "I could get along without it, but it's a matter of principle. I want every dollar that belongs to me. Like I said before, it's fairness. Not revenge."

Paul flipped both hands and looked at the ceiling. "Then I guess we should make plans to fly to Zurich as soon as possible."

She jumped on his lap and kissed him. "I'll call that banker . . . what was his name? Oberstdorf? . . . in the morning and set up a meeting. Then I'll fax him the death certificate."

"We'll have to travel all weekend so you'd better make the meeting for Monday."

"I forgot to ask. Can you get the time off?"

"The boss won't like it very much, but I'm pretty sure I can rearrange my work schedule. How about you?"

"Either I get the time off or Hector will have to look for a new Public Relations Director."

Walter arrived in Las Vegas at sunrise on Thursday and found a modest motel just off Interstate-15. After a long nap, he ate a huge steak and egg breakfast at a nearby diner.

He went back to his room and made a telephone call to a man who lived on a ramshackle ranch near the outskirts of the Las Vegas. "Larry? It's Walter, Walter Serber. I need your services again."

Walter heard a lot of coughing and hacking before a gravelly voice came back on the line. "Yeah, Walter, I remember. What do you need this time?"

"A package like you did for me last time. Credit card, driver's license and a passport. Can you do it?"

"Does a bear shit in the woods? So, what name do you want?"

He spelled out Ralph's full name and gave him Ralph's former address in Corona Del Mar. "Will you need some more pictures?"

"Hold on." Walter heard a shuffling sound and then a metal file cabinet drawer being opened and slammed shut before Larry returned. "OK, I still got some photos from last time. You haven't had any plastic surgery, have you?"

"Not yet."

Larry coughed again. "How about the credit card? You still using that bank in the Cayman Islands?"

"That's right. Just keep the same number but change the name."

"Easy enough," said Larry. "But you'd better be careful. Your card could be rejected if somebody notices the name doesn't match up with the number."

Walter paused to consider Larry's warning. "Good point. I'll only use the card when absolutely necessary."

"When do you need the goods?"

"The sooner, the better. I don't have much time."

"I can have them for you tomorrow morning, but it means pushing all my other work aside."

"Which means it's going to cost me more."

"But you can afford it and I'm the best around."

"See you in the morning, Larry. And don't disappoint me."

After the line went dead, Walter looked over a stack of brochures on his dresser, the weekly entertainment directories aimed at tourists looking for action. I think some female companionship tonight would be appropriate, before I put Lazarus Coffin back in the tomb.

In her office that same afternoon, Vicky heard from Paul. "All set for our trip. I have the entire week off."

"Me too. Do you really think we'll need the whole week?"

"Probably not, but we'll have the extra time in case we run into some red tape with the Swiss."

"I'll call my travel agent right away and get him started."

"Before you do, have you heard any more about Walter?"

"Holly found out from Marvin that he rented a car in San Diego. The FBI figures he's already left Orange County but don't know where he went."

After they talked for a few more minutes, Vicky placed a call to her travel agent and gave him the general plan. "Do you want to leave tomorrow morning?" he asked.

"That's too soon, Jerry. How about Saturday?"

"Saturday will work. LAX to JFK, then arrive Zurich on Sunday morning. I'll book you into a nice hotel near the financial district."

Vicky suddenly realized that, for the first time in her life, she was making international travel arrangements for a lover and herself. It made her feel wickedly adventurous in spite of her worry over Coffin. "And Jerry, please arrange our return flight from Paris, a week from this Saturday."

"Can do. Will you need a hotel in Paris?"

"No, we'll play that one by ear."

"I suggest you take the train from Zurich to Paris. It's a beautiful ride and they have some cozy couchettes. Compartments for two. You can buy the tickets while you're in Zurich."

Vicky thought about sharing a couchette with Paul and wondered if they'd be having any 4:00 A. M. conversations. "That train ride sounds—well, different."

"I'll call you right back after I have all your reservations confirmed."

Early Friday morning, Walter checked out of his motel and drove out to Larry's place, a double-wide mobile home with a discarded washing machine and a derelict pickup truck sitting in the front yard. Larry greeted him with a cup of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. "I was up pretty late last night but managed to finish your order."

A large golden retriever with a portion of his left ear missing looked up at Walter when he sat down at the kitchen table next to Larry. Satisfied that Walter was not a threat to his owner, the dog laid his head back down and closed his eyes.

Larry placed a driver's license, credit card, and a passport in front of Walter, in a single row, with a dramatic flourish, followed by a series of coughs. "You should give up that ugly habit," said Walter. "You might live longer."

"Who the hell wants to live forever?"

Walter looked the items over, smiled, and shook his head. "Fantastic. They look like the real thing. I don't know how you do it."

"You don't want to know."

"How much do I owe you?"

"I figure about twenty-five hundred will keep me in smokes and Jack Daniel's for a couple more weeks."

Walter made a show of counting out thirty $100 bills and slid them over to Larry. "You do good work."

Walter picked up the evidence of his new identity and started to leave. "Where are you heading?" asked Larry. "Or maybe I shouldn't even ask."

"You don't want to know."

Walter drove to the Las Vegas airport and bought a round trip ticket to San Francisco using the name Ralph Armstrong. He had no intentions of returning to Las Vegas; he figured that buying a one-way ticket would only arouse suspicion.

Once he arrived in San Francisco, he would make reservations for a Saturday flight to Europe, hopefully arriving in Zurich on Sunday. He'd claim the pile of money sitting in a Swiss bank on Monday.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Early Sunday morning, when the Swiss Air flight dropped from a sunny sky through low clouds covering the Zurich airport, the plane was pelted by a vigorous rainstorm. Brisk crosswinds pushed it from side to side.

Vicky stared out the window, pulled her taut seat belt even tighter, and clutched her armrests. "We're not in Kansas anymore, Toto."

Paul patted her knees. "Welcome to Europe, sweetheart."

"Don't they know it's supposed to be summer?"

"James Joyce had it right. Zurich's weather is as uncertain as a baby's bottom."

After an expressionless official stamped their passports, they made their way to a crowded and noisy baggage claim area. Paul had been to this airport many times before on business. He led Vicky to the correct baggage carousel and found a strategic place next to the moving track. Paul spotted his suitcase immediately but Vicky's luggage never appeared. While she sat on his luggage, he went to a nearby office, filled out a form, and was assured that hers would be sent to their hotel as soon as it arrived.

A tired and jet-lagged Vicky grumbled loudly about her bad luck while Paul comforted her, using his most confident world traveler tone, saying that her bag would be along soon.

Paul cashed traveler's checks for Swiss francs and they headed outside to the taxi stand. Although the passageway was covered, the wind blew the falling rain across their path. They were soaked.

Once in the taxi, Paul wondered aloud about their hotel room. "I sure hope it's ready when we get there."

"Why wouldn't it be?" asked Vicky.

"If the hotel's fully booked, the people using the room before us may not have checked out yet."

"If our room's not ready, you're going to see a Queen Victoria you've never seen or heard before."

Vicky's luck was better this time; check-in was courteous and efficient and their room was ready. A young bellman carried Paul's suitcase and escorted them to a room on the third floor; small by American standards, but well away from the noisy street along the hotel's front.

Once alone in the room, Vicky took off her wet clothes and hung them in the bathroom to dry. She crawled into their double bed clad only in her underwear. "What are you doing?" Paul asked.

"Taking a nap. I didn't get much sleep on the plane."

"You should stay up as long as possible. If you go to bed now, you won't be able to sleep tonight."

Vicky yawned. "I don't care." She mumbled into her pillow, "I'm wiped out and I need some Zs."

Paul unpacked his suitcase and saw that Vicky was already asleep. "Oh, hell. We might as well be up all night together." He pulled the drapes shut, stripped to his underwear, and slid into the bed beside her.

Late that afternoon, they emerged from the hotel, located on the eastern side of the Limmat River, close to the central part of the city. The rain had stopped and the warming sun had dried the sidewalks. They walked in a northerly direction until they reached the Bahnhof. "Let's go inside," said Paul. "We'll be able to get a nice dinner here."

"In a railroad station?"

"Trust me," he said. "You can't get a bad meal in Switzerland."

Paul's observation proved true and they left the Bahnhof pleasantly stuffed with schnitzel and potatoes, ready to walk some more. They passed a number of shop windows along their return route. Vicky admired numerous displays of jewelry: gold watches, diamond earrings, gold necklaces and bracelets, and rings studded with diamonds.

"Help me out, Paul." Vicky pointed to a diamond ring. "How much is that in dollars?"

"The dollar is worth about 1.2 Swiss francs so that ring would cost about four thousand dollars."

Vicky poked him in the ribs. "If you really loved me, you'd buy it for me."

"Oh drat, rotten luck. They're not open or I surely would."

Vicky hugged him. "We could stop in tomorrow before our meeting with Oberstdorf."

"Let's get all your business out of the way before we do any serious shopping."

They continued walking and eventually reached the hotel. Paul picked up their key from the front desk and they took the elevator to the third floor. "Good news," he said. "Your suitcase was delivered while we were out and they put it in our room."

Vicky took his hand. "Wonderful. Now I can change."

As Paul had predicted, both awoke at some time between midnight and sunrise. Vicky groaned, "This is terrible. I should have listened to you and tried to stay up."

"How do you feel?"

"It's very strange, like part of me is somewhere else. My brain is probably still over the Atlantic somewhere."

Paul patted her butt. "I'm glad the good part is right here next to me."

Vicky rolled out, went into the bathroom, and took two aspirin before coming back to bed. "What time is it?"

"About two fifteen."

"No, back in California."

Paul hesitated while he calculated the time difference. "Quarter after five yesterday afternoon."

"No wonder I'm so spaced out. I've never traveled this far from home until now. How long does it take to adjust?"

"Two or three days and your body clock will almost be caught up." They lounged in a loose embrace, content to feel the warmth of each other's body and their familiar aromas. Paul finally broke the silence. "I've been thinking of tomorrow's meeting and what we talked about in Irvine. You're claiming the single account that has the money from the sale of your home."

"You think I should do something different?"

"Oberstdorf will probably question your motives. He'll wonder why you aren't claiming the money in all six accounts."

"Because the others don't belong to me. It's money that Ralph skimmed off his clients' accounts."

"Exactly my point. If you tell him the whole story, it will raise all kinds of red flags. He'd be justified in throwing a huge monkey wrench into the whole deal and delaying everything until the Swiss authorities get it all sorted out."

"So what should I do?"

"Claim the money in all six accounts. Have him transfer everything in dollars to your Irvine bank."

"That sounds like I'm condoning Ralph's theft, picking up where he left off."

"It's only temporary. When we get back home, you show everything to Travis Nugent and the FBI. The money gets returned to Ralph's clients and you're a hero in everyone's eyes."

"I don't know, Paul. Sounds like I'm doing something illegal just to correct some other crooked deals."

"Maybe this is one time the end justifies the means."

Vicky thought about it for several moments and then laughed. "Lazarus Coffin won't be getting his money back. Poetic justice. I love it."

Paul kissed her, slipped his hands down the back of her panties, and pulled her closer. "Feel like fooling around a little?"

Vicky stiffened. "You really know how to sweep a girl off her feet."

"Would it help if I whispered sweet nothings in your ear?"

She paused to collect her thoughts and carefully choose her next words. "My darling Paul. I love you very much. Don't ever doubt it."

"I think I hear a rejection coming."

"I enjoy being intimate with you. It's always wonderful. And now that I've fallen in love with you, it's much more than just sex. It's part of something much bigger, a beautiful relationship. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"Sure, honey. I understand."

"I'm probably not making complete sense right now, but it doesn't seem fair. Is fair the right word? Just because we're lying in bed together, wide awake at two fifteen, and we can't think of anything else to amuse ourselves except sex."

"I really do understand. Having sex is not a cure for boredom."

"Well said, darling. I hope you're not too disappointed."

"Oh, I am, but just a little bit. Maybe the concierge can arrange to have a violinist pay us a visit around four o'clock in the morning."

Vicky reached into his shorts and made a throaty growl. "I think we're doing the right thing. You were about to go off half-cocked."

"But with you, I could always rise to the occasion." Vicky started giggling and the effect was contagious.

After several minutes of laughter and rolling around in bed, Paul had an idea. "I read an article once about a cure for insomnia. You try to think of a palindrome and then invent a new one. Works every time."

"What's a palindrome?"

"A group of words that reads the same, forward or backward. Here's one for you. Madam, I'm Adam."

"I get it, I get it. The kids used to play around with them but I forgot what they're called. Now here's one for you. A man, a plan, a canal: Panama."

"Very good, Olive, very good."

"You just won't let me forget that name, will you?"

Paul didn't answer but thought for a while. "I know one other one, so here goes. Able was I ere I saw Elba."

Neither Paul nor Vicky could recall any more palindromes and their attempts to invent new ones were unsuccessful. Within a few minutes, both were sound asleep and remained so until their wake-up call roused them at 7:30 A. M.

Paul and Vicky lingered over a large breakfast in the hotel's ground floor dining room. They dined on eggs, ham, cheese, yogurt, and freshly picked strawberries, while seated in a large room filled with dark oak furniture and ornate crystal chandeliers.

The bright blue sky was almost cloudless and the morning temperature was already in the low seventies. Since the bank was only six blocks away they decided to walk to their ten o'clock meeting with Mr. Oberstdorf and burn off some of the calories they had just consumed.

The bank building was large and intimidating. Their footsteps echoed loud and empty on the pristine marble floor as they walked up to the reception desk and identified themselves. The bearded blue-suited receptionist called Oberstdorf's office and several minutes later a stocky gray-haired woman came out of an elevator and welcomed them. She escorted them to a small conference room on the fourth floor overlooking Lake Zurich. As the woman left she said, "Mr. Oberstdorf will join you presently. May I offer you a coffee?" They declined and, while waiting, amused themselves by watching barges and sailboats on the lake and Limmat River.

Five minutes later, a muscular blond-haired man wearing a black pinstriped suit bounded into the room carrying a dozen pocket-like folders. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Kurt Oberstdorf."

Paul and Vicky sat next to each other at an oval table and Kurt sat opposite them. "First of all," he began, "allow me to welcome you to Zurich and our bank. I would also like to express my condolences to you, Mrs. Armstrong, on the tragic loss of your husband. It must be quite an ordeal for you, traveling all this way to settle his estate." Vicky stared at him, prompting Kurt to ask, "Is something wrong?"

"Oh no, it's just that I . . . "

Kurt grinned. "You were expecting an older man?"

"I'm afraid you're right."

"Yes, we Swiss bankers have the reputation of being a bunch of secretive old men. The gnomes of Zurich and all that. I'm trying to dispel that image." Kurt took several papers from one of the folders and spread them out in front of Vicky. "Shall we discuss Mr. Armstrong's holdings? Of the six accounts, this one has the most assets. Over one million Swiss francs, or about seven hundred thousand U. S. dollars. Since it is essentially a savings account, liquidating it will be a relatively quick and simple process."

Vicky turned to Paul. "It's probably the proceeds from the sale of our home."

"We can wire the funds to your bank today," said Kurt. "Of course, there will be a deduction for taxes on the interest earned."

"Of course," echoed Vicky.

Kurt then showed her summary statements from each of the other five accounts. His estimate of each account's current value ranged from $200,000 to $400,000. They were surprised to learn that there was no cash in them; each held mixes of stocks and bonds. "Mr. Armstrong gave the bank specific directions from time to time on how these securities were to be traded."

"It makes sense," said Vicky. "He was a stockbroker for many years."

"We can sell them and transfer the proceeds in dollars to your American bank, but it will take several days to execute the orders and collect the funds."

"That's exactly what I'd like you to do."

Oberstdorf asked Vicky for a copy of Ralph's will and a clean copy of the death certificate. He also borrowed her passport, excused himself to make a copy, and gave it back to her when he returned. "I would like you to sign this power of attorney, Mrs. Armstrong, so that we can comply with your instructions." Vicky and Paul read over the power of attorney and Vicky signed it. "Of course, there will be deductions in each account for taxes on interest and capital gains."

Vicky smiled faintly. "Of course."

Kurt had some more questions for Vicky before the meeting was over: what was Ralph's social security number, what was his mother's maiden name, and what were the account and electronic transfer numbers for her Irvine bank. His final questions were more of an afterthought; he wondered which hotel they were visiting and how long would they be in Zurich. "In the unlikely event that I must contact you for any reason," he added.

Kurt escorted them down to the lobby where they shook hands and said their goodbyes. "Please contact me, Mrs. Armstrong, if I can be of any further service."

Once outside, Paul turned to Vicky. "I can't believe how easy that was."

"Yeah, it was pretty slick. Almost too easy. Let's walk over to the Bahnhof and check out the train schedules for Paris."

Paul took her hand. "Ah, Paris in the summer, when all the French are away. When would you like to leave?"

"Any time tomorrow would be fine with me. There's nothing keeping us here in Zurich now. Right?"

Chapter Thirty-Six

Several hours after Monday's lunch, the young Swiss banker received a telephone call from an unexpected source. "Good afternoon, Mr. Oberstdorf. This is Ralph Armstrong calling from Brussels."

Kurt looked at the papers spread out on his desk, all of which pertained to the liquidation of the supposedly deceased Ralph Armstrong's accounts, and froze. He recovered in a few moments and stuttered into the phone. "Mr. Armstrong? This is quite a surprise. What brings you to Europe?"

"The usual mix of business and pleasure. I plan to be in Zurich tomorrow and I'd like to meet with you. It's about my accounts with your bank."

"Your accounts?"

"That's correct. My six accounts."

"Mr. Armstrong. Since we've not had the pleasure of meeting each other, could you please give me some kind of identifying information? Sorry to be so formal, but Swiss laws are very strict concerning financial matters."

"It's no problem. One of the account numbers is 098-4576-7008-466."

Kurt paused to check this number against the records before him. "Yes, that is a valid number for one of your accounts." Without asking, Walter gave him a second account number, one that Kurt also verified. "That's also correct, Mr. Armstrong. I have no need for any further information at this time."

"Shall we set a time for our meeting?"

"May I ask what you wish to accomplish during this meeting?"

"Basically, I want to liquidate the accounts and transfer the funds to my bank in another country. I trust you can do this in an expeditious manner."

Kurt checked his appointment book. "Two-thirty tomorrow afternoon would be suitable for me."

"And me as well. I'll look forward to meeting you then."

Kurt hung up and sat motionless, thinking about this extraordinary phone call. He picked up a paper and stared at a confirmation of approximately $705,000 wired to Victoria Armstrong's bank in California. If the man who just called me is who he claims to be, I'm in serious trouble. He gathered up all the papers on the other five accounts, placed them in a single stack and pushed it aside. I must write Herr Eppel a short memo about this situation. My managing director does not like surprises.

Kurt rose and poured himself a cup of strong black coffee. Then he called the hotel where Vicky and Paul were registered and was connected immediately to their room. "Mrs. Armstrong? Kurt Oberstdorf. Sorry to disturb you, but something has come up."

"You sound upset. Is something wrong?"

"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone. Can we have another meeting this afternoon? Say, six o'clock? I can drop by your hotel."

"This all sounds very mysterious. All right, we'll be in in the bar at six."

Paul spotted Kurt at the bar's entrance and waved him over to join him and Vicky at their secluded corner table. Their conversation consisted of nervous pleasantries until Kurt received a glass of whiskey from the waiter and took a healthy gulp. "We're absolutely intrigued," said Vicky. "What's your big news?"

Kurt cleared his throat. "I received an unusual telephone call this afternoon. A man called from Brussels and identified himself as Ralph Armstrong."

Kurt watched carefully to see what effect his announcement would have. Paul and Vicky exchanged only nervous glances. Vicky said, "Go on, please."

Spurred on by the couple's relatively calm manner, Kurt continued. "I asked this man for some kind of identification and he gave me an account number. Two account numbers, actually. Both valid."

Paul sensed the confusion in Kurt's voice and said to Vicky, "You're probably getting sick of this, but I think you should tell him the whole story."

Vicky nodded. "Kurt, the man who called you is Walter Serber. We believe he's the one who murdered my husband."

"That's a very serious charge. I'd like to believe you, but I'm confused."

"You saw the death certificate listing the cause of death. Multiple gunshot wounds. I just buried my husband several weeks ago in California. It's easy to verify in case you need further proof."

"How would this man—Serber?—know these account numbers?"

"Let me backtrack and start at the beginning." Vicky told him the entire story, starting with Ralph's desertion to Mazatlan with Lisa Saunders and ending with Lisa's telephone call about Rochelle being shot and the crucial page that she discovered ripped from Ralph's journal. "That's how Walter Serber knows about those accounts."

Paul snorted, "We figured it would only be a question of time before he showed up here in Zurich and tried to get his hands on all the money."

Kurt smoothed his hair and took another sip of whiskey. "Do you have any idea why this man would want to kill your husband?"

"Ralph was Walter's stockbroker and, I'm sorry to say, stole some of his money and transferred it into one of those accounts. Walter found out about it and wanted revenge. He got it, all right."

"Then who does the money belong to in the other accounts?"

"The one with the largest amount is mine. One is Walter's and the other four accounts probably belong to other clients."

Kurt's face became red. "I wish you had told me all this at our meeting." Paul and Vicky only lowered their heads in embarrassed silence. Kurt then shook his head. "For better or worse, the money we identified this afternoon has been wired to your bank, Mrs. Armstrong. As for Mr. Armstrong's other accounts, Swiss law is quite clear. We'll have to freeze those assets and conduct a full investigation as to their legal and rightful ownership."

An awkward pause followed until Paul broke the silence. "What do you intend to do about Walter Serber?"

Kurt frowned. "He's coming to Zurich. We have a meeting scheduled for two-thirty tomorrow afternoon."

Vicky leaned back in her chair. "He must be getting desperate, trying to pass for Ralph and get you to hand over all that money."

Kurt drained his glass. "Mrs. Armstrong, I have a big favor to ask. I'd like you present at this meeting tomorrow, as well as you, Mr. Lorenz."

Paul interrupted, "What's the point of having us there?"

"I want the truth. When the Swiss authorities get involved, not to mention the Americans, I'll need all the information I can get my hands on."

"I don't want to be in the same room with him," said Vicky. "It's not safe."

"He would not be expecting you. I didn't tell him that you were in Zurich."

"What if he becomes violent? He's capable of that, believe me."

"I will arrange to have the police standing by. In the next room and fully armed, just in case the situation does become dangerous."

Vicky looked at Paul and he took her hand. "All right, we'll do it. But we have reservations on the evening train to Paris and I don't want to miss it."

Kurt beamed. "Excellent. Why don't you and Mr. Lorenz come to my office early tomorrow. I'll first meet privately with this man and then bring both of you into the conference room. If all goes well, the police should be able to take him into custody a few minutes later and you'll be free to leave for Paris."

Walter arrived in Zurich by train just before one o'clock the next afternoon. He stored his single piece of luggage in a Bahnhof locker, bought a tourist map of Zurich and an International Herald Tribune at a kiosk, and walked leisurely towards Oberstdorf's bank.

He found a small restaurant almost directly across from the bank's entrance and took a sidewalk table that was shielded by a large red and white market umbrella advertising Martini & Rossi spirits. He had a copious lunch and lingered at the table, enjoying the pleasant weather, watching passing pedestrians, and reading his newspaper. He glanced periodically at the bank's entrance, hoping he wouldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Only a couple more hours and all that money will be on the way to the Cayman Islands.

Just after two o'clock, his daydream was shattered when he saw Paul and Vicky walk into the bank. His eyes widened as he whipped up the newspaper to conceal his face. Goddamn it, can't anything go right for me just once? How did they get here so fast? Do they have any idea that I know about these bank accounts and might come here?

Five minutes later, he observed two black cars stop momentarily at the bank's front doors. Six armed officers got out and walked briskly inside. This is no coincidence, Vicky showing up and then the police. It has to be a trap. Well now, this is one rat who won't be sampling their cheese.

Walter remained at his table sipping a brandy and nibbling a rich cake dessert. Shortly after three o'clock, he noticed the six policemen leave the bank and get back into the two black cars that had just returned. A few minutes later, Paul and Vicky emerged and began walking away from the bank.

Walter had to act. Should I go into the bank and confront Oberstdorf? No, that probably wouldn't work. She probably sold off everything and is having the money sent to her bank. Son of a bitch. Her husband steals my money and now she steals the same money from me a second time. Well, she's not going to get away with it. No more than Ralph did.

Walter got up, paid his bill, and followed Paul and Vicky back to their hotel. He found a chair in a dark corner of the lobby where he could easily see the elevator and the front desk. He had no concrete plan of action. He had decided to wait patiently and hope for an opportunity.

Just before six o'clock, Paul and Vicky came out of the elevator with their luggage and walked up to the front desk. Paul handed over the room key to the desk clerk and, in turn, received a copy of their hotel bill.

Walter peered over the top of his newspaper and watched their checkout with great interest. Ten minutes after they had left the hotel, he walked up to the front desk and asked the same clerk if a Mrs. Victoria Armstrong was registered in the hotel. "I'm very sorry, sir, but you just missed her. She's already checked out."

Walter put a seriously disappointed look on his face and flashed his bogus passport at the clerk. "I'm Ralph Armstrong, her brother. We were supposed to meet here. Do you have any idea where she's going?"

The man gave him a slightly suspicious look and busied himself, shuffling a stack of papers. Walter received the unspoken message and reached across the counter, quietly slipping the clerk a hundred franc note which immediately disappeared into his jacket.

The clerk finally replied, "I believe Mrs. Armstrong and her companion are traveling to Paris on the overnight train. As a matter of fact, I helped make reservations for them at the Royal-Alma Hotel."

Walter smiled. "You've been most helpful. Thank you so much."

As Walter left the hotel and walked toward the Bahnhof, he considered his options. Shall we have our grand reunion on the train or somewhere in Paris?

Chapter Thirty-Seven

After trudging through the terminal for what seemed like miles, Paul and Vicky found their assigned car and boarded the Paris train. A brusque porter gave them directions to their couchette after comparing their tickets with a manifest on his clipboard.

Vicky's face faded to a scowl as she looked around the couchette. "This is much smaller than I figured it would be. And I thought we'd be getting a modern high-speed train. This one must have been built before World War Two."

Paul dropped his luggage and walked over to a large window. "Rather cozy, don't you think?"

"I can't figure out where we sleep."

Paul pointed to a wide seat along one wall of the compartment. "That's the lower bunk, when we're not sitting on it. It's yours, if you want it." He reached up to the wall above the seat, unfolded a similar seat, then returned it into the wall. "This one is the upper bunk. I'll sleep there."

Vicky dropped her suitcase in a corner. "I guess I can get along without you in my bed for one night."

Paul chuckled. "Just don't get too used to it."

They decided not to put their belongings into any of the storage areas because their trip was only an overnight one. They did, however, take turns cleaning up in the half-bathroom, pausing occasionally to look out the window as the train slowly left the city and picked up speed in the scenic Swiss countryside.

When Paul emerged from the bathroom, he surveyed once again the tiny compartment. "Feel like getting some exercise?"

Vicky patted him on the back. "If this train has a bar, I'll buy you a drink. Is that a good deal or what?"

"That is a good deal. I believe the bar is toward the front of the train."

They first passed through the dining car where Paul made a dinner reservation for later. They continued and found a small empty table in the lounge. There they enjoyed majestic mountain views, highlighted by a setting sun, as they headed north while sipping their vodka martinis, content to enjoy each other's company with minimal conversation.

Walter rested in another section of the train but ignored the same scenic views. He had purchased a first class ticket and sat comfortably in his compartment because he didn't want to risk discovery by Paul or Vicky. He would be patient, deliberate and methodical, meeting them only when the time was right for him. But first, he needed one crucial item of information.

He walked forward through several cars until he came to the first one having couchettes and sleeping compartments. There were no name tags on any of these rooms. Only letters and numbers. He continued moving forward into the next car where he saw a brusque porter, not knowing it was the same one encountered by Paul and Vicky, standing in the open doorway of a couchette. The family inside, apparently Arabic-speaking people from a Middle Eastern country, were having difficulty understanding how to open their beds and storage areas. The porter went inside to help them but left his clipboard and papers in a space between a passageway window and several brass bars next to the window, the rails for passengers to grip when the train swayed violently.

Walter grabbed the clipboard, rapidly flipping through the papers until he saw Vicky's name and the compartment notation, B-14. He put the clipboard back in its temporary holding slot and retraced his steps to the first class compartment. A bite to eat, a short nap, and then it will be time.

Paul and Vicky sat in the dining car at a table decorated with overlapping maroon and pink tablecloths, a lighted candle, and a vase filled with freshly cut flowers. They had just finished a first course of French onion soup and sipped a mellow Burgundy, entranced by the outside darkness, the rhythmic clickety-clack of the rails, and the feeling of relaxed exhaustion. Paul reached across the table and squeezed her hand. "Happy, darling?"

Vicky squeezed him back. "Of course, but . . ."

"Some unresolved issues?"

"I'm wondering where the hell Walter is. What's he thinking about and what's his next move?"

"Do we really care?"

"What bothers me most is why he didn't show up at the bank for his meeting with Oberstdorf."

"He was coming from Brussels. Maybe his transportation got screwed up."

"And what was he doing in Brussels, anyway?"

"Maybe his transportation got screwed up."

Vicky gave him an annoyed look and withdrew her hand. "I'll bet he figured out that he'd be walking into a trap."

"I think you should try to forget about him and enjoy the rest of our time in Europe. We'll have lots of fun in Paris, you'll see."

"With Walter on our heels?"

Paul frowned. "Now look here, Olive. There's no way in this world he'd know that we're in Paris, so relax."

"Is there any good reason why you keep calling me by that name?"

"A damn good reason. Because I love you and all your names."

Vicky extended her hand across the table. "Sorry, darling. Tell me about all the things we'll do in Paris."

Paul clasped her hand and returned her smile. "We'll grab a taxi when we get in tomorrow morning and head for the hotel. Assuming our room will be ready, we can take a quick shower and start our big day sightseeing."

"No nap?"

"You don't nap in Paris. Too much to see and do."

"OK, Energizer Bunny. What's on the agenda for tomorrow?"

"First we check out the Etoile—the Arc de Triomphe. We'll have lunch in Montmartre and spend the afternoon at Sacré-Coeur. Then dinner at one of my favorite restaurants. An amazing place where the waiters are actually friendly."

"I may need a new wardrobe after this trip, something to fit an enlarged Vicky Armstrong after all this broadening world travel."

Paul grinned. "Oh no you won't. We'll be doing plenty of walking in Paris. Those extra kilos will just melt away."

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Walter awoke with a stiff neck and looked around the dimly-lit car. Nobody was moving. A glance at his watch told him it was twenty minutes after one o'clock. He looked out the window and could barely make out the farms of Eastern France passing by under a cloudy sky.

He attached a silencer to the Walther P99, tucked it into his jacket, and cautiously made his way forward to the couchette cars. When he reached B-14, he paused and took a deep breath before gently trying the door knob. It was unlocked. These people are so stupid. Rank amateurs.

He quietly entered the couchette, closed the door softly, and stood motionless while listening to somebody snoring. He couldn't tell who it was.

He extracted a slim flashlight from his jacket and pointed its beam toward the floor, moving it along edges and corners until he spotted several pieces of luggage. He placed the flashlight on one of the suitcases so it would shine on the other and began searching quietly through various pockets.

He was startled when Vicky turned on a reading light near her head. "Who is it?" she cried out. "What are you doing in here?"

Walter sprang up and pulled the pistol from his jacket, spun around to face her and temporarily lost his balance, thumping into the wall between the bathroom and the compartment. "Just an old friend, Victoria, coming to pay you and your husband one last social visit."

The commotion had wakened Paul who also turned on his reading light. "Goddamn you, Walter, how did you get in here?"

"You folks are rather careless, leaving your door unlocked like that. Anyone could walk in, just as I did."

"What do you want?" snarled Vicky.

"A small matter of justice. And quite a large sum of money as well."

"I don't have any of your money."

"I think you do. That thieving husband of yours stole money from my brokerage account and hid it in the Zurich bank. Along with money he stole from other clients, no doubt. And now you've grabbed it all for yourself. But you're not getting away with this. I'm not about to have my money stolen again by the other half of the Armstrong family."

"You're all wrong there, Walter. I only took the money Ralph got from selling our Corona house. It was all in one account. The bank is freezing the other accounts until they find out who the money belongs to."

"Lies," he hissed, "it's a pack of lies and I don't believe them for a minute." He calmed himself, taking several deep breaths. "Now get out of that bed, Victoria, and hand over the money."

Vicky managed a nervous laugh without moving from her bed. "You know better than that, Walter. Do you think I carry wads of cash around with me? It's been wired to a bank in California."

"Then I want all the paperwork you have. I'll take it from there."

"That isn't going to work," said Paul.

"You shut up," said Walter. "I'm running out of patience, Victoria. And when people don't cooperate, I tend to get violent."

"Like you did with Ralph, in Mazatlan?"

"I had it all figured out. I knew you'd go looking for him so I got to his room just before you did. And I'm the one who tipped off the police afterwards. Hell, you two should be locked away in some Mexican penitentiary right now. That's the way it was supposed to happen."

Vicky propped herself up on an elbow. "You set us up?"

"What do you think? When Ralph ran off to Mexico, I had my contacts down there checking all the resort areas. He was so easy to find. Never even bothered to change his name."

"He obviously wasn't as devious as you are."

Walter ignored Vicky's remark. "When I found out he was in Mazatlan, that was reason enough to host a cruise there. Inviting both of you along for the ride, of course."

"And a chance to pick up a few stolen paintings while we were there," added Paul.

"Ah yes, my beloved paintings. Another unfortunate turn of events after our emergency stop in Ensenada."

Vicky was still puzzling over Walter's original plan. "So this whole idea of a cruise to Mazatlan was to find Ralph and pin his murder on me, huh? Well, wait just a minute, there's something I don't understand. How did you . . . ?"

Walter cackled. He was enjoying this. "I couldn't believe my good luck when your resume crossed my desk. It was so easy having Hector go through the interview process, knowing all along that you'd be hired and eventually come to Mazatlan with me."

Vicky bristled. "You mean I was hired just because I was Ralph's wife?"

"My, you catch on quick, Victoria. That's it now, chat's over. I want all the papers you have concerning the transactions with Oberstdorf."

"Why? They won't do you any good."

"I disagree," said Walter. "You see, I'm now a bona fide Ralph Armstrong. I'll just present my identification to your bank and have them turn over all that money to me, the grieving widower."

Paul shivered slightly but Vicky's reaction was quite the opposite. "That won't work, Walter. The bank already knows I'm the widow. Paul is the beneficiary of all my bank accounts."

"Ah yes, but he won't be around to collect either. Oh, it will be so sad, so lurid and scandalous. All the newspapers will give it a big spread. Wealthy Newport Beach widow and her lover murdered in their train compartment while traveling to Paris."

"You bastard," spat Vicky. "You'll never collect a dollar. You'll go to prison for the rest of your life. Maybe even get the gas chamber."

Paul crawled out of his upper bunk, carefully watching Walter in the darkness, whose pistol was now pointed at Paul's heart. "Calm down, Vicky. Let me handle this."

Walter gave a derisive bark of laughter. "Don't do anything stupid, Lancelot. Just give me the papers."

Paul moved cautiously, keeping his hands in sight, to one corner of the compartment. He knelt down in front of Vicky's suitcase, his back blocking Walter's view. He opened the top, reached down between several layers of clothes, and felt a bulky brown envelope. But instead of simply grabbing the envelope, he quietly pulled all the papers out of it, got up and turned around. "Here they are, Walter."

"Then quit wasting time and hand them over."

Paul threw the papers in Walter's face. They separated and flew in different directions, momentarily blocking Walter's vision. In a fluid lunge, Paul knocked aside the hand holding the pistol and struck Walter's jaw with a solid right cross. Walter stumbled backward against the bathroom wall and Paul jumped him, his left hand grasping Walter's wrist and pounding it against the wall.

Vicky watched, frozen in terrified silence, not knowing exactly what was happening because of the poor lighting.

Paul and Walter continued struggling. While Paul tried to knock the pistol from his hand, Walter raked Paul's face with the fingers of his free hand and managed to get a weak grip on Paul's throat.

Paul broke his hold, landed a punch to Walter's stomach, and twisted harder on his wrist. Walter's finger, which had been close to the pistol's trigger, curved inward enough to fire two rapid shots. The bullets blasted through the compartment's door to the bathroom.

Vicky screamed, unable to tell where the flying rounds were headed. Walter was again distracted. Paul's unrelenting pressure forced him to release his grip on the pistol. It clattered to the floor. Paul side-kicked it under Vicky's bunk. Walter lunged for it but Paul caught his neck in a strangle hold. The two men fell into the lower bunk on top of Vicky.

Vicky screamed again. In the confusion, she beat her fists against both male heads. "Get him, Paul," she wailed, "beat the hell out of him."

Paul was clearly getting the better of the fight. Somehow, Walter squirmed loose and sprang from the bunk. Paul went after him but Walter let go with a punch that pushed him back into Vicky's bed.

Walter bent over, grabbed as many papers as he could, and bolted out of the compartment. Paul struggled to free himself from Vicky's bed linen and dashed out the door after him.

Paul yelled for help while chasing him through several cars. He bumped into numerous startled passengers who had emerged from their compartments to see what was going on. He finally caught up with Walter in a space between two cars. The men began trading punches again and yelling at each other, neither hearing what the other was saying because of the train's high noise level.

Walter became winded and sagged against the metal gate at the side of the space. Paul grabbed a metal bar above his head with both hands. He lifted himself up and delivered one hard kick to Walter's chest, with enough weight behind it to send Walter flying backwards, over the gate. He tumbled head over heels out of the space and off the train. The last image that Paul was able to see, one he'd remember for the rest of his life, was the shocked look on Walter's face as he fell out.

Paul dropped to the metal platform, crawled over to the gate and caught his breath. When Vicky suddenly appeared, Paul pulled her close. "What happened to Walter?" she yelled in his ear. "Is he gone?"

"Yes, he's gone. His ticket just expired." They both stretched their heads outside and looked down a steep embankment as the train rounded a long curve. "I think we've seen the last of him. There's no way he could survive a fall like that."

One of the train's porters passed them and gave them a curious stare, making them realize how unusual they looked in their underwear. Paul made a motion to Vicky, indicating that they should return to their couchette.

Once inside their compartment again, this time with the door tightly locked, Vicky asked, "Don't you think we should tell somebody what happened?"

"Probably. But we both know that he's a murderer. He got what he deserves. When they find his body, Lenore will finally be able to get on with her life. I'm afraid that reporting all this now would just delay our trip and needlessly complicate our lives."

Vicky hugged him hard, not wanting to let go. "Come get in my bunk with me, darling, and hold me for a while."

"Sir Lancelot at your service, Madame."

Paul checked the lock on the couchette's door, turned off their reading lamps, and crawled into Vicky's bunk. Neither of them spoke, content just to hold each other tightly in darkened silence while their racing heartbeats slowly subsided.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The same brusque porter rapped on their couchette door around 6:00 A. M. and called out Frühstück and petit dejeuner several times. Paul rolled over so he could look down on Vicky from his bunk. "I think he's telling us that breakfast is being served."

Vicky groaned. "It's too damned early."

"How are you doing, sweetheart? Other than needing more sleep."

"Still numb and exhausted from last night. I think I had a nightmare after we finally got back to bed. Something awful about Walter."

"We'll probably be pulling into Paris soon. Let's get some coffee."

They made their way to the dining car, had a light breakfast, and were back in the couchette by seven. Vicky raised the shade and began packing her suitcase. Paul gathered up his things and folded the upper bunk back into the wall. Then he reached under Vicky's bunk and pulled out the pistol. "How ironic," he said. "Walter without his Walther."

Vicky shuddered. "Good God, I'd forgotten all about that thing."

"It wouldn't be a good idea to leave it here, just lying around."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Oh, I'll just stuff it in my suitcase and throw it into the Seine later."

Vicky continued packing silently for a few minutes before she had an idea. "Don't throw it away. Let's send it to Detective Baca along with a note explaining where we got it. He can have lab tests done that will prove it's the same gun that killed Ralph. He'll be a hero, the case will be closed, and we're off the hook. "

Paul scratched his head and smiled. "I like the way you think, sweetheart. A nice idea, but let's not do it. Let's leave well enough alone."

"Well, OK. Then what about the bullet holes?"

"What bullet holes?"

Vicky chuckled. "The ones in the bathroom door. Don't tell me you forgot?"

Paul shrugged his shoulders. "I don't see any bullet holes. And if anybody asks, I'll act totally mystified about how they got there."

Vicky walked over to the door and ran her fingers over the two perforations. Paul slid over behind her and put his arms around her waist. "The railroad people probably won't notice them right away. And when they finally do, we should be back in California."

Paul continued packing. When they were finally ready to leave, the train was slowly entering the terminal. "You know, Paul, I've been thinking about what happened last night. Why didn't Walter just kill us and be done with it? He could have searched our luggage for the papers and left the train normally."

"Walter was an amateur," he said. "I think he also let his ego get in the way. He wanted to let us know how clever he was. Let's try to forget about him for the next three days and enjoy ourselves."

Vicky shook her head. "That may be easier said than done."

After they left the train, Paul and Vicky took a taxi to the Royal-Alma near the Champs-Elysées. When they got to their room, Paul conceded that a quick nap wouldn't be such a bad idea after all.

They awoke shortly before noon and took a shower together. Somewhat rested and invigorated, they began a whirlwind three day tour of Paris. Their first stop was Montmartre where they had a pleasant lunch at an outdoor cafe.

A trio of itinerant musicians with accordion, saxophone and violin serenaded diners and people strolling by to look at paintings of local artists eager to sell their freshly completed work. Paul had visited this area before but still took great pleasure in Vicky's excitement and enjoyment of the scene's ambiance. They spent most of the afternoon inspecting the Sacré-Coeur cathedral and gardens before returning to their hotel for a brief rest before dinner.

They spent almost all of Thursday at the Louvre with a short break at the nearby Tuileries gardens. On a rather long Friday walk that Paul had planned, they visited Notre Dame Cathedral, the Left Bank of the Seine, Napoleon's Tomb, and the Eiffel Tower. It was after they had returned to ground level near the tower when something happened to make the happy couple anxiously nervous again.

"Paul, look over there," yelled Vicky, pointing to a line of taxis.

"What?"

"That taxi pulling away. The man who just got inside. Did you see him?"

"I missed it honey. What about him?"

Vicky shuddered. "The guy looked exactly like Walter. His arm was in a sling and he hobbled around on a cane. She turned toward Paul and buried herself in his wide embrace.

"I think your imagination is starting to run away, sweetheart. There's no way it could have been Walter. Even if he survived that fall from the train, he'd be in a hospital for weeks."

Vicky sniffled. "I suppose so, but the thought of him following us scares the daylights out of me."

"It will take some time but one day you'll feel safe again. Then he'll really be out of our lives for good."

That evening Paul and Vicky had dinner on one of the Bateaux-Mouches, excursion boats that cruise the Seine between the Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. After a first course of fried calamari, they sipped Beaujolais wine and watched the lighted overhead bridges slip by. "I'm curious about something," said Vicky. "Did you do all these Paris things with Helen?"

"Most of them, at one time or another. But we didn't have dinner on this kind of boat. It was a daylight trip and the girls were with us."

"Does it make you sad, seeing all these sights again? I mean, do they remind you of her?"

"To answer your first question, no, it doesn't make me sad. They were good times and the memories are pleasant ones." He became slightly more serious and took a generous sip of wine. "The other thing is that I'm not reminded of her because I'm seeing these places in a different way this time. Through your eyes. We're creating our own memories, ones that will last the rest of our lives."

Oh Paul, that is so sweet." She reached across the table and joined her hand with his. Each looked into the other's tear-filled eyes with a little laugh of embarrassment.

Paul pulled his hand away and reached into his jacket's pocket. "I almost forgot something." He got up from his chair, knelt down beside her, and handed her a small box.

"Paul—what the heck are you doing?"

He laughed. "Never mind, just open it."

She opened the box and squealed in delight. "It's the ring, the one from the Zurich jewelry shop. When did you get it?"

"While you were taking a nap. Now try it on, I want to be sure it fits."

She slipped it on the ring finger of her left hand and flashed it around in the table's candlelight. "It fits perfectly. It was definitely meant for me." As she bent over and kissed him softly, a burst of applause erupted from the diners around them. Paul started to get up but Vicky pressed a hand on his shoulder. "Um . . . were you going to ask me something?"

He grinned as he looked up at her. "As a matter of fact, I was hoping you'd consent to be my bride, Victoria Olive Featherstone Armstrong. I don't have a lot to offer. Only all my love and devotion for the rest of my life. Take your time. If you want to sleep on this, preferably with me, it's OK."

Vicky got out of her chair and knelt down next to him with their noses touching. "You silly goose. I don't need any time to think. The answer is yes. Yes, yes, yes." She put her arms around his neck and kissed him passionately.

By now, the other diners were pointing and laughing heartily. As Paul and Vicky got up and took their seats, their waiter appeared with two glasses of champagne, courtesy of the boat.

"This is a good omen," said Paul. "In all the times that I've been to Paris, this has to be the first freebie I've ever had."

As first light began to steal through their curtained windows, Paul and Vicky were lying awake in each other's arms. They had just made love for the second time in less than six hours. They were caressing and trying to catch their breath.

Paul nibbled on her earlobe and whispered, "A very nice way to end our first European trip, wouldn't you say?"

"Yes, it was very nice, but we're going to look like zombies when we get back home later today."

"We'll have plenty of time to nap during the long plane ride. Unless, of course, you'd like to fool around some more."

Vicky made a low throaty sound. "I think not. The other passengers didn't buy tickets for any X-rated shows starring the two of us."

"You can still get a few hours of sleep before we have to head for the airport."

"I should take a bath before we leave." Paul made a humming sound that prompted Vicky to add, "Without you. Just me and my bubbles."

Paul caressed her butt. "What happens when we get back to California? We haven't talked much about that."

"We get married and live happily ever after."

"You really want to get married right away?"

"Not really, I was just kidding. I think we should ease into it slowly, getting your kids and mine to accept our relationship. After all, neither one of us can be a substitute for the other's first spouse."

"A good point. Another question is where we're going to live."

"Let's stay in your condo, for the time being anyway. It's very convenient for your daily commute, isn't it?"

"True, and it's even closer to your foundation's office."

"Ah yes, the foundation. I've decided that I don't want to work there anymore."

"Oh, why is that?"

"I don't want to be reminded of Walter and I can't respect Hector, knowing what he and Maria were doing. About the only person I'll miss is Holly."

"You know, you don't have to work. You'll have enough money to be a lady of leisure. Tennis, golf, bridge. All the important things."

"I can't do that. I'd go nuts in a very short time."

"Give it some thought. That's all I'm asking."

"I already have. I've got an idea that will knock your socks off."

Paul laughed. "My socks are already off, just like my underwear."

"First, I have to ask. Have you ever heard of Precious Ramotswe?"

"What's a Precious Ramotswe?"

"It's not a what. She's a character in a book I read. She's the owner of the Number 1 Ladies' Detective Agency in Botswana."

"Uh, oh. Am I going to like this?"

"Now listen to me before you say anything. What I really want to do is set up my own private detective agency."

Paul sat up in bed. "What? Are you serious?"

"Sure, I've got plenty of money to get it started. I figure we can specialize in white-collar crime, financial high jinx. We can also go after cheating husbands and deadbeat dads who aren't making their child support payments. You'll be my silent partner, of course, and money manager, financial analyst, and so forth. You could even be an active partner, but you'd probably have to quit your engineering job."

"This is so unexpected," he said. "How did you come up with such an idea?"

"Very simple. Just look at all we've been through during the last couple of months. All the good experience we've got under our belts."

"I can't deny the experience part but I think we both have a lot to learn. Would you get an office?"

"I think so, but nothing big and fancy. Just a place to work and meet clients."

"You'll need some communications hardware: a computer, telephone, fax machine. I can help you get those kinds of things ordered and working."

"This is so neat. You and I fighting crime together. I'm getting really excited. Maybe I can get Holly involved. It sure wouldn't hurt to have some kind of link with the FBI."

They continued talking for a while, exchanging more ideas about getting Vicky's detective agency started and making it a financial success. Vicky eventually got out of bed and filled the tub with warm water and bubble bath soap. Paul stayed in bed and could hear her pleasant humming as she soaked.

What a woman. She'll make this bizarre scheme work, I know it.
