Getaway (3 page)

“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.

There wasn’t much to tell, really. She skipped how she and Daniel had met. They’d had dinner. Come back to the hotel. Were sleeping.

“So these men,” he said when she’d finished. “Anything you can tell me, about how they looked? Were they tall? Short? If we showed you photos, could you identify them?”

“No.” She shook her head “No. They wore scarves across their faces. They were … I don’t know.” She tried to picture them, that moment when she saw them entering from the balcony. “One was skinny. Not very big at all. Short. The other, he wasn’t tall either, but he was stocky. Like a wrestler.”

The one who’d approached her bed.

“He had on a belt,” she said suddenly. “With a buckle shaped like a gun. And there were letters woven in it. ERO.”

“Guerrero?” the policeman asked.

“Maybe. Yes. I think so.”

He nodded. “Okay,” he said, standing up. “Sorry this has happened to you and your friend. It’s not so common in Vallarta, but it happens. If you give me contact information, I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”

“What’s Guerrero?” she asked.

“State next door. Lots of thieves come from there.”

The other plainclothes policeman nodded. “And
narcos
,” he said. “Always causing problems. Even now in Vallarta.”

After the policemen left, Michelle stayed where she was, sitting on the edge of the bed. Little piles of clothes lay scattered about, like the aftermath of a freeway car wreck. She could see the blood as well, the blood on the tiled floor. She’d gotten blood on her T-shirt and shorts, too.

What was she supposed to do now?

There was a knock on the door.

“Señorita?”

And naturally there was blood on her hands. She almost laughed at that. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and she still felt guilty. “Señorita Mason?” It was a woman’s voice. “Can we come in?”

“Who is it?”

“Claudia, from the front desk.”

She thought she remembered a Claudia, but she couldn’t be sure. She got up, went to the door, put on the chain, and cracked it open.

A woman stood there, middle-aged and stout, wearing a blue shift that looked like a nurse’s uniform. Michelle recognized her. Behind her was a man she’d seen sitting at a stand resembling a portable bar up at the entrance to the hotel driveway, where taxis dropped off guests.

“We are here to help you,” the woman said.

Michelle nodded. “Okay.” She undid the chain. “Thank you.” It made sense, she thought, that they’d send someone. To clean up.

They came in. The man spotted the bloody towel on the floor. He picked it up and put it in a trash bag. He wore latex gloves, like you’d use to do dishes.

Michelle sat back down on the bed. She didn’t know what else to do.

The woman immediately squatted by Michelle and covered her hand with her own, which was dry and a little rough.

“This is terrible,” she said, “and we are so very sorry. These things should not happen in Vallarta.”

“Things like this happen everywhere,” Michelle murmured.

“I think we can move you to another room, right? A better room.”

Michelle thought about it. She stared at the heaps of clothing, the puddle of blood now drying in the refrigerated air.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I don’t want to stay in this room anymore.”

They moved her to a suite in a newer wing, one with a separate bedroom and a bar, a wide balcony with wrought-iron furniture. She checked the balcony first thing. It could not be reached through another suite; there was no way to climb up to it that she could see.

After the woman from the front desk and the man from reception moved all her things, hung the clothes that had been in the closet, arranged her toothbrush, cosmetics, and moisturizers on the bathroom counter—after all that had been done, the offer of tea by the hotel staff turned down, Michelle stepped into the shower. Stood under the spray for a very long time.

When she got out, she slipped into the silk pajamas she’d packed, the sleeveless top and shorts. She considered having a whiskey from the minibar, thinking it might relax her, might help her sleep, but she already had the beginnings of a headache, so instead she took an Ambien. Tom’s prescription. Why let them go to waste?

She climbed into bed, closed her eyes. What replayed in her head was not the robbery, the assault, but Daniel’s face, over hers.

Maybe I should have gone to the hospital, Michelle thought as the drug began to take hold. Would that have been the right thing to do? But she barely knew Daniel, after all. Couldn’t even ask for him by name.

The breeze from the ocean billowed the gauzy curtains on the balcony. I should get up, she thought. I should close the door. But she was safe here, wasn’t she? And she was so tired, and the air smelled good.

She watched the curtains expand and contract, as though they were breathing.

Eventually her breaths slowed down to match, and then she slept.

“We hope
you can stay a little longer, Ms. Mason.”

The woman behind the front desk, a different woman from the one last night, briefly rubbed her hands before composing herself. She was trim, perhaps Michelle’s age, carefully made up, with a gold necklace and gold earrings that looked to be a set. Even in the heat of the patio that served as the hotel lobby, only the faintest dewy perspiration dampened her forehead. Michelle was already dripping sweat.

“We are so sorry about what happened. We’d like for you to stay as our guest and enjoy yourself.”

Everyone was being very kind, Michelle thought. Probably they were worried about lawsuits.

The robbers had somehow gained access to a vacant room next to her old room, climbed from that balcony onto hers. Obviously the security was not what it should have been. If she were in America, she could probably sue.

But in Mexico? How did things work here? Would it be worth it to try?

“Right now I’m scheduled to leave on Sunday,” she said.

“Of course, of course. We could make an arrangement for you to stay here in the future, if you’d like to return. Or if you decide you’d like to stay a little longer, we can do that as well.”

“Thank you,” Michelle said. “I’ll think about it.”

Even with what had happened, it was tempting. Spending time on the beach, drinking margaritas on the hotel’s dime, sounded better than her current life in Los Angeles. Living in her sister’s spare room. Listening to Maggie’s fights with her boyfriend, to her son Ben’s tantrums. It was why she’d come on this vacation in the first place, to get away from all that for a few days.

A giggle rose in her throat as she walked up the stairs from the
reception area to her tower. Maybe she just wouldn’t leave. See how long the hotel’s free room was good for. They hadn’t really said.

I’ll live off room service and peanuts from the minibar, she thought. Let my hair go gray, my thighs get fat, get a couple of cats and a Chihuahua. Fill the room with purchases from the beach vendors: loud serapes, wooden dolphin statuettes, flying Batman parachute toys, piled in stacks, all smelling vaguely of cat piss. Take her Chihuahua on walks down the Malecón. Maybe one of the cats, too.

She felt, for the first time in months, light. Unencumbered. Free.

The feeling wouldn’t last long, probably, but why not enjoy it?

Maybe I’ll take some pictures, she thought.

Get out the good camera. Wander around. See what caught her eye. She hadn’t done that in ages, hadn’t done it here at all, not even a few snapshots with her point-and-shoot, and she was a pretty decent photographer—or had been, once.

She decided to change out of the sundress and into some shorts and a tanktop. Better for taking photos, in case she needed to climb or crouch.

The hotel people hadn’t arranged things the way she would, naturally, and she had to hunt inside the wardrobe to figure out where they’d put her clothes.

Underwear on one shelf. Blouses and skirts neatly hung. Sandals lined in a row.

Including one pair that didn’t belong. A pair of Tevas, too big to fit her feet.

Hanging on the closet pole, a faded batik shirt.

Daniel’s clothes.

She found the swim trunks on the shelf with her bathing suit and sarong.

Holding up the trunks, she felt a surge of irritation. How could they have forgotten his clothes? What was she supposed to do with them?

Maybe she’d give them to the beach vendors, to one of the Indian kids peddling garish magnets made in China.

It’s not right for me to feel this way, she thought. She should care—shouldn’t she?—about what had happened to him. Maybe he’d just needed stitches, maybe he was resting at home right now, or even back on the beach looking for some other tourist to fuck, but what if he’d been badly hurt? A skull fracture, bleeding in the brain, something like that.

But ever since Tom had died, she didn’t seem to feel the things she was supposed to feel.

And maybe it wasn’t so strange, not wanting to see Daniel, after what had happened. What did she know about him, really? Just that he was attractive, and after she’d taken him to her room, they’d been attacked.

It could have been a lot worse.

She shuddered thinking about it.

Just some clothes that he wasn’t going to miss. Not her problem.

There was a sudden burst of music. She flinched, almost flinging Daniel’s trunks in the air. What
was
that? Not the stereo from the beach bar, it was definitely inside the room. A rock song, something familiar. She finally recognized it as “Pretty Fly,” by the Offspring. Coming from inside her tote bag.

It was her iPhone. I’ve never used that ringtone, she thought. She grabbed it from her bag, hit
ANSWER
.

“Hey, Danny?” A male voice.

“No,” she said. “Who’s this?”

“Oh. Sorry. Wrong number.” The call ended.

She stared at the phone. The wallpaper on the screen was wrong—an ocean wave rather than the rows of mountains she used. A moment later it rang again. N
ED
G came up as the caller. Same ringtone.

“Hey,” the same male voice said. “This is Danny’s phone, right?”

[CHAPTER THREE]

She hadn’t thought it was Daniel’s phone
. It looked exactly like her phone. It was a black iPhone, for chrissakes; they all looked pretty much alike.

“Who’s this?” she asked again.

“It’s Ned. So is Danny around?”

“No. He isn’t.”

“Oh.” A nervous chuckle. “Well, sorry to bug you. But, um … is this Danny’s number? Maybe my phone’s screwed up somehow.”

She stared at the iPhone. “I don’t know,” she said. She didn’t know what else to say.

“Okay,” the voice said. “But you know him, right?”

She hit
DISCONNECT
before she could even think it through.

When she slid the bar to unlock the phone,
ENTER PASSCODE
appeared on the screen. She didn’t use a passcode.

She had Daniel’s phone. So where was hers?

She tossed his phone on the bed. Used the hotel phone to make an international call and dialed her own number, waited for the ringtone she used for unidentified callers, the default marimba.

Nothing.

The call went directly to voicemail, and then she remembered that she’d turned it off to avoid roaming charges. To avoid calls from her attorney. From the creditor who’d somehow found the number.

“Oh, fuck,” she said.

“Leave a message,”
her own voice said.

Beep
. She hung up.

She tried to remember where she’d put the phone last night. It had been in her tote at the beach, she remembered that.

Where she’d found Daniel’s phone.

She checked the tote. Her phone wasn’t there.

Then she remembered: the tote, knocked over, its contents spilling out onto the floor. The man, going through Daniel’s shorts.

If she had Daniel’s phone, maybe Daniel had hers.

The phone rang again, and she lunged for it. “Hello?”

“Look, I’m really sorry to keep bugging you.” It was the man who’d called before—Ned. “But if Danny doesn’t want to talk to me, could I, like, leave a message or something? It’s kind of important.”

Ned. That was the man who’d come up to Daniel in the restaurant the previous night. Tweaker Ned. Daniel didn’t seem particularly happy to see him, but that didn’t mean they weren’t close, close enough at least for Ned to maybe know where Daniel lived.

“Is this Ned?”

“Yeah, it is.” He sounded relieved, like he was happy to have been recognized. “Who’s this?”

“Michelle. We met last night at the restaurant. I’m Daniel’s … Danny’s friend.”

“Great. So can you give Danny a message for me?”

“No, he.…” How to put it? “He had a little accident last night. They took him to the hospital.… He.…”

“Fuck. Shit. Really? What kind of accident?” It was more than concern in his voice, she thought. There was a distinct note of panic.

“A robbery. I mean, he’s okay,” she said, even though she didn’t know that for sure, “but he probably needed some stitches. And I ended up with his phone, and I think he has mine.”

“Oh, man,” Ned said. “Oh, man.”

“So I was wondering … do you know where he lives? Because I’d like to get this back to him.”

“No. No, I don’t know. I always just … you know, call him.”

“Great,” Michelle muttered. “Okay, thanks.”

Well, that was useless, she thought, hitting the red “disconnect” bar.

She couldn’t call Daniel’s contacts. Couldn’t access any information he might have on the phone.

Maybe she’d try the hospital.

“Discharged,” the
woman at the hotel front desk said.

Michelle had asked her if she would make the call, in case the hospital receptionist didn’t speak good English.

“So it must not have been serious?”

The woman gave the suggestion of a shrug. “I think probably not.”

“Did they tell you … is there any way I can get a hold of him?”

As soon as she’d said it, she knew it was a waste of time. Hospitals weren’t going to give out that kind of information.