Getaway (34 page)

“Danny,” he said. “Good to see you.” He had a long, lined face, a surprisingly soft voice with a certain clipped authority.

“Curt,” Daniel said. “This is Michelle.”

He extended his hand to her. “Pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

His hand was cool to the touch, and strong.

“Michelle’s a friend of mine from Los Angeles,” Daniel said. He’d tensed up, she could tell, holding himself too still.

“Oh? On vacation?”

“Yes.” She forced a smile. “This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you. I don’t spend nearly enough time in it.” He turned
to Daniel. “Danny, why don’t you get your friend something to drink? Me, too, if you wouldn’t mind.”

There were two waiters that she could see, circulating among the guests offering them drinks and appetizers; he didn’t need Daniel to run and fetch them drinks. He was the boss, commanding his employee. There was no mistaking it.

“Sure. What can I get you?”

“Just a mineral water,” he said. “How about you, Michelle? I have a really nice chardonnay, if you’re interested.”

“That sounds great,” she said, wondering—did he know what she liked to drink? Or was it just a guess? What the nice lady from Los Angeles would be expected to like?

“I’ll be right back,” Daniel said. He rested his hand briefly on her forearm, the gesture of a conspirator, and headed inside.

Curt glanced at her sling, then back to her eyes. “Did you have an accident?”

“Oh, it was …” She swallowed, trying to push down the pulse in her throat. “I got mugged.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“You know, I think I heard something about it. Something involving a policeman?”

How would he know that? She tried to remember whom she’d told, who would know. “I …” Her mouth had gone dry. “I don’t really know. It all happened so fast.”

“You look dizzy,” he said. “Why don’t we sit down while Danny rustles up those drinks?” He smiled. “Take the chance to get better acquainted.”

They walked side by side farther onto the terrace, to a lower level that wrapped around the natural stone pool. There was a
palapa
there that overlooked the beach.

Curt took her hand and helped her sit. Her legs felt shaky.

“This is a wonderful country,” he said. “But you do have to watch your step.”

“Bad things can happen anywhere,” she said faintly.

“Exactly.” He kept his eyes fixed on hers, a deliberate, uncomfortable scrutiny. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

“Not much to tell. My marriage ended recently, so …” She shrugged, forgetting what that would do to her shoulder, and winced.

Curt noticed. “Oh, I’m sorry. You’re all banged up, and here I am interrogating you.”

“That’s all right.” She managed a smile. “I wish I had something more interesting to say.”

“I have a confession to make.” He leaned forward, eyebrows lifted, making it a joke. “I’m not very interesting either. I’m in finance. I have an investment firm, based out of Florida. Venture capital for start-ups mostly, and some real estate.”

Funny, she thought.

“My husband was in real-estate finance.”

“Ouch,” he said cheerfully. “Bad time for it overall. Though I still have my fingers in a few things.” He gestured up the coast. “That’s one of our projects, right up there.”

Michelle looked to where he pointed. A large rectangle of bare, brown earth was cut into the jungle-covered bluffs, as if a giant brand had been pressed against the ground.

“Oh.”

“I know it doesn’t look like much now, but it really is going to be special. Gated. Ocean views. Pool. Green technology. Solar paneling, recycled materials …”

“Hey.” Daniel had returned, a glass of wine and a sweating beer bottle between the fingers of one hand, a tall glass of sparking water with a wedge of lime in the other.

He gave the glass to Curt, then knelt down and handed her the wine. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s just great to be here, in a beautiful place like this. Thanks for having me,” she said to Curt.

“My pleasure.” He rose, swiped his forehead briefly with a handkerchief. “Now that you’re taken care of, I hope you can relax and enjoy the day.”

Michelle sipped her wine. It was, as Curt had indicated, excellent.

Daniel stared after him for a moment, then sat in the chair next to her. “Good job,” he said.

She didn’t ask, and he didn’t offer. They sat for a while in silence, Daniel drinking his beer and snagging a couple of tiny tamales from a passing waiter.

“I’m going to go talk to some people,” he said. “Eat something if you have a chance. It might be a while before we get anything else.”

“Okay,” she said.

After he left, a waiter came by with a fresh tray of hors d’oeuvres: crab taquitos and tuna ceviche. She took some and ate. She was sure the food was delicious, but she hardly tasted it. Another waiter came with a fresh glass of chardonnay. A few guests approached and introduced themselves—a banker, an official from the Mexican trade commission, an American who said he was in the oil business. Michelle smiled at them, thanked them for their expressions of sympathy and healing, made small talk. Like everything was normal.

She had the sense that she was watching herself from a small distance and realized she’d felt that way at parties for years.

Partway through the second glass of wine, her hip, her shoulder, her ribs—everything—started to throb with a dull intensity that was like a spreading headache. She needed to move, as much as that would hurt.

The beach looked so beautiful. She had a sudden impulse to go down there, to dig her toes in the golden sand.

She pushed herself to her feet, gasping a little as she gained her balance. Cane in one hand, glass of wine in the other, she limped around the dark flagstone pool toward the beach.

It wasn’t
like the beach in Puerto Vallarta. There were no vendors. A few sunbathers to the north. A couple from the party, arm in arm, strolling through ankle-deep surf.

Silence, except for the wash and crash of waves.

I almost died, she thought, staring at the waves, at the sun sinking into the horizon, melting the clouds around it into smears of pink and orange.

I could be dead tomorrow
.

She kicked off her sandals. Dug her toes into the wet sand.

“Look who’s here! And I thought you might be mad at me.”

[CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX]

“Did you come with Danny?
Is he around?”

Emma swayed a bit, maintaining her grip on a half-full, oversize wineglass. She wore a gauze beach cover-up over a dark red bikini, her breasts barely restrained by the scalloped top.

“I …” Michelle stood there, frozen. Why was Emma here? Was Oscar …? She looked over her shoulder, flinching from the pain in her head.

“Why are you so nervous? There’s private security for this beach. Like my father’s going to allow any trouble.”

Father?

Michelle stared at Emma, who was studying her, her expression uncharacteristically concerned. “What happened to you?”

“I …”

“Come on,” Emma said. “Let’s go sit down.” Now she giggled. “And catch up.”

Emma led
her to a little stone table on the terrace closest to the sand. Before she even sat, she waved at a waiter, held up her wineglass and two fingers.

Michelle carefully lowered herself into the chair. She felt like she’d had the breath knocked out of her—sucker-punched again.

“I usually hate these parties,” Emma was saying. “Hardly anyone interesting ever comes, and of course Daddy doesn’t like my friends.”

“Your father … your father’s Curt?”

Emma snickered. “Yeah. You didn’t know?”

By now the waiter had arrived with fresh wine, whisking away Michelle’s nearly full glass before she could formulate an objection. She couldn’t think; it was like trying to see down a road obscured by fog.

“So what happened?” Emma asked.

“I … was mugged.” Stick to the story, she told herself; it’s the only thing you can do. “A couple of days ago.”

“Wow, that sucks.” Emma gulped her wine, and then she smiled, that studied sly look of hers, peering up through her eyelashes. “I guess you won’t want to go out with me for a while.”

The fog lifted, burned off by a rush of anger. “Your boyfriend,” she said before she could stop herself. “Oscar. Do you have any idea …?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore. We broke up. After he got what he wanted.” Emma pouted. “Daddy was so mad at me. That’s why I’m grounded.”

“Quit the little-girl act, Emma,” Michelle snapped. “It’s not funny.”

“I’d have to agree.”

Curt Dellinger stood there behind her, on the flagstone path that led down from the main house, trailed by Daniel, who looked as pale as he had last night, when she’d told him what had happened to her—and to Charlie.

“Busted,” Emma whispered gleefully.

“I didn’t realize that you knew my daughter,” Curt said.

“We’ve met.”

“We went out the other night,” Emma said, giving Michelle’s
uninjured arm a squeeze. “I took her to see a few sights. Off the beaten path.”

“It was an interesting evening,” Michelle said.

Daniel stepped forward. “We’d better hit the road. It’s getting late.”

“You sure you won’t stay the night?” Curt asked. “A couple of the bungalows are free. Some of those roads, after dark … they’re tricky.”

“We still have a little light left,” Daniel said.

Michelle started to push herself to her feet with her cane. Curt stepped in, offered her his arm, and she clasped his hand, steadied herself, and stood.

The last rays of the sun lit Curt’s face, bathing him in a pink-and-orange light. He looked like an advertisement for some preppy clothing company, she thought, like he should have a tennis racket under one arm, a Labrador by his feet.

The lines around his eyes crinkled as he smiled at her.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.

“My pleasure.”

“Come back soon!” Emma called out, waving after them.

“Jesus, Danny
. Why didn’t you tell me that Emma is Curt’s daughter?”

“Didn’t think about it.” His eyes were focused on the dark road ahead, the road that led to the highway.

“Seriously? You didn’t think that would be a good thing for me to know?”

“I didn’t think it would come up. She’d rather be just about anyplace else than where he is. Only time I’ve seen the two of them together lately is when she needs him to write her a check.”

“Come on. She shows up at María’s party, she makes sure I meet Oscar so he can find you, and her father is one of your
clients
?”

“Look, Michelle. Drop it. I’m telling you. In case you haven’t figured it out, you are in a world of shit right now. I’m trying to
fix it so you can go home and they’ll leave you alone, and the best thing you can do is just forget about it.”

“You sound like Gary.”

He slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “I am
nothing
like Gary.”

“Prove it,” she said. “Just tell me something real. Or you can let me out by the side of the road and I will fucking
walk
home.”

For a moment she thought that he would. The Jeep slowed down. Fine, she thought. Fine. I have two thousand dollars. I have my passport. I’ll get home by myself.

He heaved a huge sigh. “Fuck,” he muttered. “Emma likes stirring shit up,” he said. “And she likes pissing him off. Maybe she’s trying to make a play. Maybe she wants to show her daddy that she’s got her own thing going on. Whatever. He wants what’s best for him and his group, and he likes it when things run smooth and he doesn’t get embarrassed. Oscar and those guys, I don’t know how they fit into that. Who’s on top changes, and people get burned all the time.”

They’d made it to the highway. The Jeep picked up speed.

He turned to her now that the road was straight. “There’s some proverb. It’s probably Chinese. It goes, you sit on the mountain to watch the tigers fight.”

He turned his eyes back to the road. “What that means is, you let them eat each other. Instead of eating you.”

They continued
south along the highway, back toward the city.

“Where are we going, or is that something else I don’t need to know?”

“Town up in the mountains,” he said shortly. “It’ll take us a couple of hours.”

“So there’s an airport?”

He snorted. “Not exactly. Good airstrip, though.”

Great, Michelle thought. Could this get any sketchier? She could just picture dark men with mustaches and gold chains loading bales of pot … or would it be bricks of cocaine? Off of
donkeys. Or Jeeps. Set to a Don Henley song. Wasn’t there a movie like that, with Mel Gibson?

“And we’ll fly, we’ll fly where?”

“It’s a little tricky,” he muttered. “The plane’s a Caravan, and it only has about a nine-hundred-mile range, a little more with the extended tanks. But you can’t land a jet on that strip, and there’s no way I’m gonna risk going out of PVR.”

The Vallarta airport. “Because of the police?” It only made sense, Michelle thought, that if she wasn’t supposed to leave town, they’d watch for her at the airport.

Now he laughed. “The police aren’t a problem. There’s a private aerodrome there that we use, and normally everything’s taken care of. But with all the shit that’s gone down, I’m not gonna chance it. If Gary’s got a wild hair up his ass, it’s better to just go around him.”

“In a … So this is a small plane we’re taking?”

“Yeah, but they’re awesome little birds,” he said, with real enthusiasm. “Workhorses. You can practically land them in a ditch.”

Just great.

Bumpity-bumpity-bump
.

“Hey, wake up. We’re here.”

“I’m awake,” she said. She was, more or less. She’d been drifting in and out along the way, but her ribs and shoulder hurt too much to let her sleep soundly, and when she’d come closest to real sleep, she’d had a nightmare about not being able to move, about being tangled up in sheets.

She stretched as he opened the driver’s door. The air had a crisp coolness to it that she hadn’t felt since she’d left Los Angeles. The trees had a different scent, less weighted with fruit and flowers.