CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Taylor sat in the hard wooden chair, oblivious to the chaos about her. She was in the San José del Cabo policia station, a drab and depressing building near the center of town. The police had driven her to their precinct from the accident scene after determining she was involved in the crash. The interior of the precinct was rather decrepit, the painted stucco walls peeling and most desks and chairs in disrepair. She had decided very quickly that telling the Mexican police that Alan was trying to kill someone when he drove over the cliff was a bad idea to the nth degree, and had instead woven a story that included both truth and conjecture. So far they seemed to be buying it. One of the more senior officers, who spoke passable English, returned to where she sat and positioned himself beside her. His name was Manuel Ortega.

“Ms. Simons, you are sure your husband drove farther up the road after he dropped you at the viewpoint?” Ortega asked.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she replied in a soft voice. She was a mess, her eyes black from the mascara running and red from crying. She sat with her shoulders hunched over, staring at the floor.

Ortega’s eyes were steady on her. “There are houses just up the road, and no one living in those houses saw your husband drive by. One of the women was outside in her yard hanging her laundry to dry. I think she would remember seeing a tourist in a rental car. There is not much traffic on this road.” His tone was interesting, almost inviting her to tell the truth.

“My husband wanted to see what was ahead on the road. I wished to stay at the lookout and enjoy the view. When he returned he was traveling too fast and went over the cliff.” She looked up and stared straight into his eyes, unblinking. “My husband is dead, Senor Ortega. Please try to respect that fact.”

He nodded, barely and very slowly. “I just find it a little strange that no one saw him drive up the road, and that the tracks from his car appear to go straight off the cliff, not on an angle, like they would if the car was coming around the corner at a high speed.”

Taylor was quiet. It was very obvious this man was not a Mexican police officer who didn’t care what happened to the gringos except to take their bribes. He knew something was askew, now it was a question of whether he wanted to pursue it.

“When will you be returning to the United States?” he asked.

“Soon. I have no reason to stay in Mexico.”

He nodded again. This time with a little more conviction. He looked down at the file on his lap and opened it. “I see,” he said, flipping through a few pages. He was quiet, scanning the contents of each page. Finally he closed the file. “The divers are searching for your husband’s body, but it will be difficult. The tides and the waves in that area of the coastline are very dangerous.”

“I can imagine,” Taylor said.

“Yes, I’m sure you can.” He tapped the file against his knee a few times, then said, “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Ms. Simons? Anything at all?” Ortega’s eyes told her that he knew there was more to this than what she was telling.

Her eyes teared up again and she dabbed at them with a tissue. It came away stained with mascara. “I loved my husband, Senor Ortega. And sometimes things happen that are beyond your own control.”

“Do you wish to discuss these things?”

She shook her head. “They’re private. My husband and I had a very good marriage. We loved each other, and neither of us would cause harm to the other. For that to happen, it would take outside influences.”

“These outside influences, they would be private.”

“Yes.”

He scratched his cheek lightly, then rubbed his clean-shaven chin. His dark eyes were thoughtful. He rose from his chair and said, “I’m sorry about your husband, Ms. Simons. It was a tragic accident. Please accept my condolences. You are free to go.”

“Thank you,” she said, rising and shaking his hand.

“Would you like a ride back to your hotel?”

She shook her head. “No, I’ll find a cab. I need some time alone right now.”

“I understand,” Ortega said.

Taylor left the police station. The streets outside were almost deserted, the hour late. She walked slowly along the uneven cement, oblivious to the shopkeepers trying to lure in the last tourist of the day. She was alone in Mexico, alone in the world. Her parents were gone, she had no brothers or sisters, and now her husband was dead. G-cubed was gone—in the hands of a competitor, and although the loss of the business seemed trite in comparison to what had just happened on the rugged cliffs of the East Baja Cape, it was still a loss. She had suffered enough loss for one lifetime. She leaned against the rough concrete walls of a small silver store and closed her eyes. The night breeze was chilly. She tugged her thin coat about her waist and pulled up the zipper. The street was quiet, save for an occasional car or moped driving by.

Things could be worse. She could be in a Mexican prison cell waiting for Manuel Ortega to decide what to do with her. Alan had tried to kill Edward Brand by pushing the Ford Explorer over the cliff. It had backfired, and Alan had died instead. But if the police were to find out what his intentions were, she could be held as an accessory. Then a disturbing thought occurred to her. Edward Brand seemed quite at home in Mexico. First Mexico City, now the Baja peninsula. If he were as well connected as he appeared to be, what were the chances he might go to the police himself and tell them what happened? Perhaps he knew the local police well enough. Perhaps.

She looked up and down the street. Dim streetlights lit the roadway at uneven intervals and an old mangy dog lay on the sidewalk a few feet from her, disinterested now that he was sure she had no food. A set of headlights appeared, and a car pulled up to the curb. It was a cab. The driver leaned over and rolled down the passenger window.

“Taxi?” he said. He was a young man with an eager dark-skinned face. His eyes were hopeful. Perhaps he had a fare.

Taylor stared at his eyes, seeing the hope. That was the key. Hope. She had to keep hope alive in her spirit. Hope and belief. Belief that there was a reason for what happens, and that the world was not just a giant ball of random events all jumbled together to form the lives of those who got up every day and went about their various routines. She needed to believe there was a purpose to what happened. She broke off the eye contact and took a deep breath. The taxi was an older car, but well maintained. And it was the start of her new life without Alan. The moment she slipped into the backseat of that car, she was starting the long and arduous process of rebuilding her life. It was one step closer to whatever normalcy she could find.

She smiled at the young man. It was a sad smile, with sad eyes. And sad eyes never lie.

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Yes. I’d like to start the journey right now.”

He jumped from the driver’s seat and opened the rear passenger door. She slid in, knowing the importance of the moment, but also knowing the enormity of the hill in front of her. But somehow, just taking the first step felt good.

“Where to, señorita?” he asked, leaning over the seat.

“Playa Grande, Cabo San Lucas,” she said, but she knew this journey was longer.

Much longer.