She followed this with a soft, embarrassed laugh. This whole situation had thrown her off her game and she felt more like a hapless victim than a seasoned prosecutor.
The purser frowned. “Misplaced her?”
“She’s missing.”
“And this happened on board ship or in port?”
“I just told you,” Beth said. “I lost her in Playa Azul.”
“How long ago?”
“About an hour and a half.” Beth had spent a good half of that time conducting her search of the ship, which had yielded a big fat donut. “We were having lunch and she went across the street to use the restroom. I haven’t seen her since.”
The purser shrugged. “An hour and a half isn’t long. There’s a lot to do in town.”
“You aren’t listening,” Beth said. “She went to the restroom and never came back.”
“I’m sure there’s an explanation. Maybe she got distracted, saw a shop she wanted to explore, and lost track of you. It happens. She’ll turn up.”
He shifted his attention to his computer screen again, and feeling her assertiveness return, Beth reached out, blocking his view with her hand.
The purser jerked his head back in surprise and irritation.
“I just told you,” Beth said, “ my sister is missing. I think she may be in trouble. I’ve tried calling her half a dozen times, but her phone is turned off. I’ve searched every inch of this ship that’s accessible to guests and-”
“Why search the ship if she disappeared in Playa Azul?”
Beth looked at him. It was certainly a reasonable question. “I thought she might have come back here.”
“Well,” he said with another shrug, “that’s easy enough to find out.”
“How?”
“Her seafarer’s card. You remember how security scanned your card when you came back on board?”
Beth nodded. She’d been asked to push it into a slot so a ship’s security officer could check the photo they had on file to make sure she was really who she claimed to be. The photos had been taken as they boarded the ship for the first time back in Long Beach. It had seemed a bit Big Brotherish to Beth, but she understood the reasons for it. Security at the DA’s office was nearly as tight.
“If your sister came back to the ship,” the purser said, “they would’ve scanned hers as well. In which case, we’ll have a record of her return. Did you book your passage together?”
Beth nodded.
“What’s your cabin number?”
Beth told him and he keyed it into the computer, then frowned.
“I have a note here that you were involved in an incident in the dining room last night.”
Beth felt herself redden. “My sister,” she said. “She had too much to drink. It won’t happen again.”
He eyed her warily, then hit a few more keys and stared at the screen a moment.
“I’m afraid there’s no record of her return. So she must still be in town. I can contact the Mexican authorities, if you like, but I’m pretty sure they’ll agree that an hour and a half isn’t all that much time.”
Beth thought about it, and despite her concern, she still wasn’t absolutely sure Jen hadn’t disappeared by choice.
Then an idea struck her.
“She’s been hanging around with some friends of ours. Rafael and Marta Santiago. Maybe they know where she is. Do you think you could check to see if they’ve returned?”
The purser shook his head. “We have strict guest privacy rules. Have you tried calling them yourself? Or checking their cabin?”
“I’m not sure what room they’re in. We just met them last night.”
“Then I’m afraid you’re out of luck. I will, however, be happy to have security stop by their cabin and ask them if they’ve seen her.”
“Thank you,” Beth said. “I think I’ll go back into town and look around some more.”
The purser nodded. Feigned a little empathy. “Not to worry, I’m sure you’ll find her. You might check some of the bars.”
Beth knew this was a backhanded reference to last night’s embarrassment but decided to let it go. No point in creating a scene.
Besides, he was probably right.
“And don’t forget,” he continued. “The gangplank closes at five thirty. We sail at six.”
She hesitated, thinking about this, then thanked him again and went downstairs to the debarking station.
The first place she planned to hit when she got back into town was Armando’s Cantina.
35
According to Google Maps, the Ainsworth ranch was located on three acres of dusty countryside just north of an El Paso suburb called Montoya.
Thanks to the phone’s Secure Digital expansion slot, Vargas was able to access the laptop data he’d backed up to the SD card in his wallet. This included the witness contact information he’d copied from the Casa de la Muerte police file.
Not everything was there, but it was enough.
After transferring Ainsworth’s address to the phone’s Google navigation system, he called up the directions and started driving.
The ranch stood across the street from a housing tract still under construction and was accessible by a narrow dirt road. A faded, beat-up sign at the top of the road said:
HAVE AN EGG-CELLENT MEAL WITH AINSWORTH FAMILY EGGS
There were no streetlights out here, but there was enough moonlight to make out a distant cluster of small, dilapidated warehouses and an old two-story dwelling that could best be described as a fixer-upper, circa 1922.
Vargas had no intention of driving down that road. Instead, he turned into the housing tract and parked next to a vacant lot.
In the middle of the lot stood another, newer sign, announcing the impending construction of a luxury four- bedroom home, which, if it ever got built, would one day stand in stark contrast to the Ainsworth house across the street.
As he killed the engine, Vargas started having second thoughts about this little excursion. What exactly did he hope to accomplish out here?
He had no interest in confronting Ainsworth directly.
Been there, done that.
Considering Vargas’s current physical condition, any attempt at face time would be an exercise in disaster. He couldn’t just walk up to the guy and say, “Hey, tell me everything you know about your psycho friends.” Not if he wanted to avoid winding up in a box in some warehouse district alleyway.
Instead, he was forced to go into stealth mode. Convinced that Ainsworth and Junior had ransacked those bodies back in the desert, he hoped that an uninvited tour of their house might yield some of their ill-gotten bounty. And if he was lucky, he might just find something that pointed to the American woman’s identity.
A driver’s license. Credit card. Family photo.
Considering the amount of time that had passed, it was a long shot, sure.
But it was the only shot he had.
Still, as he sat there listening to the Corolla’s engine rattle and die, he realized he’d been running on pure impulse and had no real plan of attack.
