Along with the clippings, Mac had included several eight-by-eleven black-and-white shots of Jaffe at various public functions: art openings, political fund-raisers, charity auctions. Judging by the events he attended, he was certainly one of the select: handsome, well dressed, a central part of any group. Often, his was the one blurred face, as if he’d pulled back or turned away just as the camera shutter clicked. I wondered if even then he was consciously avoiding being photographed. He was in his mid-fifties and big. Silver hair, high cheekbones, jutting chin, his nose prominent. He seemed calm and self-possessed, a man who didn’t care much what other people thought.
In a curious way, I felt a fleeting bond with the man as I tried on the idea of changing identities. Being a liar by nature, I’ve always been attracted to the possibility. There’s a certain romance in the notion of walking out of one life and into another, like an actor passing from one character role to the next. Not that long ago I’d handled a case in which a fellow, convicted of murder, had walked away from a prison work crew and had managed to create a whole new persona for himself. In the process, he’d shed not only his past, but the taint of the homicide conviction. He’d acquired a new family and a good job. He was respected in his new community. He might have continued pulling off the deception except for an error in a bench warrant that resulted in a fluke arrest some seventeen years later. The past has a way of catching up with all of us.
I checked my watch and saw that it was time to go. I packed away the clippings and grabbed my duffel bag. I moved through the main terminal, cleared security, and began the long trek down the concourse to my posted gate. One immutable law of travel is that one’s arrival or departure gate is always at the extreme outer limit of the terminal, especially if your bag is heavy or your shoes have just begun to pinch. I sat in the boarding area and rubbed one foot while my fellow passengers assembled, waiting for the gate agent to call our flight.
Once I was seated on the plane with my duffel stowed in the bin above, I pulled out the glossy hotel brochure Mac had enclosed with the tickets. In addition to my flights, he’d booked accommodations for me at the same resort where Wendell Jaffe had been seen. I wasn’t convinced the guy would still be in residence, but who was I to turn down a free vacation?
The picture of the Hacienda Grande de Viento Negro showed a three-storied structure with a stretch of dark beach faintly visible in the foreground. The blurb under the photograph boasted of a restaurant, two bars, and a heated swimming pool, with recreational activities that included tennis, snorkling, deep-sea fishing, a bus tour of the town, and complimentary margaritas.
The woman in the next seat was reading over my shoulder. I nearly shielded my paper as if she were cheating on a test. She was in her forties, very thin, very tanned, and sleek. She wore her black hair in a French braid and was dressed in a black pants suit with a tan shell underneath. There was not a hint of color on her anyplace. “Are you headed for VN?”
“Yes. Do you know the area?”
“Yes, I do, and I hope you’re not planning to stay there” she said. She was pointing at the brochure with a little moue of distaste.
“What’s the matter with the place? It looks fine to me.”
She pushed her tongue along the inside of her cheek as though she were checking her gums. Her brow lifted slightly. “It’s your money, I guess.”
“Actually, it’s someone else’s money. This is business,” I said.
She nodded, clearly unconvinced. She occupied herself with her magazine, a look on her face like she was trying not to butt in. After a moment I saw her murmur a comment to the man on her right. Her traveling companion, in the window seat, had a wad of Kleenex hanging out of one nostril, stanching a nose bleed that had apparently been induced by increasing cabin pressure as the plane prepared for takeoff. The twist of tissue looked like a fat hand-rolled cigarette. He leaned forward slightly to get a better look at me.
I turned my attention to the woman again. “Really. Is there a problem?”
“I’m sure it’s fine,” she said faintly.
“Depending on how you feel about dust, humidity, and bugs,” the man interjected.
I laughed …heh, heh, heh …on the assumption that he was kidding. Neither one of them cracked a smile.
Belatedly, I learned that viento negro means “black wind,” a fair description of the blizzard of dark lava soot that swirled up from the beach late every afternoon. The hotel was modest, an upside down U-shape painted apricot yellow with little balconies across the front. Alternate patios had planters affixed to the railings with bougainvillea tumbling down in a waterfall of magenta. The room was clean but faintly shabby, looking out across the Gulf of California to the east.