Page 55 of Insidious Threats
He’d need a fake passport, but if he’d learned nothing else during his time as an undergrad at UCSD, he knew those were plentiful around the trolley station. They were terrible, obvious forgeries but readily available in parking lots and back alleys throughout the neighborhood. Good enough for underaged drinkers to get into bars and coders on the run to flee the country. Besides, nobody really checked that closely when a U.S. citizen was crossing into Mexico. Getting back over the border would be tougher, but he didn’t plan to ever set foot on U.S. soil again.
Once he was on the other side of LA, the traffic thinned, and he made up some time. Two and a half hours later, he parked on a side street behind the trolley station, yanked the hula dancer off the dashboard and shoved it in his pocket. He left the keys in the ignition. The car would be long gone before he got on the trolley.
He bought a passport on the loading dock behind a big box hardware store for three hundred dollars even and assumed his new life as Rodrigo Pablo Roberto. He removed the rest of the cash from his wallet and dropped the billfold into a fetid dumpster two streets away.
He bought a street taco from a truck outside the station and demolished it while he walked inside to purchase a one-way ticket to San Ysidro. The woman behind the counter didn’t even glance at his passport.
“Thanks,” he said, taking his ticket. “Do I have time to use the bathroom?”
She looked at him over the top of her glasses. “Suppose that depends on how fast you can go. You have eight minutes.”
He nodded, headed for the bathroom, and stood at the sink. He ran the water over his hands and watched in the mirror as people entered and exited the restroom. Finally, the door swung open and the guy he’d been waiting for walked in. A slim, wiry man wearing a trolley company uniform and pushing a cleaning cart, entered. The custodian nodded in greeting and headed into a stall. Gar dropped his gaze to the sink.
He turned off the water and pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped it into the mop bucket, where it sank to the bottom, submerged in gray, sudsy water. Then he dried his hands and walked out leaving the last traces of Garwood March behind.
29
Cole’s Tavern took its name from Thomas Cole, the father of the Hudson River School of painting, but—as Leona was quick to explain—he was no relation to her uncle, Daniel Cole, who established the bar.
“Uncle Dan was a fan of the painting style, and especially of Mr. Cole, who captured the beauty of the natural landscape better than just about anyone else in Uncle Dan’s opinion.” She pointed to the reproduction on the front of the menus she placed down on the table in front of Sasha and Ellie. “This one here was my uncle’s favorite. It’s from a series he did of Catskill Creek, but Uncle Dan and I think it looks a lot like the view of the river from the little deck the hamlet built.”
“It does,” Ellie agreed.
The tavern owner blinked in surprise. “You’ve been already? I thought you two just got into town.”
It was Sasha’s turn to show surprise. “Word travels fast, I guess.”
Leona laughed. “Oh, The Luminist Inn and I have a little arrangement. Rhonda calls me when new guests check-in and directs them my way, and if I have a patron who over-imbibes, I send them to Rhonda’s to sleep it off.”
“Ah, a little quid pro quo.”
“Just two small businesswomen looking out for one another,” Leona said stiffly, as if she wasn’t sure whether quid pro quo was good or bad.
“Of course,” Sasha said quickly. “As you should. Although, in this case, you owe our patronage to a gentleman named Vern. We met him at the river when we stopped to see the sunset, and he sent us here. But, don’t worry, Rhonda also recommended we come here when we checked in.”
Leona relaxed. “Vern’s an old fool. He’s gonna catch his death of cold painting those hills in the dead of winter. I told him, Vern, get a camera and work off a reference photo. That’s how most of these painters do it nowadays, you know. But Vern just blathered on about the light and the movement of the air and such.” She shook her head. “Speaking of blathering on, listen to me. What can I get you ladies to drink?”
Sasha studied the cocktail menu for a few seconds. “Oh, this spiced gin warmer sounds perfect.”
“It’s good,” Leona told her, “like a hot toddy but with spiced apples and gin, of course.” She turned to Ellie, “I’m gonna have to card you, honey.”
Ellie laughed and handed over her ID. Sasha tried to remember the last time she was carded.
“Thanks. So what’ll it be?”
Leona placed Ellie’s driver’s license on the table in front of her. Ellie left it there.
“I’ll have a vodka martini. Up, extra dry, two olives.” Ellie watched for Leona’s reaction.
Leona’s eyes grew huge. She leaned over and read Ellie’s name off the ID card. “Eleanor Anderson Prescott. You’re Chuck’s girl?”
Ellie nodded. “I am. I go by Ellie.”
“Yeah, your dad told me.”
“He talks about me?” Her voice cracked.
Leona waved a hand. “All the time. You know how fathers are. He’s so proud of you. A very fine lawyer, he says.”
