The young clerk shook his head regretfully. "I am sorry, señor, but the name is unfamiliar to me."
"She might have gotten the wrong hotel," Steele mused. "Could you check some of the others - see if she might be registered?" He slid a twenty dollar bill across the counter as he asked the question.
The clerk's eyes lit up as he put the money into his pocket. "Oh, yes, Mr. Steele. I will let you know if I find anything."
"Thank you." He started to turn away, then stopped. "On other thing. Do you happen to know where I might find a place called Pepe's?"
Another, broader smile. "Oh, yes. It is near the harbour. But it is closed-"
"Closed?"
"For almost two months now. Such a waste. As anyone near the harbour. They will be glad to give you directions."
"Thank you."
"Miss Holt drives a small white convertible," Steele told him. "A Volkswagon Rabbit."
Chief Gutierrez shifted in his chair, then shook his head again. "I have not seen such a vehicle, Mr. Steele. May I ask why you are looking for these people?"
"Miss Holt's fiancee is concerned about her whereabouts. He hired my agency to locate her."
"And this - López?"
"His mother is concerned that he hasn't returned home for a month. She told me that he makes deliveries to someone in Acapulco."
"Deliveries of what, Mr. Steele? Drugs, perhaps?"
"I won't know that until I find him."
Gutierrez rose to his feet. "I am sorry that I was of so little help," he said, holding out his hand to signal the end of the meeting.
Steele rose as well, taking the hand, his thoughts swift. The man had hesitated when the car had been mentioned, and that hesitation put Steele on the alert. Gutierrez knew more than he was willing to tell. As he exited the station, Steele approached a young officer. "Excuse me, but- my car was towed away - I just paid the fine, but- where is the impound yard?"
The man jerked a thumb back down the street. "Behind the garage," he told Steele.
"Thank you." He strolled nonchalantly down the street until he found himself standing outside of a chain link fence topped by barbed wire, looking at the white VW Rabbit. Mentally verifiying the license number, Steele nodded to himself before turning and going into the garage.
The mechanic who greeted him was a huge, well muscled man. "Can I help you?"
"I hope so. I was told that my car was here -"
"Your car?"
"In your lot. The car was stolen, you see, and recovered here."
"Which car?" The man asked, wiping his hands on a dirty rag.
"The small white convertible." When the man looked at him as if unable to imagine someone like Steele driving the car, Steele grinned. "It's my wife's car, actually. It's been missing for a couple of weeks, and when I got word that it had been found, I came right down. I was hoping to surprise her -"
The man picked up some keys, then glanced at the tag on them. "I have to check with Chief Gutierrez before you can have it-" he said, picking up the telephone.
Steele shook his head. "Look, I don't really have to TAKE the car now. I just need to retrieve something from it for my wife. Some medicine-"
"No medicine in that car. It's been searched -"
"Is it standard procedure to search every vehicle, then?"
The man grinned. "Mexico has a terrible drug problem, señor. Every precaution is taken -"
"My wife has a place that no one else could possibly have found- it won't take a moment -"
The man nodded at last, putting the telephone down and went to unlock the gate into the yard. The telephone rang as Steele started toward the car. "I will be right back," he said.
Steele nodded, moving toward the car. He could imagine Laura Holt driving something like this. Opening the driver's door, he sat down behind the wheel, his eyes scanning the interior for some kind of clue. Something to lead him in the right direction. In the rear view mirror, he could see the yard owner, talking excitedly on the telephone. What was that? The barest edge of a piece of paper was stuffed down between the dash and windshield, and Steele, checking to make sure that the man was still occupied, used a pen to pry it loose. He barely had time to glance at it before the man hung up the telephone and reached beneath the counter.
Even from here, Steele could see the outline of a gun. Getting out of the car, he smiled at the man who was eyeing him warily. "I suppose whoever stole the car must have stolen the medicine," he said. "Thank you for letting me check, anyway. I'll go and find out what I have to do to retrieve my property."
"It's not your property," the man said. "Someone wants to talk to you-" he started to bring out the gun, but Steele moved quickly to grab his arm and push it against another car, breaking the grip on the weapon so that it fell to the ground.
He reached down to get the gun, but had only barely touched it when the man tackled him, and Steele flung the weapon across the yard, well out of reach. Steele pummeled his attacker repeatedly, with little effect, until his fist connected with the man's stomach. The mechanic doubled over, holding his gut, coughing, and Steele took advantage of the moment, running out of the yard. Pausing for a second at the gate, he closed and locked it securely before hailing a cab to take him back to the hotel.
A change of clothes improved his mental state, and he unlocked his briefcase and pulled out the handwriting sample, comparing it to the note. It had indeed been written by Laura Holt. He wondered where the car had been found- and why Chief Gutierrez had lied about never seeing it. Steele was certain that it had been the Chief that had called the garage mechanic to warn him about Steele's presence. He took the file and used some tape from his case to fasten it to the bottom of the dresser door, then closed the briefcase again, making certain it was secure, then left the hotel, pausing at the desk to ask the clerk if he'd had any luck in finding Laura Holt.
"Sorry, Mr. Steele. She's not registered at any of the better hotels- I could try some of the smaller ones, if you think she might have-" Steele gave him another ten. "Thank you. I'll get to work on it right away."
The address on the paper was near the harbour, and as he walked past a large, apparently abandoned building surrounded by high walls, Steele paused. The name plate was still on the main gate, and he stood there, looking inside at Pepe's. Must have been a real party place at one time, Steele mused, wondering where Laura Holt had performed her infamous fan dance.
Returning to the matter at hand, Steele turned his steps toward the address of Felipe Vega. It was a small apartment, and there was no answer when Steele knocked on the door. Looking around, he pulled out his handkerchief covering it, then grasped the knob and turned - strangely not at all surprised to find that it wasn't locked. That sixth sense of his that sensed something not right had kicked into overdrive, and he entered the dim room cautiously. His foot hit something soft and yet immovable, and Steele looked down to find a man laying on the floor, a knife sticking out of his chest.
He was dead, but still warm. The murderer couldn't be very far- a rustle in the back of the room gave him too little warning as someone rushed past him and out of the room, leaving Steele with only the barest trace of a small figure, with too many curves to be a man.
Steele rose and followed the fleeing person, realized that they were heading toward the abandoned nightclub. He turned a back corner just in time to see a pair of canvas clad feet disappear over the wall. So that was where she had been hiding. What better place, he thought. He moved a bit farther down the wall, and scaled the wall himself, dropping down inside quietly. There were times, he thought, when the old tricks came in very handy in his chosen line of work.
He moved quietly through the building, seeing signs that others had camped out here, teenagers, probably, partying away from adult's disapproving eyes, listening for any sounds that might reveal the whereabouts of his quarry. As he entered what must at one time have been a private dining salon, he felt something pressed into the small of his back.
"Hold it right there. What are you doing here?"
Steele lifted his hands into the air. "You ran from the scene of a murder," he told her. "I was just -"
The weapon was pushed into his side now. "I don't buy it. What business did you have with Felipe Vega?"
"If you'll let me, I can show you my ID," he told her.
"Real slow and easy. Any false moves-"
"Believe me, I've no desire to be shot." Using two fingers, he drew out the wallet containing his PI license and handed it to her.
She took it. "Remington Steele? Why are you in Acapulco?"
"Looking for you, I should think. That is, if you're Laura Holt."
"Wilson." The gun was removed from his side as she turned away from him. "I didn't think he'd send anyone to bring me back -"
"Is it safe to turn around now?" Steele asked her.
He could hear the smile in her voice. "It's been safe all along," she told him, holding up the four inch length of small pipe as he turned toward her.
Steele couldn't help but return that smile. He's been had by this slip of a girl, convinced that she was holding a gun to his spine. "Excellent bluff, Miss Holt."
"Look, go back to LA, tell Wilson I'm fine-"
"Can't do that. I was paid to bring you back." Not exactly the truth, but Steele had a feeling that Laura Holt was in way over her head down here. "Have you found Juan López yet?"
"Juan- How did you find out about Juan?"