Closely Akin to Murder Page 5

  “She petitioned the court to change her name, went on to college and medical school, and is a highly respected researcher.” I gave him a moment to grasp all this, then added, “And she’s being blackmailed.”

  “By whom?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to learn. The press coverage was so minimal that only someone who was involved in the incident would know enough to make a sufficiently threatening demand.”

  He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his forehead. “Are you accusing me?”

  “Why shouldn’t I? You knew as much as anyone, if not more. You had copies of documents, and probably were informed when she was released from prison. You could have kept track of her over the years.”

  “I had no reason to do that. She was a client, not a close friend or relative. I did what I could to have her deported instead of sent to prison, but she’d confessed to the police. Perhaps if the issue of marijuana had not been brought up, the judge might have been more lenient. This was in the sixties, however, and Zamora was well known to be severe in drug-related cases. Her diary made her case much worse. Zamora was convinced she was a hardened slut who’d schemed to seduce this older man in his own bed, then changed her mind and killed him. Our system is different than yours. There is no jury or testimony from witnesses. The accused is not allowed to address the court. The judge reads the evidence and makes his decision based on what he believes to be the facts.”

  “What did you believe?”

  “She confessed, so it made no difference what I believed. I spoke very little English at that time, and my office could not afford a translator. On a few occasions, I paid someone out of my own pocket, but I had a wife, three children, and a small salary. I was assigned so many cases that I worked until midnight almost every night and returned to my office at dawn. Señorita Landonwood was withdrawn, unwilling or unable to answer my questions. I felt very sorry for her.”

  I’d nursed a degree of hostility toward him because I’d considered him responsible for Ronnie’s incarceration. Now I realized how impossible his assignment had been. “Did you arrange for her to receive packages of food while she was in prison?”

  “Yes, but not with my own money. Every month for eight years, I received a small sum from the United States. I used it to make sure the señorita had adequate food, bottled water, vitamins, and medicine. When the checks stopped, I inquired at the prison and learned she was no longer there. I assumed she’d left the country as quickly as possible.”

  “Who sent the money?”

  “There was no name or return address on the envelope. The first one contained a terse note as to its purpose. After that, there was only the money.”

  “How strange,” I said. “What about the postmark?”

  Benavides shrugged. “I have no memory of it. Even if I had glanced at it, it would have meant nothing to me because I knew very little about your country.”

  “What happened to Franchesca Pickett, the victim’s daughter? Ronnie told me that they were transported to the prison together, but never saw each other after that.”

  “She was found guilty of conspiracy because she helped to throw the body onto the rocks. Zamora was outraged that she would do that to her own father, and sentenced her to . . . I’m not sure, maybe four years. Her lawyer told me that her mother was determined to save her daughter from prison, and after the trial went back to the United States to find the necessary money to bribe certain parties. It’s possible she succeeded; judges, prosecutors, and prison officials were paid no better than public defenders.”

  I was increasingly fond of good old Pedro. “This is the first link I’ve found to Fran’s mother. What was the lawyer’s name?”

  He thought for a moment, then said, “Aurelio Perez, but he died of cancer some years ago.”

  “Oh,” I said, my optimism deflating as quickly as it had inflated seconds earlier, as if I were a manic-depressive balloon.

  “It is possible his files can be found,” Benavides said. “As soon as I have time, I will call his firm and ask if they can locate them. However, this took place a long time ago, and it’s unlikely he would have continued to save any records. Even if he had, his widow might have disposed of them.” He stood up and again extended his hand. “I will do what I can, but I must prepare for my clients, who will be here shortly. My secretary or I will call you if I have any luck.”

  I shook his hand. “Thank you for your time, Señor Benavides.”

  I was halfway to the door when he said, “Why are you involved in this?”

  “Because Veronica Landonwood paid for what she did. Oliver Pickett was attempting to rape her when she attacked him. In the United States, this would have been considered self-defense. Instead, she lost her parents and spent eight years in hell. She survived and got on with her life—and now someone’s trying to take that away from her.” I realized I was trembling and my voice was loud enough to be heard on the street. I took a deep breath. “Did you call me at my hotel last night, Señor Benavides?”

  He was too unnerved by my outburst to do more than shake his head, and he was still doing it as I left his office. The reception room was uninhabited; the receptionist must have taken refuge in another room.

  I certainly would have.

  Manuel scrambled out of the car and opened the door for me. “Did you find out anything, Señora?”

  “A few things, but not enough,” I said. “It sounds as if Fran Pickett may have avoided much time in prison and returned to the United States. If Fran’s mother is alive, she’ll be in her late sixties or early seventies. Of course it’s a bit tricky to locate her, since I don’t know her last name or where she lives. Señor Benavides may be able to help me, but I doubt it. There’s still Santiago, I suppose, and Chico.”

  “So we go back to the Hotel Las Floritas again? It is late in the day, Señora, and you were told Santiago starts drinking at noon. By now he cannot remember what he ate for lunch, much less things in the distant past. Would it not be better to sit and watch the sunset, listening to music and having something cool to drink?”

  “I suppose it can wait until early tomorrow afternoon,” I said, aware that I hadn’t connected with Caron all day. “You may drop me off at the hotel, and pick me up at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll start at the courthouse. If the records still exist, they’ll be sealed, but maybe I can find out if someone managed to get copies of them.”

  “Very good,” Manuel said unenthusiastically, clearly unwilling to take on the role of Dr. Watson. As we stopped in front of the hotel, he added, “Nine o’clock, then?”

  I nodded, then climbed out of the car and left him to imagine the wrath that would be rained down on him by his ursine brother-in-law. As I went past the bellman’s desk, I noticed that he was staring at me with an oddly curious expression. Wondering if Caron had done something to garner the animosity of the staff, I hurried toward the elevators.

  “Señora Claire Malloy?” barked a voice.

  I halted and turned around, but instead of an antagonistic hotel manager, I found myself confronting a policeman in a dark blue shirt and badge. The gun at his side looked more appropriate to a battlefield than the lobby of an expensive hotel.

  “Yes?” I said warily, spotting his colleague nearby.

  “You come with us,” he said, his accent so thick that I could barely understand him.

  “Why?”

  “You come with us.”

  “I don’t think so,” I said as I assessed the distance to the elevators. The doors of one of them slid open, and two white-haired men in garish print shirts and shorts emerged, took in the scene, and scampered toward the bar like terrified bunnies. Before I could make my move, the doors slid closed. “I don’t know what this is about, and I’m not going anywhere until I do.”

  He placed his hand on the holster of his weapon. “You come with us.”

  “No,” I said, perhaps a bit shrilly. “Since that’s how one says it in Spanish as well as English, you
should have no difficulty understanding it.”

  “You are under arrest, Señora. You come with us.”

  “Under arrest for what? I haven’t done anything the slightest bit illegal. I wasn’t even driving a car, so you can’t try to frame me for a traffic violation.”

  “You come with us.”

  The menace in his tone was getting harder and harder to overlook, and the second officer was edging toward me. The bartender, waiters, and customers were all watching with wonderment, as were the incoming guests at the front desk. I was unfamiliar with Mexican police procedure, but I wasn’t confident I wouldn’t be shot in the back if I fled.

  I attempted a pinched smile. “Please explain what this is about, Señor. I’m sure there’s been a mistake, and I prefer to clear it up right here.”

  “Señora Malloy!” called Manuel as he hurried across the lobby. “The bellman says the police . . .” He caught sight of my companions and froze in midstep.

  “Are looking for me?” I suggested, so relieved to see him that I wanted to kiss his cheek. “As you can see, they’ve found me, but we’re having a tiny problem communicating. Ask him what’s wrong.”

  Manuel reluctantly joined us and began a low, incomprehensible exchange with the officer. The other joined in with much gesturing in my direction. Terrified that something had happened to Caron, I struggled to catch pertinent words, but they were all speaking so rapidly that only one made sense: homicidio.

  I grabbed Manuel’s arm. “What are they saying? Has someone been killed? Is my daughter all right? Damn it, what’s going on, Manuel?”

  “It does not concern the señorita. These officers want to question you about a homicide that took place today.”

  “Me?” I said numbly. “Who was murdered?”

  “Ernesto Santiago. He was found in the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas, with his throat slashed.”

  “I’ve never even seen him. Did you tell them that?”

  He fluttered his hands. “Yes, but they insist you come with them to the Ministerio Público—the police headquarters. I do not know what to do, Señora. My brother-in-law will be so angry that he will slash my throat. This is a pesadilla, a nightmare. Why did I give up my job as a cabin steward? The tips were very good, and I had the opportunity to visit many ports. I—”

  “This is not the time for vocational angst,” I said, hoping it wasn’t the time for handcuffs and cattle prods, either. “We both know I did not slash Santiago’s throat. This is a misunderstanding that can be resolved as soon as I speak to an officer in charge.” A dire thought popped into my mind. “If he speaks English, that is. Stop blubbering and listen, Manuel. I want you to find Caron out by the pool or on the beach, and tell her to stay in our suite with the door locked until she hears from me. Have her paged if necessary. She can order room service, but she is not to open the door to anyone else. Then come immediately to the police headquarters.”

  “Okay, okay,” he said as sweat trickled down into his already watery eyes.

  I made a face at the policemen. “Shall we go?”

  CHAPTER 4

  I was escorted to a cramped white car and thrust into the backseat, where the splattered upholstery suggested the past presence of gastrically challenged passengers. A barrier of scratched plastic precluded conversation with the officers in the front seat (had it seemed the polite thing to do). Apparently, I was not a worthy enough desperado to merit sirens and flashing lights, but although we drove only a dozen blocks before turning up a steep hill, I felt as though every tourist on the boulevard had seen me cowering in the backseat and judged me guilty of homicidio, or worse. Pedro Benavides’s earlier remark resounded in my mind like a dirge: “Our system is different than yours.”

  The police headquarters consisted of a large walled compound with a hodgepodge of buildings, ancient trees, and parking areas. The walls were topped with barbed wire, the gate protected by armed guards. Cars and trucks were on racks beside what was presumably a mechanical shed. A one-story building with barred windows squatted beyond an expanse of cracked concrete; two guards sat at a table by the door, their weapons conspicuously displayed in front of them. Other officers lounged in the shade or stood in lines, receiving instructions.

  Civilians were going in and out of the unimposing building into which I was taken. Unlike the Farberville police station, there was no front office with a pretension of welcome, but merely a vast, dingy room with benches for whispered conferences. Yellowed posters featured the visages of surly men. The pay telephones along one wall were all in use. Ceiling fans did little to disperse the sour odor of anxiety.

  We continued into a small room with a table and a few chairs. The walls were bare, the floor filthy, the window covered with heavy mesh. The officer pointed at a chair and demanded a pasaporte. Having used a voter registration card as identification to enter the country, the best I could produce was my driver’s license.

  Once I was alone, I propped my head on my hands and attempted to assimilate what had happened. I’d been heading for the suite to see if Caron wanted to join me in the bar (for a virgin strawberry daiquiri that would cost as much as the real thing, but Ronnie was footing the bill), and now I was in a nasty little room waiting to be questioned about the murder of a man I’d never met. I could hardly call Peter and ask what he knew about the machinations of the Mexican legal system. If nothing else, he’d pitch a self-righteous fit, replete with I-told-you-so and I-warned-you-not-to-get-involved. Hardly productive. Calling Pedro Benavides made a lot more sense, but he was likely to be drinking martinis on a yacht. I desperately wanted to call Caron and make sure she was obeying my order. Any of the above would require a telephone or telepathic ability, neither of which I possessed.

  After ten stressful minutes, a middle-aged man entered the room. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt rather than a uniform, but he had the wintry demeanor I knew so well. His mustache was straight out of a movie, his complexion out of a pineapple advertisement.

  He tossed my license on the table and addressed me in Spanish. I shrugged in response.

  “My English is no good,” he said, sounding not at all apologetic. “Me Ilamo Comandante Quiroz. I investigate the homicidio of Ernesto Santiago.”

  I decided to maintain the pose of magazine reporter, and had managed to communicate little else (I was never a champion charades player) when Manuel arrived. “Did you find Caron?” I asked him as he edged around the table, staring fearfully at the comandante.

  “Yes, she was by the pool. She said she will do as told. She also said several things about the food, but perhaps they are irrelevant at this time.”

  “I should think so,” I said. “Now will you please tell the officer the purpose of my presence in Acapulco? Reporters do not murder the people they wish to interview—and I never made contact with Santiago.”

  Manuel and the comandante took off in Spanish. I listened for a while, picking out a key word now and then, but finally gave up and let their voices swirl around me like the vicious Santa Ana wind that torments California. At one point, the comandante slammed his fist on the table, and Manuel whimpered a reply. It was not encouraging. Oliver Pickett’s and Ernesto Santiago’s names were mentioned several times, as well as that of the Hotel Las Floritas. When Manuel mentioned Chico, the comandante shook his head and growled like a mastiff.

  Finally the comandante quieted down. Manuel looked at me. “Late this afternoon they had a tip that someone had been murdered in what was once the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas. They discovered Santiago’s body. They also found a note with your name and an offer of money.”

  “Behind the doorknob,” I said, trying not to glare at Comandante Quiroz.

  “They found it under the body,” Manuel said in a squeaky voice. “It had blood on it. They think Santiago called you and set up a meeting. For some reason, maybe related to a drug deal, you killed him. El pesquisidor—I don’t know in English—has determined that Santiago died only a few hours ago. I had to tell
the comandante that I took you back to the Plaza at noon and did not return until three o’clock.”

  “And during that period I went to the hotel and killed him? That’s ludicrous, Manuel. Does he think I took a cab—or hijacked a horse and buggy to get there? Did the bellman carelessly fail to notice the blood on my clothes when I returned? Wouldn’t the people by the pool have said something if they’d watched me scale nineteen stories?”

  “What about the note, Señora?”

  I explained, then watched Comandante Quiroz’s expression as Manuel translated what I’d said. It eased only marginally, but he was less emphatic as he launched into another spate of Spanish. Manuel responded as best he could, but his voice was increasingly hoarse and his hands were so tightly clenched that his knuckles were apt to burst through his skin. I wondered if Ronnie had felt the same apprehension when she watched Pedro Benavides plead for leniency.

  “You told me there have been three murders at the hotel this year,” I inserted when I had the opportunity. “Doesn’t it seem more likely that one of the criminals who lives there killed Santiago? What about Chico or the prostitutes or their pimp?”

  “He says when the cabos arrived, all of the bungalows had been vacated. Those who live there are like cockroaches. Blue lights send them scuttling into the Sona Roja. Only when the lights go away will they return. He does want you to describe this American who was living there, however.”

  After further disjointed communication, Comandante Quiroz admitted that the only evidence they had was the note—and, yes, it was possible that someone else had taken it inside the lobby. I offered to allow him to search the suite at the Plaza for bloodied clothes or a knife, as long as Manuel, the hotel manager, and I were present. He appeared to be so unimpressed with my generosity that I decided search warrants were less than obligatory in Mexico, if the concept existed at all.

  I was on the verge of demanding to call the American consulate when the comandante stood up, lectured Manuel with such intensity that spittle flew out of his mouth, then gave me a parting scowl and left the room.