Betrayed (13 page)

The vast courtyard onto which the corridor opened was barren of green things, the original cobblestones paved over with concrete. An ornamental fountain in the center was dry, its basin cracked. Gracious colonnades were crowded with marching uniforms and stoically waiting lines, while the high-ceilinged salons where Guatemala’s aristocracy had once dined and danced held only filing cabinets and desks and endless rows of tables where clerks typed on the most antiquated computers Vicki had ever seen.

Everything was painted a depressing army beige. A curious decorative pattern reaching partway up the walls proved on closer look to be thousands upon thousands of fingerprints and scuff marks.

And the smell. Did every police headquarters smell like ammonia and dusty files and the pungent, acrid musk of human fear and despair?

Once Michael steered Vicki up a flight of stairs to the second-floor colonnade and down a corridor, crowds and smells evaporated abruptly. A guard sprang to open a door into another narrow corridor, this one empty except for a handful of striding uniforms.

Only then did Michael slow his steps to look down at Vicki, his firm mouth crooking into a smile. “I’m still trying to process that you’re Holly’s sister. You really are nothing like her. I would never have guessed the relationship. In fact, I didn’t even realize she had family in this country. She didn’t mention it when she introduced us.”

“No, she didn’t.” That fact hadn’t struck Vicki till now, and she found it vaguely troubling. There’d been times in high school, especially after a certain romantic interest had transferred his sights to Vicki, when Holly had deliberately frozen Vicki out of her male relationships. But surely the sisters had moved well beyond that. “She was a little preoccupied. And I haven’t been living here. I arrived just a few days before—” Her throat closed so she couldn’t finish.

Michael’s glance held sympathy as he prompted, “So you came down for a visit and walked into this. No, wait, you were out at that children’s project when this went down. So was this a work trip or vacation?” 

“I’d hoped both.” Vicki felt tears prick at her eyes and raised a hand to brush them away before they spoiled her careful makeup.
Oh, Holly, I didn’t even get to tell you about our birth parents
.

She was relieved when they reached an ornate hardwood door at the end of the corridor, putting an end to their conversation. Two guards, both with automatic rifles, stood at attention outside. At Michael’s terse “
Con el comandante
,” one stepped back to open the door while the other moved aside.

Despite her urgency, Vicki paused as they stepped inside. If the rest of the headquarters had been strictly utilitarian, this room was a throwback to palace days. The carpet was handwoven, the furnishings polished hardwood and leather. A wall of glass-fronted bookshelves held tall leather-bound tomes that looked as though they’d never been opened. Behind a massive mahogany desk hung a huge portrait of a military commander in Napoleonic dress right down to the sword. Only when Vicki’s fascinated gaze dropped to the customized armchair behind the desk did she realize it held the same man, though notably older and heavier than when the portrait had been painted.

The portrait subject surged to his feet as Vicki and Michael advanced into the room. “May-kole.” He rounded the desk for the hearty hugs and back pats of an
abrazo
, the Latin American greeting.

“Gualberto, thank you for seeing us at such short notice,” Michael answered as he detached himself. “I know how busy you are.”

“Not at all. It is my pleasure.” Waving away Michael’s appreciation, the chief of police turned to Vicki. “And this is your friend of whom you spoke.”

“Yes, this is Señorita Vicki Andrews. Vicki, this is Commander Gualberto Alvarez, chief of the Policía Nacional Civil.”

“Truly precious.” Alvarez leaned forward to kiss Vicki noisily on each cheek. Then he waved his guests toward a pair of armchairs. “Sit! Sit!” He returned to his seat on the other side of the desk. “So, May-kole, what do you think of my men? Much improvement, no?”

“Well, they have certainly come a fair way.”

As the two men talked, Vicki settled into the chair and looked around the room. Between tall French windows was a cluster of framed photos. A studio portrait of a well-groomed woman with the European ancestry of Guatemala’s ruling class. Two pretty teenage girls in party dresses with a young man in military cadet uniform. The wife and children to which Michael had referred?

Below these a dozen men in camouflage fatigues posed against a background of army vehicles—transport trucks, Jeeps, a tank, and to one side, the squat green-gray of a Vietnam era Huey helicopter. Vicki leaned forward to study the photo. Yes, there third from the left was a younger, leaner version of the man behind the desk.

Noting Vicki’s interest, Alvarez leaned over to say proudly, “As you can see, when I was in
los militares
, I was one of those chosen to receive training from the Americans.”

Now that Vicki looked closer, she could see that the two men at either end of the group carried the red, white, and blue of a small American flag on the lapels of their fatigues. A patch visible on one shoulder read SOUTHCOM. A third American, in civilian khakis and a shirt, stood slightly back from the group. Or at least Vicki assumed he was American by the light hair and paler skin, though his turned head and tilted floppy hat made it impossible to see his features clearly.

 Alvarez beamed. “And now the Americans are helping me to train my police. Perhaps May-kole here has told you that he has been helping to instruct our new special homicide unit. In fact, your sister’s case is their first investigation.”

Alvarez opened a file in front of him and folded his hands on top of it as he looked at Vicki. His florid features radiated solicitude. “First, may I express our condolences to you in the loss of your sister. That she should come to this beautiful country to help our people and then to be killed in such a way—it is truly a disgrace, and I must apologize on behalf of my countrymen. But you must have seen how things are these days. The crime that goes up and up since the peace accords, with
la guerrilla
turning to theft and violence instead of the peace they promised. And these
maras
—the street gangs they have spawned. They are truly vicious, and they do not respect the police as they did
los militares
. It is not safe any longer for women to walk our streets alone, especially foreigners like your sister.”

Vicki fought a grimace. It was the official mantra of the Guatemalan authorities, the excuse for any authorized human rights abuse. Guatemala had one of the highest crime rates in the world and was increasing rapidly. Part could be blamed on the lack of jobs and education and opportunities also promised in the peace accords. On the other hand, two generations of armed conflict had bred on both sides a lawlessness that was as quick to pick up a gun or machete as mediate any other solution.

The thousands of
maras
—tattooed, swaggering members of youth gangs, without hope of a future or any societal restraints—were admittedly as vicious as the chief of police claimed, however much one might sympathize with their circumstances. It was no wonder that a sizable segment of law-abiding Guatemalans secretly applauded whatever strong-arm tactics their authorities chose to employ.

“Discipline. Respect. Order. That’s what this country needs to turn it around. Is that not so, May-kole? But, please, you did not come to speak of philosophy.” Alvarez’s solicitous expression turned into a smile. “What is it that you wish to ask of me? It will be my pleasure to be of service to such a beautiful señorita.”

Vicki hesitated, unsure of herself now that she’d actually attained her objective. “The investigation, for one. Why has it been closed after only four days when nothing has been found out about who killed my sister? And what about the fingerprints? the police interviews? the autopsy report? I know the special unit did all of that. I’d at least like to know what the evidence reports turned up.”

Alvarez shook his head. “Yes, of course the special homicide unit employed the techniques May-kole here has taught them. But no evidence was found to indicate which
maleante
was responsible for your sister’s tragedy. After all, there are thousands of such criminals in Guatemala City. And we are a poor country without the resources you have in your cities. I am deeply distressed for the loss of your sister. But can it truly matter to you which of these
maleantes
pulled the trigger? It will not change what is done. They will receive their punishment soon enough—of a gun or a knife or sickness or drugs. Life expectancy is short on these streets. You will only make yourself sick if you continue to fret over this. If you are sensible, you will go home to your own country to lay your sister to rest and then put this terrible thing behind you and move on with your life.”

This would be easier if the police chief wasn’t making some reasonable points. Doggedly, Vicki persisted. “I appreciate all your work and your men’s. But I just can’t accept . . . I mean, I don’t think my sister was killed by a
mara
or any other stranger to her. Surely that possibility should at least be investigated.”

Alvarez’s smile evaporated suddenly. “You cannot accept. You are saying you do not trust our investigation? That my men are incompetent?”

“No, of course not. It’s just—well, there are so many unanswered questions.”

“Unanswered questions. Such as?”

“Why my sister was where I found her. She couldn’t have been carried out there. The plastic bag was too clean. And why would
maras
bother to go so far? It looked to me like she must have dropped there from the air.”

Alvarez turned a page in the file. “I see nothing of that in here. The plastic was torn and dirty.”

“That was only after we carried her out. I told the police. It should be there in my statement. And the necklace she was wearing—it was pure gold. Any
mara
would have stolen it.”

“What necklace?” Now any remnant of friendliness was gone. “The victim was wearing no jewelry when my officers examined her.”

“But there had to be. It was there when I found her. A chain with a gold pendant—a jaguar—with inset emeralds. The police took everything. It has to be in the inventory.”

“Are you accusing my men of theft? Or perhaps one of your
basurero
clients took it. If you did not imagine it in the stress of the moment.”

“I didn’t imagine it.” Vicki was trying not to get heated. “There’s more. She’d been really upset lately. She was sure something was wrong at her job. And what was she doing out there in that part of town anyway?”

“That is simple,” Commander Alvarez said coldly. “She was there to meet you.”

Chapter Nine

“But—,” Vicki began.

Michael stood. “Thank you,
comandante
. You have been most gracious in sparing this time for us. Now, if Señorita Andrews and I are not to be late for another appointment . . . ”

Strong fingers were biting into Vicki’s shoulder, and she found herself on her feet, steered toward the door. She got out something she hoped was a thank you before she was outside the door.

“What was that for?” Vicki twisted from Michael’s grip as the two guards sprang to close the door behind them. “I was just starting—”

“You don’t tell the chief of police in a country like this that he’s incompetent. Not unless you’re on your way to the airport with a ticket out.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Not here,” he said, cutting her off.

Vicki was propelled in silence down the corridor and stairs. “What about your class?” she got out as she half-trotted across the courtyard.

“It’s been canceled.” Michael paused in the lobby to exchange a few short phrases with the police clerk. Then they were outside.

When Vicki opened her mouth, he shook his head warningly and led her across the busy street. A sidewalk cafe on the corner catered to supplicants waiting to be attended at the police headquarters. The music blaring over the cacophony of traffic was an atrocious Latino techno-pop.

Michael glanced around with unsmiling satisfaction as he guided Vicki to a small round table. “We can talk here.”

Vicki  reluctantly sank into the chair he pulled out. As soon as he’d dropped into a chair opposite her, she leaned forward to demand again, “So what was that about? I hadn’t even started getting the answers I was looking for.”

She didn’t get an immediate answer from Michael either. He snapped his fingers for an attendant. “Two
cafés con leche
and two
empanadas
,” he said to the teenage Mayan girl who hurried over. He glanced at Vicki. “Will that do for you? They don’t do tea.”

When Vicki nodded, he waved the waitress away before adding tersely, “The way you were going about it, you weren’t going to get any answers. And since I’ve got to work with the guy, I’d just as soon you didn’t mess up every bit of capital I’ve built in that relationship.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Vicki demanded. “I already tried to get answers elsewhere, as you well know. What was the point of talking to the chief of police if I wasn’t supposed to get any answers from him either? Why did you even bother?”

“I bothered because I expected you to accept his quite reasonable explanation and head home with your heart and mind set at ease.” Propping his forearms on the table, Michael leaned forward and lowered his voice.

“I understand what you’re going through—believe me. It’s perfectly natural to want to know just who did this terrible thing and to bring them to justice. But Alvarez is right. Few crimes in this country are ever prosecuted and not just because police are incompetent or corrupt, though there’s plenty of that. They just don’t have the resources. You do understand that for any continuing investigation, someone—usually the family—has to foot the bill. Maybe you can afford it, but most victims here just cut their losses and move on.”

The waitress delivered the milk-laced espresso, a sugar bowl, and the
empanadas
, deep-fried crescent-shaped corn flour shells stuffed with spiced meat.

Vicki was reaching for the sugar when angry and loud voices exploded above the normal background noises.

Michael was on his feet in one fluid motion, and Vicki’s own instinctive tension was echoed along the street, heads shooting up, hands stilled on their eating utensils. Civic unrest was still too common here for anyone to ignore the sounds. But even as a human mass turned the corner and became visible, Vicki saw Michael relax, and a moment later, he slid back into his chair, though his gaze did not leave the street.

Vicki eyed the parade with curiosity. They were mostly women, the majority of them in the Mayan wraparound skirt and embroidered blouse, their dark faces unsmiling and purposeful. Vicki saw placards that read
GAM
and
Justicia
and a banner that read
Solidaridad
in bright red letters. Then she noticed the photographs. Some were hanging on cardboard backing around necks. Others had been blown up and pasted to placards carried high above the crowd. One of a young girl in a school uniform read across the bottom Where is Anna?

“Who are they?” Vicki asked. “What are they doing?” Where they were going, she didn’t add. Their target was clearly the police headquarters, and as they filled the plaza outside, the chants grew louder and separate.

“Justice!”

“Solidarity!”

“Never again!”

Michael glanced at Vicki as he answered, “GAM. Grupo de Aporte Mutuo, or Group of Mutual Support. They are the widows and mothers and other family members of
los desaparecidos
, or ‘disappeared ones,’ of the civil war. Periodically, they still march, insisting the government has records somewhere of just what happened to their family members.”

“And do they?”

Michael turned back to the march. “Who knows? Maybe those involving some local authority might have some moldering files somewhere. The military was almost pathological about maintaining a paper trail of just about everything.”

Catching Vicki’s grimace, Michael said, “I can see what you’re thinking. But keep in mind that this was a war with casualties happening on both sides. The army grabbed leftist subversives and those they figured were funding or supplying them. The guerrillas did their own grabbing of those they considered to be traitors helping the army.”

“But I thought the UN Truth Commission found that the bulk of the atrocities were committed by the Guatemalan army and leadership. And what about all the reports of entire villages being massacred and all that?”

“So it’s been said—and I’m not questioning the accuracy of the reports. Though it’s hard to know who was telling the truth and who was maybe exaggerating atrocities for their own political bandwagon. There’s no doubt civilian deaths happened, especially on the battlefield, but as far as the ‘disappeared,’ the majority were listed as enemy combatants and socialist subversives by the Guatemalan authorities. It certainly is not the way we would deal with enemy subversives. But like I said, this was a war—the Cold War—and just like the present war on terror, unfortunately, there are always collateral damages.”

The sincere regret of his tone made Vicki wonder if Michael was speaking from some personal experience. If he'd been in the military within the last decade, he had likely been in Iraq or Afghanistan at some point. And like the police chief, he had some admitted logic on his side.

But as Vicki watched the photograph of the girl in a school uniform move toward the police headquarters, she had to wonder. Just what kind of subversive had the authorities considered that underage student to be? 

She turned to find Michael’s eyes on her, meditative under lowered lashes, his firm mouth pressed into a sober line. As their gazes collided, he said abruptly, “Please believe that I don’t mean to be indelicate. But you’re at least fortunate enough to have found your sister when you did. Even one more day in that environment, and you may never have known what happened. She’d just be another
desaparecido
on the books down here. At least you have the closure these women don’t.”

“Closure!” Vicki cried. “You call this closure?”

“Okay, maybe that’s the wrong term. What I’m trying to say is that Alvarez has a point. I have seen too many Americans pouring out years of their lives and energy down here in some fruitless quest for vengeance and closure. And in the end, they’re no further along than you are right now. I just don’t want to see that happen to you. I cannot urge you enough to get on that plane. Put Guatemala and this nightmare behind you. Get on with your life before this eats you up inside.” Sincerity was again unmistakable in his eyes, the somberness of his expression.

Vicki bit at her lip before she answered, “You think I don’t know all that? I’m not a tourist either. If it was just some mara, I’d be out of here on the next flight. You think I’d take some desperate, starving, drugged-up teenager personally? In fact, I wish I could believe it was the maras because it would be so much easier.”

Michael ran a hand over his face, then picked up the coffee cup with a shrug. “Okay, I’m listening. Explain to me just why you’re so certain it isn’t
las maras
.”

Vicki chewed again on her lip as she marshaled her thoughts. If she could just get this well-connected embassy staffer on her side. “Well, I already mentioned the clean plastic of the bag and the necklace—which I
didn’t
imagine. As for Holly coming to meet me—that’s lazy, if that’s really what the police want to think. Your special unit managed to figure out that she’d been shot and left there sometime during the night. Holly would never have come looking for me at that hour. And if she had, she’d have come to Casa de Esperanza. She didn’t even know I was helping at that
basurero
project because I hadn’t talked to her since I got here.”

 “That’s right—you mentioned that when I ran into you at the embassy. Though she could have called someone and asked.”

“Maybe. Though in that case, why wouldn’t she just call my cell? Besides, what she said just before she—before she died . . . I
know
it was connected to whatever it was she was so worried about. If I hadn’t . . . if I’d just taken her seriously!” Vicki had to tighten her mouth to keep it from trembling.

“Are you saying she was alive when you found her?” Michael’s coffee cup settled back into its saucer as quietly as the question, but as she caught the intentness of his gaze, the rigidity of his jaw line, Vicki realized with a sudden skip of a heartbeat that she now had his full attention.

“Yes, I . . . I guess I forgot to mention that. It was so fast . . . and then—”
And then the nightmare!
“It was only afterward I really started thinking about what she meant—that she was trying to tell me something.”

“Tell me everything from the minute you set foot in this country.”

It took some time, and more than once Vicki had to stop and grope back in her thoughts to remember. She did not talk about Casa de Esperanza or Evelyn, nor did he show any interest in them, hurrying her on impatiently through her airport conversation with Holly, her attempts to make contact, and in further grim detail, that terrible last hour in the dump. Vicki’s coffee and
empanada
were stone-cold before she was done, and when the waitress stopped by, she pushed them with distaste away from her.