Closely Akin to Murder (14 page)

He pursed his mouth for a moment, regarding me with the same ill-disguised hostility he'd shown the previous day. “I told you everything that happened, Señora. I was in the parking lot when Fran ran up to the car and got in the backseat. She ordered me to drive away, and so I did. I saw no one else. Chico told you his story because he wanted money from you.”

“He is a very bad man,” added Gabriella. “Look what he did to poor Manuel.” She put the bouquet on the window sill and reached down to stroke his shoulder with her finger.

Poor Manuel nodded. “I warned you about him when you first encountered him near the lobby.”

“I'm not attesting to his character,” I said, more interested in the sweat forming on Farias's forehead and the nerve twitching in his eyelid. “But for some
strange reason, he wanted me to know that someone else was in the bungalow just before Oliver Pickett was killed.”

Farias tightened his grip on the walking stick. “There were more than thirty people at the party. When Pickett burst into the room, there was much confusion. I cannot swear that everyone ran out the front door immediately. Maybe one of the boys had to pull on his pants before he could escape.”

“While Oliver patiently waited?” I said. “If he was as outraged as everyone says he was, I can't imagine anyone asking his permission to get dressed or finish a cigarette. How long were you in the parking lot before Fran appeared?”

“Ten minutes, perhaps fifteen.”

“Did you see Santiago heading toward the bungalows?”

Farias hesitated, then said, “When one prays, Señora, it is traditional to close one's eyes. I opened them only when Fran got into the limousine.”

“Papa,” said Gabriella, “Manuel has fallen asleep. We should leave now so he is not disturbed.”

I nudged her toward the door with the subtlety of a rogue elephant. “Let's go ask the nurses if there's a vase we can use. It would be a shame if the flowers are wilted when Manuel wakes up.”

“We will be back in a minute, Papa,” she called as I dragged her out into the hall. “Why do you ask Papa all these questions?” she continued, frowning at me. “You have caused him to be tense and bad-tempered. This morning he spoke so sharply to my mother that she cried, and our only driver who speaks French has threatened to quit. Morale is very bad at the agency when Papa is like this.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, but what began as a straightforward story has taken more twists than the drive along the coastline.” I patted her arm and gave her what I hoped was a supportive smile. “I'm leaving in the morning, and everything should be back to normal at the agency. I've been told it is the largest and most reputable in Acapulco.”

“Oh, yes,” Gabriella said, then spoke to a nurse behind a desk. The woman nodded and glided down the hallway, presumably to find a receptacle for the bouquet.

I widened my smile until my ears wiggled; if we were near the psychiatric ward, I might have been accused of being an escapee. “How long has the Farias Tourist Agency been in business?”

“Two years ago we celebrated its twenty-fifth anniversary. We had a lavish party at one of the hotels, with much food and music. The mayor presented Papa with a brass plaque.”

“Your father has come a long way from the day he was only an employee, hasn't he?”

She nodded proudly. “After he bought the agency, he worked very hard to expand the fleet of limousines and vans. We accommodated over three thousand tourists last year with less than two dozen complaints.” She took an ugly green vase from the nurse and started back toward Manuel's room. “Many of the complaints were not our fault. In several situations, the groups were larger than we had been led to expect. One of your famous authors was drunk when he got off the airplane, and insisted—”

“How was your father able to buy the agency from its previous owner?” I said quickly. “He himself told me his salary was tiny back then.”

She stopped and looked back at me. “He worked hard, Señora. Do you have any more questions before we go into the room?”

“Did he send a check every year to Ernesto Santiago?” I asked out of desperation as she reached for the doorknob.

She gaped for a second, as if startled by a distant connection, then moistened her lips and said, “I can think of no reason why he would. Goodbye, Señora. Please enjoy your last day in Acapulco. There are many lovely places you have not yet visited. You and your daughter should tour the
Casa de la Cultura de Acapulco
. They have a very nice display of pre-Columbian artifacts and Mexican handicrafts.” She went into the room and closed the door.

So Jorge Farias was on the payroll, too, I thought as I went down to the lobby and out into the sunshine. He'd not only accepted hush money, he'd also offered it to Santiago. There seemed to be more questionable financial transactions (past and present) than in the Cayman Islands on an average day. Benavides, Farias, Santiago, and even Ronnie had been the recipients of someone's generosity.

Someone with resources, like the person who'd inherited Oliver Pickett's estate. Regrettably, I had no idea how to find her.

“Where would you like to go?” asked Adolfo as he opened the limousine door for me.

“To the court house,” I said.

I'd assumed it would be somewhere in the vicinity of the downtown area, but I was wrong. Once again we went up into the hills, passing shops, bars, markets, and the omnipresent construction sites. I finished a second bottle of mineral water and was starting on a third
when we came down into an industrial zone of derelict ware houses and what appeared to be abandoned factories.

I tried a button marked intercom. “Are you sure the court house is around here?”

“Yes, it is next to the
Centro de Rehabilitación
, the prison. There have been protests about its location. It is not convenient for the lawyers and judges to drive out here, nor for the families of the prisoners.”

He turned down what might qualify as an alley, apparently unconcerned that the limousine might sustain damage from the cars parked on the sidewalk. Shortly thereafter, we were on a country road of sorts, with arid expanses of dirt and scruffy plants. I'd seen Adolfo make more than one call on a cellular phone; I hoped Farias had not been issuing orders to dispose of the passenger's corpse in a rock quarry.

Towering gray walls came into view, forming forty-foot barriers on two sides of a grassy parking lot. They were topped by concertina wire, and above the one in front of us I could see a guard box. The scene was oppressive, to put it mildly, and I was doubting my wisdom in requesting to be brought there as Adolfo parked.

“You must walk from here,” he said, pointing at a whitewashed booth. “Only those with official passes can drive past the guards.”

If I'd had a lace hankie, I would have been wringing it in my admittedly sweaty hands. I knocked back the rest of the mineral water to fortify myself, then allowed Adolfo to open the door for me.

“You'll need to come with me,” I said. “We're looking for Comandante Alvarez.”

Adolfo shrugged. “As you wish.”

We trudged across the field to a tunnel where the
walls met. Inside were two drowsy guards on wooden chairs and a sign that Adolfo obligingly translated: no weapons, no alcohol, shirts and shoes required. Claustrophobia was optional, I supposed, trying to ignore the walls on either side of us.

Adolfo led the way through a maze of corridors and courtyards, then up a flight of stairs to a large room with an aura of bureaucratic lethargy. On one side were closed doors; across from them were cubicles with desks in front of meshed windows. The typewriters and telephones were silent, and only a handful of employees were reading files. At least one was filing her nails.

Adolfo gestured at the doors. “Those are the chambers. When a judge has decided on a verdict, he comes out to one of the tables and the prisoner is brought to the window to hear his sentence.”

“Aren't there courtrooms?”

“Only in special cases. This way is faster and saves money.”

I asked him to locate Comandante Alvarez, then went into a cubicle and gazed through the mesh at the narrow walkway. Through the opposite windows I could see a parched garden and an orchard of gnarled, leafless trees. To my relief, I couldn't see the cemetery Ronnie had mentioned when speculating about Fran's disappearance. I would have more luck finding her there than I would somewhere in the United States. As everyone was so fond of reminding me, thirty years was a long time.

My morose thoughts were interrupted by a gray-haired man with a creased face and a nose that had been broken more than once. I'd been expecting a version of dear old Quiroz, but this man gave me a civil, if not heartwarming, smile. “I am Comandante Alvarez.
I have been told you wish to speak to me, Señora Malloy. I am sorry you had to come so far, but I must be here today for depositions. We can sit at this table.”

“I want to ask you about the death of Oliver Pickett,” I said, taking out a notebook. “I was told you were involved in the investigation.”

“Yes, I was.”

“When the body was first discovered, you believed his death was accidental. Later you found evidence to incriminate Veronica Landonwood, right?” When he merely nodded, I added, “Someone found a shirt with blood on it?”

“One of the maids found it in a garbage can on the hotel grounds. The girl's name was on a tag sewn in the collar. She became very emotional when asked to explain it, and this led us to search the bungalow where she was staying with her parents. I myself found her diary in her suitcase. The entries made it clear that she desired a sexual encounter with Pickett and had been scheming to arrange it. She confessed to his murder and also of her attempt to cover up the crime with the assistance of his daughter. The daughter then acknowledged her role. There was no need for further investigation.”

“Did you question the others in Pickett's group?”

“We asked them what happened that night. I don't remember their names, but they all agreed that while at a party, Pickett fell into the swimming pool. He was angry because he thought he'd been pushed, but he was also drunk. He announced he was taking a cab back to the Hotel Las Floritas to change into dry clothes. One of the women offered to accompany him, but he refused. They all stayed at the party, dancing with each other, and only several hours later did they begin to
worry about Pickett's failure to return. When they went to the bungalow, it was dark and the daughter was asleep. She said she'd heard nothing. It was agreed that Pickett might have run into someone at the hotel and gone to another party somewhere in Acapulco.”

“Did any of them leave the party?” I asked.

“They swore they were together from the time he left until they returned as a group to the hotel,” Alvarez said, glancing at his watch. “I have a meeting in a few minutes, Señora. If you have a final question . . .”

“Did you question the other guests at the hotel?”

“As a formality, yes. There was one couple, young and recently married, who were in their bungalow and saw nothing. All the rest of them were out at parties, with the exception of a maid who said she went to bed before midnight.”

“Santiago claimed he saw someone sneak out of the bungalow,” I said.

“Santiago,” said Alvarez, “was a reluctant and unreliable witness. At first he refused to tell us of the party. Later he admitted he'd seen Pickett get out of the taxi and discreetly followed him. Once the party had been disbanded and things were quiet, Santiago went back to the restaurant. A few days later, he suffered a fall and spent some weeks in a hospital in Mexico City.” He paused to give me a sharp look. “Quiroz accepted your testimony that you never spoke to Santiago, Señora. Were you lying?”

I put my notebook away and stood up. “No, I was told this by a third party. Would it be possible for me to see the court records?”

“You will have to send a written request to the authorities in Chilpancingo, which is the capital of Guerrero. It will be reviewed within ninety days and you
will be informed of the decision. To be honest, Señora, I would be surprised if the records still exist. If they do, the likelihood of being allowed to review them is very small because the case involved juveniles.”

“Is there any way to find out if someone has been given access to them in the last year?”

Alvarez thought for a moment, then sighed and said, “I have been instructed to cooperate with you, so I will see what I can learn. It may take several weeks, though. Often the person with the pertinent information is out of his office for various reasons, or must put the request through the appropriate channels.”

I wrote down the telephone numbers of the Book Depot and my apartment and tore the page out of the notebook. “You can call me at the Acapulco Plaza until tomorrow morning,” I said, “or afterward at one of these numbers.” I thanked him for his time, then beckoned to Adolfo, who was entertaining a secretary.

“Did you find out what you needed?” he asked me as we escaped from the stifling grayness.

“All I found out,” I said as I flicked a fly off my arm, “is that I'm better suited to selling books than meddling.”

Since I was out of ideas, brilliant
or otherwise, I had Adolfo take me back to the Acapulco Plaza and arranged for him to pick us up the next morning to go to the airport. What a bizarre four-day trip it had been, I thought as I went up to the suite. Caron had been held hostage, Manuel had been assaulted, Santiago had been murdered, and I'd been dragged to the police station as a suspected knife-wielding drug dealer. I couldn't remember a time when I'd personally been responsible for so many catastrophes. Santiago was the only one who had suffered irreparable damage; Manuel would recover, and in the past, Caron and I had found ourselves in stickier situations.