Closely Akin to Murder (6 page)

He looked as though I'd asked him to twirl around the lobby on his tippy-toes, but he went to the window and waited until a woman approached. While the two conversed in Spanish, I amused myself trying to translate signs on the wall. None of them appeared to be a menu, unless
anuncio
was a variety of burrito.

Manuel tapped me on the shoulder. “The lady says that
Los Navedades
has been in business only since 1969.
Tropico
, the newspaper at that time, is gone, and there is no way to locate old issues.”

“Guacamole,” I said morosely.

“So, it's almost noon. Will you have lunch with the señorita at the hotel? It's not so far from here. I will take you there, then return when it's time for the appointment with Benavides.”

I nodded and went out to the car. It was ridiculous to feel so frustrated, I lectured myself as we drove down the boulevard. I'd known long before I left Farberville that the odds were minute that I'd find out anything whatsoever. The events had occurred when I was in fifth grade, playing kickball, reading Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books, and finger-printing my friends. Memories dimmed. Newspapers folded and judges died. Hotels turned into disreputable boarding houses.

And I had made some progress. I would interview Santiago after lunch, presuming he was amenable, and meet with the public defender later in the afternoon. It seemed likely that the pseudonymous Chico had been a guest at Las Floritas when the murder had taken place. Ronnie hadn't mentioned anyone else, but it sounded as if the hotel was booked to capacity during the high season. When she called me from Brussels, I would ask her if she remembered any other guests.

Manuel pulled into the Plaza. “I will come back at four o'clock, Señora,” he said as a bellman opened my door.

“Does that give us time to go back to Las Floritas before the appointment?”

He winced. “I will come at three, then.”

“Remember to ask your brother-in-law about the old limousine companies.” I stopped in the lobby to convert larger bills to pesos, and took the elevator to the nineteenth floor. Caron was gone, as was one of her more modest bathing suits, her sandals, and her copy of
Bleak House
. There was no note; she must have assumed I was shrewd enough to put together the evidence.

Having done so in the twinkling of an eye, I called the desk to check for messages, then wended my way through the clothes strewn on the floor and went down to the bar in the lobby. It was one floor above the pool and the beach; I could hear children and music, but at a civilized distance. After I'd ordered a Bloody Mary, I gave serious thought to the phone call. Whoever had called knew not only my name and where I was staying, but also that I was accompanied by my daughter. Manuel had said he shared none of this information with those on the list; even if he'd let some of it slip
(and was too abashed to admit it), all he'd been told before making the calls was that I wished to conduct an interview about an unspecified topic. How had this innocuous request stirred up such a panicky response?

I took Ronnie's notes from my purse and flipped through them in hopes that some remark would titillate my interest, but the only tickle came from the tabasco sauce in my drink.

Caron had not come back to the room by the time I went down to the lobby to meet Manuel. I wasn't worried about her. Having spotted the college boys in the lobby, she'd agreed to stay at the hotel, either at the pool or on the beach adjoining the terrace. Some of her more bizarre escapades had given her a healthy sense of circumspection when approached by strangers.

Manuel was talking to a bellman when I came down the steps. With an expression better suited to an IRS audit, he opened the passenger door for me. “Are we still returning to the Hotel Las Floritas? I told my brother-in-law, and he became upset. Three men have been killed there this year. Many prostitutes conduct business there.”

“We'd better be on our way if we're going to be on time at Benavides's office,” I said firmly. “It's the middle of the afternoon, for pity's sake. I wouldn't care to prowl around the grounds after dark, but nothing's going to happen at this hour. All I'm going to do is ask Santiago a few questions, pay him if he's cooperative, and leave. I would very much be surprised if Chico shows himself; if he does, I'll arrange another time to speak with him.”

When we arrived in the parking lot, no one was loitering beneath the remains of the restaurant. I walked up to the lobby. Keeping an eye on the end of the
porch, I knocked on the door, but neither Chico nor Santiago appeared.

I had no desire to keep coming up the steep, pocked road on the chance I'd catch Santiago—and it was possible that Manuel at some point would refuse to bring me. I took out a pad from the hotel and wrote a note promising Santiago fifty dollars if he called me, added my room number, signed it, and wedged it behind the doorknob.

We returned to the main boulevard and crawled through the traffic to a small, tidy building at the far end of the bay. I told Manuel he could wait in the car, then went into an urbanely bland reception room and announced myself to a young woman sitting behind a pristine desk.

“An appointment?” she said in a syrupy voice, brightening at this opportunity to display her petty power. “Señor Benavides is . . .
muy ocupado
. He has important clients arriving by yacht this afternoon.”

“My assistant called yesterday and set up the appointment.”

“And you are . . . ?”

“Claire Malloy.”

She picked up the telephone receiver, murmured a few words, and looked at me with an insincere smile. “Señor Benavides will see you now, Señora. His office is at the end of the hallway.”

Pedro Benavides stood up as I entered the room. He had bronzed skin and black hair combed into a shiny pompadour and streaked with gray at the temples. He was not dressed to meet a yacht; his jacket hung on the back of his chair, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened. Unlike the receptionist's desk, his was cluttered with leatherbound books, folders, and thick
documents. All of the ornately carved mahogany furniture, including the wall-to-ceiling bookcases, hinted of money (in this case, pesos).

He came around the desk and extended his hand. “Señora Malloy? Welcome to my office. I'm not clear about the purpose of your visit, but I am always pleased to accommodate a reporter. How can I be of service?”

“I'd like to talk to you about Veronica Landonwood,” I said, sitting in a padded chair and trying to assume a reporter's air of dogged diligence.

His cordiality evaporating, Benavides sank down in his chair and began to fiddle with a pen, his face lowered to hide his expression. “I was not prepared for this,” he said at last. “If I had known that you wished to talk about her, I would not have agreed to be interviewed. What happened so long ago should not be awakened.”

“Well, at least you remember the case,” I said. “Would you like to know what happened to Veronica after she was released from prison?”

“I don't think so, Señora Malloy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have clients coming later this afternoon and I must make—”

“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.