Closely Akin to Murder (8 page)

I'd found my key when the door opened and Caron dragged me into the room. “What Is Going On?” she demanded. “All Manuel would tell me was that you'd been taken to the police station. I have been sitting here for Three Hours, fully expecting to be arrested by hairy goons with machine guns. They'd take me away to prison and nobody would ever know what happened to me!”

I hugged her until she calmed down, then went into the bedroom and fell across the nearest bed. It was quite a bit softer than a cot in a clammy cell. When Caron sat down on the other bed, I told her everything that had happened.

“Yuck,” she said, capturing my sentiments as well. “Why don't we have Manuel drive us to another town with an airport?”

“I'd still have to show identification at the airline counter, and it might set off all kinds of alarms. The last thing I want to do is cross Comandante Quiroz.”

“What if they can't find this guy?”

“I'll send you a postcard every week and learn how to say ‘bookstore' in Spanish. In the meantime, let's order dinner from room service. I need to stay here in case Manuel calls with the airline particulars.”

“I don't want to leave you here by yourself.”

Surprised by her concern for anything other than her hide, I sat up and presented persuasive arguments until she agreed to leave on the morning flight. I called room service, took a shower, and was drying my hair in the bathroom when the telephone rang.

“It's probably Manuel,” I called to Caron. “Be sure and find out what time he's picking you up in the morning.”

A moment later she called back, “It's not Manuel, Mother, but some man who won't give his name.”

I went into the bedroom and took the receiver from her. “Who is this?”

“I don't think it's wise to mention names. Why don't you call me Prince Charming?”

“Brother Grimm might be more accurate,” I said, recognizing Chico's voice. “What do you know about Santiago's murder?”

“What's it worth to you?”

“Meet me in the lobby bar and we'll negotiate a fee based on what you know.”

“That's a poor idea, Claire. It's been made known to me that the police are looking for me. As flattering as that may be, I'm not eager for them to find me. I've avoided making their acquaintance thus far. From what I've been told, the cells at the
Ministerio Público
are overcrowded, and the prison proper is not at all the sort of place to relax and catch up on one's reading.”

If he'd been in the room, I would have clobbered him with the hair dryer. Reminding myself that he might be a crucial figure in both Oliver Pickett's case and Santiago's murder, I said, “Then where do you suggest we meet?”

“Why don't you go down to the bar in your hotel at
midnight? Have a drink, listen to the band, chat with the salesmen from Los Angeles and their wives. After a while, take the stairs down to the ground floor and go for a stroll along the beach. If I can be certain you're not being followed, I'll join you.”

“So you can cut my throat? I'm willing to talk to you, Chico, but I'm not going to risk my life to do it.” I glanced up and saw Caron in the doorway, her eyes round with dismay and her lower lip extended so far she resembled a small, wan camel. I gestured for her to go into the living room, then said, “Any other brilliant suggestions?”

“This is what is called a Mexican standoff, I believe. It's much too risky for me to be seen with you in public; Quiroz has a squad of undercover men at his disposal, and he's likely to have assigned some of them to follow you. Then again, I'm not your typical tourist, and I understand your reluctance to meet me in a desolate spot.”

“That's perceptive.”

“Well, allow me to think about all this. How much longer will you and your daughter be in Acapulco?”

“I'll be here until Comandante Quiroz gives me permission to leave,” I said levelly. “My daughter is leaving on the next flight. She'll be under constant protection until she's on board the plane, so don't get any stupid ideas. I quite agree with you that there are undercover police officers in the hotel—and I gave them a very detailed description of you.”

“Hasta la vista.”

I called room service to add a bottle of scotch to the order, plumped the pillows, and made myself think. Chico knew that I was poking around the Oliver Pickett case and wanted to interview Santiago. Pedro Benavides
had learned of my objectives late in the afternoon, when the police were already at the crime scene. I hadn't spoken to anyone else on my original list. The Hotel Las Floritas was a veritable haven of iniquity, but it was impossible to ignore the fact that Santiago, who'd been surviving for better or worse for thirty years, was murdered on the very day I knocked on his door. Chico was seeming less and less an innocent observer, I concluded as I listened to Caron respond to the arrival of room service.

It consisted of a squealed: “You call this a taco? Don't you people know how to fix Mexican food? Where's the sour cream?”

For some reason, I found this infinitely comforting.

 

At seven-thirty the following morning, the bellman escorted Caron and her suitcases down to the lobby. Although I was reluctant to say goodbye in the suite, I had no desire for Quiroz's men to spot me alongside a luggage cart, heading for the Cadillac. A misunderstanding on their side might well lead to another distasteful session at the police compound.

Manuel had thought he would be back at the Acapulco Plaza by ten—if the flight left on time. He'd sounded doubtful. I called Inez's mother and asked her to pick Caron up at the airport, paced, listened to CNN, and bawled out the room service waiter when the coffee took forever to arrive. I stood on the balcony, watching sun worshippers court skin cancer and suicidal parasailors being towed through the sky. I contemplated dropping ice cubes on the children in the swimming pool. I tried to read, but the book might as well have been written in Spanish.

When the telephone rang, I snatched up the receiver,
hoping Manuel was calling to report that Caron had left. It was not Manuel . . . or Ronnie . . . or even Chico.

“So, how's it going?” Peter said.

“The hotel's lovely, and the weather is ideal. How's everything in Farberville?”

“Oh, everything's fine
here
. Tell me how your investigation is coming.”

There was an edge to his voice that caused the coffee in my stomach to slosh. “I've spoken to a few key people,” I said, “but I'll tell you all about it when I get home. I wouldn't want to burden the CID's long-distance bill with a lot of irrelevant chatter. By the way, Caron decided to fly home today so she won't miss the homecoming game festivities. She's remarkably unpredictable, isn't she? I'd assumed she would have been thrilled to lie by the pool and read—”

“Then you've done one intelligent thing since you arrived there.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I said, feigning indignation while I tried to guess what was coming next.

“I have in my hand a printout of a query passed on to us from the National Crime Information Center. It's from a law enforcement agent named Quiroz, who would like to know if you have a criminal record or a history of mentally disturbed behavior. I haven't decided how to reply, but it's possible I'll say yes to both.”

“That may not be a good idea,” I muttered. In the ensuing silence, I could easily imagine his expression, and almost hear his teeth grinding. “Comandante Quiroz has this absurd idea that I was involved in some unpleasantness yesterday. I wasn't, of course, and as soon as the suspect is taken into custody, I'll leave.”

“You're under house arrest?”

I forced out an incredulous laugh. “Heavens, no. He politely asked me to stay in Acapulco so that I can identify the suspect. I'm just cooperating in order to foster international goodwill.”

“Sort of a one-woman Olympic team? If the event you've entered has anything to do with meddling in a murder investigation, you're likely to bring home the gold medal.”

“Or the silver,” I said modestly.

Peter's voice flattened. “Do you need me to fly down there, Claire? Things are hectic around here, but I can take a couple of days of sick leave. Getting involved with the police down there can mean serious trouble.”

“No, I can handle this. If Quiroz gets ugly, I'll hire a lawyer.” I changed the subject to a more intimate one, and after a few endearments from both ends, I promised to call him in the evening with what would surely be a lengthy accounting of the situation.

Noon came and went without a communiqué from Manuel. I called the local office of the airline, and after being put on hold for ten minutes while an agent who spoke English was located, learned only that the nine o'clock flight had taken off on time—except for an unspecified delay due to mechanical problems. The list of passengers could not be revealed under any circumstances. I pointed out it was a little late to plant a bomb or arrange for a hijacking. The agent terminated the call.

By mid afternoon I'd left furrows in the carpet from pacing and I could no longer understand the CNN reporters as they dithered about trivial issues like wars and floods. Caron had promised to call me from the Dallas airport if she had time between gate changes, but even if she hadn't, she should have arrived in
Farberville an hour earlier. It was not likely that Manuel had been recruited by the maintenance crew and was at the airport gluing on wings. If I took a cab to the airport, I might be arrested as a fugitive.

I realized that if I remained in the room, I was in danger of losing my mind and leaping off the balcony. This would not be good, even if I landed in the pool. Manuel had given me a business card when we'd met; I dug it out of my purse, gave the telephone one last chance to ring, and went down to the lobby.

There were some rowdy vacationers in the bar, and several couples seated on the wicker furniture. No one leapt to his feet and pointed an accusatory finger at me, but I could sense that my infamy had spread throughout the hotel. I hurried out to the curb and asked the bellman to summon a cab. As I waited, I noticed two men in plaid shirts and khaki trousers come out of the lobby and stroll toward a dirty black car that did not blend in well with the line of limousines, vans, and expensive cars favored by the hotel's clientele. In that Chico might be cowering behind the foliage, I did not object to what I surmised was an official tail. It occurred to me that if Chico called again, I could agree to meet him, and tip off Comandante Quiroz. An affront to my integrity, disloyal to a fellow national—but also the most expedient way to catch the next flight to Farberville.

I gave the cab driver the address of Farias Tourist Agency, sat back, and tried not to speculate about the whereabouts of Caron and Manuel.

We drove down the familiar boulevard, then along a winding road into the mountains. There were pockets of poverty interspersed between modest middle-class neighborhoods. Any tourist on the street was there because
he or she was lost; this was not the Acapulco in the travel guides and slick brochures.

“How much farther?” I asked the driver.

“Not far,” he said cheerfully. There was no meter in the cab, but I could hear one ticking in his head as he continued to navigate sharp turns, double-parked trucks, and debris from construction projects.

Fifteen minutes later, I was about to repeat my question when he turned through into a compound at least as large and complex as that of the police. Parked irregularly around the various buildings, however, were Cadillacs, Lincolns, and limousines of both unassuming and outrageous lengths.

We stopped in front of what might have been a humble family home, complete with a porch bedecked with flower pots and curtains at the windows. A pretty young woman in a white sundress came outside as I gathered my courage to inquire about the fare. She squinted at me, then gestured for the cab driver to roll down his window.

After a short discussion in which the Acapulco Plaza was the only phrase I caught, she said to me, “May I help you, Señora?”

“I hope so,” I said. “I'm Claire Malloy, and Manuel Estoban has been driving me for the last three days. A problem has arisen, I'm afraid, and I need to talk to his employer. Would you please ask this gentleman about the fare?”

Their exchange suggested that the driver had been planning to engage in a contemporary version of highway robbery. Finally they arrived at a compromise. I handed over a thick wad of pesos and climbed out of the cab.

“Should I have him wait?” I asked the woman.

“Oh, no, someone from the agency will take you back when you are ready. This is most extraordinary that a client should come here, Señora Malloy. Has Manuel done something to make you so angry with him that . . . ?” Her brown shoulders rippled as she gave me a weak smile. “He is the last of many children, and his oldest sister is my mother. He and I grew up together and we are close. My father will be unhappy if you have a complaint.”

“I have no desire to get Manuel in trouble,” I said, noting the black car parked by the gate. “Shall we go inside so that I can explain what's happened?”

“Yes, of course. I am Gabriella Farias.”

I followed her into the front room, which was crowded with two desks and numerous filing cabinets. Religious paintings hung beside framed licenses and family photographs. At one desk, a middle-aged woman with bright orange hair snarled into a telephone receiver. Someone in an adjoining room was typing at an admirable pace; a boy who was ten or eleven years old dashed into the room to drop an armload of folders on top of a cabinet, then dashed away. It was by far the busiest place I'd visited in Acapulco.

“We have just begun the high season,” Gabriella said. “Many tourists are arriving every day, and we try our best to accommodate them, even when they have changed their plans at the last minute. We are very proud of our reputation.”