Day of the Dead (21 page)

Just ragged necks, like the stems of hacked-off flowers.

She could see the blood on their shirts, almost black in the beams of the headlamps, their legs kicked out in front of them.

The third body was different. Burned to the point where the charred flesh barely covered the bones. It looked like a prop. Like a horror-movie skeleton. The flesh had been seared away, down to the skull, to a few leathered scraps of skin.

Draped on the skull was a white headdress and veil, like a bride's.

Behind her, Oscar asked, ‘Do you want to go home now, Michelle?'

Her stomach twisted and roiled. Don't get sick, she told herself. Pretend you have your camera and you're looking through the lens. It's just an image. It's not real.

She nodded.

He didn't say anything. He helped her into the front seat of the Suburban. Emma was still sprawled out in the backseat, snoring softly.

He isn't going to kill me, she told herself. He isn't. He would have done it there if he were going to. He wanted to show me those … those things.

Why?

He drove her back to Hacienda Carmen, not saying a word. Neither did she.

When they reached the gates, he said, ‘I like that you pay attention and that you don't talk too much.'

Her hand clutched the door latch. Oscar reached across and pressed the button to release her seatbelt.

‘Tell your friends,' he said. ‘Tell them that I've come to town.' He smiled. ‘Tell them that you met me.'

She made it to the bathroom in her room at Hacienda Carmen before she threw up. She crouched over the toilet seat, puking up the red snapper she'd had for dinner and the champagne and tequila she'd drunk with Emma until bile burned her throat, and when she was finally done, she lay on the bathroom floor curled on her side, shivering, the glazed tiles cool against her cheek.

Eventually she sat up, then stood, grasping the edge of the sink for support.

She rinsed out her mouth with water from the sink, wet down a washcloth with cold water and washed her face, cleaned up the splatters of vomit on the toilet seat and the floor where she'd missed the bowl. Brushed her teeth.

Then she changed out of her clothes, tossing them on the bathroom floor. Stood there naked for a moment, still shivering in the damp heat.

What clothes to put on?

What should she do now?

Four in the morning, she told herself, it's four in the morning.

She put on an oversized T-shirt and went and sat on the edge of her bed.

He hadn't killed her. He wanted her to see … he wanted her to tell …

To tell someone.

Tell your friends.

She wanted to cry, but she was too empty for that. Too exhausted. Instead she stood and got a bottle of water out of her refrigerator, took a few sips of it, then sank back onto the bed.

Daniel. It had to be Daniel. Who of her ‘friends' here did Emma even know about, except for him?

You can't be sure, she told herself. You don't know what's going on behind the curtain.

But all this had started with Daniel, hadn't it? Emma had seen the two of them together. It was the simplest explanation. The simplest explanation was usually true. What was that called again? Someone's razor, something like that.

It couldn't be Gary. Emma couldn't know about Gary. Could she?

Whoever Gary worked for, she knew that he wasn't her friend.

She rested her forehead in her palms for a moment.

Were there buses running this time of night? Buses to anywhere that wasn't here?

You have to call him, she thought. That wasn't a request from Oscar. It was a command. If she didn't …

She got her iPhone out of the little black purse she'd carried with her tonight. Tapped on her contacts and dragged her finger to Daniel.

‘Howdy,'
his voice said. ‘Leave a message.'

Fuck.

Well, what did she expect? It was four in the morning.

‘It's Michelle,' she said. ‘Sorry to call so late. But some things have happened. …'

Don't lose it, she told herself. You can't.

‘Some things have happened. And I have to talk to you. It's …'

What was she supposed to say?

‘Please call me. It's really important.'

She lay there on the bed staring at the iPhone, at all her apps, at the lie of connection, its blank promises.

Finally she got up and took one of Tom's Ambiens and a couple of Advils. Drank the rest of her bottle of water. Stretched out on the bed staring at the fan on the ceiling, at its slowly rotating blades.

The phone. She lunged for it. ‘Hello?'

‘Hey.'

‘Danny?'

‘Yeah.'

Eight
A.M.
She'd dozed a little. She was wide awake now, her heart thudding hard.

‘I …' How could she even begin to explain? ‘Are you in town?'

‘No.' He sounded a little irritated. ‘What's up?'

‘Something happened last night … with Emma. …'

‘Emma?' Right away his tone changed. To a sort of wary concern. ‘Is she … is she okay or … ?'

‘Yeah. I think so. But … look, I need to see you. I can't … It's too hard to explain on the phone.'

And what if someone were listening?

She could hear his harsh sigh on the other end. ‘I've got a lot going on. But I can meet you tomorrow morning. Is that going to work?'

It would have to.

Maybe it was time to go to the consulate. She tried to imagine it, what she would say to them, how they would react.

They'll think I'm crazy, she decided. Or guilty of something. But as long as they'd help her …

Would they?

Oh, I wouldn't do that, Michelle. I really wouldn't.

She showered, dressed, and went downstairs for coffee.

Two men waited at the reception counter. At first she didn't realize they were waiting for her; the older of the two leaned against the counter chatting up Paloma, the woman with the rose tattoo who worked the front desk. The other hung back, sipping a cup of coffee, smiling and then laughing at something one of them had said.

Michelle approached the counter, where the coffee pot sat surrounded by an assortment of mismatched cups.

The younger of the two men straightened up. ‘Ms. Mason?'

She recognized him then – the policeman who'd come to her hotel the night of the assault, the one who'd spoken better English. As before, he wore a white polo shirt and khakis; his badge hung around his neck on a lanyard.

‘Inspector Morales with the judicial police.'

Her heart started to pound, so hard that for a moment she felt dizzy, cold sweat prickling on her back.

Did they know? That she'd been there, that she'd seen …

They couldn't, she told herself. Calm down.

Unless someone told them.

‘I remember you,' she said. ‘You came to the hotel.'

He smiled, showing even, white teeth. ‘Right.' He gestured at his companion. ‘This is Inspector Dos Santos. Can we speak to you for a few minutes?'

‘Of course,' Michelle said.

He gestured toward an empty table behind the fountain, by the wrought-iron fence. Michelle nodded and started to follow him, then stopped. ‘I'd better have a cup of coffee,' she said, smiling at him.

‘Sure,' he said, lifting his mug, and he and Dos Santos went to sit down at the table.

She watched his retreating back. She could see the edge of a tattoo where his neck met his shoulder. A spiderweb, it looked like.

She filled her mug, her hands shaking, topped the coffee off with milk, thinking. What could she say? What would they think?

Never offer information. She remembered reading that somewhere, that you should never give the police information if they suspected you of something, not without a lawyer. You could get yourself into a lot of trouble that way.

But this was Mexico. She wasn't innocent until proven guilty. It was the other way around.

A spiderweb. Was that a gang tattoo?

Don't say anything unless you have to, she told herself. Find out what they want first.

She followed the two men over to the table. The yellow dog that hung out in the courtyard trotted over and flopped beneath its shade.

‘Is this about what happened at the hotel?' she asked.

Morales shook his head. ‘No. Unfortunately, we haven't caught those guys. They probably left town, to be honest.'

‘Oh. Then why … ?'

‘Ned Gardner.'

‘Ned?'

For a moment she felt absurdly relieved. She'd only seen Ned's body in photographs. She hadn't been there. They couldn't possibly think she'd had anything to do with what happened to him.

‘The American who ran the restaurant. You knew him?'

‘I'd met him.' She took a moment to sip her coffee, to think about what she should say. ‘I heard about what happened. It's really awful.'

‘Yeah. So we want to be very thorough in our investigation. And we understand you talked to him the night he died. At El Tiburón. Is that correct?'

‘I talked to him for a couple of minutes.'

‘Can you tell us about your conversation?'

‘Well, there wasn't all that much to it.'

Dos Santos leaned back in his chair, smiling, saying nothing. Maybe he didn't speak much English.

She thought about what she should say, if she should mention Ned's ‘business' with Daniel, then realized she didn't have much choice.

Charlie had heard the whole thing.

‘He was trying to drum up business for his restaurant,' Michelle said. ‘You know, offering two-for-one specials, that kind of thing. I got the impression the place wasn't doing that well.'

‘Was there anything else?'

‘He was mostly talking to my friend, to Danny.'

‘Oh,' Morales said. ‘The man from the hotel. Okay.'

The way he said it, so carefully neutral – he found that interesting.

Or he knew something already.

‘What about?'

‘Trying to get some advice, I think.' She gave a little shrug. ‘I wasn't really paying that much attention.'

‘Do you know where I can reach him?'

‘I think he's out of town.'

‘A phone number?'

She hesitated. ‘Sure.'

Daniel wasn't going to like that. But lying didn't seem like an option.

Underneath the table the yellow dog's tail beat against the ground, in slow steady time.

She gave Morales the phone number. He made a note in a little pad, the first note he'd taken.

Were they recording the conversation? she wondered.

‘I didn't think you would still be in Vallarta,' he said. ‘I guess I thought you were only here for a week or so. On vacation.'

‘Well, that was my original plan.' She shrugged. ‘I like it here.'

‘In spite of your troubles.'

‘Yes. In spite of my troubles. But I'm probably going home next week.'

‘I see.' He reached into his pants pocket and extracted a small plastic card case. ‘If you think of anything else, you can reach me at these numbers. And I still have yours.'

‘Thanks,' she said, taking his card. Dos Santos stood as well, still smiling, still saying nothing.

‘Did you spend time in the States?' she said. Because it suddenly occurred to her, what was familiar about Morales. It was his accent, the way he carried himself.

‘Yeah, I did. In L.A., in Van Nuys.' He grinned. ‘You know Van Nuys?'

‘Of course. I live in L.A.'

‘No kidding! Yeah, I was there from when I was a little kid till I was in high school. You can still tell, huh?'

She nodded. ‘You sound American.'

He shrugged. ‘I used to think I was.'

By late afternoon it had made the online papers.

¡MASACRE EN VALLARTA!
the headline said in huge type.
‘Calcinaron a una persona y decapitaron a dos más,'
read the subhead halfway down, just above the photos.

There were the bodies, posed against the concrete wall, the two headless and bloody, the third burned clear to the bone.

‘Beltrán Leyva. It's got to be.'

‘Maybe it's Sinaloa, Chapo's boys setting an example.'

‘Dumped at the Aguilars' building? No fucking way. That's a message to Sinaloa –
and
to this town.'

Michelle clutched her Perrier, drank, and nodded. Like she had a clue what they were talking about.

She'd gone to El Tiburón early in the evening, before sunset. It wasn't Friday, but she'd hoped there would be people here she knew, engaging in the town sport of gossip.

She hadn't been disappointed. Charlie sat at a table by the railing overlooking the sand. With him was the Asian-American man she'd seen here the first time she'd come, who'd gone on about how crime was bad for business. Broad-faced, red-cheeked, and sweating, he tilted back in his chair and drained his beer, rested his hands on his thick thighs. ‘Fucking craptastic,' he said.

His name was Nate – ‘Except around here they call me ‘El Chino'. Nice, huh?' – and he was a structural engineer and contractor. ‘The Aguilars hired me to fix their sinkhole of a condo project,' he told Michelle. ‘First they tried building on unstable ground. Then they didn't grease the right palms when the new mayor came in. Now they've got fucking
narcos
doing some voodoo Santería shit and dumping bodies on the property.'

‘Santa Muerte,' Michelle said.

‘Huh?'

‘That's what it looked like. The skull. Santa Muerte. The patron saint of the poor. And criminals.'

‘Whatever. All I know is the job's a crime scene now, on top of everything else.'

‘Santa Muerte's always been more of a Gulf cartel icon than a Sinaloa one,' Charlie said thoughtfully. ‘But supposedly Sinaloa and Gulf are allied these days. I'm not sure what to make of this.'