Requiem for the Assassin (30 page)

“We need to see the records for case A9-4721-2009, please,”
El Rey
said. “Arellano vs. Juvenetud.”

The man scribbled the number on a scrap of paper and disappeared without a word, and they returned to their seats. Twenty minutes later, he reappeared and signaled to
El Rey
, who approached the desk while Carla remained seated.

“We’re looking for the file. It wasn’t where it was supposed to be,” the clerk explained. “Are you sure that’s the right case number?”

El Rey
repeated the number, and the clerk returned to the vaults. Almost an hour went by before they saw him again. When he emerged from the back, the assassin strode to the counter, where the man waited, ill at ease.

“I’ve looked at all the places it might have been misfiled, but it’s not there. I’ll keep looking, but it’s going to take longer than usual. Perhaps you’d like to come back after lunch?”

El Rey
checked the time. “We really need the file. We’ll wait here. Are you sure you wrote the number down correctly?”

The clerk held up the paper scrap nervously. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Like I said, it isn’t there.”

“Is that common? For an active court case to go missing?”

“With a manual system, it’s not as uncommon as you’d think. All I can do is keep looking.”

A tall man with a goatee neared, carrying an armload of folders. “Is there a problem, Ernesto?” he asked with a supervisorial air.

“Misfile.”

“What’s the case number?”

El Rey
repeated it, maintaining an even tone even as his annoyance with the incompetence and sloth of public sector employees grew. Their only job was to file and safeguard court documentation and retrieve it when asked. How hard could it honestly be?

The goateed man glanced to the side. “Ah, yes. I remember that one. Title dispute, I think. Rather a thick one, which is why it impressed me.”

“Title dispute?”

“Yes. A large tract of land near Magdalena Bay. Someone from mainland claiming it didn’t really belong to the
ejido
– you know, the agricultural collective – due to a preexisting title grant from the Spanish governor. We don’t see many of those. Usually it’s a more recent title issue contesting the legitimacy of the transfer. This one caused a local stir, as I recall.”

“A stir?”

“I don’t remember all the details. Sorry. But let’s see if we can find the file, shall we?”

El Rey
returned to his seat and told Carla what the supervisor had said. Another hour dragged by before both clerks returned, the goateed one looking befuddled.

“I have to apologize. According to the sign-in ledger, the last time the file was viewed was two weeks ago. It’s definitely been misplaced. We’ll find it eventually, but it could take some time,” the supervisor said.

“How much time?”

Ernesto shook his head. “I have no way of knowing.” He turned to the assassin. “Again, I’m sorry for any inconvenience. If you’d like to give me a phone number, I’d be happy to call you when it’s located.”

El Rey
eyed the supervisor. “You mentioned that the case caused some controversy?”

“That’s right. I remembered a little more. It claimed that a significant chunk of beachfront land wasn’t the property of the
ejido
, and that a land grant from the 1700s preceded the allocation of the land to the
ejido
after the revolution. One of the local papers covered it. The same thing happened in Cabo – a family claimed that the entire Cabo and San José del Cabo tract had been deeded hundreds of years ago, which obviously jeopardized many billions of dollars of properties.”

“How did that turn out?”

“Some sort of a settlement, I believe. It just sort of dropped off the radar after the governor left office. Rumor was he was financially supporting the family for a slice of the proceeds, but who knows?”

A question occurred to
El Rey
. “What happens if the person bringing the suit dies before it’s adjudicated?”

“Well, I’d expect that the next of kin or the estate would take the position as plaintiff.”

“What if there was no successor? If the plaintiff had no descendants or family?”

The supervisor thought about it. “I’m not an attorney.”

“Of course. I was just curious. I wouldn’t hold you to anything.”

Ernesto wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of his face as his supervisor and he exchanged a glance. The supervisor leaned closer. “I’d guess in that case, it would expire. If there’s no harmed party, under Mexican law, there’s no case. It’s possible that the attorney could figure out a way to pursue it, but I’d think it would be almost impossible.”

El Rey
’s expression didn’t change. “Interesting.”

Ernesto tried again. “Sir, can you leave me some contact information so I can get in touch when we find the file?”

The assassin considered the request as if for the first time. “What? Oh, no need. I’ll be back tomorrow. Let’s hope for better luck then.”

“It would be no trouble.”

“Don’t worry about it. Just keep looking for it. You open at nine?”

“Every business day,” the supervisor confirmed. “Sorry we couldn’t accommodate you today, but we’ll keep searching. It’s got to be around here somewhere. I don’t see it signed out by the judge, but I’ll check that next. Sometimes one of their clerks pulls a file and forgets to follow procedure, in which case it’s sitting on a desk somewhere.”

Carla rose as
El Rey
returned to her and explained the situation as they made for the exit. “A title dispute near Magdalena Bay, huh? When we’re online, I’ll do some more looking at what specific area Perry’s charity is concerned with. If it’s anywhere around that tract of land…”

“Then this is all about property.”

“Which is really about money.”

They reached the car, and
El Rey
hesitated as Carla climbed into the passenger seat. “If the case expires, according to the clerk, nothing would happen and it would remain the
ejido
’s land,” he said.

“And
ejidos
don’t kill people. So there’s got to be something else going on.” Carla buckled in as
El Rey
started the engine, and directed the air vents at her face, a gesture against the oppressive heat. “You know, I’m familiar with Magdalena Bay from when I was a child. There’s nothing there. I mean, seriously, nothing but a few fishing shacks, a sliver of a town, an airstrip, and a gas station. I can’t imagine anything there would be worth more than a pack of gum. It’s not exactly Rio.”

El Rey
pulled out of the lot and accelerated along the dusty road. “Curiouser and curiouser, as the saying goes. But that’s got to be the key. Now we just need to figure out why anyone cares about a plot of land in the middle of nowhere, and how the archbishop, Cruz, and the admiral fit in.” He glanced at the rearview mirror and sped up and then cut hard right down a smaller street leading into a barrio.

“Easy there,” Carla said, her voice playful.

“Don’t look back, but I think we might’ve picked up a tail.”

“A tail?”

He looked in his side mirror. “Yes. A pickup truck. And it just made that same turn, so it’s not a
might
anymore.”
El Rey
floored the accelerator, and the economy car’s motor strained as the speedometer wound past 100 kph. “Hang on,” he warned and then twisted the steering wheel left, nearly putting the car on two wheels as he took another corner at reckless speed.

The big pickup’s V8 more than compensated for its lack of agility, and as the assassin executed another turn, he could see that it was gaining on them. The rows of small cinderblock homes with black plastic cisterns on their roofs receded in the mirror as the neighborhood changed into industrial, and he dared a look at Carla, who was clutching the dashboard with a death grip.

A sedan swung out of a street ahead and stopped in the middle of the road, blocking most of the dusty asphalt strip. Two men got out.
El Rey
saw the pistols before Carla did, and whipped his from his jacket as he yelled to Carla, “Get your head down.”

She ducked below the dash level as
El Rey
floored the accelerator. The men began firing as he roared toward them, and
El Rey
simultaneously slammed on the brakes and twisted the wheel hard right as he neared them, sending the rental car into a controlled sideways skid as it slowed thirty yards from the shooters. The vehicle hadn’t come to a halt yet when
El Rey
squeezed off a dozen shots, only stopping when the slide locked in the empty position. Both men went down, one of them pitching backward, arms akimbo, the other slumping to the ground as though suddenly tired, his weapon dropping from his hand as he pawed at the three ruby blossoms that had appeared on his bright yellow polo shirt.

El Rey
gunned the engine, pointed the wheel at the car blocking their way, and then rammed its rear end, shifting it enough to scrape by. The boom of a shotgun roared from behind them, and the rear window shattered as he stomped on the gas, losing control on the loose dirt that blanketed the road before the tires gripped and the car straightened out.

Carla’s voice sounded panicked. “Oh my God–”

“Stay down. It isn’t over yet,” he warned, jerking the wheel left and then right, presenting an erratic target. Behind them the truck barreled past the sedan, smashing into its rear quarter panel in a shower of sparks, and then accelerated after them. A glance at the mirror told
El Rey
everything he needed to know – there were three men in the cab, with one leaning out the passenger window with a shotgun. His gaze returned to the street, and he spotted a dirt road leading across the empty scrub ahead on his left. He ejected the pistol’s spent magazine one-handed and held the wheel steady while he rummaged in his pocket for the spare.

“What are we going to do?” Carla cried, cringing as the dull roar of another shotgun blast reached them through the rear window.

He slammed the magazine home.

“Hang on. It’s going to get a little rough.”

“Going to?” she said through gritted teeth, and then they were flying down the washboard dirt road, a haze of reddish dust fogging the track behind them as he opened the throttle. The little car bucked like a bronco as it crashed and bounced over the track, the tires skidding on the dirt like they were on black ice. He eyed the mirror, and all he saw was an opaque beige wall.

“Keep down. If I get hit, crawl behind the wheel and floor it the hell out of here.”

“How will I know you’re hit?”

“I’ll stop shooting.” He glanced at her. “Brace yourself.

“What are you–”

El Rey
yanked the emergency brake and turned the wheel, locking up the rear tires as the car drifted to a stop at the side of the dirt road. He was out of the vehicle and moving around the front fender as the truck bore down on them, and when it blew through the dust, he waited as the driver stood on the brakes and tried to stop, momentum carrying it forward without slowing. He fired three times at the left front tire and was rewarded by the sight of the rubber shredding to pieces as the truck pitched forward onto the rim, completely out of control. The wheel plowed into the rise that framed the dirt road. The truck flipped end over end in a gravity-defying somersault and then slid for another twenty yards on its crushed roof.

El Rey
held the Glock in a two-handed grip as he walked toward the mangled wreckage, the cab half staved in. He saw movement inside the cab – the driver was trying to get his seat belt unbuckled, hanging upside down, blood streaming down his face, the deflated airbags sagging from the dash.

A lump of blue streaked with bright crimson lay nearby – a passenger, who’d been thrown from the vehicle as it flipped, now an impossibly twisted parody of the human form.
El Rey
continued to the truck and watched as the driver continued his fruitless efforts, apparently not realizing that both of his arms were broken, his hands useless to free him.

The third passenger’s body was crumpled in the cab, head twisted at an unnatural angle.
El Rey
sniffed the air before kneeling by the driver and pocketing the Glock.

“Smell that? Gas. I hear burning alive’s about the worst way to go,” he said softly.

The driver’s blurry gaze moved to the assassin’s face, which was as untroubled as an altar boy’s. The man tried to speak, but all that he managed was a wet cough that drenched his upside down features with blood before he shuddered and fell still, sightless eyes frozen open.

Carla was still tucked behind the dash when he returned and slid behind the wheel. “Looks like I should have taken the rental agent up on the additional insurance,” he said and put the transmission into gear.

“What happened? Are they…are they dead?”

He nodded as they bumped their way back down the road, the shocks protesting every rut. “That’s a safe bet.”

“Oh, God.”

“It gets worse. They were cops.”

“What?”

“Police. At least those three were. But that’s not an official vehicle, so they were probably off duty or ducked out to take us on. No doubt they were dirty. The question is, who’s paying them?”

“You killed cops?”

“I killed three men who were trying their damnedest to kill us. They happened to be wearing uniforms.” He snorted, impatient with himself. “I should have known there was something off about that clerk. He was skittish. My bad.”

“What do we do now? Go back and question him?”

“That’s not how this works. No, what we do is steal a car, drive south to San José del Cabo, where there are plenty of flights, and take the first one anywhere in Mexico. Because they’re going to have roadblocks and a manhunt going for the cop killers in no time, so we’re racing the clock. The only break is that I didn’t see any surveillance cameras in the records building. So it’ll be a verbal description of a man with a goatee and sideburns, and a woman with sunglasses and a baseball cap. An attractive one, but still, difficult to describe accurately.” He felt at the edge of his goatee and winced as he ripped it free of the contact cement that held it on, and then repeated the act with his sideburns.