“Even in the poorest neighborhoods,” Richard said, “people make sure their relatives’ final resting places are cared for. In Mexico, death is treated as a cause for celebration, not mourning. If you come back this way on Saturday or Sunday, you might see groups of families having a picnic lunch with the people who have passed on.”
Finn lowered her camera out of respect. This was the part of the country she wasn’t supposed to see. Which was the real Mexico? The ritzy hotels lining the beach, or the flimsy houses that looked like they would fall over the next time a strong wind blew through?
“We’re going to stop at the flea market up here on the left,” Richard announced halfway to Chichén Itzá. “It has clean restrooms, and it offers you a place to walk around and stretch your legs. You can buy souvenirs if you want, but be warned it’s the same stuff you can get anywhere else. The bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Please be on time. I don’t want to leave without you, but I will if you’re late. Then you’ll have to find your own way back to the hotel. From here, a cab ride should be about a hundred bucks. Your choice.”
Ryan had woken up from her nap somewhere between the agave field and the cemetery.
“I like this guy,” she said. “He’s not full of BS like the guides who make side deals with all the vendors lining the route and try to talk you into buying a bunch of crap you don’t need.”
“Veronique said he was one of the best.”
“What was it he said about getting your name or a special date turned into a Mayan hieroglyph?”
“If you write it down now and give it to the vendors at the gate when we arrive, the finished product will be ready by the time we complete the tour.”
“I think I’ll get them to do the day Jill and I met. That way, she could feel like she was part of this trip even though she didn’t take part. Do you think she’d like that?”
“I think she’d love it.”
Finn thought about making a similar gesture for Luisa but decided against it. Luisa had already been to Chichén Itzá and probably had a boxful of souvenirs to commemorate the trip. If Finn bought her a souvenir, it had to be something Luisa didn’t already have. It had to be something special. Something unique. Something like the Porky Pig toy Finn had given her before they parted ways last week. Saturday once seemed so far away. Now it was much too close.
She wondered if her relationship with Luisa could continue in some way despite her upcoming change in locale. They had distance between them now. A few more miles couldn’t make that much of a difference, could they? Besides, her phone worked just as well in San Francisco as it did in Cancún. Maybe this time—for the first time—writing “the end” at the bottom of a story could mean a beginning instead of a conclusion.
She shuffled toward the front of the bus and climbed down the stairs. Outside, she took pictures of the primitive drawings of the Chichén Itzá pyramids painted on the weathered metal sign on the sprawling building’s roof and of the handwoven blankets hanging in an artisan’s display area. Then she joined the bathroom line, where Ryan was taking five-dollar bets on who would be last to board the bus.
“My money’s on the Barbies,” she said, referring to the femme couple with teased hair and matching outfits who hadn’t checked in for the trip until a few minutes before the driver closed the doors. “They look like serious shopaholics.”
“I’ll take that bet.”
Ryan grudgingly paid up after the Barbies were the first to leave the tchotchke-laden confines of the flea market and Finn’s pick, a pair of school bus drivers from San Diego, were the last. “How did you know?”
“If I’ve learned anything from this trip,” Finn said, pocketing the money, “it’s that people aren’t always what they seem.”
❖
Luisa expected Mrs. Villalobos to be waiting for her when she exited her apartment. As usual, she wasn’t disappointed. Mrs. Villalobos took a long look at her and frowned in disapproval.
“You look tired. Did you have a long night?”
“Short night, long day.”
Luisa had fallen into bed shortly after texting Finn and had slept hard until her alarm went off five hours later. Director Chavez had told her she could take the day off when she called him on the road from Agua Dulce, but she didn’t want her investigation to lose any of the momentum it might have gained yesterday. The case of the four unidentified men had been cold for years, but it was starting to heat up. She needed to act before the trail cooled off again—or disappeared altogether.
“Where did you go?” Mrs. Villalobos said.
Luisa thought of the six shrouded corpses lying on a hill overlooking the village where they had lived, loved, and ultimately met their painful and untimely ends.
“I went to hell and back.”
And she was about to make a return trip, this time by way of Santa Martha Jail.
“You look nice today. I like you better in regular clothes.” Mrs. Villalobos ran a hand over the lapel of Luisa’s blazer. “But why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”
“I have an appointment this morning. I’ll change before I head to the office.”
Luisa had been wearing uniforms so long she felt more comfortable in them than she did “regular” clothes. She hadn’t worn her police uniform to Agua Dulce because she hadn’t wanted to put the villagers on the defensive any more than they already were. She hoped the tactic would have the same effect on Salvador Perez today. He had shut down the instant he had seen the Federal Police insignia on her uniform shirt. She hoped seeing her dressed like a yuppie instead of an authority figure would make him more willing to talk.
“What does your lady friend think about what you do for a living?” Mrs. Villalobos asked.
“Finn? We haven’t talked about it much.”
Luisa could tell Finn was anxious about the more dangerous aspects of her job. She wondered if her career could be a potential deal breaker if she and Finn could solve the logistics of living nearly two thousand miles and two time zones apart and try to form a relationship.
“Finn. That’s an unusual name,” Mrs. Villalobos said pensively. “What’s her family name?”
“Chamberlain.”
“Luisa Chamberlain doesn’t have the same ring as Luisa Villalobos, but I suppose it will do in a pinch.” Mrs. Villalobos flashed an impish grin. “You don’t have to look so surprised. I’ve been around a while, but I’m hipper than I look.”
To prove how hip she was, Mrs. Villalobos launched into a capable version of the Macarena, a dance that had reached its peak of popularity more than twenty years ago. Soon they were both out of breath, Mrs. Villalobos from dancing and Luisa from laughing at the impromptu performance.
“What was that for?” Mrs. Villalobos asked after Luisa kissed her on the cheek.
“I just wanted to thank you. After the day I had yesterday, I needed a good laugh to remind myself I still could.”
“I’m glad I could help.” Mrs. Villalobos cupped Luisa’s cheek, then gave it a pat. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you my version of
La Conquista
.”
“Something to look forward to.”
If Luisa remembered correctly, the folk dance Mrs. Villalobos had referred to was a retelling of Spanish soldiers’ conquest of the Aztecs way back when. Dancers representing the soldiers usually wore modern clothes, but the ones representing the Aztecs wore feathers and dressed as eagle or jaguar warriors. All the dancers wore masks similar to the ones hanging in Mrs. Villalobos’s apartment.
“Where are your people from, Mrs. Villalobos?”
The
Jarabe
, also known as the Mexican Hat Dance, was the national dance of Mexico, and was performed all over the country.
La Conquista
was more popular in the states of Jalisco and Michoacán.
“All over. My mother was from Guanajuato and my father was from Veracruz. My brother, my sisters, and I were born in Michoacán. I moved to Mexico City after I got married.”
“Where does the rest of your family live?”
“My children and grandchildren are in Nayarit. Except for Javier. He decided to forge his own path,” Mrs. Villalobos said proudly. “He moved east years ago. My brother and sisters lived in Michoacán all their lives. I’ve outlived them all. Javier says it’s because I’m too tough to die. But enough of all this talk about me. If I tell you everything now, we won’t have anything to talk about on Saturday.” Mrs. Villalobos shooed her away. “Now go to work. You’re already three hours late.”
Luisa said her good-byes, then called Ruben when she reached the stairwell. She had turned the tire impressions over to him when they had returned to Mexico City in the wee hours of the morning. He had planned to head to the office early today so the guys in the forensics lab could give the molds the once-over and run them through their database.
“Do you have anything yet?” she asked.
“I just finished reading through the report. The tires came back as a match to a brand commonly found on 2012 Ford Suburbans.”
Luisa knew the oversized SUV could seat up to nine. Perfect for ferrying a large family around—or a squad of hit men.
“Were any 2012 Suburbans spotted near Agua Dulce two days ago?”
“I called Miguel Serrano a few minutes ago,” Ruben said. “He said no one has reported seeing one, but one was found abandoned and burned some forty miles away from his farm.”
“So the hit men dumped the car on their way out of Agua Dulce. Any prints, trace, or DNA we might have been able to obtain from it has gone up in smoke. Perfect. Was Miguel able to give you the VIN, at least?”
“Yeah. The vehicle identification number he provided ties the car to Idoia Ocampo.”
Luisa used her shoulder to hold her phone against her ear while she grabbed a pen and recorded the name in her notebook.
“Do we have an address for her?”
“The P.O. box at a mailing center appears to be a legitimate address. The physical’s a fake. I could tell you what it is, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t do you much good.”
“Tell me anyway.”
When Ruben recited the address, Luisa recognized it right away. It belonged to one of the most famous tourist attractions in Mexico City—the Monument to the Revolution. The edifice was located near two of the major thoroughfares in the heart of the city and served as both a memorial commemorating the Mexican Revolution as well as a mausoleum for the remains of some of the heroes from the conflict. Luisa could see the century-old landmark from her apartment window. Was the leader of the Jaguars hiding right under her nose or was this part of the game of hide-and-seek he had been playing with authorities for years now?
“We’re back at square one.” Ruben blew out a sigh of frustration. “That family in Agua Dulce died for nothing because we’re never going to catch this guy.”
Luisa refused to accept the possibility that her search would prove as fruitless as Carlos Ramos’s and all the others who had preceded him. Hundreds of innocent victims like Silvia Perez and her family deserved to be avenged, and she was determined to see them—and the leader of the Jaguars—receive the justice they were due.
“I won’t stop looking until we find him, Ruben. Have someone watch the mail center to see if anyone picks up deliveries to the drop box, and talk to the manager to see if he or she can tell us anything about the box’s owner. I’m headed to Santa Martha Jail to speak to Salvador Perez again. Call me if you hear anything.”
“I will. Be careful.”
“You, too.”
Luisa ended the call and headed to the parking garage. She set her notebook on the trunk of her car and dropped to her hands and knees to check under the chassis. Thankfully, she didn’t spot anything unusual. She turned when she heard footsteps behind her.
A professional-looking man wearing a suit that looked like it cost ten times as much as hers asked, “Is everything okay? Do you need some help?”
Luisa stood and dusted off her hands.
“No, I’m fine,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I was just checking things out. Thanks, anyway.”
Instead of walking away, the man took a step closer. His broad form filled the gap between her car and the one next to it, effectively penning her in.
“
El jefe
says hello.”
In one smooth move, the man dropped his leather briefcase and flicked his wrist, revealing a knife with a retractable eight-inch blade. Then he lunged at her.
Luisa parried his thrust, using the heel of her hand to knock his arm away. She reached for her gun but couldn’t clear it from its holster before he was on her again. She held up her left arm to ward him off and cried out when she felt the knife’s sharp blade slice through her clothes and pierce her skin. Blood coursed from the wound, but she didn’t have time to stop and inspect the damage.
She took a step back to give herself some distance. When the man advanced toward her, she turned sideways and drove his head into her windshield. As blood from his broken nose splattered on the glass, he dropped the knife and crumpled to the ground. Luisa kicked the knife away, cuffed the man to her front bumper, and called 066 for emergency police assistance. The connection was spotty because of all the concrete and reinforced steel surrounding her, but she was eventually able to relay her request for help.
“Haven’t you heard?” she asked as her attacker began to stir. “You should never bring a knife to a gun fight.”
He jerked at the handcuff on his wrist and let out an angry roar when he couldn’t pull free. Luisa held her gun on him as she examined the ID in the wallet she had slipped from his pocket while he was unconscious. His driver’s license said his name was Gilberto Ruiz and listed an address in Vicente Guerrero in the neighboring state of Tlaxcala.
“You came a long way to ruin my best suit, Gilberto Ruiz.” Luisa pressed her palm against her left arm to staunch the bleeding. “Who sent you? Who’s your boss?”
Gilberto pressed his lips together and shook his head like a toddler refusing to eat his vegetables.
“I don’t talk to cops. Call my lawyer,” he said as the approaching sirens of police cars and ambulances signaled the backup Luisa had called for was on the way. “I’m suing you for police brutality.”
“Good luck finding anyone but a public defender to take your case once you’re charged with the attempted murder of a Federal Police officer.”