A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (29 page)

      
The king married the girl, but he had a wicked mother who warned him against his new bride because she was jealous. When the girl gave birth to a son, the king's mother stole the baby away. She smeared blood on the girl's mute mouth, calling the girl "one who eats the flesh of her own." But the young queen did not say a word in her own defense
.

     
As Sylvia read the text, she was startled by a very faint sing-song noise. Could it be the child? She looked over—Serena was silent. The only audible sound was the whir of the tape recorder's small gears. After a moment, Sylvia picked up where she had left off.

      
And she kept silent when her second baby was stolen by the old woman. When the king's third child was also stolen, the grieving king believed his wife must be a murderess, and he sentenced her to die by fire
.

     
There was the sing-song noise again. Sylvia stopped speaking.

     
Not a sound.

     
Again, she began to read.

      
The day of her execution happened to fall on the last day of her sentence of silence. With her, she took six shirts of wildflowers to the wooden pyre
.

     
Sylvia felt her heart gallop. This time, the sing-song noise clearly came from Serena. Sylvia absorbed feelings of amazement and wonder while her mouth kept opening and closing around words. Some part of her continued to read as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But now her voice was accompanied by another voice—small, sweet, and musical.

      
There, she cried out in joy when she saw six swans; they flew so close to her, she tossed the shirts over their feathers . . . her brothers stood . . . as men
. . .

     
Sylvia let her voice fade in and out, ever so gradually.

      
in their human form once more
. . .

     
Until only Serena's soft voice was audible:

      
The spell was . . . broken and . . . her brothers gathered . . . around her
.

     
If Serena's face was shining and alert, her voice was matter-of-fact. As she picked up the drawing on the window ledge, she pointed to the initials "C.W."

     
Then, meticulously, she printed out words in crayon: "I want to see my dad."

M
ATT SQUINTED AGAINST
the harsh sun. Dust stung his skin. He saw the ranchero approaching, perhaps thirty feet away, and then he noticed a second man. This one wore a sombrero with a brim as floppy as a massive tortilla. A holster rode low on his hips. He walked with a low, sloping stride like a movie bandito.

     
Matt held his hands in clear view and nodded to the closest man as he weighed his options. Should he try to communicate in Spanish or in English? In Mexico his fluent New Mexican Spanish would not blend in—and neither would a six-foot-two-inch Anglo. Too late to think . . .

     
He kept his eyes straight ahead, walking, calling out, "
Voy a la casa de Carmen Miranda
."

     
The ranchero eyed the norteamericano blankly.

     
Sweat was running off Matt's back, it was beading on his lip. He shook his head—
Thanks anyway, I don't need your help
—and waved one hand casually.

     
The ranchero shifted his shotgun.

     
Matt began rattling off Spanglish. His feet kept pace with his motormouth, moving him in the direction of the main boulevard. All the while he said something like: I can flag a taxi at the corner, you know, never mind, but thanks anyway for your trouble—

     
The ranchero was following him, dogging him a few paces back. The skin on Matt's back seemed to roll—pyloerection is what scientists call that animal reaction to challenge. If the criminal investigator had fur, it would have been standing on end.

     
He thought he heard the snap of a shotgun—had the Mexican just checked the load?

     
Shit. I'm dead
.

     
Now the ranchero began challenging him in rapid Spanish. Who was he? What did he want? Matt thought he could feel the gun aimed between his shoulders. He knew street murders in quiet residential neighborhoods were not unusual in Juárez.

     
I'm fucking dead
.

     
Anger coursed up Matt's spine—who was the cop here? This was a family neighborhood, and this goddamn little punk wanted to take him out? He wheeled around, took a deep breath, and thought
mean and big
. Pulled to his full height, he topped the Mexican by six or eight inches, and he outweighed him by seventy-five pounds.

     
The distant man called out to his buddy—"Hey, Flaco
¿Qué pasa?
"

     
Matt felt the blood pumping behind his eyes.
If I'm dead—you're dead, too, motherfucker
. He stood his ground, watching Flaco's shotgun waver like a hard snake.

     
Finally, the Mexican shrugged and tipped the gun dismissively.

     
Matt was almost to the corner when he saw the taxi—driven by Vargas—pull up at the curb. He scuttled forward, moving in some hybrid lope-lunge. He grabbed the door handle, heaved himself inside, and was thrown halfway across the seat as Vargas accelerated, burning rubber. They were already out on the boulevard by the time Matt got the door shut.

     
He couldn't speak normally until Amado Fortuna's estate was no longer visible in the distance—his heart kept ramming itself against his ribs. Vargas pulled a pack of Delicados from one pocket and tossed a cigarette over the seat. Matt had given up smoking years earlier. He lit the cigarette anyway, ignoring the tremor in his hands.

     
Vargas spoke as if they had been in the middle of a conversation—in a way, they had. "Paco's killer is a
madrina
—a godmother."

     
"A hit man?"

     
"More or less—except he works for the
federales
."

     
"In addition to working for Amado Fortuna?"

     
"And he works for Amado.
Sí
." Vargas accelerated, catching the last gasp of a yellow traffic signal.

     
"How do you know?"

     
The only response was a raised eyebrow.

     
"If you try another trick like that . . ." Matt inhaled cigarette smoke gratefully.

     
A grin split the cop's face. "Out there on the street, you looked honest."

     
"I need a drink before I kill you." Matt didn't smile.

     
"First we'll get you settled at your hotel. Then I've got someone I want you to meet—an important man. Tonight, we'll find him at his office . . . in the blue grass of . . ."

T
HE
K
ENTUCKY
C
LUB
sat like a grand old lady way past her prime and surrounded by riffraff on Avenida Juárez. Her name—displayed in black deco type lined with a gold pinstripe—was the first hint of her style. Inside, the year was 1940, and regulars sipped spirits, unwinding to the mellow recorded horns of the Glen Miller Band. A gleaming mahogany bar ran the length of the narrow-waisted room—a spitting trough skirted the bar—and patrons occupied most of the eighteen red velvet stools. Behind the rich wood, arched mirrors smoky from age reflected faces. Carved wooden beams braced the high ceiling, and brass-lantern chandeliers lit the room, which was accented with a touch of pink and green neon. Between two beams, a massive Budweiser clock hung like the Sword of Damocles. A wooden eagle the size of half a man—wings unfurled—loomed over it all.

     
Matt and Victor Vargas took a fading red-leather booth against the wall, away from the entrance; Vargas kept his back to the corner. A man with a long, dark face and a mustache appeared from the shadows to take their order. His tie was neatly tucked into a white shirt. His black slacks disappeared behind a starched white apron.

     
Victor ordered a whiskey and soda. Matt ordered a
cerveza
—a Superior on Victor's recommendation. "It comes from my home state," Victor said with pride. "It's one of Mexico's best beers."

     
Matt glanced past a
viejo
asleep in one of several upholstered armchairs to the peeling wallpaper behind the old man's head. Over the decades, photographs had faded behind their frames—baseball teams sponsored by the bar's owner, a onetime sports promoter; boxers shaking hands in front of the referee; and above those photographs, hand-painted pictures of matadors draped in embroidered red satin muletas.

     
The waiter arrived with their drinks. Victor sipped whiskey, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and said, "Tell me about this child who turned up in your state."

     
Matt pressed his body against the padded leather seat and nodded. That was an appropriate place to start; he was sitting in a bar in Juárez because heavy hitters were after Sylvia's kid. He knew guys like Amado Fortuna didn't go away—ever. Even if you were smart, all you could do was stay one step ahead of them. And pray.

     
But Matt responded with a question of his own. "Do you remember anything about a torture-murder in Loving, New Mexico—ten years ago—an El Paso kid named Wheeler did his common-law wife?"

     
Vargas shrugged, and Matt continued: "A jury put him on death row. At the time, the guy's infant daughter disappeared—presumed murdered. Now a ten-year-old girl turns up with the inmate's photograph in her purse."

     
Vargas gazed fondly at the amber liquid in his glass while whiskey trickled warmly down his throat. "You mean Noelle Harding's brother? Everybody remembers that case." He ran his tongue neatly over his lips, reminding Matt of a cat. A sly cat.

     
Vargas said, "Anybody who reads
Texas Monthly
knows the story. Two dirt-poor, unwanted kids grow up in an El Paso charity school. Ten years later, she's one of the most powerful women in Texas; her brother's on death row. It's a Texas-style tall tale."

     
Matt sat up straighter. "This kid—Serena—connects some interesting people. Noelle Harding, Cash Wheeler, Bobby Dowd . . . maybe even Amado Fortuna."

     
The glass door of the Kentucky Club swung open, and Vargas stiffened. The
federale
watched while a man in a rumpled three-piece suit walked to the bar and straddled a stool.

     
For a moment Matt had wondered if the man was Victor's important contact. He wasn't sure who to expect. Vargas sure as hell didn't trust his law-enforcement compadres. Corruption had contaminated all branches of the Mexican police; now the national military was in charge. Matt had some idea what that meant to a country like Mexico—a few of her southern neighbors had turned to soldiers in a desperate reach for reform. That solved one problem but created another: once military forces took hold, they didn't like to let go.

     
And even generals were on the take.

     
"Bobby Dowd was a good cop—but unrealistic. He believed he could play the undercover game, that he could step in shit without getting it on his shoes."

     
Matt refocused on Vargas, took in the thought. He said, "The El Paso cops seem to believe Dowd's gone off the deep end—that he's just a cop with a junkie's problem. I get the feeling they"re treating his disappearance like an embarrassment."

     
"They're wrong. The kid's got a habit, but he's still got a code." Vargas shook his head. "He got popped because he knows something."

     
"How can you be sure?"

     
"Bobby called me just before he disappeared—he wanted a meeting."

     
"About Snow White?"

     
Vargas tensed. Matt caught the reaction and smiled. "So I lied," he said. "You left me in the middle of a fucking street war back there, friend."

     
"Tell me what you know."

     
"It was a quiet little project set up by the D.E.A. and assorted feds a few years back. Objective: the arbitrageurs." Matt took a long sip of beer. "The feds wanted to persuade some of the biggest money movers to flip snitch."

     
Matt knew about the project because he was a privileged member of New Mexico's law-enforcement community. New Mexico was the favorite stomping ground for arbitrageurs. They came in various flavors: retired real estate moguls from California, art dealers, former actors who'd been in three or four movies, has-been sports stars. Where better to launder drug money than in a state almost devoid of disclosure laws? Even the feds were powerless to probe too deeply when no state laws were violated.

     
Snow White had definitely been interesting—a project Matt might have enjoyed working. The arbitrageurs were the elite of the drug world. They were the guys who made drug money fly around the planet like a high-tech gaggle of geese. They moved billions of dollars, and their tools were laptops, satellite uplinks, money chips, dirty bankers—and brains. To stay in business, they had to be smart.

     
He closed one eye and turned to Vargas. "Dowd?"

     
"Bobby was part of the project. He was a straight shooter, hungry to climb, a regular mini G-man in a starched white shirt." Vargas sipped whiskey, nodding. "There was a lot of talk back then about the diaries—"

     
Matt shook his head and snorted. "Not the Tuna Diaries
again
. This has got to be the third time this week that old b.s. story's come up."