Dark Reservations (41 page)

“Andale, por favor,”
Joe said, reaching hard for his college Spanish.

The driver took off. Traffic here was worse than in D.C., all the drivers dark-haired Helena Newridges. If a single word could describe a city, the word for Mexico City was
crowded.
Cars on top of cars. People on top of people. And buildings sprouting up everywhere. He'd never experienced claustrophobia before, but he felt a pressure in his chest and an inability to expand his lungs to their fullest. He wondered if this was his first anxiety attack.

He turned on his phone. Two messages. The first was from Chris Staples. “Did you leak that story? Four days before the election. You couldn't wait four fucking days? We needed closure, not this. Not this, goddamn it!” Staples had banged the phone on something. “And I hope your arm hurts.”

The second message was from Andi. Joe had called her from the phone on the plane and told her about his plan. She'd been pissed, but after she cooled off, she'd agreed to help him—unofficially. In the message, she gave him the name and number to the FBI Legat, the legal attaché in Mexico City, but she wanted absolute deniability. “Lose my number,” she'd said. He wrote down the information and tucked it in his wallet. Then he stuffed his pen in his breast pocket. It was a fine pen, gold-plated, a gift from Christine many Christmases past, like his tailored dark blue suit. Everything on him right now said class and, he hoped, money. It was part of his plan. He closed his eyes. It shut out the rush of life outside the cab's window.

Last night, he'd made a 7:30 flight back to Albuquerque, getting home at two in the morning. The little sleep he'd gotten had been restless, mostly because his arm ached. He'd tossed and turned, trying to find a position that lessened the throb. And when he finally had drifted off, he'd dreamed of ravens—or maybe crows. He didn't know for sure, but he assumed they were not seen as a good omen in a dream.

Now, in the back of the cab, his left arm a little stiff from the plane ride, he laid the copy of the
Washington Post,
with Helena's latest article, on the seat next to him. He stretched out his arm.

At least this case would be over soon, he hoped. Then he could take some time off. Get some rest. Give his body time to heal—but only if he got what he needed from Señor Bartolome.

O
CTOBER
29

F
RIDAY
, 4:37
P.M.

C
AMPOS
E
LISEOS
, C
IUDAD
DE
M
ÉXICO
, D
ISTRITO
F
EDERAL
, M
EXICO

Malcolm sat behind the wheel of the rental car. Next to him was Raul. In the back, Snap, a strange creature, even when compared to the critter in the front. Raul had told Malcolm, in somewhat understandable English, that when Snap was young he used to catch pigeons so his family wouldn't starve. An American had watched him crack the neck of a bird and called the young boy “Snap.” The boy took a liking to the name. Over the years, he'd graduated from birds to people. In between, there'd been a few cats and dogs. The scar on Snap's left cheek had been from a “pussy.” Raul's incomplete set of brown teeth made an appearance when he smiled, and Malcolm wasn't sure if he'd been referring to an actual feline or joking about murder.

“L'me see?” Raul said, holding out his hand. Malcolm gave him the photo of Cedro Bartolome, which he'd taken from the law firm's Web site. It showed an older man with thick black hair, a thick black mustache, and a thick body covered in a tailored suit that did little to hide his thickness.

The late-afternoon sun glinted off Raul's greased-up hair as he bobbed to the music on the radio, a station he'd insisted on choosing when he'd gotten in the car. Malcolm rolled down his window now, even though the air-conditioning still blasted. His companions smelled like sweat and refried beans.

Earlier that morning, he'd spent four hours in Tepito (one of many ghettos in this vast city) trolling for the right bottom-feeder, flashing a photo of fifteen hundred dollars to prospective parties. He dared not carry that much money there. He also had photos of two thousand, three thousand, and five thousand, just in case. The two locos stinking up his car went for the fifteen hundred. Back in D.C., Holmes had given him twenty thousand dollars in cash. Money to hire local talent, he'd said. Since there would be no receipts, Malcolm would keep the rest. That and the three hundred thousand he'd told the senator he would need to take care of this mess would be his little nest egg.

Snap said something in Spanish. Glancing in the rearview mirror, Malcolm could see him smiling, the scar forming a giant half-moon dimple.

Raul looked back. Then he said to Malcolm, “You take us for food after?”

These dimwits were about to get more money than they'd seen in a year, and they wanted to shake him down for tacos and
cerveza.
“Yeah, sure.”

Raul translated. Snap seemed pleased.

Malcolm had parked on the street by an impressive glass-sheathed office building. While he eyed the front entrance, Raul and Snap watched the cars coming out of the garage.

“Shit,” Malcolm said.

Raul looked at him.

Malcolm pointed. Joe Evers had just stepped from a cab in front of the entrance. “Keep an eye on the gringo,
comprende
?”

Raul's head bobbed. Either it was a nod or he was dancing to the music.

O
CTOBER
29

F
RIDAY
, 4:58
P.M.

O
FFICE
OF
C
EDRO
B
ARTOLOME
, C
AMPOS
E
LISEOS
, C
IUDAD
DE
M
ÉXICO
, D
ISTRITO
F
EDERAL
, M
EXICO

Joe had called ahead and arranged for a meeting with Señor Bartolome, explaining a deal he was putting together for the purchase of a textile plant outside of Mexico City. He'd scoured the Internet for translated news articles from Mexico, searching out actual financial stories. He found one that included enough details for him to create a convincing cover story. He simply changed the business names and locations

Now Joe sat in Cedro Bartolome's office, wondering when it all went bad. Bartolome had already called for security and was berating Joe for sneaking in under false pretenses.

“Señor Bartolome, please, if I can explain. Once you hear what I have to say, I'm sure you'll agree to help.” A minute earlier, he realized he'd left his copy of the
Post
in the cab. The office door swung open and two burly men rushed in. They grabbed Joe by the arms, hoisted him up.

“This is really unnecessary,” Joe said.

“Mr. Evers, you need to understand that a third of our fees come from international clients.” Cedro Bartolome's English was impeccable. “If I divulge a name of a client, even from twenty years ago, our current clients will go elsewhere. I will not discuss this any further.” He spoke in Spanish to the two men, his words sharp.

They hauled Joe to the door.

He tried one last time. “Check the
Washington Post
Web site. There's an article—” The door slammed closed.

O
CTOBER
29

F
RIDAY
, 5:07
P.M.

C
AMPOS
E
LISEOS
, C
IUDAD
DE
M
ÉXICO
, D
ISTRITO
F
EDERAL
, M
EXICO

The glass doors to the office building burst open and Evers came out, not looking happy. Two men followed. They stopped just outside the entrance and folded their arms across their chests in the universal pose of the tough-guy security guard. So the meeting had not gone as planned. That was good. Very good.

Evers climbed into the same cab he'd arrived in. A second later, it took off. Malcolm hurried to put his vehicle in drive, but stopped when the cab pulled to the curb on the next block.

Malcolm waited.

Minutes passed.

Evers was setting up surveillance. He wasn't finished. He'd been thwarted at the law firm and this was … what? Plan B. Follow Bartolome home? Malcolm was guessing, but it was sound logic. If he were handling the case, he would do the same. Any decent investigator would. Wasn't that why he was down here visiting this shithole—with the two fajita-smelling assholes next to him—because Joe wasn't such a loser after all. The washed-up prick was proving to be a lot more competent than he looked.

At six o'clock, a black Mercedes pulled in front of the building. One of the men who had tossed Joe earlier walked out. Next to him was the target: Cedro Bartolome. They walked to the car. The man opened the back door and the lawyer got in. The car drove off. Joe's cab followed. Malcolm followed the cab. Things were getting interesting.

They drove for a while. The buildings thinned out. Eventually, they came to a community of estates, each plot a few acres, all backed up to a hill. The Mercedes turned into a fenced property with a guard booth. The gate opened and the Mercedes entered.

The cab drove past the property.

Malcolm was unsure what to do. He slowed. Bartolome was his target, but Joe was a problem. An idea had been percolating in his brain since seeing Joe at the office building. Things happened in Mexico. Maybe he could take care of Evers first, and then he wouldn't have to rush the lawyer. He pondered this dilemma as the cab pulled to the side of the road and parked. Malcolm turned into the driveway of another estate. This one did not have a guard booth, but it did have a gate and camera. He angled the vehicle so its license plate was hidden. From this vantage point, he had a view of both Joe's cab and Bartolome's estate.

Five minutes later, the gate to the driveway that Bartolome's vehicle had turned into opened. A scooter drove out. The driver wore a black suit. Malcolm assumed it was the chauffeur. Joe's cab turned around and drove up to the gate. A few minutes later, the gate opened again.

Joe had made the decision for him.

“Okay, Raul. Time to earn your money.”

O
CTOBER
29

F
RIDAY
, 8:17
P.M.

R
ESIDENCE
OF
C
EDRO
B
ARTOLOME
, C
IUDAD
DE
M
ÉXICO
, D
ISTRITO
F
EDERAL
, M
EXICO

“Come in, Mr. Evers,” Cedro Bartolome said, his face impassive as he stepped aside for Joe to enter.

Joe hadn't expected to be received with chuckles and backslaps. For a lawyer, providing information on a client, even one from twenty years ago, was no small matter, for it violated the touchstone of the profession. Joe understood how difficult this was for Cedro and was grateful for the opportunity to be heard. At the security gate, waiting for the guard to call up to the house, Joe had felt like a young boy asking his grade-school sweetheart out for a first date. He hadn't known what he would do if Cedro had refused him. Like a child, he supposed he would have hung his head, mumbled something incoherent to the guard, and left, vowing never to be so foolish again. But the gate had opened, and the taxi had followed the gravel path to the house. And Joe, like the boy who was told yes by his sweetheart, got a lesson in the old adage “Fortune favors the bold.” Now he just hoped he could collect.

Joe followed the lawyer into an elegantly furnished sitting room. A crystal chess set topped a round table in the corner. Wooden bookcases lined the walls of the room, some titles in Spanish, many in English.

A woman entered. She carried a tray with glasses and a bottle of wine. Cedro introduced her as Daniela, his wife. She wore a simple blue evening dress. It was an elegant complement to a beautiful woman.

“Will you be staying for dinner, Mr. Evers?” Daniela's English was more British than American, and Joe wondered if she'd studied abroad. She was much younger than her husband.

He stood to address her. “No, thank you. I do not want to intrude. And I am sorry if my timing was poor.”

“I am sure it could not be helped.” She turned to her husband and her expression conveyed she was unhappy their evening had been interrupted. “Cedro is an important man.” She offered a less than sincere smile. “It was nice meeting you, Mr. Evers.”

Joe gave a slight bow. “And you, Señora Bartolome.”

When she left, Cedro said, “We have a little Friday tradition. We either go out to dinner with friends or she lets the cook go early and prepares supper herself for both of us.” Cedro tasted his wine, seeming to savor the experience. “She is somewhat protective of these evenings and detests when I bring work home.”

“Believe me, I understand.” Joe recalled his family dinners with Christine and Melissa. “And if you ever prepare the meal yourself, I suggest you don't just throw something together. You'll regret it later.”

Cedro appeared confused. “Yes, I'm sure I would.”

They sat on a flower-patterned sofa, which would have been gaudy in any room but this one. In the hands of the rich, gaudy often became chic. Cedro placed his wineglass on the gold-leaf coffee table.