Escaban looked over at Diego. “So how do you suppose two Americans fly in and find the morgue within the same hour the news of Gaspar’s death broke?”
“That does sound suspicious,” Diego agreed. “So you think you’re onto a hot lead?”
“Better than that. I think we’re about to meet our Equinox Killer.”
* * * *
Eva didn’t know what to expect when the mortician led them to her father’s body. He’d been murdered, she was told. And his heart had been cut out.
As the mortician opened the body bag, she braced herself for the pain and horror that had surely twisted her father’s face into death, but that wasn’t the case. Juan Joaquin Gaspar looked peaceful lying there on the mortician’s table. He looked calm, as though merely slumbering, but his color was all wrong. The pasty skin of his face was loose and draping toward his ears like melted wax. Despite the lifeless details, the corpse was without a doubt her father, and even as she stood there positively identifying him to the mortician, it still hadn’t sunk in that he was really dead.
Derek wrapped an arm around her shoulders, whether for her support or his own, she couldn’t tell. Eva was far from tears. She was too numb for emotion as she stood there, staring in disbelief until the mortician finally zipped the body bag and rolled her father away.
“We foun’ hees passport,” the mortician said in his heavily coated English. “That’s how we identified heem.”
“There was nothing else?” Derek asked.
The mortician shrugged. “No-theeng. Except maybe the
policía
, they find.”
Eva noticed the distraught look on Derek’s face as he slowly turned away. She chose to let him go. He was apparently closer to her father than he let on, and perhaps he needed time to deal with the situation on his own. As for herself, Eva couldn’t tell if she was already coping with it, or simply allowing shock to hold reality at bay.
It was about that time when two men approached. There was an authoritative cadence to their walk that could only come with law enforcement. Eva recognized that immediately, even without uniforms or detective-style trench coats to tip her off; even before they flashed her their badges. The first introduced himself as AFI Director Carlos Escaban and then he presented his lank detective, who demonstrated a belligerent first impression—Agent Armando Diego.
“We are heading this
investigación
,” Escaban explained.
Eva shook their hands, noting a discomforting stiffness about their gesture. “Investigation? So you don’t know who did this to my father?”
Escaban cleared his throat. “We’re hoping you might help us with that.” He shifted toward a small waiting room that might have been converted from a windowed entry or hallway. “If we may ask you a few questions,
por favor.”
She followed them into the waiting room and sank into a cushy vinyl sofa. Escaban chose a wooden chair. His agent remained standing at the door.
“Miz Gaspar, can you think of anyone who may have wanted to kill your father?”
Eva shrugged. “I’m the wrong person to ask that,” she said.
“¿
Como?
”
“Up until three months ago I haven’t had anything to do with my father in over ten years.”
“What happened?”
“Let’s just say I disagreed with his religion.”
“So what changed?”
Eva sighed. “I guess family ties run deeper than personal grudges. My mother passed away and he needed my help.”
Director Escaban glanced at his agent who was jotting down notes in a pocket notepad. Eva didn’t like the way the rigid man furiously scribbled over the page. There was something about his haste that made her wonder if he wasn’t collecting evidence rather than taking notes. But evidence of what? A failed father-daughter relationship? Surely that wasn’t a crime in
Mexico
?
When Escaban turned back to her, there was a hint of sympathy in his eyes. Eva welcomed it, growing more comfortable with his calm demeanor, the level of control he demonstrated, even the stability of his robust exterior. Unlike his partner, he seemed less avid to judge and more willing to help. She supposed it was this level-headedness that ascended him to his position.
“So in that three months’ time you’ve been reunited, you haven’t picked up on any acquaintances your father had?” Escaban asked.
Eva held her focus on him. “Yeah, I picked up on a few. His followers were calling him all the time. Some of them stopped by his house looking for spiritual guidance and all that crap. But if you want to get more details about these people, you’ll have to talk to Derek.”
Eva suggestively glanced out the office-style window. Just outside the waiting room, Derek was patiently pacing the cold concrete floor of the morgue.
“Your son?” Director Escaban asked.
Eva released a sarcastic snort. “Hardly.”
“A friend?”
“Not really. He worked for my father.”
Agent Diego suddenly perked up. “What did he do?”
Eva looked at Agent Diego and realized why she didn’t like him. He reminded her of her ex-husband. The unreadable eyes, the narcissistic tones of his voice. He looked just like the type that had cut and run out on her shortly after learning of their unexpected pregnancy. That was it—Agent Diego reminded her of the selfish, unstable type.
“You’ll have to ask Derek for exact details,” she said. “But I think he wrote the newsletters.”
Diego slapped his notepad shut. A light shifted in his eyes and he promptly called Derek in. He sat the bewildered boy down and proceeded to riddle him with the same questions. Only this time, Eva sensed an accusatory purpose to the inquiries. If Derek felt it, he didn’t let on.
No, he couldn’t think of anyone who would want to hurt Shaman Gaspar. Yes, the shaman had a very loyal and faithful following. Derek obediently answered all of Agent Diego’s questions and then threw a question of his own.
“Did you find anything with the body?” he asked.
“His items are in custody,” Escaban explained. “They are personal in nature. A wallet, keys, mirror, a cell phone—”
“A cell phone?” Eva interrupted. “My father doesn’t own a cell phone.”
“He bought it a week ago,” Agent Diego said. “We found the receipt in his wallet.”
Eva didn’t like the way he looked at her, as though he were appraising a piece of furniture. She especially didn’t like the idea that Agent Diego had already helped himself to her father’s wallet.
“There was nothing else with him?” Derek pressed.
Escaban glanced at him curiously. “A dirty hotel towel.”
That made absolutely no sense. What was her father trying to do with a hotel towel—muffle his voice over the cell phone? Why? What could her father have possibly gotten himself involved with?
Diego shifted his weight to stand more squarely before them. “What is your relationship to the deceased?” he asked, his predatory eyes shifting to Derek.
“Shaman Gaspar had a religious following. He hired me to write up his newsletters.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
“Did your employer assign nicknames to his followers?”
Escaban snapped a warning look to his agent. Derek shifted uncomfortably. The sound of his legs rubbing against the vinyl sofa accented the tension.
“How did you know that?”
Diego didn’t hesitate. “Did he give
you
a nickname?”
“Yeah,” Derek said cautiously. “He called me Acatzalan.”
* * * *
Diego waited while Escaban helped Eva Gaspar and her friend into the squad car. His eyes remained fixed on Derek. There was something vaguely familiar about him. The face was familiar, but his nickname was what concerned Diego now. Acatzalan was the name Citlalpol had given him. It was also the name of Gaspar’s newsletters, the newsletters Derek wrote.
None of this was incidental. Diego didn’t believe in coincidence. But what he did believe was that he was finally looking at the Equinox Killer. He was tempted to arrest Acatzalan on the spot, but after the fiasco with the questionable arrests of the New Agers, Escaban would require more proof. Diego had not yet told him about Acatzalan, and arresting people on a whim had become a thorn in Escaban’s side.
But that was Escaban. The shoot now and ask questions later tactics Diego had once been so fond of with the PJF were still close to his own heart. At this point, he was ready to do anything to bring in the Equinox Killer.
Zócalo
Rental cars in downtown
Mexico City
were targets, Derek decided, and he must be driving the biggest bulls eye of them all. At nearly every stoplight he was bombarded by street peddlers vying for position at his window, flashing everything from city maps and key chains to papier mâché skeletons, cigarettes and chicle gum, to fresh cut Calla Lilies. They swarmed the car as though it was an armored truck with bags of money falling out the back.
From the passenger seat Eva watched the vendors with no apparent concern or sympathy. While Derek found the constant interruption annoying at best, Eva didn’t seem to notice it at all. She merely stared out her window, stared right through the street merchants like they weren’t even there.
Finally, they managed to escape into the historic district where Derek spotted a parking space along the street and quickly turned the wheel to claim it.
“What are you doing?” Eva asked.
Those were the first words she’d spoken since leaving the morgue.
Just beyond her window Derek noticed an old woman sitting outside a humble dulcería, her bony frame wearily perched on an overturned plastic crate. Her chin was cradled in her hand which was propped up by the knobby elbow digging into her knee, and she was looking back at him through Eva’s window. Both women were watching him expectantly.
“Derek?” Eva said, snapping him back to attention. “What are we doing here?”
Derek reached for his door and opened it. “C’mon. Let’s go for a walk.”
Within a couple blocks they found themselves approaching the Zócalo, a great barren city square as imposing in its openness as the surrounding austere palaces and baroque cathedrals were in opulence. Even the oversized national flag swaying on the center pole seemed to signify grandeur and supremacy, an overblown paradox for a country better known for its poverty and corruption.
There was more than enough room here to think.
“Are you hungry?” he asked as they wandered onto the vast swath of pavement.
Eva shoved her hands into her pockets as if to warm them, though Derek was already feeling clammy beneath the sun. “Food isn’t a high priority right now,” she said.
She looked at a loss for words, at a loss for emotion. Now that they’d found Shaman Gaspar, Eva seemed deprived of purpose, like she was just wasting time until they could go back home.
Derek sighed. “Look, there’s something I should tell you.”
He led her to a bench situated just outside the entrance of a nearby hotel. Eva sat down with a confused look but quickly diverted it by fishing out a cigarette from her purse. “So?” she asked into her cupped hands as she lit the end with a lighter. A plume of smoke emitted between her hardened lips and the smell of cauterized nicotine filled the space between them.