Closely Akin to Murder (10 page)

I crossed my fingers. “Okay, I won't go rushing off to meet Chico, even with Comandante Quiroz's men behind me.”

“I will deal with them,” Farias said. “Should we feel it necessary, something will happen to divert them long enough for you and Gabriella to slip away.”

“What happened after you and Fran slipped away from the confrontation with Oliver Pickett?” I asked abruptly.

Farias's face darkened as if he were an erumpent volcano. He was neither smoldering nor belching sulphurous fumes, but it was obvious I'd floundered onto something he found distressing. “He ordered me to leave. Everyone else disappeared like sand fleas, but I sat in the limousine in the parking lot, praying to all the saints I could think of that I would have my job in the morning. Fran came stumbling down the path and got into the car. She told me to drive along the beach, which
I did while she cried and said many harsh things about her father. Most of what she said was in English, but I could tell how angry she was and I made no attempt to converse with her. Eventually, when we had driven for fifteen or maybe twenty minutes, she remembered that Ronnie was asleep in the bedroom and told me to go back to the hotel. I was too cowardly to do more than watch her go up the path before I drove away.”

“Oliver and his entourage weren't relying on you for transportation that night,” I said. “How did he get back to the hotel?”

“There was a taxi idling in the parking lot. Santiago's rule was that those taxis hoping for a fare had to line up out on the street until signaled by the concierge. The fact that this one was inside the gate indicated to me that the driver had brought a passenger there and been instructed to wait.”

“If the passenger was Oliver, the driver should have still been there yesterday,” I said as the limousine pulled to the curb in front of the Acapulco Plaza.

I fidgeted on the sidewalk while Farias issued instructions to Gabriella, who then joined me as the limousine sped away.

“I guess there is nothing I can do at the hospital,” she said sadly. “Manuel will be heavily sedated until the morning. My mother has made sure family members will be there throughout the night, and Alfredo will remain outside Manuel's room. I am so sorry about your daughter, Señora Malloy. Papa will find her.”

I once again had to bite my lip to hold back tears. “I'm sure he will,” I said as we walked past the jewelry shops and designer boutiques. The pair of undercover officers followed at a circumspect distance, looking so
incongruous in the expensive surroundings that I was surprised they weren't challenged by a hotel security guard.

“I'm going straight to the room,” I said to Gabriella. “Will you please go by the front desk and find out if there are any messages or packages?”

For the first time since we'd arrived two days ago, I had the elevator to myself. As I unlocked the door of the suite, I noticed that I'd inadvertently left the do not disturb sign on the knob. The maid had abided by it; the trays from room service were piling up and the leftover food was beginning to ripen. I was considering the logistics of moving everything out to the hall when the telephone rang.

I answered it with a terse, “Yes?”

Chico's voice was even oilier than I remembered. “So, you're finally back, Claire Malloy. I've been calling every few minutes for three hours.”

“Let me speak to my daughter.”

“That's not possible at the moment. She has quite a vocabulary for one so young, doesn't she? I finally grew tired of her incessant complaints and put tape across her mouth. I can assure you that she is surviving, if not thriving. How much cash do you have?”

“Close to five hundred American dollars and maybe a hundred dollars' worth of pesos. Please let me speak to Caron for one minute.”

“Are you alone?”

I glanced at the door. “At the moment, yes.”

“Take the stairwell to the ground floor. When you get to the beach, turn left and walk to the El Presidente Hotel. Go through the lobby, get a cab, and tell the driver you wish to go to Calle Madero 124. There is a bar there, although not as nice as the one in your hotel.
Sit down and order a drink. If you are unaccompanied, you will receive further instructions—but if there is the slightest indication that the police or anyone else is with you . . . well, use your imagination.”

I replaced the receiver, scribbled the address he'd given me, and grabbed my purse. The hallway was empty. As I skittered down the stairs with all the grace of a ping-pong ball, I tried to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. My promise to Jorge Farias was irrelevant when placed alongside Chico's threat to harm Caron.

The sun was setting as I hurried past the pool and down the steps to the sand. The beach was populated by a few sunbathers, most of whom were packing towels, paperback books, and suntan lotion into mesh bags. I glanced back at the Acapulco Plaza, but no one appeared to be following me. By now, Gabriella no doubt had discovered that I was not in the suite and was on a phone with her father, who would not be happy with either of us. I didn't care.

I forced myself to walk at a more decorous rate through the lobby of the El Presidente to the sidewalk. As at the Plaza, taxis were waiting. I climbed into the backseat of the nearest one, uncrumpled the piece of paper in my hand, and told the driver the address.

“Not so good a neighborhood,” he said, clucking his tongue. “I know many nice restaurants where the señora can have a margarita and listen to music.”

I repeated the address with enough urgency to convince him to pull away from the curb. Manuel had been correct when he accused me of being a little loco, I decided as I hunted through my purse for a potential weapon. The best I could come up with was a bent nail file; it would hardly suffice if Chico pulled out a knife.

The narrow streets were unfamiliar, but I was aware we were headed toward the vicinity of the Hotel Las Floritas. Surely Chico was not so brazen as to return there the day after the murder, when the police might be keeping it under surveillance. Surely not.

The taxi driver slowed down, peering at numbers above doorways in the increasing gloom. “Señora,” he said, “I do not think you should come here by yourself. Please let me take you back down to Costera Miguel Aleman, where there are many safe places to eat and drink. You will not have to pay me anything.”

“The address I gave you is that of a bar,” I said. “Could that be it up there on the left?”

He pulled up in front of an open doorway through which loud Latino music blared. A woman in a tight dress that exposed considerable cleavage and covered only the tops of her thighs staggered out onto the sidewalk, braying with laughter. A man came after her and nudged her into an alley. Inside the dim, smoky barroom I could see faceless figures shifting like shadows on an uneven wall. A group of men played cards at a table beneath a flickering lightbulb. A young man came to the doorway, lit a cigarette, then gave me a cool look before retreating. All in all, it lacked the sanitized ambiance of the bar at the Acapulco Plaza.

I took out my wallet, but the driver held up his hand. “No, Señora, I will accept no money to bring you here.”

“Thanks,” I said as I got out of the taxi and waited until he drove up the hill. There were no vehicles approaching from either direction; I was on my own—and a lot loco.

The interior of the bar smelled like a restroom at a grungy gas station. My entrance garnered only fleeting
curiosity; the business of the hour was drinking. I eased into a chair in the corner of the room and scanned the faces for that of Chico. I didn't spot him, but if he'd shaved off his mustache, cut his hair, and changed into less disreputable clothes, I might not have recognized him.

A woman in a stained apron came to the table and put down a handwritten menu. I shook my head and said, “Nothing,
gracias
. I'm, ah, waiting for someone.”

She retrieved the menu and shuffled away, apparently inured to the idiosyncracies of tourists. A dwarfish man at the next table gave me a toothless smile; I looked down at the scarred tabletop and reminded myself that bolting out of the bar would jeopardize Caron.

I was beginning to fear I was in the wrong bar when a hefty woman with bleached hair dropped a note on the table as she brushed past me. She was already out the door before I realized what had happened and swung around to get a better look at her. I unfolded the note, took out my reading glasses, and tried to make out the cramped print.

The note instructed me to walk up to the next corner, turn left, and continue for three blocks. At that point, I would find myself in front of the Hotel Las Floritas. I was to go to the restaurant, where I would find a bag on the bar. After I put the money in the bag, I was to return to where I currently was. Caron would be released shortly thereafter.

I had no idea if Chico had a network of unsavory spies, but no one seemed interested as I wound among the tables and went out to the sidewalk. Peering nervously at dark recesses and clutching my purse as if it were a parachute, I followed Chico's directions to the
gates of Las Floritas. Unlike the crime scenes in Farberville, which were always decorated with yellow tape and signs forbidding trespassing, there was nothing to indicate that the police had been there the previous day. There was enough light from the houses across the street for me to see that the Cadillac was not in the parking lot.

I crept up the path to the lobby, half-expecting a policeman to emerge from behind a tree and begin shouting—or shooting—at me. The door where I'd left the note was ajar, but I had no desire to take a peek inside so that at a later time I could share my insights with Comandante Quiroz. Peter was never appreciative of my contributions, even when I tied up his case in a pretty pink bow and demurely declined any credit. Quiroz wouldn't hesitate to have me dragged off to a cell.

The steps to the restaurant were treacherous in the dark. I eased my way up them and continued into the relative protection of the thatched roof. The rafters were likely to be home to a colony of bats; the best I could hope was that they were fonder of fruit than of blood.

A plastic bag lay on the bar. I put the cash in it, dropped it, and retraced my way to the steps. I stopped to listen for some hint that Chico was nearby, but all I heard was distant music and the rumble of a truck struggling up the steep hill. He could be anywhere—inside the building, perched on a branch like a vulture, crouched behind any of the bushes. Wherever he was, he had the advantage.

I let out a squeak as something scurried across the path and disappeared into the weeds, and I was trying to persuade myself that it was nothing more than a vole
when I heard male voices at the gates. Flashlights illuminated the cracks in the parking lot, then flickered toward the lobby. As the two men came inside, I could see the outline of their hats and the bulge of holsters at their waists. Badges glinted in the moonlight. Would Chico assume I'd tipped them off and carry through with his threat?

They came up the path toward the lobby. The restaurant was a logical destination on their itinerary. Forcing myself to move slowly to avoid catching their attention, I went back to the bar, stuffed the bag into my purse, and tested a door on the far wall. It was locked. The restaurant was too close to the edge of the cliff to risk concealing myself behind the low wall; one loose rock and I'd be found in the same spot where Oliver Pickett had been thirty years ago.

The voices were growing louder. Whatever they were saying to each other sounded good-natured, but I had a feeling they might not be inclined to banter with me. I was not a gymnast who could grab a rafter and swing into the shadows with the bats. I took a step toward an overturned table, reconsidered, and dropped behind the bar seconds before the policemen arrived at the top step.

The floor was sticky, but it was not the time to criticize the lack of adherence to the municipal health code. I crawled as far as I could, then curled up under the counter and held my breath.

The beam of a flashlight splashed across the empty shelves and cracked mirror. A conversation concerning tequila and whiskey ensued; I tried not to imagine what would happen if one of them decided to search for an overlooked bottle behind the bar. I wiggled further into the niche—and bumped into a warm body. A hand
clamped across my mouth, cutting short my involuntary gasp. I tried to jerk away, but a second hand pressed against the back of my neck, holding my head in a vise.

Clearly, I was a whole lot loco.

The policemen lingered for a few
more minutes, then left. When their voices were no longer audible, my head was released with such suddenness that I would have fallen forward if space permitted. I crawled out from under the counter and took several gulps of air, then stood up as Chico emerged. Manuel's characterization of the residents as cockroaches seemed
à propos
, although in this case blue uniforms had been as effective as blue lights.

I stomped on his hand to get his attention. “Where's Caron?”

“Hey,” he whined, “there's no need for violence.” He tried to pull his hand free, but I increased the pressure until I heard bones creak. In that I needed his cooperation, I did not attempt to find out if I could make them crack. Then again, at that moment I would not have described myself as a mild-mannered bookseller.

“Where's Caron?” I repeated.

“She's all right,” he said.

I removed my foot, allowing him to crawl out into the narrow aisle. When he attempted to stand up, however, I kicked his shoulder hard enough to knock him onto his scrawny rear. “I want to see her now.”

He sat up and massaged his hand. “Jeez, it feels like you broke something. How am I gonna type the definitive American novel with broken fingers?”

“Now.”

“Okay, okay,” he muttered, watching me warily as he got to his feet. “But you have to give me the money first. We made a deal.”