Closely Akin to Murder (7 page)

“Señora Claire Malloy?” barked a voice.

I halted and turned around, but instead of an antagonistic hotel manager, I found myself confronting a policeman in a dark blue shirt and badge. The gun at his
side looked more appropriate to a battlefield than the lobby of an expensive hotel.

“Yes?” I said warily, spotting his colleague nearby.

“You come with us,” he said, his accent so thick that I could barely understand him.

“Why?”

“You come with us.”

“I don't think so,” I said as I assessed the distance to the elevators. The doors of one of them slid open, and two white-haired men in garish print shirts and shorts emerged, took in the scene, and scampered toward the bar like terrified bunnies. Before I could make my move, the doors slid closed. “I don't know what this is about, and I'm not going anywhere until I do.”

He placed his hand on the holster of his weapon. “You come with us.”

“No,” I said, perhaps a bit shrilly. “Since that's how one says it in Spanish as well as English, you should have no difficulty understanding it.”

“You are under arrest, Señora. You come with us.”

“Under arrest for what? I haven't done anything the slightest bit illegal. I wasn't even driving a car, so you can't try to frame me for a traffic violation.”

“You come with us.”

The menace in his tone was getting harder and harder to overlook, and the second officer was edging toward me. The bartender, waiters, and customers were all watching with wonderment, as were the incoming guests at the front desk. I was unfamiliar with Mexican police procedure, but I wasn't confident I wouldn't be shot in the back if I fled.

I attempted a pinched smile. “Please explain what this is about, Señor. I'm sure there's been a mistake, and I prefer to clear it up right here.”

“Señora Malloy!” called Manuel as he hurried across the lobby. “The bellman says the police . . .” He caught sight of my companions and froze in midstep.

“Are looking for me?” I suggested, so relieved to see him that I wanted to kiss his cheek. “As you can see, they've found me, but we're having a tiny problem communicating. Ask him what's wrong.”

Manuel reluctantly joined us and began a low, incomprehensible exchange with the officer. The other joined in with much gesturing in my direction. Terrified that something had happened to Caron, I struggled to catch pertinent words, but they were all speaking so rapidly that only one made sense:
homicidio
.

I grabbed Manuel's arm. “What are they saying? Has someone been killed? Is my daughter all right? Damn it, what's going on, Manuel?”

“It does not concern the señorita. These officers want to question you about a homicide that took place today.”

“Me?” I said numbly. “Who was murdered?”

“Ernesto Santiago. He was found in the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas, with his throat slashed.”

“I've never even seen him. Did you tell them that?”

He fluttered his hands. “Yes, but they insist you come with them to the
Ministerio Público
—the police headquarters. I do not know what to do, Señora. My brother-in-law will be so angry that he will slash my throat. This is a
pesadilla
, a nightmare. Why did I give up my job as a cabin steward? The tips were very good, and I had the opportunity to visit many ports. I—”

“This is not the time for vocational angst,” I said, hoping it wasn't the time for handcuffs and cattle prods, either. “We both know I did not slash Santiago's throat. This is a misunderstanding that can be resolved
as soon as I speak to an officer in charge.” A dire thought popped into my mind. “If he speaks English, that is. Stop blubbering and listen, Manuel. I want you to find Caron out by the pool or on the beach, and tell her to stay in our suite with the door locked until she hears from me. Have her paged if necessary. She can order room service, but she is not to open the door to anyone else. Then come immediately to the police headquarters.”

“Okay, okay,” he said as sweat trickled down into his already watery eyes.

I made a face at the policemen. “Shall we go?”

I was escorted to a cramped
white car and thrust into the backseat, where the splattered upholstery suggested the past presence of gastrically challenged passengers. A barrier of scratched plastic precluded conversation with the officers in the front seat (had it seemed the polite thing to do). Apparently, I was not a worthy enough desperado to merit sirens and flashing lights, but although we drove only a dozen blocks before turning up a steep hill, I felt as though every tourist on the boulevard had seen me cowering in the backseat and judged me guilty of
homicidio
, or worse. Pedro Benavides's earlier remark resounded in my mind like a dirge: “Our system is different than yours.”

The police headquarters consisted of a large walled compound with a hodgepodge of buildings, ancient trees, and parking areas. The walls were topped with barbed wire, the gate protected by armed guards. Cars and trucks were on racks beside what was presumably a mechanical shed. A one-story building with barred windows squatted beyond an expanse of cracked concrete; two guards sat at a table by the door, their weapons conspicuously displayed in front of them. Other
officers lounged in the shade or stood in lines, receiving instructions.

Civilians were going in and out of the unimposing building into which I was taken. Unlike the Farberville police station, there was no front office with a pretension of welcome, but merely a vast, dingy room with benches for whispered conferences. Yellowed posters featured the visages of surly men. The pay telephones along one wall were all in use. Ceiling fans did little to disperse the sour odor of anxiety.

We continued into a small room with a table and a few chairs. The walls were bare, the floor filthy, the window covered with heavy mesh. The officer pointed at a chair and demanded a
pasaporte.
Having used a voter registration card as identification to enter the country, the best I could produce was my driver's license.

Once I was alone, I propped my head on my hands and attempted to assimilate what had happened. I'd been heading for the suite to see if Caron wanted to join me in the bar (for a virgin strawberry daiquiri that would cost as much as the real thing, but Ronnie was footing the bill), and now I was in a nasty little room waiting to be questioned about the murder of a man I'd never met. I could hardly call Peter and ask what he knew about the machinations of the Mexican legal system. If nothing else, he'd pitch a self-righteous fit, replete with I-told-you-so and I-warned-you-not-to-get-involved. Hardly productive. Calling Pedro Benavides made a lot more sense, but he was likely to be drinking martinis on a yacht. I desperately wanted to call Caron and make sure she was obeying my order. Any of the above would require a telephone or telepathic ability, neither of which I possessed.

After ten stressful minutes, a middle-aged man entered the room. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt rather than a uniform, but he had the wintry demeanor I knew so well. His mustache was straight out of a movie, his complexion out of a pineapple advertisement.

He tossed my license on the table and addressed me in Spanish. I shrugged in response.

“My English is no good,” he said, sounding not at all apologetic. “
Me Ilamo
Comandante Quiroz. I investigate the
homicidio
of Ernesto Santiago.”

I decided to maintain the pose of magazine reporter, and had managed to communicate little else (I was never a champion charades player) when Manuel arrived. “Did you find Caron?” I asked him as he edged around the table, staring fearfully at the comandante.

“Yes, she was by the pool. She said she will do as told. She also said several things about the food, but perhaps they are irrelevant at this time.”

“I should think so,” I said. “Now will you please tell the officer the purpose of my presence in Acapulco? Reporters do not murder the people they wish to interview—and I never made contact with Santiago.”

Manuel and the comandante took off in Spanish. I listened for a while, picking out a key word now and then, but finally gave up and let their voices swirl around me like the vicious Santa Ana wind that torments California. At one point, the comandante slammed his fist on the table, and Manuel whimpered a reply. It was not encouraging. Oliver Pickett's and Ernesto Santiago's names were mentioned several times, as well as that of the Hotel Las Floritas. When Manuel mentioned Chico, the comandante shook his head and growled like a mastiff.

Finally the comandante quieted down. Manuel looked at me. “Late this afternoon they had a tip that someone had been murdered in what was once the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas. They discovered Santiago's body. They also found a note with your name and an offer of money.”

“Behind the doorknob,” I said, trying not to glare at Comandante Quiroz.

“They found it under the body,” Manuel said in a squeaky voice. “It had blood on it. They think Santiago called you and set up a meeting. For some reason, maybe related to a drug deal, you killed him.
El pesquisidor
—I don't know in English—has determined that Santiago died only a few hours ago. I had to tell the comandante that I took you back to the Plaza at noon and did not return until three o'clock.”

“And during that period I went to the hotel and killed him? That's ludicrous, Manuel. Does he think I took a cab—or hijacked a horse and buggy to get there? Did the bellman carelessly fail to notice the blood on my clothes when I returned? Wouldn't the people by the pool have said something if they'd watched me scale nineteen stories?”

“What about the note, Señora?”

I explained, then watched Comandante Quiroz's expression as Manuel translated what I'd said. It eased only marginally, but he was less emphatic as he launched into another spate of Spanish. Manuel responded as best he could, but his voice was increasingly hoarse and his hands were so tightly clenched that his knuckles were apt to burst through his skin. I wondered if Ronnie had felt the same apprehension when she watched Pedro Benavides plead for leniency.

“You told me there have been three murders at the
hotel this year,” I inserted when I had the opportunity. “Doesn't it seem more likely that one of the criminals who lives there killed Santiago? What about Chico or the prostitutes or their pimp?”

“He says when the
cabos
arrived, all of the bungalows had been vacated. Those who live there are like cockroaches. Blue lights send them scuttling into the
Sona Roja.
Only when the lights go away will they return. He does want you to describe this American who was living there, however.”

After further disjointed communication, Comandante Quiroz admitted that the only evidence they had was the note—and, yes, it was possible that someone else had taken it inside the lobby. I offered to allow him to search the suite at the Plaza for bloodied clothes or a knife, as long as Manuel, the hotel manager, and I were present. He appeared to be so unimpressed with my generosity that I decided search warrants were less than obligatory in Mexico, if the concept existed at all.

I was on the verge of demanding to call the American consulate when the comandante stood up, lectured Manuel with such intensity that spittle flew out of his mouth, then gave me a parting scowl and left the room.

Manuel gulped. “Let's go, Señora. The comandante says you must make yourself available until you have permission from the
Ministerio Público
to leave the country. They will try to find this Chico; if they do, you and I both will be required to identify him.”

“That could take days,” I said as I grabbed my purse and headed for the door. “Or weeks, or years. What if he hopped on a bus for Mexico City to lose himself among twenty million people? This is a lovely place, Manuel, but I wouldn't want to live here for the rest of my life.”

He steered me through the front room and out into the blessed evening breeze. Without speaking, we hurried past the smirky guards at the gates of the compound. The Cadillac was parked several blocks up the hill, and I was gasping for breath as I dove into the front seat. Manuel jammed in the ignition key, backed into the street, and sent the car squealing around the corner as if we'd just held up the neighborhood tequila store.

Eventually, he eased up on the accelerator, but his hands were still gripping the steering wheel hard enough to leave indentations. “I myself have no influence here in Acapulco. I will take you to the hotel, then go to the office and speak to my brother-in-law. He knows politicians and men of wealth. Many of them rely on his discretion when they wish to have companions other than their wives. He will do what he can.”

“Thank you,” I murmured. I couldn't decide if my head was more likely to explode or implode, but I was certain my blood pressure exceeded the sum of the temperature and the humidity, with the price of the suite thrown in for good measure. Twenty-four hours earlier I'd been threatened on the telephone. Had the caller attempted to frame me for murder? Ronnie's would-be blackmailer had stirred up the embers of the case, but it seemed I'd incited a first-class inferno.

“Are you okay, Señora?” asked Manuel. “Your face is very white.”

“No, I'm not okay. I've put myself into an exceedingly awkward position—and I've put my daughter in a dangerous one. How soon can she get a flight to the States?”

“There are no more flights today. The first one in the morning is shortly after nine o'clock. I will call to find out if there is a seat for her. If there is, I will drive her
to the airport and stay with her until she is on the airplane. It would not be wise for you to be seen at the airport, Señora. Comandante Quiroz will have men there, watching for you.”

He agreed to call me as soon as he'd called the airlines. Regally ignoring the stares of the Plaza staff, I took the elevator upstairs and knocked on the suite door. Several seconds passed during which I assumed I was being scrutinized through the peephole in case I was a skillfully disguised homicidal maniac.