“All right, Cruz, if the professor wouldn’t mind…” An inquiring pause, a newly polite manner, to which Gideon responded with a nod to show that no, he didn’t mind. “…take him there, please.” Then he turned to Sandoval with freshened interest and a deferential gesture. “Perhaps, Chief Sandoval, if you would be kind enough to go over this in a little more detail…”
Trailing behind Cruz, Gideon, wondering himself why a colonel-a very high level in the Mexican police system-would take an interest in something like this, walked down the corridor past another half dozen cubicles, where the hallway widened out to create a sort of anteroom in front of a wooden door, a real door that opened and closed, the first he’d seen here. Beside it was a desk at which yet another six-foot-plus cop in black sat at a computer. Corporal Vela, Gideon assumed, and was proved correct when he picked up a telephone, hit a button, and said: “He’s here, Colonel. Yes, sir.”
He got up, went to the door, opened it, and politely motioned for Gideon to enter. “Please,” he said in English.
Gideon sucked in a breath, stood up straight, promised himself not to lose his temper, and walked into a room that was like the important offices in the building must have been in the glory days before the place was chopped up into cubicles: a shining slate floor (instead of tired old linoleum); a high plaster ceiling (instead of a low-hung one of acoustic tiles) edged with ornate floral cornices; tall, mullioned, Gothic-arched windows on two sides; heavy, black, old furniture in a sort of Hispanic-Victorian style, oiled and gleaming. All very imposing and forbidding, as if designed to make a petitioner or a miscreant feel inconsequential, vulnerable, and small. Add a few age-darkened fifteenth-century Spanish paintings of crucifixions and martyrdoms, Gideon thought, and it would have made a fine office for a deputy grand inquisitor. There were age-darkened paintings on the walls, all right, but they were portraits of high-collared nineteenth-century officials and bureaucrats.
In the exact center of this room, under a rudely hammered iron chandelier that had once held oil lamps but now had electric bulbs in ornamental hurricane-lantern fittings, was a massive, carved desk. At it was the fear- inspiring colonel himself, under the circumstances an astonishing sight. Dwarfed by the huge desk and his thronelike carved chair, looking directly at Gideon, he hardly seemed to be a member of the same species as the gorillas Gideon had been running into until now; closer to a marmoset, and a good-humored, wise old marmoset at that. Nor was he swathed in grim matte black either, but wearing a Yucatecan guayabera, the embroidered, open- throated, and distinctly informal white shirt worn outside the trousers. On his lined, clean-shaven, mahogany- skinned, twinkly-eyed face was a perfectly delighted grin.
“Hello, my friend,” he said in elegantly accented Englih. “How are you? And how is your beautiful wife, the charming and gifted Julie?”
Astounded, even speechless for a couple of seconds, Gideon stared at him. “…I don’t believe it… Javier?”
“None other,” said Colonel Javier Marmolejo, coming out from around the desk (and not coming up much higher than he’d been when sitting in the big chair). They shook hands warmly and even tried a brief, gingerly abrazo, although their size difference made it awkward, and neither of them went in much for such things in any case.
They stepped apart to look each other over. “Well, you’ve gotten a little older, Gideon. Is that a bit of gray I see in your hair?”
“Yes, a little,” Gideon said. “I have to say, you sure look exactly the same.” This was a bit of a lie. seen close up, Marmolejo had grown even more wizened than he’d been before; he was beginning to look less like a monkey than the mummy of a monkey. But there was no mistaking the wit and intelligence that still flashed in his eyes. “Except where’s the ever-present cigar?” Gideon asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without one before.”
“Oh, I’ve given up cigar smoking. At my age, one has to care for one’s health.”
Gideon couldn’t help laughing. “You mean cigar holding,” he said. The Marmolejo he remembered had always had a cigar around, all right, but it was strictly a prop cigar. Gideon couldn’t remember ever seeing him light it.
Happily chuckling, Marmolejo took him by the arm to a grouping of handsome leather armchairs and a low table in a corner of the room near the windows. “My old friend, I was amazed-thrilled, as you can imagine, but amazed-to see your name on the report. What in the world brings you to Oaxaca?”
“I’m here on vacation, Javier. Julie is filling in for her cousin at a resort in Teotitlan, and I’m along for the ride. But I still don’t-”
Marmolejo laughed and held up Gideon’s report. “And this is how you spend your vacation? Performing forensic analyses on corpses? Well, I can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Well… this just came along. I mean, I just happened to be… Hey, never mind about me. What are you doing here? The last time I saw you…”
The last time he’d seen him had been in Merida, on the Yucatan Peninsula, where he had been an inspector in the Yucatecan State Judicial Police. Gideon had met a lot of interesting and unusual policemen in his life, but Javier Alfonso Marmolejo took the cake, a real one of a kind. Half Mayan Indian, born in his Mayan mother’s village of Tzakol, a huddle of dilapidated shacks near the Quintana Roo border (Gideon had been there once; what he chiefly remembered were the pigs sunning themselves in the middle of the single, muddy street), Marmolejo had not learned Spanish until he was seven, when his father moved the family to Merida. At ten, he was one of the army of rascally, going-nowhere kids selling takeaway snacks of sliced coconuts and grapefruit and orange slices from homemade carts around the main market square. Against all odds, he had gotten himself through school and saved enough to buy his way into the then graft-riddled Yucatecan police department. A drastic cleanup a few years later had resulted in throwing out half the police force, but Marmolejo’s integrity and abilities had been recognized and he’d been kept on. A few years later he’d graduated from the national police academy in Mexico City-one of the few provincial cops to do so, and probably the first Mayan Indian-and, in his forties, had gone on to a master’s degree in public administration from the Universidad Autonoma de Yucatan. He’d studied English and German, he’d become an educated man, and now, in his mid-fifties, here he was a full-fledged “…full-fledged colonel!” Gideon said. “In Oaxaca, five hundred miles from Merida. How did that happen?”
“A thousand, actually,” Marmolejo said. “And although I am indeed a full-fledged colonel, as you are generous enough to point out, I am not a colonel in the Oaxacan police force but in the PFP, the Federal Preventive Police, to which I applied three years ago and to which I was subsequently admitted. My assignment to Oaxaca is a temporary one.” He eyed Gideon, his head cocked. “Why are you smiling?”
Gideon was smiling because he was remembering a comment a mutual friend had once made about the striking incongruity between Marmolejo’s furtive, cunning appearance and his often elegant English: “You look at the man and you expect ‘I don’ got to show you no steenkin’ bedge.’ Instead, you get Ricardo Montalban.” And he was smiling because he was still thinking about the absent cigar, remembering Marmolejo’s uncanny ability to have an unlighted one wedged in his mouth on and off throughout the day without making a gummy, oozy mess out of it. Unlike most unlit-cigar fanciers, he didn’t chew on the things any more than he actually smoked them. There had been a running joke about it in Yucatan: Do you think he really has more than one cigar, or is that the same one he brings with him every day?
“I’m smiling because I’m just so damn glad to see you again,” Gideon said, which was also true enough on its own. “But go ahead. If you’re with the federales, what are you doing behind a desk in Oaxaca?”
His responsibilities with the PFP, Marmolejo explained, involved straightening out local police forces with less than stellar reputations, an assemblage in which the Oaxacan policia ministerial was-or at any rate, had been-a prime member. The initial impetus for sending him here had come in 2006, when federal police more or less had to take over the city during a string of violent antipolice protests with which the local police couldn’t cope. In the aftermath, the feds had concluded that a general housecleaning was in order and Marmolejo had been one of three experienced federal cops temporarily assigned to high-level line positions in Oaxaca. He functioned as the titular head of homicide investigations, but his primary responsibility was to mount a thorough review of past cases. The Oaxaca police, beset by graft, negligence, and plain old bungling, had a sorry history of dubious case closures and unresolved investigations, and it was Marmolejo’s job to dig out the worst of them and rectify what could be rectified. Not only could he reopen old investigations; he’d been given full authority to demote, indict, or summarily boot out dishonest, obstructive, and incompetent cops. He had in fact, done exactly that with his predecessor in this fine office, the notorious, corrupt, and roundly hated Colonel Salvador Archuleta, at that time the second most powerful cop in Oaxaca.
No wonder Sergeant Nava wanted to keep on his good side.
“Interestingly enough,” Marmolejo told him, “one of these ‘cold cases,’ as you call them, and a relatively
