The Dead Women of Juarez

too distracted to notice, the flavor was extraordinary. He tried not to think about the cost.

Of the five at Madrigal’s table he recognized only the man himself. The others may have seemed vaguely familiar, but Sevilla dismissed the thought; sometimes a policeman could convince himself he knew more than he did and then make assumptions that could be crippling. Madrigal he knew. The rest he did not. He wouldn’t pretend to himself or anyone else that it was otherwise.

Sevilla didn’t much care for fish, but he ordered salmon anyway. Like the quesadillas, it was amazing. For a few moments he struggled between his plate and the men at Madrigal’s table, but the salmon was gone too soon and he was left to his water glass.

Madrigal was at least two courses ahead and when Sevilla saw the servers bring coffee he knew he could wait no longer. His hands were damp. He wiped them on his napkin. When that was done, he took two deep breaths and rose from his seat. He crossed the dining room lightheaded. By the time the first head turned in his direction, Sevilla was smiling.

“Excuseme, gentlemen,” Sevilla said. “I hate to interrupt. Rafa Madrigal? Juan Villalobos. You may not remember me, but we met once a few years ago.”

All the men looked at Sevilla and he tried not to shrink under the combined strength of their gazes. Most of the faces were blank, but the young man’s expression curdled. Madrigal’s eyes were unreadable until the moment the corners turned up and he grinned. “In Mexico City, is that right?” he asked.

Sevilla felt clenched inside. “Yes. The policemen’s charity.”

“Yes, yes, I remember. You were with your wife. I’m sorry, Senor Villalobos, but I had forgotten your name. It’s good to see you again.”

Madrigal offered his hand and they shook. The man had a strong grip. His hair was turning prematurely white, but his handshake reminded Sevilla the man was not yet old. His face was lean and clean shaven. Though he had paid for too much for a salon treatment, Sevilla felt unkempt in his mustache and beard.

“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Sevilla said. “I will leave you to your meal.”

He turned to go. Madrigal caught at his sleeve. “No, no, please stay. Are you still eating? Have them serve you here, if you don’t mind the company.”

Sevilla pretended to waver. “All right, but please don’t feel you must. I only wanted to say hello.”

“Nonsense, please sit.”

The man signaled a waiter and Sevilla’s food was transferred from his table to the empty space among the men. Sevilla was directly across from the young man whose expression still had not changed. The others were merely curious now and each greeted Sevilla kindly as they were introduced.

“And this is my son, Sebastian,” Madrigal said.

“Mucho gusto,” Sevilla said.

“Igualmente,” the young man replied without enthusiasm.

Madrigal seemed not to notice. “When you’re finished, you must try this coffee,” he said to Sevilla. “It has a taste of licorice. Very good. I don’t pretend to know what they put in it; I always forget when they tell me.”

“You are involved with charities?” asked one of the other men. His name was Hernandez.

“Yes. Particularly those to do with police and hospitals. We seem to need both very much these days.” As Sevilla spoke he didn’t recognize his own voice. He went on to talk about three different charities as if he was a regular contributor and he did not stammer once. He told them of his home in Mexico City, his wife’s death, his retirement boredom. Food came and went. He was as smooth and flawless as the chichilo negro poured over the tenderloin. He was a master.

Sebastian said something Sevilla didn’t hear.

“I’m sorry?”

“Why are you in Ciudad Juarez?” Sebastian asked again.

Sevilla put up his hands. “It was somewhere to go. Besides, I think the steak here was worth the trip alone.”

The older men laughed, but Sebastian did not. He fell silent.

“How long will you be in the city?” Madrigal asked Sevilla.

“A week, perhaps two. I was thinking about going across the border for a while. I’ve never seen the Alamo.”

“You’ll be disappointed,” Senor Hernandez said. “It’s in the middle of the city!”

Madrigal’s coffee was long finished and the table was nearly empty. A server placed a cup and saucer before Sevilla as quickly and gently as a ghost and was gone again. For their part the other men didn’t seem to notice the presence of anyone outside their own group; it was as though the room was theirs and theirs alone and everything was brought to them by magic.

“Do you play golf?” asked Madrigal.

“I don’t play well, but I play.”

This made the men laugh again. Madrigal waved that away. “It’s no matter. If you have the time, why not come out to Los Campos for a round? Who knows the next time you will be in the city?”

Sevilla used a tiny spoon to put sugar into his coffee. He observed his hands as if from a distance. They did not shake. “That would be very kind of you, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“It’s no imposition. How about Wednesday morning? I can arrange for a tee time after breakfast. You can be my guest.”

Once again Sevilla made a show of considering the idea though his mind was already made up. He paused to take some of the coffee. It was as hot, strong and licorice-tasting as Madrigal promised. Sevilla hated it. “All right,” he said. “You can reach me at my hotel.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Hotel Lucerna.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you my private room number,” Sevilla said in a voice as indifferent as he could muster. This happened every day. Men of power and influence were always his friends. A hotel like the Lucerna was the minimum of luxury. “You can call me any time.”

“Then it’s done.”

After that they parted ways. Sevilla paid his check in cash, though the other men settled their debts with credit cards, and though he was ready to explain why he didn’t carry such things there were no questions. He spoke the language of the wealthy, showed no fear. They liked the cut of his suit and the Persol sunglasses he wore outside the restaurant.

The maitre d’ called a cab for Sevilla. Madrigal insisted on waiting with him. One by one Sevilla said goodbye to the others as the valet brought their cars: Mercedes, BMW, Bentley. Sevilla was glad when the cab finally came and he could shake hands with Madrigal and go on his way. He did not shake with Sebastian.

SIX

ENRIQUE STOPPED AT THE OFFICE for his messages and because he felt he should at least pretend he was still working. He checked his email and made replies. It was midafternoon and most of the men were on their break. Garcia approached quietly. Enrique only noticed him when his shadow fell across the desk.

“Where the fuck have you been?”

The door to Garcia’s office had been closed before. Enrique assumed Garcia was away on a long lunch that might last until the end of business. Now the door stood open. “Captain,” Enrique said, but he could think of nothing else.

“I’ve been calling you,” Garcia said. He had one cuff unbuttoned, his right sleeve rolled up. He liked to do this when he spent hours playing card games on the internet or otherwise wasting time in his office. At no time had Enrique ever seen the man fill out a report or type an email.

“I’m sorry. I’ve been taking care of some… family problems. My uncle is sick. I’ll take care of the paperwork before I leave.”

Garcia leaned across the desk until Enrique couldn’t see the bank of windows beyond him. He turned Enrique’s monitor and glanced at it. “Is that what you’re telling everyone? That your uncle is sick?”