The Dead Women of Juarez

The thought crossed Enrique’s mind that when he tailed Ortiz he hadn’t watched his own mirrors or kept track of who appeared and might reappear in his wake. He hadn’t checked at Ortiz’s stops to see if anyone was looking out for someone looking in. Enrique smelled Garcia and these things came rushing in.

“It’s the truth.”

“You know I’ve never liked you,” Garcia said. “Don’t get me wrong, you’re good enough to get the job done, but I know when a man’s heart isn’t in his work. You’re a pussy.”

Enrique didn’t argue. He wanted to shrink back into his chair, but he made himself sit straight. Instead of looking into Garcia’s eyes, he stared at the man’s eyebrow. It twitched whenever Garcia spoke.

“I knew as soon as Salazar got stuck that you’d be on the phone crying for sick days. ‘Oh, poor Esteban Salazar.’ Am I right?”

“No,” Enrique managed. His head twitched when he meant to shake it. “My uncle, he has a problem with his heart. You can check if you want.”

Immediately Enrique felt stupid for saying so. If Garcia did call, he would learn that Enrique’s uncle was not sick at all. But he couldn’t be sure whether Garcia would call, or whether he would simply opt to escort Enrique to an interview room. He would do it. He had done it before.

“I don’t have time to chase after you and wipe your ass,” Garcia said. “I’m busy. Haven’t you heard? We have narcos tearing the whole goddamned city apart. The Americans are complaining, businesses are moving away… it’s no time to feel sorry for some sister-raping puto. Do you understand me?”

Enrique nodded only slightly. “Yes.”

“Good. I’m glad you understand.” Garcia straightened up and the sun came back to Enrique’s desk. Then he swept the folders and pen cup and blotter from it with his hand. “Pick up all of that and then go check on your goddamned uncle. He better be feeling all right by tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Enrique said.

He got down on his hands and knees and picked up his things. Garcia watched him for a little while until he was bored. Enrique didn’t come away from the floor until he heard the door to Garcia’s office catch. He didn’t dare look, because he knew La Bestia’s eye was on him through the glass.

SEVEN

“HOW MUCH DOES THIS COST?” Enrique asked Sevilla from the main room of the suite.

“You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know.”

After lunch with Madrigal, Sevilla went shopping. The first thing he bought was a set of titanium golf clubs. They looked as though they had never been used, but the bag was clearly secondhand. Another stop garnered a replacement that, like Sevilla’s new suits, bespoke money. He practiced his swing near a long wall of floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom overlooking the Hotel Lucerna’s lagoon-like swimming area.

Enrique joined him. “How does playing golf help?”

“I don’t know,” Sevilla said. “But it’s an in.”

“So you believe there is something wrong with Senor Madrigal?”

“I believe there is something out of place.”

Children and women were playing in the pool. Sevilla’s suite was on the top floor so only the vaguest details could be seen. The city sprawled out in front of them. The American consulate was close enough to be hit with a driven golf ball and the river was not far beyond it. Complimentary shuttles carried guests from the hotel to the industrial parks and the maquilas owned by 3M, Electrolux, Lear. The language most often heard in the hallways was English.

“You believe there is something wrong, but not with Senor Madrigal?”

Sevilla interrupted a swing. His shoulder felt sore already. In two days he would be on the green with Madrigal. “Why do you think I am doing this, Enrique? These clothes, this suit, these… goddamned golf clubs? Of course there’s something wrong. Everything we learn about Ortiz tells me there is no reason for him to move in the circles of someone like Rafa Madrigal. That alone says something. But I don’t know what.”

Enrique opened his mouth to say something.

“You don’t know what,” Sevilla said.

Enrique paced the bedroom. Without trying to, Sevilla found himself noting all the things about the young cop that didn’t fit with the place. The way he moved, the way he dressed and the simple cut of his hair. If he noticed these things, then creatures of wealth like the men at Mision Guadalupe would be attuned to them like day and night. Sevilla marveled that they hadn’t seen through him, that they shared their table and their time with him.

“Have you considered what this will cost us if there’s nothing to learn?” asked Sevilla. “You have Garcia pushing you, but even my superiors don’t pay me to play dress-up and chase rich men around a golf course. We are committed to this, right or wrong.”

“I know. I know, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry.” Sevilla practiced his swing again. He could not remember the last time he’d played the game, but some part of it was beginning to surface. “This is the answer. It must be. And I don’t like the look of Madrigal’s son.”

“He is Madrigal’s second son?”

“That’s right.”

“You sound sorry for Senor Madrigal.”

Another swing. It felt different this time, better. “I feel sorry for any man who loses a child. Did you know his wife died last year? Cancer. Very sudden. He has no other children, no grandchildren… only Sebastian. That kind of loneliness could make a man overlook many things, even terrible things.”

Everything in the suite belonged to Juan Villalobos Sanchez: the underwear in the dresser and the suits in the closet. The only thing that belonged to Rafael Sevilla was the picture of Ana and Ofelia from his daughter’s bedside. He’d thought not once or twice but many times about leaving it where it belonged, but in the end it came along.

Out of the corner of his eye Sevilla saw Enrique was looking down from the windows to the pool many stories below. He didn’t blame him; the view was hypnotic, the little miniature shapes swirling around an hourglass of pristine blue under a sky of the same shade. On his first morning in the suite, Sevilla sat for an hour just watching and then he cried.

Enrique broke the quiet. “I’ve never seen Ortiz meet with anyone in Madrigal’s family.”

“How can you be certain? I found a photo of Sebastian on the internet. I printed it out. Look in the office, by the computer.”

The titanium driver slid easily into place among the other clubs. Sevilla let his fingers drift over their heads. This one for distance, this one for accuracy, this one for traps. When he reached for the right club he would have to do so without thinking, as if this was natural for him. He must make Madrigal believe in Juan Villalobos again.

“I don’t recognize him,” Enrique said when he returned.

“But now you’ve seen his face. Watch for him.”

“You want me to follow Ortiz again? What’s the point?”

The bedroom had a wet bar. Sevilla went to it and served himself seltzer with a twist of lemon. He felt Enrique watching him and smiled to himself when he came away from the bar without so much as touching the whisky.

“The point is we must know what Ortiz is doing. He’s the link between the Madrigals and Kelly and from Kelly to Paloma and Esteban. This is police work, Enrique: watching and waiting. If something happens, it will happen with Ortiz.”

“While you eat fine food and play games with rich people.”

Sevilla sipped from his tumbler. He frowned. “Yes, that.”

By some unspoken command they both drifted back to the windows and looked down upon the pool. Once Sevilla thought he might have heard a child’s high-pitched squeal of delight, but he knew it was just his imagination.