The Dead Women of Juarez

EIGHT

SEVILLA RENTED A BLACK LEXUS from an agency in the hotel. It came equipped with a GPS in the dashboard and gave him turn-by-turn directions out of the busy arena of Ciudad Juarez and into the country.

There was no place in the wilds gnawing at Juarez’s edge that was beautiful. There were places that were greener than others, more populated with trees than others, but most of it was fit only for cactus and rocks and the twisted, alien mesquite tree. Sometimes the landscape exploded into strange, unexpected bloom, displaying the flowers of the purple aster and sand verbena as if daring naysayers to underestimate desert beauty again.

He found Los Campos as Enrique described it, first by its long march of iron fencing to the gate and its armed guards. The men had an earth-colored Hummer with emergency lights on the top like a police vehicle, but it had no markings. Sevilla thought he might have recognized one of the gate guards from the ranks of the city police, but the man didn’t seem to recognize him in return and Sevilla let the notion pass.

They called Madrigal’s security from the gate and confirmed Sevilla’s entry. It was still early enough that dawn colors bled across the eastern horizon, washing the live oaks beyond in warm orange and the faintest red. Sevilla relaxed behind the wheel. He was dressed lightly for morning golf. The clubs were in the trunk.

“Good morning, senor,” the lead guard told Sevilla when he was done on the phone. The gates slowly parted. The road beyond was perfect and black and smooth without blemish, as if the asphalt were laid just the day before. In the city there were potholes large enough to swallow whole cars. “Please drive ahead. Do you know the way?”

“Please tell me,” Sevilla answered, and the guard presented him with a printed map. He marked Sevilla’s route with a green marker. When the Lexus passed through, the gate swung shut behind him. Sevilla was inside.

The flawless road wound up into the hills, skirting a broad fairway festooned with jetting underground sprinklers. The sunrise caught water droplets in midair, froze them and made the sprinklers seem like trees with silver branches and white leaves. And then Sevilla was past them.

Some of the driveways of the estates within were gated themselves with more armed guards standing sentry. Kidnapping was a way of life for most of Mexico and even sometimes across the border. Children of the wealthy were the worst affected, trapped into fixed schedules to and from school, and though they were often protected by a phalanx of bodyguards, they were still taken. Sevilla remembered years before when he first heard the term “kidnapping insurance.” He laughed then. He laughed at it no more.

The side road to the Madrigal home was not gated, but Sevilla saw cameras among the trees marking his progress as he wound left, right and left again up an incline to the main drive. There were no straight roads here and no unbroken curves; it was more difficult for an intruder’s vehicle to get in and out that way.

The house itself was set among the trees perfectly, a green lawn spread out on three sides and marked with beds of brilliant flowers. The architect chose the chalky white stone of the surrounding hills and stately pillars for accent. As he slowed to a stop, Sevilla saw someone watching him through a broad window at the front, but by the time he was close enough to see the figure was gone.

A servant and two bodyguards emerged. One took the clubs from the trunk and the other offered to park the car. Sevilla felt almost certain it would be searched, but they wouldn’t find anything; his gun was in the hotel safe and even the rental papers were kept somewhere else.

“Senor Madrigal is waiting for you,” the servant told Sevilla. He wore a jacket despite the promised heat of the day. Inside it was chilly enough to be uncomfortable and Sevilla almost regretted the short pants he’d chosen for the game.

Madrigal and Sebastian waited in a sunroom off a restaurant-sized kitchen. The glass was angled to catch the worst glare of the rising sun without sparing any of the dawning light. Fruit and toast and meat were laid out on china and silver for Sevilla’s delectation. Orange juice, grapefruit juice and coffee were offered. He took the coffee.

“If there’s something you want that you don’t see, Arturo will be happy to prepare it for you,” Madrigal said. He indicated the servant, who poured Sevilla’s coffee and even added the sugar to his taste.

“This is more than enough,” Sevilla said.

“I always believe in a big breakfast,” said Madrigal. “A big breakfast, a big lunch and just something to tide me over for the night. Some people obsess about dinner. I’m not one of those people.”

“Which do you prefer, Senor Villalobos?” Sebastian asked in a tone of voice that suggested he was not interested in the answer at all.

Sevilla dipped toast in fresh egg brought by Arturo. “Breakfast suits me very well, thank you.”

“My son is just learning the benefits of breakfast,” Madrigal said. He cast a sidelong look at Sebastian that needed no translation. A closer look at the younger Madrigal revealed circles beneath the eyes nearly hidden by the deep tan. Sebastian turned his head away.

“That’s the way it is with young people. I remember a time when I could work all night and still have energy enough to keep going until lunchtime,” Sevilla said. “These days I take siesta very seriously.”

“A dying tradition,” said Madrigal.

Sevilla considered trying to draw Sebastian into the conversation, but it seemed it would do no good. Sebastian looked out the windows now on a perfect square of green back lawn. A long, narrow rectangle of swimming pool was set within the square, surrounded by a scattering of tables and chairs and shady trees designed for lazy afternoons whiling away the worst heat. The grass was unnaturally robust and Sevilla wondered how many thousands of pesos were spent making it look just so.

“If you’ll excuse me,” Sebastian said abruptly. He dropped his napkin on his plate and left the table without further word. Sevilla watched him go, and when he turned back to Madrigal he saw nothing but contempt in the man’s expression.

“You have to forgive my son for being stupid,” Madrigal said.

“I don’t think he’s stupid,” Sevilla soothed. “He’s—”

“He’s stupid. What is that expression? ‘An heir and a spare’? That’s what I had, only my heir is gone and my spare is a willful disappointment to me.”

“Willful?”

“Yes. As if he has nothing better to do than waste my money and my time.”

Sevilla wasn’t sure how to address that. He turned closer attention to his plate and his coffee. Outside on the lawn, a gardener with a broad straw peasant hat and loose-fitting white uniform used a roller to create unnaturally flawless stripes in the grass. Such a treatment might not even last an entire day, but the effect was striking.

“Do you have children, Juan?”

“No. I’m afraid my wife and I were never blessed.”

Madrigal made a gesture with his hand that seemed wistful, as if he were drawing back a curtain on something. In his other hand a glass of grapefruit juice was poised, but he didn’t drink from it. He spoke looking out at the grass and not at Sevilla. “Gabriel was my eldest. Manners? His were impeccable. Work ethic? He did more to monitor our business than I did.”

Now Madrigal fixed Sevilla with his gaze. “It was the drugs. He was working so hard, he started using them to stay up later, do more. And then they ate him alive. By the time he went to the States, he wasn’t my Gabriel anymore. He was someone else. Someone I didn’t know.”

“Drugs are killing Mexico,” Sevilla said. He no longer had stomach for breakfast, but he couldn’t think of anything to do with his hands. If he did nothing, he would look the fool, so he continued to eat as if he had the appetite of two men. He watched the glass of grapefruit juice suspended above the table in Madrigal’s hand, unmoving. “All along the border. They come for the American market.”

“Americans,” Madrigal said. Suddenly he put the glass of juice to his mouth and drained it in one gulp. His face turned from the bitterness. “I won’t say they’re useless because their dollars paid for all of this, but sometimes I think they’re a blight. It was one of Gabriel’s American cousins who first introduced him to cocaina. Little weasel. From my wife’s side of the family.”

As quickly as the mood turned dark, there was sunshine again. Sevilla saw the lamplight come on in Madrigal’s eyes. The man straightened in his seat. “I’m going to change, Juan, and then we’ll play. How many