The Devil's Elixir

that snaked down the side of the desk and led to a small, white power adapter with an Apple logo on it that was plugged into a wall socket.

But no computer.

I turned to Villaverde. “Did anyone log in a computer? A laptop, or maybe an iPad?”

“Hang on,” he replied as he pulled out his phone.

I looked around. I couldn’t see one anywhere. I went back and checked the master bedroom, the living room, and the kitchen.

Nothing.

Villaverde’s call yielded no positive news. The homicide detectives who’d worked the house hadn’t come across a computer. If they had, they would have logged it and sent it over to the crime lab.

“She didn’t have one with her at the hotel,” I told Villaverde. “Which means it was probably still here when she ran out of the house.”

I checked the router again. It was a Netgear device and not Apple’s own Time Capsule, which was a bummer. Apple’s box automatically backs up the household computers’ drives wirelessly, which would’ve been a boon in this case, but then again, maybe the guys who came for her would have taken that, too.

“So the shooters took it,” Villaverde said.

It wasn’t a huge help, but it told me something.

The killers weren’t just after her.

12

YUCATAN PENINSULA, MEXICO

Raoul Navarro loved it here.

Just standing there, on his favorite among the many shaded terraces of his hacienda’s casa principal, enjoying a fine Cuban and taking in the view as the lush moon teased the surface of the ceremonial pond, a soft breeze rustled the bougainvillea, and countless cicadas lulled his world to rest.

Life was good for Raoul Navarro.

Better than good, given that another fine Cuban, this one of the leggy female variety, was asleep, naked, in his bed. For although Navarro was single, he was rarely alone. He had a voracious appetite for all things carnal, and given his fortune and the handsome features that had been sculpted into his face by a very talented though sadly now deceased plastic surgeon, that appetite wasn’t hard to quench.

His current playmate was the spa manager of a nearby luxury hotel who, to his great delight, had surprised him by proving to be more ravenous and adventurous in bed than he was, and as he looked out across his landscaped gardens, he craved being with her and tasting her skin between his teeth. He’d be doing that right now if it weren’t for what was taking place in San Diego, events that had consumed his mind all day and still required his close attention. For although life was better than good for him, if all went according to plan— his plan, for Raoul Navarro wouldn’t have it any other way—it was going to get a whole lot better.

Raoul Navarro usually saw his plans through.

Even after things had spiraled out of control five years ago, he was still around, living and breathing with a new name and a new face, free to come and go as he pleased, free to enjoy fine Cubans on a fine night such as this at the fine home that was his escape, an escape from the dangers of the past, an escape that had been forced upon him and that, as it turned out, was the best thing that ever happened to him.

He’d bought the dilapidated estate around two years after his supposed death, and it had then taken another two years and several million dollars to bring the seventeenth-century estate back to its former splendor. Not surprising, given how huge it was, spread out over close to fifteen thousand acres. It had originally been built as a cattle ranch, then in the eighteen hundreds it was converted into a henequen plantation, where its rich fields of agave cactus—the “green gold” that created immense fortunes—were farmed and turned into the sisal fiber that ropes were made of. Almost all the haciendas in the Yucatan had fallen into disrepair after the twin whammies of the land reforms of the Mexican Revolution and the invention of synthetic fibers, but after almost a century of neglect, the last few years had brought about a renewed interest in restoring these magnificent estates, with some converted into small luxury hotels, others into museums, and a select few into private domains.

The rebirth of the haciendas had coincided with his own.

Navarro loved the symmetry of it.

Standing there and basking in the serenity of his dominion, he knew he’d got it right. Given his situation and the savagery that was plaguing most of the country—a savagery in which he’d been not just a participant, but a highly innovative one at that—he’d thought about living abroad. He had the money and the squeaky-clean passport that would have allowed him to settle down anywhere, but he knew he wouldn’t be happy anywhere else. It had to be Mexico. And if he was going to live in Mexico, Merida was the place to be. Nestled in the Yucatan Peninsula on the southeastern tip of the country, the “City of Peace” was as far as one could get from the U.S. border, far from the orgies of blood the north of the country was drowning in. It was a place where the biggest concerns were aquifers that needed attention, overcrowded public schools, and a local cop who’d been bitten by a snake, and that suited the new, laundered version of him just fine.

It never failed to astound him how so many of his peers—ex-peers, really—just didn’t get it. The richer and more powerful they got, the lousier their lives became. Never sleeping in the same bed on consecutive nights, changing phones every day, constantly fearful of betrayal, surrounded by an army of bodyguards. Prisoners of their own success. Before them, the Colombian drug barons had all met bloody deaths. Pablo Escobar, the granddaddy of them all, had occupied the number seven spot on the Forbes rich list, but he’d still lived like a rat, scurrying from one grubby hideout to another before being gunned down in a shantytown at the ripe old age of forty-four. The Mexican narcos weren’t faring much better. It seemed like every week, the president’s damned federales were claiming another big scalp—although ironically, all it did was trigger more bloodshed and mayhem as violent succession struggles and territorial grabs played themselves out. The kingpins who hadn’t yet been killed or arrested were holed up in their fortresses, moving around like the fugitives they were, waiting for that unexpected bullet that would end their pointless lives.

Lesson learned.

He wasn’t going to end up like them, and his life certainly wasn’t going to be pointless. Not if everything went according to plan.

The plan that was currently in the thick of play.

He grinned inwardly at the thought of his fellow kingpins’ miserable, pathetic lives, and it gave him even more pleasure to think that it was them who had given him the way out, that the reason he’d bailed on the narco high life in the first place was that they had come after him guns blazing, all because of his trespass, because he’d dared go after what was rightly his, even if that involved some blood-soaked face time with the sacred and untouchable yanqui himself, the DEA’s head honcho in Mexico.

Well, El Brujo had shown them.

He’d managed to outsmart those two-faced maricons and ride off into his palm- ringed sunset with three hundred million dollars of their money. In the meantime, the illiterate peasants were still busy amassing fortunes they’d never get to enjoy while slaughtering each other for the privilege. Then la providencia had smiled on him yet again. It had opened an unexpected door and presented him with an opportunity to finish what he’d started and claim his place in history.

It wasn’t something he was going to let slip.

He checked his watch. As if on cue, his untraceable, pay-as-you-go phone buzzed.

It was Eli Walker, his man in San Diego.

“Do you have what I want?” Navarro asked.

The brief hesitation told him all he needed to know. Then came a flat and far-from-contrite “No.”