Lucas smiled at the word. 'You speak really good English, you know?'
WITH MARTIN AS a guide, they returned to Cancъn and toured the restaurant where Paulo Mejia and Rinker had been shot, interviewed the restaurant owner, and climbed into the loft of the church to see the shooting position taken by the assassin.
'Had to have local help to find this,' Lucas said, as Martin explained how the shooter had probably fired once, then retreated down the stairs and out the back door to a waiting car.
'There would have to be a driver,' Martin said. 'You couldn't park a car back there-it would block the entire street and bring attention.'
'You know the driver?' Mallard asked.
'We are looking for a man… He is unaccountably absent. Normally, he would go to relatives to be hidden, but they do not know where he is. They knew where he was three days ago, but then he went away.'
'Running,' Malone suggested. 'Maybe he felt you coming.'
'He went to a business meeting, his mother says. He didn't come back.'
'Mmm.'
The loft was hot as a kiln, and smelled like hay, like a midwestern barn loft in summer. A wasp the size of Lucas's little finger bumped along the seam of the ceiling and wall. They looked out on the hot street for another minute, then trooped back to the restaurant for a light lunch. The service was wonderful, which Martin seemed to take for granted. Lucas again noticed the body language between Mallard and Malone, an offering from Mallard, equivocation from Malone. He smiled to himself and went back to the pasta salad.
From the restaurant, they went to the hotel where Rinker had worked as a bookkeeper. She'd worked off the books, illegally, but nobody was being coy about it. With both the Mejia family and the national cops involved, the hotel manager simply opened up and told everybody everything: He'd hired her because she had the bookkeeping skills-she knew Excel backward and forward-and was willing to work whenever she was needed, for as long or as little as she was needed, and there were no benefits or taxes to pay.
'She said she just needed an extra squirt of money to supplement her disability pension,' the manager told them. 'She was very good. The arrangement was convenient for everybody.'
'Is there any possibility that she took the job because she knew she would meet Paulo Mejia?' Lucas asked.
The manager shook his head. 'Mr. Mejia never came here-only the once, to look at the parking for an appraisal he was doing. I introduced them when he needed some numbers.'
'Purely by chance.'
He nodded. 'By chance.' He explained that he didn't know Mejia was coming that day, and that she'd come in at the last minute to deal with a money problem involving a group of Americans who had asked to extend their vacation stay. 'She could not have planned it.'
He also characterized her as cheerful and hardworking, and said that her hours were increasing each month. 'I would have liked to employ her full-time, if she had not been a foreigner,' he said. 'She worked very well.'
Mallard asked about pictures, and the manager shrugged. 'How often do you take pictures of people in your office? We're not tourists-we work here.'
ON THE WAY back to the hotel, all four of them were quiet, thinking their own thoughts, until Lucas asked Martin, 'Why is it that everybody speaks English? Everybody we've seen…'
Martin sighed. 'Gringo imperialism. Cancъn business is Americans and Canadians. And English people, and now some Germans. Always Israelis. There's a story-not a story, you would call it a line- about Cancъn,' Martin said. 'It's that Cancъn is just like Miami-except in Miami, they speak Spanish.'
AT THE HOTEL, Martin got out of the truck, shook hands with the three Americans, and asked Lucas to get the name of the San Francisco store where he'd bought the jacket. Lucas said he would find it and call back.
'Not much here,' Lucas said, as he watched Martin drive away. Then he, Mallard, and Malone crossed into the cool of the hotel.
'But we got a deal with old man Mejia, which is the main thing,' Mallard said. 'If he decides to put a price on her head, Rinker's gonna have a hard time getting any help from the underground. Word'll get around.'
'You have more faith than I do,' Lucas said. 'Most of the fuckin' underground can't read a TV Guide.'
'I'm not talking about the assholes on the corner,' Mallard said. 'I'm talking about the gun dealers and the moneymen and the document people. They'll hear. She'll have trouble moving.'
Lucas shook his head; he disagreed. The disagreement was fundamental, and generally divided all cops everywhere: Some believed in underlying social order, in which messages got relayed and people kept an eye out, and bosses reigned and buttonmen were ready to take orders, and a network connected them. And some cops believed in social chaos, in which most events occurred through accident, coincidence, stupidity, cupidity, and luck, both good and bad. Lucas fell into the chaos camp, while Mallard and Malone believed in the underlying order.
WHEN WORKING OUT the trip to Mexico, Mallard had allowed extra time for a certain inefficiency; but Martin had been so ruthlessly efficient that they were done at two o'clock, mission more or less accomplished.
'Swim?' Malone asked.
'Too hot,' Lucas said. 'I'm gonna get a beer at the bar, then a couple of papers, and lay up in my room with the air-conditioning on. Maybe swim before dinner?'
'Not bad,' Mallard said. 'I'm for a beer or two.'
'I'll join you,' Malone said. 'But I gotta run up to my room for a minute.'
Lucas and Mallard stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought copies of the Times and the Wall Street Journal, carried the papers into the cool of the bar, got a booth, and ordered Dos Equis.
'You read the editorials?' Mallard asked.
'Yeah, though I know it's wrong,' Lucas said.
'You want the Fascists or the Commies?'
Lucas considered for a moment, then said, 'Fascists,' and Mallard passed him the Journal. They both opened to the editorial pages, looked over the offerings, and then Lucas asked, casually, 'How bad you got it for Malone?'
Mallard's newspaper folded down. He looked at Lucas for a long moment, then sighed and said, 'Is it that obvious?'
'Yup,' Lucas said.
'The goddamn woman drives me crazy. I know you guys…' He didn't say it-that Lucas and Malone once spent a happy weekend together. 'That's not a big deal. I just… hunger after her. I thought I was hiding it pretty well.'
'I'm a trained investigator,' Lucas said. He looked at an editorial headline that said, ' 'Sweatshops' Often Build Sustaining Family Businesses.' After a moment of silence from Mallard, he added, 'I suspect nobody else knows, except any trained investigators you might have at the FBI. And Malone, of course.'
Mallard's eyebrows went up. 'You think she knows?'
'Jesus Christ, Louis, she knew before you did,' Lucas said. 'Women always know that shit first. And she's not backing away. If I were you, I'd set up a moment somewhere. Have a few drinks around the pool tonight, tell her a few stories, give her a chance to tell you a few, and you know, going up stairs, put a hand on her.'
'What about the drywall guy? The Sheetrocker?'
'Fuck the drywall guy. You're not playing tennis.'
'Have to be more than a few drinks,' Mallard said gloomily. He looked scared to death.
'It's no big deal, Louis,' Lucas said. 'People do it all the time.'
'Not me,' Mallard said. 'I'm not exactly your romantic hero.'
'Yes, you are, Louis. You're a big wheel in the FBI. You're involved in international intrigue. You carry a great big gun. You spend the taxpayers' money like it was water.'
'I'm paying for the beer personally.'
'Louis, what the fuck are you talking about?'
'Yeah, yeah.' The phone in his pocket rang and he slipped it out, answered, listened for a moment, then said, 'Oh, boy. When? We'll be out front.' He clicked it shut and said, 'Martin's coming back. They found that guy who might have been the driver.'
'Dead?'
