Federico cut in: ‘No, the chief means they’re missing. We don’t know where they are.’
Managua lapsed into silence. He took off his glasses and began to rub at the lenses with a silk handkerchief plucked from his top pocket.
Zapatero watched Federico as he walked towards the window. The villa was on a flat plateau with a single road that snaked up to the entrance. You could see everyone coming and everyone leaving. From this room you could take in the entire panorama of maquiladoras clustered along the border, busy twenty-four hours a day churning out products for the gringos.
Finally Federico Tibialis, the drug lord of all drug lords, seemed to have assembled his thoughts. He turned to Zapatero. ‘I heard there was a man with them. Hector somebody or other, one of our corrupt police officers, who are such a problem. I heard he was protecting the American.’
Even in private Federico always spoke as if there was a Federal prosecutor in the next room, listening to his every word. It was a good assumption to make. He never spoke directly, always left room for interpretation, and Zapatero knew all too well that in a courtroom that was all that was required.
‘This Hector, I have heard rumours that he is dangerous. A killer,’ Federico continued. ‘If I was a betting man I would wager that somehow he has got himself mixed up in all this. But I’m sure you and your men will be able to stop him, won’t you, Chief?’
‘What about the American man, the rapist?’ Managua asked, of Mendez.
Federico shrugged. ‘There was a crash of some kind. Perhaps if he was hurt in it and he has stumbled out into the desert, the coyotes will finish him off. There is only so much we can do to look after our visitors in this town. Sometimes nature must simply take its course.’
‘And the other matter? Surely we can’t ignore that,’ said Managua.
Federico sipped at his whisky. He whirled the ice cubes around in the bottom of the crystal tumbler. ‘The papers were signed yesterday. There’s no backing out for either party now.’
Police Chief Zapatero felt satisfied with what Federico was proposing. They had done everything they could to protect Charlie Mendez but he had brought this upon himself by seeking out the girl. His family would have to understand that. The time had come to draw a line under the whole affair. The girl had forced their hand. Of course, for their story to stick they would all have to die. Mendez. The girl. Hector could take the fall and, once he was safely in prison, he could be taken care of too. They had reporters who would be helpful in tying it all together in a neat enough bundle for the Americans to be satisfied. Of course, first they had to be tracked down and that meant finding Charlie Mendez, and the two men Rafaela Carcharon was supposed to have kicked out of the country.
It made for a lot of loose ends. By the end of this, they were going to have to dig one hell of a big hole in the desert. The police chief straightened and looked at the other three men. ‘Gentlemen, leave it to me. My men will find them, although you understand that I can’t guarantee their safe return. The border is a dangerous place. Especially at night.’
Fifty-six
Two Hours Later
Local and Policia Federal vehicles were massed along the highway, the wash from their lights turning the blacktop a deep crimson. Paramilitary black-clad cops swaggered back and forth. Two separate forensic units swarmed over the abandoned Escalade. Traffic had been halted in both directions, and road-blocks set up, not only on the highway but at all the off- and on-ramps in both directions for five miles. Federal and local police officers moved in pairs along the lines of vehicles, flashlights probing the interiors. A tarpaulin was ripped from the back of a truck carrying produce, the driver held at gunpoint as the tailgate was lowered, his wares spilling out on to the road.
Further down the line a bus disgorged its human cargo of exhausted women from a maquiladora. They stepped sleepy-eyed down on to the road while a search dog, which had already sniffed the Escalade, was led on to the vehicle by its handler.
Thick black hair tied back in a ponytail, Rafaela stood in the middle of the throng, her silver police ID clipped to her belt, an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle slung over her shoulders, the barrel pointing to the ground. She watched the search unfold, her feelings a blend of anger, anxiety and awe. If a local woman had been found dead, never mind merely missing, Rafaela would have been there with, perhaps, one or two bored officers and a hard-pressed forensic team, who would have had fifteen minutes to gather what they could before they were called away. Her pleas for more resources and the time to conduct a thorough investigation would have been met with a resigned shrug. No one cared about dead factory girls by the side of the road. The contrast couldn’t have been sharper. The size and scale of the operation told her that the cartel wanted Mendez and the missing American girl bad.
At a fresh wail of sirens she looked round and saw a motorcade muscling its way through the jam of black and white Dodge Chargers and Ford F-150s. A sleek black town car stopped less than twenty feet from her, the rear door opened and Zapatero stepped out, sporting full dress uniform and ready to take personal command of the search. He moved among his men, slapping backs and shaking hands. When he spotted Rafaela, his expression tightened.
As he got closer to her, he nodded towards the cell phone she had clasped in her right hand. She had been waiting for a call from one of the Americans. She had risked a call to both of them but Lock’s cell phone was switched off and Ty’s had defaulted to voicemail.
‘I’ve been trying to reach you,’ Zapatero said, business-like. ‘You’re on duty but you don’t answer the phone?’
She thought back to his late-night calls. The heavy breathing. The obscenities. And the following day he would talk to her as if everything was completely normal, even though they both knew what kind of a man he was. Carry on as usual, she thought. The whole country was like that: the crazier things were, the greater the denial. It was the land of the looking glass where an empty SUV drew more police officers than a ton of cocaine or a pile of dead bodies.
Zapatero was waiting for an answer. She feigned surprise. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t hear it.’
Clearly he didn’t believe her but he didn’t press the point. ‘Someone saw the American girl,’ he said. ‘She was here.’
It was as much as Rafaela could do not to laugh in his face. The truck driver, whom she had already spoken to, had mentioned a girl fleeing the scene in another vehicle but he’d had no idea who she was. It had been dark and everything had happened quickly, he’d told her. Even if he had seen more, he would not have mentioned it: in this part of the borderlands, you gave enough information to satisfy the police but not so much that you were seen as too helpful.
‘We have a witness who said they saw a young woman. Who told you it was the American girl?’
Zapatero puffed out his cheeks. ‘It’s disappointing that I should be more aware of the situation than the officer I placed in charge, wouldn’t you say?’
Rafaela could think of many words to describe it but disappointing wasn’t one of them. She kept her mouth shut, deciding that she had already pushed too hard. Retribution wouldn’t come in the shape of a reprimand or a lack of promotion: it would come in the shape of a bullet to the back of the head.
‘No matter,’ Zapatero continued. ‘But we must find her. And the men she was with. They were all American.’
She tried to keep her face set. How did he know about Lock?
‘Two of them had been arrested previously,’ he continued. ‘I believe you dealt with them, Detective Carcharon,’
She flushed, and was glad of the darkness as he stared at her.
Fifty-seven
Ty pulled into an alleyway behind a row of shacks, killed the headlights and switched off the engine. The girl
