by Cindy L Hull
“Fling?” he asked.
“Temporary, fun, but not serious.”
“You based this on…what?”
“We were young and didn’t know each other well. It would have been a long-distance relationship with no future.”
“That’s what you thought?”
“That’s what I thought you thought too,” Claire said, miserable. “And I had met someone else during the trip…and I married him.”
“So perhaps you had the fling, not me.”
“Please, don’t torture me. I am sorry. It wouldn’t have worked. I know it, and I think you know it also.”
The appetizers arrived. Roberto took a wedge of quesadilla and Claire twisted her wedding ring, staring at the man whom she had hurt. “I saw the photograph in your office. Is that your family?”
Roberto nodded. “Was. My wife and son were killed in a car accident five years ago. I live with my daughter and my widowed mother.”
“I am so sorry,” Claire said again. “I can’t imagine losing a child and spouse at the same time.”
“If it hadn’t been for my daughter and mother, I wouldn’t have survived the grief.” He paused, looking at Claire’s wedding ring. “Did your husband come with you to the conference?”
“My husband died of cancer two years ago. I too have a daughter.”
They both drank silently, aware of the emotional charge between them. Aware of the circumstances that brought them together.
Claire said, “Why did you invite me here?”
“I wanted to see you again. Was it a mistake?”
“No, not at all. It’s this death. I can’t think of anything else.”
“Or anyone?”
Claire smiled. “I remember you now. You were the romantic…and you became a cop.”
“And you were the beautiful American woman, so near, but so mysterious.”
“Beautiful? Mysterious?” Claire said. “Hardly either, I’m sure.”
“You conquered me…then left me in despair.”
“And now, I’m a suspect?” Claire smiled, trying to change the conversation.
“Not yet,” he said, and finally smiled. “But I need your help.”
Claire felt her heart settle and head clear. “Is it about the computer? Is that why you called a meeting tomorrow?”
“Yes. Thank you for sending Cody to me.”
“Do you think it’s a coincidence that Paul’s computer disappeared when he died?”
“I don’t like coincidences,” Roberto said, and continued as if Claire were a colleague, not a potential suspect or former love interest. “Let’s assume that his death was not an accident, and that the missing computer is important. What could be the motive to kill Paul?”
“You’re assuming murder, not accident or suicide?”
“I’m assuming the worst and hoping for the best.”
“It seems to me the person most likely to have a motive would be Cody,” Claire said. “Who else?”
Salinas tipped his hand in a now-familiar gesture. “But why did he tell me about the missing computer? I didn’t suspect a crime. We didn’t even search his hotel room.”
“Do you think he tried to misdirect you? He could have taken it himself, thrown it away.”
“Misdirect?” he asked, struggling with the word.
“Deceive you, send you in the wrong direction, to make you think it was someone else who took the computer. Why mention it otherwise?”
Salinas frowned. “Why would Cody kill his lover here, when he could have done it anywhere, or just left him?”
“Perhaps it was something that happened here…an argument, and the opportunity available…or perhaps it was an accident and he was scared.” She realized she had been clenching her fists in her lap and released them, reaching for her wine glass. “Several of us witnessed tension between them.”
“Yes, he admitted that much to me.”
“Who else could it be?” Claire asked.
Salinas looked at her in a thoughtful manner, his fingers drumming softly on the table. “Can you think of other possible motives for harming him?”
Claire wondered how many enemies Paul might have made as he meandered from college to university applying for positions. It could have been someone else entirely, someone they had no reason to suspect, another man with whom he had a relationship, a woman even.
Roberto watched her closely, as if trying to read her thoughts. “Claire?” he asked.
“There is something.” She paused as Roberto pulled a small spiral notebook and pen from one of his jacket pockets. With a sigh of resignation, she summarized the faculty discussion at Uxmal concerning Paul’s candidacy. She also reported on what she and her colleagues had learned from Evelyn Nielander about Paul’s interview tactics, and what Cody had told her about Paul’s family. “Perhaps, Paul’s personality contributed to his death,” she said.
“Do you mean he was blackmailing people?” Salinas asked, his hand poised over his notebook.
Claire shook her head. “I don’t think so, but his comments could be construed as threatening.” She told him about Tanya’s confession. “I’m not saying that Tanya would kill Paul for hinting at this indiscretion, but someone else, threatened by a disclosure, might feel the need to quiet the source, not hire him, which is what he obviously wanted.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“That’s what we thought.”
“But it does increase the number of possible suspects and motives,” he said, looking at her with raised eyebrows.
“Including me,” Claire said.
“Including anyone at the conference whom Mr. Sturgess had threatened.” He picked up a chicken wing and examined it. “Technically, everyone at Uxmal that night is a suspect, but you are not on my A list…is that what you call it?” Claire nodded. “You could have discouraged Mr. Detwyler from coming to me, but you placed the call.” He attacked the chicken wing and deposited the bone on the platter. “Besides, despite how you treated me, I can’t see you pushing someone off a pyramid.”
Claire, frustrated, protested, “Are you sure it couldn’t have been an accident? Perhaps he climbed up and just fell.” She paused to gauge his response, a slight shrug. “Perhaps he committed suicide.”
He sat back, studying her face. “There’s no evidence of it, such as a note, and neither his family nor Cody told me anything to make me suspect he was depressed.”
“Perhaps the note was in his backpack.”
“But then, where is the backpack?” He studied his beer, not looking at Claire. Finally, he said, “I need you to consider the possibility that one of the Keane College faculty or another anthropologist might be involved with Paul’s death in some way.”
Claire opened her mouth to protest, but Roberto did not give her a chance to speak. “I know that you don’t want to think about this, but I need your help. You know your faculty members, and you know where they were during that evening. It will help me if you can describe their movements, so I can compare your observations with the statements they will give me tomorrow.”
Claire felt exasperation rise from within her. She tried to control her hands as she struggled with her conscience. What would happen if, because of her observations, one of her colleagues was wrongfully accused of a horrible crime? What would happen if she did not cooperate and someone she knew, and probably respected, avoided responsibility?
Roberto moved his chair so that he sat to her side rather than across from her. Speaking more softly, he said, “Anything you observed will stay between us. I am not anxious to accuse anyone of a crime.” His eyes narrowed, and his eyebrows furrowed in a manner reminiscent of George when he was deep in thought. He was a cop now, not Roberto. “Believe me,” he said, “my captain wants this conclusion. It’s not good for the tourist business for people to fal
l off pyramids, but it is far worse to have them pushed.”
Claire leaned toward him, remembering the charge she had felt years ago when he had touched her hand. He did this now, and the same feeling came over her. “Okay. I will tell you what I know about last night.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When Claire finished her narrative, she sat back as Salinas continued to write in his notebook. When he had laid his pen down and took a sip of beer, Claire asked, “Have you contacted the elderly couple who saw Paul on the pyramid—the Stuarts?”
Salinas flipped through his notebook. “My sergeant tried to contact them at the hotel, but they had already left.” He paused. “Can I ask a favor of you?”
“Certainly.”
“Sergeant Garza got their home phone number from the hotel, but they haven’t returned her calls. It’s possible they don’t have international service.” He spread his hands on the table in front of him. “Could you try to contact them through the internet? Perhaps you can get their email and ask them if they have any photographs of that night.”
“Yes, I’ll try.”
Roberto flipped a few pages back in his notebook, wrote the phone number on a blank page and ripped it out for her. He then pulled a packet of photographs from his other jacket pocket, the photos from Claire’s camera. He organized the photos into two stacks, pushing one toward her and turning the second stack upside down on the table.
Roberto pointed at the top photograph. “Can you identify your colleagues? I assume this is the Keane College group?”
Claire identified the faculty members, providing a short summary of their areas of expertise. They flipped through the photographs together. Claire touched Salinas’ hand as one photo appeared. It depicted Eduardo and Brad standing together on the Governor’s Palace platform.
“This is Eduardo Ramirez.” She turned the photo slightly, so she could see it more closely. “My God,” she said. “That’s Paul.” Paul was on the far edge of the photograph. His body faced the pyramid, but he was looking toward Brad and Eduardo. His face was blurred as the camera was not focused on him, but it was clearly Paul, his shirt, glasses, and curly dark hair unmistakable. She could discern the straps of a backpack.
Salinas looked carefully at this photo, tapping his finger on Eduardo’s image as if thinking of something. He turned the second stack of photos over and placed them in front of Claire. “Can you look at these?” he asked.
Claire knew which photos they would be and preferred not to look at them again. “I’m sorry they aren’t very clear,” she said. “That’s why I gave the officer the memory card.”
“Ahh,” he said, and reached into his pocket again. “I almost forgot.” He handed the memory card back to Claire and she put it in her purse. “Thank you for including it. We enlarged them for detail.”
“As I looked through them,” Claire confessed, “I realized that I hadn’t taken photos of the crowd.” She could tell by the wrinkle in his brow that he too had hoped for more, but had refrained from mentioning it.
“Perhaps you could help me with that.”
Claire named those at the site that she could remember, including those from her group, and he wrote them down. “Oh, and Laura Lorenzo, the other candidate for the job, and the Stuarts, of course.” She paused to think. “The YouTube video should help with that also.”
He nodded. “So, everyone from your group was there?”
She thought a moment. “Not at first. Jamal arrived later. He told us that when he heard the scream and saw people running, he ran to the Cultural Center for help.”
“But you didn’t believe him?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“The way you answered, like you weren’t sure you believed what he said.”
“It just seemed strange for someone to run away from something like that. Most people run toward an accident, but I was relieved that he had thought about getting help. And, he did give Cody an alibi.”
Salinas shrugged. “Perhaps, but Cody could have returned to the site before the show.”
He turned his attention back to the photographs, arranging them on the table. He moved the appetizer platter away from them. When a waiter came to take it, Salinas quickly laid his napkin over the photographs and ordered two more drinks.
Another chorus of “Gooooal!” erupted from the fans. Claire strained to hear what Salinas was saying. He raised his eyebrows and waited for the din to lessen.
“These photos are very helpful,” he said. “I want to draw your attention to a few things.”
Claire nodded and forced herself to look at the photos she had taken of Paul, lying on the ground, face up.
“First,” Salinas asked, “did you find the body in this position?”
“No. Brad turned him over to check his pulse. That was when we realized who it was.” Her hand shook as she touched the photo. “He was on his stomach, his legs crumpled underneath him. I saw the gash on his head and I wondered—after I saw the blood on the ground—if he had landed there…”
“Go on,” Salinas urged.
“He seemed too close to the balustrade, and his face…” She touched the photo again. “His face was bruised, and his nose broken, but it didn’t look like his face had hit the lower platform. His glasses were broken, but still hooked around his ear.”
The waiter returned with drinks, peering at the photos as Salinas covered them again. When the waiter had left, he continued, “You were correct in questioning the position of the body and the blood on the ground and around the pyramid platform. The body had been moved, at least once, perhaps twice.” He paused as they sipped their fresh drinks. “Brad turned the body over, but someone dragged the body, which had been face-up, from near the pathway to the base of the pyramid, and then turned it over.”
“So, it wasn’t suicide or accident,” Claire acknowledged, sitting back in her chair.
“Think it through,” Salinas said. “Let’s say, you see someone fall or lying on the ground. What do you do?”
“I’d call for help.”
“Most people would, yes.” He raised his eyebrows. “Would you move the body?”
“Of course not. Everyone knows that from television.”
“Yes, but what if the person isn’t the honest, good citizen that you are? Why might you move the body?”
Claire thought about this. “The backpack? Someone moved him to a dark location and turned him over to get the backpack?” She was incredulous. “That’s so risky! They could have been seen.”
“Very risky indeed, but with everyone’s attention on the program, it would be possible.”
“Could it have been opportunistic?” As much as Claire preferred that interpretation, she knew it was unlikely. Someone had pushed him to get to the backpack.
“Do you think that’s what happened?” Salinas asked.
“Not really,” she admitted. “Not unless the person knew it had valuable contents…but I doubt it happened that way.”
Salinas nodded. He pointed to a photograph of Brad kneeling next to a backpack. “Is this Brad’s backpack?”
“Yes,” Claire answered. “He took it off to work on Paul.”
“The enlargements will give us a better look at the footprints around the body and the steps. Unfortunately, people moved around, so this will be a difficult chore. We may have to request witnesses’ shoes at some point. I’ll know when I get more lab results. Is there anything else you remember about the scene?”
“There is one thing, but I don’t think it’s important.”
Salinas looked up. “Tell me.”
Claire told him about seeing Laura climbing partway up the pyramid while Claire took photographs. “I just thought it was odd.”
“Laura Lorenzo—the job candidate?”
Claire nodded.
“Interesting,” Sal
inas said thoughtfully.
He continued to thumb through the photographs. Claire wondered if she should mention the breakfast conversation, or Tanya’s disclosure about Brad and Eduardo’s argument in the Exhibit Room. She didn’t think it related to the death, but it puzzled her.
Roberto interrupted her thoughts. “You have changed.”
“How?”
Roberto tipped his head to the side. “I remember you as a bit of a—how do you say—rebel? Spirited, bending the rules, dating me even though it was against the rules of your program.”
She smiled. “And now it seems I am doing the same thing.”
“Yes,” he responded. “But you are cautious now, melancolía. Is it your husband’s death?”
Claire realized she was twisting her wedding ring. “Yes, but not only that.” She sipped her wine. How much to disclose? “I am suffering a sort of mid-life crisis,” she admitted. “I’ve lost my passion for academia. I hoped that the Mayanist program would rejuvenate me, and to some extent it has, but there are still the internal dramas, interpersonal squabbles, and turf-building that I don’t have the patience for anymore.”
“Anything that might cause someone to push a job candidate off a pyramid?”
Claire looked up at him sharply. “Of course not!”
Salinas laughed. “There’s the spirit I remember.”
Embarrassed that he had been able to provoke her, she sat back and sipped her wine. “Tell me about your daughter.”
“She is a student at the University of Yucatán…and yes, I live with my mother, or I should say she lives with us.”
“I like the idea of the traditional Mexican family. I have missed that in my life.”
“And how are you not traditional?” he asked.
She pushed her glass away. “My father is of Mayan heritage. His grandparents followed the migrant stream from Yucatán and settled in Michigan, where my father was born. He married my mother, a red-haired Irish girl, and here I am, browned skinned with brownish-red hair, a Spanglish speaker with a Latin/Irish temper that you call spirit…a hybrid.”
“A beautiful hybrid, still. If I may say so.”