“That’s the spirit.”
I went on to tell him about Zak and to describe the woman when she was alive in the Gato Gordo.
“You’re sure the victim was the same person as the woman in the restaurant?”
Casey couldn’t see me nod. “I’m absolutely certain,” I called.
“You do understand, love, “Casey called, “that you, Zak, and the Arab were the last to see the poor lady in one piece.”
“Maybe Mr. Hoodie, if he was the killer.”
“A passerby. This was the Arab’s work, no doubt about it.” Casey at his most authoritarian. “The victim wasn’t on that beach on her own.” Casey’s voice carried above the whine of bathroom plumbing. “Arab ladies can’t go to the loo without a male escort, and it has to be a Muslim male. Thus, the Arab with her. And remember Zak gave the guy money. You’ve heard of contract killings?”
Casey emerged and smoothed the front of his silk shirt. “My outfit works for you?”
“Casey, for heaven’s sake, my head’s in a fog, I’ve just discovered a murder, and we have to go get the police, and it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a tent, a bathing suit or nothing at all, we’re out of here.”
3
A ratty strip mall bordered the lot next to the Guardia Civil station, a low white building with a gold and blue crest on the door. Instead of parking at the station, Casey pulled into the mall. The smell of garlic burning in rancid oil drifted from the corner restaurant. Neon strips lit a grinning Buddha cross-legged at the entrance.
On the beach a few hours ago, the sand had blazed white and hot. Now the usual afternoon cloud—cover veiled the face of the sun. A woman walking a Yorkie stopped to open an umbrella, and an elderly man quickened his pace. Casey set the emergency brake and turned to me. “The key to dealing with coppers is to keep it simple. Let’s practice. Pretend I’m the interrogator. Hola, Seňora, what brings you here?”
“When I was exercising my dog, I came across the decapitated head of a Berber woman.”
Casey nodded approval. “How do you know she’s a Berber?”
“The tattoos, I’ll explain. Then I’ll say how I covered her face and how when I was leaving to call you—you meaning the police—a man in the weeds saw me and took off, and after—”
“No, no, no. Bring up Mr. Hoodie and the cops will go ape-shit and we’ll be in the station all night: photos, line-ups.”
“But to find the murderer—”
“That’s their problem, love.”
Casey had a point. We went on with the rehearsal. “After I left the site where I found the head, I remembered I’d seen the exact same face the night before when she had been with an Arab man who knew the estate agent I hired to—”
“Stop, stop,” Casey said. “Think it through.” A drop of rain slid down the windshield. “I’m Mister Copper. Tell us, Seňora Glasgow, exactly how much money your estate agent paid the Arab. You don’t recall? Give me an estimate. Tell us again, how to spell this agent’s name.” Casey turned on the windshield wipers, and the frayed rubber slopped wearily back and forth.
“Turn those damn things off,” I said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to snap.”
“Mention Zak and the cops will be all over him,” Casey continued. “Might even lock him up while they hunt down the Arab, who if he did it, which he did, is halfway through Mauretania by now leaving your sexy Spaniard swinging in the breeze.”
“I could be accused of withholding information,” I said.
“Let me think what’s best to do.” Casey drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Better to protect yourself. If the police detain either Zak or the Arab, and it turns out they’re innocent, if Spain is anything like the UK and the USA you could be hit with a civil suit, malicious prosecution.”
“There’s certainly no malice on my part.”
He leaned to turn on the defroster, and shouted over the roar of the vent system. “Their solicitors will dredge up plenty.”
I hit the toggle switch and waited for the whirl of air to wind down.
“For instance,” Casey went on, “the prosecution can paint you as an Islamaphobe,”
“Bullshit. I—”
“Temper, temper.” A quick smile, and he seemed to choose his words carefully. “You tend to get rather, well, cheeky.”
“I do not.”
“Oh, yes you do.”
Outside, the asphalt was patent leather reflecting the red, blue, and green neon framing the Buddha. Being the child of a rage-alcoholic, I worked at maintaining exemplary self-control, Dad having demonstrated the high costs of anger with broken crystal, ruined dinners, and family vacations shot to hell. As a result, I’d trained myself to smile politely at colleagues when all along I wanted to break their necks. To appears nonchalant at criticism while my ego seethed.
“Admit you have a testy streak,” Casey said.
“Maybe,” I said to placate him. Manipulative, sure, which I believe is perfectly okay as long as you understand it isn’t okay at all. “But just because you’re right about my temper, doesn’t give you the right to rub it in.”
He ran his hand through his unruly hair. “Sometimes, you’re a real nutter.”.
In the foyer of the station, we sat on steel chairs bolted into the floor. The air smelled of pine disinfectant. White woodwork shone with fresh enamel paint. I brushed Mozart-hairs from my summer sweater and wondered if the snagged threads were noticeable. Next to Casey in his navy linen jacket, I felt like a bag lady.
A commotion came from the loading dock entrance—two Guardia Civil cops dragged a young guy down the hall. A white skull cap covered his hair, and a scraggily beard brushed his collar. For sure, his checkered shirt, jeans, and plastic shoes came straight from the bazaar. He shouted in Arabic. The officers shouted in Spanish while dragging him along upright, a cop on each side, the prisoner’s feet scraping the tile. The two other guards brought up the rear, one with the strap of his baton looped around his wrist. All at once the guy went limp.
I got to my feet and turned to Casey. “I’ll explain I’m a doctor.”
He grabbed the hem of my sweater. “Oh no you won’t.”
“He might have a head injury,” I said.
“Yeah, right. A condition called passive resistance.”
The prisoner regained strength, then collapsed again with a stream of, “Allahs.”
“Where’re they taking him?” I asked.
“You don’t want to know.”
When they paused in front of us, the cop unclipped the baton from the arsenal at his waist and slammed it against the prisoner’s shoulder. The crack of bone. The poor fellow screamed, choked and when I saw tears running down unchecked, I leaped to my feet again.
“Sit down.” Casey snapped.
One glance at his face and I did. “They’re kicking this fellow around because he’s a foreigner, and he’s poor and a—”
“Terrorist. Check the beard and cap.”
“Because he’s dark-skinned, probably an immigrant and who—”
“Just bombed an orphanage.”
I managed to ratchet my anger down to a red film behind my eyes, telling myself, butt out, you’re not in Texas. Then remembered shit like this happened there, too.
The cop glanced our way and grinned. When the crew rounded a corner, I heard the ping of an elevator.
Casey said, “I’m warning you, keep your mouth shut around here. The Guardia Civil has a nasty history. They were Franco’s boys, his personal goon-squad. A fascist legacy and to this day a formidable force, even if they—”
The click of approachin
g heels cut him off.
The officer wore an oversized leather jacket of what could have been elephant hide. The insignia of the Guardia Civil—a cluster of brass sticks crossed by a sword—was pinned to his collar. We were ushered into a tiny cubicle where a purple vine drooped from a Talavera pot atop a file cabinet. According to the nameplate, the officer was Alfonso Gonzales Garcia. Short and burly, he had thinning brown hair and cheeks shot through with the lavender capillaries of a drinker. The middle finger of his left hand was missing, and I wondered if that’s why the desk duty.
He stifled a yawn and drew a pencil from the Lavazza coffee can used as a holder.
“English?” I asked.
Garcia looked directly at Casey and replied, “Very, very small. Passports, please.”
“My neighbor’s here to interpret,” I said, handing him my passport.
Garcia asked for both our names and addresses. At the word ‘Texas’ he lifted his hands from the keyboard and quietly laughed. “Turn me over your gun.”
“I don’t own one.” Remembering Casey’s warning, I added, “Sir.”
Garcia scratched his head with the eraser end of the pencil, then dropped it back in the can.
A spider the size of an apple seed shot out from a manila folder. Garcia rolled a sheet of paper into a swatter. The spider scurried around the blotter and into the hole of the pencil sharpener mounted on the desk. Garcia dropped the swatter and gave the sharpener’s handle a quick turn.
The interview resumed. After a drawn-out exchange, Casey said, “He wants to know what you’re doing in Spain?”
Casey must have explained ‘to fix up my father’s house.’
Garcia wanted to know if I hired a contractor. Casey turned to me and said the government wanted to know, for it tracked self-employment and VAT taxes with a vengeance.
“Tell him Zacharias DeLeon, Great Estates.”
We slogged forward. “Garcia wants to know why you were off the path.”
“Tell him my dog went into the weeds.”
“No ropes on her arms?” Garcia asked in his very small English.
“No rope.”
Garcia frowned. “The law says all Spanish dogs—”
“Mozart’s American.”
Casey touched my arm and whispered, “Don’t be a smart-ass.”
The three of us plowed on, English to Spanish, Spanish to English. Then gradually I realized Garcia did seem to follow about twenty percent of what I said. But without thinking, I turned to Casey. “Don’t forget to tell him about the guy in the weeds.”
Garcia quickly lifted his head. “A witness-man?”
Casey’s foot dug into my calf, and too late I knew I’d said too much.
Garcia zeroed in despite my insistence I knew nothing about the guy in the hoodie. More back and forth, until finally Garcia closed the laptop, swept up our passports, ducked under the trailing plant and disappeared.
“Twenty-three, twenty-four...” Casey was taking his pulse, and I interrupted with, “Where’s Garcia off to?”
“Printer. I warned you not to bring up Mister Hoodie.”
Embarrassment at my stupid mistake put me on the defensive. “My mind isn’t working right. But what if Mister Hoodie is the killer?”
Casey shrugged.
Garcia returned with the smell of cigarette smoke on his jacket. He tapped a number in his cell phone.
“I bet he’s calling their men in the field,” Casey said. “Trigger the search for the remains.”
Returning to the computer, Garcia silently re-read the screen. His cell buzzed. “Si?” He continued speaking as he returned Casey’s passport to him. He closed the call and refreshed the computer screen
“Sir?” I asked. “Where is my passport?”
Casey repeated the question in Spanish.
Another exchange and I heard exasperation in Casey’s voice, a patronizing tone in Garcia’s. The dialogue reached an impasse. Garcia held up his hands as if he had nothing to hide, nothing to give. “Abogado,” he said finally.
I tightened my grip on the arms of the chair. “Why on earth do I need a lawyer?”
Casey kept his eyes on Garcia, but spoke to me, “If you want your passport.”
“You’re kidding.” Stunned, my thoughts came in fragments: my plane ticket, my license, my practice, my income, my life.
“He says they need you in-country to identify the guy in the weeds. You can’t leave until the case is adjudicated.”
“That’s crazy. In Texas, I think there has to be a hearing before they can detain a witness. No one can just take away—”
“They can do anything they want.”
“I’ll call the embassy.”
“Steady.” He put his hand on my arm. “No point in getting your knickers in a twist, love. The embassy’s a waste of time because not even the almighty US of A will mess in the internal affairs of another sovereign nation.”
All at once, the tiny spider shot out from the pencil sharpener. Garcia pounced, quickly grinding the bug into the green blotter, hard, harder. He lifted his hand and examined his thumb.
Ignoring the carnage, Casey went on. “You’ve no recourse with these people.”
“What if they never find who did it? I can’t live in Spain forever.”
“Agreed.” He appeared thoughtful. “I suppose after a decent length of time, maybe hire a
Spanish solicitor. The coast is crawling with English-speaking firms catering to ex-pats.”
The angrier I feel, the softer I speak, a trick I use with patients to maintain control. At least the illusion of it. I rose and loomed over Garcia, with both of my fists on his desk. “You have no authority to confiscate the property of an American citizen.”
“Actually, they do,” Casey muttered.
“Shut up,” I snapped. Then to Garcia. “My passport. Here, now. Aqui ahora.” I fought the onslaught of a meltdown, but nevertheless my self-control went down in flames. “Or I’ll take your fucking building apart stone by stone and your shit-for-a-brain along with it.”
Garcia brushed at the front of his jacket as if my words were crumbs. He said something to Casey, then with a tired sigh, rose and lumbered out of the cubicle.
“He’s getting it,” I said with a flush of triumph.
“No, he just went back to the printer.”
Once more, my skin felt on fire. “I’ll be on that plane tomorrow, passport or no.”
“Don’t be daft. Even if you do manage to sneak out of Spain, USA border control might not let you re-enter—at least easily—without Spain’s exit stamp.”
I am ten years old, trembling and terrified as Tommy, the fat fifth-grade bully corners me on the playground shouting, “Trapped like a rat. Trapped like a rat.”
Garcia returned with a sheaf of papers, scribbled his signature on the bottom of a document, spun it around and pointed to a line above my printed name.
“I’m out of here.” I turned away and leaned to pick up my bag.
Casey took the form and began to read, tracking each word with his finger. “Actually, it’s quite well written. A simple and accurate summary.”
“I won’t sign anything.”
“Oh, yes you will.” Casey handed me the pen. “You’re in enough bloody trouble.”
. . . . .
A half-hour later, I sat on Casey’s sofa with Mozart’s head on my lap. My nerves, my skin, every inch of me felt super-sensitive and raw, as if I had showered with steel wool. Each time I tried to focus on the here and now, my mind’s eye saw the woman’s
long black braid in the rust-colored sand.
“We’re in time the catch the soccer game, Spain’s playing Germany,” Casey called. He emerged from the kitchen and stood in the doorway with a dishtowel tucked into the belt of his jeans. “You still look like the dog’s dinner. But after a drink and food—”
“Please, no, I can’t think of food.”.
“Then, drink.” He went to the Ikea unit that ran the length of the wall. A few muttered “Damns,” and the clink of bottles as he rummaged in the bottom cabinet. “Aha, here we go, your brand of Malaga, Leon Dulce Vineyards. Or might whiskey be called for?”
“Malaga’s fine.” I had mentioned loving the pungent wine that tasted the way bottled flowers would taste. Casey dropped the screw-top cap into an Inca pottery bowl, an artifact from digs when he studied—or read, as he put it—anthropology at Oxford. Harold’s fourteen novels rested on the top shelf out of reach, out of date, out of mind. Casey held the wine bottle to the light. “The old boy’s been nipping.”
The tension in my stomach held its grip despite the comfort of Casey’s apartment. The cozy hodge-podge of flea market furniture, Whistler’s mom rocking over the mantle, the tattered Herez carpet under the coffee table, the Portuguese earthenware stacked on the sideboard. The décor somewhere between student housing and starter homes brought memories of the loft in Houston, where Grant and I lived during our residencies—happier there than in the McMansion that came later.
“I can’t seem to get the sight of her blood out of my mind.”
Casey drew his Jameson from the cabinet. “I mean, love, it’s not as if you haven’t seen plenty of gooey deaths.”
“It’s not the gore. it’s the cruelty that gets through to me. The sadism. I see it everywhere—victims the police bring to the emergency room, graphic wounds on the covers of junk paperbacks and on junk TV. Not to mention what I saw as a child.” My stomach tightened. Casey turned from the sideboard and silently stared at me. “My father,” I added as if apologizing. I could told Casey about the nights I lay listening to Dad scream at my mother in his shrill falsetto voice, and my mother’s whimpering in reply. “Cruelty is a disease of the soul,” I said. “With no cure.” I made sure Casey was preoccupied with measuring whiskey into a tumbler, before I eased another Valium from my pocket.
The Loss of What We Never Had Page 2