Closely Akin to Murder

by Joan Hess

  “Or he’s not in the mood for company,” I said as I banged my fist on the door. “Mr. Santiago, please open the door! I can pay you for your time.”

  “He never creeps out of his grotto before noon,” said a man as he stepped onto the end of the porch. “If the morning sunshine ever caught him, he’d turn to ashes. The afternoon sunlight suits him much better. He takes a bottle and a glass up to his favorite roost and whiles away the remainder of the day getting sloshed.”

  “You’re American,” I said. I could tell little else about him as he stood silhouetted against the sunlight.

  “Once upon a time.”

  Manuel touched my arm. “We should leave, Señora. If you wish, we will come back this afternoon.”

  “In a moment,” I said, then went down to the end of the porch. The man was less imposing at close range; I’d seen more robust specimens coming out of commercial blood banks. He was over six feet tall, but I could have pushed him off the porch with one jab. Greasy gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Sunglasses hid his eyes, and an unkempt mustache obscured his mouth. He wore a dingy t-shirt, torn jeans belted with a rope, and plastic sandals. “Once upon a time?” I repeated.

  “Just like in the fairy tales,” he said as he flashed stained teeth. “Who are you and why do you want to talk to the despicable Santiago? He’s not your type.”

  “I have some personal business with him. My name is Claire Malloy.” I waited for a moment, then added, “And yours?”

  “Chico will do. Have you ever noticed that no one in any fairy tale has a last name?”

  I tried to come up with a contradictory illustration, but at last gave up. “I suppose you’re right. Do you live here, Chico?”

  “In the honeymoon bungalow, although the mirror on the ceiling fell years ago and the mice have gnawed the stuffing out of the mattress. In bygone days, Santiago charged a hundred dollars a night; I pay less than that a month, so I really shouldn’t belittle the accommodations, should I?” He stepped back into a neglected flower bed and lifted his hand in a mock salute. “Adiós, Claire Malloy.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “And I would like to write a novel that is not only critically acclaimed, but also stays at the top of the bestseller list for a year. We don’t always get our way, do we?”

  “I’m on assignment for a magazine, and am authorized to pay for information—within reason. Will I get my way for twenty dollars?”

  He scratched his chin. “Fifty might be more persuasive.”

  After some further dickering, we agreed on forty dollars and walked up crumbling concrete stairs to what had been the restaurant. Manuel had taken sanctuary in the Cadillac and was glaring at me through the windshield. I’d never seen a barracuda in an aquarium, but I presumed the effect would be similar.

  “I’m afraid the bar is closed,” Chico said as he sat down in a rickety chair and propped his feet on a table. “The residents of Hotel Las Floritas are indulgent, as a rule, and would never complain to the management. Disagreements among ourselves are settled with broken bottles. There was a young chap with a fondness for crack who had the impertinence to pull out a gun upon discovering that his backpack had been emptied. Santiago was so offended that he bashed the chap over the head with a crowbar.”

  I watched an enormous black bug meandering across the floor and decided to remain standing. “How long have you lived here, Chico?”

  “As long as I can remember. A wicked witch named Vino Rojo cast an evil spell over me, and I have no memory of my life before Las Floritas. Well, that’s not true. Before I moved here, I slept in the streets and panhandled on the beaches. When my economic situation improved, I was able to join Santiago’s little community of bottom-feeders.”

  “Did Santiago tell you about the Hollywood director who was killed here?”

  Chico waggled a grimy finger at me. “But not in the honeymoon bungalow. That took place in the bungalow presently occupied by two hookers from Honduras. When they’ve had a profitable night, they often invite me over for a bowl of black bean soup.”

  I counted out forty dollars and flapped them at him. “What exactly did Santiago tell you?”

  “He’s very bitter about it,” he said, gazing out at the ocean and shaking his head. “His hotel was a revered destination for the jet set; in the high season, no one could get a room without a referral from a favored guest. The restaurant was one of the most expensive in Acapulco. Santiago ordered champagne from France, Beluga caviar from the black market, and marijuana from Oaxaca. Although there was very little publicity about the case, the word was spread and his beloved movie stars and politicians transferred their allegiance to the Ritz and the Hilton. His wife transferred hers to one of the gardeners. He himself had some sort of mishap that shattered one of his kneecaps, leaving him with a pronounced limp. These days poor old Santiago sits at one of these tables, drinking mescal and staring at the names in the old guest registers. When they fade into nothingness, so will Santiago.”

  Manuel was probably close to wetting his pants, but I wanted Ronnie’s money’s worth. “What did he tell you about the crime itself?” I persisted.

  “When the body was found, Santiago was more than willing to accept it as an accident. In fact, he paid substantial bribes to the police to convince them to agree with him. But then a bloody shirt was discovered in a garbage can. The police examined the suite more thoroughly and found bloodstains on the rug and the stone floor of the balcony. After they found the girl’s diary, she confessed—and that was that.”

  He hadn’t said anything I didn’t already know, but I put the cash in his outstretched hand. “If you remember anything else Santiago told you that might be significant, call me at the Acapulco Plaza.”

  “How deep are your pockets, Claire Malloy?”

  “That depends on your information,” I said, easing toward the stairs as the black bug veered toward my foot.

  “As a reporter, you can protect your sources?”

  “Reporters cannot be forced to reveal their sources,” I said vaguely. I would have cited the pertinent amendment, but I couldn’t think of it and I didn’t want to blow my cover with misinformation.

  Chico stood up and came across the room, scarcely looking down as the bug crunched under his sandal. “I might be able to provide more information,” he said. “I was there.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Other than promising to call me at the hotel, Chico refused to say anything more and went out the gate to the street. It was still too early to attempt to awaken the somnolent Santiago, so I went to the Cadillac and waited, sweltering and slapping at flies, until Manuel unlocked the door.

  Once he was satisfied that I’d locked the door before we were set upon by thugs and bugs, he said, “That is the kind of person I warned you about, Señora Malloy. There are many American expatriates in Mexico because the cost of living is low and they can afford their vices. That man should not be trusted. He would steal his grandmother’s wheelchair for enough pesos to buy a bottle of cheap wine.”

  “He knows something, though,” I said.

  “He knows who he mugged on the beach last night.”

  “How old would you say he is?”

  Manuel maneuvered out of the parking lot and drove down a curving road that, between onslaughts of trucks, provided a magnificent view of the ocean. “I cannot say. Where are you wishing to go now? Would you like to see La Quebrada, where the young men have been diving into the ocean since 1934? It is very exciting and dangerous. When the surf recedes, the water is only twelve feet deep, so they must time their dives in order—”

  “Let’s go to the newspaper office,” I said. “Perhaps they’ll have back copies from the time of the murder. It will be interesting to see if any of the other guests are named.”

  Once again I was treated to grumbles as we careened down the hill, bouncing over potholes and barely avoiding parked cars and children playing in the road.
Manuel was beginning to remind me of Peter, with his stony expression and belligerent attitude. The charming difference was that Peter was in a position to hinder my virtuous, civic-minded attempts to assist the CID; in the past he’d gone so far as to order my car impounded, and, at his most heinous, had me dragged to the police station in the middle of the night for impeding his investigation. Manuel was in no such position.

  “You speak English well,” I said, feeling magnanimous.

  “I worked on a California-based cruise ship for six years.”

  “How long have you worked for your brother-in-law?”

  “For a year. He has the largest tourist agency in Acapulco, with many employees and luxurious cars such as this one. At first I washed cars and delivered our brochures to hotels, then I was given the job of driving the van to the airport. This is my first time to escort someone, which is why it is so important that nothing bad happens to you and the señorita. My brother-in-law has the temper of a bear. If you saw him, you might think he looks like one, too. He is very big and furry.”

  “Nothing bad is going to happen to us, Manuel. All I’m doing is asking questions about something that took place so long ago that most people have forgotten about it.” I paused, thinking about the anonymous call. “When you phoned the people on the list I gave you yesterday, did you mention my name or where I’m staying?”

  “No, I said only that you were an American reporter. The daughter of Emilio Zamora told me of his death and ended the conversation very abruptly. The man I spoke to in the prosecutor’s office concerning Ruiz was not interested, nor was the cabo who told me when to call back to speak to the comandante. In the case of Pedro Benavides, I gave his secretary your name, but my office number in case the appointment must be canceled.”

  “What about the limousine driver named Jorge?”

  “Señora, that is a very common first name in Mexico. When I was in school, I had many friends named Jorge. One of my cabin mates on the cruise ship was named Jorge. My landlady’s dog is named Jorge. It is impossible to find this man, especially after thirty years.”

  “Nothing’s impossible,” I said. “Ask your brother-in-law what limousine companies were in business then, and I’ll ask the same of Santiago. He may even remember which one Oliver Pickett preferred.”

  “As you wish,” Manuel said darkly as he parked in front of a red and white building. “Here is the office of Los Navedades de Acapulco.”

  “You’d better come with me in case I need a translator.”

  Manuel trailed behind me as I went into a small lobby. A few people sat on a bench, laboriously filling out forms. A receptionist in the rear glanced up at me, then resumed talking on a telephone. Behind a window was a larger room with desks, computers, and listless employees. The newsroom and presses were likely to be in the back of the building.

  “Now what?” whispered Manuel.

  “I want to know if they have a storage facility with newspapers from the first part of the year 1966. If they do, I’d like to look through them and make photocopies of relevant stories.”

  He looked as though I’d asked him to twirl around the lobby on his tippy-toes, but he went to the window and waited until a woman approached. While the two conversed in Spanish, I amused myself trying to translate signs on the wall. None of them appeared to be a menu, unless anuncio was a variety of burrito.

  Manuel tapped me on the shoulder. “The lady says that Los Navedades has been in business only since 1969. Tropico, the newspaper at that time, is gone, and there is no way to locate old issues.”

  “Guacamole,” I said morosely.

  “So, it’s almost noon. Will you have lunch with the señorita at the hotel? It’s not so far from here. I will take you there, then return when it’s time for the appointment with Benavides.”

  I nodded and went out to the car. It was ridiculous to feel so frustrated, I lectured myself as we drove down the boulevard. I’d known long before I left Farberville that the odds were minute that I’d find out anything whatsoever. The events had occurred when I was in fifth grade, playing kickball, reading Nancy Drew and Trixie Belden books, and finger-printing my friends. Memories dimmed. Newspapers folded and judges died. Hotels turned into disreputable boarding houses.

  And I had made some progress. I would interview Santiago after lunch, presuming he was amenable, and meet with the public defender later in the afternoon. It seemed likely that the pseudonymous Chico had been a guest at Las Floritas when the murder had taken place. Ronnie hadn’t mentioned anyone else, but it sounded as if the hotel was booked to capacity during the high season. When she called me from Brussels, I would ask her if she remembered any other guests.

  Manuel pulled into the Plaza. “I will come back at four o’clock, Señora,” he said as a bellman opened my door.

  “Does that give us time to go back to Las Floritas before the appointment?”

  He winced. “I will come at three, then.”

  “Remember to ask your brother-in-law about the old limousine companies.” I stopped in the lobby to convert larger bills to pesos, and took the elevator to the nineteenth floor. Caron was gone, as was one of her more modest bathing suits, her sandals, and her copy of Bleak House. There was no note; she must have assumed I was shrewd enough to put together the evidence.

  Having done so in the twinkling of an eye, I called the desk to check for messages, then wended my way through the clothes strewn on the floor and went down to the bar in the lobby. It was one floor above the pool and the beach; I could hear children and music, but at a civilized distance. After I’d ordered a Bloody Mary, I gave serious thought to the phone call. Whoever had called knew not only my name and where I was staying, but also that I was accompanied by my daughter. Manuel had said he shared none of this information with those on the list; even if he’d let some of it slip (and was too abashed to admit it), all he’d been told before making the calls was that I wished to conduct an interview about an unspecified topic. How had this innocuous request stirred up such a panicky response?

  I took Ronnie’s notes from my purse and flipped through them in hopes that some remark would titillate my interest, but the only tickle came from the tabasco sauce in my drink.

  Caron had not come back to the room by the time I went down to the lobby to meet Manuel. I wasn’t worried about her. Having spotted the college boys in the lobby, she’d agreed to stay at the hotel, either at the pool or on the beach adjoining the terrace. Some of her more bizarre escapades had given her a healthy sense of circumspection when approached by strangers.

  Manuel was talking to a bellman when I came down the steps. With an expression better suited to an IRS audit, he opened the passenger door for me. “Are we still returning to the Hotel Las Floritas? I told my brother-in-law, and he became upset. Three men have been killed there this year. Many prostitutes conduct business there.”

  “We’d better be on our way if we’re going to be on time at Benavides’s office,” I said firmly. “It’s the middle of the afternoon, for pity’s sake. I wouldn’t care to prowl around the grounds after dark, but nothing’s going to happen at this hour. All I’m going to do is ask Santiago a few questions, pay him if he’s cooperative, and leave. I would very much be surprised if Chico shows himself; if he does, I’ll arrange another time to speak with him.”

  When we arrived in the parking lot, no one was loitering beneath the remains of the restaurant. I walked up to the lobby. Keeping an eye on the end of the porch, I knocked on the door, but neither Chico nor Santiago appeared.

  I had no desire to keep coming up the steep, pocked road on the chance I’d catch Santiago—and it was possible that Manuel at some point would refuse to bring me. I took out a pad from the hotel and wrote a note promising Santiago fifty dollars if he called me, added my room number, signed it, and wedged it behind the doorknob.

  We returned to the main boulevard and crawled through the traffic to a small, tidy building at the far end of the bay. I told Manuel he could wait in
the car, then went into an urbanely bland reception room and announced myself to a young woman sitting behind a pristine desk.

  “An appointment?” she said in a syrupy voice, brightening at this opportunity to display her petty power. “Señor Benavides is . . . muy ocupado. He has important clients arriving by yacht this afternoon.”

  “My assistant called yesterday and set up the appointment.”

  “And you are . . . ?”

  “Claire Malloy.”

  She picked up the telephone receiver, murmured a few words, and looked at me with an insincere smile. “Señor Benavides will see you now, Señora. His office is at the end of the hallway.”

  Pedro Benavides stood up as I entered the room. He had bronzed skin and black hair combed into a shiny pompadour and streaked with gray at the temples. He was not dressed to meet a yacht; his jacket hung on the back of his chair, his sleeves were rolled up, and his tie was loosened. Unlike the receptionist’s desk, his was cluttered with leatherbound books, folders, and thick documents. All of the ornately carved mahogany furniture, including the wall-to-ceiling bookcases, hinted of money (in this case, pesos).

  He came around the desk and extended his hand. “Señora Malloy? Welcome to my office. I’m not clear about the purpose of your visit, but I am always pleased to accommodate a reporter. How can I be of service?”

  “I’d like to talk to you about Veronica Landonwood,” I said, sitting in a padded chair and trying to assume a reporter’s air of dogged diligence.

  His cordiality evaporating, Benavides sank down in his chair and began to fiddle with a pen, his face lowered to hide his expression. “I was not prepared for this,” he said at last. “If I had known that you wished to talk about her, I would not have agreed to be interviewed. What happened so long ago should not be awakened.”

  “Well, at least you remember the case,” I said. “Would you like to know what happened to Veronica after she was released from prison?”

  “I don’t think so, Señora Malloy. Now, if you will excuse me, I have clients coming later this afternoon and I must make—”