Closely Akin to Murder

by Joan Hess

  He waved at a chair. “Please sit down, Señora Malloy, and tell me what is wrong that has led you to come here. If Manuel has done something to upset you, we have many other escorts available. I will gladly assign another driver, and upgrade you to a limousine at no extra charge. We are at your service.”

  I sat down, a bit puzzled by the contrast between his words and the hostility he was scarcely able to conceal. I could tell from Gabriella’s sudden intake of breath that she too was aware of his forced smile and slitted eyes.

  “No, I’m not upset with Manuel,” I said. “He’s done a splendid job thus far. Last night he arranged for my daughter to take the first morning flight out of the country. He picked her up at the hotel at seven-thirty, and I’ve not heard from either of them since then. Has your office heard from him?”

  “I will find out,” Gabriella said.

  Farias waited until the door closed. “My daughter is very efficient. One day I will retire and she will take over the agency. Already she is talking about opening offices in Ixtapa and Puerto Escondido.”

  I was not interested in the Farias family fortune. “Is it like Manuel not to stay in touch with you?”

  “If he had car trouble, he should have reported it to us so we could send another vehicle immediately. Never has a client missed a flight due to incompetency on the part of Farias Tourist Agency. He has standing orders to check in every three hours. I agree that you and I both should have heard from him long before now.”

  “Did he tell you what happened yesterday with the police?”

  Nodding curtly, he said, “He did. I know Comandante Quiroz’s supervisor. I have already left a message for him to call me as soon as he arrives back from an appointment in Chilpancingo. He will see that you are allowed to leave at your convenience. Quiroz is taking this case much too seriously. Santiago was a pimp and known to deal in drugs. It’s not important that his murderer is brought to trial.”

  “I’m sorry that you’ve been asked to use your influence, Señor Farias,” I said, wishing I could dimple disarmingly at him.

  The door behind me opened.

  “Papa,” said Gabriella, “we have trouble.”

  I barely heard her, in that I was mesmerized by the purple birthmark on his neck.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What is it, Gabriella?” demanded Farias.

  “I called Manuel’s apartment. When there was no answer, I called his landlady and asked her to check on him.” She pressed her hands together and touched her fingertips to her chin as if to steady it. “Manuel has been hurt. She has already called for an ambulance, Papa. We must go to the hospital now.”

  It took a few seconds for the implication of what she’d said to sink in. “What’s going on?” I said as I shoved myself out of the chair and took a step toward her. I tried to blurt out another question, but all I could do was stare at her as if I were in icy water and she had the only life jacket.

  “Manuel is unconscious. He suffered a bad head wound, and his hands and ankles were secured with wire. The Cadillac is not parked in the garage where he keeps it when he needs it early in the morning.”

  “What about Caron?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “Papa?”

  Farias reached for the telephone and jabbed at the buttons as though squashing ants. He muttered rapidly in Spanish, spat out what I assumed was an oath, and slammed down the receiver. “This morning shortly before seven-thirty a Cadillac with our insignia appeared at the Plaza. The bell captain did not recognize the driver, but assumed we’d hired a new man. The señorita’s luggage was placed in the trunk, and she was driven away.”

  The walls and ceiling closed in, expelling all the oxygen and light. My eyes flew open when I felt something cold on my forehead, and I looked up to see Gabriella with a washcloth in her hand. I realized I’d fallen back into the chair hard enough to cause my ears to ring. “We have to find Caron,” I said. “Call the police.”

  Farias had made it to his feet and was tucking a gun under his belt. “No, that may not be wise,” he rumbled as he put on a white jacket and straw hat, then picked up a walking stick with a brass knob. “Gabriella, have Tomas bring around my car. Tell Alfredo to stand guard at the hospital. Juan Federico is to go to Manuel’s apartment and wait there. Have Aurora call the airline and determine if Miss Malloy was on the morning flight.”

  Gabriella ran out of the room. I took a few measured breaths, then stood up. The move was premature, and only Farias’s grip on my arm kept me from doing further damage to my head.

  “We will find the señorita,” he said. “I will consider her as my own daughter, and deal with the bastard accordingly. There is no place he can hide in all of Acapulco.”

  “Are you sure?” I said as I allowed him to guide me out to the porch. In the compound, car engines were coming to life and armed men were darting about. For a dazed moment, I felt as though I was at the Ministerio Público as the riot squad prepared for a fray.

  “I am sure.” He took my elbow and helped me down the stairs as a grandiose silver limousine pulled up in front of us. He opened the door, waited until I’d climbed in, then wedged himself through the doorway with a few muffled grunts. “I know not only our esteemed mayor and honorable public servants, but also the bartenders in the Sona Rosa, the drug dealers, the pimps, and most importantly, those who will betray their acquaintances for a bottle of mescal.” He leaned forward and opened a cabinet. “You must have a drink of brandy to calm yourself Señora.”

  I accepted a snifter as Gabriella got into the front seat, which seemed to be miles away from our broad leather throne. The limousine rolled out of the gate. Farias and I were obscured behind the tinted windows, but my two watchdogs must have seen us come out of the office. In any case, they fell into line behind us.

  “Agentes de policía,” announced the driver.

  “Let them come along,” Farias said without interest. “It is like Quiroz to be more worried about you than this man called Chico. Manuel’s description was not good. If you will tell me what you remember of him, I will see what can be learned about him.”

  “He’s about six feet tall, emaciated, with a yellowish complexion, stained teeth, frizzy gray hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a wispy mustache,” I said. “You might have met him in the past, Señor Farias. He claimed to have been a guest at the Hotel Las Floritas thirty years ago.”

  “I can assure you I was not a guest at Hotel Las Floritas thirty years ago. My salary was so small that I could not have afforded a drink in the bar.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you were a guest,” I said, watching him. He stared straight ahead, his expression as unruffled as that of a concrete frog in a rock garden. I wasn’t sure he’d react if I emptied the snifter in his lap, but I took my best meta phorical shot. “What I meant was that you might have driven him around Acapulco in the same manner you drove Fran Pickett and Ronnie Landonwood.”

  “So you have made the connection. Very good, Señora. Manuel seemed to think you were a little loco, but I see now that he underestimated you. I will not make the same mistake.” He opened yet another cabinet and took out a cellular phone. “Please excuse me while I speak to Aurora.”

  The limousine was slicing through the traffic like a silvery shark, never braking in deference to potential hazards. Outside, horns were blaring, machinery grinding, dogs yapping, children shouting; inside, there were only the sounds of Farias’s low voice and the gentle drone of the engine. I could see Gabriella’s mouth moving and her hands fluttering as she spoke to the driver, but the partition muted her words.

  The brandy was apt to be expensive, but it burned my throat and left an acidic taste in my mouth. Jorge Farias’s sinister declaration that no one could elude him had kept me a few feet away from the brink of hysteria, but no farther than that. Chico had seen the agency Cadillac at the Hotel Las Floritas; a few pesos might have persuaded a bellman at the Plaza to provide Manuel’s name. I’d been the one who told him that Caron was
leaving on the next flight. Such a strong flood of loathing came over me that I almost doubled over on the seat. The previous day he’d irritated me; now I would have succumbed to a primitive instinct and gone for his carotid artery.

  Farias set the telephone on his knee. “Your daughter was not on the flight to Dallas. Please be so kind as to repeat everything you can of your conversations with Chico.”

  I recounted what I could, feeling as if I were feeding data into a massive computer. Only when I mentioned the hookers from Honduras did Farias’s eyes flicker.

  “There are not so many women from Honduras,” he said as he retrieved the telephone. “Let us find out where they are at the moment, and what they know about Chico.”

  “The one thing I know is that he’s desperate for money in order to get out of Mexico before the police arrest him,” I said. “I’m dreadfully sorry about Manuel, but I’d better go back to the hotel and wait for Chico to call with his ransom demand.”

  He considered this, then nodded. “Yes, that is best. Gabriella will stay with you so that she can keep me informed. After I go to the hospital, I will continue to the Sona Rosa to speak with those who are indebted to me. It is not so easy to conceal a Cadillac in an alley or behind a bar, or even up in the hills in one of the villages. You would have equal difficulty concealing a burro in your town, yes?”

  “I suppose so.” I gazed out the window as Farias made another call, forcing myself to review everything from Ronnie’s first call to the present. When he snapped the phone closed, I said, “You must have realized I wanted to talk to you about the Oliver Pickett murder. Manuel certainly did; he was very careful not to mention your name when he was trying to convince me of the futility of finding a man named Jorge. He did drop something about how you’d described the parking lot of the Hotel Las Floritas in its halcyon days, but I failed to pick up on it at the time.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, it was,” I said, “but it was not a minor incident that would be easily forgotten. You spent a great deal of time with the two girls, driving them to bars, waiting in the car while they swam at the beach, listening to them while they talked in the backseat. You weren’t much older than they were, and from what I was told, you had a crush on Fran Pickett. You were at their New Year’s Eve party when Oliver barged in and threw everyone out, weren’t you?”

  “I knew at the time it was risky to be there, but Fran was very determined to have her way. Early that night after Señor Pickett and the others left, she sent me to buy cases of beer and tequila. By the time I returned, there was much marijuana smoke and loud music. Santiago came to the bungalow several times to beg her to be discreet, but she laughed at him. She went into the bedroom with many different men that night.” He paused to pour himself a scant inch of brandy. “She told me things about her life. When she was with her mother, she was made to be a prim schoolgirl, to wear a modest uniform, to braid her hair, to take music and sewing lessons from the sisters at the convent school. Many times when she was supposed to visit her father, her mother would find an excuse to refuse to allow her to go. Her father was not so dependable, either. He would tell her she could come, then at the last minute call to tell her he had other plans. It was all very difficult for her.”

  Gabriella pushed back the partition. “Papa, I have spoken with someone at the hospital. Manuel has been taken to the X-ray room for tests.”

  Farias sighed. “This Chico is a dangerous man, Señora. I agree that he will call you to demand money in exchange for releasing the señorita. It would be foolish of you to meet him without allowing me to arrange for your protection. He has little to lose by committing another murder, and if Manuel does not survive, you will be the only person who can identify Chico. You and your daughter, that is.”

  I averted my face and bit down fiercely on my lip. Farias handed me a handkerchief, then tactfully shifted his attention to the uninspiring scenery along the street. There was no way to put any of this in perspective, I told myself as I dabbed my eyes. The only perspective was the buck-naked reality: Caron had been kidnapped by a man who might be a murderer. Who he was and how he fit into the scenario was impossible to determine. My responsibility, on the other hand, rang as loudly as the bells in the Farber College campanile.

  I crossed my fingers. “Okay, I won’t go rushing off to meet Chico, even with Comandante Quiroz’s men behind me.”

  “I will deal with them,” Farias said. “Should we feel it necessary, something will happen to divert them long enough for you and Gabriella to slip away.”

  “What happened after you and Fran slipped away from the confrontation with Oliver Pickett?” I asked abruptly.

  Farias’s face darkened as if he were an erumpent volcano. He was neither smoldering nor belching sulphurous fumes, but it was obvious I’d floundered onto something he found distressing. “He ordered me to leave. Everyone else disappeared like sand fleas, but I sat in the limousine in the parking lot, praying to all the saints I could think of that I would have my job in the morning. Fran came stumbling down the path and got into the car. She told me to drive along the beach, which I did while she cried and said many harsh things about her father. Most of what she said was in English, but I could tell how angry she was and I made no attempt to converse with her. Eventually, when we had driven for fifteen or maybe twenty minutes, she remembered that Ronnie was asleep in the bedroom and told me to go back to the hotel. I was too cowardly to do more than watch her go up the path before I drove away.”

  “Oliver and his entourage weren’t relying on you for transportation that night,” I said. “How did he get back to the hotel?”

  “There was a taxi idling in the parking lot. Santiago’s rule was that those taxis hoping for a fare had to line up out on the street until signaled by the concierge. The fact that this one was inside the gate indicated to me that the driver had brought a passenger there and been instructed to wait.”

  “If the passenger was Oliver, the driver should have still been there yesterday,” I said as the limousine pulled to the curb in front of the Acapulco Plaza.

  I fidgeted on the sidewalk while Farias issued instructions to Gabriella, who then joined me as the limousine sped away.

  “I guess there is nothing I can do at the hospital,” she said sadly. “Manuel will be heavily sedated until the morning. My mother has made sure family members will be there throughout the night, and Alfredo will remain outside Manuel’s room. I am so sorry about your daughter, Señora Malloy. Papa will find her.”

  I once again had to bite my lip to hold back tears. “I’m sure he will,” I said as we walked past the jewelry shops and designer boutiques. The pair of undercover officers followed at a circumspect distance, looking so incongruous in the expensive surroundings that I was surprised they weren’t challenged by a hotel security guard.

  “I’m going straight to the room,” I said to Gabriella. “Will you please go by the front desk and find out if there are any messages or packages?”

  For the first time since we’d arrived two days ago, I had the elevator to myself. As I unlocked the door of the suite, I noticed that I’d inadvertently left the do not disturb sign on the knob. The maid had abided by it; the trays from room service were piling up and the leftover food was beginning to ripen. I was considering the logistics of moving everything out to the hall when the telephone rang.

  I answered it with a terse, “Yes?”

  Chico’s voice was even oilier than I remembered. “So, you’re finally back, Claire Malloy. I’ve been calling every few minutes for three hours.”

  “Let me speak to my daughter.”

  “That’s not possible at the moment. She has quite a vocabulary for one so young, doesn’t she? I finally grew tired of her incessant complaints and put tape across her mouth. I can assure you that she is surviving, if not thriving. How much cash do you have?”

  “Close to five hundred American dollars and maybe a hundred dollars’ worth of pesos. Please let me s
peak to Caron for one minute.”

  “Are you alone?”

  I glanced at the door. “At the moment, yes.”

  “Take the stairwell to the ground floor. When you get to the beach, turn left and walk to the El Presidente Hotel. Go through the lobby, get a cab, and tell the driver you wish to go to Calle Madero 124. There is a bar there, although not as nice as the one in your hotel. Sit down and order a drink. If you are unaccompanied, you will receive further instructions—but if there is the slightest indication that the police or anyone else is with you . . . well, use your imagination.”

  I replaced the receiver, scribbled the address he’d given me, and grabbed my purse. The hallway was empty. As I skittered down the stairs with all the grace of a ping-pong ball, I tried to convince myself that I was doing the right thing. My promise to Jorge Farias was irrelevant when placed alongside Chico’s threat to harm Caron.

  The sun was setting as I hurried past the pool and down the steps to the sand. The beach was populated by a few sunbathers, most of whom were packing towels, paperback books, and suntan lotion into mesh bags. I glanced back at the Acapulco Plaza, but no one appeared to be following me. By now, Gabriella no doubt had discovered that I was not in the suite and was on a phone with her father, who would not be happy with either of us. I didn’t care.

  I forced myself to walk at a more decorous rate through the lobby of the El Presidente to the sidewalk. As at the Plaza, taxis were waiting. I climbed into the backseat of the nearest one, uncrumpled the piece of paper in my hand, and told the driver the address.

  “Not so good a neighborhood,” he said, clucking his tongue. “I know many nice restaurants where the señora can have a margarita and listen to music.”

  I repeated the address with enough urgency to convince him to pull away from the curb. Manuel had been correct when he accused me of being a little loco, I decided as I hunted through my purse for a potential weapon. The best I could come up with was a bent nail file; it would hardly suffice if Chico pulled out a knife.