A Girl Apart

by Russell Blake

  Nothing about the murder made sense. Which made Uriel’s return to a city he detested all the worse – it had ultimately claimed the man who’d sired him for no apparent reason.

  Ana Maria, distraught, sniffed loudly, and Uriel tightened his grip on her shoulder. She had been closer to their father than Uriel, who hadn’t seen him in considerably more than a decade. Which made sense – she still lived in Juárez and stopped in to see him from time to time. Not that Sánchez had been approachable or particularly loving; that hadn’t been part of his hardened nature, although he’d always seemed to have a soft spot for his baby girl.

  The priest said something and Uriel released his sister and knelt to scoop up a handful of dirt to throw onto the coffin. Two men with skin as dark as boot leather, their T-shirts sweat stained and ragged, waited quietly a few yards away with spades to do the hard work of returning his father to the earth from which he’d come. The ceremony over, only the interment remaining, Uriel walked back to Ana Maria’s side. Several turkey buzzards perched on nearby headstones, watching the proceeding with the solemnity of judges; this corpse was out of their reach, but given the homicide rate of Juárez, others were sure to come.

  A young woman with a caramel complexion, high cheekbones, and chocolate eyes appeared at the edge of the crowd and moved toward Uriel, her posture that of a dancer, making her seem taller than she was. Uriel’s eyes widened when he spied her, and he cleared his throat nervously as she neared.

  “Gabriela?” he asked, his voice hesitant.

  She nodded. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

  “Thanks.” He drew a slow breath. “It’s…it’s been a long time.”

  “Twelve years goes by fast, doesn’t it?” she agreed. Gabriela glanced at Ana Maria and inclined her head in greeting. “Deepest sympathies, Ana Maria.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  Uriel’s eyes roamed over Gabriela’s face and locked with hers. “How are you?”

  Gabriela shrugged. “I’m surviving.” The hint of a smile curled her lip. “You look well.”

  “So do you,” he responded. “How did you hear about the funeral?”

  “Your mother called.”

  Uriel couldn’t hide his surprise. “You still keep in touch?”

  “Sometimes. I was fond of your father. We talked every now and then. Same with your mom.”

  “She…she never mentioned it.”

  “Why would she? You’re off living your life. Not everything centers around you, Uriel.”

  He studied her hands, trying to be discreet. No ring. She read his expression and laughed, the sound musical. “Married and divorced.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I got tired of supporting a man who lived to chase other women in order to validate himself. Some never grow up. He was one of them. No kids, so no real loss.” She stopped, and for a split second, she seemed vulnerable and much younger. “You?”

  “Married to my work.”

  “Ah. You were always…passionate about it. Your mother mentioned you’re a teacher now?”

  “Yes. At the university in Zapopan.”

  A long pause stretched uncomfortably, and Gabriela nodded again. “You were lucky to escape Juárez when you could.”

  “I…it wasn’t without regrets.”

  Another shrug. “That’s life, right?” Gabriela fished a business card from her purse and handed it to him. He took it, eyed the graphic, and managed a tight smile.

  “Gabriela’s Estetica. A beauty salon?”

  “It’s a living.” Gabriela shifted her attention to Ana Maria and then back to Uriel. “Call if you need anything. What happened to your father is a tragedy. He was the best.”

  Uriel swallowed a knot the size of a golf ball and Gabriela walked away, leaving them to their grief.

  A portly older man with salt-and-pepper hair approached to offer his condolences, and Uriel recognized his father’s ex-partner, Pedro Cruz.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss,” he said to them both, his voice a rumble.

  Ana Maria sniffed and Uriel nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

  “It’s a dark day for us all. Your father was loved by many. This is an abomination,” Pedro continued. “I will not rest until his killer is captured. You have my word. I still have contacts within the force. Your father will be avenged.”

  Ana Maria withdrew a handkerchief from her purse and blew her nose. Uriel’s face could have been carved from stone. “I appreciate that, Pedro. I remember you two were close.”

  “We spent a lot of years working these streets,” he agreed.

  The priest came over and offered his sympathies, followed by a procession of mourners, most of whom went by in a gray blur. Uriel’s mother hadn’t come to the funeral from the U.S., where she now lived, and Ana Maria’s mother had passed away a few years ago, so the siblings were Sánchez’s only family in Juárez. Uriel didn’t know most of those muttering clichés about a terrible loss and God calling one of his best to his side, and silently hoped for the proceedings to be over soon.

  Uriel felt Ana Maria stiffen and lean into him.

  “I’m getting out of here,” she whispered, her voice strained.

  “Why?” Uriel asked, following her stare to where a man in the uniform of the Juárez police was approaching through the tombstones.

  “That guy. He spent almost an hour questioning me yesterday. I’ve had enough of him to last a lifetime.”

  Uriel’s eyebrows rose. “Questioning you? About what?”

  “Dad’s murder.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said, shocked.

  “I wish. He’s an ass. Probably too lazy to do any real detective work, so he’s trying for low-hanging fruit.”

  “Which is…?”

  She shrugged and pulled away. “Pin it on the family or someone close to the victim.”

  Uriel processed his sister’s message as he watched her stride away purposefully, chin high, strikingly beautiful in all black. Ana Maria, five years younger than Uriel, had endured a different life than her brother, staying in Juárez while he went off to university in Guadalajara to pursue his passion, the beneficiary of a scholarship that had enabled him to live there while devoting himself to his studies. She’d fallen in with the wrong crowd as a teenager and had been in trouble with the law on drug charges, and she’d told him that morning that her boyfriend of three years had been shot to death only six months before – a boyfriend who had been a capo for one of the plentiful street gangs that plagued the city, who’d died when a rival gang had made a play for some of his territory.

  The cop neared and fixed Uriel with a hard stare.

  “Uriel Sánchez?” he asked gruffly.

  “Yes.”

  “Inspector Guillermo Montalbán. I need to ask you a few questions, Señor Sánchez.”

  Uriel looked the man up and down. “You realize this is my father’s funeral?”

  “Yes. I’m investigating his murder. Sorry for your loss,” Montalbán said, his tone conveying anything but sympathy. “Do you have a moment?”

  “When everyone’s done offering their condolences.”

  Montalbán nodded, his expression neutral but his eyes flinty. “I’ll wait right over there.”

  Ten minutes later the laborers were shoveling dirt over the wooden coffin, and Uriel approached the inspector with a dark look. “Now, what is all this about? Do you have any leads?”

  “Where were you at one o’clock the day before yesterday?”

  Uriel gaped at the cop in disbelief. “Are you joking?”

  “Answer the question, Señor Sánchez.”

  “I was five hundred miles away, in Durango, rock climbing. Why?”

  “Are there any witnesses who can verify your whereabouts?”

  Uriel nodded. “I was with a friend. Another professor at the university where I teach.”

  Montalbán flipped open a small notebook. “Name and contact information?”

  Uriel
gave him his friend’s name and cell number with a frown. “Now that you’ve established I wasn’t emptying an AK-47 into my father, what are you doing to catch the killer?”

  “I’m investigating.”

  “My sister said you questioned her at length. Aren’t there more productive avenues to pursue than badgering the victim’s family?”

  “Your sister has no alibi for one o’clock.”

  Uriel’s stare could have cut glass. “You can’t believe she had anything to do with my father’s death. She loved him.”

  “If you say so. She’s got a record, so it’s natural to look harder into her story if she can’t account for her whereabouts. But back to you. How did you get along with your father?”

  Uriel’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t.”

  “Explain, please.”

  “I had no contact with him. For many years.”

  “Why?”

  “I have my reasons. None of which have anything to do with this case, Inspector. You’re wasting time with my sister and me. Seriously. I wasn’t in town, and she…she couldn’t be involved. The idea is ludicrous.”

  “So you say.”

  “Don’t you have any witnesses? Somebody must have seen something.”

  The inspector looked away. “We’re following up on all leads.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “You say you’re a professor? Pretty young for that, no?”

  “I’m thirty-one.”

  “What subject do you teach?”

  “Architecture,” Uriel snapped. “What does any of this have to do with my father’s death?”

  Montalbán looked up from his notebook. “How did you get to Juárez for the funeral?”

  “I flew.”

  “You have your ticket?”

  Uriel exhaled in exasperation. “No. But I flew Volaris. Morning flight yesterday. You can check. I was on it.”

  Montalbán scribbled a final note in his book and flipped it closed. “I’ll do that.” He paused. “Do you have any theories about why someone might have shot your father?”

  “I’m not a detective. Isn’t that your job?”

  “Sometimes the family knows more than anyone about a victim’s state of mind, or possible motives. Did he have any enemies?”

  “We didn’t talk, Inspector. I have no idea who he might have offended while he was on the force, but I would imagine it’s all the usual suspects. The cartels. Street gangs. Take your pick. I know little about his work.” Uriel hesitated. “Although he did leave an odd message the other day that leads me to believe he felt that he might have been in danger.”

  Montalbán eyed him curiously. “What was the message?”

  “Something about contacting a reporter if anything happened to him.”

  “A reporter?”

  “That’s right. An American.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “No.”

  “And? Did you contact her?”

  Uriel nodded ruefully. “Yes. She had no idea what I was talking about.”

  “Was it a written message?”

  “No. My mother told me about it.”

  “Is she here?”

  “No. She didn’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  “She lives in the U.S. She’s not in great health, Inspector, and she…she also wasn’t close to my father. For years.”

  “Yet he left a message with her?”

  “Apparently they talked occasionally. You know as much as I do now.”

  Montalbán nodded. “How long are you planning to be in town?”

  “Until I can leave. I have the reading of the will tomorrow, and then I’m on the first plane out.”

  “I wouldn’t book your return just yet,” Montalbán said in an ominous tone.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Montalbán met Uriel’s challenge with equanimity and then checked his wristwatch. “Exactly what it sounded like. Where are you staying – in case I have further questions?” Uriel gave him the name of his hotel, and Montalbán regarded him with an unreadable expression. “Tell me. Do you talk to your sister much?”

  “Why? What does she have to do with any of this?”

  “Just answer the question,” Montalbán fired back.

  “We aren’t particularly close. Maybe we talk a couple of times a year, if that.”

  “When was the last time you spoke to her before your father was killed?”

  “How would I know? Maybe…four, five months? What does that have to do with anything?”

  “These are routine questions, Señor Sánchez. Nothing to get upset about.”

  “Inspector, with all due respect, I just buried my father, and you’ve intruded and badgered me and my sister like we’re suspects instead of doing your job and trying to find the killer. I’m normally a patient man, but you’re testing my limits.”

  Montalbán didn’t blink as he returned Uriel’s glare. “I don’t have anything more at the moment, unless there’s something you aren’t telling me.”

  “I have no idea what you think that might be, but whatever it is, you’re wrong.”

  “Again, so you say. Well, Señor – excuse me, Profesor – Sánchez, sorry for your loss,” he said. “I’ll be in touch shortly. Again, don’t leave town just yet.”

  With a final dark look, Montalbán spun on his heel and walked away, leaving Uriel to fume silently, the rhythmic thump of dirt landing on the coffin a contretemps to his racing thoughts.

  Eighty yards away, a man watched the exchange from behind the wheel of a brown Nissan Tsuru sedan, wraparound sunglasses hiding his obsidian eyes from the sun. He slumped down further in his seat as the inspector walked toward his cruiser by the cemetery gates. A faint white scar puckered the side of his face from the base of his left ear to the corner of his mouth, a reminder of a knife fight from his past; the blade had narrowly missed blinding him before he’d countered by ramming a switchblade to the hilt into his adversary’s heart.

  The inspector didn’t see him as he climbed into the passenger side of his police car. His driver swung the vehicle around with a screech of rubber and tore off, leaving the watcher to his vigil.

  The man tapped a cigarette from a pack, lit it, and took a deep drag, and then stubbed it out in the overflowing ashtray. It wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself, which clouds of smoke emanating from the car might do. He held the smoke in his lungs for several long beats and rolled his window up before exhaling.

  His eyes narrowed as the object of his attention took six heavy steps to the graveside and stood with his head bowed, as though in prayer. When the smoke had dissipated, the watcher cranked the window back down and wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving the mourner by the grave, fingers toying absently with his lighter as he waited for him to make a move.

  Chapter 7

  El Paso, Texas

  Leah sat forward at her desk, intently focused on her computer monitor, reading yet another account of the hundreds of femicides – the murders or disappearances of Mexican females as young as fifteen and usually never older than twenty-one – that had taken place since 1993. This account placed the number at almost fifteen hundred disappearances and covered the testimony from a trial of a notorious Juárez street gang, the Aztecas, who had been charged in the murder of eleven girls whose remains had been found in a mass grave eighty miles south of the city. The court minutes described an organized ring of human trafficking, where attractive young women were kidnapped, forced into prostitution, and murdered if they disobeyed, attempted to escape the life, or became too expensive to keep alive because of disease or drug addiction.

  The article focused on the probable participation of the federal police and the armed forces that had been deployed to the area in the war against the cartels. Roadblocks and checkpoints had been a constant throughout the city, so it was impossible that the military and the cops hadn’t seen hundreds of young women under duress being shu
ttled around between brothels or north into the U.S., where they would be sold as sex slaves to the highest bidders.

  Leah rubbed a knot out of her neck and groaned. She’d worked late again the prior night and had been in the office early this morning, working the case, trying to find a thread to pull that would lead her in a promising direction. That the authorities had to be involved in the disappearances was a given, but at what level and to what degree? Being bribed to look the other way, or as active participants? And was there a single mastermind, or was this a network of criminal enterprises that had found preying on young women in the border town to be easy pickings, given the turnover of humanity and the constant threat of violence at every turn?

  Part of Leah’s frustration was the dearth of coverage in the Mexican papers. She understood that all the media in Mexico was owned by one political party or another, so when it was in the elite owners’ best interests not to report on events that might paint their metropolis in a bad light, any such articles were killed before they ever made it to print. To read the major Juárez news outlets, the disappearances had stopped years earlier and were merely a regrettable footnote in a checkered history, unworthy of more than a few column inches.

  The foreign press had occasionally published pieces about the trials and the disappearances, but with only cursory coverage – digestible sound bites that gave the reader the minimum in terms of details and leaned heavily upon lurid details and the sex-slavery aspects of the cases. All paid lip service to the idea that the police and military had to have been involved, and several described testimony of gang members who had routinely paid off officials, either with cash or by leaving a kidnapped girl with them for a few days of forced sex.

  Leah was sickened by the entire affair and what it said about those in power only a few minutes’ drive south. She tried to imagine a society where the murder of innocents was routine, and couldn’t fathom how humans could behave like conscienceless animals, systematically victimizing the helpless for the oldest reasons in the book: money and power.