The consul took a sip from his bottle of Evian, cleared his throat, and insisted, “We should get started on the investigation, on our own, before the trail goes cold. Instead of sending your people”—he tilted his chin at the Bus and Moreno—“I suggest hiring someone who can get past every security post in the neighborhoods held by the Cartel del Puerto, Los Nuevos, even La Cuarenta. And find out if one of those organizations is behind the kidnapping. If we can confirm that, we can plan a rescue mission or at least as close as we can get to one under the circumstances.”
The previous night, as he made his way to Mr. De León’s house, Williams could sense the tension hanging over the port: sentries from various criminal organizations walked around brazenly with walkie-talkies in hand, ready to report any suspicious activity to their bosses; pickup trucks drove down the street with armed men in the back, and the gringo counted at least three fake checkpoints set up along the main avenue to block access to the streets where the city’s main capos lived.
The consul knew that Mr. De León had thirty guards assigned to his different businesses in La Eternidad; they worked in teams of two and were trained and ready for action. He also knew that the magnate paid Chief Margarito every month, just like all the other businessmen in the area did, just like he paid Generals Rovirosa and Ortigosa of the army and the marines, respectively. Still, the consul rejected the idea of going to any of the above for help. None of them wanted to kick the hornet’s nest. Los Nuevos had a hundred highly trained men in La Eternidad alone, and more were arriving every day from the training grounds in the north of the state.
“We don’t want to get the kidnappers’ guard up,” the gringo repeated. “Your best bet is to hire Treviño. People aren’t exactly lining up to work in this city. The longer we sit here talking, though, the less chance we have of finding her.”
Mr. De León clenched his jaw.
“Do whatever you have to do. Just get my daughter back.”
“All right.”
The gringo took a deep breath, stood, and went to the terrace to make a call. As the wind picked up, they watched him leaf through his agenda, take notes or jot down a number, then hang up and dial it; occasionally he’d cover one ear and shout in the general direction of the receiver. Every now and then, the wind would shake the treetops so violently he seemed in danger of falling from the second floor.
“Tell that idiot to come inside,” said Mrs. De León.
Before they could go get him, though, the consul opened the glass door, sat down in front of them, and held up his phone.
“I found him. But he won’t be easy to convince.”
“These two will go get him,” said the magnate, pointing to Moreno and the Bus.
“I should be the one to go,” the consul suggested, but Mr. De León wouldn’t hear of it.
“You’re staying here. What happens if they call while you’re out looking for this guy? Who’s going to talk to the kidnappers?”
The gringo shrugged. “All right, but show him respect. And plenty of it. He can have quite a temper.”
“Don’t worry.” Mr. De León laughed. “These guys are real diplomats.”
Turning to them, he said, “Bring him here. Don’t take no for an answer, understand?” And then he added, without looking at the consul, “If this guy lets us down, I’m holding Williams responsible.”
“Where do we find him?” asked the Bus.
“He lives in Playa de las Ballenas”—the gringo drew a quick diagram on an index card—“in Veracruz, near Isla del Toro. Ask for a hotel called Las Ballenas. The man you’re looking for runs the place.”
“That’s four hours away,” said the Bus.
“Three and a half if you hurry,” the consul corrected him.
Moreno and the Bus turned, puzzled, and headed down the monumental spiral staircase. When they stepped into the garden, three guys in black jackets walked over to them for instructions.
“We’re headed out on an errand. We’ll be back early tomorrow. Rafita’s in charge,” said Moreno as they got into one of the two black F-150 Lobos parked in front of the door.
“Carlos Treviño, a.k.a. the Detective.” The Bus mopped the sweat from his brow.
“Fuck that fucker,” grunted Moreno, turning the key in the ignition. “What bridge should I take? The Pánuco?”
“No, take the new one. We want to avoid the checkpoints.”
As the Bus leaned back in his seat, Moreno hesitated for a split second, not sure he’d heard him correctly. The new bridge? Wasn’t that where they’d killed Mr. De León’s last driver, his immediate predecessor? But the Bus was clearly in a hurry. “Hit it, cabrón.” So Moreno peeled out, leaving behind them a cloud of dust like a gateway to the terrible events that were about to unfold.
2
“Of course I won’t go,” Treviño said. “Of course not. You’ve got to be crazy.”
The consul drummed nervously on the table with the tips of two fingers as he studied the new arrival. The detective looked tanner than before; he definitely wasn’t as thin as when he’d been on the force, but he hadn’t lost the legendary self-confidence that had landed him in so much trouble. He’d clearly gotten into it with the bodyguards along the way: the Bus glared at him with obvious hatred.
Treviño had been on the hotel’s terrace when they arrived. It was early evening, and the taste of salt filled his mouth. He’d noticed them right away: most people who came to the beach had eyes only for the waves, but these two didn’t seem to see the water at all.
He’d watched them park at the end of the road where the sand begins and walk up between the two rows of pines. Three black dogs sensed the threat and charged toward the curtain of vegetation. Their yelps, which grew increasingly frantic, were his second warning. Treviño realized he’d been found.
He watched them flag down one of the vendors who walked up and down the beach trying to sell coconut candies. The two men called out to the vendor, who froze in terror. He saw the taller of the two lean over him and watched him point to the hotel. The visitors examined the old wooden structure with none of the delight typical of tourists. It seemed like they could see him there sitting on the terrace under a throw blanket, but they stood motionless against the afternoon sun, calculating their approach. They didn’t seem like military men or criminals—maybe hit men sent by the chief himself. Meanwhile, the dogs were going crazy: There are two strangers here. Isn’t someone going to do something?
He saw the two men start moving and cursed under his breath. I’ll be damned, he thought. He was grateful there was hardly anyone in the immense row of palm cabanas, at least: just four gringas playing volleyball in the distance and two old Canadians drinking fruity cocktails. He watched a big wave form and break on the shore with a deafening crash and realized this peaceful life was about to come to an end. So he stood and folded the blanket, which had a Bengal tiger printed on it, then headed into the hotel to get his gun.
The first things he saw as he entered the wooden building were the honey-colored eyes of his wife, who asked him if something was wrong. “Don’t go out there,” he ordered. “There are two men coming this way, and they look suspicious.” He watched her face tighten with fear and headed down the hall. He passed four rooms meant for the guests, climbed a few steps, and opened a door marked with the number 5. The family’s residence: a table, a bed, a crib, a sink full of baby bottles, a wooden wardrobe, and an array of plastic toys scattered across the floor. He looked out the window facing the road and saw them approaching. He had no time to waste.
He opened the door of the wardrobe and took out the shoebox he kept tucked in the corner. He’d promised his wife but never could part with his Taurus PT99—even though it weighed almost two pounds and even though he could be arrested for owning a nine-millimeter now that he was a civilian. The weapon held sixteen rounds and was both fast and intimidating. He’d never felt comfortable with a six-shooter. Well, he thought to himself, it’s not easy to walk away from your
past. Detective Carlos Treviño, who’d been living under an assumed name for two years, slipped the Taurus into his waistband, covered it with his shirt, and walked onto the terrace. There was no time to do anything else, because the men were already there.
He thought he saw the visitors exchange a glance to make sure they were on the same page as he took his place on the far side of one of the terrace’s columns. The taller of the two, who was also the broader one—a man with a little round head and a Pedro Infante mustache—took a step toward the stairs but was discouraged by a wave of Treviño’s hand: That’s as far as you go. Far from seeming embarrassed by the incident, the man with the ridiculous mustache stopped in his tracks and asked for the manager of the hotel. He had to yell to make himself heard over the constant growling of the dogs, which were getting more riled by the minute, and the waves crashing against the shore. Treviño looked at the huge fellow without responding, until the mustachioed man repeated: “We’re looking for Carlos Treviño.” The man with the Taurus didn’t blink an eye, so he added, “The one who used to be a cop.”
Treviño studied him carefully and asked, “What do you want?”
The giant looked at him and said, “Mr. Rafael de León would like to speak with you.”
It seemed like a joke: Rafael de León, one of the richest men on the Gulf? There was a rumor going around that he was the one who’d hired the guys that left Juan Gómez, the only journalist in the state capital who was even marginally respected, in a wheelchair.
“Mr. De León would like to contract your services,” added the giant. “And will pay you well.”
In the distance, the group of gringas erupted in laughter. The detective thought about it for a moment and shook his head.
“I’m not the man you’re looking for.”
The second visitor, more impatient than the first, thundered, “You were a cop, right? You worked for Chief Margarito?”
Treviño looked at him, more annoyed by the minute.
“You heard wrong. I don’t do that kind of thing anymore.”
That was when the two men’s hands went to their waistbands.
“Well, we’re sorry, but Mr. De León wants to see you.”
This just got ugly, Treviño thought.
Less than four hours later they walked into a large fifth-story conference room with an impressive wall of glass that looked out over the buildings that made up the Grupo De León. Some of his employees were carrying poles; others were hauling sacks.
The meeting got off to a rough start. From the moment he laid eyes on the consul, who was supposed to be mediating the encounter, Treviño was primed to beat the shit out of him. What’s that fucking traitor up to now? The last time they’d worked together, things had ended badly. To say the least. The mayor had offered a reward for catching the man who was butchering women in the city. After overcoming more trials than Ulysses and battling the corruption and apathy of his own colleagues, Treviño managed to identify and apprehend the perpetrator, a psychopath who also happened to be the son of an influential man. Without missing a beat, Chief Cavernosum let the killer go, found a fall guy, and then accused Treviño of running drugs and ordered him to be tortured. Margarito was even about to apply the Ley de Fugas—the anti–habeas corpus—to have Treviño shot while in custody. And the whole time, there was the gringo, comfortably tucked away in the consulate, not lifting a finger to help.
The detective rested a hand on his waistband and the consul saw that the bodyguards had not been able to convince him to leave his weapon at the door. That’s why they were so edgy and why they stuck so close to him.
“Welcome,” Mr. De León said, inviting him to take a seat. When it became clear that Treviño was not about to greet him in return, the magnate withdrew the hand he’d extended and let it fall to his side with all the grace he could muster. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”
Treviño shook his head and looked the man over. He’d heard a lot about Rafael de León, but he didn’t expect him to be so young. The blond man behind the desk was almost six feet tall and probably pushing forty-five, though he seemed to have the energy of a twenty-year-old. They disliked one another from the start, but both tried to hide it. He’ll try to put one over on me, thought De León. “This son of a bitch would sell his own mother,” Treviño said to himself.
The statement wasn’t unfounded. In the 1930s, the De León family had amassed one of the biggest fortunes in the state. The founding De Leóns were from Havana, but had been lured to La Eternidad by the Mexican oil rush. Their efforts paid off: within ten years these tireless entrepreneurs had opened nearly every automotive shop you could find along the Gulf of Mexico, and they boasted that they opened a new distribution center every year. Toward the end of the 1940s they got involved in the steel industry with the same success, and in the early eighties they founded a chain of pharmacies called El Tucán, managing to turn it into the biggest distributor of medical supplies in the northeast of the country thanks to a dozen important clients, including the teachers’ and oil workers’ unions and a succession of state governments. But all that glory belongs to his grandfather and his father. Rafael de León is known for being a deadbeat. There were enough stories of the magnate’s immorality floating around to fill an encyclopedia, thought the detective. When his father died in 1980, the black sheep of the family was obliged to give up the international party scene and come back to take over the family businesses. To everyone’s surprise, instead of destroying the empire his predecessors had built with his indulgent lifestyle, Rafael lifted the company and his partners out of the unstable position into which they’d fallen after his father’s death. In less than three years, he got his family’s businesses growing steadily again; after a disastrous start that had the shareholders calling for his head, the young executive achieved such impressive sales figures and opened so many stores that the investors could only sit back and smile.
Don Williams, consul to the United States in La Eternidad—and, by the look of things, security adviser to tycoons in a bind—glanced at Treviño’s white guayabera shirt and cleared his throat.
“Mr. De León needs your help.”
You’ve gotta give the gringo credit, thought Treviño. First, because he’s still hanging around here, where so many people hate him. Second, because he had the balls to come looking for me.
“They kidnapped my daughter the night before last,” said the magnate, picking up a small silver frame. “They took her as she was leaving Giza.”
He was talking about the hot nightclub of the moment. It was built in the shape of a pyramid and all the kids went there to dance and get drunk.
“Talk to the law,” said the detective.
“We don’t want the police mixed up in this, and we don’t want anything to do with Chief Margarito. What I want is for you to go find my daughter.”
The magnate turned the frame around, revealing the image of a radiant blonde with green eyes who could have passed for a European actress. Though the pale, bottomless pools of her eyes and the glint of mischief behind them caught his attention first, Treviño’s gaze quickly wandered to the waves of hair that framed the perfect oval of her face like a crown. Her nose was perfectly sculpted, and it was hard not to want to stare for a long while at the remarkable curves of her full, sensual lips. This girl was born to eat the world alive. Like anyone seeing Cristina for the first time, Treviño was floored.
“She’s sixteen,” said her father.
“About to be seventeen,” her mother corrected him.
The detective examined the girl’s face—her sparkling, defiant smile—and turned to Mrs. De León.
“Did the two of you have a fight recently?”
Mrs. Cecilia de León nodded, somewhat dismissively. “Like we do every weekend. Nothing important. It’s not easy to be the mother of a teenage girl who’s also an only child.” That last phrase, crackling with resentment, was aimed at her husband.
“Have you checked the homes of her fr
iends and her boyfriend? If your daughter has the motivation and the resources, she might be hiding out with someone she trusts. They do that, at her age.”
“She’s not with any of them,” the girl’s mother shot back. “Her friends are responsible, serious girls, and their parents swear she’s not hiding out with them. They wouldn’t lie to me.”
“Does she have a cell phone?”
“We call her every five minutes, but she doesn’t answer.”
“I know she liked to party,” Mr. De León’s voice grew more serious. “She’s young and I taught her to do as she pleased, but this isn’t a childish tantrum.”
He spread a series of snapshots out on the desk. The first was of a pink luxury convertible with both doors open, abandoned in a parking lot; the next one showed a stain left on the pavement by a dark liquid. It didn’t take much imagination to guess it was blood. The last one was a picture of a young man hooked up to a breathing machine in what appeared to be an expensive private clinic.
“Her boyfriend. They left him in a coma.”
Judging by the number of tubes going into and out of his body, the boy was never getting out of that bed.
“They arrived at the club and left together. They found him, but my daughter …”
Mr. De León looked exhausted: his eyes were glossy and his jaw was slack. This man’s hitting a wall, thought the detective. The adrenaline and the sleepless night had caught up with him.
Mrs. De León pointed to the photo of the boy in the hospital. “If that’s how they left him, we don’t even want to think about what they did to her.”
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