Don't Send Flowers

by Martin Solares

  Say good-bye to your man, gorgeous, he thought.

  Then he’d turned and followed the others back to the road.

  A few hours later, in the offices of Mr. De León, Moreno said, “Lucky bastard. He’s going to walk away with a bundle … if he makes it out of this alive.”

  “Treviño strikes it rich,” muttered the Bus as he watched him sign the contract.

  3

  “We have a copy of the police report.” Mr. De León said before the detective left the office. “Would you like to see it?”

  A smile flashed across half of Treviño’s face. It was the only way he smiled now, after the beating his own colleagues had given him.

  “Who wrote it?”

  “A guy called Bracamontes,” the gringo offered.

  “Braca? Don’t waste your time. It’s not worth the paper it’s printed on.”

  “Listen,” the magnate interjected, annoyed. “It wasn’t easy to get a copy of that report. Do you have any idea how much I had to pay for it?”

  “And I’m guessing it was ready for you right away.”

  “More or less.”

  “Of course it was. Writing up lies is pretty fast work.”

  The magnate held firm. “There’s no need to be so dismissive. Who told you there’s nothing of value in that report?”

  Treviño finished counting the money, signed a receipt, and slid it toward his interlocutor.

  “If he wasn’t too drunk or high, Braca would start out with a description of the scene: He’d say they found the car and that there were signs of a struggle, but he wouldn’t go into detail or worry too much about the facts. He’d say the car was facing north when it was actually facing south, that there were no fingerprints without having dusted for any, and he’d name not a single witness, even though there must have been plenty of people around at that hour. In the second paragraph, he’d plant a false lead, probably mention the presence of mysterious individuals who never existed. If he’s not too short on time, in the next few days he’ll pick up some random citizen or a small-time crook and try to pin this thing on him. About the girl, he probably said that witnesses reported seeing a group of suspicious individuals of indeterminate age in a dark car without plates. An SUV, let’s say.”

  Mr. De León leafed through the report and read: “A black SUV with no plates.”

  “He uses the same formula for every kidnapping.” The detective stood to go. “It’s the easiest way around the problem: invent the perp.”

  The magnate tossed the report onto the table. Treviño slipped a copy of the contract into his pants pocket and said, “I used to work in that unit.” Then, since the two men were still staring at him, he added, “We’re going to take a look at the evidence. Where’s your daughter’s car?”

  The Bus took him to a garage that housed two Mercedes and a huge white crew cab pickup that had been armor plated, by the look of its tires. There was also a yellow Jaguar that looked new and, in the back, a pink convertible.

  “That’s the one,” said the Bus.

  The ex-cop walked up to the passenger side and shook his head at the dark spots on the door that once were drops of blood. “Animals,” he said. Then he knelt on the pavement and inspected the door and the underside of the vehicle.

  “How much does one of these things go for?”

  The Bus did some math.

  “Hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  Treviño’s eyebrows went up.

  “Two million pesos?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But they didn’t take it.”

  “They were after the girl.”

  “They’re in no rush to demand ransom, either,” said Treviño. “They haven’t called here or contacted Mr. De León’s office. Strange. How fucked is the crime scene?”

  “They blocked it off, but not before everyone and their mother passed through. Starting with the parking valets, the police, the ambulance, the gawkers, and one of our people, who brought the car back here.”

  Treviño nodded. When he finished examining the door, he added, “It doesn’t look like either my people or yours have made any attempt to lift fingerprints. I’d even go so far as to say someone wiped the door handle down. The paint’s pristine on this side, but on the passenger side you see blood spatters and scratches. Now, why, if her father was being threatened by every asshole out there, was she allowed to leave the house without a guard?”

  “She wasn’t allowed,” said the Bus, going red. “But, you know, she was headstrong. Sometimes she sneaked out.”

  “I bet Mr. De León is just delighted with you all,” the detective said, cracking half a smile.

  “It’s none of your business. Could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “I see.”

  Treviño looked the Bus over. Furrowed brow, sweaty forehead. That ridiculous mustache.

  “What are we driving?”

  “We’ve got two Lobos out front,” replied the Bus. “The boss said we could take one of those.”

  “That’s not the kind of ride we need. Who does that beauty belong to?” Treviño pointed to a white four-door Maverick abandoned in a corner of the garage.

  “That? That one’s for the staff. The cook and the gardener use it for running errands.”

  “Good. It’ll do just fine.”

  “What the fuck, man. Mr. De León said take whatever car you want. There are two brand-new Lobos sitting out there, and, what … You choose that piece of shit? It’s older than fuck. If we run into trouble, those Mercedes over there have serious armor plating. They can handle assault rifles, Mausers, nine-millimeters, thirty-eight specials, and hollow-point bullets. What do you see in that old wreck?”

  “Does it run?”

  “Of course it runs.”

  “Does it break down?”

  “No, they use it all the time. But it’s more than thirty years old.”

  “That’s our ride, then. It’s the same model as the taxis around here, and I want to keep a low profile.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Treviño wants to be discreet. We might as well kiss our asses good-bye.”

  They got into the white Maverick, which had seen better days, and headed toward the front gate. The bodyguards leaning against the two armored F-150 Lobos seemed surprised. As the Maverick passed, they laughed at the sight of the Bus being forced to drive that clunker.

  As the guards opened the gate for them, the Bus asked the detective: “Listen. Between you and me, how likely do you think it is she’ll be found?”

  Treviño sized him up, not answering right away. When he was on La Eternidad’s police force, at least ninety percent of kidnappings went unreported—to a large extent, because the kidnappers were said to be police officers themselves or criminals who could rely on the complicity of those same cops, who took a share of the ransom. A good deal for everyone involved, except the victims and their families.

  There were the De Albas. They took the father and eldest son, and in three months extorted from the rest of the family everything they’d earned doing honest work from five in the morning until sundown for three generations.

  And the Gonzagas: they kidnapped the son-in-law of a cattle farmer who was known and loved throughout the region and, after forcing the family to liquidate everything they had, they collected a huge ransom for him. But the kidnappers claimed they never received the money and cut off contact with the family. That was two years ago, and no one has heard anything about the poor soul since.

  Back when he worked with Chief Margarito, it had infuriated Treviño that certain cases would be closed and archived without a hint of remorse. He’d figured out which of his colleagues would misplace files and even get paid for it, and it wasn’t much of a stretch to conclude that his boss also got a cut from certain disappearances. As far as he knew, though, none of his colleagues on the force had ever killed any of the victims. That practice came later, with Los Nuevos.

  On the other hand, the kidnapper might be a
psychopath rather than a professional. Those sickos wait three days at the most before killing their victims, torturing them brutally in the meantime, and a long time had passed without any news of the girl. Treviño knew time was running out.

  “No idea,” the detective answered, eventually.

  “One thing’s for sure: it was definitely someone in the trade,” the Bus asserted. “I’ll bet you it was Los Nuevos. Are you going to go after them?” Since Treviño didn’t respond, he continued: “Mr. and Mrs. De León didn’t want to mention this, but they’re afraid the kidnappers are going to stick her in some kind of prostitution ring …” The bodyguard was waiting for Treviño’s response, but the detective didn’t blink.

  “Could be,” Treviño said. “Even if the girl weren’t so pretty, it would still be a possibility.”

  “Have you been on a case like this before? Other girls who got taken?” The Bus looked at the detective with tremendous curiosity.

  Again, Treviño didn’t respond right away. When he did, he didn’t look up or at the driver, as if something very sad were happening around his knees.

  “When I was a cop, I investigated kidnappings. Sure. But they always asked for the ransom right away. I did hear about cases like what you described, but those were mostly along the Pacific coast. Oaxaca. Guerrero. Michoacán. Jalisco. They’d take the girls and ship them off to Asia, where brunettes are a hot commodity. When I worked here in La Eternidad, we didn’t get anything like that. If the kidnapper didn’t call, you could assume the victim was dead, that an ex-boyfriend or some sicko wanted to have his way with her and things got out of hand. Or else the girl had simply run away from home. But usually, it wasn’t that.”

  The detective’s response deeply disappointed the Bus, who after a while asked, “Do you think she’s alive?”

  The ex-cop looked at him and said firmly, “I’d rather not speculate.”

  They drove through what appeared to be a ghost town. Most of the streets were completely deserted, even though it was only two in the afternoon. Traffic was timid and clumsy: two or three cars, maybe, that pulled over anytime a pickup came along. These people are scared to death, Treviño thought. There were dozens of buildings with FOR SALE or FOR RENT signs on them, armed guards outside abandoned-looking banks and businesses, a mall with shattered display windows, and homes with their windows boarded up. The building that housed the only newspaper still in operation was pockmarked with at least twenty holes that could only have come from high-caliber weapons. They passed a bar called England and saw its main entrance boarded up and its windows and neon sign destroyed, as if someone had shot up the place.

  “What the fuck! That was my favorite bar. Has it been closed long?”

  “More than two years now,” growled the Bus.

  “So there’s nowhere good around here to get a drink?”

  The driver shook his head. “As good as England? Nope. There are some dives down by the port, but someone in there’s always packing. These days, folks drink at home.”

  “And what about you, Bus? You don’t drink?”

  The Bus tilted his chin and said, proudly, “Only red wine, and only on my day off.”

  “Ah, a real bon vivant. And dessert?”

  “Sure, after dinner. Why?”

  “Sweets and wine. An elegant boozehound,” said the detective, half smiling, his eyes fixed straight ahead. The Bus shot him a look: You smug son of a bitch.

  The first time the Maverick—a little banged up but ready for action—stopped at a light, an older woman with a sign on her chest came up to them. The photo on the sign showed a smiling young man, and the text read: THEY TOOK HIM ON MARCH 2. PLEASE HELP ME FIND HIM.

  “Hello, sir.” Before they could stop her, the woman shoved a flyer with the picture of a boy and a phone number into Treviño’s hands. “I’m looking for my son. I’m not asking for money. They dragged him out of a bar one night. He was with his friends. If you see him, please call this number.”

  Treviño tried to give the woman some money, but she refused it.

  “If you want to help me, help me with your eyes and ears. I’m his mother. I promised to always take care of him. I won’t stop looking as long as I live.”

  As soon as the woman stepped back, the Bus hit the gas and drove along the main avenue. The flyer had text on the back: BAD MEN TOOK MY BOY. HE WANTED TO BE A POET. THIS IS THE LAST THING HE WROTE. Treviño was reading the poem when the Bus grabbed the flyer from him, crumpled it up, and tossed it out the window.

  “Don’t waste your time with that crap,” he said. “There’s a woman like that on every damn corner of La Eternidad.”

  4

  The Bus kept his foot on the accelerator of the white ’74 Maverick, which had neither air-conditioning nor the appropriate armor plating for their mission, until they saw the parking lot of the nightclub Giza. He down-shifted just as the engine started to sputter.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” said the driver, not managing to hide his nerves. “We’re gonna die of heatstroke in this goddamn heap.”

  “All right,” the ex-cop interrupted him. “Where did it happen?”

  “Right over there,” said the Bus, pointing to a parking space that had been cordoned off with police tape.

  “Hold on.” Treviño took out the papers the consul had passed him earlier: the list of objects found in the pockets of Cristina’s boyfriend, Alberto Perkins, her classmate and the son of one of Mr. De León’s associates. Nothing out of place for a rich boy his age: a white handkerchief embroidered with his initials, breath mints, driver’s license, a wallet holding two thousand pesos in hundred-peso bills, his father’s credit card, and a few business cards that despite his youth presented him as the financial adviser for several restaurants in La Eternidad.

  “Don’t tell me he’s the son of the guy who owns El Vaquero Burgers.”

  “Mm-hm.”

  “They’re not bad,” said the detective. “We should swing by if we can.”

  “The gorditas in Colonia Guadalupe are better,” said the Bus, irked. “What, you don’t like gorditas?”

  “They’re good, but I prefer hamburgers. I’m up to here with corn,” he said, lifting a hand to his chin.

  “Well, you’re not eating either today. Both spots are already closed.”

  The detective looked at his watch. “What time do things close around here?”

  “For six months now, restaurants have been closing before dark.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Since the shooting began, it’s rare to see someone in the street after five or six. As far as restaurants go, people really only eat breakfast out.”

  “And how do they stay afloat, if most of their business came from dinner and the alcohol people only drink later in the day?”

  The Bus was clearly starting to lose patience.

  “Most of them only sell food to go. They fired a shit ton of waiters and hired delivery guys with motorbikes. Supposedly they don’t deliver booze, because that would be illegal, but the delivery guy will bring you whatever you ask if you slip him some cash. It’s been that way for a while now.”

  Treviño looked up and confirmed that the street was indeed empty and the windows of the businesses were shuttered or even boarded up, as if the northern wind that had slammed against the coast the previous night had taken with it all the neighborhood’s residents.

  “It’s hard for me to imagine the good folk of La Eternidad hiding in their homes. When I lived here, people would be out barbecuing from Friday to Sunday. You could spend twelve hours at a party.”

  The Bus threw up his hands, annoyed: “Are you done reading yet?”

  “Don’t rush me, man, or I’ll have to start again.”

  Toward the end of the page, Treviño noticed that the list mentioned a set of three keys, plus an envelope with three condoms approaching their expiration date and the little paper explaining how to use them. He couldn’t help cracking half a smile.

  “Oh, man.
This kid. You said he’s not awake yet. What kind of shape is he in?”

  “They messed him up pretty good.” The Bus looked at his watch. “He’s still hooked up to a respirator. Listen, if you wanted to look through those papers, you could have stayed home. This heat is killing me.”

  “All right. Let’s go,” said Treviño, putting on his straw hat and sunglasses.

  They walked over to where the girl’s car had been, in front of a line of palm trees.

  “Everything is just like I found it,” said the Bus.

  In addition to the blood on the pavement, Treviño made out some shards of glass. “Look at this,” he said. Taking a tissue from a little plastic baggie, he leaned over to pick something up and showed it to the Bus: a white button. “Find out if the shirt the boy was wearing is missing one of these.”

  The driver held out his hand, but the detective slipped the evidence into one of the pockets on his guayabera. “I’ll keep it right here,” he said. He leaned over the pavement again, then knelt to take a closer look.

  “You didn’t find anything yesterday that belonged to the girl?”

  “Like what?”

  “An earring, her watch. Part of a necklace …”

  “Nothing,” the driver said, rolling up his sleeves. He already had an ample sweat stain on the front of his shirt.

  The detective stood and walked over to the police tape. Less than two minutes had gone by and he was sweating too. But he examined the pavement with incredible care, as though he were cataloging every irregularity the fierce coastal sun had produced on its surface.

  “According to the report …” he said, trailing off. “According to the report, the boyfriend has serious cranial contusions and scratches on his left arm, which he must have gotten when he fell. His shirt was covered in blood, and he had two broken fingers and a series of wounds on his forearms, the kind you get when trying to defend yourself from being hit with a blunt object. His blood alcohol level was low, not enough to consider him drunk. We don’t know who attacked him, but … Finally! Over here, man. A tire track.”

  “Whoa, shit,” said the Bus, and his face seemed to go a bit redder.