“Then he looked at our ambitious snake of a principal, who was standing in the doorway pretending to be distracted by the religious pendants on her necklace. And what do you think happened next? One month later, that bitch fired every one of us who’d complained. You know what else? Every time I turn on the television, I see the leaders of the teachers’ union or our cretin of a principal, who has an important job with the ministry of education now. Just goes to show what a total asshole she is.”
The young woman let her hair down and deftly redid her braid, as if she were trying to shake off what she’d just remembered. Treviño knew that if asked directly she’d never say why an incredible woman like her had dedicated her life to doing autopsies or why she was still here, in this city, doing them. You’d have to know her for months or even years before she’d bring up the subject herself, saying, “Three days. My father spent three days lying in the weeds before they went to pick him up. No one wanted to claim the body because everyone was afraid the killers would retaliate. I was the one who had to identify him.”
The detective looked at the woman, aware of how deeply she was suffering, and felt like an idiot for not having anything to say but, “I’m so sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. They fired me, remember? I don’t work there anymore.”
A moment later, Treviño asked, “Hey, did you ever have Cristina de León in one of your classes?”
“Rafael de León’s daughter? Yeah, she was my student before they sent her to Switzerland. Very smart girl, very bold. She’s got a bright future ahead of her.”
“Did she have many boyfriends?”
The blood drained from the teacher’s face.
“Why are you using the past tense? Did something happen to her?”
The detective cleared his throat. “They stole her car, and the family hired me to find it. They say it could have been one of her boyfriends. What do you think?”
“One of her boyfriends? That doesn’t make any sense. She’s only had one, for as long as I’ve known her: Mr. Perkins’s son, a laid-back, handsome kid. He plays, or played, on the school volleyball team. A good reader, too: he went through Little Women and all of Louisa May Alcott’s other novels the year they were in my class. That kid couldn’t steal a thing, not that he needs to. He comes from a lot of money.”
“What about other boys?”
“I mean, she’s had plenty of suitors. But he’s been her only boyfriend.”
“Got it. And do you know a boy, around twenty, who goes by El Tiburón?”
“The one who was in the papers a few weeks ago for tearing it up in a bar?”
“That’s the one.”
“Haven’t had the pleasure. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he came here to retire. They say he sells pills.”
Treviño thought of Cornelio.
“What else do you know about him?”
“That he’s not from here, he’s from a ranch near the state line I think. He just comes here for kicks. He has a bad reputation, but his parents are good people.” The doctor went back to rebraiding her hair. “Maybe it’s just the paranoia talking. What’s going on here can be summed up in three rules.” She counted them off on her fingers. “Keep your mouth shut. Suspect everyone. Cut off ties. No one reports violence to the police anymore. Why would they? You and I both know there’s no point. People are convinced that if they report murders or other crimes, and we’re not even talking about drug deals, on social media, then the bad guys are going to come for them like they did with the women tweeting from Nuevo Laredo. And if the bad guys don’t get you, then it’s the government accusing you of terrorism. The mayors and governors around here all sat down and agreed that anyone who spreads ‘alarm’ is a terrorist.”
“Jesus.”
“Right? And if they kidnap or blackmail or kill your best friend, your childhood neighbor, your favorite teacher, the doctor who saved your life, Mother Teresa, the pope, whoever, you have to cut off ties with them immediately. Because they were probably involved in organized crime, despite a total lack of any evidence against them, despite the fact they died for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s how people think these days. What’s your take on it, Carlos? We’ve never been more paranoid, right?”
Dr. Ugly played with the end of her braid.
“We used to be the most peaceful little corner of the world. For as long as I can remember, everyone who visited would leave saying how lovely the people of La Eternidad were. We were known for making fair deals, always lending a hand, and being fun at parties. And for being tough: we can work like machines, even in the heat and rough weather. But for a while now, there’s been nothing but slander: ‘Don’t go to the coast. They’re thieves and murderers there.’ As if we were all criminals.”
Treviño sat across from the woman and watched her continue to play with her braid. When she twisted the elastic around the end of it for the umpteenth time, she said, “I’m not kicking you out or anything, but didn’t you see all the squad cars out front? How are you going to get out of here?”
“Do you still park your car in the basement of the building?”
“Oh no you don’t, asshole,” said the doctor. “You’re not dragging me into this.”
“I’m just kidding. They’re on their way.” He said, scrolling through his text messages. “Actually, they’re already here.”
Three knocks sounded on the door, and Treviño walked over to it.
“Don’t open it.” The doctor tried to stop him.
“Don’t worry. If I’m brought in on a gurney again, check twice before you take out my stuffing.”
The woman looked at Treviño but didn’t respond. Treviño opened the door for Don Williams and his driver.
“We don’t have much time, Treviño.”
“Allow me to introduce you. Doctor, do you know the consul to the United States?”
10
As he stepped outside, Treviño caught sight of the Bus in the passenger seat of the consul’s car, nervously scanning the street. The five minutes that had passed since they pulled up to the building had clearly felt like an eternity to him.
There were a few squad cars parked nearby and two police officers eating tacos at a stand on the corner, but the detective, followed by the consul and his driver, walked briskly over and tapped on the Bus’s window. Bustamante eventually reacted and opened the rear doors.
The detective climbed into the back seat and the gringo sat beside him. After closing the door behind them, the consul’s driver walked around the vehicle, got settled in the driver’s seat, and started the motor. The consul patted him on the back.
“Thanks, Larry. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
The consul’s driver pulled out and they drove along Avenida Héroes de la Constitución. He made sure to avoid drawing attention by staying under the speed limit and not making any abrupt moves, but they didn’t make it as far as the next traffic light before a squad car homed in on them with its siren wailing and ordered them to pull over.
“Shit,” said the Bus, sweating.
“There must be some mistake,” said the driver. But the officers in the squad car were gesturing at them to get to the side of the road.
“Chief Margarito, rolling out the red carpet,” said the detective. “Bet you anything.”
After exchanging a glance with his employer, the consul’s driver parked at the nearest intersection, as dictated by the rules of road safety. Ashamed, the driver tried to excuse himself to his boss.
“I don’t know what happened. I was driving under the speed limit.”
“Stay calm. This is a secure vehicle, so just raise the partition and ask what he wants,” said the gringo, referring to the tinted divider that separated the driver from whoever was in the back seat. With the divider up, no one would be able to see him or Treviño. The driver complied immediately and was left alone up front with the Bus. Meanwhile, the consul opened a small panel in the back of his seat.
&
nbsp; “Here, Treviño. Get in the trunk.”
“No way.”
“It’s the only place they won’t be able to see you.”
“And the best place to shoot me if they open it up unexpectedly. I’ll stay right here in consular territory, thank you very much.”
The officer, who looked like a caveman and was probably somewhere between thirty and forty-five years old, took his time getting his enormous bulk out of the squad car and over to the consul’s vehicle. When he arrived, the consul’s driver immediately lowered his window.
“Evening,” the officer greeted them. Then he peered inside the car like he was looking for someone, with his right hand on the butt of his gun, which seemed to be made of silver. The consul’s driver eventually got annoyed and asked, “Is something wrong, officer? This vehicle is the property of the United States of America.”
“Just a routine search, for your safety. Wait here,” said the officer, and he walked back to his car, where they saw him talking into a two-way radio.
Next to the squad car there was a convenience store that sold things people bought before a long drive: junk food, nearly expired medicine, flawed or outdated maps, and La Eternidad’s newspapers, which were about as credible as the advertisements they ran. Behind the store there was a taxi stand with just one car at it, and past that there was a gigantic boarded-up casino with signs out front that must have been there for centuries and that no one seemed inclined to remove. Inside the convenience store, a bored-looking girl painted her nails.
“I wonder who that guy’s talking to,” said Treviño.
“What do you mean?” asked the consul.
“The way things are around here, he could be calling one of the criminal organizations operating around the port.”
“What are you talking about?” The consul turned toward him.
“A police officer makes a hundred dollars a month. Some of that goes to his supervisor in exchange for the right to be a cop, and some more to use the squad car. Officers cover all their own expenses: uniform, gas, vehicle maintenance. The thirty-eight that guy’s wearing on his hip is worth between five hundred and a thousand dollars alone, and I guarantee you it wasn’t a gift from the federal government.”
Seeing the shock on the gringo’s face, Treviño added, “I thought you were better informed, Mr. Consul.”
In the sliver of shade provided by a dark plastic tarp, an old woman and a girl were selling bags of mangoes they’d piled on four wooden crates. The girl grabbed two bags and walked over to offer her bright yellow wares, which seemed to glow in the sunlight. A few bees buzzed woozily around her arms. The driver waved her off and she went back the way she came, the smile never leaving her face.
“These poor people,” said the consul, looking at the women. “I tell you, that old woman can’t be more than forty years old. People are born and die so quickly in this city.”
“The mangoes down by the river are delicious,” said Treviño, who’d had his eye on the movement outside the car. “They’re one of the best things about this city.”
The officer lowered the walkie-talkie and tossed it into his squad car, then headed back to the diplomatic vehicle, his black leather boots gleaming in the sun. Reaching the end of his catwalk, he said, “Follow me, please.”
Before he could turn around again, the driver called to him.
“Can you tell us what this is about, officer?”
The officer stared him down.
“The United States consul is in this car, right? The chief needs to speak with him,” he said and went back to his squad car. From the side of the road, the old woman and the girl watched every second of the action.
The consul groaned. “We’re screwed, as they say. The last thing I wanted was to see Margarito. Treviño, this is your last chance to get in the trunk.”
“No way.”
The gringo told himself that with a little luck they wouldn’t be able to see the detective through the tinted glass. Or, rather, with a whole lot of luck.
They followed the squad car along Avenida Cuauhtémoc. When they turned onto Héroes de la Independencia, they could see La Eternidad’s police headquarters two blocks away. The Bus recoiled at the sight of the dark building. The squad car parked near the main entrance and the officer signaled that they should pull into the next spot over.
A sizable man around fifty years old wearing oversize dark glasses sat in a rocking chair under the building’s portico, chatting with two police officers. The men, armed with rifles, looked up at them when they arrived. Nearby, an old man and a boy washed parked squad cars with a red rag and a bucket.
“The bastard really put on some weight,” said Treviño.
The man in the rocking chair was the famous Chief Margarito, one of the most powerful individuals in the state. A top cop who got his start in a gang. After that, he was a lackey of one of the most ruthless politicians the country had ever seen. He finally joined the force with the backing of that politician and the man who founded the Cartel del Puerto, also known as Los Viejos. And it was through friends like those that he built his brilliant career in an institution dedicated to serving justice.
The driver looked at his employer out of the corner of his eye and then at Chief Margarito, wondering what was about to happen.
“All right,” said the consul to Treviño and the Bus. “I guess there’s no way around it. I’ll go. You wait for me here. Come on, Larry,” he said and opened the car door. Caught off guard, the driver took a moment to react.
When he saw the gringo, the man in the dark glasses stood and walked over to greet him. The consul pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, perhaps to avoid shaking his hand.
“Mr. Consul, what an honor,” said the chief. “Please, come in.”
“This isn’t a social call, Chief. As a representative of the United States in this city, I didn’t need to come. I’m here as a gesture of respect for the local authorities.”
Larry saw the man in the dark glasses smile ironically. How awful people could be: the gringo had turned rude on him. In the end, though, that was his lot: arresting thieves; catching the bad guys; helping good, innocent folk who got themselves into trouble. If life had taught him anything, it was that he couldn’t expect anything in return—except money.
“When we caught the Chainsaw Killer, I thought we were going to be good friends, you and me. What happened?”
If the policeman wanted to move the conversation in a certain direction, the consul wasn’t about to help him. “Tell me, Chief,” he said. “Why am I here?”
The man in the dark glasses shook his head.
“I hear you’ve been advising Mr. De León on this business with the girl. I’m hurt you didn’t reach out to us, your real friends, before talking to someone else. Weren’t we a big help last time? The detective you hired is a criminal who has unfinished business with the law. You don’t need to turn to that kind or get mixed up with smugglers and drug dealers. You know how those guys are. Why go looking for them?”
“I don’t work with criminals.”
When he heard this, La Eternidad’s chief of police took off his sunglasses to clean them.
“I know you hired Carlos Treviño and that you’ve been in contact with him in the last few hours.”
“As far as I know,” said the consul, “the last ones to see him alive in this city were you and your team. They say you played a role in his exit.”
The police chief concentrated on polishing his glasses.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Carlos picked up and left one day and never came back. Isn’t that right?” He looked at his two bodyguards and the patrol officer. “He didn’t even take his things. When we went through it to get rid of it all I found a stash of heroin, which he was clearly planning to sell. I’d never allow that kind of thing among the ranks, as you can imagine. Possession of that kind of substance is a crime, so I opened a preliminary investigation on him and then put out a warrant for his arr
est. If you know where I might find this individual, I’d be grateful for the information. You’d be doing this city a lot of good. We can’t have criminals like him walking the streets. It’s why the city’s gotten the way it is.”
His bodyguards stared at the ceiling, two mindless mastiffs waiting to be sicced on someone.
The chief finished cleaning his glasses and said quietly: “I know the girl’s parents are desperate so they sent this guy in, but he can’t be trusted. It’d be bad news if word got out connecting him to you or if anyone heard our consul to the United States is going around recommending him to our leaders of industry.”
The consul furrowed his brow.
“Who told you that?”
The chief smiled. “Don’t be angry. Remember, I’ve got sources everywhere. It’s my job. And I only mention this to save you headaches down the road.”
The two bodyguards seemed to enjoy their employer’s joke, but Williams didn’t find it funny.
“Any news about the girl?”
“About what, now?”
“About Cristina de León.”
“Ah, yes, of course. Yes. Soon forty-eight hours will have passed since she went missing and I’ll open an investigation, according to the letter of the law.”
The officers burst into laughter again. The consul, irritated, tossed his cigarette and said his good-byes.
“I rest easy knowing you’re the one making sure justice is served in this city.”
“We’re still here, no matter who else comes and goes.”
From where he stood, Larry Pérez thought he saw the consul’s face darken with rage. But the consul had the presence of mind to retort, “The new mayor arrives in three days, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I hear they’re bringing someone in to replace you, Margarito. I guess we won’t have the pleasure of seeing you around here much longer.”
“That’s what they say, but we’re still here, right? And anyway, the guy they’re bringing in to replace me is my son.” The chief smiled broadly, catching the light on his teeth. “On the other hand, do you know how many consuls I’ve outlasted?”
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