La Muda’s going to love these treats, he thought. It was the first time he’d brought a bottle of French wine to her place, and he’d even bought one of those nice metal corkscrews, the biggest they had. He hated the little folding ones, which were made for smaller hands. There’s so much to celebrate. Things are looking up.
When he opened the door, there was La Muda, sitting on the floor with her hands and feet tied and a completely gratuitous piece of tape over her mouth. He had no time to react.
Behind him, he heard a gruff voice he knew all too well.
“Hands up. Get on your knees.”
The Bus immediately obeyed, dropping the groceries to the floor. The man who’d spoken deftly removed the driver’s gun from its holster.
He turned his head as much as he could. There was Carlos Treviño, pointing the Taurus at him.
“Treviño …” he said, struggling to get to his feet.
“Don’t move!”
The detective reached over to the table next to him and picked up a piece of yellow paper someone had gone to the trouble of gluing words cut out of the newspaper onto. The Bus went sheet white.
“As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I found the girl. I’m sorry, Valentín, but there’s no good explanation for why she’s in your house.”
The Bus turned purple with rage.
“What are you talking about? This is my girlfriend’s house, not mine.”
La Muda let out a string of furious grunts.
“Don’t play dumb. Cristina was here the whole time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have anything to do with this! I haven’t been here in two weeks. Goddamn it, Renata, what did you get yourself mixed up in?”
When he grasped the direction the conversation was beginning to take and that Treviño wasn’t kidding, the Bus took a deep breath and shifted his weight onto his right leg.
“What the hell is wrong with you, Treviño? What the fuck are you thinking?”
“Don’t try it, Bus. Don’t move. I’m telling you, don’t move.”
But the Bus did try it.
The bullet caught him in the right knee. The detective had known it was going to take more than one shot, even with a nine-millimeter, to stop Valentín Bustamante. In the end, three was the magic number. The Bus fell sideways, hitting his head on the wall, and then slid down onto his enormous haunches, a thin line of blood trickling down his forehead.
“That’s enough, cabrón,” growled the detective.
20
“When Moreno tried to take my weapon off me that day on the beach, I knew he was used to taking lives. It’s written all over his face. He’s ready to go at the drop of a hat, but he knows how to control himself.
“You’re not that type, Bus, no matter how much you try to seem like you are, with the way you talk and dress and lift weights and pack heat like the others. Some people are born to kill, and others only do it when they absolutely have to. Moreno will shoot without thinking twice. You’re a calculating, patient guy who waits for the right moment. The only thing you’re any good at is lying.
“Since I arrived, you’ve done nothing but slow the investigation down: You said the tracks we saw at the club came from expensive tires, when actually they’re cheap, the kind anyone could buy. I’d know that tread anywhere: they’re the same tires I have, and I see the tracks they leave in the sand every day. You also said the young man had lost a button, but the button I showed you was from my own shirt. You didn’t want me at the nightclub or the morgue because you didn’t want me finding any evidence, and you didn’t want me going into Colonia Pescadores because you didn’t want me figuring out who the dead kids were. You didn’t want me going to the compound, either, because you knew I’d figure out that the girl wasn’t there.
“You’ve had her here all along, with La Muda keeping an eye on her. You obviously weren’t planning to return her to her family, because she would have given you up. I don’t know what you were planning to do, but those garden shears and the new shovel out back in the garden don’t suggest anything good. You probably already used them to get rid of El Tiburón’s body. In fact, I’d put good money on it. While I was waiting for you, I took a look at the garden. There’s a patch of fresh earth out there and I bet we’d find him if we dug a few feet down.
“I have to hand it to you, though: you’re not bad at planning. You waited until the girl sneaked out, and you followed her. You had the whole number laid out: you knew she’d go over to her boyfriend’s house, since his parents weren’t home, and that she’d take him with her to the club. You followed them at a distance and waited until they went inside. That’s when you sent El Tiburón and the guys from La Cuarenta after them. You picked El Tiburón because you knew he needed the scratch, and then you found three guys from La Cuarenta to back him up as soon as you heard Cristina was coming to town for a few weeks. As soon as they grabbed her, you met up with them in Pescadores, took Cristina off their hands, and got rid of them. You killed them all, including El Tiburón, but you brought him back to bury him here. You wanted the evidence to point to him, to throw the rest of us off your track. You wanted us to think he was the one who’d orchestrated the whole thing so you could collect the ransom with total impunity. You’d promised the cartel boys a pile of money, but then you thought better of it and decided to knock them off instead. That’s why La Cuarenta has been so pissed lately. Ever since you killed three of their own, a night hasn’t gone by that they haven’t been out there firing rounds into the air. They’re reminding you of your debt. How do I know? You didn’t want to roll up your sleeves on the drive to Ciudad Miel, and I’m willing to bet it’s because you didn’t want me to see the tattoo on your forearm you got when you were one of them.
“At first I didn’t want you to come with me, but the second time you insisted it had been Los Nuevos, I thought it might be better to keep you close. I was hoping you’d contact your accomplice, but you managed to resist the urge. The problem is you made a few mistakes. Margarito’s men had no reason to know I was hiding in the morgue or that I was riding in the consul’s car. Except that you told them. You gave me up because the longer you waited to collect the ransom, the riskier things got. You needed to get me out of the way.
“Your last mistake was when I got jumped in Ciudad Miel. I knew it had to be you: I’d been careful to cover my tracks, so there was no way Los Nuevos or Los Viejos—the big dogs, as you called them—could have known I was there. If they had known, there’s no way I would’ve gotten out of there alive. That’s not how these guys operate, not in any of the three organizations. So it had to be you. You paid your acquaintances in Ciudad Miel to give me a scare, and you organized the whole thing from the hotel.
“I had to convince you I was dead so you’d lead me to the girl. That’s why we’re here. I still have to figure out who you’re working for, but that won’t take long. Now put these handcuffs on. Don’t try anything, or I’ll shoot to kill.”
The Bus, who’d been applying pressure to his knee throughout the detective’s monologue, gave the deepest sigh of his life and began to cry, his whole body shaking. They were the tears of a man who was so close to having it all. Three million dollars, gone in an instant. He was still bawling when he saw Treviño’s silver-tipped boots approach. He threw himself at the detective.
The force of the impact sent Treviño flying into the wall next to the front door. At that moment, the detective realized he’d seriously underestimated the driver’s strength. The first kick landed on his ribs before he could grab the Taurus. Then the Bus lifted him, arms and legs flailing, over his head and threw him at the glass dining room table. The glass shattered and Treviño landed on the groceries, breaking the two bottles of wine.
The detective struggled to maintain consciousness as the Bus lifted him by the shirt. He managed to land three useless punches to the driver’s face. The bodyguard, on the other hand, held him against the wall with his left hand and drew his right sl
owly back.
The first punch broke the detective’s nose. I’ve got you now, asshole, thought the Bus. The second punch left Treviño blinking like someone suddenly roused from a deep sleep. The third opened a gash above his eye. The Bus put both his hands around the detective’s neck and slid him up the wall until they were eye to eye. The detective thrashed wildly with his feet, but the Bus leaned in with all his weight until Treviño couldn’t move anymore. He wanted to say, This is going to hurt, you son of a bitch. But there was something scratching at the roof of his mouth. His tongue itched, too, and he couldn’t move his jaw to form the words. He looked at the detective, who was about to pass out, and lifted a hand to his mouth.
That was when he realized it wasn’t rage that had caught his tongue. It was the corkscrew, part of which was sticking out from under his chin. Terrified, he grabbed it and yanked it out. But he must have done something wrong, because blood started gushing onto the carpet.
La Muda let out a gut-wrenching groan when she saw the trouble her lover was in. She tried to stand, but her feet were too well tied.
Valentín Bustamante—bodyguard to Cristina de León González and native of Parras, Coahuila, a young man who’d been locked up only once for disturbing the peace, former member of La Cuarenta, current lover of Renata Hernández, a.k.a. La Muda—dropped what was left of Treviño, leaned his massive bulk against the wall, and stood like that until his legs gave out.
Treviño slowly got to his feet. He lifted a hand to his head and realized the blood pooling on the floor wasn’t just the bodyguard’s. He must have hit something sharp, probably when he went through the glass tabletop. He noticed a few drops fall from his forehead, so he gingerly felt around the crown of his head and confirmed the blood was coming from there. I don’t have long, he thought. When, much to La Muda’s dismay, the Bus didn’t react to the two sharp kicks Treviño gave him, he leaned over the bodyguard, carefully reached into his jacket pocket, and extracted his cell phone. He scanned through the list of contacts and dialed Mr. De León’s house. As usual, the consul picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“It’s Treviño. I found Cristina. Send an ambulance to Twenty-Five Calle Doctores, in Colonia Huasteca. It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Is she alive? Treviño!”
“An ambulance,” repeated the detective. “Hurry.”
“We’re on our way. Hang on, Treviño.”
La Muda glared at him venomously, emitting a steady, angry groan. Her eyes said, loud and clear: I hope you bleed to death, you goddamn son of a bitch. Treviño hobbled toward the bedroom. Lying exactly where he’d seen her a while earlier, Cristina was starting to come to from the sedatives they’d given her. She still couldn’t move, but she was blinking. When she saw him, she mustered a single word—Help—and broke down in tears.
Fifteen minutes had passed, help still hadn’t arrived, and the detective felt like he was about to black out. For fuck’s sake, what the hell is that gringo doing? he thought. He’d given him the exact address of the driver’s hideout. But night was falling and there was no sign of the consul.
Finally, a truck screeched to a halt in front of the house. And then another. Thirty seconds later, someone kicked in the front door and there was La Tonina, a menacing character on the payroll of both the police force and at least one criminal organization. The last time Treviño and he had crossed paths, they were both still working for Chief Margarito. Cristina fainted when she saw him.
La Tonina shot a quick glance at the Bus’s body slumped over near the door and smiled at the detective.
“My old friend Carlos Treviño. What a lovely surprise.”
With the last of his strength, Treviño tried to lift the Taurus but La Tonina kicked the gun out of his hand. He’d always been faster, despite his imposing frame.
“Ay, mi amor. This is just how I’d dreamed of catching you. In flagrante with a kidnapped girl.”
He enjoyed watching Treviño bleed out from above. He smiled again.
“There you go again,” he went on, “messing with something bigger than you. This time, though, you’re not going to get away. You wanted to take the girl home, but we had an intercept on the Bus’s phone, asshole. We didn’t leave anything to chance. That’s how we knew you were here. And now you’re gonna get it, you son of a bitch.”
As Treviño’s eyes fluttered shut, the image of his wife on the beach flashed though his mind. If he ever saw the consul again, he’d ask that asshole why the hell he ever thought he was the one to solve the mysteries of La Eternidad.
21
CONSUL DON WILLIAMS’S TESTIMONY
According to his final report on security in the Gulf of Mexico filed before he tendered his resignation in November 2014, as requested, the United States consul to La Eternidad went to an abandoned house in Colonia Huasteca, on the outskirts of the city. He was helping a couple who had recently gained United States citizenship find their daughter, also a US citizen. The consul states that he went with his consulate-assigned driver and two pickup trucks carrying the magnate’s security team, and that when they got to the house, they found the front door open and chaos inside: as soon as they entered, they saw bloodstains on the floor and bits of food scattered all around, as if there had been a fight. A bit farther in, they found clear indications that at least two women had been living in different rooms of the house, based on the clothes they recovered. And that was all they found. There wasn’t a living soul in the place. The consul states that he was surprised not to find Treviño or the US citizen there and told the others to park the trucks at a good distance. Following his orders, they reentered the residence without touching anything and left the doors open, as they’d found them. He says he knew none of it would do any good.
The consul’s report states that he left the magnate’s bodyguards at the scene and told his driver to take him home. They passed the university, which had been practically deserted for months, then the gas station and the empty lot beside it; and then, as they neared what once was the fairground, the consul told his driver to stop the car. He got out and walked over to what was left of the rides. Next to the carousel and the bumper cars, a couple with three little girls were boarding the old, run-down Ferris wheel. They were the only customers, but the attendant agreed to start up the wheel. The consul spent a long time standing there, watching that Ferris wheel go around and around. Watching the girls. They were the only people in La Eternidad he’d seen smile for a long time. His cell phone had been ringing the whole time. The consul glanced at the screen, but he didn’t answer.
PART TWO
Chief Margarito and the Conversation in the Dark
1
It wasn’t the sea hurling its waves at the shore that woke him or the piercing yellow light of the streetlamp that supposedly kept the block safe at night; the party across the bay was winding down and a heavy silence hung over the beach. What woke him was a feeling of dread. He got to his feet and walked over to the window.
The rain had stopped; tomorrow the fog would roll in. It unsettled him to be able to see the stars so clearly. Sagittarius loomed above him, and a scarlet moon peeked through the dark. For a moment, he thought the sun had risen on the wrong side, but then he realized that the red sphere in front of him was a blood moon. He felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He remembered the last time he’d seen one like that. How long had it been? Ten, twelve years? It’s an image you don’t forget. The officer who’d taught him everything he knew had just died, and it was a troubling omen. He thought about the mess down at headquarters, where he was the one in charge now. About the man who’d sworn to kill him. He felt a strange disquiet take hold of him. That’s the moon, he thought. I’m the chief, I’m sixty years old, and they’re going to kill me.
When the moon vanished behind a cloud, he turned his attention to the stars, but Ursa Major and the North Star, which had soothed insomniacs for centuries, were nowhere to be seen.
Instead, there was only Sagittarius, the archer, pointing insistently at La Eternidad.
But, then again, there’s no such thing as a policeman who can read the stars.
2
Like every cop in La Eternidad, Margarito had learned fast how to tell a real threat on his life from all the fake ones. True, at one point he’d needed to hire a driver and a security detail, and he never left home without the nonregulation weapons he’d bought himself—like all the other guys on the force, since the city never had money for that kind of thing—but that was it. He’d never armor-plated his truck, and he never wore a bulletproof vest. When he was appointed chief of police, twenty-nine years and nine months ago, officers wore their street clothes and had to provide their own weapons, which meant that every investigator on active duty looked like a beggar. That’s why it was so lucky he got the job. No one liked his style, but it was him, a known torturer and a cruel, corrupt son of a bitch who’d walked out on his own mother as she lay dying, who managed to bring the force up to speed with uniforms, weapons, office furniture, and even a few vehicles. The only squad car they’d had before was an old Jeep Wrangler bought for a song after World War II. It was a sight to be seen—the chief had felt like John Wayne the first time he drove it—but it broke down every ten miles. Luckily, the port wasn’t very big. Anyway, there had never been a need for a car chase before: robberies were usually committed by cattle thieves who went straight back to their ranches. If you were lucky, you’d get there before they’d eaten their haul. There was the occasional burglar who waited in the dark for the right moment to strike, the hustler looking to swipe anything that could be pawned, and the drunk-or-crazy prostitute making a scene in the street. Instead of spending a night in lockup, those usually got sent back to their pimps, who’d straighten them out and make sure they toed the line. Most common were the shoplifters who distracted the clerks and stole without hurting anyone and pickpockets who came to town during Carnival and winter break. That’s how things were when he started. Smugglers and drug dealers? He certainly didn’t invite them or welcome them in, as the newspapers were so quick to say. They arrived with the explosion of activity in the port, had their boom in the seventies, and consolidated their power in the eighties. But they’d always been there and always would be. He’d known dozens of these guys, always cut from the same cloth. Every case started and ended in a working-class neighborhood like Los Coquitos, where you always caught the culprit. His guilt could be real or invented, current or retroactive. It didn’t really matter. It was all there on the pages of El Imparcial de la Sierra, which had tracked his career on four pages of crime reporting every day for almost thirty years. The bank robbers, stoners, bad trips, and that psycho who went around cutting people up with a chainsaw—those all came later: in the last six, maybe seven years. There were no kidnappings, no shoot-outs, none of the problems they had now. Thirty years ago, who could have imagined how much La Eternidad was going to change?
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