by Danny Lopez
She paused. Then she turned slightly and looked at me, her hair covering her sad liquid eyes. “An axolotl told me.”
* * *
Back at my hotel I opened the Maya document and entered all the information, every detail, every nuance. The parts were adding up, but the story was as fractured as ever. I had found Maya, but all it had done was open a whole other chapter in this nightmare. Nick Zavala was a disease that kept spreading. It didn’t put me any closer to the murderer. If anything, it made me feel like a bigger fool than ever. I had been duped and bribed with ten grand to do the bidding of a pig—to find the victim of a pedophile.
Unless Maya was lying.
Sexual abusers did not have consistent profiles—that’s what made them so dangerous. They were different. It made sense about Nick: the sex toys, the drugs, his obsession for Maya. And Tiffany. She couldn’t be more than seventeen—probably younger. And she certainly looked like a runaway when I met her outside Zavala’s house.
Everything I looked over in my notes, everything I corrected, everything I tried to connect fell apart about halfway to nowhere. I was going to have to go back to Sarasota and face the cops. Even if I could show them that Nick had been abusing young girls, it didn’t guarantee I would come off their radar. Murder was still murder. There was still a 50/50 chance I could be indicted. They just had to come up with a motive, and that crackerjack team had done it before. They could do it again. There was no such thing as throwing oneself at the mercy of the law. I had written too many stories on how the Sarasota PD shot first and asked questions later. There were too many homeless men and unarmed black men that had been physically abused and even shot to death by Sarasota’s finest. And nothing ever came of it, not even temporary suspension for the officers involved. If they wanted to pin this on me, they would. And the way Petrillo and Frey had acted the last time I’d met them made me feel they were desperate to hang Nick’s murder on someone. I was the closest thing they had to guilty.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I SHOULD HAVE packed up my things and taken the next flight out. That would have been the logical thing to do. Get the fuck out of Mexico. Go face the music. Maybe even walk into the DA’s office with Brian Farinas and offer them my help, give them a full confession.
I had found Maya, and while she’d shed an ugly light on Nick Zavala, it did not get me any closer to the murderer. My sights were now on Tiffany. I’d had two options and I’d chosen the wrong one. Now that Maya had shown me who Nick was, I realized the answer to who murdered Nick probably lay with Tiffany.
I’d fucked up.
And now I was doing it again. All my evidence, my crazy Maya document, and even what little intuition I had about this kind of thing, was telling me to go back, come clean with the cops, and move on with my life. But instead of leaving and going home to Sarasota, I stayed.
Flor awoke something in me that had been lost in limbo ever since I was laid off from the damn paper. That one night with her was like a breath of fresh air. Being with her reminded me why I was put on this earth in the first place. Seeing her enthusiasm for the axolotl, her perseverance and belief in its importance for Mexico and the human race had led her on a seven-year investigation and an eight-month search in the mud of Xochimilco. Despite finding nothing, she hadn’t stopped searching. And she was not going to stop until she found it.
And I suppose in a way, she had hope for me. Maybe she didn’t realize it but she had given me hope in myself.
I was convinced I should go home and face the music, settle the business of Nick’s murder with the cops and expose the man for what he really was, find Tiffany—who could lead me to the murderer—and be done with this business. But I couldn’t go. Not yet.
I wanted to be here, in this city of stone and smoke. I wanted to lie next to Flor, caress her hair and feel her heart beating against my flesh. She was like a tonic. She made me feel alive. I wanted more of that. I wanted all I could get from her. And I wanted to offer her whatever she needed—encouragement, admiration for what she was doing—for what she gave me. So I did what every fool who is falling for a woman would do: I invited her to dinner.
We met at nice little restaurant in La Roma, the neighborhood where Maya once lived. It looked like an extension of La Condesa, the hip neighborhood where Flor lived. But La Roma felt more open, more residential in some sections. The place she chose, El Traspatio, was a funky outdoor place with a lot of wood and stone in the yard of a large house. It was quaint and hip, and housed in a tiny space that brought us closer together. It was perfect.
We ordered a bottle of Rioja and arrachera steak and grilled vegetables. The waiter poured the wine and we had a toast to the axolotl. Flor took my hands and held them and gave me a sly smile. “Speaking of which, did you find your axolotl?”
“You did that?”
She shook her head.
“You told Maya to meet me at the park?”
She shook her head again and hid her smile behind our hands. “I know what it’s like to search for something and not find it.”
“So you did.”
“No,” she said. “I only wish I knew how it feels to find what you’ve been looking for for a long time.”
I squeezed her hands. I was sure it had been her. She must have set it up. This whole time I’d been thinking Toni had gotten in touch with her. One thing I was sure of: it couldn’t have been the brujo. I didn’t believe in him, and he’d spelled her name wrong.
“I can tell you this,” I said. “When you find what you’ve been searching for, you’ll be surprised at what you actually find.”
“In a good way, I hope.”
“I don’t think it’s good or bad. It just … is.”
“When I find my axolotl, I know exactly what will happen. I will be the happiest woman in Mexico. And I will have the evidence to change how we manage our patrimony.”
I laughed. “You’re an activist.”
“We’re all activists,” she said. “But here, in Mexico, it’s a very tough battle. Everything’s corrupt. You move one step forward, and they push you back two.”
The waiter brought our steaks—grilled over charcoal in the corner of the yard—medium, glistening with juice and a dab of chimichurri. Delicious.
After dinner we took a long walk down Alvaro Obregon, a wide avenue with a pleasant canopy, crossed Avenida Insurgentes, and wandered into La Condesa and back up to Flor’s apartment.
After we’d made love, she rested her head on my chest and hummed a song I’d never heard before. I was so relaxed, I wanted to stay that way forever. This was what had been missing from my life for too many years. I was far away—a vacation from my obsessive mind, from my problems, from Maya and Nick and the Sarasota PD—and from my ridiculous dead career. But as much as I wanted the moment to never end, I had to face reality. Worse, I had to tell Flor.
“I have to leave in a couple of days,” I said without looking at her.
She didn’t seem to flinch or tense a single muscle. Her foot tangled with mine at the end of the bed. Her hand moved gently over my chest.
“Flor …”
“I know, Dexter.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“What I wonder,” she said, “is whether you’ll come back.”
“Of course I will. You have to show me the rest of the city.” She laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “If I didn’t have this mess hanging over—”
She put her hand over my lips. “Stop worrying about the unavoidable. You have to let go of the things you cannot control. Sometimes you have to allow fate to do its job. Relax. Enjoy the moment.”
I closed my eyes, but all I could see was Holly. It was as if she were there, looking down at me with a mischievous grin I couldn’t interpret. Guilt poked at me from all angles. This was wrong. What the fuck was I doing here?
When I opened my eyes again, it was morning and Flor had already left for Xochimilco in her quest for the axolotl.
* * *
I spent the morning wandering through La Condesa. I was in no hurry to go anywhere, much less go home to Sarasota to face whatever was waiting for me there. I ended up in Chapultepec Park and then crossed Reforma Avenue. I checked out the Rufino Tamayo Museum of Art and had lunch at a hole in the wall on Calle Victor Hugo.
Afterwards I went into the Hotel Camino Real to exchange some money and find a taxi. I considered having a drink at the bar. A cold beer or tequila—a good quality reposado. It was a nice modern bar with a lot of light. A good place to sit and think. But I dismissed the idea. I wanted to stay sober. I made my way up the long steps in the lobby and noticed a man in a gray suit who seemed vaguely familiar. He leaned forward with his head bowed, reading something inside a folder. My instinct was that it was someone famous—a movie star. As I came closer along his right side, I saw the outline of his face. He had long blond hair and a nice tan.
“Mike?”
He glanced up and slapped the folder shut.
“Mike Boseman?”
The color drained from his complexion. Literally. Surprise and confusion all over him. He shoved the folder under his arm and stared at me, his eyes wide.
“I’m sorry, do I know you?” His words stumbled out from under his tongue. It was a far cry from the way he’d greeted me at his house. Where was the confidence, the bravado, the attitude?
“Sarasota. Siesta Key, actually.” I put my hand out. “Dexter Vega.”
He looked at my hand before shaking it. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not making a connection.”
He was clean-shaven, hair neatly combed to the side like a good executive. He looked the furthest thing from the scruffy rich surfer who yelled at me from the second-story window of his Gulf-front mansion.
“I was outside your house in Point of Rocks last week. I was looking for Maya Zavala.”
“Oh, right.” His eyes darted across the lobby, left and right. When they landed back on me, he asked, “What are you doing in Mexico City?”
“Looking for Maya. And you?”
He looked down, at his shoes, back at me. “Business.”
“How long are you here for?”
He spat out a fake, nervous laugh. “Not really sure.” He paused, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words. “You know how it is,” he added quickly. “Everything here’s mañana, mañana, mañana.”
I laughed, trying to put him at ease. I had so many questions for him, but I didn’t want to spook him because he looked like a chicken ready to fly the coop.
“You’re not getting back in the movie business, are you?”
“No, no. I’m done with that. Learned my lesson the hard way, right?”
“New venture? Need a partner? Investors?” Now I was the one who laughed nervously. This was too much of a coincidence. I was sure he was here for the same reason I was.
“Well, it’s still early for that,” he said. “We’re only in the planning stages.”
I didn’t want to lose him. “You staying here?”
He looked around as if trying to recognize where he was. Then he shook his head. “No, no. I’m staying up in … in, hum. At a friend’s place in Polanco.”
“That’s great.” I was right back on him. “Lucky you. You get to experience the real Mexico.”
“Yeah,” he said and took a step to the side. People were walking up and down the steps. “I suppose I will.”
“So I stopped by your house before coming here. It was all shuttered up. I thought you’d gone up north for the summer.”
He nodded, smiled. Sweat was building in tiny drops on his forehead. I needed answers.
“Nah, just here,” he said. “But from here I have to go to California.”
“Surfing?”
“What?”
“In California. You surf, right?”
He forced a chuckle. “Maybe. But business before pleasure.”
He was lying. I was sure of that. One hundred percent. “So where you headed now?”
“Yeah … I have some appointments I need to …”
“Sure. I know how it is. Business. I’ll walk you out. You’re getting a taxi?”
“No, no. It’s fine. I’m fine.”
We walked to the exit. He was slipping from my grip. But I couldn’t let him go. Finally I spat it out: “Any news from Maya?”
“Maya? No, nothing.”
“She’s here, though. Right?”
“I … I suppose.”
“So you don’t know where she is?”
He shook his head. “No. I suppose she’s working, looking for the water lizard.”
“The axolotl.”
“Right.”
“You think you’ll see her while you’re here?”
“I don’t know,” he said and looked past me. We were outside the front door. Taxis were parked along the driveway, bellhops were loading and unloading luggage. The doorman approached us, asked if we needed a taxi.
“But you guys are still dating, right?”
Boseman ignored my question and spoke to the doorman. “Yes, taxi.” Then he smiled at me. “Well, I’ll see you around …”
“Dexter,” I reminded him. “Dexter Vega. The guy who’s looking for Maya.” A large black taxi pulled up. The doorman was right on it. He opened the back door and smiled.
“Right.” Boseman nodded and slipped into the car. “Look me up when you’re back in the old SRQ. We’ll have a drink or something. Share Mexico stories.”
* * *
Just as the case was finally coming together, it collapsed. Back to square one. Or maybe not. Boseman could be in Mexico with Maya—or he could be here looking for her. He could be bringing her money. Whatever the reason, I was certain he was here because of her. I hadn’t nailed him the way I’d wanted to but it was obvious that seeing me had freaked the shit out of him. Something was fishy. But what bothered me the most was that I had just settled everything with Maya. As far as I was concerned the case of Maya Zavala—Edwards—was closed. Now Boseman showed up and fucked it all up. But why?
He came to join her. No, that was too perfect.
I stood outside the Camino Real trying figure it out. Then I realized one thing: seeing Boseman gave me an excuse to stay in Mexico a few extra days. I could postpone my exit. I could see Flor. A few more days in old Mexico would be grand.
I rushed back to my hotel and updated my Maya document. But as I looked over my notes, I realized the case was not quite closed. It couldn’t be. Maya gave me the skinny on her father. Mike Boseman was here to join her. But I didn’t like it. Call it intuition. Rich fucks like him rub me the wrong way. Suddenly it was all right there in front of me: Maya. She had a pretty strong motive. Maybe she planned this whole thing with Boseman. The two of them would get the inheritance and disappear.
Shit.
I closed my computer. Then my phone rang. It was Malcolm. He wanted me to attend a party tonight in the Palmas neighborhood at the home of the correspondent for the New York Times.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PARTY WAS at a large swanky house in a wealthy neighborhood in the hills. It didn’t even feel like we were in Mexico. They had waiters and a caterer and a bartender and a trio playing top forties with a jazzy feel—food, booze, and even an ice sculpture.
“If you’re a journalist in Mexico, you have to attend these parties,” Malcolm said. He had two whiskeys, one in each hand. “It’s one of the perks of the profession. You meet your colleagues, maybe make some decent contacts, and get loaded on free booze.”
My mind was buzzing. I was impressed and pissed. My newspaper was laying off reporters while the New York Times correspondents were living high on the hog: the house, living expenses, maids, cars, and a monthly trip out of Mexico City so they could get out of the smog—all courtesy of the company.
“Check it out.” Malcolm raised one of his glasses and gestured at the crowd. There had to be sixty, seventy people. “The Mexican businessmen and politicians always hang out tog
ether. I’m sure they’re making deals, figuring out how to get richer. As if any of ’em needed more bloody money.”
He pointed at a small group standing together on the patio. “And that little group over there, those are the staff correspondents talking over each other about their latest scoops. And over on that side is the Mexican press and some of our resident freelance photographers.”
I glanced at Malcolm. He was swaying back and forward, buzzing with drink. “And where do you fit in?” I said.
“I don’t.” He laughed. “I’m a free agent, ey?”
I grabbed a beer and watched the crowd, but my mind was spinning, trying to figure out what was going on with Maya and Boseman. What the hell was he doing in Mexico?
I ran it all through my head: the hippies said Maya lived with Boseman on the beach. Then Maya left for Mexico to look for the axolotl, but that was just a front to get away from her father. When Nick lost contact with Maya he hired me because I was a dumb-ass.
It was possible Maya planned this whole thing with Boseman. It was possible they planned Nick’s murder. It very well could have been Boseman. Or maybe Boseman was acting alone. Maybe he found that Nick had been abusing Maya. Love is a great motivator. I could see Boseman doing it as a favor to Maya—a revenge killing. Or they could have done it for money. Greed, another great motivator.
That’s what kept poking at my gut: money. I had to find out who was getting the loot: the house, the art collection, the cash. Boseman might be well off, but he wasn’t rich like Nick Zavala. Besides, I had the feeling someone of Boseman’s character could never have enough money. I should have asked Maya about Boseman, whether he knew what Nick had been up to. Damn. I had so many questions.
Malcolm nudged me. “Look there.”
Toni Spencer had just walked in. She looked amazing, elegant. She was accompanied by a thin Mexican man with a long gray ponytail.
“Aurelio Hernández,” Malcolm said. “They say he’s the next big thing in the art world. Protégé of Francisco Toledo.”
Everyone in the room looked their way. There was a buzz. A handful of guests made their way to them.