City Without Stars

by Tim Baker

  Gomez approaches the vehicle, glancing back at Pilar. ‘Take cover.’ Pilar doesn’t react. Fuentes tugs the shotgun out of her hands and guides her behind the pickup. On the way back, he notices Juan Antonio sitting on the ground, blood streaming through his fingers from his forehead.

  Fuentes approaches the passenger side of the Navigator. The gunman is slumped against the wheel, a deflated airbag gathered around him like a carelessly placed shroud. Fuentes slowly eases the barrel of the Mossberg through the window, until it touches the back of the man’s head. No reaction.

  Gomez reaches for the door handle, then opens it and springs back fast. The body falls out, Gomez kicking the hands clear. Fuentes jumps over the hood, landing on the other side. He turns the man over onto his stomach and secures both hands, feeling for a pulse. He looks up at Gomez, surprised. ‘One tough son of a bitch.’

  The sirens are bearing down hard on them. He looks back at Pilar, who is trying to staunch the bleeding from Juan Antonio’s scalp. ‘What happened?’

  Juan Antonio tries to laugh. ‘No idea. Maybe she shot me …’ He runs a finger along the ridge of his forehead, pulling it away in pain. ‘Or maybe it was the glass when she shot the car.’ He squints up at her. ‘All I know is you’re a goddamn loca.’

  Gomez reaches inside the Navigator and kills the ignition, freeing them from the relentless grinding sorrow of the turning wheels, the sirens’ song of pain consuming everything as the police cars brake hard, dust fountaining behind them. The cops get out, pistols drawn, their faces hard with adrenaline and panic. ‘Holster your weapons,’ Fuentes shouts. The cops comply reluctantly. Two of them run over to Pilar and Juan Antonio, roughly yanking Pilar to her feet. ‘Don’t touch her, she’s a victim.’ The cops let Pilar go so quickly that she stumbles and nearly falls. ‘Where are the ambulances?’

  ‘About five kilometers behind us.’

  ‘Send a car back to the main road. Make sure they don’t miss the turnoff. No one is allowed access except for police and emergency services, got that?’ Fuentes calls out to Gomez, ‘She’s inside. She’s still alive.’

  Pilar starts to follow them but Juan Antonio blocks her way. ‘She needs my help.’

  ‘Pilar, let them do their job.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.’

  ‘If it weren’t for Fuentes too. He was the one who knew where to look.’ She tries to go around him, but again he stops her. ‘This doesn’t concern you anymore.’

  She pushes past him. ‘You have no idea how wrong you are.’ She runs after them, Fuentes stopping when he hears her coming up the steps. He takes her in his arms. ‘Trust me, you don’t want to go inside.’

  ‘I need to see her.’

  ‘You will. We’re bringing her out now. But you can’t go inside. It’s a crime scene, do you understand?’ Pilar turns and sits down on one of the steps. She hears Gomez swear inside the house just as she’s trying to light a cigarette, but it’s no good. Her hands are shaking so much, the match goes out.

  54

  Padre Márcio

  The last time he saw him before he disappeared, Joaquín Lázaro Morales was accompanied by a slim young man with dark eyes. Not eyes full of resentment or fear, like most young men’s, but with a hunger for knowledge and power. They were eyes just like his own.

  ‘This is my son.’ It took Padre Márcio a moment, but then he recognized Amado. The active, intelligent silence of the boy he had raised in the orphanage for eight years was still evident in the young man. All grown up. Unharmed. Undamaged. It was a moment of satisfaction; almost sinful pride. Amado was the first child placed in his care. The first he had been wholly responsible for. A vulnerable child sent to an institution that provided for him, cared for him; educated him. Did not molest him. Already there had been thousands more like him. To the children Padre Márcio was San Martín de León; a protective cloak. To the Church he was San Miguel, wielding a fiery sword as he sent his enemies tumbling down to hell.

  ‘Amado is to represent me now.’ Padre Márcio was surprised. It meant Joaquín was either about to go into hiding or about to die. One thing was certain: a man like him would never allow himself to be captured. ‘Everything he does, everything he tells you to do, is performed in my name and with my authority, now and forever. Can you accept that?’

  Padre Márcio recognized the moment perfectly. He could neither acquiesce nor protest. He had to wait until the offer was made. ‘In return—’ Joaquín continued, but Padre Márcio interrupted. ‘Not in return, in partnership. It has to be a partnership. Not necessarily of equals, but of brothers. Otherwise I must walk away.’

  ‘I could have you killed. I could have Amado do it.’

  Padre Márcio turned to the young man, who stood there staring at him with the stone-cold patience of a killer. ‘You could. Or we could prosper together in new and extraordinary ways.’

  Amado took a step towards him, passing through a ray of sunlight, the unsheathed blade flashing with the cruel gleam of intent. His father placed a hand upon his son’s shoulder and he froze, his eyes never leaving Padre Márcio’s. ‘What could a priest do for me?’

  ‘Make you the richest man in Mexico.’

  ‘And what would that do for you?’

  ‘Make me the second richest.’

  ‘How would you do it?’

  ‘For the purposes of tax exemption, I have already registered the Order of the Army of Jesus as a charity in the United States of America. I will borrow money from both the Mexican Church and the Institute for the Works of Religion …’ He saw the look of incomprehension on Joaquín’s face. ‘What the papers call the Vatican Bank … And then I will start buying property on both sides of the border using blind trusts set up in Panama, Luxembourg and Delaware. Trusts we will jointly control. Trusts that the Church will never know about.’

  ‘What do you have planned?’

  ‘The Church is eager for me to expand the Order. I will identify a dozen properties to purchase in the US and request funds to buy them outright. But instead the funds will be transferred to a BCCI account in Karachi, and thereafter funneled to the Virgin Islands and Liechtenstein. We will launder your cash by using it to place a deposit of ten percent on a hundred and twenty properties, borrowing the rest from savings and loan establishments in the southwest, using the Church as guarantor. We will renovate these properties quickly and sell them on for a profit, avoiding capital gains thanks to our tax-exempt status. We will then return to the same savings and loan establishments, borrowing ten times the previous amount and purchasing thousands more properties. We will sell the mortgages of all these properties on to a holding company for cash, thus laundering even more of your money. This holding company will issue two sets of bonds. We shall be secured lenders, but the unsecured lenders – the future unsecured debtors – will end up being the Church.’

  ‘Why would the banks agree to such a scheme?’

  ‘The savings and loans are currently paying more in interest rates to the Federal Reserve than they’re receiving as fixed-term payments on their home loans. They are all massively in debt. Yet they still trade, in the hope of buying time until the rates eventually reduce. But in order to keep doing so, they have to hand out increasingly risky loans. It is unsustainable and it will collapse. But for the moment it is legal. The trick is to act fast and to avoid the consequences of the inevitable failure of the institutions.’

  ‘There must be someone in the Church who would see through the fraud?’

  ‘These are parish priests we are talking about, not chartered accountants. Elderly cardinals who dress in ermine gowns and satin slippers, not hardened business tycoons. They have willfully removed themselves from the world. Why would they know anything of its workings? Particularly when they involve complex financial structures.’

  An enchanted smile of possibility. Even a narco like Joaquín, grounded in the searing reality of the sierras, in the bone-breaking land of his ancestors, was as easily seduced
by the modern El Dorado of la tierra gringa as any bewitched teenager from the barrios ñeros of Mexico City. ‘It won’t take them long to ask questions.’

  ‘Not if I ensure that there is always a trickle of revenue passed on to them every month. It will be additional income. That’s all that matters. The trick is to make them believe in the magic of money.’ Padre Márcio understood the thinking of the tyrant. A fistful of coins flung at beggars from a passing coach was enough to keep the tumbrils of revolution at bay.

  ‘And when they find out that the funds have been diverted and their bonds are worthless?’

  ‘It will take decades for them to comprehend the fraud. By then both you and I will be gone.’ He turned back to Amado, relieved to see that the naked blade had disappeared. ‘It will be a question for the next generation to resolve.’

  Joaquín did something rare. He laughed, exposing yellowing calcium phosphate sown between golden crowns. It looked more like a leering threat than an expression of joy. ‘It sounds tempting, so there must be a catch. What else do you want, Father?’

  55

  Gloria

  The ambulance pulls up, Fuentes jumping out ahead of the medics, swearing when he sees the television cameras grouped around the entrance to the hospital. He quickly tugs the top sheet over Gloria’s face, trying to block the cameras with his hands as he escorts the trolley through a media gauntlet, Valdez standing solemn outside the hospital, the lenses pivoting to him as the procession passes. The trolley bursts into the hospital, the press blocked outside, their shouted questions suddenly muted. Valdez stares at Gloria, then looks up at Fuentes. ‘You said she was alive.’

  Fuentes wants to tear his head off. ‘She won’t be for long if images of her face are broadcast.’ He folds the sheet back down onto Gloria’s shoulders, the procession rolling fast along a corridor, doctors running towards them. ‘I said no fucking press!’

  ‘You know what they’re like.’

  There’s the flap and slam of the trolley being pushed into the emergency ward, leaving the two of them stranded alone outside. People have often told Fuentes he’s a good cop, but they’re wrong; totally wrong. A good cop is controllable. Reasonable. Malleable. And he is none of those things right now – which makes Fuentes one bad fucking cop. ‘It was supposed to be a covert operation!’

  Valdez grabs his arm. There’s surprising strength in his grip. ‘Bullshit, it was an unauthorized operation. You placed her life in jeopardy with your reckless actions.’ Fuentes has never seen Valdez like this before; transformed from a laconic, cynical bureaucrat into something sharp and dangerous as broken glass. He tries to free his arm, but can’t. ‘So watch that mouth of yours or I won’t just suspend you; I’ll break you.’

  He releases Fuentes as though he were disgusted to realize he was still in contact with him. ‘A full report, on my desk, today.’ It doesn’t sound like a request, or even a demand. It’s more like a sentence of execution. ‘Now follow me.’

  They step back out into the ambulance bay, the press gathering around. Valdez ignores the first shouted questions, signaling for silence. ‘Today three men were killed in a carefully orchestrated police operation linked to the kidnapping of a number of women in Ciudad Real over the past few months.’

  A number, not hundreds. A choice of words that reveals not the lie in a sentence but the lie in an entire language. A lexicon of contempt and cover-up. For the first time, Fuentes feels the true power of Valdez; a man who could take not just his job away from him, but his reputation and maybe even his liberty. A man who is rewriting history during an impromptu press conference. A trio of serial killers, not a city-wide, maybe even a national conspiracy. A few months, not years. A man who wouldn’t hesitate to crush Fuentes; not as punishment but merely as a warning to others. He has been blinded by his dismissive presumptions about Valdez. When he first arrived in Ciudad Real, he quickly identified Valdez for what he was: a cog in a corrupt system. But Fuentes thought he was merely ornamental; a diverting, shiny component that would simply spin in place, inching more important matters slightly forwards, when in reality Valdez is a hammering cogwheel, a brutal turning mechanism designed not to progress but to crush anything that passes beneath it. Fuentes has been duped by his quick assumptions; his lazy reading of a highly dangerous and duplicitous man.

  ‘Their captive was liberated unharmed.’

  ‘What’s her name?’ a reporter cries.

  ‘Her family has asked that her privacy be respected. She has obviously been through a terrible ordeal, and is currently being cared for by hospital staff. There will be a full press conference at six this evening. In the meantime, I wish to thank all my men and supporting agencies who carried out this successful rescue operation with professionalism and valor. This raid was the culmination of a long investigation and a meticulously planned tactical strike that has neutralized the kidnappers.’

  Kidnappers, not rapists and killers.

  Journalists shout questions over each other. ‘Ya me cansé,’ Valdez mutters, looking back one last time at Fuentes before disappearing into a sedan, his face a mixture of cold anger and cool triumph: the lofty disdain of a deity. Of course Valdez contacted the press himself. Why else would he have been there, awaiting the arrival of the ambulance like a foreign minister on a tarmac receiving a head of state? That isn’t necessarily suspicious in itself. The man is a politician within the department. Even his knowledge of the operation; the way he was able to spin its details with such short notice is typical of the flagrant careerism of a successful bureaucrat boosting his profile. What troubles Fuentes, what sends every internal warning bell erupting into a five-fire alarm, is the fact that he has mentioned nothing about the two wounded suspects.

  Either he doesn’t know about them, which is practically impossible.

  Or else he already has them in custody – his custody.

  Fuentes grabs one of the doctors exiting the room, who delivers boilerplate diagnosis. The prognosis is encouraging. She’s in shock, of course, but her vitals indicate she’s strong enough to receive a heavy sedative – essentially a medically induced coma, which will be maintained for at least twenty-four hours. ‘What about DNA samples?’

  ‘We’ve been instructed not to proceed with them for the moment.’

  ‘… Why not?’

  ‘Firstly, she hasn’t consented. Secondly—’

  ‘How can she consent when you’ve just put her in a coma?’

  ‘Induced a coma. Secondly, we don’t have consent from next of kin. We don’t even know her identity.’ So Valdez was lying about making contact with her family. ‘Thirdly, we have no information to suggest she has been sexually assaulted.’

  ‘There were sperm stains on the sheets.’

  ‘Which may have occurred at an earlier stage.’

  So now he’s an attorney as well as a doctor. ‘Can’t you just proceed with the assumption she was sexually assaulted, given the circumstances of her abduction?’

  Irritation creeps into the doctor’s voice for the first time. ‘We don’t even know what the circumstances of her abduction were.’

  ‘She was kidnapped, restrained and raped. I’ve just given you reasonable cause to proceed.’

  ‘Captain Valdez made it clear to our chief physician that he alone was in charge of this case and we were not to follow orders issuing from any other police authorities.’ Fuentes digests the implication of the news: Valdez has removed him from the case. ‘Look,’ the doctor says, ‘we’re not the enemy here. On the contrary, we’re doing our best to help the victim. But that’s all we can do. If you have issues with Captain Valdez, you have to resolve them yourself.’

  ‘I need your help.’

  ‘I just told you—’

  ‘Not with her, with two other patients, gunshot victims. Both men have serious leg wounds. I haven’t seen them come in yet.’

  The doctor sighs, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’

  While he’s waiting, Fuen
tes calls Gomez. ‘How’s forensics doing?’

  ‘They’ve found a ton of prints. No ID on the girl though.’

  ‘What do you know about the gunshot victims?’

  Fuentes doesn’t like the puzzled pause. ‘They were in the ambulances that followed you. Why?’

  ‘They haven’t shown up yet.’

  ‘Try the ballistic trauma unit at San Vicente.’

  Fuentes sees the doctor walking towards him. With all of that morning’s events, he still hasn’t had a chance to mention Mary-Ellen to Gomez. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  The doctor shrugs. ‘They’re definitely not here. I asked around the other hospitals. No one knows a thing about them.’

  ‘Did you try San Vicente’s?’

  ‘That was the first place I tried.’ The doctor studies Fuentes’ face. He finds something there that allows him to do something he ordinarily would never do: go out on a limb. ‘Have you thought of contacting the morgue?’

  56

  Ventura

  After Ventura returned to the restaurant the evening before, Mayor had invited her to spend the night at his place with the assurance that she would pass a peaceful night – code for promising not to attempt to seduce her.

  She had agreed to go to Mayor’s house under the pretext of picking up her car, which was parked there, safe and out of sight, almost ignoring the real reason: she was a woman on her own in Ciudad Real, and she was afraid. And she was seeking protection from a man more powerful and knowledgeable than her. It shamed her but it reassured her too. Now she had decided to take control of her own work, she might be able to once again take control of her life. A control she had gradually lost with Carlos.

  All that morning, she kept recalling her last moments with Carlos; how he sobbed as though he were a victim, not a perpetrator. As though he were the one being abandoned. For many women, it is a moment of unbearable anguish – to see the man whom they loved break down and cry. Even for strong women, it is often the one thing they simply cannot bear: the tears of their men; men they thought of as capable, indestructible – and often foolishly as their equal – suddenly reduced to sobs. No longer acting like men but crossing over to the realm of women, used to the crucible of tears, of suffering; of mourning. Burdened by the weary weight of martyrdom.