The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  Hugo set his glass on the bedside table. “Someone from Marca Cortez was in his office?”

  “Yes.” Lorena brushed powder across her cheekbones. “A man named Eduardo Cortez Castillo. He went to the same benefit I did that evening. That’s how I found out his name. Fernando wouldn’t even introduce us.”

  “Cortez was in Fernando’s office?” Hugo practically shouted.

  Lorena dropped her brush. “What is the matter with you?”

  “Eduardo Cortez Castillo is the director of the Office of Special Investigations,” Hugo frothed. “He’s my top anti-corruption investigator.”

  Lorena frowned. “No, he works for Marca Cortez. Making talavera.”

  “He works for me. His family owns Marca Cortez.” Hugo got out of bed and hauled on his pants. “Eduardo gives their money to charity now and then.”

  “My dishes,” Lorena insisted. “Why else would he be in Fernando’s office?”

  “Dios mio, Lorena.” Hugo hurriedly stuffed his shirt into the waistband of his pants. “What did I just say?”

  She stood, clearly annoyed with his tone. “You mean, investigating something?”

  “Reporting an investigation to the president.”

  “But you said he worked for you. Wouldn’t he report to you?”

  Hugo couldn’t believe he had to spell it out. “Not if I was the subject of the investigation.”

  “You mean you and me?” She gestured at the bed.

  Hugo was speechless for a moment, livid at her selfishness, then Lorena put her arms around him and he calmed down. Of course that’s what Lorena would think, she didn’t know the truth. He took a breath, put his hands on her waist even as he wanted to grab his phone and call Luis to make sure the dogs were sniffing around Cortez. “I can find out, make sure it wasn’t anything about you.”

  Lorena kissed the tip of his nose then moved away to find her shoes. “If this Cortez works for you, can’t you get rid of him? If he’s a troublemaker send him away on a trip or a conference. Make him go check your boat and drown.”

  Hugo started to laugh. At first it was a tinny chuckle tinged with hysteria, then it became genuine laughter that shook his body and made his eyes water.

  Lorena put a hand on her hip, gorgeous in her upswept hair and form-fitting dress. “What is so funny?”

  Hugo was laughing so hard he could barely speak.

  “The last time we spoke.” He stopped to wipe his eyes. “I told Eduardo to get fucked.”

  '

  The old man was senile, Hugo decided. They’d been sitting in the bar at the Hotel Arias for more than an hour. He’d listened to Bernal Paz’s economic drivel and compared stories of raising boys until Hugo could bring up the fact that Bernal Paz had been seen having lunch with Cortez a couple of weeks ago. Bernal Paz didn’t ask how Hugo knew about the lunch, which was good because Hugo’s resources were none of the old fart’s business.

  “I have no intention of becoming involved in the affairs of your ministry, Hugo,” Bernal Paz said.

  “Eduardo didn’t ask you for information?” Hugo asked.

  Bernal Paz pursed his lips. “I was a friend of Eduardo’s father,” he said testily. “I have an obligation to the man’s memory to ensure that his son treats the name of Cortez with respect.”

  Hugo nodded in sympathy. “You’re worried about Eduardo, Don César?”

  “He is a man who cares nothing for his heritage,” Bernal Paz sniffed. “No offense to you and the ministry but Eduardo should be running Marca Cortez.”

  Hugo settled back in his thickly upholstered chair, resigned to giving Bernal Paz one last try. The bar in the Hotel Arias was excellent; darkly paneled and dimly lit and perfect for quiet conversations. “Eduardo runs a very efficient department,” he offered. “He’s very good at his job. Why he recently caught some contractors who’d managed to wangle millions of pesos out of the government. Knows where to get information and how to use it.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Bernal Paz said.

  Hugo nodded thoughtfully. “But I worry about that,” he said. “So, if Eduardo had, say, overstepped his bounds, I’d need to know. For example, if he was asking you to use your connections to provide him with information he’s not entitled to have.”

  Bernal Paz drained his glass of single malt scotch. He coughed a little with the glass still on his lips.

  “That really would have been a misuse of his position,” Hugo went on. “And he would have been disrespecting your position as well.”

  “Our families have been close for years.” Bernal Paz spoke slowly and deliberately, as if he needed Hugo to understand something important. “Eduardo used to play with my son Octavio.”

  “Really?” Hugo mused. “How interesting.”

  “Marca Cortez has always banked with my family.” Bernal Paz’s voice wavered for a fraction of a second.

  Hugo almost didn’t catch it. “A considerable amount of business, I assume.”

  The old man adjusted his silk tie and stood slowly, unfolding like a metal coat hanger being straightened into a length of wire. “I really must be going, Hugo. It’s been such a pleasure catching up.”

  Hugo stood and offered his hand. They shook as Bernal Paz’s gaze fixed on something over Hugo’s shoulder. When Bernal Paz tottered out a bodyguard who’d been sitting at a table by the door rose and followed him.

  The waiter padded by on the thick carpet and picked up the empty glasses. Hugo ordered another drink and brooded. The old man was afraid of Cortez’s leverage over the Bernal family, but that didn’t necessarily have anything to do with Lorena’s campaign.

  As he waited for the damn waiter to get back Hugo looked at the other patrons. The younger types who had more money than brains clustered around the long mahogany bar. Those who came for the hotel’s famous discretion were in the high-backed upholstered chairs. The slim, urbane man in the corner with a laptop was Max Arias’s boyfriend.

  Hugo was more than a little drunk by the time his bodyguards got him into the car and the chauffeur drove home. Graciela had waited up. She wore some sort of sweat suit made of a thick fabric. There were stripes on the pant legs that made her look like a painted ball.

  “Go to bed,” Hugo said sourly.

  “You didn’t call,” she said. “Again. Reynoldo wanted to talk to you about that school trip. You told him you’d discuss it tonight.”

  “Don’t make demands, Graciela,” Hugo muttered. He pushed by her, went into his library, and closed the door. He went to the computer, belched heavily, and fumbled through the login routine, cursing as he messed up twice. He hit all the right keys in the right sequence the third time and there was the page. He hated the clever attachment routine but the messages wouldn’t post otherwise. Each message could only be so long so he ended up posting two.

  Hh23051955: Possible intruder. Removal assistance required.

  Hh23051955: Use more 7s at Site 1 for secure shipments.

  Chapter 24

  Luz’s week dragged. The children went to school. Señora Vega went to the spa and Café O and had more parent-teacher conferences. Señor Vega drank heavily in his study, smoked cubano cigars, and ranted at meals about the upcoming elections, the high cost of pulp paper, and the mythical Los Hierros. Luz did her chores like a zombie, fended off Alejandro, didn’t take off early on Wednesday, and wore her stupid face all the time to keep from crying.

  Eddo invaded her thoughts when she was tired, but he was probably some type of criminal. If he wasn’t, wouldn’t he have told her what he did? She told herself that things had turned out for the best.

  Really.

  Really.

  Sunday evening Rosa came back from her weekend with two big plastic bottles of toronja soda. She’d spent Friday at home in Cholula with her family but returned to Mexico City the next day to be with Manuel. She’d slept with him in his car Saturday night and spent Sunday watching him use a red rag to wave cars into parking spaces in front of a church.

&nb
sp; “Luz, can you believe how much he made? He said I was his good luck charm.”

  They were upstairs in their room. It was 10:00 pm and the house was quiet. Manuel had made 400 pesos and that was probably all he’d make for the entire week. Luz tried not to think of the 3000 peso dinner she’d had a week ago.

  “Okay,” Rosa went on. “Enough of the martyr thing. I’m beginning to think you’re turning into Santa Lucia or something and I’m going to see your eyes on a plate any day.” She handed Luz a bottle.

  “Thanks.” Luz put the toronja soda—a Fresca imitation--on the bedside table. She put on her nightgown and curled up on her bed.

  “Don’t thank me until you’ve tasted it.” Rosa slipped into her own nightgown and made a come on motion.

  Luz unscrewed the cap, took a healthy swallow, and nearly choked. “Madre de Dios,” she gurgled, pulling the bottle away from her lips. The cheap soda was liberally laced with even cheaper tequila. It hit her stomach like a bomb and made her eyes water. A curdling heat spread throughout her body.

  “Keep going,” Rosa admonished.

  Luz widened her eyes and took another big swig. Maybe some cheap tequila was just what she needed. By the time Luz was a third of the way through, she told Rosa about meeting Eduardo Martín Bernardo Cortez Castillo at the Tamayo and going with him to Jardin del Arte.

  “He gave you his wallet?” Rosa was shocked. “How much was in it?”

  “I don’t know,” Luz said. Her voice sounded higher than usual. “I didn’t look. But he paid 3000 pesos for dinner. Effectivo.” Cash.

  “You are a liar,” Rosa breathed. “There’s no dinner in the world costs that much.”

  “Santa Fe,” Luz said proudly. “Argentina. El Rincon de Santa Fe.” The “s” in santa came out sounding like “sh” and that sounded like Señora Vega. Loosh. Luz giggled and drank some more toronja-and-tequila. The concoction tasted like fizzy motor oil but it was smoothing out the edgy weepy feeling she’d had all week.

  “You ate at a restaurant?” Rosa was clearly impressed with Luz’s great adventure. “A real restaurant, not the food court?”

  Luz started looking at the situation from Rosa’s point of view. Which was a lot nicer than her own. She told Rosa all about El Rincon, how Eddo had thought she was looking for the bathrooms, and the salad fork crisis, which prompted Rosa to do a fairly good imitation of Señora Vega (“Loosh, how many times do I have to tell you, the salad fork on the outer left”). Fueled by the tequila, Luz described Eddo’s apartment, his terrible coffee, and how good he’d looked naked. Rosa was agog and Luz got increasingly glib.

  They discussed Eddo’s physique at length, until Rosa said he was too handsome to believe and that Luz had to be making it up.

  Luz was beyond embarrassment and real coherent thought by the time she was two-thirds of the way through her bottle and she giggled uncontrollably as she told Rosa about being in the bathtub with Eddo.

  Rosa’s jaw dropped. “You blew him in the bathtub?!”

  “Yes, I did,” Luz said to both Rosas sitting across from her. “And he liked it, I swear to the Virgin.”

  “Of course he did,” Rosa said thickly. “Manuel wants me to do it to him. How was it?”

  “Muy sabroso,” Luz said and it seemed to be the most delightfully wicked thing she’d ever said, calling Eddo tasty.

  “You’re my hero, Luz.” Rosa took another deep swallow and coughed a little.

  “And then we did it again in the bed.”

  “He was a three-timer?” Rosa suddenly seemed to be having a little trouble following the story.

  Luz laboriously counted on her fingers. “Yep. Three.”

  “Manuel can only do it once a night.” Rosa started giggling.

  Luz started laughing, too. “But in the morning he thought I was a puta.”

  “You were good,” Rosa roared.

  “I was great.” Luz tried to put her bottle down and she missed the bedside table and the bottle fell on the floor but it didn’t matter because it was empty. The bottle skidded a little and that was hysterically funny. Then Rosa rolled the neck of her bottle between her lips suggestively and that was hilarious.

  As the room spun in circles, Luz laughed helplessly until her sides ached. Rosa threw up her tequila in the bathroom, still giggling over the toilet bowl.

  Chapter 25

  Now and then, when it wasn’t occupied, they met at the safe house to make sure their keys all still worked and the place hadn’t been tampered with. It was a small brown stucco house south of the main business area, near the big medical center and the Lazaro Cardenas subway stop, where the neighbors were just short of poor and no one asked questions. A front company separated from Marca Cortez by seven degrees of complicated but legal paperwork owned the place and paid the water and electricity bills. The house had been used more than a few times, most recently for a homicide detective from Acapulco who’d been targeted by his union for refusing to participate in a pyramid bribe scheme; he’d been relocated to a private security firm in Toluca.

  A tall concrete wall topped by rolled barbed wire enclosed the property, similar to other houses on the street. Eddo clicked a remote and the solid iron gate rolled out of the way. Motion controlled lights blinked on. He drove into the small courtyard, noting the two cars already parked there, and hit the remote again. The gate slid back into place.

  As he walked into the house he called out his name, announcing himself so nobody shot him. He was rewarded with noise from the dining room and headed that way, admiring the place as he went. A few months ago Ana had spruced it up and the result was a pleasant combination of soft terracotta tones and Spanish colonial-style furniture.

  Vasco and Tomás were seated at the dining room table, jackets and ties off, with a pile of still hot empanadas on a take-out tray in front of them. “I bring the gods beer,” Eddo said and set down the six-pack he’d brought.

  “Pork. Chicken. Mushroom.” Vasco pointed out the various types of empanadas and indicated an empty plate.

  “All fried,” Eddo muttered as he took off his own suit jacket and loosened his tie. “Are we eating anything green?”

  “Here you go.” Tomás opened a beer and set it in front of Eddo. “Hops.”

  The three men clinked their beer bottles together and tackled the empanadas. Eddo ate slowly and felt himself unwind a little in the company of his friends. Madre de Dios but he needed it badly.

  “Got something on the funky website.” Vasco reached for his briefcase on the end of the table and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Canadian company owns it. Took some convincing but they gave us a list of clients.”

  Eddo wiped his hands on a napkin, found his reading glasses and leafed through the papers. “Over 200.” He passed the papers to Tomás.

  “The only Mexican entity using the hosting site is Lorena’s election campaign.” Vasco said.

  Tomás snorted. “Who knew she’d be that organized?”

  “No Mexican banks or investment companies,” Vasco said.

  “Anything from Panama?” Eddo said.

  “No.” Vasco took back the papers from Tomás, replaced them in his briefcase and took out a folder that he pushed across the table to Eddo. “But I ran down Montopa, that Panamanian company that wired some of the money into Hugo’s accounts. Construction.”

  “Good research job, Vasco.” Eddo opened the folder to find a commercial database profile of the company. Montopa was privately owned and profitable, with fewer than 100 employees. The company’s corporate address, major bank, insurance company, and top three executives were listed. The folder also held a reprint of an article from the Panamanian newspaper La Prensa on refurbishing the old part of Panama City known as Casco Viejo. Montopa was one of the firms buying up historic buildings and turning them into boutique hotels and upscale restaurants. Eddo read part of the article out loud and looked at the two men across the table. “What are the odds the company is legit?”

  “Construction on old bu
ildings.” Tomás picked up the newspaper clipping. “Bet Montopa has a lot of problems. Delays. Cost overruns. Payoffs.”

  “Dozens of opportunities to launder money,” Vasco agreed. He took the last chicken empanada. “But just to play devil’s advocate, maybe Hugo’s media company is a legitimate investor?”

  Eddo swallowed his beer before answering. “But if his company was legitimately involved with Montopa, why put money into accounts in his son’s name?”

  “How about the other way around?” Vasco threw out. “Make the accounts look legit by connecting them to a proper investment?”

  “Montopa’s a cartel front,” Tomás insisted.

  “More devil’s advocate,” Eddo said. “What are the chances there’s a connection to Lorena?”

  “Because Lorena’s campaign site uses the same business website as those userids?” Tomás asked.

  “There’s nothing.” Vasco shook his head. “You’re grasping.”

  “How about those userids and Lorena’s page?”

  “That was one of the first things I checked,” Vasco said. “I gave the site administrators the userids from the postings directions without saying where they came from. No matches with any of the companies using the website, including Lorena’s campaign.”

  “Miguel hasn’t gotten any further.” Tomás drank the last of his beer and unsuccessfully suppressed a burp. “Hasn’t been able to figure out any passwords and actually see what’s going on.”

  Eddo leafed through the list of companies using the postings website. Most were well-known international companies. No connection to either Hugo or the El Toro cartel. “You think the postings page is a dead end?” he asked.

  “Probably,” Tomás said. “Unless Miguel figures out a password.”

  The takeout tray of empanadas was empty. Vasco pushed the tray and their dirty plates to the far end of the table and produced three Cohiba cigars from a leather case. Tomás found an ashtray and lighter in the sideboard and set them in the middle of the table. Eddo took a cigar, appreciating the rich woody scent of the tobacco. He’d eaten three empanadas and downed two beers; the most food he’d eaten at one time since El Rincon de Santa Fe on Sunday.