The following afternoon he returned to Sam’s house, which looked even worse in the cold light of day, and gave him a ride back to his vehicle. The old pickup started with a belch of blue smoke, and El Rey followed it into the nearby hills until they reached the entryway to the Golden Meridian Lodge, where Sam worked.
The lodge turned out to be a series of small cottages arranged in a semicircle near Oak Creek, with breathtaking views of the nearby striated red mountains. They parked in a gravel lot, and Sam gave him a tour of the grounds, explaining the layout and the philosophy of the development: charging insane prices to privileged white people so they could commune with nature, which in this case meant buying expensive native art and jewelry, eating organic food, and cleansing themselves with a host of pseudoscientific rituals. This was where Sam came in, as the official lodge shaman – a role he’d grown into over the years as he’d proposed attractions like the Indigenous People’s nature walks and, his specialty, the sweat lodge.
Sam’s job was taking tourists for long hikes and acting as a quasi-mystical guide: divining what the guests’ spirit guide animals were; offering holistic healing advice for their inevitable eating disorders, sleeping problems, and arthritis; and immersing them in the lodge’s specialized three-day detoxification and purification ritual, which concluded each evening with an hour in the sweat lodge.
“I’m not bullshitting you. People will pay, like, five hundred to a thousand bucks a day for a third-rate massage, a hike, some liquefied crap I wouldn’t feed my dog, what we call ‘American Indian yoga,’ and an hour or two in a glorified sauna,” Sam explained. “It’s pure genius, and the lady that owns the place has made millions from it.”
“I don’t understand. Who buys into this? American Indian yoga?”
“Anyone with the popular new money social disease of white man’s guilt. They think that if they live for a few days like they think we did before they took our land away from us, they’ll be reborn, or at least, be less guilty. I don’t bother pointing out that our life expectancy two centuries ago was about half of what it is now, back when we were running around in buckskins in this supposedly magical wonderland and dying from stuff you can take a pill for today.” Sam shook his head. “Throw in some crystals, some New Age philosophy, some copper bracelets, and it’s perfect.”
El Rey studied his face, which could have been hewn from the red mountain rock. “And how do I help you relieve them of their money?”
“I’ll teach you what you need to know to help me out. Basically, it involves heating stones and tending to the sweat lodge, learning a few Indian terms, mastering the stuff I sling at them on our hikes, and a lot of penetrating gazes and cryptic comments. Once you’ve got it down, I’ll introduce you as my protégé to the lady who runs the place. That sounds suitably important, doesn’t it?”
El Rey’s eyes widened. “That’s it?”
Sam laughed. “Yup. Now I have to get cleaned up for tonight’s ceremony. You can start off your training session by going down the road to the market and getting a few cold ones to take the edge off. Wouldn’t hurt if a pint of Jack made it into the bag, either.”
El Rey nodded. He wasn’t surprised that Sam’s head felt like a punching bag. The assassin had forced himself to vomit twice in the bar bathroom, clearing most of the alcohol out of his system as the night had worn on, but Sam had enthusiastically poisoned himself until he could barely walk.
He headed back to the car, noting the wind chimes and the faint odor of incense drifting from the pool area, happy that the first part of his plan was coming together so nicely. He had a few days to gain Sam’s full trust, which he intuited could be easily won with more firewater and offers to do anything resembling actual work, and he intended to make himself indispensable during that time so that when the actor arrived for his cleansing, he would be Sam’s constant companion and alcoholic support system.
Chapter 17
Mexico City, Mexico
Cruz walked across the task force floor to Briones’ new office and stood in the doorway, watching as he sorted through piles of reports with a look of concentration on his face. Cruz allowed himself a small smile and cleared his throat.
“Looks like you’ll fit right in, Lieutenant. Congratulations again on your meteoric rise. I trust this office will be suitable?” Cruz teased.
Briones cocked an eyebrow. “It’s about twice as big as the cubbyhole I had before, and even has a window, so yes, it’s more than adequate.”
“It will feel a lot smaller once you get more file cabinets in.”
“How did all this get processed before it came to me?” Briones asked, gesturing at the stacks of documents.
“Now you know what I do from sunup to sundown. This is only half the load. I’m still fielding the other half.”
Briones shook his head. “Amazing. I honestly had no idea. Two days of this and I’m already drowning.”
“Makes being shot at by cartel baddies almost appealing, doesn’t it? Don’t worry. It gets better. You’ll devise a system that works.”
“Is that what you did?”
Cruz grinned. “Absolutely. I promoted you to do some of it.”
Briones gave him a glum look. “I had my staff meeting this morning. We have a lead on that rave that’s happening in a few days. It’s going to be at a big warehouse in Tepotzotlán. Outside of the metro area, in an industrial section where there won’t be any noise complaints. It’s supposed to be a big deal. There’s a lot of buzz on the street already.”
“What do we know about the organizers?”
“Couple of wealthy kids, entrepreneurs. This is all they do – throw a big party every month.”
“There’s a living in that?”
“A hundred fifty pesos a head, that’s around twelve dollars U.S. If they see a couple thousand attendees, it adds up. Even after paying for rent, security, portable toilets, and some DJs and light systems, they’ll probably walk away with ten thousand dollars apiece.”
“Not bad for a night’s work, is it? I need a new career.”
Briones considered Cruz and returned to his paperwork. “You might be a little mature for the rave scene, sir.”
Cruz snorted. “Story of my life. What have we heard about the kidnappers?”
“Not a word.”
Cruz shut Briones’ door. “The girl was finally returned to her parents, but there’s a disturbing wrinkle. She claims to have been raped by one of the kidnappers, and her physical examination bears that out.”
Briones’ eyes narrowed. “That’s a first. They usually don’t harm the victim…”
“I know. You can imagine the heat I’m taking. The parents want their heads on a platter, and that’s translating into a lot of angry calls from the uncle. He wants this group found and exterminated. That was the word he used.”
“Exterminated. Can’t say as the world would shed any tears.”
“Agreed. But there is that whole idea of making arrests and bringing them to justice.”
“Perhaps. Anyway, it’s a moot point. We’ve got nothing. The getaway driver clammed up after our discussion, and now he’s in the system being processed. Even if he knew anything, he’s out of our hands.”
“I didn’t get that impression, though, did you?”
“No.”
“And there’s nothing on the street? No rumors? No snitches wanting to improve their finances in return for a little information?”
“Not a word. The plainclothes guys say that whenever they ask, their sources clam up tight.”
“That’s consistent with it being a cartel operation.”
Briones nodded. “No question. But knowing that doesn’t get us any closer to shutting them down.”
Cruz sighed. “Let’s plan on mounting surveillance at the rave. That’s our best lead so far.”
“It will have to be a big operation. The area around the warehouse grounds is pretty large.”
“Whatever it takes. This has been prioritized as o
ur most important issue. The brass wants results and wants them quickly. So whatever you need, fill out a requisition, and I’ll make it happen.”
Briones nodded again. “Yes, sir. And can I take it that I’ll be unchained from this desk to run the operation?”
“I think we can make an exception this time, don’t you? But you’ll find that the paperwork keeps flowing whether you’re here or not, so don’t get too excited. I’ve learned it just means a couple of even longer days after I get back to catch up.”
“I don’t suppose I can just shred every third file, can I?”
Cruz opened the door. “Glad to see you’re getting acclimated. That’s the spirit.”
Briones watched his superior walk back across the floor and rubbed a hand over his face as he wondered what he’d signed up for. Maybe getting shot at wasn’t so bad after all.
Chapter 18
Sedona, Arizona
Carla Vega stretched her long bronze legs as she lay by the Golden Meridian Lodge pool, her black bikini providing scant coverage of her toned body. She’d arrived that morning, sending her cameraman on to Los Angeles for the award ceremony in three days, and had checked in and taken advantage of the hot stone massage after a long lunch, her cares melting away now that she was soaking up the sun.
A white SUV rolled up the drive, and she watched from behind her Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses as a striking man sporting a fedora and a dusting of beard got out of the passenger seat while the driver moved to the cargo door for the luggage. One of the white-clad service staff shouldered a rucksack, and they strode up the small rise to the main building to check in.
Robert Perry was instantly recognizable even from a distance, Carla thought as she sprayed a light film of suntan oil onto her skin. If her information was correct, he’d be there for two days, giving her more than enough time to contrive a meeting and see what she could ferret out in the low-key setting.
Perry was six years younger than Carla but looked the same age or older, his hard-driving lifestyle, habits, and constant sun exposure from his surfing hobby having taken its toll, she knew from her research and his most recent photographs. A good-looking man, no question, but not her style. She preferred grown men, not boys, and everything she’d learned about Perry pointed to a playboy with an adolescent ego, a narcissist wholly concerned with his own gratification and nothing else.
But she wasn’t in Arizona to find love, or even lust. Perry was somehow connected to the admiral and the archbishop – ex-archbishop, she thought, having seen the coverage of his untimely demise amidst cloudy circumstances. It hadn’t escaped her that so soon after the attack on the admiral one of the other names Beatriz had dug up had met with disaster, but from what she could gather, there was nothing suspicious about it – the bishop had taken his own life, a sad event, but hardly on par with a helicopter attack in front of several thousand bystanders.
Still, a part of Carla had cringed when she’d seen the news. She didn’t believe in coincidences, and while she wasn’t ready to go full-blown conspiracy theory, one dead man and another in a hospital bed gave her pause.
And of course, there was Perry, presumably here to clean his system out before the awards – one of his regular haunts, she’d learned, on a semiannual visitation schedule, a concession to his body’s protestations at the constant abuse to which he subjected it.
Carla closed her eyes and breathed in the clean, clear air, devoid of the taint of pollution that was a constant in Mexico City. She drifted off and started awake when a lounge chair scraped nearby. She cracked an eye open and found herself staring into Robert Perry’s baby blues.
He smiled at her as he reclined. “Gorgeous day for it, that’s for sure,” he said in his famous laconic drawl.
“Beautiful,” she agreed.
“I love it. One of my favorite places,” Perry said.
“It’s a nice break from the rat race,” she agreed.
“You look familiar.”
Carla sighed. “I’m a television journalist. But I’m here incognito.”
“I love your accent.”
“Thanks.”
“I’m here on the QT as well. I’m an actor.”
“Ah. I thought I recognized your face.”
He grinned infectiously, and Carla had to admit there was considerable magnetism in his smile, even if he was little more than an unruly schoolboy. “Robert Perry, at your service.”
“Carla Vega. Nice to meet you,” Carla said, raising her water bottle in a toast.
“Likewise.”
They made small talk, he about the Hollywood scene he was escaping, she pretending interest. Carla had long ago developed the skill of making any man she was speaking with feel like he was fascinating, which had helped her enormously in her career. Any questions directed at her she laughed off or gave superficial answers to, preferring to hear more about Perry’s riveting life.
After longer than she’d thought it would take, he finally got around to asking her where she was from.
She gave him a beaming white smile. “Mexico.”
“Really,” he said, having not thought through a follow-up line – typical, given how self-involved he’d been so far.
“Yes. Have you ever been?”
“Oh, yeah, a few times.”
“What part?”
“Baja. Surfing, mostly. I did a few road trips down the peninsula a few years ago, and I fly to San José del Cabo every now and then. It’s a good weekend getaway. Only a couple of hours from Los Angeles.”
“Yes, I hear it’s quite popular. I haven’t been in forever,” she said.
“You should go. It’s really pretty.”
Carla turned over, giving him a good view of one of her most famous assets. “Are you going to be at the awards ceremony next week?”
“Which one? People’s Choice? Yeah, I suppose so. I’ve been nominated for a few.”
“Oh, well, then maybe I’ll get a chance to interview you for my station. On the red carpet?”
Perry looked less interested now that the discussion had turned to business. “Uh, sure. If I see you. But I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Really? I got the impression from something I read that you were part Mexican.”
“Um, no. Spanish, but we never spoke it at home.”
“Ah.” She paused. “So you like Baja. Do you ever get to Tijuana?”
He shook his head. “Not since high school. It was kind of a shithole then. I haven’t had any reason to go back.”
“It definitely has its low spots. Did they cover the death of Archbishop Bolivar in the American press?” she asked, watching his face for any trace of a reaction.
“Who?” His disinterest wasn’t faked. Perry had never heard of him.
“Oh, the head of the Church in Baja.”
“Mmm, no. I don’t read the papers much, though.”
Of course not. As the bright star in his universe, he wouldn’t. What could possibly be more interesting than the events in his own life?
“Well, Mexico can be a very hospitable place, Mr. Perry. You should try to spend more time there.” Carla’s smile could have powered a small city, her flirtation unmistakable.
Forty-five minutes went by, during which she learned little she didn’t already know. He was returning to Los Angeles on Monday morning, his schedule packed: the show on Tuesday; a charity dinner on Wednesday before flying to Australia on Thursday for preproduction on an independent film – a favor to one of his buddies, he said. Perry seemed nice enough and invited her to dinner, but she declined, not wanting to seem too eager to spend time with him.
“Maybe a cocktail after, if you’re around,” she suggested.
“I’m only supposed to be drinking celery juice or whatever this weekend. All part of the detox thing.”
“Oh, I didn’t realize. I’m just here because it’s exclusive and peaceful.”
“I do the whole program. You should really check it out. You’ll feel like a million bucks after t
wo days of hikes and dieting and everything.”
“That’s good to know. Ah, well. I’m getting a little tender from the sun. If I see you this evening, I’ll buy you a juice,” she said, collecting her things. By the way he was devouring her with his eyes, she was confident she’d be running into him later.
“That’s the best invitation I’ve had all day.”
She slipped on her sandals and pulled a cover-up over her thong bikini and then gave the young actor a long, contemplative look.
“I’ll be at the bar around nine.”
Chapter 19
Mexico City, Mexico
The fair-haired man meandered down the sidewalk in the historical district, unremarkable amongst thousands of other pedestrians, his jeans, green soccer jersey and five o’clock shadow a kind of ubiquitous uniform for the city’s young males. Only his hair color might have stuck out, but it was tucked under the brim of a black baseball cap featuring the logo of an American sports team.
Vendors clogged the gutters, their carts laden with bags of nuts and candy, blissfully unconcerned by the dust thrown up by traffic. A squat woman with a surgical mask flipped hot dogs on a portable grill as customers waited, money in hand. The air was filled with the smell of cooking and exhaust as he turned a corner and moved onto a smaller side street. The pavement underfoot changed to cobblestones as he made his way toward the coffee shop, its sign already lit to compensate for the crepuscular glow in the sky, where he was certain his rendezvous would be waiting.
He pushed through the doors and saw his man sitting in a corner, looking like he’d been drinking battery acid. He approached and sat down across from him, the café empty at the late hour. A waitress appeared by his side, and he ordered a cappuccino, and the two men stared at each other wordlessly until she returned with the coffee and set it in front of the newcomer.
The fair-haired man took a cautious sip and set the cup down. “Delicious,” he pronounced softly.
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