By late afternoon it had made the online papers.
¡MASACRE EN VALLARTA! the headline said in huge type. “Calcinaron a una persona y decapitaron a dos más,” read the subhead halfway down, just above the photos.
There were the bodies, posed against the concrete wall, the two headless and bloody, the third burned clear to the bone.
“Beltrán Leyva. It’s got to be.”
“Maybe it’s Sinaloa, Chapo’s boys setting an example.”
“Dumped at the Aguilars’ building? No fucking way. That’s a message to Sinaloa—and to this town.”
Michelle clutched her Perrier, drank, and nodded. Like she had a clue what they were talking about.
She’d gone to El Tiburón early in the evening, before sunset. It wasn’t Friday, but she’d hoped there would be people here she knew, engaging in the town sport of gossip.
She hadn’t been disappointed. Charlie sat at a table by the railing overlooking the sand. With him was the Asian-American man she’d seen here the first time she’d come, who’d gone on about how crime was bad for business. Broad-faced, red-cheeked, and sweating, he tilted back in his chair and drained his beer, rested his hands on his thick thighs. “Fucking craptastic,” he said.
His name was Nate—“Except around here they call me ‘El Chino.’ Nice, huh?”—and he was a structural engineer and contractor. “The Aguilars hired me to fix their sinkhole of a condo project,” he told Michelle. “First they tried building on unstable ground. Then they didn’t grease the right palms when the new mayor came in. Now they’ve got fucking narcos doing some voodoo Santería shit and dumping bodies on the property.”
“Santa Muerte,” Michelle said.
“Huh?”
“That’s what it looked like. The skull. Santa Muerte. The patron saint of the poor. And criminals.”
“Whatever. All I know is the job’s a crime scene now, on top of everything else.”
“Santa Muerte’s always been more of a Gulf cartel icon than a Sinaloa one,” Charlie said thoughtfully. “But supposedly Sinaloa and Gulf are allied these days. I’m not sure what to make of this.”
Oscar had said he was from out of town. Like Santa Muerte. Did that mean he was from Gulf?
“Maybe I’m wrong,” Michelle mumbled.
“Just tell me it’s not the fucking Zetas,” Nate said, pushing his lank hair out of his face. “Because that would just be the shit icing on my crap cupcake.”
“Are you all right?”
“What?”
Charlie was looking at her, his blue eyes bright even after all the beers and tequila.
“You seem kind of shook up.”
She’d been tearing off strips of napkin and twisting them into tight little spirals. Maybe that’s how he could tell she was upset.
“Nothing … just … I went out with this woman named Emma last night. Do you know her?”
“Emma? Emma Dellinger?” Charlie leaned back in his chair and snorted. “Yeah, I’ve met her.”
“Do you know anything about her father?”
“Not really. Just that he’s loaded and she’s daddy’s little girl. I hear the family compound up in San Pancho is something to see. Why do you ask?”
Michelle forced a smile. “It was just a strange evening.”
“I can imagine. She’s not the most stable. Unlike me.” He grinned and lifted his hand to call the waiter. “Join me in a Cazadores?”
They sat and sipped their drinks and watched the inevitable sunset. Michelle had a Bohemia. Cazadores was a tequila, and the thought of drinking tequila made her feel sick.
“This thing everybody’s talking about,” she finally said. “The bodies, the ones they found last night … I thought you said … that it was safe here.”
“Well, if you’re not involved in the drug trade, I stand by what I said.” He sounded annoyed. “I swear, from some of the shit you read, you’d think there were corpses on every street corner in Mexico.”
She thought about Gary’s claim, that they’d found bodies at the dump, which Vicky had known nothing about.
“But they found bodies here,” she said. “At that condo complex. What did Nate mean when he said it was a message?”
Charlie took a long moment, seeming to consider.
“Traditionally this has been Sinaloa territory. The cartel. You’ve heard of it?”
She nodded.
“The most influential cartel in Mexico these days. People like the Aguilars, the local power brokers, many of them have business tied up with Sinaloa. It’s like that in a lot of Mexico. The cartels have to put all that drug money someplace. Around here they invest in real estate, hotels and condos. Clubs. Helps them do their money laundering. That’s how it’s been for years. Overall, pretty quiet and stable. A vacation town. This isn’t where they do their real business.”
He lit a cigarette. The first since she’d arrived. “I’m cutting back, I swear,” he said, taking a long drag. “Anyway, things are changing. For one, the drug market in Vallarta is lucrative enough that it’s worth fighting for, what with all the gringos in town. So there’ve been some incidents. But nothing like what you get up along the border. They’re playing for the big money up there—for the plazas, the smuggling routes into the States.”
“Serapes?” A stocky vendor approached them, arms draped with blankets woven in bands of bright colors.
“No, gracias,” Michelle told him. “So what’s changed?” she asked Charlie.
“Calderón—he’s the current president—he’s gone to war against the cartels. Or so he says. Using Mexican military units to do the fighting, because the local and state cops are too corrupt. The last few years they’ve mostly gone after Gulf—Sinaloa’s main rival. To hear some tell it, the government’s been playing favorites, with the military taking out Sinaloa’s enemies for them.”
“Do you think that’s true?”
Charlie laughed. “Forbes magazine has the head of the Sinaloa cartel as one of the richest men in the world. Do you think that happens without friends in very high places? I don’t.”
He stubbed out his cigarette before it was half smoked. “It’s the butt end that kills you,” he said. “Or so I’ve heard.”
“I think it just kills you faster.”
“Well, in that case …” He lit a fresh cigarette. Coughed a bit. “Every time somebody high up in one of the cartels gets taken out, it puts things in a state of flux,” he said. “Chaos, even. Alliances keep shifting. The last year or so, Sinaloa’s been knocking heads with their old allies Beltrán Leyva. And you ever heard of the Zetas?”
She tried to remember from her reading at the Internet café. There were so many names that she hadn’t come close to understanding who was who, whose side they were on. The Zetas … it was something about an army.
“They’re an armed paramilitary, started out as the Gulf cartel’s enforcers,” Charlie said. “Became the tail that wagged the dog and turned on their former masters. They’re mercenaries—they’ll fight Sinaloa, Gulf, the police, anybody. And they think like a military unit. Complete with military-grade weapons, which, by the way, they get smuggled in from the U.S. They’re so well organized that the big cartels—Sinaloa, Gulf and La Familia—have formed an alliance to wipe them out. Now, supposedly the Zetas are working for Beltrán Leyva, and that’s what’s getting everyone around here so stirred up.”
“Because … they’re coming here? To fight for the drug trade?”
Charlie nodded. “Rumor has it.”
He leaned back in his chair, seeming to watch the sunset. “That’s one story. I got another one for you, if you’re up for it.”
She wasn’t sure that she was. “Why not?” she said anyway.
“The Zetas’ founders were Mexican military officers trained at the School of the Americas, did you know that? Them and half the dictators and torturers in South America over the last couple of decades.” He sipped his tequila. “You can look it up.”
“School
of the Americas?”
“The army school at Fort Benning. Which is a CIA front, of course.”
“Of course.”
Calm down, she told herself. This is Charlie talking over tequila. Next thing you know, he’ll be telling me that 9/11 was an inside job.
“So what exactly are you saying?” she asked. “The CIA hired the Zetas to … to take out Sinaloa?”
She knew that she’d sounded sarcastic. Disbelieving.
The last thing she wanted was for all this to be true.
“Not necessarily,” Charlie said, waving his arm, cigarette making an orange trail in the dark. “Sometimes you create something that you can’t control. Blowback. Like Osama. The mujahideen. Religious fanatics that the U.S. government armed to fight the Soviets in Afghanistan.” He snorted. “That worked out well.”
He finished off his shot, then raised his hand to call the waiter for another. “But who knows? Look at it this way. A war breaks out between two cartel factions. People get slaughtered. It’s out of control. And who do you think comes in next, to restore the peace?”
“The Mexican military?” she guessed.
“Got it in one. And then ask yourself, who ends up in charge?”
She tried to think it through, but she couldn’t. She hadn’t slept. Her head hurt. She closed her eyes and saw Oscar lifting his shot of tequila, saw the statue of Santa Muerte lit by flickering candles.
“I don’t know, Charlie. I’m pretty confused.”
“If you’re an optimist, the president.”
The president who’d had officials corrupted by Sinaloa. Who’d been accused of favoring them. “And if I’m not?”
“The military itself. Which has been infiltrated by the cartels, too.” Charlie shrugged. “Everything has.”
She walked back toward Hacienda Carmen along the packed sand by the water’s edge. The ocean scent, the kelp and the brine, soothed her a little, though not nearly enough. Nothing really could.
She stepped off the sand onto the cobblestones and headed up the hill to Hacienda Carmen.
A block up from the wrought-iron gate was a late-model white SUV; she could see it glowing under the street lamp.
She froze in place, heart thudding. Stupid, she thought. Many people drove SUVs. Not all of them were interested in her.
She thought some more, about articles she’d read. About people getting kidnapped in Mexico in broad daylight. And it wasn’t even daylight now.
Walk slowly, she told herself, Watch closely. If anything looks off, run like hell.
The SUV was a new Navigator with gold trim, its engine idling, white exhaust wafting from the tailpipe.
She walked up to the gate of Hacienda Carmen, opened it, and went inside.
Just after 9:00 P.M. She’d gone beyond exhaustion to that point where she knew she wouldn’t be able to fall asleep; she was too wired. Now and again her mind would make pictures, like snapshots, of what she’d seen the night before. She tried to push them away, but it didn’t work.
As she went into the bathroom to brush her teeth, she heard three short knocks on the door.
Don’t answer it. Just don’t. Hide in the bathroom. Lock the door.
Okay, she told herself. That’s not a rational response. Probably.
It was probably just Paloma, from the front desk.
She went to the door and opened it as far as the door guard would allow. A woman stood there, middle-aged, dark hair and dark eyes.
“Michelle,” the woman said. “Is this Michelle? Danny’s friend?”
“Who is this?”
“María. María Aguilar.” A pause. “You were a guest at my party.”
She’d come alone, as far as Michelle could see; there was no one on the little balcony or on the stairs behind her.
“May I come in? I won’t take up too much of your time.”
Michelle hesitated.
“It’s important,” she said. “And I would be very grateful.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” María sat in one of the room’s two chairs, twisting around the chunky ring that she wore on her left hand. Her eyes were red, the lids puffy.
Michelle had met María for all of five minutes. Maybe ten. And now the woman was sitting in her hotel room.
Given the last couple of days, this could not be good.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” Michelle asked. She still had the bottle of white in the mini-fridge.
María nodded, twisting the ring on her finger. She wore a black lace shawl over a gray silk blouse this evening, a small gold cross hung on a gold chain around her neck.
“Sorry, I don’t have proper glasses,” Michelle said, handing her a tumbler. She poured her own into a coffee cup and sat down in the other chair.
“Do you know how to reach Danny?” María asked.
“I …” She wasn’t sure how to answer. Should she offer Daniel’s cell number? Wouldn’t María have that already?
“I have his number, of course,” María said with a wave of her hand, as if she’d anticipated the question. “But he does not pick up. And it’s important that I speak to him.”
“Well, if you can’t get a hold of him, I don’t know that I’ll be able to,” Michelle said. “He speaks highly of you. I think he’s just very busy.”
Now María gave her a look, a half-raised eyebrow, head tilted back, the way she’d looked her over at the party. “Really? I had the impression that the two of you are close. That you are … important to him.”
“I’m not sure why you think that.” Which was the truth.
“He brought you to my party,” María said simply. “He introduced you to everyone. He wanted us to know about you. And you are still here, in Vallarta.”
She’d wondered why Daniel had brought her to that party. Now she thought she knew.
She’d been chum, tossed out to attract the sharks.
She felt a surge of rage. She took a sip of wine and swallowed it.
“I should be seeing him soon. I could give him a message for you. If you can’t reach him before then.”
María closed her eyes and rocked back and forth in the chair.
“Yes,” she said, suddenly still. “Yes. Tell him we are loyal. No matter what has been said. Tell him that. Whoever is responsible, we deserve protection.”
She shook her head and gulped some wine. “What’s important is stability. Chaos will only benefit the most wicked.”
“Right,” Michelle said. “I’ll tell him.”
María stood up slowly, her hands shaking. She put the tumbler down on the credenza by the door.
“My husband did not deserve this,” she said. “Tell him that.”
[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE]
“Morning, Michelle.”
“Hi, Ted.”
He’d let her sleep in till seven this time, and she had managed to sleep, a little, thanks to Tom’s Ambien.
“It’s been a couple days since we’ve talked. What’s going on?”
“I … I haven’t seen Danny.”
“So you been keeping busy?” A pause. She could imagine him smiling on the other end of the line. “You take any good photos?”
“No, I …”
How much should she tell him about the last two days?
“I had something strange happen last night,” she finally said. “María—María Aguilar, the woman who had the party I went to. She came here wanting to get in touch with Danny.”
“Oh, yeah?” Gary sounded suddenly alert.
“She said something about her husband. That he didn’t deserve what happened to him. Do you know anything about that?”
A pause. “Well, it’s a sad thing. He got killed the other night. Him and a couple other guys who I guess were narcos. It took a little longer to ID him because they burned his body.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak, only nod, even though he couldn’t see her. “Do they know who did it?” she asked. “Or why?”
Maybe Gary could at least tell
her who Oscar was. Who he worked for.
“Couple of possibilities. He got caught out in the middle of something either way.”
“Is it … is it the Gulf cartel? Or the Zetas? Or …?”
Gary chuckled. “My, my. Sounds like you’ve been doing a little research. That’s great, Michelle. I like to see someone who has a genuine interest in the job. I can tell, you’ve got a real future in this line of work.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“Well, it’s too soon to say. These guys, they’re always fighting about something. It could be an internal dispute, for all we know.”
She swallowed her frustration. It was as much of an admission as he’d ever make, and it told her nothing.
“Anything else going on I should know about?” he asked.
Through the open window behind her bed, she could hear the donkeys braying on the hillside.
“Look, I’m going to have to call you back,” she said. “I’m meeting Danny for coffee, and I’m running late.”
“So early?” She could picture his smile. “He must really like you.”
“He’s busy,” she said. “I’ll call you after.”
“All right, Michelle. Just make sure you do that.”
She’d lied. Not a big lie, just a small one. She wasn’t meeting Daniel for a couple of hours. But she’d needed a little time. Time to decide what to tell Gary. She wasn’t sure if he needed to know what had happened that night with Emma and Oscar. Or if it would be dangerous for her to tell him.
“I don’t have a lot of time, but I can meet you at your place around nine,” Daniel had said.
“No, let’s … let’s meet somewhere else. Like, on the beach, maybe.”
“Okay. Your old hotel, how about that? It’s a big place, we can probably grab a coffee somewhere quiet.”
It felt strange, walking into her old hotel. Like walking into another life. It felt so long ago. But it had been, what? Two weeks? Less than that. A week and a half.
“Señora Mason,” the woman behind the front desk said. “How nice to see you! But I thought that you’d left Vallarta.”
Michelle managed a smile. “So did I.”
“Have you come back to spend some time with us?”
“Well, no, just … I wanted a place to meet my friend, for breakfast. And I thought this would be a nice place. Is it okay, if I’m not a guest?”
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