by Tim Maleeny
“My brother has disappeared. So has my father. I want you to find them.”
“After ten years, what’s the rush?”
“I love my brother.”
“And you think the two disappearances are related.”
Rebecca nodded. “I think my brother got into some kind of trouble. We used to talk on the phone—he’d call whenever he sobered up. But then he stopped calling. When I tried to call him, his phone had been disconnected.”
“You try his friends?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t know his friends, so I did something that I swore I would never do.”
“You called your Dad.”
“And now I can’t find him, either.”
“Any ideas, hunches?”
“I think my Dad might have gone looking for Danny. I think he might’ve known what kind of trouble he was in.”
“That’s quite a leap, don’t you think?”
Rebecca’s eyes hardened for an instant. “The sins of the father. My brother is harmless—if something’s happened to him, it must be my father’s fault.”
Cape started to say something but caught himself. He didn’t grow up in her house. “Mind if I ask you some more questions?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Not at all, but I have one more for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you vote in the last election, Cape?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Did you vote for my father?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“OK.”
“OK what?”
“You’re hired.”
Chapter Nine
“I was right, this is complicated.”
Inspector Garcia said it sympathetically but Cape clenched his jaw anyway. He felt like a failure. You get hired to find a missing person, the client typically wants you to find that person alive. He downed the last of his tequila and turned on his bar stool.
“You have a talent for understatement.”
Garcia made a tsk-tsk sound. “You forgot to sip that last drink, my friend.”
Cape glanced at the bar and tried to remember the count, but the bartender kept replacing their empty glasses with tumblers full of the impossibly clear poison. “How many was that?”
Garcia shrugged. “I am off duty.”
“And I’m probably fired.”
“But you will be paid for your work to date, no?”
Cape nodded.
“But that’s not what bothers you, is it?” Garcia put a hand on Cape’s shoulder. “In your line of work, reputation is everything.”
“You learn that from watching a movie. Or a TV show?” Cape hated the sound of his own voice, the undercurrent of frustration. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Sorry, just pissed I didn’t find him sooner.”
“Who?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Cape. “We won’t really know who turned up until you visit the morgue.”
Garcia looked at his watch. “Too soon. But you have your suspicions.”
“Now who’s being coy?”
Garcia took a sip of his drink. “I admit it, I think your search has ended. Despite what you might read in the tabloids about crime in Mexico, this sort of thing doesn’t happen very often in a resort town. Mexico City, of course, but a place like Puerto Vallarta?” Garcia shook his head. “You find a gringo body, it’s usually an overweight tourist who had a heart attack in his room.”
“While screwing the maid?”
“Or the bellboy,” said Garcia. “We Mexicans are free thinkers.”
“Glad to hear it.” Cape finished half his drink in one gulp. He knew the tequila was slowing him down, but it was taking the edge off a growing depression, turning it into anger. He had no time for self-pity, but maybe he could put pissed to good use. “It does make me wonder…” He let his voice trail off as he set the glass down.
“Wonder?”
“Why a Chief Inspector would be hanging around a sleepy town like this.”
“Surely you know tourism is critical to Mexico’s struggling economy.”
“Yeah,” said Cape. “Think I read that in a guidebook. And surely the local polizia can handle the pickpockets and grifters that pass through here.”
Garcia took another delicate sip, closing his eyes as the liquid scorched a path across his lips. “What are you implying, compadré?”
“Maybe you knew there was a Senator and his kid South of the border.”
“You told me yourself, or are you too drunk to remember?”
Cape shook his head. “The tequila’s good, but not that good. I think maybe you already knew.”
Garcia shrugged. “It is an interesting theory.”
“Would you tell me if it was true?”
Garcia frowned, giving the question the consideration it deserved. “But who would tell me?”
“The Senator had a lot of connections,” said Cape. “I’ve barely scratched the surface, but like any politician, he had a gazillion business and consulting deals on the side.”
“I see.”
“And then there’s my client.”
“You think your client called me?”
Cape shook his head. “Not you directly, but maybe her lawyer tried to work through official channels before she came to me. She has a lot of lawyers.”
“Of course she does,” said Garcia. “She is American.”
“That’s the most likely scenario,” said Cape. “It’s what I would do if I was her lawyer.”
“You could ask her, no?”
Cape crossed his arms on the bar and rested his head on them. “I might, since you’re not telling me a damn thing.”
“That is the tequila talking,” said Garcia.
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“There have been so many. Who knew Americans were so inquisitive?”
Cape raised his head so he could make eye contact. “If you already knew about the Senator’s kid, would you have told me?”
Garcia didn’t hesitate. He met Cape’s gaze and said, “No.”
Cape smiled. It was impossible not to like this man, both candid and oblique at the same time. “Why not?”
“Why did you not tell me who you were looking for when we first met? I think, my friend, the answer to your question is the same as the answer to mine.”
Cape nodded. “Because I had no reason to trust you, any more than you should trust me.”
“Exactemente.”
“I hear there’s a lot of corruption in the Mexican police force.”
“Indeed?” Garcia laughed with his eyes but his mouth was a thin line daring Cape to step across. “And where did you hear this?”
“I think I saw it in a movie—Traffic, the one with Benicio del Toro.”
“He is a very good actor.”
“Good point,” replied Cape. “So maybe it’s not true, after all. He was just acting.”
“I did not realize you were so suspicious.”
“Failure will do that to you.”
“A man who is that hard on himself must be very good at his job.” Garcia looked at his watch again. “It is almost time.”
“You want company?”
“No, it would make some people…uncomfortable. Go to your room and I will call you later with the news. You can come to the morgue tonight if you like—I will make the necessary arrangements.” He lifted his jacket off a neighboring stool and took one of his cards from the pocket. “Call me if you think of anything of interest.”
“Like a dead body floating to the surface of the swimming pool?”
“Yes, that would qualify.”
Cape stood to leave, felt his legs readjust to gravity. He extended his hand and felt Garcia’s firm grip in his own. “One more question before you go?”
Garcia brushed lint off his slacks. “Of course.”
“How can a police inspector afford twelve-dollar shots of tequila?”
“That is simple, amigo.”
“Oh?”
“I charged them to your room.” The laughter in Garcia’s eyes returned, and this time his mouth had begun to curl at the edges as he turned and headed for the door.
Chapter Ten
Cape felt weightless.
That was the sensation from the tequila as he walked to the elevator, a tenuous separation from his mundane concerns, but the Muzak on the way to his floor ruined it. By the time he made it to his room, his bladder was protesting his failure to visit the men’s room in the lobby, and he couldn’t get an instrumental version of Hotel California out of his head.
After two unsuccessful attempts at getting his key card to work, he made a beeline for his bathroom, lifting the seat to the toilet with his right foot while he worked his zipper with both hands. He blinked as he straddled the bowl, anticipating release, and let his eyes come into focus. He exhaled slowly and then, suddenly—stopped.
He doubled over in discomfort and dropped to his knees, his head only inches from the porcelain, his right hand clutching the adjacent sink as he let his eyes readjust to the new angle.
I’m not that drunk.
For a second he feared he might be hallucinating, but he knew that wasn’t the case. The tequila might have slowed his pupils down, but they still worked. He stared into the toilet bowl and frowned at the fish swimming there.
There are fish in my toilet.
He had a fleeting thought this was something the resort did to amuse its guests. Maybe there was a kitten on his bed playing with a ball of yarn, a dog waiting in the living room with slippers in its mouth. All part of the club floor package, continental breakfast and live pets included.
But these were not koi, colorful oversized goldfish or exotic salt water species in rainbow colors. These fish were barely visible, less than three inches long and pale, almost translucent. Their bodies were impossibly narrow and their heads flared. Cape thought they looked like tiny arrows shooting back and forth. Whatever these creatures were, they weren’t brought to his room by housekeeping. And since he was staying on the top floor, he doubted they had swum from the sewer, up the pipes and into his room.
Pushing aside his need to urinate, Cape crossed his room and grabbed the phone. The front desk answered after three rings, the voice female and friendly.
“There are fish in my toilet.”
A long pause, a wait for the punch line. When none came, the pleasant voice said, “I’m so sorry, señor.” Another pause. “Would you like me to call maintenance?”
“Does this happen often?”
“Not that I know of, señor.” A polite hesitation, and then, “But this is Mexico. Anything can happen.”
“Any suggestions?”
“You could flush, señor.”
“Gracias.” Cape replaced the handset, then lifted it again as he pulled Garcia’s card from his pocket. He squinted as he read the instructions printed on the phone for calling a local number. Garcia answered after five rings.
“There are fish in my toilet.”
“Is this how you Americans say hello?”
“I’m not kidding,” said Cape.
Before Garcia could interrupt, he described the fish. When he had finished, there was nothing but silence on the line. Cape thought Garcia’s cell phone had cut out until he heard the other man’s breath as he exhaled into the mouthpiece.
“Describe them again,” he said, his voice a heavy monotone cutting across the static of the call. Cape did, right down to their flared heads.
“Don’t flush,” said Garcia. “And under no circumstances use that toilet—for anything—I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The pressure on Cape’s bladder reasserted itself at the thought of hopping around for twenty minutes, but he felt too tired to return to the lobby. “What if I have to take a piss?”
“Use the sink,” said Garcia. “Or the shower. Believe me, those showers have been pissed in plenty of times. Pretend you’re in a fraternity on Spring Break. But whatever you do, amigo, do not use that toilet.”
“Why not?” asked Cape. “They’re just fish.”
“Trust me,” said Garcia. “You’ll thank me later.”
Chapter Eleven
Sally whisked the tea into a green froth and contemplated death.
Four cups were arranged carefully in front of her. The first two were for her parents, dead these many years. The third was for Cape, a man she called friend, though never to his face. Serving the tea this way—as if her parents and Cape were there—was the closest Sally ever came to prayer.
Her eyes tracked the circular rhythms of her hand as she let her mind go blank. Her thoughts drifted, as always, to her childhood. Though it had not been a happy time, her formative years were full of rich memories.
Sally was orphaned when she was five. After her parents were murdered she was taken from Tokyo to Hong Kong, where she was enrolled in a school for girls. The school was highly competitive and very exclusive. Many girls never made it to graduation—some were expelled and sent home, others were transferred to smaller schools throughout Hong Kong. Some chose a different path from Sally, but a surprising number were crippled or killed before they were old enough to make that choice. The instructors were very strict.
The school was run by the Triads, the largest criminal syndicate in the world, the power behind China’s underground economy since the time of the Ming emperors. As China flirted with capitalism and the communists looked the other way, the power of the Triads surged. Their organization became a dragon with many heads, its claws sunk into every port, every business, and every politician in the middle kingdom. And the heart of the great dragon was Hong Kong.
To protect their interests, the Triads molded their own weapons from the clay of young minds. The process had been perfected over centuries of practice. The girls were kept in close quarters under tremendous pressure, forged into weapons in a furnace of betrayal.
Sally was their star pupil.
She could speak half a dozen languages with no trace of an accent, disguise herself as any nationality, or disappear into the shadows in less time than it takes to blink. She was proficient with weapons that had not been used for centuries—weapons easily concealed that were almost impossible to trace.
The basic principal behind the training was simple—direct young minds down a path before they found their own moral compass. But Sally’s parents had given her more than green eyes and lustrous black hair, or a laugh that sounded like a bark. They imprinted their love so deep within her that she never lost her sense of self, even after they were dead and buried. Sally conformed to the school’s training regimen but would never submit to anyone’s will except her own. So when the Triads decided to betray her, Sally showed them what a good student she had become.
As she stirred the tea, images of passion and pain flashed before her mind’s eye.
Standing on a pole with a sword in her hand, men running toward her with sharp spears and cruel smiles…a bow in her hand, the arrow notched and pointing at a bird in flight…a man’s body spinning like a leaf, plummeting twenty stories to the street below…her first kiss, the burn of the other girl’s lips against her own…her fingers slick with blood, uncertain whose blood it was, knowing there would be more…
Sally left Hong Kong and never looked back, leaving behind a wake of bodies cut directly from the heart of the dragon. The Triads knew better than to try and follow her to America, so an uneasy truce existed as long as each party left the other alone.
Buddhists believe you are not the same person today that you were yesterday or will be tomorrow. This means you always have a choice, never bound by your past, and a better path can begin with each step you take. Opening her eyes, Sally wanted to believe all this but knew she never would. Like the metal in a Japanese sword—folded hundreds of times to strengthen the blade—her past was at the heart of every cell, trapped in every strand of hair, and flowing within her veins.
And though Death had been her companion for
many years, Sally had no regrets.
She stopped stirring and continued the ritual, pouring tea carefully into the other cups before pouring her own. Though she didn’t know why, Sally could always sense when Cape needed her help. As she drank her tea, she wondered if he would live long enough to ask for it again.
Chapter Twelve
“It is called a candirú fish.”
Garcia was on his knees, gesturing at the fish with a penlight.
“They look mean,” said Cape.
“They are more feared than the piranha, my friend, and for good reason.” Garcia stood but kept his eyes on the bowl. “They don’t always kill you, but you wish you were dead.”
“Why?” Cape squinted at the near invisible fish as they darted back and forth.
“They are parasites,” said Garcia. “Sometimes called the toothpick fish, very common in the Amazon. They are attracted to warmth. If someone is bathing in a river, the candirú will swim into any available orifice and lodge itself there.”
“What do you mean, lodge?”
Garcia pointed toward the nearest fish. “See that spine on its back—the flared head? It might swim up your ass and gets stuck there, until someone can attempt a cure.”
“At least there’s a cure.” Cape sounded nonchalant but had inched backward from the toilet.
Garcia frowned. “A native cure requires two plants used in combination—they are shoved into your ass to kill and then dissolve the fish. But in most cases the victim gets infected, goes into shock and dies. It is very painful, but it could be much worse.”
“It gets worse?” Cape retreated another step until his back was against the tiled wall.
Garcia nodded. “As I said, the fish is attracted to warmth, and as you can see, candirú are excellent swimmers. So if one swims up your ass, you are lucky—at least you have a fighting chance.”
Cape tried to imagine having a spiny fish up his ass and feeling lucky. He gave up almost immediately as Garcia continued his narrative.
“Say you were taking a piss, as you had planned.”
“It was more of an urge than a plan,” said Cape. “But let’s say that I did decide to piss on the fish—so what?”
