Sizing up the investigators, the twenty-something host spoke in English. “Would you like a table?”
“No, thanks,” said Mallory. “I’d like to see Julio Diaz.”
“He is busy. Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but his son Marco said he’d be available now.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
Vasquez cleared her throat. Stepping forward, she pulled her police badge from her purse and showed it to the host.
The young man raised a single eyebrow. “I’ll tell him you’re here. Can you wait for a minute?”
Moments later, he led the investigators up a flight of steep stairs and into an office that could have been lifted from the mid-twentieth century. Palm fronds splayed from planters stationed in every corner. A lazy fan rotated overhead, and ancient mahogany bookshelves matched the desk behind which the owner sat.
The proprietor himself leaned back in a squeaky, leather chair. Over his large forehead fell a shock of dark hair in which the first hints of silver betrayed his age. Likewise, a portly belly bore witness to a lengthy career in the restaurant trade.
At first, no one spoke. Strains from the guitars and trumpets of a Mariachi band wafted in from the restaurant floor below.
“¿Qué quieren?” he said. “What do you want?”
“I’m Gaby Vasquez. This is my associate, Mallory Blackwell.”
Diaz raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“We’re part of a police task force that’s been talking to local businesses about the recent death of Dr. Oscar Salazar at the basilica,” said Mallory.
“The police, huh?” he replied in English. “When they start hiring gringos?”
Vasquez took a step forward. “Agent Blackwell is co-leader of a joint Mexican/U.S. team. She’s as authorized to ask questions as I am.”
After darting his eyes from Vasquez to Mallory, Diaz mustered a plastic smile. “What you want to know?”
“Did you know Dr. Salazar personally?” asked Mallory.
“Not really. But everybody around here knew his reputation.”
“What kind of reputation did he have?”
“He was a famous…how you say scientist who digs in the earth?”
“Archeologist.”
“Sí,” said Diaz. “His work was good for Zapopan.”
“Why is that?” asked Mallory.
“Before the project, we always have people visiting the basilica. But when Dr. Salazar start working here, we have new kinds of visitors—people who are interested in his kind of work. They want to see the things he is finding. It is part of their heritage.”
“And now?”
“Now the visitors, they stay away.”
“Why?” asked Vasquez. “Are they afraid of more crime in this area?”
“I guess,” said Diaz, “but maybe they don’t like how the work is being done now.”
“What do you mean?” asked Mallory.
“Like I say, Dr. Salazar was well known around here. Nobody knows this new scientist, the one leading the work. It’s too bad Dr. Salazar died instead of this new guy.”
“What new guy?” said Mallory. “Dr. Cornick?”
“Sí.”
“What makes you say that?”
Storm clouds gathered in Diaz’s eyes. “Dr. Salazar wasn’t just a respected researcher. He was a Mexican. He belonged here. These places the scientists are digging in, they are ancient sites, part of the heritage of the people who lived here before the Spanish conquistadors. The gringos come in like new conquerors. They should not be in charge of digging in these places.”
“So you feel another scientist, a Mexican one, should be brought in to continue this work?” asked Vasquez.
“Sí. But nobody cares what I think. I am just a shopkeeper. But I tell you…that is one reason the people stay away. They don’t like that a gringo is in charge of such an important national project.”
Mallory shifted her weight from one leg to the other. “You’ve had a restaurant here for a long time?”
“Eighteen years,” replied Diaz.
“And the slowdown in visitors here at Zapopan is affecting you?’
“Of course. By this time of night, my restaurant should be full. But more than half the tables are empty. I’ve already let three employees go.”
“So whoever murdered Dr. Salazar hurt your business. You’d be happy to see the person brought to justice, right?”
Diaz hesitated a split second. “Sí.”
“Good. Let’s discuss the night of the murder. Were you here that night?” said Mallory.
“Sí. But I don’t know about the murder until the next day…just like everybody else.”
“Did you see anyone who seemed out of place? Maybe they seemed worried or uptight?”
Diaz leaned back and folded his hands behind his head. “Like I tell the police before, I see all kinds of people here. Most of them are happy. But some are sad. And some are thinking about something else; they don’t pay attention to their friends. But I don’t see nobody that looks like they are gonna kill someone else.”
“Did you see anyone go into the basilica that night? Especially someone you hadn’t seen there before?”
Diaz snorted. “The restaurant was busy that night, so I never leave it. You see how far I am away from the cathedral? I can’t see who are the people at the basilica from this far away. And even if I was closer, I still can’t see them. It was too dark that night.”
“You remember it being dark?” asked Alton.
“Sí. The moon was…how you say?…not so bright. The person who murder Dr. Salazar is smart. He pick a good night for it…except maybe he killed the wrong man. Maybe he meant to kill the gringo.”
“That doesn’t seem likely, does it?” said Alton. “They don’t look much alike.”
Diaz shrugged. “Like I say, a lot of people don’t like the gringo here, even before Dr. Salazar die. And it was a black night. Hard to see the hand in front of the face.”
Mallory looked to Vasquez, who nodded. I’m done.
“Thanks for your time,” said Mallory, turning back to Diaz. She wrote on the back of her business card and handed it across to the restauranteur. “If you think of anything new, please give me a call. I’ve written Lieutenant Vasquez’s number on the back if you’d rather call her.”
He took the card and laid it on the corner of his desk. “Of course. We all want to see justice done.”
CHAPTER 10
Mallory had little time to dwell on her conversation with restaurant owner Julio Diaz.
The two investigative teams had split once again to pursue their individual objectives. Mallory and her teammates made good time across the plaza to return to the Zapopan basilica, site of the earthquake.
As they approached the church, Mallory spotted a young policeman leaning against one of the stone arches lining the building’s left breezeway, scrolling through his phone.
“Why don’t you meet Dr. Cornick inside?” she told the others. “I’m going to see if this guy is the help Lieutenant Vasquez promised.”
While the rest of her team veered right into the folds of the scaffolding tarp, Mallory headed left to the arch.
“Sergeant Pineda?” she asked.
The policeman glanced up from his phone and took in Mallory’s athletic frame with a single top-to-bottom flick of his eyes. He broke into a smile. “Sí, señorita. Sergeant Pineda, at your service.” He finished with a deep bow.
Mallory played with her wedding band. “Glad to have your help. Lieutenant Vasquez briefed you on our progress on the case so far?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I’m going to have Dr. Cornick tell us more about the members of his team.”
“The ones who were murdered?” asked Pineda.
“No, we already know about them. I’d like to know more about the ones who are still alive and working on the dig sites. Why don’t you join us inside?”
Pineda gestured in the direction
of the entrance. “After you, señorita.”
After the late-day sunshine of a cloudless day, a walk into the basilica’s interior lent the impression of a multi-century jump into the past. Only now, dim electrical lights replaced wax candles.
As they progressed down the church’s center aisle, the policeman trailed Mallory by several steps. Mallory could guess why. He was conducting the same appraisal as before, only from behind.
They joined Cornick and the other investigators at the folding table set up in front of the altar.
The archeologist wiped the last traces of clay and dirt from his hands. “What’s the latest?”
Mallory recapped the discussion with Julio Diaz with the exception of the restaurant owner’s disparaging remarks about Cornick himself. The scientist bore enough burdens without that additional stress.
“And now,” continued Mallory, “I’d like to get a better handle on the folks who are still working here.”
Cornick shook his head sadly. “We rotate in students from Guadalajara University for a week at a time. Helps with our workload and helps the students meet their course requirements. But there aren’t many of us full-timers left now. Once the earthquake hit, we were spread pretty thin trying to research this site and the original Chapalas one. And that was before…” He cleared his throat. “Well, on to your request. You’ve already met Elias Tan. He’s a grad student. This is his third dig with me, his fourth altogether.”
“What’s his background?”
“From the bay area, just south of San Francisco. Modest background—financially, that is. An above-average student with occasional flashes of brilliance. His results have steadily improved each time we’ve worked together. That’s why he’s my right-hand man on this site.” Cornick pursed his lips. “I don’t know much more than that. Sorry.”
“We can look him up,” said Mallory. “Anyone else?”
“Yes. You met Adriana Mura yesterday, too. She’s a Mexican citizen—a grad student at Guadalajara University. Dr. Salazar saw potential in her and recruited her to join his team. She leads the other grad students, the ones you saw helping her excavate the Chapalas site.”
“What do you know about Mura’s background?”
“Almost nothing, to be honest.”
“I can check on that,” said Sergeant Pineda. At least the man was good for more than ogling.
Cornick continued. “Dr. Salazar’s assessment of her talent was spot on. She does fine work. Her extraction technique is average, but her knowledge of Aztec myths and legends is extensive, almost encyclopedic. And that’s a great aid to interpreting the artifacts we uncover. She’s been assigned to lead the Chapalas site dig ever since Dr. Salazar’s death.”
Mallory nodded. “Have Tan or Mura ever had a beef with any other team members?”
“No, not that I’ve ever seen.”
“What about with other folks in the community?”
“Not that I’m aware of. Adriana is classic personality ‘type B.’ She gets along with everyone. Elias can be a little…abrupt…at times, but that’s just his personality. He’s a very focused guy. Once he sets a goal, he doesn’t like anything to get in the way. And that’s a good trait for an archeologist. Fully excavating a dig can take years. We need scientists who have the perseverance to see a project through to completion.” The archeologist’s shoulders sagged. “And that’s all for the full-time team members, except for Jaime and his crew. But they don’t work for me, at least not in the same way. They’re the guards.”
“Guards?”
Cornick nodded. “Remember yesterday I mentioned how some of the relics inside the central chamber are one-of-a-kind? Right after we discovered the chamber, we began posting guards to protect the artifacts there. No one goes in except the members of my team and you investigators.”
“Those artifacts are that valuable?” asked David.
“Oh, yeah. Don’t get me wrong. A lot of them aren’t, but a rare piece can be worth hundreds of thousands…or more.”
“You said Jaime is a guard. Is he a policeman?”
“No, he’s a local guy Elias hired for the job. He runs a clothing shop down the street in the pedestrian marketplace, near the restaurant you visited earlier. Business is slow, so Jaime and his staff agreed to help.”
Mallory twirled a strand of hair around an index finger. This revelation added a whole new dimension to the investigation. “Is there any possibility someone tried to bribe the guards to access the site?”
Shock registered on Cornick’s face. “I…hadn’t thought of that.”
“If it turns out drug smugglers aren’t involved with these recent crimes against your team, then guard bribery is a distinct possibility. Perhaps word got out about the value of the treasures you’ve uncovered. Someone bribed a guard, or maybe the guards helped themselves. Then Grey got wind of it…”
“But she was killed at her apartment,” pointed out Cornick.
“Possibly by someone who didn’t want her to report the robbery to you or the police. Her apartment would be a private spot to commit a murder—a lot more private than here in the basilica.”
“By gosh, you’re right!” said Cornick, rubbing his chin. “It all fits together. Dr. Salazar could have been murdered for precisely the same reason. He often stayed late.” The enthusiasm lighting his countenance faded. “But see here…I’d know if people were stealing artifacts from under my own nose. Everything in the tunnel and chamber is catalogued down to the last vase and locked in on-site cabinets. Even if someone managed to break the locks, the guards would question someone carrying out artifacts.”
“Plus,” said David, “even if someone did smuggle out an artifact, what are they going to do with it? Sell it on eBay?”
“Oh, there’s a thriving black market for stolen artifacts,” said Cornick. “Has been for centuries.”
Mallory contained a surge of excitement. Progress at last. “How would we go about tapping into that market?”
Cornick pondered for a moment. “I can think of two ways. One is looking for a ‘black site,’ an internet auction site specializing in illegal goods. They tend to come and go pretty quickly. That makes them harder to trace.”
“And the second way?”
“Go to where buyers converge: Christie’s auctions…galleries…that sort of thing.”
“You can’t just waltz in those places and start auctioning off stolen property, can you?” asked Mallory.
“No, of course not,” said Cornick. “But there are discreet ways of asking which buyers might want additional pieces, no questions asked.”
“Have any of these kinds of events been held in the last month or two?”
“Honestly, I couldn’t say. I’m too buried with my work here to keep up with things like that.”
“‘Buried,’” repeated David, motioning to the ladder leading to the subterranean tunnel and chuckling at Cornick’s unintended wordplay.
“I can look into that,” said Mallory. “It’s the kind of thing I do in my FBI job all the time. And I’ll look for any upcoming events, too.
“Regarding your recordkeeping…I don’t doubt you keep good books, but as a forensic accountant, I can tell you the variety of fraud techniques is amazing. Theft happens to the best-run organizations, and it could happen here.”
“It’s hard to imagine anything from the chamber could have been stolen,” said Cornick with a frown. “But if you’re right, we can only hope to track down any missing pieces before they disappear into a private collection forever.”
CHAPTER 11
At The Hideout restaurant later that day, Alton leaned forward in his chair so no one but his teammates could hear him. “You said you know how to track down Cruz,” he said to Vasquez. “What do you recommend?”
The lieutenant’s gaze drifted inward. She drummed three fingers on the glass tabletop as the sounds of conversation from across the room drifted over to their table. “The narcos up north are vicious…aggressive. But here in
central Mexico, they are more cautious. They don’t like any attention. If they are storing drugs in the ancient tunnels, they won’t like any of the archeologists working in there.”
Alton nodded but remained silent. All of these points had been covered before, but he recognized someone thinking out loud. He did it himself all the time.
“We’ll have only one chance to approach the warehouse workers and question them,” continued Vasquez. “After that, they’ll have their guard up. Cruz won’t let them answer any more questions.”
“So you want to be as prepared as possible prior to that first round of questioning?”
“Yes. We need to make the most of the opportunity.”
It was Alton’s turn to ruminate. He ran his fingers through his hair. “Cornick told us a gang member at the warehouse threatened Dr. Miller. But Cornick and Miller were working at different sites. If we speak with the archeological crew that worked with Miller day-to-day, we might learn more background that could help us question Cruz’s men.”
“This is what I am thinking.”
“Okay. Cornick said Adriana Mura worked with Miller and knows him pretty well. Why don’t we start with her?”
A half hour later, Vasquez pulled to a stop in the “reserved” parking area of the Guadalajara Cathedral.
A walk down the sanctuary’s central aisle and descent down the ladder at the back of the antechamber led the duo to subterranean branching tunnels. They journeyed down the same tunnel Vasquez had previously led the investigators. After three minutes of following a winding passage, they rounded a curve and nearly stumbled over the junior archeologist as she hunched over a gold-and-taupe figurine partially embedded in the clay soil.
“Señorita Mura,” said Vasquez. “We’d like a word with you.”
Minutes later, the investigators and Mura sat around a table in the plaza fronting the cathedral, well out of earshot of the Mura’s three subordinate researchers, who continued to toil away at the dig site.
The Dig (The Blackwell Files Book 9) Page 5
