Even Money

by Stephanie Caffrey

  Unless. My mind raced to my hotel room, that exquisitely luxurious mini-suite that I didn’t deserve. This morning I had reveled in its hot tub and taken advantage of the ubersoft Ralph Lauren bathrobe I’d found waiting for me in the closet. I had left the robe on the floor next to the bed, hadn’t I? Yes, I was almost positive. Even so, I began imagining the possibility that the robe had gotten lodged under the bed. If the maid had noticed the robe missing, she might have alerted her boss who must have called the police. That robe was a three-hundred-dollar job, no question about it. All I had to do was explain that they needed to check my room again, and this would all be cleared up. I smiled for the first time in more than an hour, and my blood pressure and heart rate dropped down to seminormal levels. Phew.

  The robe explanation was a tonic, and a much-needed one, but it didn’t last more than a few minutes. As I sat there with nothing else to do, the devil’s advocate in my brain was arguing against the point. Surely they wouldn’t send two policemen with a van all the way to the hotel to drag my butt downtown over something so silly as a bathrobe, would they? Even if it was a Ralph Lauren and was softer than the fur of a newborn koala. They would have asked first, not just arrested me.

  And then there was that business about the “state attorney,” whoever that was. Surely, if it were just a matter of a couple hundred bucks, they’d haul me before some half-rate official and make me pay a fine. I wouldn’t have to talk to some prosecutor, would I?

  There was no clock in the room, which made things worse. I began counting off the seconds to try to estimate how long I’d been in there. Was it twenty minutes or forty? And what would happen when, inevitably, I’d need to use the restroom? There was no buzzer anywhere, no emergency call button. Just a table, three chairs, and a light.

  Despair, having opened the door a crack, came roaring back through me. I knew now that this had nothing to do with any bathrobe, which was probably hanging neatly in my room’s closet by now. I shook my head and felt a little moisture in my eye sockets. No. Don’t give them that pleasure. It will look like I’m guilty of something.

  And that’s when the door finally opened. It creaked as it opened, probably due to the humid air, and into the room walked easily the ugliest man I had ever seen. He was a study in contradictions, in fact. Although he wasn’t wearing a jacket, his pink dress shirt looked to be of the finest cotton, with a sheen that even suggested silk. His tie was immaculate, a gray and black number with a half Windsor knot, and he sported a gold Piaget watch on his left wrist. But his face! It was a face out of children’s fairy tales, the face of the troll who waited under the bridge or the boogie monster himself, with gnarled light brown skin and pockmarks and hideous sinews suggestive of a decades-old knife fight in which he’d taken second place. And his hair was gray and black with streaks of bright white slicked back across his massive skull, as though he was a not too distant cousin of the Addams Family.

  He stood above me, waiting for me to meet his gaze, which I finally did. It was not a malevolent look so much as it was a look of pure and utter superiority, as though he almost pitied me. In some ways I would have preferred malevolent.

  He helped himself to the chair across from me and sat down. His breath was an audible wheeze, as though the effort of entering the room and sitting down were a strain on him. And there he sat, silent apart from the wheezing, apparently waiting for me to speak first. At first I was determined to remain silent, to not fall prey to this obvious gimmick of getting me to talk. But then as the seconds turned into a minute and then two minutes, I found that I couldn’t help myself. The in-and-out sounds of his breathing were like the ocean beating upon the shore, toying with my already jangled nerves.

  “May I ask why I’m here?” I asked softly.

  He grunted, and then he clasped his hands together. More wheezing.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” he said, with a heavy accent. “You answer them.”

  I nodded and looked down at the table, waiting for him to begin. But once again, it was just the wheezing. He was diabolical, this one. He had been begging me to speak by remaining silent himself, and then he chastised me once I succumbed and asked a question. I wondered where he’d picked up all these mind games, these ways of getting under a person’s skin. I’m sure they worked on most people. The only question was what else he had up his sleeve.

  Finally, he relented, appearing almost bored by my presence and my predicament. “Why don’t you tell me why you think you’re here?” he asked.

  That was the question, wasn’t it? I had no earthly idea why I was there, having ultimately rejected the notion that it had something to do with the bathrobe in my hotel room. But that was all I had, so I grabbed at it.

  “The only thing I can think of is that the hotel thought I took their bathrobe. But I didn’t. I just left it on the floor next to the bed. It’s probably there right now, hiding beneath the—”

  “Enough!” he thundered, pounding the table with his left hand. His large watch banged onto the table, creating a clang that echoed throughout the room. “Look at me!” he yelled.

  I complied, turning up to face him. His chest was moving in and out, and his face was red with fury. His black eyes had finally turned malevolent. “I am not here to talk about bathrobes and hotel rooms! Tell me why you’re here!”

  “I,” I stammered, “I really do not know, sir.”

  He sighed loudly and looked up at the ceiling. “You Americans think you can get away with anything, don’t you? Just come on down, spend some money, and we’ll let you do whatever you want. Is that it?”

  “No, sir,” I said, and then regretted it immediately. This guy was looking to pick a fight, so disagreeing with him wasn’t the right course of action. I changed course. “I mean, you are right, of course. Many Americans have no respect for Mexico and treat it only as a tourist destination where we can come, sit on the beach and drink margaritas, and then leave it behind without a second thought.”

  He turned his head to the side, examining my face. I had thrown him for a loop, that was for sure, and he didn’t seem to like it. I sensed he’d wanted to go off on a rant about Americans, and now I’d diffused the subject by agreeing with him. Normally, that would be a reasonable strategy, but with him I wasn’t so sure.

  He muttered something and then scowled at me. “What is the purpose of your trip to Cabo San Lucas?” he asked.

  This was a tricky one. I didn’t want to say I was investigating someone, but then again, I didn’t want to lie to the guy either. Lying to a cop was probably a crime.

  “Business,” I said, trying to remain vague.

  He nodded. “I see. And what business are you in, Ms. McShane?” It was the first time he used my name. Coming out of his mouth, it sounded creepy.

  “I help people find answers,” I said. I knew immediately that my answer would only lead to more questions, so I gave in and said what he wanted me to say. “I’m a private investigator.”

  He smiled broadly at me, but it wasn’t a friendly smile. “And exactly what are you investigating on this trip of yours?”

  Now he was onto something, I realized. My mind began racing with the possibilities. Had Aaron spotted me somehow? And if he had, how had he gotten the police involved? I hadn’t broken any laws or rules. All I’d done was come to stay at the same resort he was staying at. I was no expert in Mexican law, but that couldn’t be a crime. Could it?

  I cleared my throat. “I have a friend who died. In Las Vegas. And I thought I might be able to find out something about it here in Cabo.”

  He nodded along, seeming interested in my tale. His facial expression was encouraging me to talk, to open up and say something I didn’t want to say. The guy was a pro. Lucky me.

  “And what exactly were you looking for here?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure, to be honest,” I said. “Can I ask why the police are involved, though? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  Patches of red returned to his face,
and his eyes narrowed. “I told you already I will be asking the questions.”

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  He crossed his arms and scowled at me again. Apparently, I hadn’t said anything incriminating enough for his tastes.

  “You were trespassing, of course,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Trespassing?”

  “The hotel had evicted you, and yet you remained on the property,” he explained.

  “Oh,” I said, not wanting to rise to the inevitable fight. His story was a crock, but if that’s what they wanted to hang on me, so be it. It could be a lot worse. “And what is the fine for trespassing?”

  He chuckled. “Fine? The fine is irrelevant. The question is the penalty. That will be up to a judge. We will find out in a day or two, or maybe a week.”

  “A day or two?” I asked, incredulous.

  “These things take time,” he said, offhandedly. “Until then, you will be my guest.”

  I met his gaze, and his eyes gave away nothing. I couldn’t tell if he was happy, angry, or embarrassed by this little charade. Evicted. Yeah, right.

  “Up,” he said, nodding his head at me to stand.

  I stood up, and then he followed suit. Without another word he turned and opened the door. He nodded at one of the officers and then gestured at me. And then he left.

  Was this the part where I bribed them? If so, I was out of luck. All I had with me was the bathing suit I was wearing.

  The van driver came into the room and grabbed me by the arm to lead me out. We retraced our steps through the narrow hallway and then went up a flight of stairs and through a metal door that required someone to buzz us in. I glanced to my left and was immediately startled to see a thick, round face peering out at me from a window on the first door we passed. This must be the jail, I thought glumly. It didn’t look too bad—I had to admit. It was clean, even sterile, although it was extremely hot.

  The officer led me down to the end of the corridor to a large square area enclosed by steel bars. It was a kind of holding cell, and it wasn’t just for me. Three other women were sitting on the room’s only bench, all of them giving me a thorough once-over. They were all clad in orange outfits, making me feel sorely underdressed.

  “Do I get one of those outfits?” I asked the officer.

  He grunted but otherwise ignored me. He then turned me to the side, and with a deft movement of his hands, he unlocked my cuffs. I flexed my arms with relief and stretched them out. Then with a gentle shove, he pushed me into the room and locked the gate behind me.

  “Hi,” I said softly to the three faces looking up at me. I smiled, trying to make light of the situation. They weren’t having it. I could sense that in that split second the three of them had silently decided to form an alliance against me. Why? I had no idea, other than the fact that I was the new girl. And I’d said hi instead of hola.

  Resigned to my new fate, I retreated into a corner and sat down on the hard floor. I made a show of rubbing my wrists and continuing to stretch them out. I stole a peek up at the three women, all of whom appeared to be locals, and confirmed that they were still staring at me. Of course, it wasn’t like there was anything else to look at. No TV, no magazines. Just me. All I could do was close my eyes and wait.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Although there was no window in the holding cell, we could feel the heat of the day intensify as the afternoon wore on. The four of us were sweating like hogs, and I was beginning to wonder not if, but when, the holding cell would start to stink. I had also been holding out on using the toilet, knowing that the other three would be watching. It was a rusty old thing, a metal cylinder like nothing I’d ever seen in the United States, and not very inviting. But there it sat in the corner opposite me, waiting for me to do the inevitable.

  I’d been there three hours now, occupying myself with happy memories from my childhood, of which there weren’t many, and reminiscing about my friends, of which there were equally few. All of which led me to start thinking about Carlos. Where was he? Had he been looking for me, or had he gone off to sun himself by the pool?

  I finally picked myself off the floor and trudged over to the toilet. Noticing my movement in that direction, one of the women developed a triumphant expression on her face, as though she had been waiting for the moment I caved in, making her the victor in some kind of unspoken battle of wills. I scowled at her, no longer intimidated by them.

  I squatted down and used one finger to pull aside the crotch of my bathing suit. They were all looking at me now.

  “A little privacy?” I asked, not knowing if any of them spoke English. My tone, though, was unmistakable, and I’d managed to shame two of them into looking away while I did my business.

  I returned to my corner and leaned up against the cinder block wall to give my legs a good stretch. My mind began whirring again, trying to figure out why I was locked in a Mexican jail cell with three very unfriendly women. It had to be Aaron somehow. The detective had been asking about why I was in the country and seemed to know I was a private investigator. But how had Aaron spotted me? Had he been scanning the beach with binoculars from one of the hotel’s balconies? Unlikely. Even if he had, I’d only been visible for a matter of minutes. It would be an awful coincidence if he just happened to be looking out from his balcony at the same time I had been exposed. No, it had to be something else. Maybe he’d passed me at the resort, and I hadn’t noticed, or maybe he’d been in the lobby when I arrived. I sighed and sat back down on the floor to continue to wait. To wait for what? I had no idea.

  The minutes ticked by very slowly, interrupted only by the occasional observation or comment made in Spanish by one of my cellmates. I guessed by the stuffy heat of the room and my empty stomach that it was about five o’clock now, and I began wondering what, or if, they would feed us in here.

  Almost on cue, the cellblock door opened with a loud buzz. My cellmates stood up in unison and moved towards the gate expectantly, like trained animals. One of them was pressing her head up against the bars to get a glimpse of whoever had entered the block. When she grinned, I guessed that our food had arrived.

  Soon enough, I heard the telltale sound of wheels rolling along the floor. It must be some kind of food cart. And then I could hear a guard’s voice reprimanding someone down the hall for some infraction or other. The guard didn’t seem particularly upset. His tone was more resigned, as though he issued the same corrective order over and over and was just going through the motions.

  After a few long minutes, he wheeled the cart down to our holding cell, which was at the end of the corridor. He unlocked a small window in the gate and began handing the women covered Styrofoam boxes, which they accepted with glee. I sidled up behind them and then once they had sat back down, took my place at the gate. The guard frowned at me through the bars and then muttered something. He reached down to the bottom of his cart and then shoved an orange ball of clothes through the window.

  “Thank you. Gracias,” I said. I held the ball of clothes in my hands, expecting him to reach into his cart for another box of food. Instead, he grunted something unintelligible and backed his cart up. When he began wheeling it away, I yelled out, “Food? What about me?”

  He grunted again and disappeared down the corridor. Crap. My stomach by now was in open revolt. I thought you were on vacation, it was scolding me. Where are the enchiladas, the fish tacos, the chorizo sausages???

  No enchiladas tonight, that much was certain. Defeated, I took my ball of clothes back to my corner and used it as a little cushion to sit on. I wasn’t about to give my cellmates the satisfaction of having me check out their dinners, but I couldn’t resist looking over at them. They were scarfing down what looked to be big hunks of bread that appeared to be dipped in some kind of greasy sauce. At that moment it looked like the most delicious food in the world.

  I turned away and then closed my eyes. That made it worse, though, because I could clearly hear the three women chewing and smacking t
heir lips while they devoured their dinners. I tried to focus on something else, to imagine myself relaxing on my balcony with a glass of champagne, watching the lights on the Strip illuminate the twilight sky. But it wasn’t working.

  And then I felt a touch on my shoulder. Startled, I recoiled and opened my eyes to see two orange-clad legs standing in front of me. One of the women had come over and was holding out her food box to me. Gingerly, I took it and smiled up at her. She smiled back and then turned around to return to her seat. The three of them commiserated in Spanish for a minute and then set to watching me.

  There wasn’t much in the box but a three-inch hunk of stale bread. Even so, I quickly discovered that the white “sauce” wasn’t a sauce at all but good old-fashioned lard. Greedily I mopped up the lard with the bread crust and devoured it in less than a minute, oblivious to my cellmates’ watchful gazes. When I was finished, I looked up at them and smiled. “Gracias,” I said. “Delicioso.”

  They smiled back and nodded, as though they were a bunch of Mother Teresas for saving me a half scrap of bread. But it was something, and something was better than nothing. Baby steps.

  I passed the next few hours pacing back and forth and driving myself mad with a runaway imagination. They couldn’t hold me forever, I knew. Mexico, as a sovereign nation, could do whatever it wanted, but not if it offended the rights of the citizens of the regional bully nation to the north. But I had no idea what those limits were and how far I would go in testing them.

  The lights went off at what I guessed was about eight o’clock. On cue, two of the women curled up in the corner together, while the other one found her spot right beneath the bench. I remained in my corner where I donned my orange pants and used my shirt as a kind of pillow. There were a million things that bugged me at that moment, but one thing scared me more than anything else. My cellmates had clearly been in the cell for a while—long enough to establish relationships and to have a routine. That meant my cell wasn’t just some overnight holding tank for short-term jailbirds. I could be here awhile.