Santana said,” No, thanks.”
Donelle Walker was a light-skinned African-American with straight white teeth, neatly trimmed hair and Caucasian features. With the pinstriped, three button suit and white, silk, open-collared shirt, and the obvious fact that he kept himself in shape, he could have easily been on the cover of GQ.
“You like jazz?” Walker asked, as they sat down at a table in a corner away from the stage.
“Some. I like Latin music. Particularly boleros. My father used to listen to it.”
“I heard it when I was in New York. Mostly Cuban musicians.”
“Paquito D’Rivera once described boleros as a ballad with a little black beans on the side.”
Walker smiled. “I like the African rhythms. Startin’ to see more Latin music around town.”
Santana wanted to keep the conversation low key and informal. Encourage Walker not to be too defensive.
“I was a pretty good salsa dancer as a teenager,” he said. Talking about dancing reminded him now of how much he missed it.
“You take lessons?”
“Growing up in Colombia, it was in our blood.”
“Colombian, huh? I used to eat at a good Colombian restaurant once in a while when I lived in New York. Seeing more Colombian restaurants around here, too.”
“I don’t get out much,” Santana said. “Watch a Timberwolves’ game on TV now and then. Saw you play a couple of times when you were with the Knicks. You could play.”
“Made a living.”
“How’d you end up owning a jazz club?”
“Had to find something to do at thirty-two. Too early to retire completely. Always enjoyed jazz. Like people. I thought, why the hell not? I got the money and the time.”
“Nice to have,” Santana said.
Walker gave Santana a long look. “I’m enjoying the conversation, Detective. But you didn’t come here to talk about salsa, restaurants and basketball.”
“No, I didn’t.” Santana waited as the bartender delivered Walker’s drink and left. “How long did you know Rafael Mendoza?”
Walker picked the hazelnuts off the top of the whipped cream and held them in the palm of his huge hand. “About a year.”
“You know anyone who would want to harm him?”
“The man was a lawyer. You’ve heard the jokes. Probably made some enemies along the way.”
“You one of them?”
Walker bright teeth gleamed in the dimly lit room. “No, Detective.”
“You’re a big guy, Donelle. You keep yourself in shape. If Mendoza didn’t jump off his balcony, then somebody helped him.”
Walker shook his head slowly, as if trying to understand. “When the paper first reported Rafael’s death as a possible suicide, I didn’t believe it. I would’ve known if he was depressed. We were … good friends. I know he didn’t jump. Somebody must’ve pushed him. But it wasn’t me. I had no reason to harm him.”
Walker paused. He popped the hazelnuts into his mouth, took a drink and set the cup down.
“Ever since Rafael died, I’ve been asking myself who could’ve done this.” He wiped whipped cream off his lips with a napkin, thinking. After a long moment he said, “But why are you still looking for the murderer? I heard on the news that the suspect was killed in a shootout and an accomplice arrested.”
“The case is still open,” Santana said, knowing that could soon change.
“Rafael and I were close, Detective. I’d like to help. Really.”
Santana reached into his inside pocket and pulled out the photo Gamboni had found in Mendoza’s bathroom. He had signed it out of the evidence room before coming to the club. Handing it to Walker he said, “I’d like you to look at this. But it’s hard to see in this light.”
Walker held up his index finger indicating he needed a second. He took out a penlight and focused the small beam on the photo. “Where’d you get this?”
“I found it hidden in Mendoza’s bathroom.”
Walker stared at the photo.
Santana said, “Know who these two men are?”
Walker moved the beam closer. “No.”
“So what was Mendoza doing with this photo?”
Walker looked at Santana. “He wasn’t into porn if that’s what you’re thinking. You couldn’t have found any other photos like this.”
“No,” Santana said. “We didn’t.” He sat back in his chair, drank some beer. “You have any idea why Mendoza had this photo?”
“None.”
“Got to be some reason why he had this photo and why he kept it hidden.”
“You’re the detective,” Walker said. “Isn’t it your job to find out?”
It was 9:30 p.m. when Santana got home and disarmed the security system. He made a phone call to Nick Baker, another to Continental Airlines, and a third to Ricardo Vasquez, a cop in Houston. Then he changed into a pair of trunks and a sweatshirt with the lettering GOLD’S GYM across the front and went to his exercise room.
He did three sets of bench, incline and overhead presses, bicep and tricep curls and squats. He finished off the workout with one hundred sit-ups. Then he took a long shower, hoping a steady stream of hot water would wash away the remaining fatigue that still clung to his body like a set of wet clothes.
Afterward, he slipped into a clean NIKE sweat suit and a pair of deck shoes. He went into the living room where he put a Marc Antoine CD in the stereo and then into the kitchen where he set the oven temperature to 375 degrees. He took out a box of pandebono mix, a large bowl, a baking pan, a cup of milk, an egg, and a package of shredded white cheese and placed everything on the counter top. He added three cups of cheese along with the egg and mix to the bowl, slowly pouring in the milk as he worked the ingredients first into dough and then into two-inch diameter balls. He placed the balls he made on an oiled pan six inches apart and pressed them into the shape of one-inch thick donuts. Then he put them in the oven and set the timer for eight minutes. While he waited, he drank a couple of shots of aguardiente Cristal. Fifteen minutes later he was sitting in the living room with his feet on the coffee table, eating warm pandebonos off of a dinner plate and drinking a cold bottle of Sam Adams.
He thought about what Donelle Walker had told him regarding the photograph of the two men engaged in fellatio Gamboni had found in Mendoza’s loft. If Walker was right about Mendoza not taking pornographic pictures, then there had to be another reason why Mendoza had the photo. Was he blackmailing someone? Or was he holding onto the photo for protection? If Santana knew who the man with the appendectomy scar was, he might have some answers. The scar in the photo was reddish and not white like an older scar. It was a long shot, but he could have Nick Baker check hospital records in the Twin Cities. Find out the males who had their appendix out within the last year or two. Nick might come across a familiar name.
In his mind Santana tried to connect the dots between Julio Pérez, Rafael Mendoza and Rubén Córdova. Gabriela Pérez had insisted that her father hadn’t known Rafael Mendoza. Her mother had agreed. Yet, the last call Julio Pérez had made before he died had been to Mendoza. A check of Pérez’s phone records had revealed he had called Mendoza from his home three other times within a two-week span prior to his death. Why would Pérez call Mendoza? Córdova worked for Pérez and was interviewing Mendoza about his dealings with illegal immigrants. Still, Santana believed someone else must have known all three men. That someone wanted Pérez and Mendoza dead and Córdova framed for their murders.
He ate one more pandebono and washed it down with a swallow of Sam Adams. He remembered something he had once read in a Kurt Vonnegut novel. Something about staying close to the edge without going over because out on the edge was where you could see all kinds of things you had difficulty seeing from the center. That’s where Santana knew he had to stay if he wanted to solve this case. Out on the edge.
Chapter 19
* * *
DAY 6
THE CONTINENTAL FLIGHT FROM MINNEAPOLIS to Houston took three hou
rs. Santana had plenty of time to think as the plane flew just above a seemingly endless bank of white clouds like a ship across a churning sea.
He had met Ricardo Vasquez when he flew to Houston two years ago to pick up Joey Moore. Vasquez had worked Homicide in Mexico before taking a job in Houston after falling in love with a woman from the city.
Santana had a one-hour layover before he caught a flight to Cancún. He was sitting in an airport bar where he had agreed to meet Vasquez when the detective walked in.
Vasquez’s steps were slow and careful as he threaded his way through the gauntlet of tables in the bar. There was no wasted movement. It was just the opposite of his wary cop eyes, which darted from person to person, never resting until they spotted Santana.
Two years ago when Santana met him, a very thin Vasquez had recently married. Since that time he had put on some weight.
Santana finished off his bottle of Sam Adams, stood up and shook Vasquez’s hand.
“Married life must be treating you well.”
Vasquez smiled. “My wife cooks like a chef in a fancy restaurant. What can I do but eat?”
He had a thick, dark mustache and spoke with a slight Mexican accent.
Santana motioned for him to sit down and Vasquez sat in the chair opposite Santana.
He ordered a Budweiser, Santana another Sam Adams.
“You married yet?” Vasquez asked.
“Not yet.”
“Any time soon?”
“I don’t get out much.”
“Well, my advice is to date some before you propose.”
“I’ll keep that in mind. Homicide keeping you busy?”
“Me and funeral directors. How about you?”
“Rarely a dull moment.”
“We’ve had a couple rounds of budget cuts. Things keep going in that direction, only high profile cases are going to get solved. Must be what you’re working on since your department sent you down here.”
“Nobody sent me. It’s my dime.”
Vasquez raised a thick eyebrow. “Doesn’t surprise me. First time we met, you struck me as the bulldog type. Once you get your teeth into something, you aren’t going to let it go.”
“I don’t see how you can be in Homicide and be anything else.”
The beers arrived and Santana picked up the tab. While they drank, he reviewed the Pérez-Mendoza case with Vasquez, hoping that another perspective might shed some light on it.
“Well, if you think Córdova isn’t good for it,” Vasquez said when Santana had finished, “it stands to reason it has to be someone who knew him well enough to set him up.”
He pulled a business card from his shirt pocket, slid it across the table and turned it over.
“Name on the back of the card is a cop in Valladolid. I don’t know him personally, but a cop friend of mine in Mexico City knows him. Says he’s good … and honest. I made a phone call this morning. He’ll pick you up at the airport in Cancún.”
“I owe you, Ricardo.”
Vasquez waved as if he were brushing away a fly. “Don’t worry about it, amigo. I just hope you find what you are looking for.”
A hot wind hit Santana like a punch as he stepped off the plane and walked down the air stairs and toward the terminal in Cancún. He took off the spring jacket he had worn on the plane and put it in his carry on. Underneath he wore a light blue Polo shirt, stone colored chinos and a pair of white NIKE Airs with blue stripes.
The cop’s name on the back of the business card Vasquez had given him in Houston was Carlos Montoya. Santana had trouble spotting him right away because Montoya looked young enough to be his son.
“I know what you are thinking, señor,” Montoya said as they shook hands. “But I am thirty-three years old.”
He wore a white Guayabera shirt, pantalones de mezclilla, and Huarache sandals. He had a firm handshake and a police badge clipped to his right jean pocket.
“The badge helps,” Santana said.
“It usually does.”
A Mestizo or mix of Indian and Spanish, Montoya was lean and stood just under six feet with black hair cut close to his skull. His eyes were dark and intense, in marked contrast to his warm smile and baby face.
He badged Santana through customs and led him to a navy blue Volkswagen Jetta parked at the curb. “Been to the Yucatán before?”
“Haven’t had the pleasure,” Santana said.
“Since you are not here on vacation, señor, we will take the toll road to Valladolid. What you miss in scenery, you make up for in time. We will not have to deal with the topes that slow down the cars before every village. Every time I hit one of those speed bumps it upsets my stomach.”
Montoya turned on the air conditioning and said, “Hard to believe Cancún was once a tiny fishing village of five hundred people. The name in Mayan means snake nest.”
“How many people live here now?”
“Over eight hundred thousand. Tourism is good for the economy, but bad for those who prefer a quieter lifestyle.”
“Like you?”
“Si, señor.”
“Call me John.”
“Okay. You call me Carlos.”
They drove out of the airport and away from the turquoise water and high-rise hotels along the Cancún strip.
“We don’t get so many tourists in Valladolid,” Montoya said. “The region is mostly made up of poor Campesinos who still believe that Xtabay, goddess of the forest, lures travelers deep into the la selva with her song. But that is beginning to change. Valladolid is no longer a sleepy village in the jungle. There are more than sixty thousand people in the area. We are even building an airport near Chichén Itzá. I used to tell my friends from the States when they arrived in Valladolid that they needed to set their watches back several hundred years. Where we are going has always been known as a ciudad de paso.”
“A place you pass through to get to someplace else,” Santana said.
Montoya looked at Santana and smiled. “I’m glad you speak Spanish, John. It will make my job easier.”
Billboards and piles of limestone boulders dumped in the center median and spray-painted in bright colors were the only scenery along the four-lane toll way at the edge of the jungle.
Santana turned away from the window and looked at Montoya. “You speak English very well.”
“I graduated from the University of Texas. My accent is a mix of Mexican, Texan and English. People have a hard time figuring out where I’m from when I’m in the States.”
“I can relate to that. I’m from Manizales, Colombia.”
“So what the hell brings a Minnesota detective from Colombia to Valladolid?”
Santana outlined the details of the case as they drove, especially his belief that Pérez and Mendoza had known each other as children in Valladolid.
At Nuevo Xcan they crossed the border between the states of Quintana Roo and Yucatán. The average forest height had gradually risen as they neared Valladolid. Though it was the dry season, the forest appeared to lose much of its scrubby look. Tree limbs became more slender, the leaves broader and thinner, the color a softer yellow-green rather than a hard, silvery gray. Trumpet trees appeared, their large palmate leaves shaped like a hand with thick fingers arising all around the palm.
Good idea to stay away from the water,” Montoya said. “You get turista, you will spend the whole day investigating los baños instead of the case.”
“Thanks for the warning.”
“The Catholic Church keeps sacramental records,” Montoya said. “Primarily baptisms and marriages. If Julio Pérez and Rafael Mendoza were born in Vallalodid, then their names should be in the church register.”
Looking out the passenger side window, Santana spotted a black vulture along the shoulder eating road kill. “Pérez grew up in the Sisal Barrio if that helps,” he said.
“Then the barrio is where we will begin.”
Santana got a room at the El Mesón del Marqués, a colonial style hotel on the plaza. T
he room had a high, beamed ceiling, heavy wooden furniture, air conditioning and a balcony overlooking the pool. He had promised Montoya he would meet him for dinner at the restaurant in the hotel, but not before he changed and cleaned up.
At 9:30 he was seated at a table with the Mexican detective in a courtyard with a bubbling fountain and a garden of hanging plants and bougainvilleas the color of blood.
Montoya ordered for both of them the pollo pibil, a regional specialty of chicken marinated in Seville orange and spices barbecued in banana leaves. They drank cold bottles of Dos Equis with dinner.
“You should try the salsa habanera,” Montoya said, pointing to a small bottle of ugly green sauce on the table. “It is made from the chile habanero.”
“Much hotter than jalapeño?”
“The Mayan name for it means ‘crying tongue.’”
“I think I’ll pass.”
“You know, John, many Mexican men say salsa habanera is better than great sex.”
“So why don’t you have some.”
Montoya smiled. “Nothing is better than great sex, amigo.”
“Salud,” Santana said, raising his beer in a toast.
“You want a Cohíbas?” Montoya asked, after they had finished their meals. “They are said to be hand rolled on the thighs of Cubano virgins.”
He inhaled deeply as he held the unlit cigar under his nose.
“No thanks. But I’ll take an after-dinner drink. Maybe a Kaluha.”
Montoya called the waiter and ordered two Kaluhas.
“So,” he said, lighting his cigar. “How is Colombia?”
“From what I read in the newspapers, not so good.”
“You have not been home recently?”
“Not recently.”
“And your family?”
Santana held Montoya’s gaze and then shook his head slowly.
“I see,” Montoya said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.
The visit to Mexico was Santana’s one and only trip out of the States since he had arrived twenty years ago. He had dreamed many times of his country during his first few years in Minnesota, and he had continued to renew his passport, thinking he would return some day. But those dreams had come less frequently in the ensuing years until the memory of them had dimmed and finally faded away like a light from a distant shore.
White Tombs Page 19
