Cabo

by Davis MacDonald

  The Chief Inspector pointed his finger at Mary Whittaker, and crooked it, then pointed to a separate office that said Sales Manager on the door. Mary reluctantly walked across the room and into the office, followed by Garcia. He slammed the door behind them. Ten minutes later the door opened, and Garcia stepped out with a flourish, allowing Whittaker to slip out behind him and move quickly to the cover of their little knot of people, ploughing her way into its center like some startled quail. She looked smaller for her ordeal, shrunken, red faced; perhaps she’d been crying. The Judge felt sorry for her. Garcia was obviously a bully.

  The Chief Inspector looked at the Judge, raised his hand again, and crooked his finger to beckon the Judge, nodding at the office. The Judge, already antagonized by their initial meeting, was steaming now. He was hot, he was sticky, and he was fuming. He strode out of the group, parting its members with his hands like Moses parting the waters, and marched, head held high, into the office, leaving Katy with a distressed look on her face. He settled his bulk into the chair behind its small desk, the place he was sure the Chief Inspector was intending to sit. It was a small victory, but they all count.

  Garcia frowned as he closed the door, discovering his seat taken. He flashed daggers at the Judge, then perched on the corner of the desk, deciding it was okay, towering now a tad over the Judge.

  “Alright, señor. Shall we, how do you say it… cut the crap?”

  “Fine by me, Chief Inspector.”

  “It is confirmed you were the last person we know of to see Señora Cervantes alive, Mr. Judge.”

  “So, she jumped off the roof after she saw me. I have that effect on women.”

  “Don’t be flippant, Judge. This is very serious. The woman had no reason to jump. She was very wealthy and in good health.”

  “I thought the drug lords were the richest people in Mexico,” said the Judge, watching with satisfaction as Garcia’s face clouded. Garcia took a deep breath, controlling his anger.

  “Look señor, if you want to be provocative, do it on your own time. I’ve Googled you. Something of a debutante detective in Los Angeles apparently. Often making embarrassing trouble for your police.”

  “Me?’

  “Yes, quite. The Palos Verdes Police Chief was quoted as saying you destroyed the chain of evidence and such in his case. The Santa Monica Police Chief seemed equally disenchanted; withholding material evidence necessary to his investigation into a Silicon Beach murder; and your FBI. Well, they seemed quite livid about the way their investigation into the death of one of their own in Newport Beach was smeared as a result of your comments.”

  “Politics has never been my strong suit, Inspector.”

  “No. I guess not. So, what do you suppose happened here to Señora Cervantes?”

  “You’re asking me?’

  “Yes. Why not. Perhaps you can show this humble Mexican policeman how to do his job as well.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well now, good. Finally, we have some common ground.” When the Judge made no response, Garcia said, “There’s only one stairwell to the roof, Señor Judge. There’s video cameras in the stairwell and the elevators, but not on the roof. The only people shown as remaining on the roof after your wife and Mary Whittaker came down, were Señora Cervantes and you. You left, no one else came up, and as you leave, the Señora jumps, or falls, or is pushed….”

  “I was downstairs in the sales office. Then she fell.”

  “Yes, so you say. I think we’ll go to the roof now Judge. You will retrace your steps up and onto the roof terrace, and back down. You will tell me all you saw and all you heard, and what you felt.” Garcia’s voice was cold, hard. Almost daring the Judge to object so he could call his deputy in for assistance.

  The Judge sighed. He’d thought an hour ago they were leaving; leaving the timeshare hard sell, leaving the sales office, leaving the building, leaving for the comfort of the cold air in their hotel room. Now it wouldn’t happen for a while. Damn Katy and her female logic to go see a timeshare as if it was a cultural experience. Damn, damn, damn.

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  Garcia opened the door and allowed him out first, staying uncomfortably close with his garlic breath. The knot of people stared at him as he and Garcia passed through the sales office and out to the elevators. He felt like a small boy again, hauled by the ear to the principal’s office for punishment. It had been a frequent occurrence in his youth. Some things never change.

  They boarded the elevator and the Judge pushed 20.

  “I said the roof, señor.”

  “I first saw Señora Cervantes on the twentieth floor. If you want the full story, we need to start there.”

  “Okay.”

  They got off on 20th floor, and the Judge described the scene in the conference room, Señora María Cervantes and the younger man at opposite ends of the long table, locked in argument. Then how Señora Cervantes stormed out and into the stairwell.

  “The man is now on the sales office floor?”

  “I think so.”

  “Okay, let’s go to the roof. The place where you say you last saw her alive and well.”

  They stepped out onto the roof terrace. The Judge retraced his steps to the edge of the parapet, pointing across to where Cervantes had been sitting on the wall.

  “And what did she say to you?”

  “She didn’t say anything.”

  “Don’t be cute, señor, what did she tell you?”

  “She didn’t tell me anything.”

  “You were twenty feet from her. You two just stood there, staring at each other, with not a sound.” Garcia’s hands went to his hips.

  “She wasn’t standing, she was sitting on the edge of the parapet. And yes.”

  “Yes, she told you something?”

  “No, she told me nothing. She nodded an acknowledgement in my direction, and then continued to work her cigarette. Then she brought out her cell phone.”

  “She talked on her cell phone?”

  “No, just played with it. Texting or something.”

  “I find that inherently unbelievable.”

  “You can find it any way you want, Garcia. But that’s the way it was.”

  “Did she look distressed?”

  “No.”

  “Scared?”

  “No.”

  “Angry?”

  “No. She looked relaxed.”

  “Relaxed people don’t jump off roofs.”

  “I know.”

  “Let’s go back to the nineteenth, and you can identify the man she had the argument with in the conference room.”

  CHAPTER 7

  They took the stairs down, dark, poor lighting, traversing the path Cervantes must have taken from the 20th floor to the roof, and then down again, to the 19th floor. There was nothing and no one in the stairwell.

  Katy slumped with relief as they re-entered the sales office.

  Garcia’s cell phone went off. He glanced at the number, surprise on his face, then turned away, stepping to an empty corner of the balcony, taking the call, talking softly. The Judge heard a ‘Yes, sir’ several times. The other end of the call was doing all the talking. Garcia slapped his cell shut, jammed it back in his coat, and marched to the center of the room.

  “Okay,” he snapped, “I want everyone who was in the board meeting, and Judge, you too, and your wife, in the corner over there. Now.”

  There was a shuffling of feet and a muttering of disquiet as the better dressed crowd from the conference room stood up, or un-lounged from a wall they were leaning on, and drifted into the designated corner, the Judge and Katy falling in behind.

  Chief Inspector Garcia marched into the middle of the cluster like a band conductor, the group parting and circling around him. He obviously loved the attention. It was the way of short people, mused the Judge.

  “Alright, Judge, which man was arguing with Señora Cervantes?” Garcia asked, turning the Judge into an accuser. The Judge nodded at
the slight-faced man with short hair who turned pale as all eyes turned on him.

  “All right, gentlemen and ladies, I want to tell us who you are, what you were doing in the boardroom, what the argument was about, and who was on which side of the dispute. Let’s start with you, señor Cervantes.” Garcia turned to the man fingered by the Judge, slightly differential now in his manner. “State your name, Luis.”

  “Luis Cervantes.”

  “Your relationship to the deceased?”

  “She was my second cousin.”

  Luis looked to be thirty. Designer slacks, maroon golf shirt, worn under an expensive looking blazer, tailored to a T. He looked… well… posh was the word that came to mind. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a fancy club.

  “And why were you yelling at her, Luis?”

  “It was a small disagreement… of no importance.”

  “About what?”

  “He wanted to take the company into illegal activities!” This came from an angry female voice, thrown shrill and sharp like a dart from behind Luis Cervantes. All heads turned to see a woman step forward, mid-fifties, lean and leathery from too much sun, decked out in a silk business suit of olive, punctuated by a squash- colored blouse, also silk. “And you are?” asked Garcia, eyes narrowing, sure he was finally getting somewhere.

  “Ana Cervantes. María was my older sister.”

  There was suddenly a babble of voices, rising in octave and volume, as recriminations were lobbed back and forth between what appeared to be two branches of the Cervantes family.

  “Silence… Silence!” Garcia’s voice roared like a lion, deep for such a small man, as he waved his short arms over his head for attention. The corner group immediately clamped their jaws shut, as though they were synchronized snapping turtles. “Now that the Judge and I have met Luis and Ana, the rest of you introduce yourselves, please.”

  “Juan Moreno, lawyer for the company.” Juan was particularly shifty looking, even for a lawyer. Sharp beady eyes looked out from behind thick panes of eyeglass, punctuated by an aquiline nose over a thin-lipped mouth, framed by mean nasolabial lines. He was tall and skinny, his suit a size too big and cut to a fashion popular several years before. His hair was a comb-over across his bald pate, mostly grey but oddly speckled with black flakes, as if someone had slipped with the dye-bottle. He looked to be late-fifties.

  “You can’t hold us here like this detective. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “This is an interrogation, señor. We can conduct it here and now, or over several days downtown at the police station. It’s your and your clients’ choice.” Moreno visibly slumped. Garcia surveyed the rest, looking for other resistance. There was none, except for the Judge, who glowered at him as he imagined the ruins of his extended-stay vacation spreading out in front of him like an ugly French film noir.

  There was a commotion at the back of the little group, and a shorter man, rotund and swarthy, pushed his way forward between the group’s taller members. The Judge had noticed him in the conference room and thought him vaguely familiar.

  The man had powerful arms and shoulders, encased in a beautifully cut sport jacket the color of… of… pink. There was no other way to describe it. Grey slacks offset a starched white dress shirt with French cuffs, open at the collar, several buttons undone, exposing the beginning of a forest on his chest. His dark hair was tightly cropped in military fashion, slightly receding, and a beard ran down the sides of his jaw, ending in a modest goatee. His swarthy complexion and features suggested Southern Italian descent. As he burst through to the center and saw the Judge his face broke into a big smile, his dark eyes softening with warmth and affection.

  By God, the Judge knew him. From Silicon Beach, and an S&M club the man frequented. What was his name? Alex, no, Alan…. Alan… Carter... no. Clark, Alan Clark. That was it. Damn, it was Alan Clark.

  “It’s my old friend the Judge,” announced Clark, stepping forward and offering his hand to the Judge. “One of the greatest sleuths in the country.”

  Garcia didn’t take this well. He felt upstaged. He no doubt considered himself the greatest sleuth in Mexico.

  “Who are you?” Garcia asked. “What were you doing here? And how do you know this man?” Tossing his thumb toward the Judge dismissively.

  “Name’s Alan Clark. An old friend of the Judge’s from Silicon Beach.”

  “What are you doing here, Alan?” asked the Judge.

  “Luis Cervantes hired me as a consultant to advise him on the company’s plans for a possible new agricultural business.”

  “You were in the boardroom meeting, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Garcia said, “So, you saw the argument between Señora Cervantes and Luis Cervantes?”

  “Oh yes. They were angry each other for sure. She started it. Started yelling at Luis. Luis stood up, yelled back, pointed his finger at her. Really pissed her off. She got so mad she started to hiss, like a snake. It was all very… dramatic.”

  “Then what happened?” asked Garcia.

  “She stormed out, marched over to the stairwell door near the elevator, and disappeared into the stairwell. We all watched her go. I was in shock that she’d just walk out.”

  “Maybe you were, Mr. Clark,” said Ana, “But no one else was. We all knew where she was going. To the roof for her smoke. She only lasts an hour in these meeting before she must get her fix.”

  “Alright. Good,” said Garcia. “Who else do we have here?”

  “Pablo Cervantes.” An old man, in his eighties, waved his hand.

  “Rosa Cervantes,” said the young woman at the back.

  “And Roberto Cervantes, her brother,” said the man standing next to her.

  “Miguel Cervantes. María was my sister.”

  “Okay, that seems to be everybody. As you are likely aware, I’m Chief Inspector Garcia of the Cabo San Lucas Police Department, and I’m here to get to the bottom of what happened.”

  CHAPTER 8

  The group broke out into a babble of voices again, Alan Clark moving to stand next to his new-found friend the Judge, perhaps for protection, introducing himself to Katy with a formal bow and dancing eyes. The Judge recalled Alan liked beautiful young women.

  “Alright, ladies and gentlemen, quiet.” When this did not produce results, Garcia bellowed, “Quiet!”

  Everyone stopped and turned again to look at the Chief Inspector.

  “This little group is going to go back to the conference room on the twentieth floor, and we’re going to recreate what happened. I want to see how this all played out. Those of you who brought your purses or briefcases with you will have them searched outside the boardroom, and they will be left outside. Those of you who left purses, briefcases, files or personal belongings inside the boardroom will have then searched as well, and they’ll be deposited outside the boardroom. Nothing else comes into or leaves the boardroom except you, my people, and the Judge here. Mrs. Judge, I’ll ask you to stay here with the sales staff.”

  Garcia directed them to the elevator, following behind, talking softly to one of his patrolman, a tubby slow-looking man with the name Gonzalez emblazed on the name-plate on his chest. They squeezed into the two elevators, rode one floor up to the 20th, and then walked out and into the conference room.

  “Okay,” said Garcia, “I want everyone to take the same seats they had earlier during the meeting. Judge, you stand outside and press your nose to the glass, showing us where you stood when you saw the argument. Señora Cervantes, is it Ana? I’d like you to play the role of your sister, María. Pretend to be angry with your fellow board member, Luis, shake your finger at him, just like it happened an hour ago. Then you storm out, walk over to the stairwell, and take the stairs to the roof. Officer Gonzales here will accompany you. Come on people, let’s do it, just as it happened.”

  The Judge turned to the Chief Inspector, speaking quietly. “I don’t think this is a good idea, Garcia.”

  Garcia’s chi
n went up, his dark eyes narrowing as he looked up at the Judge. “This isn’t for bon vivant detectives, señor. This is a real fatality investigation, and I’m going to determine if it was suicide, or something else. Now be quiet and play your role.”

  The Judge shrugged.

  Juan Moreno, the corporate attorney, settled into a chair on the left side of the conference table, followed by Rosa Cervantes and Alan Clark. Pablo Cervantes, Miguel Cervantes, and Roberto Cervantes took chairs on the right side of the table.

  Ana and Luis Cervantes took positions standing at opposite ends of the conference table and started arguing with each other. The exchange started slow but quickly became heated, Luis labeling Ana and her fellow board members obstructionists, standing in the way of the company’s future.

  Ana responded, standing a little straighter, leaning forward, that Luis hadn’t worked a full day in his life and didn’t know what it was to build a company from scratch, a step at a time. She called him a ne’er-do-well, happy to spend other people’s hard accumulated money, but with no ability to make his own.

  It was clear there was no play-acting here, just mutual dislike. But the rest of the board seemed blasé about it all, as though they were watching a rerun they’d witnessed twenty times before. Juan Moreno opened his portable computer and started working on a brief, Rosa got her nail polish out for a touch up, Luis Cervantes was on his cell, talking quietly. Miguel Cervantes was texting on his. Old Pablo looked almost asleep. Roberto Cervantes was paging through a Robb Report he’d pulled from his briefcase.

  The Judge took his position in the corridor outside the glass and watched Ana storm out past him and disappear into the stairwell, officer Gonzales in slow tow behind.

  Chief Inspector Garcia prodded the Judge to the elevator and they rode up to the roof, where the Judge stepped out and showed Ana where María had been sitting and what she’d been doing. The Judge went back by the elevator doors, and then stepped forward, going through the same motions as before. Walking to the parapet to look at the view, turning to study Ana sitting on the edge twenty feet away near the corner. She nodded at the Judge, then scowled at Garcia.