The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  So I’m sitting on the rock, staring at the edge of the bluff, trying to spot the gun, when I hear footsteps approaching from behind.

  A man clears his throat and speaks accented English.

  “Miss Lu?”

  I twist to look back over my shoulder. A man wearing a mask stands several yards away. His eyes are dark. He’s not wearing a uniform like the others—he has on khakis and a blue polo shirt—but it’s clear he’s a cop.

  “My name is Ramon. I would like to ask you some questions.”

  He motions at the two officers watching over me, and the two officers head back to the others without a word.

  Ramon says, “What state?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You are from America, yes? What state are you from?”

  “California.”

  “Where in California?”

  “San Diego. I go to school there.”

  Is the man trying to trip me up? It’s hard to say. These questions can simply be an icebreaker of sorts before he starts to really dig in. I gave the other officers my basic information—I’d memorized the entire cover, even the insubstantial bullshit like who I went to prom with in high school and the name of my favorite professor—and those officers no doubt shared that information with Ramon.

  Speaking of which …

  “Are you a detective?”

  “In a way. I am a crime scene investigator.”

  “Am I free to leave?”

  “Not yet. I need to ask you a couple more questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what happened to your face.”

  Direct. I like it.

  I look away from him for a couple seconds, showing my irritation but also my discomfort. Because this, too, is part of my cover story. Not added to the Samantha Lu cover that Atticus gave me, but my own cover story because I always knew there was a chance it would come up.

  “I’d rather not talk about it.”

  Ramon is quiet for a beat.

  “I understand.”

  “It’s just”—I shake my head—“I don’t want to talk about him.”

  Ramon says nothing.

  I give it another couple seconds, staring past the man, before I look back at him. And now, to add the finishing touch, a tear rolls down my cheek.

  “My boyfriend did it, okay?”

  This isn’t technically a lie. Zane is responsible for what happened to my face, not to mention my broken rib. The only thing is, of course, for two years I had believed Zane was dead, killed by my father, until he showed up recently to kidnap the Hadden children.

  I sigh, shake my head again.

  “He sometimes got jealous, but he never did anything about it other than shout at me. Like, I never even flirted with other guys, but one night he thought I had hooked up with this guy at a bar and then he … well, he did this.”

  I don’t bother pointing at my face to indicate what this is. I let the bruises speak for themselves.

  Ramon asks, “Where is your boyfriend now?”

  If we’re talking about Zane, the answer is dead. But if we’re talking about Samantha Lu’s boyfriend …

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care. I left him. I hope I never see him again. I should have”—I hitch my voice for dramatic effect—“I know I should have pressed charges but I … I just didn’t, okay? I know it was stupid, but I didn’t feel like dealing with it. And so I just wanted to get away. That’s why I got in the car and drove south. I didn’t even realize I was planning to come to Mexico until I’d crossed the border.”

  Ramon is silent again. He glances out toward the ocean, then back toward the building and the crowd of police, before turning back to me.

  “What brought you out here?”

  “I told you, I didn’t plan on coming to Mexico. I had to get away from—”

  “No. I mean what brought you out here, to this specific location?”

  He gestures at the building as if his words aren’t specific enough. Like he thinks I’m not focused right now. Which is good. That means my act is working.

  “I saw smoke.”

  “You saw smoke.”

  “Yes. From the road. It seemed … wrong. Like it wasn’t supposed to be there.”

  “So you turned off the highway.”

  “Yes.”

  “What did you intend to do once you found the source of the smoke?”

  “You mean like the fire? I don’t know. Probably call 911. Though, like, is 911 even the emergency number down here? I guess first I just wanted to make sure nothing was wrong. Like, maybe it was some people burning trash or something. But then I saw the building was on fire, and I just—”

  I let it hang there, closing my eyes and shaking my head.

  Ramon says, “Why did you go inside?”

  “I don’t know. It was stupid of me, I admit that, but at the moment I worried that maybe somebody was inside. I mean, there wasn’t any fire at that point, it was just smoke, so I went inside and—”

  I shake my head again, forcing pain into my face at the mere memory.

  “It was awful. I mean … what happened?”

  “That’s something we’re still investigating.”

  He doesn’t say anything else, just stands there staring at me with his greenish gray eyes. I’m pretty good when it comes to staring contests, but today is not a day to challenge this man.

  I look away from Ramon, back toward the building.

  “Am I in some kind of trouble?”

  “Why would you be in trouble?”

  “The other officers told me I had to wait here. They said I couldn’t leave. I’ll be honest—I’m scared.”

  “What is there to be scared about?”

  Now it’s my turn—Samantha Lu’s turn, really—to not answer.

  Ramon says, “You no doubt hear stories about police corruption here in Mexico. I am not going to lie to you and say it does not exist, but you have nothing to worry about.”

  “Why are you wearing a mask?”

  I know the answer but am curious to hear Ramon’s response.

  He says, “It is to protect myself and my family.”

  “I noticed some other officers wearing masks too. Who do you need to protect yourselves from?”

  He pauses a beat, as if giving it much thought, before answering.

  “Mexico is not always safe for law enforcement.”

  “Because of the cartels?”

  Ramon offers up a half nod.

  Now I play the part of a scared-out-of-her-mind tourist.

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not wearing a mask! Do I need to be worried about anything?”

  He shakes his head but says nothing.

  I take a breath, let the fear slowly drain from my face.

  “Then … am I free to leave?”

  “Not quite yet. First, was there anything you noticed when you drove up to the building?”

  “Such as what?”

  “Such as anything out of the ordinary.”

  I give it a couple seconds before shaking my head.

  “I’m sorry, nothing comes to mind.”

  “That’s okay. I am sorry we kept you so long.”

  I wait a moment in case he has anything else to say, and when he doesn’t, I stand up from the rock. I don’t start walking toward the building and the Civic, though. Instead, I stare out at the ocean.

  “It’s such a beautiful view.”

  Ramon says nothing to this.

  I take a couple steps forward.

  Uneasiness enters Ramon’s voice.

  “What are you doing?”

  I stand on the very edge of the bluff to look out over the ocean. And down at the beach. Nothing glints in the sunlight, so hopefully the gun did hit the water when I threw it.

  I turn back and force a smile.

  “Like I said, it’s a beautiful view.”

  Ramon leads me back to the building without a word. He collects my ID from one of the officers and returns it to m
e. Among the officers milling around is an older man, who looks to be in his late-fifties. He stands by a sedan and smokes but doesn’t say anything. He gives me a brief look before turning away and lighting another cigarette.

  Ramon says, “Take care of yourself, Miss Lu. Be safe.”

  I just nod and start toward the Civic. As I do, another older man leaning against a pickup truck closes his phone and shouts excitedly at Ramon.

  “My contact at the phone company confirmed a call was placed on the pay phone three hours ago.”

  Ramon says, “To where?”

  “A motel.”

  They speak Spanish but I’m able to understand them without any trouble. I don’t want to be too obvious that I’m eavesdropping, of course, so I slide in behind the Civic’s steering wheel and start the engine.

  Ramon and the man with the cell phone climb into the pickup truck and seconds later they’re speeding back up the dirt drive, kicking up a dust cloud in their wake.

  I throw the Civic in gear but don’t drive as fast as the truck ahead of me, despite the fact I don’t want to miss where it turns. There’s a chance it may be gone by the time I make it through the dust cloud, and I want to know whether it turns left or right onto the road. Because despite the fact I should know better—despite the fact I should drive straight toward Nogales to cross over the border—I need to know where these men are going. I need to know who Maria called this morning, hours before she was burned to death.

  Thirteen

  The Paraíso Motel was located near the outskirts of Culiacán. It was two stories tall, painted a faded lime green, and looked as if its neon sign announcing the motel’s name hadn’t been updated in thirty years.

  A police car was already parked out front when Ramon and Carlos arrived. The two officers inside didn’t notice them as they walked up to the car from behind.

  Carlos slammed his hand down on the car’s roof, causing both officers inside to jump.

  He said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  The officers quickly collected themselves, and the driver said, “Very sorry, sir. We were told to wait outside.”

  “So there’s nobody around back?”

  Both officers said nothing, only traded nervous glances.

  Carlos gritted his teeth.

  “Somebody should be covering the back.”

  The two officers didn’t move, too unsure what to do next.

  Carlos said, “Goddamn it, get out of the car!”

  The officers scrambled out of the car. One of them hurried around to cover the back of the motel while the other lingered by the car.

  Carlos told the officer, “Cover the front and don’t fuck it up.”

  The officer nodded quickly.

  Ramon surveyed the street. It was quiet for this time of morning, only a few cars coming and going. A skinny woman stood near the corner, leaning against a building. She was watching them, but she didn’t look like somebody they should be worried about. In fact, even from this distance, it was clear she was a prostitute.

  Carlos tapped him on the arm.

  “Let’s go.”

  They climbed the front steps and entered a dank lobby. Two box fans ran on either end of the lobby, pushing the warm air together into a vortex of humidity. The lobby was deserted save for a kid no older than nineteen sitting on a stool behind the counter. The kid stared down at his cell phone, his thumbs rapidly punching the screen. He only paused and looked up when Carlos smacked the bell on the counter.

  “Help you?”

  Carlos took the lead, flashing his badge at the clerk.

  “A call was made to this motel at 3:47 this morning. We need to know who took the call and where the call was sent.”

  The kid stared at them, his eyes shifting from Carlos to Ramon and back to Carlos.

  “Huh?”

  Carlos repeated himself, talking slowly this time, but the kid still didn’t seem to get it.

  He said, “Maybe you should talk to the manager.”

  Ramon said, “Where is the manager?”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  “When will he be back?”

  The kid shrugged.

  “Don’t know. He doesn’t come in much.”

  Carlos reached forward, grabbed the back of the kid’s neck, and slammed his face down on the counter. Blood squirted from his nose.

  “Say that again?”

  The kid whimpered, “What do you want from me, man? I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Somebody called this piece of shit motel at 3:47 this morning. We need to know who took the call.”

  “I don’t know! I wasn’t here! I wasn’t here!”

  “Who, then? Who was here?”

  The kid said nothing.

  Carlos grabbed the kid’s neck again.

  The kid cried out.

  “It wasn’t me!”

  “We know that, asshole. You keep saying that. Who was here?”

  “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  “That depends on how good your answer is.”

  “I don’t want to go to jail.”

  “Why would you go to jail?”

  “I don’t know! Why won’t you let me go?”

  Carlos took his hand away from the kid’s neck. The kid didn’t move for a couple seconds, as if he thought it was some kind of trick.

  Ramon said, “This is important. We need to know about the call that came in this morning at 3:47.”

  The kid touched his nose gingerly.

  “Man, I think you broke my nose.”

  Ramon said, “Tell us about the call.”

  “I wasn’t working. I got here two hours ago.”

  Carlos said, “Who did you relieve?”

  “That’s the thing. I’m not really sure.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “When I got here nobody was at the counter.”

  “Who was scheduled to be here?”

  The kid looked again from Carlos to Ramon and back to Carlos.

  “He’s not gonna get in trouble, is he? He’s a good guy.”

  Carlos leaned forward. His body language made it clear he had no problem slamming the kid’s face against the counter again.

  “Who’s a good guy?”

  Fourteen

  A minute after Ramon and his partner enter the motel, the girl detaches herself from the side of the building at the corner and starts to make her way up the sidewalk.

  She takes her time, repeatedly looking back over her shoulder like she’s being followed. The officer standing in front of the motel sees her coming but doesn’t seem to care. Then the girl, looking back over her shoulder one last time, steels herself and approaches the officer.

  I can’t hear what she says to him, not from where I am in the Civic parked a block away, but it looks like she’s desperate as she motions frantically at the motel. She has something in her hand, I realize, and she tries to give it to the officer who shakes his head and waves her off. He’s not being very patient with her, and it only takes a couple more seconds before he snatches whatever it is from the girl’s hand, crumples it, and tosses it past her into the street. The girl screeches, staring at the crumpled thing as if it were her own child. She turns back to the officer, steeling herself even more, and it’s clear that she intends to do something stupid—strike the officer, maybe, or spit at him—but the officer isn’t having any of it. He rests his hand on his holstered gun without a word, but the action speaks volumes. The girl hurriedly retrieves the crumpled object from the street and starts back down the sidewalk. She’s facing me now, so I can see the tears streaming down her face, and she takes the crumpled object and tries to uncrumple it the best she can, but clearly the damage has been done.

  I slip from the Civic and cross the street. The girl’s desperation has piqued my interest.

  The girl is so shaken up that she doesn’t even see me until I’m a few feet away.

  “Are you okay?”

 
The girl jumps, startled. She wipes at her eyes. She tries to speak but the words don’t come and so she just shakes her head.

  We’re at the end of the block. I’ve stationed myself behind the corner of a building so the officer down by the motel can’t see me.

  “May I see that?”

  The girl holds the crumpled thing in her hands. It’s clear it’s a photograph. Despite this, I can’t see it from how she’s holding it, so I start to reach for it.

  The girl shakes her head, snatches the photograph to her chest.

  “It’s okay. I’m not going to make it worse. I just want to look.”

  The girl still doesn’t look convinced. She’s in her early twenties, but she looks maybe ten years older. Thin and frail, she doesn’t even bother trying to hide the needle marks. Instantly I’m reminded of Rosalina and all the other girls who had been locked up at the ranch outside of Las Vegas. This girl is also a prostitute.

  I keep my hand out, welcoming.

  “Please, let me take a look.”

  Up the sidewalk, Ramon and his partner emerge from the motel. Ramon’s partner says something quickly to the officer, who nods, and then Ramon and his partner climb back into their pickup truck and drive away. The officer climbs into his car a couple seconds later and drives around to the back of the motel, where he’ll no doubt pick up his partner.

  It all happens within a matter of seconds, and while I watch them I’m also aware of somebody stationed up the block across the street. Another young girl, only this one doesn’t look like a prostitute. She has a cell phone raised up to her head, but it’s not to her ear. It’s clear even from this distance that she’s taking pictures.

  Ramon and his partner have turned the corner two blocks up. I should be in the Civic right now, following them, but it’s at that moment the girl decides to trust me enough to place the crumpled photograph in my hand.

  “My sister.”

  Her voice is barely a whisper.

  The photograph shows a girl about the same age as the one standing right here in front of me. In fact, they look almost like twins, though the one in the picture isn’t quite as frail. She wears short shorts and a halter-top that exposes her thin belly. She’s alone and smiling at the camera, a real sincere smile. The lighting was bad enough that the camera needed a flash, which illuminates her belly ring.