Down Among the Dead Men (A Thriller) (21 page)

They were in Vargas’s car, driving back to the station.

“All he had to do was tell me the truth.”

Garcia laughed. “You don’t know Rojas.”

“Then educate me.”

Garcia looked at him a moment, weighing the request. Then he said, “The man is a pig. That story he told you about taking over the family business? He didn’t mention that he stabbed his brother twice to convince him to step aside.”

“So why wasn’t he arrested?”

“His brother denied it. Blamed the attack on a gang of teenagers. Three of them are still in jail.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Garcia shrugged. “Probably because I despise the man. Believe it or not, not all Mexican cops are corrupt. We’re hardworking people, trying to do good and make a living at the same time. The drug cartels are out of control down here, treating people as if they’re disposable. And trying to stop them is hard enough without
pendejos
like Rojas tainting the department.” He paused. “But Rojas also has a lot of friends, so if you ever repeat what I’ve just said, I’ll deny it.”

“Tell me about the girl in the photo.”

Garcia shifted his gaze to the street, which was filled with the passing hustle and bustle of downtown Juárez. “That subject is off-limits.”

“Then it’s true. She
was
there.”

“Did I say that?” He shook his head, then pointed at the road. “Drop me off around the corner. I want to get my hair cut for Carmelita.”

“I’ll keep your name out of it,” Vargas said. “An anonymous source.”

Garcia laughed again. “You know even less about this city than you do about Rojas. No one is anonymous here. Not for long. And it doesn’t help that I’m riding in your car.”

Vargas made a left at the next corner and pulled up alongside a shop with the word peluqueria painted on the window. Inside, a barber was busy cleaning the hair out of his electric clippers.

“It must kill you,” Vargas said.

“What?”

“Seeing a man like Rojas in power. You say he taints the department, but what he carries is more like a virus that grows and spreads, infecting everyone who comes in contact with it. You’d better watch out, or you’ll catch it, too.”

Garcia frowned at him, then opened his door and got out. Turning, he leaned in through the open passenger window.

“I don’t think you were bluffing,” he said. “You have more than a photograph to share.”

“Maybe. But there’s only one way to find out. You know my terms.”

“This book you’re writing. How many people will see it?”

“As many as it takes.”

Garcia thought about this a moment, then said, “You like dancing?”

Vargas shrugged. “Depends on what kind.”

“The kind where beautiful women show you only what their mothers and boyfriends should see.”

“One of my favorites,” Vargas said.

Garcia reached into his shirt pocket and handed a book of matches across to Vargas. “Come watch Carmelita tonight. And if you buy me enough tequila, I might forget what it means to be cautious.”

And with that, he slapped a hand on top of the car and disappeared into the barbershop.

49

V
ARGAS WASN’T TEN
minutes into his visit to the Velvet Glove when he learned what a woman can do with a simple ice cube. The dancer onstage was showing far more than what Garcia had promised, something no mother or boyfriend should
ever
see.

Vargas had arrived shortly past eleven, after spending another day in a motel room, trying to recover from his wounds. In his imaginary movie he would have bounced back by now, but this, unfortunately, was real life and sleep was his only cure.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he watched Mexican TV, at one point finding himself caught up in an old black-and-white
lucha libre
movie.

One of the masked wrestlers reminded him of Rojas.

After grabbing a bite to eat at a restaurant next to his motel, Vargas checked the address on the matchbook Garcia had given him, asked the waiter for directions, and drove across town to a street lined with bars and nightclubs.

The Velvet Glove sat smack in the middle of the block, its darkened windows ringed in bright pink and purple neon.

Vargas paid a cover fee, found a stool at the bar, and ordered a beer. And as the dancer onstage finished demonstrating her amazing muscle control—the ice cube now a puddle of water beneath her—he felt a presence on the stool next to him.

“I’m supposed to be following you,” Garcia said.

“Oh?”

“Rojas wants to know what you’re up to.”

Vargas nodded. “Further proof that Ainsworth wasn’t lying. He had a theory that the police were covering up about the American woman for fear of an international scandal.”

“Had?”

“He’s dead. Along with his son, a guy named Sergio, and a Border Patrol agent who was working with them. They were all part of some anonymous drug ring.”

Garcia looked at him. “Is this the information you were keeping from Rojas? Your so-called bluff?”

“More or less.”

“You’ve been busy this week.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

Garcia signaled to the bartender, holding up a finger. The Velvet Glove was an upscale establishment, and the bartender reflected this with her perfectly coiffed hair and her crisp white shirt, showing ample cleavage. She took a bottle of Patron from the shelf behind her, filled a shot glass, and set it on the counter in front of Garcia.

When she was gone, he said, “Rojas doesn’t give a damn about international scandals.”

“Then why the whitewash?”

“To cover his backside. He’s a powerful man and he uses that power to fatten his wallet. He doesn’t want anyone from the outside poking around in his business, and a dead American girl means
federales
and maybe even the FBI.”

“Does that business have anything to do with drug smugglers?”

Garcia snorted. “Smugglers, thieves, politicians, extortionists. Rojas gets a taste of it all and offers allegiance to no one. But there have been a lot of kidnappings here in Juárez and all across Mexico in the past few years. Young women disappearing. Mostly factory workers and prostitutes, but quite a few
turistas
as well. Rojas has been under pressure to solve these cases, but he’s as incompetent as he is corrupt. And his job is on the line. One more victimized
turista
is more than he can afford.”

“The Ainsworths said she was alive when they found her.”

Garcia nodded. “I’m surprised they said anything at all. Rojas paid them off to keep them quiet. Let them keep the treasures they’d looted and even gave them a few more.”

Vargas thought of things he’d found in Junior’s treasure box. Had any more of those treasures come from the crime scene?

“The Ainsworths didn’t strike me as particularly trustworthy people.”

Garcia hadn’t touched his drink, but he looked as if he had just swallowed something hot and bitter. “That virus you spoke of? It’s about as virulent a strain as you’re ever likely to see.”

“So what happened to her?”

“I was only at the crime scene at the very beginning. So I only know the rumors.”

“Which are?”

“When they first went in, they thought she was like the others. But then she moaned and they realized she was alive but badly hurt. Two bullets in the chest. Rojas didn’t wait for an ambulance. He put her in the back of his car and drove her to the hospital. Except he never got there.”

“Where did he take her?”

“Across the border into New Mexico. Dumped her in a parking lot, in a pool of her own blood—another victim of those degenerate Americans. And someone else’s headache.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure, but he was gone all night.”

“Is she alive?”

Garcia snorted again. “Rojas may be incompetent, but he’s thorough. The story goes that before he left her he finished the job her attackers failed to complete.”

“He shot her.”

Garcia picked up the shot glass full of tequila now and drained it, his eyes flooded with contempt.

“He didn’t just shoot her,” he said, then tapped a finger against his temple. “He put a bullet in her brain.”

50

“
SO, IN
other words,” Vargas said, “Rojas is a thug.”

Garcia signaled to the bartender for a refill. “A well-protected thug. But that protection is wearing thin and he’s worried. Which is why he ordered me to follow you.”

Vargas thought about this. If Rojas was directly connected to Mr. Blister and friends, this conversation wouldn’t be taking place and Vargas would likely be lying in his motel room just entering the early stages of rigor mortis.

But it didn’t hurt to ask.

“So tell me,” he said. “Have you ever seen him hanging around with a guy with a burnt face? Six-one, Hispanic, long black hair?”

Before answering, Garcia waited for the bartender to pour his refill, his gaze lingering unapologetically on her chest.

When she was gone again, he said, “Not that I remember. Is this someone I should know about?”

“A person of interest for the casa murders. If he didn’t do them himself, he’s definitely connected to the people who did.”

Vargas took a folded square of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Garcia. He had written down the license plate number of Mr. Blister’s car.

Garcia unfolded and read it. “This is his?”

“A Lincoln Town Car. Probably stolen, but you never know.”

“Maybe you should be the one wearing the badge.”

“Just dumb luck,
amigo
. A matter of being in the wrong place at the right time.”

“We should all be so lucky,” Garcia said, then picked up his drink and drained it.

As he set the glass on the counter, a spotlight flashed onstage and Spanish rap music began to blast over the speakers. The curtain parted and a woman of about twenty stepped into the light wearing only flimsy lingerie—on a body that should have been declared illegal.

Turning, Garcia grinned. “Carmelita,” he said. “You see a creature like that and suddenly the world doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

Vargas said nothing. Just nodded as Garcia’s girlfriend launched into her act, a combination of dancing and acrobatics that put the ice cube girl to shame.

When Carmelita was done, Garcia whistled and clapped loudly, and she gave him an appreciative smile as she gathered up her discarded clothes and a mountain of hundred-peso notes and dollar bills, then disappeared behind the curtain.

“Let’s find a booth,” he said to Vargas. “I have something I want you to see.”

Sliding off his stool, he reached to the floor and picked up a cheap leather satchel. Nodding toward the far side of the room, he gestured for Vargas to follow, and they moved to a dark booth.

They slid in and Garcia placed the satchel on the table, then quickly unzipped it. He reached inside, pulled out a manila envelope, and handed it across to Vargas.

Vargas turned it in his hands, then unfastened the flap and opened the envelope, taking out its contents:

Three photographs.

There was a domed candle on the tabletop. Vargas slid it over close and studied them in the flickering light.

Crime scene photos. Shots of the Casa de la Muerte bedroom, overlooking the blood-soaked mattress where two bodies lay, one of them a woman in a USC sweatshirt.

Angie.

Vargas took out the pieces of the passport photo he’d retrieved from Rojas’s restaurant floor and laid them next to the crime scene photos.

Was it the same woman?

Hard to say. They looked similar, but the one in the crime scene photos was slightly older. Of course, the passport photo could be old, and two bullets in the chest had a way of aging you. Hell, a couple raps on the head had done a pretty good job on Vargas.

He looked up at Garcia. “Have you tried to identify her?”

Garcia shook his head. “Rojas doesn’t even know I have these. If I start digging, asking questions, he’s bound to find out, and I’d just as soon keep them to myself. My own form of protection, you might say.”

He gathered up the crime scene photos, returned them to the envelope, then zippered it inside the satchel and slid it across to Vargas. “My gift to you.”

“I assume you have copies?”

“Digitized and stored on three different thumb drives. Rojas is computer illiterate, so they’re safe.”

“I take it this case will stay cold forever.”

“Only as long as Rojas is running things. But nothing is forever. He may be worried about you, but it’s me and my thumb drives he should be watching for.”