Closely Akin to Murder by Joan Hess Page A

very little about your country.”
    â€œWhat happened to Franchesca Pickett, the victim’s daughter? Ronnie told me that they were transported to the prison together, but never saw each other after that.”
    â€œShe was found guilty of conspiracy because she helped to throw the body onto the rocks. Zamora was outraged that she would do that to her own father, and sentenced her to . . . I’m not sure, maybe four years. Her lawyer told me that her mother was determined to save her daughter from prison, and after the trial went back to the United States to find the necessary money to bribe certain parties. It’s possible she succeeded; judges, prosecutors, and prison officials were paid no better than public defenders.”
    I was increasingly fond of good old Pedro. “This is the first link I’ve found to Fran’s mother. What was the lawyer’s name?”
    He thought for a moment, then said, “Aurelio Perez, but he died of cancer some years ago.”
    â€œOh,” I said, my optimism deflating as quickly as ithad inflated seconds earlier, as if I were a manic-depressive balloon.
    â€œIt is possible his files can be found,” Benavides said. “As soon as I have time, I will call his firm and ask if they can locate them. However, this took place a long time ago, and it’s unlikely he would have continued to save any records. Even if he had, his widow might have disposed of them.” He stood up and again extended his hand. “I will do what I can, but I must prepare for my clients, who will be here shortly. My secretary or I will call you if I have any luck.”
    I shook his hand. “Thank you for your time, Señor Benavides.”
    I was halfway to the door when he said, “Why are you involved in this?”
    â€œBecause Veronica Landonwood paid for what she did. Oliver Pickett was attempting to rape her when she attacked him. In the United States, this would have been considered self-defense. Instead, she lost her parents and spent eight years in hell. She survived and got on with her life—and now someone’s trying to take that away from her.” I realized I was trembling and my voice was loud enough to be heard on the street. I took a deep breath. “Did you call me at my hotel last night, Señor Benavides?”
    He was too unnerved by my outburst to do more than shake his head, and he was still doing it as I left his office. The reception room was uninhabited; the receptionist must have taken refuge in another room.
    I certainly would have.
    Manuel scrambled out of the car and opened the door for me. “Did you find out anything, Señora?”
    â€œA few things, but not enough,” I said. “It sounds as if Fran Pickett may have avoided much time in prisonand returned to the United States. If Fran’s mother is alive, she’ll be in her late sixties or early seventies. Of course it’s a bit tricky to locate her, since I don’t know her last name or where she lives. Señor Benavides may be able to help me, but I doubt it. There’s still Santiago, I suppose, and Chico.”
    â€œSo we go back to the Hotel Las Floritas again? It is late in the day, Señora, and you were told Santiago starts drinking at noon. By now he cannot remember what he ate for lunch, much less things in the distant past. Would it not be better to sit and watch the sunset, listening to music and having something cool to drink?”
    â€œI suppose it can wait until early tomorrow afternoon,” I said, aware that I hadn’t connected with Caron all day. “You may drop me off at the hotel, and pick me up at nine tomorrow morning. We’ll start at the courthouse. If the records still exist, they’ll be sealed, but maybe I can find out if someone managed to get copies of them.”
    â€œVery good,” Manuel said unenthusiastically, clearly unwilling to take on the role of Dr. Watson. As we stopped