folding doors. And find Anthony.”
At the far end of the room, two large, four-panel folding doors dominated the center of the wall. Dominic opened them and revealed a built-in desk with a computer console, and an overhead shelf lined with software boxes, then went to find Anthony, whoever that was. “Internet,” Raul Mejia was saying. “A wonderful thing, even for an old man. I have this beautiful library where I can sit with my books…and a high-speed Internet connection behind harem screens made in Andalusia.”
Lucas took one of the fabric chairs as Mallard asked, “Have you ever put ‘Clara Rinker’ into a search engine?”
“Three thousand references now, on Google, beginning with the investigation in your Kansas and Minnesota,” Mejia said. “There is discussion of a movie or perhaps a television show.”
“You were surprised to see them all? The references?”
“I was…” Dominic came back into the room, trailed by a man who might have been a year or two older, but was obviously his brother. Raul Mejia looked at his sons and said, “Asombrado?”
“Astonished. Amazed,” Anthony said. His English was as good as his brother’s. They sounded Californian.
“More than surprised,” Mejia said. He sighed. “I wish she had the baby. This is the real assassination. A baby from my son and a woman like this. This would be a baby.”
Malone jumped in: “As we understand it, you have had enemies in business, but can find no sign that these enemies made the attack on your son and Rinker. With the St. Louis connection, it seems now that the attack was aimed at Rinker and your son was killed accidentally. Does this change your…your… feeling toward Rinker?”
The old man shrugged. “Of course. But. I can also understand this attachment. Paulo was a good boy, but wild. Crazy, sometimes. This woman, Clara Rinker, there must have been a fire between them. She must also have this craziness somewhere inside. I could feel it myself when I spoke to her. So. I am angry that she did not tell us, but I understand why she did not. Now…what is to be done?”
“You could help us catch her,” Mallard said. “You have commercial connections everywhere in Mexico. She needs money and shelter, and she will go places that the police may not see.”
“We would also like to know from you…this man who was murdered at the airfield—what is his connection with these criminals in St. Louis? He is a Mafia?”
“He has connections with St. Louis organized crime,” Mallard said.
“You think some Italians from St. Louis came to Cancún and shot my boy,” Mejia said. “By mistake.”
“Not so many Italians anymore, but that’s basically what we think, yes,” Mallard agreed.
“You will tell us their names?”
Now Mallard showed a little nervousness. “We can’t do that. But as the investigation progresses, I’m sure you will…learn a few of them. We wouldn’t want you to take, ummm, any active role in the, ummm, investigation.”
“But, perhaps, through my family commercial connections—I have connections with hotels, motels, friends in the States…perhaps I could find information for you. If I had the names.”
“We really can’t bring in civilians.”
“He’s afraid you would send gunmen to St. Louis to kill the names,” Lucas said to Mejia. “He might not mind if they did that, if it would help catch Rinker. But he couldn’t tell you the names, because that might turn out to be technically criminal and he would be purged.”
“That’s not exactly accurate,” Mallard said irritably.
“Besides, you don’t need him to tell you,” Lucas said, still talking to Mejia. “Watch your computer. The FBI leaks like crazy and the names will appear. If Rinker starts shooting, there will be lists in the newspapers. In your search engine, put in ‘organized crime,’ ‘St. Louis,’ and the word ‘shot.’”
“Goddamnit, Lucas,” Mallard said.
Mejia looked at Lucas for a long five
At the far end of the room, two large, four-panel folding doors dominated the center of the wall. Dominic opened them and revealed a built-in desk with a computer console, and an overhead shelf lined with software boxes, then went to find Anthony, whoever that was. “Internet,” Raul Mejia was saying. “A wonderful thing, even for an old man. I have this beautiful library where I can sit with my books…and a high-speed Internet connection behind harem screens made in Andalusia.”
Lucas took one of the fabric chairs as Mallard asked, “Have you ever put ‘Clara Rinker’ into a search engine?”
“Three thousand references now, on Google, beginning with the investigation in your Kansas and Minnesota,” Mejia said. “There is discussion of a movie or perhaps a television show.”
“You were surprised to see them all? The references?”
“I was…” Dominic came back into the room, trailed by a man who might have been a year or two older, but was obviously his brother. Raul Mejia looked at his sons and said, “Asombrado?”
“Astonished. Amazed,” Anthony said. His English was as good as his brother’s. They sounded Californian.
“More than surprised,” Mejia said. He sighed. “I wish she had the baby. This is the real assassination. A baby from my son and a woman like this. This would be a baby.”
Malone jumped in: “As we understand it, you have had enemies in business, but can find no sign that these enemies made the attack on your son and Rinker. With the St. Louis connection, it seems now that the attack was aimed at Rinker and your son was killed accidentally. Does this change your…your… feeling toward Rinker?”
The old man shrugged. “Of course. But. I can also understand this attachment. Paulo was a good boy, but wild. Crazy, sometimes. This woman, Clara Rinker, there must have been a fire between them. She must also have this craziness somewhere inside. I could feel it myself when I spoke to her. So. I am angry that she did not tell us, but I understand why she did not. Now…what is to be done?”
“You could help us catch her,” Mallard said. “You have commercial connections everywhere in Mexico. She needs money and shelter, and she will go places that the police may not see.”
“We would also like to know from you…this man who was murdered at the airfield—what is his connection with these criminals in St. Louis? He is a Mafia?”
“He has connections with St. Louis organized crime,” Mallard said.
“You think some Italians from St. Louis came to Cancún and shot my boy,” Mejia said. “By mistake.”
“Not so many Italians anymore, but that’s basically what we think, yes,” Mallard agreed.
“You will tell us their names?”
Now Mallard showed a little nervousness. “We can’t do that. But as the investigation progresses, I’m sure you will…learn a few of them. We wouldn’t want you to take, ummm, any active role in the, ummm, investigation.”
“But, perhaps, through my family commercial connections—I have connections with hotels, motels, friends in the States…perhaps I could find information for you. If I had the names.”
“We really can’t bring in civilians.”
“He’s afraid you would send gunmen to St. Louis to kill the names,” Lucas said to Mejia. “He might not mind if they did that, if it would help catch Rinker. But he couldn’t tell you the names, because that might turn out to be technically criminal and he would be purged.”
“That’s not exactly accurate,” Mallard said irritably.
“Besides, you don’t need him to tell you,” Lucas said, still talking to Mejia. “Watch your computer. The FBI leaks like crazy and the names will appear. If Rinker starts shooting, there will be lists in the newspapers. In your search engine, put in ‘organized crime,’ ‘St. Louis,’ and the word ‘shot.’”
“Goddamnit, Lucas,” Mallard said.
Mejia looked at Lucas for a long five
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