seconds, then turned to Mallard. “So, then, from me, you need clues to Clara Rinker.”
Mallard nodded. “Yes.”
Mejia nodded back. “We will look. If you will give us a telephone number, we will call when we find anything.”
Mallard took a card from his pocket, scribbled a number on it, and handed it over. Mejia glanced at it and held it out to Anthony, who, like his brother, was leaning against the library table. “That’s my secure cell phone,” Mallard said. “I sleep with it. You can call me twenty-four hours a day.”
“You’re not married,” Mejia said.
“Not anymore,” Mallard said. “The job was more interesting.”
THEY TALKED FOR another ten minutes, but not much came of it. Mejia and his sons gave them impressions of Rinker. She was a happy woman, they said, and had made Paulo happy. Although she said she was younger than Paulo, they thought she might have been a couple of years older. Would they have married? Perhaps.
Mejia seemed to lack any real information about the crime, which wasn’t surprising, since the FBI and the Mexican National Police had the same problem. As they left, Lucas and Mejia talked a few minutes about library shelves, and how to prevent unsightly sagging, and the arrangement of books, which the old man called an enjoyable but impossible task. On the way out of Mérida, Malone said, “Nice old man. For a ganglord.”
Martin’s eyes flashed up to the rearview mirror to catch hers, and he said, “Maybe not so much ganglord talk outside the car. And I do not think many people would agree that he is a nice old man.”
“Do you think he’ll help us trail Rinker?” Mallard asked.
“If he sees some benefit in it,” Martin said. “Benefit for him. He will analyze, analyze, analyze, and if finally he is sure of the benefit, he will help. Realpolitik.”
Lucas smiled at the word. “You speak really good English, you know?”
WITH MARTIN AS a guide, they returned to Cancún and toured the restaurant where Paulo Mejia and Rinker had been shot, interviewed the restaurant owner, and climbed into the loft of the church to see the shooting position taken by the assassin.
“Had to have local help to find this,” Lucas said, as Martin explained how the shooter had probably fired once, then retreated down the stairs and out the back door to a waiting car.
“There would have to be a driver,” Martin said. “You couldn’t park a car back there—it would block the entire street and bring attention.”
“You know the driver?” Mallard asked.
“We are looking for a man…. He is unaccountably absent. Normally, he would go to relatives to be hidden, but they do not know where he is. They knew where he was three days ago, but then he went away.”
“Running,” Malone suggested. “Maybe he felt you coming.”
“He went to a business meeting, his mother says. He didn’t come back.”
“Mmm.”
The loft was hot as a kiln, and smelled like hay, like a midwestern barn loft in summer. A wasp the size of Lucas’s little finger bumped along the seam of the ceiling and wall. They looked out on the hot street for another minute, then trooped back to the restaurant for a light lunch. The service was wonderful, which Martin seemed to take for granted. Lucas again noticed the body language between Mallard and Malone, an offering from Mallard, equivocation from Malone. He smiled to himself and went back to the pasta salad.
From the restaurant, they went to the hotel where Rinker had worked as a bookkeeper. She’d worked off the books, illegally, but nobody was being coy about it. With both the Mejia family and the national cops involved, the hotel manager simply opened up and told everybody everything: He’d hired her because she had the bookkeeping skills—she knew Excel backward and forward—and was willing to work whenever she was needed, for as long or as little as she was needed, and there were no benefits or taxes to pay.
“She said she just needed
Mallard nodded. “Yes.”
Mejia nodded back. “We will look. If you will give us a telephone number, we will call when we find anything.”
Mallard took a card from his pocket, scribbled a number on it, and handed it over. Mejia glanced at it and held it out to Anthony, who, like his brother, was leaning against the library table. “That’s my secure cell phone,” Mallard said. “I sleep with it. You can call me twenty-four hours a day.”
“You’re not married,” Mejia said.
“Not anymore,” Mallard said. “The job was more interesting.”
THEY TALKED FOR another ten minutes, but not much came of it. Mejia and his sons gave them impressions of Rinker. She was a happy woman, they said, and had made Paulo happy. Although she said she was younger than Paulo, they thought she might have been a couple of years older. Would they have married? Perhaps.
Mejia seemed to lack any real information about the crime, which wasn’t surprising, since the FBI and the Mexican National Police had the same problem. As they left, Lucas and Mejia talked a few minutes about library shelves, and how to prevent unsightly sagging, and the arrangement of books, which the old man called an enjoyable but impossible task. On the way out of Mérida, Malone said, “Nice old man. For a ganglord.”
Martin’s eyes flashed up to the rearview mirror to catch hers, and he said, “Maybe not so much ganglord talk outside the car. And I do not think many people would agree that he is a nice old man.”
“Do you think he’ll help us trail Rinker?” Mallard asked.
“If he sees some benefit in it,” Martin said. “Benefit for him. He will analyze, analyze, analyze, and if finally he is sure of the benefit, he will help. Realpolitik.”
Lucas smiled at the word. “You speak really good English, you know?”
WITH MARTIN AS a guide, they returned to Cancún and toured the restaurant where Paulo Mejia and Rinker had been shot, interviewed the restaurant owner, and climbed into the loft of the church to see the shooting position taken by the assassin.
“Had to have local help to find this,” Lucas said, as Martin explained how the shooter had probably fired once, then retreated down the stairs and out the back door to a waiting car.
“There would have to be a driver,” Martin said. “You couldn’t park a car back there—it would block the entire street and bring attention.”
“You know the driver?” Mallard asked.
“We are looking for a man…. He is unaccountably absent. Normally, he would go to relatives to be hidden, but they do not know where he is. They knew where he was three days ago, but then he went away.”
“Running,” Malone suggested. “Maybe he felt you coming.”
“He went to a business meeting, his mother says. He didn’t come back.”
“Mmm.”
The loft was hot as a kiln, and smelled like hay, like a midwestern barn loft in summer. A wasp the size of Lucas’s little finger bumped along the seam of the ceiling and wall. They looked out on the hot street for another minute, then trooped back to the restaurant for a light lunch. The service was wonderful, which Martin seemed to take for granted. Lucas again noticed the body language between Mallard and Malone, an offering from Mallard, equivocation from Malone. He smiled to himself and went back to the pasta salad.
From the restaurant, they went to the hotel where Rinker had worked as a bookkeeper. She’d worked off the books, illegally, but nobody was being coy about it. With both the Mejia family and the national cops involved, the hotel manager simply opened up and told everybody everything: He’d hired her because she had the bookkeeping skills—she knew Excel backward and forward—and was willing to work whenever she was needed, for as long or as little as she was needed, and there were no benefits or taxes to pay.
“She said she just needed
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