Deputy Attorney General Losada and Commander
Fernández Rochetti. But I can’t help you. The suspects you mentioned are in jail. And there they will stay.”
“Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Castrejón said. “I thought you were a reasonable, sensible person who could…”
Méndez reached over and, with exaggerated care, placed the phone on Losada’s desk. The prosecutor picked it up, said a few
words and hung up. Méndez rose, trying to look serene.
“It’s been a pleasure as always,” he said. “Thank you for your time. With your permission.”
Losada made an apologetic noise. Mauro Fernández Rochetti cut him off.
“I am concerned about you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. Moving languidly, he reached out and tapped the cigar on
an ashtray on the desk. His blazer cuff rode up to reveal a gold bracelet, gold cuff link, and powder-blue shirtsleeve on
a thin wrist. “Enthusiasm and inexperience are a bad combination. They lead to mistakes like the one you have made in this
case today. As far as my agency is concerned, De Rosa has been unlawfully abducted.”
Fernández Rochetti had a habit of showing his tongue when he smiled, an unsavory touch in an appearance that aspired to be
distinguished. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired. He looked like an aging actor from the black-and-white days of Mexican
cinema: dark eyebrows, strong profile, soft mouth.
Méndez turned toward Fernández Rochetti. “And?”
“And I have to tell you: My
muchachos
were naturally upset and concerned about their colleague. It took all my efforts to persuade them not to go to your headquarters
and rescue him. Imagine how unpleasant that would have been. You can play any game you want, Licenciado. But every game has
rules.”
Athos stepped close to the homicide commander. Fernández Rochetti reclined, legs crossed. But his eyes flickered up at the
man in black and gave him away: Mauro Fernández Rochetti was as frightened of Athos as anyone else in Tijuana.
“Tell your
muchachos,”
Athos said softly, “that any time they feel the urge to pay us a visit, I will be waiting for them. And you know I don’t
play games.”
Athos turned away. Méndez followed his lead.
“Thank you very much, gentlemen,” Losada said to their backs.
Athos and Méndez walked rapidly down the echoing, puddled hallway. After they emerged into the sunlight, into the lunchtime crowd emptying from the courthouse, Athos spat into
the gutter.
“Quite a day, eh?” Athos said, shaking his head. “That Losada is an instrument of the mafia. An instrument of the mafia.”
“And that bastard Mauro is the one that plays him.”
“What do you think, Licenciado?”
“They did all that just to provoke me. Things are getting ugly, brother.”
Their driver pulled up in the Crown Victoria. As Méndez got in, he saw Athos scan the sidewalk, the police and civilian vehicles,
the windows of the justice complex: reconnaissance in enemy territory.
At about 5 p.m., Méndez lay down in the sleeping quarters next to his office, where he often spent the night since his family’s
departure. He slept and dreamt that a phone was ringing, but he could not find it.
An hour later, his secretary woke him to say Isabel Puente had arrived from San Diego. Méndez patted his hair, frowning in
the bathroom mirror at the gray tinges, and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes. Feeling vaguely juvenile, he slid quickly
behind his desk and popped in a compact disc: a trio singing a bolero. “Sabor a Mí.”
As was her custom, Isabel Puente made an entrance.
“Leo, how are you? I brought you a gift.”
“
La cubanamericana
has arrived! A gift?”
“For intellectual self-improvement.”
She advanced with lithe, sure-footed strides, grinning playfully. She had her hair pulled back today like a flamenco dancer,
bringing out the feline bone structure, the wide-set eyes. She was diminutive, athletically well proportioned,
Fernández Rochetti. But I can’t help you. The suspects you mentioned are in jail. And there they will stay.”
“Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Castrejón said. “I thought you were a reasonable, sensible person who could…”
Méndez reached over and, with exaggerated care, placed the phone on Losada’s desk. The prosecutor picked it up, said a few
words and hung up. Méndez rose, trying to look serene.
“It’s been a pleasure as always,” he said. “Thank you for your time. With your permission.”
Losada made an apologetic noise. Mauro Fernández Rochetti cut him off.
“I am concerned about you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. Moving languidly, he reached out and tapped the cigar on
an ashtray on the desk. His blazer cuff rode up to reveal a gold bracelet, gold cuff link, and powder-blue shirtsleeve on
a thin wrist. “Enthusiasm and inexperience are a bad combination. They lead to mistakes like the one you have made in this
case today. As far as my agency is concerned, De Rosa has been unlawfully abducted.”
Fernández Rochetti had a habit of showing his tongue when he smiled, an unsavory touch in an appearance that aspired to be
distinguished. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired. He looked like an aging actor from the black-and-white days of Mexican
cinema: dark eyebrows, strong profile, soft mouth.
Méndez turned toward Fernández Rochetti. “And?”
“And I have to tell you: My
muchachos
were naturally upset and concerned about their colleague. It took all my efforts to persuade them not to go to your headquarters
and rescue him. Imagine how unpleasant that would have been. You can play any game you want, Licenciado. But every game has
rules.”
Athos stepped close to the homicide commander. Fernández Rochetti reclined, legs crossed. But his eyes flickered up at the
man in black and gave him away: Mauro Fernández Rochetti was as frightened of Athos as anyone else in Tijuana.
“Tell your
muchachos,”
Athos said softly, “that any time they feel the urge to pay us a visit, I will be waiting for them. And you know I don’t
play games.”
Athos turned away. Méndez followed his lead.
“Thank you very much, gentlemen,” Losada said to their backs.
Athos and Méndez walked rapidly down the echoing, puddled hallway. After they emerged into the sunlight, into the lunchtime crowd emptying from the courthouse, Athos spat into
the gutter.
“Quite a day, eh?” Athos said, shaking his head. “That Losada is an instrument of the mafia. An instrument of the mafia.”
“And that bastard Mauro is the one that plays him.”
“What do you think, Licenciado?”
“They did all that just to provoke me. Things are getting ugly, brother.”
Their driver pulled up in the Crown Victoria. As Méndez got in, he saw Athos scan the sidewalk, the police and civilian vehicles,
the windows of the justice complex: reconnaissance in enemy territory.
At about 5 p.m., Méndez lay down in the sleeping quarters next to his office, where he often spent the night since his family’s
departure. He slept and dreamt that a phone was ringing, but he could not find it.
An hour later, his secretary woke him to say Isabel Puente had arrived from San Diego. Méndez patted his hair, frowning in
the bathroom mirror at the gray tinges, and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes. Feeling vaguely juvenile, he slid quickly
behind his desk and popped in a compact disc: a trio singing a bolero. “Sabor a Mí.”
As was her custom, Isabel Puente made an entrance.
“Leo, how are you? I brought you a gift.”
“
La cubanamericana
has arrived! A gift?”
“For intellectual self-improvement.”
She advanced with lithe, sure-footed strides, grinning playfully. She had her hair pulled back today like a flamenco dancer,
bringing out the feline bone structure, the wide-set eyes. She was diminutive, athletically well proportioned,
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