Greasing the Piñata (24 page)
Cape looked in the bathroom mirror and wished he hadn’t.
He wondered how he managed to drive to the hotel. A gash over his eye explained why he had trouble seeing clearly through the windshield. Splinters stuck out of his nose, cheeks, and ears in all directions and stung whether he smiled or frowned. He looked like a porcupine.
His skin burned, so many nerve endings had been overloaded. He knew he was in shock and should be in a hospital, but he and Sally had agreed that was a bad idea. Showing up at the emergency room smelling like smoked ham the same night a pig farm was destroyed might attract the wrong kind of attention.
It hurt when he moved in a million different ways. It hurt when he breathed. He couldn’t smell anything besides overcooked ribs. His ears were ringing. It was almost like being at a Tony Roma’s on a Friday night.
Cape turned on the shower and let it run until steam clouded the mirror. He had seen enough. A sign mounted on the wall asked him to use only as many towels as he needed. Judging from what he’d seen in the mirror, Cape suspected he was going to need them all.
He stifled a scream when the water hit him and grabbed for the handicap bar. There wasn’t one. He went down hard, landing on his tail bone. He decided to shower sitting down.
He must have passed out, because when he awoke the water was ice cold. His skin was turning blue so the hot water must have run out a while ago. It occurred to him that he might have a concussion.
He turned off the water and gingerly stood up, grabbed a towel off the rack and patted his face dry. He looked at the towel, which now had red and pink blotches all over it. This was going to take a while.
He needed caffeine. Cape tried to remember what the doctor had told him the last time he got a concussion, but that was the problem with head injuries, you tended to forget things.
Don’t go to sleep.
That was it. Caffeine must be the right answer.
He remembered there was a soda machine in the lobby.
Cape made it to the bed where his suitcase lay open. The first aid kit he always carried seemed laughably small given the task, but after twenty minutes he had enough band-aids deployed to look like a mascot at a sticker convention.
He managed to pull on a fresh pair of jeans and a t-shirt from the Orbit Drive-In Theatre, then sat on the bed and pulled on a pair of Converse. Trying to pull on socks might have killed him, so he let the Chuck Taylors protect his bare feet.
Cape took a deep breath and walked over to the desk where he’d left his wallet and hotel key. He felt like he’d been run over by a bulldozer but at least he was clean. Now he needed a drink, anything that wasn’t Mexican tap water.
The lobby was empty, the front desk deserted. Not unexpected given the hour.
Less expected was the man sitting alone at the lobby bar. Two shot glasses were placed deliberately in front of him next to a bottle of tequila.
“Ah, you are awake
amigo
. I was hoping you could join me for a drink.” Inspector Oscar Garcia smiled and nudged the stool next to him with his foot.
For some reason he wouldn’t understand until much later, Cape wasn’t terribly surprised to see his old friend.
Sally stripped naked and ran the bath.
She took her clothes and wrapped them in the plastic laundry bag from the closet, then stuffed the bag into the garbage can. She could still smell only blood but knew that was probably because she hadn’t yet bathed.
She also knew it could be her own sense-memory. At other times, under different circumstances, the smell of death and copper taste of blood had been a comfort to her. But not now.
Sally padded across the bedroom and opened a side pocket in her suitcase, from which she extracted a bag of dried tea leaves. She shook the bag searching for the ones she wanted among the many-colored leaves. Green, black, rust, red. She found a large leaf almost as big as a maple but gray with dark green veins running out from the stem. She folded it into a ball, popped it into her mouth and chewed slowly. It tasted horrible, bitter and moldy, but it was a natural analgesic that promoted healing.
She wished the tub were bigger and pulled the plug, deciding to take a shower first. It took a long time. When she was finished she looked at herself in the mirror, taking for granted the perfect contours and hardened muscles but making mental notes about every new scar or injury. Sally had been trained as a girl to always make the health of her body her top priority. She was a weapon that had to be honed every day so it was always ready for battle.
When she had cleaned the filth from her body she cleaned the tub, then ran the bath. By bending at the waist she was able to run her legs up the wall and submerge her head underwater.
She closed her eyes and wondered what she would see when she started to drown.
“You tracked me here.” Cape sat down heavily on the bar stool. “You’ve been keeping tabs.”
“You leave quite a trail behind you.”
Cape looked around for a glass but they were all behind the bar, save for the two shot glasses. He reached across the bar, grabbed the bar gun and found the button for Coke. Then he pressed the button and sprayed it into his mouth. His eyes cleared as sugar jacked up his blood sugar and caffeine dilated his blood vessels. Garcia held his gaze the entire time.
When he was finished, Cape wiped the bar gun on a napkin and replaced it. “Uncouth, I know, even for an American. But the thought of getting a glass is beyond me right now.”
Garcia nodded sympathetically. “You have had a rough week.”
“I don’t know how much you know, but you don’t know the half of it.”
“You smell like bacon.”
“I just had breakfast.”
Garcia smiled and poured two glasses of tequila. The liquid was as clear as water. Cape glanced at the bottle.
“What are we drinking tonight?”
“It is almost morning.” Garcia twisted the bottle so Cape could clearly read the label. “Don Julio Blanco—one hundred percent pure agave.”
“Expensive?”
“Of course.” Garcia raised his glass. “When the bar is open.”
They clinked glasses and Cape took a sip. His nostrils cleared and for the first time in hours he smelled something other than pig. He blinked as his eyes started to water.
“
Gracias.
” Cape took another sip.
Garcia nodded and set his own glass down. “I wanted to apologize.”
Cape shifted on his stool. “For what?”
“I had to inform the media about Danny and his father, the Senator, before I could warn you.” Garcia sighed. “And before you could warn your client.”
“Not your fault. I saw that you called.”
“Twice—you were busy?”
“I went sailing.”
“A charming sport.”
“In my car.”
“You lead an exciting life.”
“I didn’t a week ago.” Cape reached for the bar gun. The caffeine-alcohol-sugar therapy seemed to be working. “My life was nice and boring before I came to Mexico.”
“Anything can happen here.”
“I believe you now.”
“And what brings you to Monterrey?” Garcia refilled Cape’s glass.
“I understand there’s a lot to see.”
“It is true. Mexico’s third largest city—shopping, world class museums. The discos. And the mountains, of course. Hiking is very popular. Have you
been
to the mountains yet?”
“A valley,” said Cape. “I made it to one of the valleys.”
“Monterrey is also a city of industry. Banking. Technology. Agriculture.”
“Agriculture.” Cape took a slow sip of tequila, breathing in as it burned its way along his esophagus. “Farming.”
“
Sí
, there is a very large pig farm just outside the city. Perhaps you saw it on a map.”
“I don’t think it’s on the map anymore.”
Garcia chuckled and refilled his own glass. He studied his companion but didn’t say anything.
“Oscar, who did you say you work for?”
“I am an inspector with the Mexico State Police.”
“That wasn’t the question, Oscar.”
“I thought I gave you a business card.” Garcia raised his glass to the light and admired the clarity of the liquid. “There are other branches of law enforcement, of course. The AFI—
federales
—our version of your FBI.”
“Do you work for them?”
“Sometimes.”
Cape arched an eyebrow. “Sometimes.”
“Did you find what you were looking for, Señor Cape?”
“No.” Cape turned on his stool so their knees were almost touching. “Are you going to help me?”
“I already have.” Garcia rubbed a hand across his mouth.
“How?”
“I bought you a drink on two occasions.”
“Oscar—”
“—and tried to give you some advice. You’re not terribly good at taking advice, are you?”
“No.”
“Neither am I.” Garcia tapped his fingers on the bar. “Perhaps that is why we get along.”
“You knew about the farm.”
“Of course.”
“Then you must know who owns it.”
“Luis Cordon—everyone in Mexico knows who owns that property.”
“Even the government?”
“Especially the Mexican government.”
“But does the government know about the money laundering—the bogus carbon offsets?”
“Offsets?” Garcia frowned. “You mean credits.”
Cape shook his head. “Not sure what they’re called here.” He explained the scam that Linda and Sloth had discovered in as much detail as he could remember. When he was finished Garcia clapped his hands together.
“You have done much homework, my friend. But there is more to Cordon’s empire—much more.”
“More.” Cape felt lightheaded. He reached for the bar gun.
“You have heard of the Kyoto Protocols?”
“Sure.” Cape nodded. “Big treaty between countries around the world to try and stop global warming.”
“Which the United States voted against.”
“Don’t blame me—I’m just an American taxpayer—we don’t get to vote on anything our government does.”
“You are too defensive.” Garcia patted Cape’s arm. “Most developed countries did sign the treaty, so now they have to limit their greenhouse emissions, unless…” He let his voice trail off.
“Unless?”
“Unless they buy something that lets them keep polluting.”
“Carbon credits?”
Garcia filled both their glasses. Cape didn’t remember emptying his.
“I think you are feeling better, my inquisitive friend.”
“You’re saying there’s money in carbon credits?”
“Say you have a factory in Germany.”
“OK.” Cape injected more Coke into his system before reaching for his shot glass. “What kind of factory?”
“It doesn’t matter. It could be a chemical factory, an automotive plant. Let us say you own a manufacturing facility for a toy company that makes wind-up animals—little plastic flying pigs.”
“I understand they’re very popular in Mexico.”
“You have already installed the latest filters, the newest technology. All the anti-pollution equipment available. But you can’t lower your greenhouse emissions any further without closing the factory, which of course is not an option. What do you do?”
“Buy a carbon credit from somebody else?”
“
Exactamente.
Perhaps you buy them from a pig farm in Mexico which is reducing emissions by turning methane into carbon dioxide. As the farm reduces greenhouse gases, it earns carbon
credits
.”
“So the Mexicans earn credits which they sell to the Germans.”
“
Sí
, on the open market.”
“For how much?”
“Carbon trading has reached over thirty billion dollars on the European market alone. That is U.S. dollars.”
“Billion, with a
b
?”
Garcia nodded. “There have been many articles in the global financial press.
The Financial Times. Forbes. El Financiero.
Serious money is crossing borders.”
“But it’s all regulated, right?” Cape watched Garcia carefully.
“I wish that were the case.” Garcia placed both hands around his shot glass and rolled it between them. “
Verdad
, I really do. And I think it could work one day.”
“But?”
“One cannot expect U.N. inspectors to tour every pig farm in Mexico, India, or Mongolia—their oil for food program was
un desastre
, and that was only one country. These exchanges take place between developed and undeveloped countries, farms and factories all over the world.”
“So how does it work?” Cape sipped some more tequila.
“Many factories and farms exaggerate their claims, driving up the number of credits they earn. We estimate that twenty percent of credits earned in Mexico are inflated.”
Cape almost spit. “That’s almost six billion dollars.”
“Globally, yes.” Garcia held his glass close to his nose and inhaled. “Right now carbon credits are a cross between the free market and the honor system.”
“And you think Cordon’s operation might not be all that honorable?”
The right side of Garcia’s mouth turned up but stopped short of a smile. “All Cordon would have to do is exaggerate the production of methane by a few percentage points to earn more credits, then he could sell them as pure profit on the European market. It is like printing your own shares in a publicly traded company.”
“Tempting even if you’re not a criminal.”
“Indeed.” Garcia drained his glass. “Now do you understand why someone might want to kill your Senator?”
“As if hundreds of millions of dollars weren’t reason enough—”
“Compared to billions…most men would stop at nothing.”
Cape shot the rest of his tequila. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I was hoping you would go home and forget about Mexico.”
“Was that what you meant about not being good at taking advice?”
Garcia made no comment. He reached out and tilted the bottle. It was half empty.
“I should have listened to you,” said Cape. “I’ve been a pawn in somebody else’s game the entire time.”
“And now you know what the game is.”
“But the stakes have changed, Oscar. I’ve lost my client.”
“This reminds me of the conversation we had when we first met.”
“I’m not being coy this time.”
“I know.” Garcia exhaled loudly, blowing out his cheeks. “I know about the Senator’s daughter.”
“So does everybody else. It was in the papers, remember?”
“I am deeply sorry.”
“You were just doing your job.”
“Perhaps.” Garcia rapped his fingers on the bar again. He seemed to be making some sort of decision. “But what is
your
job?”
“What do you mean?”
“You have a client, but who have you been working for?”
Cape started to reply but caught himself. “You mean Salinas—I’ve been working for Salinas this whole time when I thought I was just taking his money.”
“That certainly
seems
to be the case…” Garcia sounded like he didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. He looked at Cape to make sure he noticed.
“But tonight he tried to kill me.” Cape stared at his empty shot glass.
“Why?”
Cape shrugged. “Tie up loose ends.”
Garcia plucked at his sleeve. “He could have killed you when you were in his office. Why now?”
“Why now?” Cape repeated the question, then said it to himself again.
Why now.
Something had been gnawing at the back of his brain since he met Rebecca at the restaurant. A stray thought that got knocked down when his car drove off a pier. A feeling in his gut that got a little heavier after Linda explained Cordon’s operation. Something that didn’t fit with the facts. Something that broke the pattern if you looked at things from a different angle, turned the whole thing upside down.
Why now.
“Salinas could have killed the Senator nine months ago. He could have killed me last week.”
“Now you know what has been troubling me.”
“But why, Oscar? Why now?”
Garcia shook his head. “Only one man can answer that question, and it is not Antonio Salinas. Because if you ask him and are wrong, there is very little chance you will live to see the morning.”
“If you’re suggesting what I think you are, my odds aren’t going to be much better.”
“They say you haven’t really seen Mexico until you visit both of our drug lords.”
“Who says that?”
“I just did.”
Cape stood and braced himself against the bar. “I need to go see Luis Cordon.”
“So it would seem.”
“Can you help me?”
“Why not?” Garcia stood and pulled a stray thread off his jacket. “I know where he lives.”