Greasing the Piñata (4 page)
Some women just looked like trouble. Rebecca Lowry wasn’t one of them, which should have been the first clue.
The woman who walked into Cape’s office two weeks ago was excruciatingly attractive in a remarkably wholesome way. An expensive gray suit and skirt, tailored to reveal the faint contours of a distracting figure. Short dark hair, large brown eyes, a long straight nose, and full lips defined a classically beautiful face adorned with little or no makeup. Within the first few minutes of the interview he decided that, if asked, he might consider compromising his professionalism and running away with her. She didn’t ask, and he didn’t press the point. A good detective knows when to be patient.
She started to explain why she had called but stopped herself in mid-sentence and looked uncertainly across the desk.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions first?”
“Most people do.” Cape gestured toward the client chair, which she took, crossing her legs demurely.
“Your references were excellent.”
“They wouldn’t be references if they weren’t.”
“How long have you been doing this?”
“About ten years.”
“And before that?” she asked. “Were you a cop or something?”
“Reporter,” said Cape. “I worked for the
Chronicle
here in San Francisco, the
Times
in New York. A few other papers and magazines you probably didn’t read before they went out of business.”
“You covered the crime beat?”
“Some. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong—they call that
investigative journalism
when editors get full of themselves. Local mob activity. Construction scams. Political scandals.”
“Why’d you quit?”
Cape shrugged. “My editor said I had problems with authority.”
“Do you?”
“Depends on who’s in charge.”
“You didn’t get along with your editor—that’s why you left?”
“No. I could have gone to another paper, or freelanced.” Cape shrugged. “Over the years, I saw some things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Things I don’t really like to talk about—things that convinced me the pen isn’t always mightier than the sword. I got tired of trying to make a difference only to have guns pointed at me.”
“And now?”
“Now I get to point one back,” he replied. “And every once in a while I even get to make a difference.”
Rebecca studied him for a minute, teeth working her lower lip. Cape could tell she’d already made a decision—she was just working herself up to tell him about it. The intensity of her gaze almost made him uncomfortable.
Almost.
“Anything else you want to know?”
“You mentioned political scandals,” said Rebecca. “What do you think of politicians?”
“Not much.”
A bitter smile vanished from Rebecca’s lips almost before it appeared. “That might be a problem.”
Cape raised his eyebrows. “For me or you?”
“Lowry is my mother’s maiden name,” said Rebecca. “My given name was Dobbins—as in Jim Dobbins.”
“The California State Senator?”
“Retired.”
“That’s right,” said Cape. “Didn’t he resign suddenly, a couple of months ago? The papers said he wanted to spend more time with his family.”
The bitter smile returned and held.
“I haven’t seen my father in ten years, Mister Weathers.”
“Call me Cape. So you two aren’t close.”
“You have a talent for understatement, Cape.”
“You’re saying the story was spun.”
“Like a top.”
“What about the rest of your family?”
“My mother died when I was in college.” Rebecca’s teeth flashed white before she brought her lips together into a thin line. “And my brother Danny, well, he’s the oldest son. To my Dad—
the Senator
—he could do no wrong, until he developed a substance abuse problem, as the papers called it.”
Cape noticed she almost choked on the word
Dad
and practically spat
Senator
when she said it. “Why are you here?”
“My brother has disappeared. So has my father. I want you to find them.”
“After ten years, what’s the rush?”
“I love my brother.”
“And you think the two disappearances are related.”
Rebecca nodded. “I think my brother got into some kind of trouble. We used to talk on the phone—he’d call whenever he sobered up. But then he stopped calling. When I tried to call him, his phone had been disconnected.”
“You try his friends?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t know his friends, so I did something that I swore I would never do.”
“You called your Dad.”
“And now I can’t find him, either.”
“Any ideas, hunches?”
“I think my Dad might have gone looking for Danny. I think he might’ve known what kind of trouble he was in.”
“That’s quite a leap, don’t you think?”
Rebecca’s eyes hardened for an instant. “
The sins of the father.
My brother is harmless—if something’s happened to him, it must be my father’s fault.”
Cape started to say something but caught himself. He didn’t grow up in her house. “Mind if I ask you some more questions?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Not at all, but I have one more for you.”
“Shoot.”
“Did you vote in the last election, Cape?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Did you vote for my father?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“OK.”
“OK what?”
“You’re hired.”
“I was right, this is complicated.”
Inspector Garcia said it sympathetically but Cape clenched his jaw anyway. He felt like a failure. You get hired to find a missing person, the client typically wants you to find that person alive. He downed the last of his tequila and turned on his bar stool.
“You have a talent for understatement.”
Garcia made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “You forgot to sip that last drink, my friend.”
Cape glanced at the bar and tried to remember the count, but the bartender kept replacing their empty glasses with tumblers full of the impossibly clear poison. “How many was that?”
Garcia shrugged. “I am off duty.”
“And I’m probably fired.”
“But you will be paid for your work to date, no?”
Cape nodded.
“But that’s not what bothers you, is it?” Garcia put a hand on Cape’s shoulder. “In your line of work, reputation is everything.”
“You learn that from watching a movie. Or a TV show?” Cape hated the sound of his own voice, the undercurrent of frustration. His nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “Sorry, just pissed I didn’t find him sooner.”
“Who?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” said Cape. “We won’t really know who turned up until you visit the morgue.”
Garcia looked at his watch. “Too soon. But you have your suspicions.”
“Now who’s being coy?”
Garcia took a sip of his drink. “I admit it, I think your search has ended. Despite what you might read in the tabloids about crime in Mexico, this sort of thing doesn’t happen very often in a resort town. Mexico City, of course, but a place like Puerto Vallarta?” Garcia shook his head. “You find a
gringo
body, it’s usually an overweight tourist who had a heart attack in his room.”
“While screwing the maid?”
“Or the bellboy,” said Garcia. “We Mexicans are free thinkers.”
“Glad to hear it.” Cape finished half his drink in one gulp. He knew the tequila was slowing him down, but it was taking the edge off a growing depression, turning it into anger. He had no time for self-pity, but maybe he could put
pissed
to good use. “It does make me wonder…” He let his voice trail off as he set the glass down.
“Wonder?”
“Why a Chief Inspector would be hanging around a sleepy town like this.”
“Surely you know tourism is critical to Mexico’s struggling economy.”
“Yeah,” said Cape. “Think I read that in a guidebook. And surely the local
polizia
can handle the pickpockets and grifters that pass through here.”
Garcia took another delicate sip, closing his eyes as the liquid scorched a path across his lips. “What are you implying,
compadré
?”
“Maybe you knew there was a Senator and his kid South of the border.”
“You told me yourself, or are you too drunk to remember?”
Cape shook his head. “The tequila’s good, but not that good. I think maybe you already knew.”
Garcia shrugged. “It is an interesting theory.”
“Would you tell me if it was true?”
Garcia frowned, giving the question the consideration it deserved. “But who would tell me?”
“The Senator had a lot of connections,” said Cape. “I’ve barely scratched the surface, but like any politician, he had a gazillion business and consulting deals on the side.”
“I see.”
“And then there’s my client.”
“You think your client called
me
?”
Cape shook his head. “Not you directly, but maybe her lawyer tried to work through official channels before she came to me. She has a lot of lawyers.”
“Of course she does,” said Garcia. “She is American.”
“That’s the most likely scenario,” said Cape. “It’s what I would do if I was her lawyer.”
“You could ask her, no?”
Cape crossed his arms on the bar and rested his head on them. “I might, since you’re not telling me a damn thing.”
“That is the tequila talking,” said Garcia.
“But you didn’t answer my question.”
“There have been so many. Who knew Americans were so inquisitive?”
Cape raised his head so he could make eye contact. “If you already knew about the Senator’s kid, would you have told me?”
Garcia didn’t hesitate. He met Cape’s gaze and said, “No.”
Cape smiled. It was impossible not to like this man, both candid and oblique at the same time. “Why not?”
“Why did you not tell me who you were looking for when we first met? I think, my friend, the answer to your question is the same as the answer to mine.”
Cape nodded. “Because I had no reason to trust you, any more than you should trust me.”
“
Exactemente.
”
“I hear there’s a lot of corruption in the Mexican police force.”
“Indeed?” Garcia laughed with his eyes but his mouth was a thin line daring Cape to step across. “And where did you hear this?”
“I think I saw it in a movie—
Traffic
, the one with Benicio del Toro.”
“He is a very good actor.”
“Good point,” replied Cape. “So maybe it’s not true, after all. He was just acting.”
“I did not realize you were so suspicious.”
“Failure will do that to you.”
“A man who is that hard on himself must be very good at his job.” Garcia looked at his watch again. “It is almost time.”
“You want company?”
“No, it would make some people…
uncomfortable
. Go to your room and I will call you later with the news. You can come to the morgue tonight if you like—I will make the necessary arrangements.” He lifted his jacket off a neighboring stool and took one of his cards from the pocket. “Call me if you think of anything of interest.”
“Like a dead body floating to the surface of the swimming pool?”
“Yes, that would qualify.”
Cape stood to leave, felt his legs readjust to gravity. He extended his hand and felt Garcia’s firm grip in his own. “One more question before you go?”
Garcia brushed lint off his slacks. “Of course.”
“How can a police inspector afford twelve-dollar shots of tequila?”
“That is simple,
amigo
.”
“Oh?”
“I charged them to your room.” The laughter in Garcia’s eyes returned, and this time his mouth had begun to curl at the edges as he turned and headed for the door.
Cape felt weightless.
That was the sensation from the tequila as he walked to the elevator, a tenuous separation from his mundane concerns, but the Muzak on the way to his floor ruined it. By the time he made it to his room, his bladder was protesting his failure to visit the men’s room in the lobby, and he couldn’t get an instrumental version of
Hotel California
out of his head.
After two unsuccessful attempts at getting his key card to work, he made a beeline for his bathroom, lifting the seat to the toilet with his right foot while he worked his zipper with both hands. He blinked as he straddled the bowl, anticipating release, and let his eyes come into focus. He exhaled slowly and then, suddenly—
stopped
.
He doubled over in discomfort and dropped to his knees, his head only inches from the porcelain, his right hand clutching the adjacent sink as he let his eyes readjust to the new angle.
I’m not that drunk.
For a second he feared he might be hallucinating, but he knew that wasn’t the case. The tequila might have slowed his pupils down, but they still worked. He stared into the toilet bowl and frowned at the fish swimming there.
There are fish in my toilet.
He had a fleeting thought this was something the resort did to amuse its guests. Maybe there was a kitten on his bed playing with a ball of yarn, a dog waiting in the living room with slippers in its mouth. All part of the club floor package, continental breakfast and live pets included.
But these were not
koi
, colorful oversized goldfish or exotic salt water species in rainbow colors. These fish were barely visible, less than three inches long and pale, almost translucent. Their bodies were impossibly narrow and their heads flared. Cape thought they looked like tiny arrows shooting back and forth. Whatever these creatures were, they weren’t brought to his room by housekeeping. And since he was staying on the top floor, he doubted they had swum from the sewer, up the pipes and into his room.
Pushing aside his need to urinate, Cape crossed his room and grabbed the phone. The front desk answered after three rings, the voice female and friendly.
“There are fish in my toilet.”
A long pause, a wait for the punch line. When none came, the pleasant voice said, “I’m so sorry, señor.” Another pause. “Would you like me to call maintenance?”
“Does this happen often?”
“Not that I know of, señor.” A polite hesitation, and then, “But this is Mexico. Anything can happen.”
“Any suggestions?”
“You could flush, señor.”
“Gracias.” Cape replaced the handset, then lifted it again as he pulled Garcia’s card from his pocket. He squinted as he read the instructions printed on the phone for calling a local number. Garcia answered after five rings.
“There are fish in my toilet.”
“Is this how you Americans say hello?”
“I’m not kidding,” said Cape.
Before Garcia could interrupt, he described the fish. When he had finished, there was nothing but silence on the line. Cape thought Garcia’s cell phone had cut out until he heard the other man’s breath as he exhaled into the mouthpiece.
“Describe them again,” he said, his voice a heavy monotone cutting across the static of the call. Cape did, right down to their flared heads.
“Don’t flush,” said Garcia. “And under no circumstances use that toilet—for anything—I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
The pressure on Cape’s bladder reasserted itself at the thought of hopping around for twenty minutes, but he felt too tired to return to the lobby. “What if I have to take a piss?”
“Use the sink,” said Garcia. “Or the shower. Believe me, those showers have been pissed in plenty of times. Pretend you’re in a fraternity on Spring Break. But whatever you do, amigo, do
not
use that toilet.”
“Why not?” asked Cape. “They’re just fish.”
“Trust me,” said Garcia. “You’ll thank me later.”