What's Done in Darkness (23 page)

“Come this way,” the sergeant said.

We followed him through the door, into an area where some police officers were at desks doing paperwork and working on the computers.

The sergeant's office was to the right. He entered, and we followed him. Then he gestured to the two chairs opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

I sat, but Katrina didn't. “Please, I need to know,” she said. “I can hardly breathe.”

“Please, sit,” Sergeant Ramirez reiterated. “We will discuss.”

Moaning softly, Katrina sat beside me. Her butt was perched on the edge of the chair, and she was leaning toward the desk. She was literally on edge. As was I.

I knew that like me, she was hoping the sergeant would tell us news that would change everything for the better. That it wasn't Christian who had been found but another man.

Second Sergeant Ramirez sat and opened a folder on his desk. “You are the one I spoke to at the hotel?” he asked.

Katrina nodded. “Yes, that was me.” She paused briefly. “My friend here … she said that maybe you're wrong. That it's another man you found. Not Christian.”

The sergeant lifted a passport from the folder. Before he even opened it, I could see that it was a British passport. My stomach sank.

He opened it and turned it so that we could see the photo. “Christian Alexander Begley. Is this your friend?”

Katrina's hand went to her mouth. “Oh God.”

“Yes.” The word hardly escaped my throat. “That's him.”

“Then I am very sorry, but yes, he is dead.”

Katrina slumped forward and burst into tears, and I put a comforting hand on her back. But still, I wasn't convinced. “What if whoever you found had his ID and you only
think
it's him?” I asked. “Isn't it possible that he was robbed—”

“I saw his face,” the sergeant insisted. “The man in the alley is the same one pictured in this passport.”

“Katrina was told that you had pictures so we could identify him for ourselves.”

The sergeant looked me in the eye, his expression grave. “Trust me, señora. You do not want to see the pictures.”

The proverbial last straw vanished, leaving me with the cold, hard truth. Christian had been murdered. The fight oozing out of me, I whimpered.

“I understand this is difficult,” the sergeant said. “But can you tell me what is your relationship with Christian?”

“I'm a friend,” I explained. “But Katrina and Christian were dating.”

“Are you British, or American?”

“American,” I told him. “We both are.” Katrina was too distraught to speak. Sergeant Ramirez realized this, too, and had directed the question to me.

“Did you meet in Mexico?”

“No. Christian and Katrina met in Florida. He's been staying with her there. We all decided to head to Mexico for a vacation.”

“How can this be true?” Katrina suddenly asked, whipping her head up. “We were at the club; we were … he's not supposed to be dead!”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” the man said in a tone that didn't sound the least bit sympathetic. Maybe he saw far too many murders to invest himself in the grief of one person. “But please, tell me. Why did you come to Mexico?”

Katrina frowned. She looked taken aback. “Why does anybody come to Mexico? We came for a vacation.”

Sergeant Ramirez looked at her, holding her gaze a little too long. It made me feel uncomfortable.

Then he spoke. “People come to this country for all sorts of reasons. Many times, we have to clean up the mess left by American tourists who think that Mexico is about one thing. Drugs.”

“Drugs?” I asked, my eyes bulging. “Are you—are you accusing us of coming here for drugs?”

I remembered the man's comment in the waiting area.
Good luck getting any justice in this country.

“You said you were at a club last night,” the sergeant began. “Did you meet with anybody about drugs?”

“How dare you?” Katrina asked. Her eyes were narrowed, her face full of anger. “I'm not here because of drugs. I'm here because someone killed my boyfriend.”

“And we need to determine why. Why would somebody slit a man's throat at the back of a club? Because he was having a good time on the dance floor?”

The sergeant's question was sarcastic, making it clear that he didn't believe Christian's death had been a random attack on an innocent tourist.

And hearing the sergeant state how Christian had been killed was like hearing it for the first time. My stomach roiled. “His throat was really slit?” I asked.

“From ear to ear.”

My head swam. I thought I might pass out.

“This is why it is important for me to know everything. Sometimes the cartels will cut off a person's head. Or they will shoot you. This murder doesn't quite have the mark of the cartels. But one never knows.”

Katrina was no longer crying, but her breathing was haphazard. Was she about to have a panic attack?

“We were at the club,” I said. “We were dancing. And then Christian—” I stopped, suddenly unsure if I should say that there'd been a fight between Katrina and Christian. But wasn't it important to tell the truth? Maybe the guy Christian had fought with was the perpetrator. The sergeant needed to know that.

I looked at Katrina, but her eyes were losing focus.
Come on, Katrina,
I silently urged.
I need your help here.

“Please go on,” Sergeant Ramirez said. “What were you going to say?”

I glanced at Katrina again. She was like a shell of her former self. Could she even hear what we were saying?

I took a deep breath, then told the truth. “Katrina and Christian had a fight. She was flirting with another guy, and maybe that guy is the one who—”

“Jade!” Katrina threw a lethal look in my direction.

I was surprised that she had even processed what I'd said. “Don't you think that guy might have something to do with this?” I asked her. “You were flirting with him; Christian got pissed and went over to confront you two. Who else would hurt him?” When Katrina said nothing, I turned back to Ramirez. “Christian and this guy fought over Katrina. Physically. He's got to be the killer.”

Katrina wasn't convinced. “He was just some guy at the club. He wouldn't kill Christian over me.”

“Some people are psychopaths, Kat. They seem normal, but they've got a dark side. Anything can set them off.”

“Brian seemed pretty normal, too, didn't he?” Katrina muttered.

Sergeant Ramirez held up a hand. “Please. Let me be clear. Your boyfriend fought with a man you were dancing with?”

“He did,” Katrina admitted.

“And you think he is the killer?” The sergeant's tone told me that he was unconvinced. “Because this man was flirting with you, he does this to your boyfriend?” With that, Ramirez produced a picture from the folder, held it up. And as my eyes landed on the graphic image, my stomach lurched violently. I had to hold my breath to keep the bile from rising.

Katrina's outburst was instantaneous. A sob clawed at my throat. It was a picture of Christian lying on his back, his throat sliced from ear to ear, his blood covering the concrete, a look of agony etched on his face forever.

I could no longer hold in my tears. They spilled onto my cheeks in a steady stream.

“I thought you weren't going to show us the pictures,” I said. And now I could understand why he'd initially said that he wouldn't. What I saw was an image I would never be able to forget.

“I am through playing games,” Sergeant Ramirez said. “Why would someone do this to a man because he was dancing with his girlfriend? There is something you are not telling me. You want me to find your boyfriend's killer, you need to start telling me the truth.”

The image of Christian murdered flashed in my mind again, and unsteadily I got to my feet. “I need … I need a bathroom.”

“Right across the hallway,” Ramirez told me, pointing in that direction.

I raced out of my room and into the door with the sign BAÑOS. I barely made it to the toilet before I hurled.

And then I cried, letting it all out. Christian was dead. There was no more pretending.

He'd been slaughtered.

I turned on the faucet and scooped some water into my hands. The water was warm and tasted like crap, but I swallowed some anyway. I needed to get the taste of vomit out of my mouth.

As composed as I possibly could be under the circumstances, I made my way back to the sergeant's office. As I entered, Katrina was saying, “I swear. Nothing else is going on. My boyfriend and I had a fight. That's why I feel even worse about this. If we hadn't fought, if I hadn't been trying to make him jealous … don't you think I realize that maybe I could have prevented all of this from happening?”

As I sat, Katrina glanced at me. She offered me a weak smile.

“I'm going to need to speak to both of you separately,” Sergeant Ramirez said.

“What?” Katrina exclaimed.

“Is there a reason you don't want to be questioned separately?” The question was almost an accusation.

“Of course not,” I said. “We have nothing to hide.”

Ramirez smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Good. Who will talk to me first?”

Katrina scowled. “Fine. I'll stay.”

“Very well.” Then he looked at me. “Miss, please head back to the waiting area.”

I did as instructed, hoping that Katrina would keep her cool. She was starting to get angry, and the angrier she got, the more likely the cop would suspect that we had something to hide.

In the reception area, the American tourists were still there. The one with the black eye looked at me and said, “Now the fun's about to start.”

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

If by
fun
he meant aggravation beyond anything I'd ever known, he was right. Not only was I questioned by the sergeant, I was also questioned independently by another officer. Now, after a good hour and a half of being at the police station, I was released from the second detective's office and heading back into the reception area.

Katrina looked up as I trudged over to her. I plopped down onto the chair beside her.

“What did he say?” she asked me.

“I was questioned by some detective named Acevedo. He just kept asking the same questions.” I looked to where the two American tourists had been sitting. “Were they finally released?”

“I don't think so. A cop came out here and took them through that door on the left.”

Damn. They were being locked up?

“I wish we'd never come here,” Katrina complained. “I should have known better.”

I gathered that she was referring to the police station. “I don't understand why they keep bringing us back in to question us. By now, they should be letting us go and working on finding the killer. We've already told them everything. And why are two different cops questioning us independently? Do they think we're
suspects
?”

Katrina said nothing. What was there to say? After all, she didn't have the answers any more than I did.

I was exhausted, so I knew it had to be even worse for her. I hadn't loved Christian. The shock and horror were setting in, and I could only imagine that she was barely keeping it together.

And were we even going to get out of here or end up in a jail cell? The very fact that the detective had mentioned drugs had me extremely worried. Did he think that we were holding something back? And was the fact that Katrina had offered me drugs of any significance? What about that guy she'd been flirting with? He'd offered me something.

Ramirez said that the cartels had a specific modus operandi, and while Christian hadn't been decapitated, his head had been severed. What if this killing wasn't about flirting and jealousy but the fact that that guy Katrina had met was a drug dealer?

I touched Katrina softly on the arm to get her attention. “Hey,” I said in a soft voice. “What if this
is
about drugs? What you offered me in the bathroom, where did you get—”

“Shut up!” she hissed.

Her words felt like a slap. But I swallowed my hurt and proceeded in a calm voice. “Ramirez and Acevedo are smart. They know we're holding something back.” I'd told them about Brian and Keith, how we'd hung out with them at the club and gotten a cab ride with them back to the hotel. “What if there were surveillance cameras in the bar, and they … they saw you getting …
stuff
? I mean, the guy you were dancing with specifically offered me—”

Katrina glared at me. “Do you see where we are? As it is, who knows if we'll get out of here. You start talking about stuff that makes us sound suspicious and good luck getting any justice. We might just get thrown in jail. Like those other guys did.”

For several seconds, I said nothing as I contemplated her words. Then I spoke, making sure to keep my voice low. “But what if that guy is a big-time drug dealer or something? That's what I'm saying. They keep questioning us, and maybe it's because they know that we're leaving something out. And that's probably making us look guilty. Maybe if we tell them—”

“I'm not about to get arrested in Mexico for a crime I didn't commit. If you want to be stupid and open your mouth, leave me out of it.”

The back door suddenly opened, and the sergeant appeared. He pointed to Katrina and said, “Miss Hughes.”

Slowly, she stood. As she made her way to the sergeant, she glanced over her shoulder at me. In her eyes, I saw a warning:
Shut the hell up.

*   *   *

I'm not sure how much time passed before Katrina exited from the back offices. Maybe twenty-five minutes. Perhaps forty. I'd stopped checking. Every time I'd looked at the clock, mere minutes had passed, and checking the time was stressing me out.