The Dead Women of Juarez (21 page)

Now his hands trembled and that was enough. Enrique stuffed the plastic bag in his pants pocket and secreted the notebook into his jacket again. He stood and flushed the toilet automatically. Doing so made him feel stupid. He unlocked the stall and peeked out, but no one had come into the restroom behind him.

The van pulled up at the same time Enrique left the building. He and a half-dozen other cops piled into three rows of bench seats. “Turn up the air,” said one. Another agreed. The driver complied, but the fresh cool escaped from the open passenger window around the barrel of their guardian’s rifle.

The man beside Enrique nudged him. “I know you: aren’t you Garcia’s boy?”

Enrique didn’t recognize the man. He was heavyset, older and maybe his face might be familiar, but not now. Enrique nodded. “I’m assigned to him, yes.”

“La Bestia,” said the first cop who spoke. “Fuck.”

“You don’t look stupid enough to be his apprentice,” said another.

“That’s true,” said the older cop. His eye appraised and Enrique turned away to look out the window. “You seem more like the kind to crack a book instead of a head.”

The other cops laughed. The van moved. Enrique watched the entrance as they turned around in the street and doubled back. Garcia did not emerge from the smoked-glass doors. The soldiers didn’t even watch them go; their attention was elsewhere.

The policemen kept talking heedless of Enrique’s silence. “You know,” said one, “La Bestia is so stupid, he tried to drown a fish.”

“Do they have you read his assignments to him?” the older cop asked Enrique. “Or do they give him reports with pictures on them?”

Enrique shook his head. The notebook clung to the material of his shirt. He was sweating again.

“At least he can break those
narco
bastards,” said the first cop. The laughter stilled and there was assent all around. “If stupid is what it takes, then so be it.”

The older cop grunted. He nudged Enrique. “Don’t take the joking too hard,
amigo
. Everyone is just jealous. They made the book for us, not for Garcia. We should all have such a free hand.”

“It’s all right,” Enrique managed. He saw the parking lot ahead, the high fences and the curling masses of barbed wire shining in the sun. A drop of perspiration dripped into his eye. It burned and he wiped at it with his cuff.

“I heard he made a woman-killer confess,” said the older cop.

“Yes,” Enrique lied. He wanted to get out of the van even though it was in motion. The roof seemed too low, the doors pushed inward too far. He wished he was closer to the soldier and the open window.

“Good, good. We can joke, but he’s done a good thing.
Feminicidios
.”

“You can tell him the jokes if you want,” said one of the policemen. “He won’t get them anyway.”

The men laughed, but the humor was faded. Enrique made a weak smile. He was glad when the van stopped and he could step out onto the hot asphalt and get away from them. The older cop said goodbye, but Enrique moved away without saying anything. He felt breathless, the notebook pressing until he couldn’t draw in enough air. Inside his car he ripped the notebook out of his jacket and cast it onto the passenger seat. He put his hands on the hot metal of the roof and ignored the pain. He sucked in great lungfuls of air and the edges of his vision glowed with heat and hyperventilation.

When the moment passed, he got into his car and turned over the engine. He fastened his seatbelt and cinched it tightly. He closed his eyes until the glowing faded. He opened them again. His hands were on the wheel, the air conditioner humming while the engine idled. When he looked left and when he looked right he expected to see Garcia there, but he was alone.

T
HEY MET AT THE BACK DOOR OF
Sevilla’s home well after sundown. Sevilla knew he smelled of whisky, but there was nothing to be done about it. Enrique didn’t seem to notice, or at least he pretended he didn’t.

“Come in,” Sevilla said. “Did you close the gate?”

“Yes.”

“Good. If you don’t close the back gate, dogs get into the yard and shit all over.”

Sevilla offered Enrique something cool to drink and they went through the motions of a normal visit. Enrique’s jacket went on a hook by the door and he sat on the couch with his back resting on the quilt Liliana made the first year she and Sevilla were married. Sevilla took the chair. His notepad was on the endtable.

“May I?” Sevilla asked, and he took the
cuaderno
from Enrique.

“It’s yours,” Enrique said.

They sat in silence while Sevilla checked each page against his notepad. The process was long. Sevilla felt Enrique’s eyes flicking here and there around the room, sensed his anxiety from the way he crossed and uncrossed his legs.

When he was done, Sevilla closed the notebook. He put it on the couch beside Enrique. “How long is it until you go back to work?”

“Tomorrow,” Enrique said.

“You can get the notebook back then?”

“Of course.”

“And then there’s more,” Sevilla said. He saw darkness pass Enrique’s face. “I need you to check on Estéban. He’s in the system, moving around. Even Señora Quintero doesn’t know where he is, or she pretends not to. We need him in one place where he can be checked on.”

Enrique shook his head. “I don’t have that kind of authority. If I interfere with his transport, word will get back to Captain Garcia. He’ll ask questions I can’t answer.”

“Then at least find out where they put him,” Sevilla insisted. He lapsed back in the chair and pushed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. The whisky did not quiet his nerves like it was meant to. He felt tired, but not calm enough to sleep. He had a headache. “He’s the last one who can still talk.”

“Why don’t you do something?”

“I’m not involved anymore,” Sevilla replied. “La Bestia doesn’t need me anymore. It was Kelly who knew me, Kelly who might have listened.”

Silence fell over the living room. The ticking of a clock by the window was the only sound. Even the street outside the front window, past the bars and containing wall, was quiet.

“You have a nice home,” Enrique said after a long time. “Where is Señora Sevilla?”

Sevilla uncovered his eyes. His vision was blurred. He blinked once, twice and again until it passed. The room was clean and ordered just so. The neatness of it made his heart ache. Perhaps it didn’t show on his face. “My wife passed away,” he said simply. “It’s been two years now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. This house was hers to keep, to decorate… everything here is hers. I was barely here enough to make it mine. That quilt, that clock… all hers.”

“You have children?”

The headache stabbed at Sevilla. Another drink would take the point off the dagger, but he would not drink in the house nor drink
in front of Enrique. He got up instead and went to the window. Outside it was blackness. If he turned off the lights and sat in the dark, orange-white light would filter in from the street, his eyes would grow used to it and it would be like a new room revealed to him in shadows.

“My daughter is also passed away,” Sevilla replied.

“How did it happen?”

“Make a few calls,” Sevilla said too sharply. “Don’t ask after Estéban right away or you’ll make Garcia suspicious. He’s stupid, but he’s not that stupid.”

“If he does ask, I’ll say I’m making up a report for Señora Quintero,” Enrique said. “There’s one due. I don’t have to mention you at all, or anything else. He relies on me.”

Sevilla turned from the window. There was a time he would not have stood with his back to the night, but he didn’t consider such things much anymore. Talking put strength back into his voice and thinking pushed the headache back. “What do you get from him?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He relies on you. He’s stupid and he’s cruel. He needs someone like you. What do you need from him?”

Enrique looked away. Another silence descended. “They promised me a promotion,” he said finally. “Two years with him would be like five in the rotation. There’s extra pay.”

“The Devil always pays well,” Sevilla said.

He went to the kitchen and found orange juice in the refrigerator. He poured himself a tall glass. He let the drink sweat against his fingers before he drank. The juice was gone in three swallows. Cold spread through his sinuses and for a moment he felt no pain from the drink at all.

“If you had questions about me, the notebook should have answered them,” Enrique said. He stood in the doorway as if he might flee at a harsh word. Sevilla felt a sudden urge to hurl his
glass at the young cop, but it was not Enrique he was angry with. “I told you about the American. I gave that to you.”

Sevilla rinsed his glass in the sink. He let hot water run over his hands and he wrung his fingers. “It’s hard to trust,” he said.

“What more can I do for you?” Enrique asked. “The American is guilty. Salazar is guilty. Anyone will tell you that. You and I are the only ones to say no. And what for? If it’s right then it’s right, but we won’t be rewarded.”

“Are you so sure about that?”

“Yes.”

Sevilla looked at Enrique again. He saw Garcia’s hardness hinted at there, the hardness of a stone worn by the wind. He didn’t expect it to show so early.

“I followed a lead today and found out someone has been looking for witnesses and telling lies at the same time. If they spread enough hearsay it will become the truth; people won’t remember if what they say is fact or fiction.”

“Then we’ll show them. Isn’t that what you intended?”

“Let’s sit down again.”

They returned to the living room. This time Enrique stood while Sevilla sat.

“There are names in Kelly’s notebook. I’ll go to them. I’ll ask the questions that need to be asked. When I need you, I’ll call on you, but go back to your life. These are… confusing times. Maybe nothing we do will make a difference. The wheels are already turning.”

“That’s not what you said before. You said this mattered.”

“Of
course
it matters!” Sevilla shot back. “But there’s a difference between knowing it and doing something about it. My fire, it comes and goes. In the daylight it all seems so easy, but here in the night I’m not so certain of myself.”

“Who will you talk to?” Enrique asked.

“There’s a girl who spent much time with Paloma Salazar.
They’re looking for her. Not La Bestia, but someone like him. She’s a woman and she’s poor. They’ll find some way to push her that doesn’t involve truncheons. Maybe I’ll be able to push back. Maybe it’s already too late.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I’m
drunk!
” Sevilla exclaimed. “I’m old and drunk and this—” he took up the red notebook and shook it angrily “— this isn’t enough! I thought it would have some breakthrough in it that I could use against what I found today, but it’s bullshit! The same bullshit it always was. Goddammit, Kelly.”

“How much do you drink?” Enrique asked.

“Too much. Not enough.”

Enrique paced. “What the hell am I doing here? Give me the notebook.”

Sevilla surrendered it without protest. His face was burning.

“You lectured me about duty and responsibility and now you can’t even keep away from a drink? What if Garcia saw me with this notebook today? What kind of excuse could I give? Or should I have just sent him to you?”

When Sevilla put his hands to his eyes again, they were wet. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have—”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Enrique agreed.

“I’m not so impressive here, I suppose.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry.”

Enrique sat heavily on the couch and disturbed the quilt. Sevilla wanted to reach out and smooth the wrinkles, but he stayed where he was. “You should be sorry, but there’s no time for that now. We are in it. The decision is made.”

The clock ticked a hundred times before Sevilla spoke again. “We are in it,” he said. “And we’ll be in it until we have answers. That’s what we agreed to.”

“Who will you talk to? Who is this woman who knew Paloma Salazar?”

Sevilla sat back in the chair and gripped the armrests. The action steadied him. He did not have a headache anymore. “You know of Mujeres Sin Voces?”

“The women in black. I’ve seen them.”

“Paloma was one of them. This woman, Ella Arellano, she is also one of them. I knew them both. From before.”

“What? How?”

Sevilla took a deep breath. “Because my daughter is missing.”

T
HE HEADACHE OF THE NIGHT WAS
gone, but the headache of the new day pounded against the back of Sevilla’s eyes and made him wish for a long sleep. He hid bloodshot whites behind sunglasses and drank water from a plastic bottle whenever his mouth suggested even a hint of going dry.

He parked a hundred yards from the
colonia
’s bus stop and watched the young women come and go in the unfettered sun. Some of the buses were from the city, but most came from the
maquiladoras
themselves. Once upon a time Ana Sevilla rode a bus like those, the lights doused before dawn or after sunset to save that little bit of power for the owners of the plants.

The regularity of them was hypnotizing, and Sevilla could have let the whole day pass with their comings and goings. Once he saw a black pick-up truck patrol along the unpaved road with two men in the king cab. They passed close to Sevilla’s car and were gone.

Sevilla watched for Ella Arellano among the women and the buses but she did not appear. He would have to go in.

In his time Sevilla had seen worse
colonias
, some so close to the
maquilas
that one could throw a stone from one to the other if there wasn’t a wall in the way. He had once been in a
colonia
in Baja built right along the tall hurricane fence that separated Mexico from the United States. The people there looked out their hand-cut windows at the land of opportunity.

Sevilla did not like the
colonias
: their closeness, their smells
and the suspicious faces. As a uniformed policeman he knew officers who had been beaten or stabbed patrolling the
colonias
or collecting statements for some crime or the other. Not all were like those, but they were close enough and Sevilla stayed away.