“I’ll tell you what I know,” Vargas said. “And you tell me the truth about what happened in that house.”
“Truth? I gave you unfettered access to my case files. Names, dates, all of it. What more could you want?”
Vargas reached into his back pocket and brought out the passport photo, laying it on the table in front of Rojas.
“You forgot to tell me about her,” he said.
He couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard Garcia involuntarily suck in a breath. Vargas glanced at him, but Garcia had quickly recovered, his expression blank and oddly incurious as he looked at the photo.
Rojas, however, didn’t flinch.
“What’s to tell? I’ve never seen her before. Is she a friend of yours?”
“Come on, Rojas; I know she was in that house. And she was still alive when the Ainsworths found her.”
“Ahhh,” Rojas said. “The Ainsworths. You take the word of a couple of gabachos over mine?” He looked at his associate. “Garcia, I believe I’ve just been insulted. In my own place of business, no less.”
Garcia nodded but said nothing.
“You were at the crime scene,” Rojas continued. “Tell Mr. Vargas what we found that night.”
It may have been Vargas’s imagination, but Garcia seemed a bit stiff, as if he was about to lie and wasn’t quite comfortable doing it.
“Five bodies,” he said. “All of them nuns from the Iglesia del Sagrado Corazon in Ciudad de Almas.”
The words were spoken with about as much passion as that of a campaign worker who didn’t really believe in his candidate.
“You see?” Rojas said to Vargas. “Your American friends are mistaken.” He wiped his mouth with his napkin. “There’s no doubting that the case is unusual, considering who the victims were, but as I told you before, our investigation has established that they were simply trying to get across the border and fell prey to bandits.”
“So then the name Angie means nothing to you?”
Vargas made a point to watch Garcia, whose poker game didn’t even come close to the level of Rojas’s. But this time the younger detective betrayed nothing.
“I’m afraid not,” Rojas said. “And while I’d never presume to tell you your job, I can assure you that pursuing this particular angle will only result in disappointment.”
Was that a threat? Vargas couldn’t be sure.
For a moment he wondered if Rojas was Juarez’s answer to Harmon, but the guy didn’t strike Vargas as someone who would be willing to take orders from anyone, let alone Mr. Blister and his friends. But money was a different story. There was no doubt that in one way or another, the man was dirty. Vargas could see it in his eyes.
Rojas dropped his napkin to the table and leaned back. “You mentioned an exchange. And now that I’ve lived up to my end of the deal, it’s time for you to tell me what you know.”
“I asked for the truth,” Vargas said.
“And that’s what I’ve given you. I even included a wonderful breakfast.” He smiled. “Now it’s your turn.”
There was something in that smile that said refusal was not an option, and Vargas knew he was on dangerous ground here. Mess with a cop in Juarez-especially one as powerful as Rojas-and you might find yourself in a very confined space, sharing your body heat with a new roommate.
But if Rojas and Garcia could lie, so could Vargas. And his poker game was pretty damn good.
“You caught me,” he said. “I’ve got nothing. I was bluffing.”
Rojas’s smile abruptly disappeared, his voice flat and unamused. “Then I believe we’re done.”
Vargas didn’t move. Nodded to the photo. “Not until you tell me who she is.”
Rojas took it from the table and, without looking at it, ripped it in two pieces and tossed them at Vargas.
“A product of your imagination,” he said. “And we both know what kind of trouble that will bring you.”
48
“ You shouldn’t have provoked him,” Garcia said. “He’s as bad as Carmelita. He’ll blame me for ruining his breakfast.”
They were in Vargas’s car, driving back to the station.
“All he had to do was tell me the truth.”
Garcia laughed. “You don’t know Rojas.”
“Then educate me.”
Garcia looked at him a moment, weighing the request. Then he said, “The man is a pig. That story he told you about taking over the family business? He didn’t mention that he stabbed his brother twice to convince him to step aside.”
“So why wasn’t he arrested?”
“His brother denied it. Blamed the attack on a gang of teenagers. Three of them are still in jail.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
Garcia shrugged. “Probably because I despise the man. Believe it or not, not all Mexican cops are corrupt. We’re hardworking people, trying to do good and make a living at the same time. The drug cartels are out of control down here, treating people as if they’re disposable. And trying to stop them is hard enough without pendejos like Rojas tainting the department.” He paused. “But Rojas also has a lot of friends, so if you ever repeat what I’ve just said, I’ll deny it.”
“Tell me about the girl in the photo.”
Garcia shifted his gaze to the street, which was filled with the passing hustle and bustle of downtown Juarez. “That subject is off-limits.”
“Then it’s true. She was there.”
“Did I say that?” He shook his head, then pointed at the road. “Drop me off around the corner. I want to get my hair cut for Carmelita.”
“I’ll keep your name out of it,” Vargas said. “An anonymous source.”
Garcia laughed again. “You know even less about this city than you do about Rojas. No one is anonymous here. Not for long. And it doesn’t help that I’m riding in your car.”
Vargas made a left at the next corner and pulled up alongside a shop with the word peluqueria painted on the window. Inside, a barber was busy cleaning the hair out of his electric clippers.
“It must kill you,” Vargas said.
“What?”
“Seeing a man like Rojas in power. You say he taints the department, but what he carries is more like a virus that grows and spreads, infecting everyone who comes in contact with it. You’d better watch out, or you’ll catch it, too.”
Garcia frowned at him, then opened his door and got out. Turning, he leaned in through the open passenger window.
“I don’t think you were bluffing,” he said. “You have more than a photograph to share.”
“Maybe. But there’s only one way to find out. You know my terms.”
“This book you’re writing. How many people will see it?”
“As many as it takes.”
Garcia thought about this a moment, then said, “You like dancing?”
Vargas shrugged. “Depends on what kind.”
“The kind where beautiful women show you only what their mothers and boyfriends should see.”
“One of my favorites,” Vargas said.
Garcia reached into his shirt pocket and handed a book of matches across to Vargas. “Come watch Carmelita tonight. And if you buy me enough tequila, I might forget what it means to be cautious.”
And with that, he slapped a hand on top of the car and disappeared into the barbershop.
49
Vargas wasn’t ten minutes into his visit to the Velvet Glove when he learned what a woman can do with a simple ice cube. The dancer onstage was showing far more than what Garcia had promised, something no mother or boyfriend should ever see.
Vargas had arrived shortly past eleven, after spending another day in a motel room, trying to recover from his wounds. In his imaginary movie he would have bounced back by now, but this, unfortunately, was real life and sleep was his only cure.
When he wasn’t sleeping, he watched Mexican TV, at one point finding himself caught up in an old black-and-white lucha libre movie.
One of the masked wrestlers reminded him of Rojas.
After grabbing a bite to eat at a restaurant next to his motel, Vargas checked the address on the matchbook Garcia had given him, asked the waiter for directions, and drove across town to a street lined with bars and nightclubs.