But enough of this. She was only getting worked up again, and she’d so much rather bask in the afterglow of her time with Nick. Enjoy it while it lasted.
But then she noticed something else in the photograph. Her right hand, which hung at her side, was clutching something.
Unable to make out what it was, she clicked on the zoom tool and enlarged the image several times until the hand filled the screen.
The image was pixilated, but the original had been taken at a fairly high resolution and she had no trouble seeing what the object in her hand was.
A small wooden toy.
A baby rattle.
And suddenly she was reminded of the child in the dayroom who had brought her to tears, and the baby along the highway, secure in his mother’s arms. And in that instant, one of the dark, unformed memories they had stirred broke through in the form of letters-four of them, tumbling through her mind like baby blocks, like the pieces of one of her cognitive regeneration exercises:
Y
D
A
N
But what did they mean?
Using every bit of concentration she could muster, Beth arranged those letters in a row, YDAN, but that wasn’t even a word.
Pulling open the desk drawer, she found a pad and pen and quickly wrote the letters down, again and again, working them like an anagram.
D-N-A-Y
Y-N-A-D
N-A-D-Y
A-D-N-Y
And then it hit her, like a sledgehammer directly to the brain:
A-N-D-Y.
Andy.
And suddenly she knew. Wasn’t sure it was a full-fledged memory, but she knew that that was the name she’d muttered over and over through blood-spattered lips as she lay there dying.
Not “Angie”-but Andy.
And for the first time since they’d scraped her off that parking-lot asphalt, she remembered something beyond Playa Azul. A face broke through the membrane-a child’s face, a baby’s face-staring up at her as she cradled him in her arms.
But not just any baby. Jen’s baby.
Beth’s little nephew.
Andy.
78
At five minutes past midnight, a man in a white suit emerged from the red door and lit up a cigarette.
“This is it,” Ortiz said.
He and Vargas climbed out of the taxi and moved up the street, Vargas once again feeling as if his imaginary movie had somehow overtaken the real world and come to life.
The man in white gestured as they approached. “Hands.”
Vargas and Ortiz put their hands out, showing them empty, and the man stuck the cigarette between his lips and quickly patted them down, taking the Tomcat from Vargas and a Glock from Ortiz.
“You’ll get these back when you leave,” he said, then held up Ortiz’s cell phone. “And this stays off as long as you’re inside.”
Ortiz and Vargas said nothing as the man in white pocketed the weapons, then shut off the cell phone and handed it back to Ortiz. Ditching his cigarette, he opened the red door and ushered them inside.
They moved down a long, narrow corridor to another door, this one made of metal.
The man rapped on it and a moment later a slide opened, revealing a pair of female eyes. A pounding bass beat filtered out from behind her.
She eyeballed Vargas and Ortiz; then a latch clicked and the door swung open to an attractive young girl wearing only a red leather thong and matching nipple clamps as a blast of music hit them full force.
Inside was a large dark room, full of flashing lights and writhing, half-naked bodies, most of them women-a private, very exclusive dance club/whorehouse/S and M parlor with all the requisite accessories.
Too bad the Ainsworths weren’t alive to see this place.
Ortiz seemed mesmerized, staring at Ms. Red Satin’s bobbling breasts with all the subtlety of a cat eying a ball of yarn.
The man in white pushed him past her and they skirted the crowd, moving to an enclosed set of stairs that wound upward toward the second floor.
They moved up the steps, the sound of the music growing muffled as they came to another door.
The man in white knocked, waved at the surveillance camera mounted above it, and a moment later the door was opened by a big guy wearing a gun in a shoulder holster.
Another Bullitt clone.
He gestured them inside and they all stepped into a room overlooking the dance floor, reminding Vargas of a box seat at a football stadium.
There were several men and women here, some seated, some standing, drinks in hand, free hands roaming. Another woman in a red leather thong, sans the nipple clamps, was snorting a line of coke off of a tabletop.
“Over here,” a voice said. “Come over here.”
Vargas turned and several of the people stepped to one side as a woman in a black leather bustier and fishnet nylons waved them away.
Little Fina, Vargas assumed.
Only there was something wrong with this picture.
Not only was Little Fina not little; she also wasn’t really a woman at all. She was most definitely a man dressed in drag, complete with a five o’clock shadow shading her jaw.
Vargas glanced at Ortiz, but either Ortiz didn’t notice or he was too petrified to acknowledge the look.
Little Fina smiled, cutting straight to the chase. “Ortiz here tells me you have a photograph you want me to look at. May I see it?”
Vargas took the mended passport photo out and handed it to her.
Little Fina studied it. “Lovely creature. Is she a friend of yours?”
“I’ve never met her,” Vargas said. “She’s the sister of a friend.”
“And you’ve been tasked to find her, is that it?”
“More or less.”
Little Fina frowned. “You know, I’ve never understood that phrase. Is it more or is it less? Seems to me there’s quite a bit of difference between the two.”
“The answer is ‘yes,’” Vargas said. “I’ve been tasked to find her.”
“And what does this have to do with the book you’re writing? The one that Ortiz tells me will make me famous.”
“I think Ortiz may have overstated that a bit.”
“What a surprise,” Little Fina said. “But he has a habit of doing that. He thinks he’s a gangster, but he’s really a frightened little boy who’s all too eager to please. Isn’t that right, Ortiz?”
Ortiz shifted uncomfortably next to Vargas, looking like he’d swallowed something sour. “Yes, ma’am.”
Little Fina assessed him for a moment, then shifted her gaze to Vargas and handed the photo back.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Vargas, but she’s not one of mine. Never has been.”
“And you’ve never seen her before.”
Little Fina smiled. “There are over five hundred thousand people in this city, Mr. Vargas, and millions of tourists flow through here every week. I do my best, but it’s hard to keep track of them all.”
“Then I guess we’re done,” Vargas said.
He pocketed the photo and started to turn toward the door when the temperature of Fina’s voice dropped about forty degrees.
“We’re done when I say we’re done.”
Remembering Ortiz’s warning, Vargas stopped himself and returned his gaze to her. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Of course you didn’t.” The warmth had returned as abruptly as it left. “But I’m curious to know about this book of yours. What’s it about?”
“Murder,” Vargas told her. “The Casa de la Muerte murders.”
“Ahhh,” she said. “The nuns up in Juarez. Poor dears.” She paused. “Do you have any suspects?”
Vargas saw no harm in telling her. “There’s someone I’ve been looking at, yeah. And I guess I must have struck a chord, because they’re after me now.” He pulled the collar of his shirt back to show her his bandage.
“Ohhh,” she said. “That looks painful. Do they have a name?”
“A religious cult called La Santa Muerte.”
The moment the words left his mouth, the room suddenly went silent, like one of those old E. F. Hutton commercials. Even the half-naked woman snorting coke in the corner jerked her head up, white powder ringing her nose.