“Daniel.”
“The family name?”
Of course she didn’t know.
The faces of the ambulance attendant and the policemen stayed studiously blank.
“So he is not your husband,” one of the new policemen stated, the one in khakis. “Or a boyfriend.”
“No.” Her face flamed red. “Just a friend.”
His partner lifted Daniel’s shorts off the floor, patted the pockets, and retrieved his wallet. The policeman in the khakis gave a little wave to the ambulance attendants, who bundled Daniel out the door.
He was younger than she was, the policeman, in his early thirties, she thought: tall and well built, with a relaxed, loose way of carrying himself. Something about his accent, the cadence of his speech, was familiar, but she couldn’t quite place what it was.
“Can you tell me what happened?” he asked.
There wasn’t much to tell, really. She skipped how she and Daniel had met. They’d had dinner. Come back to the hotel. Were sleeping.
“So these men,” he said when she’d finished. “Anything you can tell me, about how they looked? Were they tall? Short? If we showed you photos, could you identify them?”
“No.” She shook her head “No. They wore scarves across their faces. They were… I don’t know.” She tried to picture them, that moment when she saw them entering from the balcony. “One was skinny. Not very big at all. Short. The other, he wasn’t tall either, but he was stocky. Like a wrestler.”
The one who’d approached her bed.
“He had on a belt,” she said suddenly. “With a buckle shaped like a gun. And there were letters woven in it. ERO.”
“Guerrero?” the policeman asked.
“Maybe. Yes. I think so.”
He nodded. “Okay,” he said, standing up. “Sorry this has happened to you and your friend. It’s not so common in Vallarta, but it happens. If you give me contact information, I’ll let you know if anything comes up.”
“What’s Guerrero?” she asked.
“State next door. Lots of thieves come from there.”
The other plainclothes policeman nodded. “And narcos,” he said. “Always causing problems. Even now in Vallarta.”
After the policemen left, Michelle stayed where she was, sitting on the edge of the bed. Little piles of clothes lay scattered about, like the aftermath of a freeway car wreck. She could see the blood as well, the blood on the tiled floor. She’d gotten blood on her T-shirt and shorts, too.
What was she supposed to do now?
There was a knock on the door.
“Señorita?”
And naturally there was blood on her hands. She almost laughed at that. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and she still felt guilty. “Señorita Mason?” It was a woman’s voice. “Can we come in?”
“Who is it?”
“Claudia, from the front desk.”
She thought she remembered a Claudia, but she couldn’t be sure. She got up, went to the door, put on the chain, and cracked it open.
A woman stood there, middle-aged and stout, wearing a blue shift that looked like a nurse’s uniform. Michelle recognized her. Behind her was a man she’d seen sitting at a stand resembling a portable bar up at the entrance to the hotel driveway, where taxis dropped off guests.
“We are here to help you,” the woman said.
Michelle nodded. “Okay.” She undid the chain. “Thank you.” It made sense, she thought, that they’d send someone. To clean up.
They came in. The man spotted the bloody towel on the floor. He picked it up and put it in a trash bag. He wore latex gloves, like you’d use to do dishes.
Michelle sat back down on the bed. She didn’t know what else to do.
The woman immediately squatted by Michelle and covered her hand with her own, which was dry and a little rough.
“This is terrible,” she said, “and we are so very sorry. These things should not happen in Vallarta.”
“Things like this happen everywhere,” Michelle murmured.
“I think we can move you to another room, right? A better room.”
Michelle thought about it. She stared at the heaps of clothing, the puddle of blood now drying in the refrigerated air.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes. I don’t want to stay in this room anymore.”
They moved her to a suite in a newer wing, one with a separate bedroom and a bar, a wide balcony with wrought-iron furniture. She checked the balcony first thing. It could not be reached through another suite; there was no way to climb up to it that she could see.
After the woman from the front desk and the man from reception moved all her things, hung the clothes that had been in the closet, arranged her toothbrush, cosmetics, and moisturizers on the bathroom counter-after all that had been done, the offer of tea by the hotel staff turned down, Michelle stepped into the shower. Stood under the spray for a very long time.
When she got out, she slipped into the silk pajamas she’d packed, the sleeveless top and shorts. She considered having a whiskey from the minibar, thinking it might relax her, might help her sleep, but she already had the beginnings of a headache, so instead she took an Ambien. Tom’s prescription. Why let them go to waste?
She climbed into bed, closed her eyes. What replayed in her head was not the robbery, the assault, but Daniel’s face, over hers.
Maybe I should have gone to the hospital, Michelle thought as the drug began to take hold. Would that have been the right thing to do? But she barely knew Daniel, after all. Couldn’t even ask for him by name.
The breeze from the ocean billowed the gauzy curtains on the balcony. I should get up, she thought. I should close the door. But she was safe here, wasn’t she? And she was so tired, and the air smelled good.
She watched the curtains expand and contract, as though they were breathing.
Eventually her breaths slowed down to match, and then she slept.
“We hope you can stay a little longer, Ms. Mason.”
The woman behind the front desk, a different woman from the one last night, briefly rubbed her hands before composing herself. She was trim, perhaps Michelle’s age, carefully made up, with a gold necklace and gold earrings that looked to be a set. Even in the heat of the patio that served as the hotel lobby, only the faintest dewy perspiration dampened her forehead. Michelle was already dripping sweat.
“We are so sorry about what happened. We’d like for you to stay as our guest and enjoy yourself.”
Everyone was being very kind, Michelle thought. Probably they were worried about lawsuits.
The robbers had somehow gained access to a vacant room next to her old room, climbed from that balcony onto hers. Obviously the security was not what it should have been. If she were in America, she could probably sue.
But in Mexico? How did things work here? Would it be worth it to try?
“Right now I’m scheduled to leave on Sunday,” she said.
“Of course, of course. We could make an arrangement for you to stay here in the future, if you’d like to return. Or if you decide you’d like to stay a little longer, we can do that as well.”
“Thank you,” Michelle said. “I’ll think about it.”
Even with what had happened, it was tempting. Spending time on the beach, drinking margaritas on the hotel’s dime, sounded better than her current life in Los Angeles. Living in her sister’s spare room. Listening to Maggie’s fights with her boyfriend, to her son Ben’s tantrums. It was why she’d come on this vacation in the first place, to get away from all that for a few days.
A giggle rose in her throat as she walked up the stairs from the reception area to her tower. Maybe she just wouldn’t leave. See how long the hotel’s free room was good for. They hadn’t really said.
I’ll live off room service and peanuts from the minibar, she thought. Let my hair go gray, my thighs get fat, get a couple of cats and a Chihuahua. Fill the room with purchases from the beach vendors: loud serapes, wooden dolphin statuettes, flying Batman parachute toys, piled in stacks, all smelling vaguely of cat piss. Take her Chihuahua on walks down the Malecón. Maybe one of the cats, too.