Lucas shook his head; he disagreed. The disagreement was fundamental, and generally divided all cops everywhere: Some believed in underlying social order, in which messages got relayed and people kept an eye out, and bosses reigned and buttonmen were ready to take orders, and a network connected them. And some cops believed in social chaos, in which most events occurred through accident, coincidence, stupidity, cupidity, and luck, both good and bad. Lucas fell into the chaos camp, while Mallard and Malone believed in the underlying order.
When working out the trip to Mexico, Mallard had allowed extra time for a certain inefficiency; but Martin had been so ruthlessly efficient that they were done at two o'clock, mission more or less accomplished.
"Swim?" Malone asked.
"Too hot," Lucas said. "I'm gonna get a beer at the bar, then a couple of papers, and lay up in my room with the air-conditioning on. Maybe swim before dinner?"
"Not bad," Mallard said. "I'm for a beer or two."
"I'll join you," Malone said. "But I gotta run up to my room for a minute."
Lucas and Mallard stopped at the hotel gift shop and bought copies of the Times and the Wall Street Journal, carried the papers into the cool of the bar, got a booth, and ordered Dos Equis.
"You read the editorials?" Mallard asked.
"Yeah, though I know it's wrong," Lucas said.
"You want the Fascists or the Commies?"
Lucas considered for a moment, then said, "Fascists," and Mallard passed him the Journal. They both opened to the editorial pages, looked over the offerings, and then Lucas asked, casually, "How bad you got it for Malone?"
Mallard's newspaper folded down. He looked at Lucas for a long moment, then sighed and said, "Is it that obvious?"
"Yup," Lucas said.
"The goddamn woman drives me crazy. I know you guys…" He didn't say it-that Lucas and Malone once spent a happy weekend together. "That's not a big deal. I just… hunger after her. I thought I was hiding it pretty well."
"I'm a trained investigator," Lucas said. He looked at an editorial headline that said, " 'Sweatshops' Often Build Sustaining Family Businesses." After a moment of silence from Mallard, he added, "I suspect nobody else knows, except any trained investigators you might have at the FBI. And Malone, of course."
Mallard's eyebrows went up. "You think she knows?"
"Jesus Christ, Louis, she knew before you did," Lucas said. "Women always know that shit first. And she's not backing away. If I were you, I'd set up a moment somewhere. Have a few drinks around the pool tonight, tell her a few stories, give her a chance to tell you a few, and you know, going up stairs, put a hand on her."
"What about the drywall guy? The Sheetrocker?"
"Fuck the drywall guy. You're not playing tennis."
"Have to be more than a few drinks," Mallard said gloomily. He looked scared to death.
"It's no big deal, Louis," Lucas said. "People do it all the time."
"Not me," Mallard said. "I'm not exactly your romantic hero."
"Yes, you are, Louis. You're a big wheel in the FBI. You're involved in international intrigue. You carry a great big gun. You spend the taxpayers' money like it was water."
"I'm paying for the beer personally."
"Louis, what the fuck are you talking about?"
"Yeah, yeah." The phone in his pocket rang and he slipped it out, answered, listened for a moment, then said, "Oh, boy. When? We'll be out front." He clicked it shut and said, "Martin's coming back. They found that guy who might have been the driver."
"Dead?"
"Not yet. But he's in terrible shape. Martin says he was tortured."
"Where is he?"
"Here. Cancun. He was dumped at a hospital. Martin'll be here in five minutes."
Malone came out of the elevator as Mallard was ringing her room. Mallard explained about the phone call on the way to the door. Martin roared in three minutes later, parting the clouds of Volkswagen Beetles like a wolf going through a flock of sheep. "He's at the hospital now," he said, as they scrambled aboard.
"How bad?" Lucas asked.
"He could die before we get there," Martin said. His face had gone grim as a crocodile's, and the easy charm had vanished. They bounced over a curb going out of the parking lot, onto the strip. Lucas had no idea of where they were going. The GMC was rigged with a siren to go with the flasher lights above the bumper, and Martin punched the truck through the traffic.
An unknown person had driven an old Toyota Corolla over a curb at the hospital emergency entrance, Martin said, had left the motor running and the passenger door open, and walked away. When a cop inside the emergency room noticed the car, he'd gone out to order the owner to move it-and found the tortured man sitting in a blood-soaked passenger seat. Nobody saw where the Corolla's driver went. Nobody remembered what he looked like.
Then: "Here it is." Martin did a U-turn and dropped down a slanting concrete ramp to the emergency entrance at the hospital. A cop at the entrance tried to wave them away, but Martin put the truck astride the main door's entrance ramp, hopped out, and showed the cop a card. The cop stepped back, and Mejia said something that Lucas thought might mean, "Park the truck," and they all went inside.
Three doctors were standing in a hallway, smoking. They saw Martin coming, the Americans trailing behind, and the tallest of the three stepped toward them, shaking his head.
"Muerto,"he said.
"Shit," Martin said. They spoke for a minute in Spanish, then Martin turned to Mallard, Malone, and Lucas. "He's dead. He died five minutes after they got here. We will do an autopsy, because the doctors aren't quite sure why he died-possibly shock. Possibly a stroke. Possibly something else."
"Like what?"
"They don't know."
"Can we see him?"
"I'm going to. You may if you wish, but you may not want to."
The three Americans all looked at each other, and Malone said, "Let's go."
The man called Octavio Diaz was lying faceup, nude, on a stainless-steel medical cart. His face was covered with blood-his eyes had been poked out-and his arms and legs were black. Lucas took a look and said, "Jesus Christ, what happened to his mouth? And he's black…"
"Snipped his tongue off, looks like with a pair of wire cutters," the tall doctor said. "Put his eyes out with a knife, and it appears they did something to burn his ears… So he couldn't see, hear, or speak. He was dying when he arrived. You can't see it so much, but when we tried to get him out of his car… Look." He picked up one of Diaz's feet and lifted it above the cart. The leg hung in an almost perfect catenary arch down to his hip. "The bones have been minutely crushed in both legs and both arms. That must have taken a while, and they were very thorough. Picking him up, getting him out of the car, was like trying to pick up an oyster."
Malone made a sour face at the comparison and said, "Why didn't they just dump him out in the jungle?"
"Sending a message," Lucas said.
Martin nodded. "To anyone else who thinks the Mejias have gone soft. They wanted people to see this-to see him alive. The nurses and the doctors. There will be stories everywhere in Cancun in an hour."
"Wonder if they got anything out of him?" Mallard asked, looking down at the body.
"What do you think?" Malone asked. She still had the sour face. "Don't you think you might have answered the questions if they were doing… that?"
"So if they're looking for Rinker, or the assholes behind the shooting, they've probably got a jump on us," Lucas said. He turned to the doctor. "Can you tell from the wounds when this was all done?"
"The autopsy will give a good approximation."
"How about between, say, eleven o'clock and noon, today?"