Here we go, Méndez told himself. At a gesture from Losada, he and Athos sat down.
“A busy morning for you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. He commanded the homicide unit of the state police, a job reserved for highly paid operatives of the drug cartels. Since the Diogenes Group had arrested his former boss, Regino “the Colonel” Astorga, the homicide commander had come to be considered the shadow chief of the entire state force.
“That’s right,” Méndez said. “I’m afraid your detective was directly involved in the smuggling ring.”
“You can imagine how concerned all of us are here,” Losada said.
Fernández Rochetti blew smoke. His voice had a crust to it.
“Perhaps he was set up,” he said. “This smells of a setup, as I was just telling the deputy attorney general.”
“Let’s not be ridiculous, Mauro,” Athos said quietly. “What, somebody planted twenty-five Chinese in his house when he wasn’t looking?”
Fernández Rochetti arched his eyebrows. Losada said, “Well, the principal issue, Licenciado, is that we want to thank you for the courtesy of coming to see us. And we’d like to discuss keeping De Rosa out of custody. Perhaps a house arrest…”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Méndez answered. “We have already turned the case over to the federal prosecutor. The best I can do is put him in the Eighth Street Jail.”
The argument about custody arrangements went in circles. A cell phone rang. Losada fished in his trench coat, produced the phone and answered it. Fernández Rochetti turned expectantly. The prosecutor’s stutter-stepping intensified.
“Yessir. Yes, thank you. Well, you should really talk to him, he happens to be right here.” Losada pressed a hand over the phone and made an apologetic face at Méndez. “This lawyer has been pestering me all day. A pain in the neck. Best if he talks to you, Licenciado. It’s a federal matter.”
Losada handed the phone to Méndez, who exchanged a glance with Athos.
“Hello?” Méndez said into the phone.
“Licenciado, how are you?” The voice was resonant and mannered. “This is Licenciado Castrejón greeting you, from the law office of Castrejón and Sáenz? At your service. What a pleasure to hear your voice. You and the family are well, I hope? I’m so lucky to have found you there.”
“Yes.”
“Listen, Licenciado Méndez,” the lawyer said. “It turns out that I’ve been engaged by certain parties on behalf of certain parties in this business of these foreigners from China. I have a matter I’d like to take up with you.”
“Go ahead.”
“A delicate, complicated situation, Licenciado. The best way I can express myself is as follows: I would be very grateful if we could work out some kind of arrangement by which you could release Officer De Rosa and the Chinese gentleman, Mr., eh, Chen.”
“An arrangement.”
“Exactly.” The lawyer gathered momentum, the words devoid of genuine expression, as if he were reading from a script. “Let me phrase it like this, if you permit me: Certain parties would be interested, if we could secure the release of these two gentlemen, in making a generous contribution to the Special Unit which you command.”
“A contribution.” Now Méndez looked at Fernández Rochetti, who was savoring his cigar. Sons of bitches, Méndez thought. They’re just doing it to see my reaction.
“Yes sir, maybe ‘donation’ would be the best word. The Diogenes Group is doing such admirable work. What a difficult battle it is, you have my deepest respect in that regard. I read a newspaper story explaining how you have to make do with old cars and radios, secondhand bulletproof vests from the San Diego Police. A real shame. So we were thinking along the lines of a donation: say three new cars and some vests, radios and other equipment. In exchange for the liberty of Mr. Chen and Detective De Rosa. If that sounds agreeable. After all, we know your real concern is drug smuggling, not a few extra migrants.”
Méndez lowered the phone for a moment, the disembodied voice droning in his hand. He contemplated throwing the phone at Fernández Rochetti or the prosecutor. Athos sat forward with his forearms on his thighs. Méndez collected himself. Athos had told him that it was best to respond to the mafia in kind. If they are indirect and flowery, you be indirect and flowery. If they curse and threaten, you curse and threaten. Energy for energy.
“Licenciado Castrejón,” Méndez said into the phone. “I appreciate the offer, of course. Of course we could always use new equipment at the Diogenes Group. Lamentably, I can’t accept it in this context. And let me say, in anticipation of another offer, that I like money. Who doesn’t? I probably like money almost as much as Deputy Attorney General Losada and Commander Fernández Rochetti. But I can’t help you. The suspects you mentioned are in jail. And there they will stay.”
“Well, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Castrejón said. “I thought you were a reasonable, sensible person who could…”
Méndez reached over and, with exaggerated care, placed the phone on Losada’s desk. The prosecutor picked it up, said a few words and hung up. Méndez rose, trying to look serene.
“It’s been a pleasure as always,” he said. “Thank you for your time. With your permission.”
Losada made an apologetic noise. Mauro Fernández Rochetti cut him off.
“I am concerned about you, Licenciado,” Fernández Rochetti said. Moving languidly, he reached out and tapped the cigar on an ashtray on the desk. His blazer cuff rode up to reveal a gold bracelet, gold cuff link, and powder-blue shirtsleeve on a thin wrist. “Enthusiasm and inexperience are a bad combination. They lead to mistakes like the one you have made in this case today. As far as my agency is concerned, De Rosa has been unlawfully abducted.”
Fernández Rochetti had a habit of showing his tongue when he smiled, an unsavory touch in an appearance that aspired to be distinguished. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired. He looked like an aging actor from the black-and-white days of Mexican cinema: dark eyebrows, strong profile, soft mouth.
Méndez turned toward Fernández Rochetti. “And?”
“And I have to tell you: My muchachos were naturally upset and concerned about their colleague. It took all my efforts to persuade them not to go to your headquarters and rescue him. Imagine how unpleasant that would have been. You can play any game you want, Licenciado. But every game has rules.”
Athos stepped close to the homicide commander. Fernández Rochetti reclined, legs crossed. But his eyes flickered up at the man in black and gave him away: Mauro Fernández Rochetti was as frightened of Athos as anyone else in Tijuana.
“Tell your muchachos,” Athos said softly, “that any time they feel the urge to pay us a visit, I will be waiting for them. And you know I don’t play games.”
Athos turned away. Méndez followed his lead.
“Thank you very much, gentlemen,” Losada said to their backs.
Athos and Méndez walked rapidly down the echoing, puddled hallway. After they emerged into the sunlight, into the lunchtime crowd emptying from the courthouse, Athos spat into the gutter.
“Quite a day, eh?” Athos said, shaking his head. “That Losada is an instrument of the mafia. An instrument of the mafia.”
“And that bastard Mauro is the one that plays him.”
“What do you think, Licenciado?”
“They did all that just to provoke me. Things are getting ugly, brother.”
Their driver pulled up in the Crown Victoria. As Méndez got in, he saw Athos scan the sidewalk, the police and civilian vehicles, the windows of the justice complex: reconnaissance in enemy territory.
At about 5 p.m., Méndez lay down in the sleeping quarters next to his office, where he often spent the night since his family’s departure. He slept and dreamt that a phone was ringing, but he could not find it.
An hour later, his secretary woke him to say Isabel Puente had arrived from San Diego. Méndez patted his hair, frowning in the bathroom mirror at the gray tinges, and smoothed the wrinkles in his clothes. Feeling vaguely juvenile, he slid quickly behind his desk and popped in a compact disc: a trio singing a bolero. “Sabor a Mí.”