He did not look at Puente as she spoke. She explained how they would communicate, procedures for making contact. “You need to watch your back, Valentine. These people are serious business.”
“Tell me about it.” He turned and saw that she had put on sunglasses. The breeze played with her hair and her skirt, which had a long slit on the side. They went back to the car.
“What do I tell Garrison about the investigation of me and Pulpo and everything?” he asked.
“We’ll spread the word that we suspect you crossed into Tijuana, but we can’t prove it. Our Mexican contacts will do the same. You tell Garrison we asked about him. We were interested in cases of excessive force. That’ll point him in the wrong direction.”
“That’s what I told him.”
“Valentine,” she said as he buckled his seat belt. “What exactly happened in that situation in Chicago with the hotel thieves?”
“Like I said. I got to know these guys, I found out what they were up to. I decided to go undercover on them. But they weren’t bad guys, it turned out. After a while I wasn’t sure what I was doing, tell you the truth.”
“Interesting.”
The sun lowered toward the ocean, igniting crimson circles in the water. On the way back, Puente said nothing until they drove downhill into Little Italy.
“I want you to know something,” she said. “I was in The Patrol. For a year.”
“No kidding. Where at?”
“Nogales.”
“How come just a year?”
“Long story. But I wanted you to know. When Agent Shepard got on you about giving aliens money, I thought he was out of line. I understand about the money.”
He was so drained that this did not cheer him the way it should have. He said: “I’m glad. I’m not sure I understand it myself.”
The Mazda stopped behind his white Impala. The sun blazed in her dark glasses.
“Listen, Valentine,” she said. “The doctors told you to rest. You do that. Monday you go back to work and we’ll be ready to roll. Good luck.”
She shook his hand, all business, like she had sold him a house or something. He did not want to get out of the car. He wanted to prolong the moment with her. And he did not want to be alone to think about his predicament.
“Alright then.” He gave her a sheepish raise of the eyebrows. “So I’m in your hands, huh, Isabel? I got nobody to trust but you.”
She took off her sunglasses. He had overplayed it, coming off like a bullshitter, even though he had meant it.
Isabel Puente gave him a tight smile. Moving slowly, she rested her hand on his knee. He wanted to enjoy it, but the combination of the touch and the smile was as scary as it was seductive.
“That’s right,” she said. “So if you let me down, or try to pull something slick, I’m in charge of making you regret it for the rest of your life.”
4
THERE WERE PROTESTERS OUTSIDE THE OFFICE of the state human rights commission. They had been joined by Porfirio Gibson and his camera crew.
Méndez sat in the car watching. The protesters presented themselves as families of police officers who had been unfairly persecuted by the human rights commission and gotten fired, making the streets unsafe for the citizens. There were quite a few women and children. But Méndez noticed a number of “organizers”: ex-cops or para-cops sporting cowboy hats, sunglasses and quality leather.
Once again, Porfirio Gibson was on the wrong side. Méndez watched the reporter conduct animated interviews with protesters. Their signs bore proclamations such as ARACELI MUST FALL, AGUIRRE PROTECTS CRIMINALS, and HUMAN RIGHTS FOR POLICE!
“Look at this bastard,” Méndez said. He patted his driver on the shoulder. “Turn up the radio. It’s noon, we get to watch and listen to Porfirio at the same time.”
In addition to covering law enforcement for television, Gibson hosted a taped radio program called “Radio Patrol.” At first, his nasal Mexico City accent hadn’t gone over well. But then he had turned the cop-blotter show into a weapon for extortion and intrigue. He had acquired influential contacts. He got scoops on raids and murders. He led the assault when the mafia decided to go after competitors or crime fighters. His growing audience had helped him expand into television work, but “Radio Patrol” remained an institution.
The program began with a wailing siren and radio chatter. Then Gibson read the day’s police reports at top speed with minimal editing. The menu today featured assorted stickups, a car chase near the border, a narco-execution and, almost as an afterthought, a street gang dumping gasoline on a police car and setting it on fire-with the officers inside. Gibson’s hard-boiled delivery of the police terminology was stilted street poetry. It described suspects as “short, mustachioed and with the face of a good-for-nothing” or “socially inadapted hoodlums of Sinaloan appearance.” Gibson engaged in spirited commentary with his perennially indignant sidekick Beto, who spluttered like Daffy Duck announcing a boxing match.
“Can you imagine, Porfirio? A lady works hard in a pharmacy every day. A good God-fearing woman. And a pair of Sinaloan hoodlums stick a shotgun in her nose and take her money!”
“I’m tempted to grab a shotgun and go look for them myself,” Gibson exclaimed. “But that would upset the human rights nuts! Human rights! For subhuman criminals!”
Méndez shook his head. He got out of the car and crossed the street.
Gibson caught sight of him, broke away from an interview and hurried over, his camera crew following like pilot fish. Gibson wore loafers and wrinkled jeans below a well-cut checkered sports jacket and yellow tie. He was growing a reddish-gray beard to camouflage his chins. With a flourish, he tossed his microphone into his left hand and extended his right to greet Méndez.
“The dynamic and controversial Leobardo Méndez, leader of the so-called Diogenes Group,” Gibson intoned, but Méndez saw with relief that the cameraman had stopped filming. “Hunting the forces of criminality as always, Don Leobardo?”
“And finding them everywhere, maestro.”
“As the former human rights commissioner, would you care to comment on the crisis of leadership at the human rights commission and the very serious accusations by the families of brave police officers left defenseless because they stood up to crime? It seems La Flaca Aguirre is in trouble. Maybe she won’t run for governor after all.”
“Perhaps later, Porfirio,” Méndez said. “You’ll be here all day, no? It’s not like there are any crimes to cover.”
“Good one, maestro.” Gibson showed small teeth. “We’ll very happily grab you on the way out to ask about the radical crusade against the humble cop on the beat.”
The commission’s offices were in a building near Boulevard Agua Caliente. A plainclothes officer of the Diogenes Group was posted upstairs in the waiting room, which was crowded with citizens and decorated by posters and photos of indigenous villages, street children, rural marches. Méndez had assigned the officer to guard Aguirre because of death threats.
Returning the nods and smiles of youthful, casually dressed employees, some of whom he had hired, Méndez went to Araceli Aguirre’s corner office. It had been his office during his three years as human rights commissioner. Whenever he visited, he had the feeling that he had returned home after losing his way.
Aguirre’s teenage daughter did homework at a conference table. Aguirre’s toddler crawled around arranging crayons at her mother’s feet as she talked on the phone. An aide waited with a legal pad. Aguirre, slender and high-shouldered in a long violet dress, untangled herself from the phone cord to give Méndez a kiss and gestured at a chair. She finished the phone call and told her daughter to have their driver drop off her little sister at a daycare center on her way back to school.