CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Fernando Domínguez switched off the lights and set the alarm. A low glow emanated from the night-lights positioned at sporadic intervals throughout the antique store. He exited and locked the door before the sixty-second delay on the alarm kicked in. The sidewalks were filled with young Chilangos, dressed for the night. He kept close to the front of his building, then cut down a narrow passageway between the building and the one to the west. There was no lighting and the old cobblestones provided little grip for his dress shoes. He almost slipped once, but caught the rough edge of the brick building and steadied himself. Domínguez disliked cutting through the narrow gap, but it beat a three-block walk to get from the front of his business to the rear, where his car was parked. And thanks to Mexico City’s lax building codes in the 1980s and early 1990s, another building owner had erected a wall between the rear exit of his business and where he parked his car. So every night he slipped through the hole in the wall, wondering if this was the time a young street punk would be waiting for him. He touched the leather holster under his arm and felt the cold steel of his pistol. It was reassuring.

He reached the far end and pulled his keys from his pocket, thumbing the key fob—the parking light blinking twice in the dark. The Lexus was warm from sitting all day, and he cranked up the air-conditioning. He pulled out of the alley onto Avenida Chapultepec, heading west toward Lomas de Chapultepec, the wealthy enclave of estate homes where he lived. His antique store was busy and his markups almost criminal, giving him a quality of living that surpassed most doctors and lawyers. And he was his own boss—had been for twenty years.

He steered off the busy boulevard and onto one of the quiet side streets leading to his house, his mind briefly touching on the visit from the two Americans who had visited his shop. They had been very focused on what they wanted, and it wasn’t a Negretti and Zambra telescope. Edward Brand. He knew the man. And Brand himself had told him not to be surprised if someone came looking for him. Brand himself had described tonight’s event as inevitable. That someone in fact would show, asking for him. But a fat bonus on top of the already marked-up price on the telescope had sealed his lips. One thing he had learned many years ago was that two kinds of people kept secrets—smart ones and dead ones.

He saw himself as smart.

A long sloping drive appeared on the right side of the road, and he touched a button on the upper visor. The wrought-iron gates parted, then opened fully, and he drove into the walled estate. The gates closed automatically behind him. He rounded two curves, and the house came into view. It was colonial style with four pillars juxtaposed against the broad but flat facade. He pulled the Lexus up to the edge of the circular driveway fronting the house and stepped out.

The air was warm and the night sky clear. What a night. What a life. Everything felt right, even the slight breeze that stole gently through the surrounding trees. But even though he was in tune with what surrounded him, there was one thing that Fernando Domínguez was not aware of as he opened the door to his house. The late-model Mercedes that had followed him along Avenida Chapultepec and through the winding streets. The Mercedes that was parked outside the gates leading to the house. Inside the car, three people stared at the walled estate.

“We know where he works and where he lives,” Taylor said, sitting in the Mercedes. “What now?”

Alan continued to stare at the closed gates. “I’d like to ask him a few more questions. Like where Edward Brand is. That guy knows more than what he’s saying.”

“I think so too,” Taylor agreed, “but what can we do? We can’t beat the information out of him.”

“He owns an antique shop,” Alan said. “Do you think there’s a law in place that makes dealers in antiquities register every sale. If there is, then he would have a record of Brand’s purchase. And maybe a sales receipt with an address or phone number.”

Taylor nodded. “I wonder why he lied. Do you think he’s really that scared of Brand?”

“Absolutely,” Alan said. “The proof’s in what we saw a couple of hours ago. He’s willing to lie to cover up the fact that he knows him. Who would do that unless they were worried about the guy coming back looking for who snitched on him?”

Taylor was quiet for a few moments. After about thirty seconds, Ricardo said, “Are we finished here?”

“Sure,” Alan said. “Could you take us back to La Condesa? Maybe we’ll have a couple of drinks and dance a bit.” La Condesa was the trendiest of the colonias bordering Zona Rosa, filled with dance clubs and discos.

“Now you’re talking,” Ricardo said. “What kind of club do you want?”

“Not too loud, but with good dancing music,” Alan said, slipping his arm around Taylor and drawing her close. He whispered in her ear. “Enough following around after suspicious people for one night. Let’s have a little fun.”

She couldn’t help but smile. “Okay. Fun it is.”