As they approached Mr. De León’s mansion, the detective noticed a sports car parked near the front steps: a Ferrari convertible. While the Bus and the consul walked down to that part of the garden, Treviño caught sight of Mrs. De León through the living room window. She was talking to two women who had their backs to him. Mr. De León came out to meet them before they made it to the door.
“Any news?” the businessman asked. Judging by the distressed look on his face, he expected to hear they’d found his daughter’s body. Treviño deduced that the kidnappers still hadn’t called, and he briefed Mr. De León on his progress.
“El Tiburón and Cristina weren’t among the bodies brought in from Colonia Pescadores. Four men took your daughter from the nightclub, and three of them are dead. El Tiburón probably killed them himself, but we can’t rule out that there was someone else involved: maybe a member of La Cuarenta, since they stopped over in Four-Zero territory. After that, it gets murky.”
“What do you mean?”
“Those boys were killed with an assault rifle. Anyone around here could have a gun like that, from the army and local police to Los Nuevos or anyone else in the trade. But I don’t think it was them. It doesn’t add up.”
“What doesn’t add up?”
“Why would a twenty-something-year-old kid kill his buddies? Did they try to take advantage of Cristina and he didn’t want them to? Did they want to rape her, and he wanted to keep her for himself? I’d rather not speculate.”
“Cristina …” whispered Mr. De León.
“On the other hand, your daughter isn’t in the morgue, and from what the consul’s heard, she’s not in any of the hospitals around here, either. Not far from the scene of the crime, witnesses saw a red truck turn onto the highway headed out of town, so there’s a good chance that Cristina and El Tiburón got away with the vehicle and their lives.”
Mr. De León looked at Treviño through red, swollen eyes. Finally, he spoke.
“Follow me. Ruth Collins is here with her daughter Barbara, my daughter’s best friend. They were at the club together that night, so ask her anything you want, Treviño.”
It would be hard to say which of the three women in the living room looked most fetching. Mrs. De León was in a fitted black cotton dress and had painted her lips an intense, glistening red, apparently to match the youth of her daughter’s friend. She wasn’t wearing much jewelry, but she had styled her blond hair to fall elegantly around her shoulders. When they saw him walk in from their seats on the couch, her two guests immediately dismissed him as a mere domestic employee. Ruth Collins was a forty-something who carried herself as if she worked out every day. She had fiery red hair, blue eyes, and the same prickly demeanor as Mrs. De León. Next to her was a teenager with very pale skin, reddish-brown hair, small blue eyes, and lovely full lips, just barely made up. She had the kinds of curves that would look amazing even in jeans and a T-shirt. It didn’t escape Treviño’s attention that both wore understated, dark clothes, as though they were already mourning Cristina.
“This is Mr. Treviño, our detective.”
The detective nodded in their direction and sat in the only empty chair.
“Afternoon,” said the consul as he entered, causing a minor commotion.
“Uncle Bill!” As soon as she saw him, the teenager rushed over to give the consul a kiss on the cheek. The gringo’s talent for making friends among the wealthiest families in the port never ceased to amaze the detective. The girl’s mother, on the other hand, barely got up from her seat and pursed her lips as though she and the consul had a long history that involved a bed. As soon as the girl took her seat again, Mr. De León indicated with a nod that he could proceed, and the detective leaned toward her.
“Barbara, can you tell us anything about Cristina’s disappearance?”
When the girl refused to look up, he insisted. “What is it?” he asked. But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“We came because my dear friend said you wanted to speak with my daughter,” the redhead interrupted him. “But we have nothing to say, other than that we’re distraught over what happened to my goddaughter and that we’re very sorry about all this. I can’t believe the terrible things that are happening in this city.”
Treviño noticed that the girl was biting her lip, hard. She wants to say something, thought the detective. Her mother has her in a straitjacket, but she’s a rebel. He kept at her.
“What you tell us might save your friend’s life.”
“Treviño, please,” said Mrs. De León, forcing a smile. “This is my best friend’s daughter.”
The detective was clearly annoyed and cut to the chase.
“Did Cristina have another boyfriend, aside from the poet?”
“No! What are you talking about?” the redhead interrupted. “Cristina could never, ever—”
The detective stopped her with half a smile and a full wave of his trembling hand. The woman fell silent when she saw the irritation written across his face. He leaned toward the girl and when he finally got her to look up, he locked his eyes on hers. The girl would have no choice but to answer.
“Who was he?”
“His name was Romain. A French guy she met in Switzerland.”
“What!” shouted Mrs. De León.
“He’s coming to visit her in two days. They message each other every five minutes.”
Mrs. De León’s jaw dropped so far it looked as if she’d dislocated it. Mrs. Collins let out a shriek and brought a hand to her mouth.
“And that’s what Cristina and her boyfriend were fighting about?”
The girl nodded.
“Cristina wanted to end it, but Beto didn’t.”
“I can’t believe my daughter …” Mrs. De León started to say, but the detective gestured that she should be quiet.
“What a mess,” said Barbara’s mother. “What will your godparents think?”
The girl turned scarlet and was about to stop talking, but the detective didn’t let her.
“Did they have a fight in the club?”
She nodded.
“What else?”
The girl got her nerve back. “He told her he loved her, but she said she was with Romain now and he should leave her alone. He screamed some horrible things at her and she ran out of the club, but he went after her.”
“Damn it, Cristina!” thundered Mrs. De León. “Beto was such a catch. How could she do this to him?”
“And you didn’t see anything strange while you were inside the club? Any other boys watching her?”
“No,” said the girl.
“Why didn’t you follow her out?”
“I was dancing with my boyfriend,” she replied. “And besides, Cristina and Beto fight all the time.”
“All right, that’s enough,” the girl’s mother said to the detective. “Time for us to go, sweetheart.”
“One last question.” Treviño looked at the girl. “What were they fighting about?”
Barbara’s face twisted into an expression of sincere anguish as her mother stared at her agape, praying for her to keep her mouth shut. But sometimes there’s no stopping a redhead.
“She told him she didn’t want to be his girlfriend anymore, that she was going to have a French boyfriend, and he asked her how she could be so full of herself when everyone knew what her father did for a living.”
“Barbara, shut your mouth,” ordered the girl’s mother.
The detective saw the color drain from Mrs. De León’s face, observed her husband’s volcanic anger.
“He told Cristina that her father did business with people in the trade. That she should know, if she didn’t already. But she yelled at him, saying it was all lies. She got really upset, screamed she never wanted to see him again, and ran crying out of the club. A little while later, people started leaving without paying their tabs. We thought there was a fire, but when we got to the parking lot we saw Cristina’s car with its doors open and Beto lying in the mud.” More like a pool of blood, thought the detective, but he didn’t interrupt her.
“Then a little while later, an ambulance came for him,” she concluded.
Mr. De León was trembling with rage. The detective kept a close eye on his reactions.
“My dear friends, forgive her. The girl is clearly confused. We should go.”
“Yes, perhaps you should,” Mrs. De León agreed. “Thank you for stopping by.” She was furious too.
“Please don’t be angry. They’re just a boy’s lies. Around here, if someone does well the first thing they do is accuse him of laundering money.”
Mrs. De León’s eyes narrowed to slits, as though she were trying to hide them, but she forced a wide smile as she said her good-byes.
“I do hope you’ll stop by some other day. Take care, now.”
As soon as the women left, the detective looked at the magnate. The man’s ears were aflame.
“Bitches,” spat Mrs. De León. “The minute someone makes it in this place, people line up to sling mud at him. Isn’t that right, Rafael?”
But the magnate didn’t respond. His wife watched him sit down next to the bar cart, understood that he wasn’t going to say a word, turned, and climbed the enormous spiral staircase, smoothing her black dress as she went.
After a prudent pause, the detective turned to the consul.
“It would have been better if you’d told me the truth from the start. I would have approached the investigation differently. I’ll leave it at that.” And Treviño stood to go.
“It’s just slander, malicious lies spread by a bitter young man,” the consul explained. “Isn’t that right, Rafael?”
“Sit down,” said the magnate in an unfamiliar voice. He poured himself a glass of whiskey. His face had darkened, as if he were having trouble breathing. He drank the whiskey in one swallow and snarled, “Everything I have, I built with my own two hands. When my father died, what I inherited was mostly debt. I started out with the deck stacked against me. If you look under the carpet, you’ll find that three of every ten businesses in this city have dealings with the cartels in one way or another. No one wants to admit it, but in some cities, like this one, small businesses depend on the money these guys bring in. Malls, clothing stores, luxury car dealerships, residential developments, restaurants, sports clubs, language schools, liquor stores, fast-food chains, supermarkets, travel agencies … Even the airport does business with them. Throw a rock and you’ll hit someone living off the cartels, sometimes without even knowing it. I have a relative, I’m not going to say who, who’s always been a deadbeat. Whenever he runs out of money, he sets up a new business with a different set of partners, and that’s how he makes his living. Going bankrupt and starting over, if you catch my drift.”
He rubbed his eyes.
“We’ve always known who they were. You see them in church, at the beach. Their kids go to school with our kids. They come over for dinner, stay overnight or for a weekend. We sometimes go on vacation together.”
“But not you, right?” asked the consul, conciliatory.
The magnate poured himself another whiskey and drank it down.
“When you run as many businesses as I do, you can’t control everything. It’s a lot of people we’re talking about.” He pointed a finger at Treviño. “I have nothing to be ashamed of or anything to explain to the law.” The businessman looked down at the ice cubes floating in the amber liquid and went on. “You asked me if I had any enemies, Treviño. The truth is it could be anyone. This situation is forcing us to do things that would have been unthinkable back in my father’s day. Four years ago, I noticed that the manager at a local bank I own was authorizing an unusual number of six-figure loans, mostly to people without collateral. I went to talk with him. He told me that every week or two one of his clients would come in, scared to death, asking for everything he had in savings plus the biggest loan he could get. And he would give him the money, because that’s his job. The third time a guy came in, nervous and sweating, my manager took him back to his office and asked him what was going on. The man explained that Los Nuevos had threatened to kill him if he didn’t give them the money that night. People still come in like that all the time. We give them the money, and they go into debt. No one can pay the loan back on time, so they end up losing their homes and their businesses. But what are we supposed to do? We’re certainly not going to deny them the loan. Anyway, the bank doesn’t take a loss. Insurance covers it, and then some.
“It’s the same with car sales. I own dealerships for Mercedes, Ferraris, Toyotas, and Fords. Not a week goes by that my collection agents don’t complain about some guy showing up, putting a down payment on the most expensive car on the lot, and then disappearing. We never hear from him again. But our insurance covers the loss. We’re not willing to lose the sale.
“I could have made enemies helping people, too … One day one of my competitors showed up at my door, asking me to buy his company’s nine branches right then and there. He needed the money to pay off the guys who’d taken his wife and children. He told me that over the past month he’d had to empty his bank accounts to pay the kidnappers several million pesos every week so they wouldn’t kill his family. ‘Can’t you report them?’ I asked. ‘To whom?’ he said. ‘They show up to collect their payment every week in a squad car.’ What could I do? I bought out the company he’d spent a lifetime building. At a small discount, of course, because if I hadn’t bought the locations someone else would have, for even less.
“Two years ago, a man whose name I won’t repeat came by with a proposal to open a casino. He had good references. I’d met him through a senator.” He looked at the consul, who seemed to want to escape his gaze. “It was an interesting offer and I got involved. The numbers looked good, and it was going to be the first casino in the area. We even signed a formal agreement, but two months later they kidnapped and killed the man who was going to be the casino’s manager, then the accountant, and that was when I figured out who this guy was. I called a meeting with our lawyers and told him I’d changed my mind.”
The detective waited out another prudent pause. When Mr. De León had served himself a third drink, he asked, “What was the man’s name?”
“He’s dead now. They killed him. Twenty years ago, anyone could report them. Now they’re everywhere. They want houses? They just take them. Who’s going to stop them? Guns? They buy them off the Central Americans, or get them from their gringo associates in exchange for drugs. If they’re in a rush, they can pick one up right here in town. Women? The Russian mafia can deliver a hot blonde from any country that survived the iron curtain. They’ve given money to the church, paved streets, built hospitals, and formed alliances with the police. The government used to lock one of them up every so often to appease the gringos, but that all ended when the politicians started getting cozy with guys in the trade. And who’s going to write that headline?
“These thugs even planted an editor in chief at one of La Eternidad’s major papers. He shows up right before they go to press, sits down, and pores over the local and national news. When he’s done, he has the section editors take out any articles that defame the criminal organization that bankrolls him. He also makes them eliminate certain terms. To replace ‘gang’ with ‘insurgent group,’ to write ‘business’ instead of ‘crimes against public health,’ ‘taken’ instead of ‘kidnapped,’ ‘marks’ instead of ‘wounds,’ ‘disappeared’ instead of ‘was murdered.’ As if words were the private property of those bastards, too. Soon we won’t even be able to say their names.”
De León turned to look at Treviño with his bloodshot eyes.
“All I ask is that you honor the agreement we made this morning and find my daughter. I’ll pay whatever you want, but please, get out there.”
“Just tell me one thing,” Treviño looked fed up and exhausted. “There’s nothing else I need to know?”
“Treviño, Mr. De León just told you—”
“It’s my life on the line. Do you or do you not have direct dealings with anyone in the trade?”
“I don’t work for them or with them,” the magnate responded without hesitation. “I don’t know any of them personally.”
Skeptical, the detective got to his feet. “I’ll be back in five minutes,” he said and went out to the garden.
As soon as Treviño was alone, he took out his cell phone and tried to call his wife. No luck. He got two messages in a row saying her phone was turned off or out of range, so he turned his attention to the scenery. There must have been forty palm trees bordering the path to the stairs: forty strikingly beautiful palm trees. Beautiful like his wife. There were also a few ominous vines clinging to the side walls that seemed determined to cover everything. The detective sighed and noticed a copse of pine trees across the garden that had probably been growing there since long before that part of the city was inhabitable, inhabited, and then uninhabitable again. He took a few moments to enjoy the view of the man-made forest around him: a gentle breeze stirred the branches on the trees, which from that angle looked like anemones caressing the air. Then Carlos Treviño took a deep breath and went back inside.
The consul and the businessman cut their conversation short when they saw him.
“Well?” asked Mr. De León.
“We have one lead left,” Treviño said, turning to the consul. “Find the title for every ranch called El Zacatal. If El Tiburón survived the firefight, and if he has Cristina with him, he might have gone there to lie low.” Meeting Mr. De León’s gaze, he added, “It’s all we’ve got.”
After an hour and some help from his contacts, the gringo had managed to find three ranches in the Gulf region registered as El Zacatal. The first was in Veracruz and belonged to a well-known leader of the CTM, the Confederation of Mexican Workers, named Ranulfo Higuera. The second was in the middle of Tamaulipas. It was on the small side and belonged to a Dr. Luis Blanco. The third was less than seventy miles northeast of La Eternidad, near Ciudad Miel and far from any major roads. The title was held by a man named Óscar García Osorio.
“That’s the one,” said Treviño. “That was El Tiburón’s father.”
The consul located the ranch on the map.
“It’s in one of the most dangerous parts of the state, right where two powerful organizations are fighting for control of the highway. It won’t be easy to get in there.”
“Who said anything about going in?”
“Please, Treviño,” said Mrs. De León from the doorway. “Go get her.”
“Cecilia,” the consul erupted. “We don’t even know that Cristina’s there. We have to check out the lead. Right now, it’s just a possibility.”
“And besides, it wouldn’t be a good idea to show up at that ranch without studying the area first,” added the detective.
“Treviño’s right,” said the gringo. “Before sending anyone in there, we need to do some reconnaissance. Find out how to get to the ranch safely, how many guards there are, how many guys they’ve got inside, if there’s an electric fence, surveillance cameras, alarms, and so on. And how to get in and out without running into a checkpoint.”
“Exactly,” said the detective.
“I could get us a satellite image of the area, and some useful information about the armed groups around the highways over there,” added the gringo. It always surprised the detective how plugged in Williams could be, when he wanted to be.
At nine o’clock, after they’d been offered coffee and sandwiches—the first food Treviño had touched all day—the consul opened his computer and showed them what looked like a green cloud on the screen.
“There’s a lot of activity during the day, but they’re not planting anything. I bet no one out there’s doing any farming.”
“How many people are we talking about?” asked the detective.
“According to my sources, around two hundred.”
“I’ll be damned,” said Treviño.
“Looks like there’s a fence around the whole ranch,” said the consul, pointing at the satellite image. It wasn’t easy to see what he was talking about. “And then there are two more rings of fencing on the inside. It’s all mountains over there. The nearest river is about thirty miles north, and from there you’d have to drive in on dirt roads. There’s only half a dozen buildings inside, but they’re big. They’ve got heavy security at the entrance, and freight trucks are always coming and going.”
“Getting there probably won’t be easy, either,” said Treviño. “I imagine there’s a fake checkpoint every fifteen minutes along those highways.”
Williams looked at his notes. “There are fake checkpoints on every highway in the state, especially after dark. It’s just the details that change, depending on where we’re talking about. The weapons, for example. Los Viejos, mostly to the west of Ciudad Miel, have assault rifles, Spectre submachine guns, and a whole range of nine-millimeters and rocket launchers, the same ones the elite forces of the Mexican army use. You can pick those up at any gun shop in Arizona. On this side of the state, Los Nuevos have M16 rifles, hand grenades, Kalashnikovs. They get them from former guerrillas from Colombia and Central America. Former Kaibiles who’ve set up shop in the area training assassins. We’re talking about guys who would eat a live dog without batting an eye.”
Treviño latched on to the most important point.
“So, you have informants inside Los Nuevos.”
The gringo turned beet red, realizing his indiscretion.
“Why didn’t you say so before? You could have saved us some valuable time.”
“I can’t believe it,” said Mr. De León.
“My informant’s identity is classified,” the consul said, defensively. “I couldn’t endanger—”
“And have you asked this informant whether they took the girl? Or would you prefer that I risk my life so you don’t have to inquire?”
The consul’s embarrassment was written all over his face.
“I don’t decide when we talk. He contacts me when he can. He’s under constant surveillance.”
“I’m sure.”
“I can’t tell you anything about this informant or any of the others. It would put their lives at risk.”
“Treviño,” said Mr. De León. “It’s been two days, and no one’s called. Go. Please. I can pay you more if that’s the issue. But I’m begging you: go and negotiate on my behalf. Even if they’ve already killed her, we still want her back. Please,” he insisted. “Go. Mr. Williams will go with you.”
“I’m, uh, afraid I can’t. I can’t get the United States government involved in direct dealings with criminal elements.”
“I expected no less of you,” said the detective with half a smile.
“I’ll double my offer” —Mr. De León sat down facing him—“and I’ll go with you.”
“Absolutely not,” interrupted the consul. “It’ll turn into a kidnapping right there on the spot. If they happen not to have your daughter, do you really think they’ll let you walk out of there? Send a representative instead, someone who’s not a family member or a close friend.”
De León hadn’t taken his eyes off the detective.
“You can handle the negotiation?”
Treviño stood and walked over to the window. The sky was gray, completely overcast. “What’s happening with my brother’s green card?”
“Things are moving along. He goes in to normalize his status in three days,” said the consul, and he held up a legal document bearing the official seal of the United States. Treviño looked it over and studied the consul’s face.
“All right,” he said.
The clock was striking eleven by the time they finished reviewing the information they’d collected.
“Take my private plane to Ciudad Miel and rent a car there to get out to the ranch,” said the businessman. The plan was that Treviño would go to where Los Nuevos had their training grounds, get in touch with El Tiburón, and offer him a ransom for Cristina. “Make him an offer he won’t want to refuse.”
“The airport’s out of the question,” advised the gringo. “They just tightened security a few hours ago. There’s a squad car at the entrance, and three officers are stationed in the area. One of them is the Block, who knows Treviño. He’d never get past them.”
The ex-cop took a long drag on his cigarette. Then he calmly studied the maps. “If I take the highway, it’ll be three hours heading north and then another hour, hour and a half, along dirt roads. How old is this intel?”
“From early this month. It’s the most recent we have.”
Treviño shook his head and grumbled, “Give me a minute.”
Then he made two phone calls that unsettled all present. First, he dialed the operator and asked for the number for Babydollz in Ciudad Miel. Treviño copied the information carefully and, after confirming the number out loud with the operator, hung up and dialed.
“Mr. Ramiro, please.”
Ignoring the horrified expression on the consul’s face, he launched in as soon as someone picked up.
“Ramiro, I was your karate student … It’s me, cabrón. Treviño. Is this a secure line? Yeah, I know you can’t talk. I’ll be quick.
I asked about you and they said you’d left the force … That’s what I figured. Look, I need you to help me out with some intel on El Zacatel … Yeah, I know how things are. That’s why I’m calling you and not someone else. It’s for a job. Find out everything you can, but be careful. You want to make, I don’t know, twenty thousand pesos?” Treviño glanced at the magnate, who gestured that the sum was fine. “Good. Deal. I’m counting on your discretion. I’ll give you a call at this number when I’m nearby.”
He hung up.
“A contact?”
“The only one I have around there,” the detective explained. “I should get going. But first I need to see Cristina’s room.”
Mr. De León accompanied him to the foot of the spiral staircase and, once they reached the second floor, to a bedroom at the end of the hall. He opened the wooden door. As soon as he turned on the light, something moved on the bed. Treviño thought his eyes were playing tricks on him when he saw a woman with long blond hair emerge from among the pillows, but it wasn’t Cristina. It was her mother. She was wearing white cotton pajamas. She rubbed her eyes.
“Ceci, go back to your room,” the businessman said.
“I was dreaming that Cristina had been taken by crocodiles. One of them stood up on two legs and said that I was never going to see her again.”
“You should take a pill.”
“I’ve already taken two. Can I help you?” she said, turning to the detective.
“I want to take a look at Cristina’s personal effects.”
The woman sat up and closed her robe.
“She didn’t keep a diary. My daughter never wrote so much as two words back-to-back, unless it was to sign a receipt. And all her recent photos are on the phone she took with her that night.”
“Did she have a computer?”
“She left it at boarding school in Switzerland.”
Cristina had only a few books, and all of them were from school. In contrast, her movies and music filled two small bookshelves. The closet, the door to which was ajar, was almost as long as the room.
Treviño took two steps forward and looked at the photos on the wall: Cristina and her friends at school, Cristina living it up in different countries, skiing through some snow-covered landscape, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower or Big Ben, dancing at different clubs, sunbathing on the beach in La Eternidad. The Perkins boy appeared in half the pictures. In others, Cristina was surrounded by handsome, well-dressed admirers she showed off like trophies, a mischievous smile on her face. She was young but already knew the effect her beauty had on men: in every photo, they looked as if they were standing in the presence of a queen. Treviño noticed the confidence of her pose: the long, inviting neck that looked like it belonged in an old painting.
Just then, something on the bed caught his eye: a little French flag, the kind you’d buy in a souvenir shop. Treviño cracked half a smile and walked out of the room.
When he returned to the library, which had been turned into intelligence headquarters, the consul immediately called him over.
“There’s a few faces you should commit to memory if you’re going in there.”
The consul opened a different file on his computer and over the next few minutes went through pictures of around two dozen individuals with him. Most were between twenty and forty, most had a military buzz cut, and some had facial hair. At one point, Treviño stopped him and pointed to the photo of a man in a black hat with a shaved head and a thick mustache.
“Who’s that?”
The consul explained that the man was known as El Coronel de los Muertos, the Colonel of the Dead, though no one could confirm he’d ever actually held the rank of colonel or that he’d been a member of the armed forces at all.
“He’s a key player. A strategist in their inner circle.”
“I had a run-in with this guy once, when I was still a cop. Asshole was raising hell on the beach in La Eternidad. He’d had too much to drink and disrespected two ladies, friends who were out with Officer Cornelio and me. We got into a scuffle, but he was pretty out of it, and I knocked him down. His guys were about to come after me, but he stopped them. ‘Fair and square,’ he said. When he stood up, though, he glared at me and said that next time it would be me on the ground.”
“Are you sure?” asked the gringo. Treviño nodded.
“His voice is like gravel. I still remember it,” said the detective, not mentioning that his first thought when he heard it was that it seemed like the voice of someone who held human life in low regard.
The consul shook his head.
“He’s one of their main guys now. He runs the operation that collects protection money from the small business owners in La Eternidad. He makes the competition disappear or puts their bodies on display in the streets. You might not run into him, but get the hell out of there if you do.”
“Good advice,” said the detective, offering him half a smile. “I wouldn’t have thought of that.”
“Another thing: guys working for Los Viejos recently dug a new mass grave out by the Las Cabañas ranch, around Nueva Esperanza. They’re taking their rivals out there to bury them. If Cristina’s not at the ranch, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go out there.” The gringo noticed that the detective was glaring at him and added, “This is the most complete information I have. Oh, also: a couple of miles toward the border as you leave Ciudad Miel, you’ll see a checkpoint manned by Los Nuevos. They wear military uniforms and drive military vehicles, but they’re not military. They stop all the buses that go by and haul off the young women and able-bodied men. People have reported it to the state of Tamaulipas, but no one’s willing to look into it. They say the travelers are just paranoid and are making things up. Try to steer clear.”
“And the ranch itself? Were you able to find out anything useful? Any word from your contact?”
The consul took a sip of his coffee.
“There are usually around ten guards stationed at the main entrance facing Ciudad Miel. All well trained, former military.”
When the consul finished his briefing, a silence fell over the room. Treviño served himself another cup of coffee and looked at the magnate.
“Remember, we signed a contract: you take care of my family if I don’t make it back.”
“Don’t worry,” Mr. De León replied, but Treviño didn’t seem convinced.
“We don’t have much time,” said Williams. “You should head out as soon as possible. Maybe they’ll let you through at the airport if we offer the police officers a bribe.”
“We’ll go by land,” said the detective. “It’s the best way. Margarito’s looking for me here, but he can’t do anything to me once we’re out of the city. We’ll take a car.”
“Take one of the Lobos.”
“I’d prefer the white car.”
“The Maverick?” Mr. De León seemed surprised.
“Definitely,” the detective insisted. “With all those checkpoints out there, we run the risk of losing the truck. Both Los Viejos and Los Nuevos love those things. No one will look twice at an old clunker, though. We’ll take that one.”
“It’s a good little car,” the magnate smiled. “It’s never let me down. Take these two with you,” he said, gesturing toward Moreno and the Bus.
“No way,” said Williams. “Three armed men will draw a lot of attention out on those highways.”
“The Bus can come,” said the detective without missing a beat. “The courage he’s shown throughout this investigation is exactly what I’ll need.”
The idea didn’t seem to appeal to the bodyguard, who stood there slack jawed.
“Under the circumstances, especially with that surveillance team out there, we should create a diversion.” The detective turned to the consul. “We’ll need two other cars to leave right when we do.”
“All right,” said Mr. De León with a gesture toward Moreno, who stepped out to start the preparations. Treviño looked at the Bus.
“How soon can you be ready?”
“Give me an hour. I have to run home for some clothes.”
The detective looked at him skeptically, but eventually nodded.
“Treviño,” said the businessman, calling him over with a wave of his hand. “Come out to the terrace with me. I’d like to have a word with you.”
The detective stood, stretched, and followed Mr. De León outside. Relieved, the gringo stood, as well.
Once they were outside Mr. De León said, quietly, “I’ll give you another million if you bring her back alive. And if everything goes well, I’d like you to come work with me when this is over.”
“Thank you, but I’m just fine where I am.” Treviño thought about his wife.
“The invitation stands. Let me offer you a few words of advice about the negotiations.”
Almost two hours later, the Bus opened the library door holding a little backpack that looked like a toy in his massive hand and a plastic bag of gorditas with extra sauce, by the look of what was slushing around in the bottom. The detective looked at his watch: three thirty in the morning. Mr. De León walked up to the Bus and said, “Don’t leave Treviño’s side, even for a minute, and do exactly as he says. He’s in charge, and you’re there to take care of him. I’m holding you responsible if anything happens to him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you, Treviño. Find my daughter. Report back as soon as you get to Ciudad Miel.”
The detective nodded and turned toward the Maverick.
“Good luck,” said the consul. “If anyone can get out there and back, it’s you two.”
“Asshole,” said the detective, under his breath.
“Thanks a lot, pinche Treviño. Really appreciate the invitation.” The Bus started the car and bit into his first gordita.