I DIDN’T LEAVE my room for two days. I wouldn’t let the maid in to clean. I ate room service, downed Motrin every four hours, wrapped my torso tight with one of the bedsheets. I cleaned up my face and ear as best I could. I had a serious cut on my cheekbone and a split lip. The burn in my ear turned to blisters, some of which popped and oozed—red mushy welts that hurt and were at risk of infection.
I didn’t bother to update my Maya document. I just lay in bed with a bag of ice on my face, thinking. Who the fuck was trying to find Maya? Who were those men? What did they want with her? I played the events of the night over and over in my head: pushing me out of the car, the questions, the beating, and that souvenir of a smoldering cigar against my ear. The only thing that seemed off was the man who spoke. He had a Spanish accent, but it faded near the end of our encounter. Or maybe the way I heard it wasn’t the way it happened. I was scared, beat up. I’d lost proper perception.
They hadn’t taken anything from me except my phone. They’d left my passport and my money. Left it for the damn cops. They wanted Maya. They wanted me to leave Mexico. But why?
Hired muscle. They had to be. I was no expert, but I’d heard a few stories, seen enough movies.
But who hired them?
The obvious answer, the one that kept coming back to me and smacking me in the face, was Mike Boseman. It had to be him. He’d freaked when he saw me. But if this was true, then he hadn’t hooked up with Maya. They were not an item. They were not in it together. This destroyed all my theories.
Maybe Maya was running away from him, too. One possibility was that Boseman went looking for Maya at Nick’s place, killed Nick, and then came to Mexico to find Maya. But why was he after her now?
Unless those goons weren’t hired by Boseman.
There were two items hanging in the back of my dizzy head: insurance and inheritance. Maya was the one who had the most to gain, unless she wasn’t in Nick’s will or named as the beneficiary in his life insurance policy. That’s what I had to figure out.
I called Flor and left a message, telling her I’d lost my cell phone and to call me at the hotel. I lay on the bed, watched Mexican soaps on TV, drank some chicken soup, trying to regain my strength. By the third day Flor hadn’t called. I imagined she was out, diving in the canals of Xochimilco. I called her again and left another message. I told her I needed to see her. That it was urgent. I wasn’t trying to spook her but I was afraid that whoever sicced those goons on me might go after her.
I showered and shaved and went to a pharmacy, bought antibiotic cream for my ear and cheek. I felt better, but I looked like shit. The swelling had gone down some, but my face was a sad cartoon with blue and purple around my eye and lip.
I called Flor again and left her a voice mail, telling her I would wait for her after work at the little café across the street from her apartment in La Condesa.
The first thing I did was go to the Camino Real to check on Boseman.
“Yes, Boseman,” I repeated to the desk clerk at the hotel, “Boseman, B-O-S-E-M-A-N.”
He worked his keyboard and shook his head. “I’m sorry. We don’t have anyone registered by that name.”
“Did he check out recently?” I said. “I was supposed to meet him, but my plane was late.”
The clerk looked at me for a moment, then he worked his keyboard. “Michael Boseman. Yes. He checked out yesterday.”
Well, hello!
I’d had him, but I lost him. The question was what to do next. I looked at the clerk. “What about Maya Zav—sorry, Maya Edwards?”
He took a deep breath and checked for it. He shook his head. “No one registered by that name.”
“What about in the last week?”
He grinned. “I’m sorry, but we don’t give out guest information.”
“But you just gave me Boseman’s information.”
“I was doing you a favor.”
“Can you do me another favor and check for Maya Edwards?”
“I can’t do that.”
I sighed, pulled my wallet out, pushed a five-hundred-peso bill across the counter. He took the money, smiled, and his fingers danced on the keys again. Then he looked at me, his head tilted to the side. “No Maya Edwards. Sorry.”
“All week?”
“Never,” he said. “She’s not in the system.”
I walked away looking at the people: the executives, the businessmen and women, the sunburned Americans. It was a big hotel with a busy lobby. Mike Boseman wasn’t here, but things were beginning to gel. Maya and Boseman were not together. Otherwise Boseman would have stayed with Maya. I was almost one hundred percent certain that Boseman was looking for Maya. The question was why. I took a taxi to La Condesa and found a seat outside the little café by Flor’s apartment. I ordered a cappuccino and watched the people making their way along the sidewalks, checking the menus posted outside the restaurants. It reminded me of downtown Sarasota. For the first time since I had arrived, I was homesick. The town I loved to criticize was now a paradise in my imagination. There was an order to things. Here, despite the big shade trees and the cafés one after another along the sidewalk, there was a weird anarchy: the cars double parked on the road, mayhem everywhere, the juxtaposition of wealth and poverty. It was unnerving.
My heart was beating fast. My palms were sweaty. Every dark-colored SUV that rolled past spooked me. I was pretty sure I was being watched.
“Dexter!”
It was Flor. She ran to me. “Oh, Dios mio. What happened to you?”
“Someone put a cigar out in my ear.”
She touched my cheek, her hand floating gently over the cut. “What’s going on?”
I came clean with everything. I told her about Nick and Maya and Boseman and the goons from the other night. I just dumped it all on her lap like a dying man making a final confession.
Her eyes welled up. She squeezed my hand. Her lower lip trembled like she was about to cry, but she held it in. I appreciated that. I’m not sure I could’ve handled her crying or going into hysterics. This whole thing was getting crazier by the day. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could remain in control. I had not been able to talk to anyone about the case, if I could even call it that anymore. But talking to Flor took a huge weight off my chest.
We went up to her apartment, and she ran a bath for me, helped me undress. She sat on the floor of the bathroom next to the tub and washed my beaten and bruised body. I closed my eyes and thanked my lucky stars. This was a woman to keep. I was in a place I had wanted to be in all my life, except I hadn’t realized that. My stomach tightened when I thought of leaving, of seeing Holly again, that she could ever be as nurturing as Flor.
No matter what, I was going to have to go away, leave Flor. It wasn’t that I was scared, although that was part of it. I had to find Tiffany. I had to figure out who killed Nick. And Boseman. I had to find out how he figured into this.
I verbalized my thoughts, my head just over the waterline. “I’m going to have to go home soon.”
“Shhh.”
“We need to face it,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “I knew this all the time. And so did you.”
“You don’t mind?” I was hurt.
“I mind,” she said. “Of course I do. But I refuse to avoid things in life just because they might be painful.”
I leaned my head to the side and looked into her eyes. I felt myself melting into the water. I hated and loved it—the sweet pain, the wild sensation of gaining and losing all at once.
“I know,” I said. “You have to live life.”
“I’m glad I met you, Dexter Vega. And I’m glad we’ve had this time together.”
She wasn’t sentimental about it. She was a realist. I liked that. I liked everything about her.
“Maybe you will come back soon.”
“Maybe you can visit me in Sarasota.”
“Sure.” She smiled. “Maybe.”
I closed my eyes and let the moment sink into me, the smell of the soap and the feeling of her fingers gliding gently over my skin. There were too many maybes in my life. They were like a never-ending echo: maybe. Maybe what I needed was something absolute, something certain. Maybe.
* * *
The following evening, I took a taxi to Toni’s place in La Roma. I was early for the dinner invitation, but I wanted to talk with her about Maya. I had to tell her about Boseman. Maybe deep down I had the intuition she would give me a clue, something that would help me figure this thing out.
Her apartment was in an old art deco building. It was large with a lot of windows and looked down on a small park. A maid let me in. The walls were covered with art. An old stereo played a vinyl record of Miles Davis’ “E.S.P.” I could hear the definition, the dust cracking and popping.
Toni was all dressed up, working in the kitchen with another maid, giving orders, making sure everything was perfect. I don’t know what she was cooking but it smelled amazing. When she saw me, she did a double take.
“What happened?” She came to me and placed her hand on my cheek. It’s funny how women do that. “Are you all right?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “I’m sorry I’m early, but I wanted to talk with you.”
“Is this about Maya?”
“Everything’s about Maya.”
She smiled. Then she gave instructions to the cook and led me out of the kitchen. “Can I offer you a cocktail?”
“Just a beer.”
She asked the maid for a beer and a glass of wine. Then she squinted at me. “Someone didn’t like you.”
I followed her to the balcony and we sat. The windows were open and the sound of the traffic below mixed with the Miles Davis tunes. The maid brought the drinks. She held her wineglass with both hands the way you might hold a cup of hot cocoa on a cold day.
“There’s this man,” I said. “Mike Boseman. He was in a relationship with Maya back in Florida. Now he’s here. I’m pretty sure he’s looking for her.”
“And he did this to you?”
I nodded. “His men did.”
I told Toni the whole story. She sat in her chair listening very carefully as if I were giving her a set of detailed instructions on how to save the world. She didn’t even take a sip of her wine. She just sat, listening, nodding, her wide dark eyes locked on mine.
When I was done with the story, she gave me a knowing smile and said: “He’ll never find her.”
I leaned back. The Miles Davis album had stopped playing and I was imagining the needle dancing at the end of the record, waiting for someone to pick it up.
“How do you know?” I said.
“Because I do.”
“But you can’t be sure—”
“She’s gone, Dexter.”
“What?”
“She knew this man was after her. She chose to meet with you and set the record straight. Then she left. She doesn’t want to be found.”
I let it sink in. Toni knew more than she had let on earlier. It pissed me off, but it also reassured me. In a weird way, I knew Maya would be okay. But I still didn’t get Boseman’s game.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“It’s exactly like Maya told you. She just wants out of her old life.”
“But what about Boseman? What does he want with her?”
Toni shrugged. The doorbell rang and the maid went to the door. Toni leaned forward and touched my knee. “I suggest you leave it alone, Dexter.”
She stood and went to meet the couple who had just arrived. I looked out on the little park across the street. I wasn’t going to press Toni about what she knew about Maya. It was obvious she knew her better than she had let on. And she had helped me. Perhaps it was better left at that. Maya was free. She knew how to take care of herself. Perhaps Boseman was not as much of a threat as I thought he might be. It was time for me to go—time to face whatever was going on with Nick Zavala’s murder back home.