MATÍAS HAD NEVER BEEN INSIDE CARLOS Lopez’s office before. He had come to the door a few times and he’d glimpsed it from his desk, but he had never set foot across the threshold. It was an alien feeling, being in there, and he wanted to go.
The blinds were half-drawn and the office was dim. Lopez had a broad desk and his chairs were all upholstered with black leather. There was a couch. A neat stack of reports stood on one side of his blotter, an arrangement of pens on the other. In many ways it was exactly what Matías might have expected: orderly, clean and utterly ordinary.
The door was closed so he did not hear Lopez’s steps approaching. Suddenly it was opened and Lopez came in with another man Matías had never met. The man wore a suit that made Matías’ seem cheap and if he carried a weapon it wasn’t obvious. His hair was flat against his scalp and had a sheen to it. Matías got to his feet.
“Matías Segura, this is Hector Romero,” Lopez said. “He’s from the Attorney General’s office. Up special from Mexico City.”
“Mucho gusto,” Matías said and he offered Romero his hand. The man’s shake was surprisingly firm and his hands weren’t soft. Matías wondered what Hector Romero was before he became a lawyer.
“Please, Sr. Romero, have a seat,” Lopez said. “Can I offer you something to drink? I have Scotch whisky.”
“That would be fine,” Romero replied. He took the chair next to Matías and crossed his legs. Matías saw that he had very shiny black wingtip shoes without a trace of dust on them. He resisted looking at his own shoes.
“Matías? Will you join us?”
“Sure.”
Lopez poured three glasses and gave Romero his first. “Salud,” he said.
Matías thought the Scotch tasted like rubbing alcohol. If he had a drink, he preferred beer. Maybe that made him less refined. Romero seemed to like his.
“Sr. Romero is here because of the incident that occurred last night. He flew up right away at the specific request of the Attorney General,” Lopez said. “They are very concerned in Mexico City.”
“We’re concerned in Ciudad Juárez, too,” Matías joked, but Romero didn’t smile.
“I understand your wife was with you at the time.”
“She was.”
“Is she all right?”
“Yes. In shock, but all right.”
Romero considered this with his fingertips on his chin. He tapped his lips, and then said, “I am here not because this is an unusual happening in Juárez, but because it is so common. For a time we were losing officers every week. But now they have come after you, a prominent member of the PFM.”
“I’m not that prominent,” Matías said. “I’m just a man doing his job, like everyone else here.”
“You are part of the joint American and Mexican operation against Los Aztecas,” Romero said. “A very important part. Our concern at the PGR is that Los Aztecas have found out your vital role in all of this and have conspired to rid themselves of you.”
“Every policeman in Juárez is a target.”
“But not every policeman is an agent with the PFM with connections across the border. How many people know of your position?”
Matías thought for a moment. “A few dozen. We’ll call it fifty people on both sides of the border. You know about me in Mexico City.”
“And a leak could have come from anywhere.”
“Are you saying I’ve been sold out by someone on the inside?” Matías asked.
“There has never been a police unit assembled in Mexico that hasn’t succumbed to corruption or co-option by the cartels,” Romero said. “That means the locals, the state police, the PF, the PFM… anyone. And I don’t know how it is in the United States, but their security can be suspect.”
Matías shook his head. “I don’t see someone on the American side giving my name to the Aztecas. No.”
“Then you admit it must have happened here.”
A sense of melancholy settled over Matías, and he looked away from Romero toward the windows. In the hours after the attack he had almost managed to convince himself that it had been nothing more than a random assault perpetrated by one of the armed factions in the city. These things happened all the time and for no reason that could be fathomed. Sometimes Matías thought they killed just because they could.
If Matías was the target, then a pall of suspicion fell on everyone, even the men in this office. He did not like the sensation of suspecting the whole world, of having to watch what he did and said every moment of every day. But of course that was what he had been doing anyway. Who was he trying to fool?
“The Aztecas have marked you,” Romero said. “What do they call it? A ‘green light.’ You’re now directly in their sights.”
“What do you suggest I do about that?” Matías asked.
“One thing that has been recommended is removing you from your position in the American thing. That was certainly what caught the Aztecas’ attention in the first place.”
“It could have been anything,” Matías protested. “I’ve been working inquiries involving Los Aztecas for two years now. I’ve made cases against them. I’ve testified in court.”
“But never have they openly tried to kill you in a public place,” Romero said. “That is the difference.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“We could rearrange your duties.”
“What do you mean, ‘rearrange’ my duties? So you are removing me!”
“No, no, no,” Lopez said. “It’s only something that’s been proposed. People high up are concerned.”
“I’m concerned. It’s me they were shooting at,” Matías said.
“You won’t be reassigned,” Romero said.
“Good, because that would be a foolish thing to do. It would send a message that we can be swayed by violence. That can’t be allowed.”
“I agree completely,” Romero said flatly.
Matías blinked. “You do?”
“Yes. But now we must tread carefully. Someone passed on information about you, and we have to know who that is. My office has opened an official inquiry into the matter. We’ll find the one who talked.”
“When you do,” Matías said, “I want to thank them personally for all that they’ve done.”
“I’ll see to it that you get that chance.”