AS FOR AMIGO MINING, XAVIER HAD RECEIVED REQUESTS FROM Tarsco about accountability some eleven months before. He had sent them on to his friend in Mexico City, Alfonso Bara—who as yet was silently watching the rather extraordinary machinations in Oathoa and the great case being driven forward by his arch-enemy, Isabella Tallagonga.
At first he was envious of her landing what seemed to be such a grand international case—but now he saw flaws everywhere. He knew because of the documents Xavier had sent him that the international company Tarsco had asked for an inspection of the refitting that had never happened. Bara also knew from these documents sent by Mary Cyr from the office when she went there that long-ago night that someone at Tarsco had most likely sent fourteen million dollars for upgrades to the mine’s infrastructure—and he suspected that none of this money found a home beneath the surface. Now DeRolfo was lying on two fronts. First, that the upgrades were done, which was a lie; and second, that Amigo had paid for them because Tarsco was negligent. Another lie. The first lie told because they had kept the mine open, the second because they needed Tarsco as a scapegoat because of the implosion. Yet one lie effectively cancelled out the other. That is when Bara knew Mary Cyr was innocent.
Usually Bara wouldn’t care about someone else’s jurisdiction. But he had his own career to think of, and Tallagonga believed in her heart this case would trump Alfonso Bara’s career. That she would get what they both wanted: under attorney general. Actually, both wanted to be part of the under attorney general office—both wanted the same, soon to be newly open, position. So he waited, and said to his wife, who was born near Oathoa and hated the DeRolfo family:
“No seas impaciente—¡no seas impaciente!”
Do not be impatient—do not be impatient!
So Bara said this also, in private to his allies in Mexico City:
“I think we should excavate, maybe bit by bit, and see what upgrades Amigo did do, now that we know millions were supposedly given them—then we will know who to charge with a crime.”
So no matter what happened in Oathoa—the truth would come out over time, and the DeRolfos were doomed.
And Dr. DeRolfo had other things to worry about. Terribly ruthless people now knew he had lost the Beretta and it was with the police. DeRolfo had not known his wife had given this gun to Ángel, but by now Erappo Pole did, and had told Hulk Hernández this. That is, that this would implicate them both sooner or later. Hernández visited Carlos DeRolfo and told him that people expected certain things from him—that is, they wanted the investigation into everything to go away. That it was attention none of them wanted or needed. That the longer it went on the more attention it would create. But Carlos explained, I am doing my best.
“Yes—you are doing your best, making it an international incident—there should be no incident over this at all—there should have been no press whatsoever—people here are very angry—” Hernández laughed when he said this, as if DeRolfo’s mistakes wouldn’t result in a bullet to the head. But both knew very well that they would.
And worse than that, Carlos was asked to go see Constable Fey. He went into the office, sat in a chair and looked at the bulletins on the board. Fey saw him looking at the forms for deep-sea fishing, and asked him if he had ever done such. Carlos shook his head.
“No, no.”
“Well, you should go—it’s a very good time,” Fey said.
Fey opened the desk drawer, took out some pictures and tossed them his way.
“What do you see there?”
“A male child of fourteen in rigor mortis,” Carlos said. Sounding very official.
“The male child you found in the villa of the Canadian?”
“Yes—that would be him.”
“And what did he die from?”
“My deeply held opinion is that it was arsenic.”
“Your deeply held opinion is that it was arsenic—yes—well—you are the doctor, Doctor—but my deeply held opinion is that he was choked, his throat was constricted—by someone picking him up off the ground—and then dropping him. My deeply held opinion is that he lived an hour or two longer than that person thought, and suffered greatly—but managed to struggle to Ms. Cyr’s villa.”
Carlos looked at the pictures, perplexed, as if he was studying something he was unaware of.
“No—” he said finally, and looking up at Fey gave a weak astonished smile.
“Sí,” Fey said, nonchalantly picking the pictures back up, “sí, sí.” He nodded to no one in particular. “It was a chokehold by a man—that’s how he died—and—” he continued nonchalantly as well “—it happened outside—sí—outside—in the wild blue yonder (this he said in English)—out there—near the coal pit—that’s where it must have happened—arsenic—no—there is coal on his feet—and on the bedsheet too—it is quite amazing your friend, the policeman Erappo Pole, did not notice this, when that Canadian police officer John Delano noticed this in five minutes. And we both know the Canadian officer is stupido. But maybe he is not.” Then Fey went around to the doctor and put his left arm across his throat and held that arm with his right hand, until Carlos felt himself beginning to choke.
“Like this, amigo,” Fey said.
“Well, perhaps it is that Canadian police officer then—think of it—perhaps it was he?” DeRolfo said, still with Fey’s arm across his throat, and the memory of the sad little boy gasping for air.
“No—I do not think so,” Fey said.
Carlos tried to protest, but Fey said nothing more. In fact, he busied himself with other things in the office and began to speak to someone else—as if Carlos DeRolfo wasn’t even there. Fey then went back to his desk, where he put the pictures away, took the Beretta out of the same drawer and handed it gently to a female officer.
“¿Es la pistola que desea probar?”
Is that the pistol you want tested?