Silver Bullets by Élmer Mendoza, Mark Fried Read Free Book Online Page A

a young officer, was covering reception. Is Ortega in? No, sir, but I’ll tell you who is, your partner, what a beauty, isn’t she? Would you vote for her for Mazatlán carnival queen? I’d even collect donations if she liked, they smiled. The duty officer had El Debate on the desk, open to the crime section, at the top they had a big picture of the Piggyback gangsta-wrap. Do they identify him? No. Mendieta was thinking if Pineda knew who it was he would not care to say, especially if it had turned him a profit.
    In the cubicle Zelda Toledo was trying to get Mariana Kelly or Marcelo Valdés to take her call. Good morning, he saw the forensic report on the desk, is there anything in Montaño’s report we don’t already know? Nothing except that he died at about 4:30 a.m. from a silver bullet and that I’m invited out to dinner tonight, Mendieta smiled, and you know who is going to dinner with him, boss? His grandmother. Does he have one? That’s his problem, tell me something, what nut uses silver bullets these days? Vampire hunters, did you watch any of those movies? Two, and I nearly fell asleep from boredom; listen, these people don’t want to take my call. He put the bag with the Kleenex on the desk, do we have their addresses? She nodded, will you come with me? As your driver, but first let me make a call, from the desk drawer he pulled out a worn appointment book. What’s that Kleenex? I want to identify the fragrance I found at Canizales’s house. You went back? Last night, here it is. He dialed, got a hello, and said: So, do you know what I’m eating for breakfast? A dozen quail eggs poached in cranberry sauce, orange juice with nopales, and a macchiato. Well, I’m having lobster salad on rye smeared with tomato sauce and a double cappuccino. L.H. was a master perfume maker who had tired of mixing essentialoils and now worked once in a while for the Los Angeles police, as well as for the occasional Mexican friend. They had met at a course in Tijuana, L.H. passing on a couple of useful things in an otherwise tedious talk at police headquarters, plus an infinity of secrets the four subsequent nights in several bars across the city. That means you’re in heaven. Lefty, my dear friend, what can I do for you? I’ve got a Kleenex that smells like nirvana, I’m going to send it to you. To the PO box I gave you, please. They exchanged a few more pleasantries and hung up.
    Agent Toledo, whenever you say.
    Zelda opened a drawer in her desk: Boss, I’ve got the list of calls. Anything new? I think so, she called him eight times between 2:14 and 5:47 a.m. but he didn’t answer any of them, they turn up as missed calls on the other end; he made one to Navolato, to his parents’ number at 10:13 Thursday night and one before that at 6:05 p.m. to Mazatlán to the Hotel La Siesta; since he died at about 4:30 in the morning it couldn’t be Paola; Frank Aldana the dancer is staying at La Siesta, she fell silent. Zelda, have you ever seen an angry tiger put to sleep? What’s that about? About us going to find Yoonohoo Valdés. Maybe he’s out of the country or in Los Cabos. Did they tell you that? No, but it’s Saturday, I don’t think those people stay in the city over the weekend. Come on, you don’t really believe they work nine to five like the English?
    They found Marcelo Valdés’s mansion in Colinas de San Miguel, partway up a mountain. It was immense, light green with gilded aluminum doors, and protected by a sixteen-foot-high wall with two turrets clad in purple and yellow ceramic tiles. They knocked. A young man, staring intently with pale eyes, opened the door and waited for the visitors to say something. Zelda Toledo spoke up: We are from Santiago de los Caballeros, we’vecome to ask a favor of Don Marcelo. The young man requested instructions by cell phone, Mendieta spotted a camera above the door and turned toward the street, the young man put away the telephone, pulled out an AK from somewhere,