Read Online Closely Akin to Murder by Joan Hess - Free Book Online

opportunity to visit many ports. I—”
    â€œThis is not the time for vocational angst,” I said, hoping it wasn’t the time for handcuffs and cattle prods, either. “We both know I did not slash Santiago’s throat. This is a misunderstanding that can be resolvedas soon as I speak to an officer in charge.” A dire thought popped into my mind. “If he speaks English, that is. Stop blubbering and listen, Manuel. I want you to find Caron out by the pool or on the beach, and tell her to stay in our suite with the door locked until she hears from me. Have her paged if necessary. She can order room service, but she is not to open the door to anyone else. Then come immediately to the police headquarters.”
    â€œOkay, okay,” he said as sweat trickled down into his already watery eyes.
    I made a face at the policemen. “Shall we go?”

CHAPTER 4
    I was escorted to a cramped
white car and thrust into the backseat, where the splattered upholstery suggested the past presence of gastrically challenged passengers. A barrier of scratched plastic precluded conversation with the officers in the front seat (had it seemed the polite thing to do). Apparently, I was not a worthy enough desperado to merit sirens and flashing lights, but although we drove only a dozen blocks before turning up a steep hill, I felt as though every tourist on the boulevard had seen me cowering in the backseat and judged me guilty of
homicidio
, or worse. Pedro Benavides’s earlier remark resounded in my mind like a dirge: “Our system is different than yours.”
    The police headquarters consisted of a large walled compound with a hodgepodge of buildings, ancient trees, and parking areas. The walls were topped with barbed wire, the gate protected by armed guards. Cars and trucks were on racks beside what was presumably a mechanical shed. A one-story building with barred windows squatted beyond an expanse of cracked concrete; two guards sat at a table by the door, their weapons conspicuously displayed in front of them. Otherofficers lounged in the shade or stood in lines, receiving instructions.
    Civilians were going in and out of the unimposing building into which I was taken. Unlike the Farberville police station, there was no front office with a pretension of welcome, but merely a vast, dingy room with benches for whispered conferences. Yellowed posters featured the visages of surly men. The pay telephones along one wall were all in use. Ceiling fans did little to disperse the sour odor of anxiety.
    We continued into a small room with a table and a few chairs. The walls were bare, the floor filthy, the window covered with heavy mesh. The officer pointed at a chair and demanded a
pasaporte.
Having used a voter registration card as identification to enter the country, the best I could produce was my driver’s license.
    Once I was alone, I propped my head on my hands and attempted to assimilate what had happened. I’d been heading for the suite to see if Caron wanted to join me in the bar (for a virgin strawberry daiquiri that would cost as much as the real thing, but Ronnie was footing the bill), and now I was in a nasty little room waiting to be questioned about the murder of a man I’d never met. I could hardly call Peter and ask what he knew about the machinations of the Mexican legal system. If nothing else, he’d pitch a self-righteous fit, replete with I-told-you-so and I-warned-you-not-to-get-involved. Hardly productive. Calling Pedro Benavides made a lot more sense, but he was likely to be drinking martinis on a yacht. I desperately wanted to call Caron and make sure she was obeying my order. Any of the above would require a telephone or telepathic ability, neither of which I possessed.
    After ten stressful minutes, a middle-aged man entered the room. He wore a short-sleeved dress shirt rather than a uniform, but he had the wintry demeanor I knew so well. His mustache was straight out