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

of a movie, his complexion out of a pineapple advertisement.
    He tossed my license on the table and addressed me in Spanish. I shrugged in response.
    â€œMy English is no good,” he said, sounding not at all apologetic. “
Me Ilamo
Comandante Quiroz. I investigate the
homicidio
of Ernesto Santiago.”
    I decided to maintain the pose of magazine reporter, and had managed to communicate little else (I was never a champion charades player) when Manuel arrived. “Did you find Caron?” I asked him as he edged around the table, staring fearfully at the comandante.
    â€œYes, she was by the pool. She said she will do as told. She also said several things about the food, but perhaps they are irrelevant at this time.”
    â€œI should think so,” I said. “Now will you please tell the officer the purpose of my presence in Acapulco? Reporters do not murder the people they wish to interview—and I never made contact with Santiago.”
    Manuel and the comandante took off in Spanish. I listened for a while, picking out a key word now and then, but finally gave up and let their voices swirl around me like the vicious Santa Ana wind that torments California. At one point, the comandante slammed his fist on the table, and Manuel whimpered a reply. It was not encouraging. Oliver Pickett’s and Ernesto Santiago’s names were mentioned several times, as well as that of the Hotel Las Floritas. When Manuel mentioned Chico, the comandante shook his head and growled like a mastiff.
    Finally the comandante quieted down. Manuel looked at me. “Late this afternoon they had a tip that someone had been murdered in what was once the lobby of the Hotel Las Floritas. They discovered Santiago’s body. They also found a note with your name and an offer of money.”
    â€œBehind the doorknob,” I said, trying not to glare at Comandante Quiroz.
    â€œThey found it under the body,” Manuel said in a squeaky voice. “It had blood on it. They think Santiago called you and set up a meeting. For some reason, maybe related to a drug deal, you killed him.
El pesquisidor
—I don’t know in English—has determined that Santiago died only a few hours ago. I had to tell the comandante that I took you back to the Plaza at noon and did not return until three o’clock.”
    â€œAnd during that period I went to the hotel and killed him? That’s ludicrous, Manuel. Does he think I took a cab—or hijacked a horse and buggy to get there? Did the bellman carelessly fail to notice the blood on my clothes when I returned? Wouldn’t the people by the pool have said something if they’d watched me scale nineteen stories?”
    â€œWhat about the note, Señora?”
    I explained, then watched Comandante Quiroz’s expression as Manuel translated what I’d said. It eased only marginally, but he was less emphatic as he launched into another spate of Spanish. Manuel responded as best he could, but his voice was increasingly hoarse and his hands were so tightly clenched that his knuckles were apt to burst through his skin. I wondered if Ronnie had felt the same apprehension when she watched Pedro Benavides plead for leniency.
    â€œYou told me there have been three murders at thehotel this year,” I inserted when I had the opportunity. “Doesn’t it seem more likely that one of the criminals who lives there killed Santiago? What about Chico or the prostitutes or their pimp?”
    â€œHe says when the
cabos
arrived, all of the bungalows had been vacated. Those who live there are like cockroaches. Blue lights send them scuttling into the
Sona Roja.
Only when the lights go away will they return. He does want you to describe this American who was living there, however.”
    After further disjointed communication, Comandante Quiroz admitted that the only evidence they had was the note—and, yes, it was possible that someone else had taken it inside the