truck,” and they all went inside.
Three doctors were standing in a hallway, smoking. They saw Martin coming, the Americans trailing behind, and the tallest of the three stepped toward them, shaking his head.
“Muerto,” he said.
“Shit,” Martin said. They spoke for a minute in Spanish, then Martin turned to Mallard, Malone, and Lucas. “He’s dead. He died five minutes after they got here. We will do an autopsy, because the doctors aren’t quite sure why he died—possibly shock. Possibly a stroke. Possibly something else.”
“Like what?”
“They don’t know.”
“Can we see him?”
“I’m going to. You may if you wish, but you may not want to.”
The three Americans all looked at each other, and Malone said, “Let’s go.”
THE MAN CALLED Octavio Diaz was lying faceup, nude, on a stainless-steel medical cart. His face was covered with blood—his eyes had been poked out—and his arms and legs were black. Lucas took a look and said, “Jesus Christ, what happened to his mouth? And he’s black…”
“Snipped his tongue off, looks like with a pair of wire cutters,” the tall doctor said. “Put his eyes out with a knife, and it appears they did something to burn his ears…. So he couldn’t see, hear, or speak. He was dying when he arrived. You can’t see it so much, but when we tried to get him out of his car…Look.” He picked up one of Diaz’s feet and lifted it above the cart. The leg hung in an almost perfect catenary arch down to his hip. “The bones have been minutely crushed in both legs and both arms. That must have taken a while, and they were very thorough. Picking him up, getting him out of the car, was like trying to pick up an oyster.”
Malone made a sour face at the comparison and said, “Why didn’t they just dump him out in the jungle?”
“Sending a message,” Lucas said.
Martin nodded. “To anyone else who thinks the Mejias have gone soft. They wanted people to see this—to see him alive. The nurses and the doctors. There will be stories everywhere in Cancún in an hour.”
“Wonder if they got anything out of him?” Mallard asked, looking down at the body.
“What do you think?” Malone asked. She still had the sour face. “Don’t you think you might have answered the questions if they were doing… that?”
“So if they’re looking for Rinker, or the assholes behind the shooting, they’ve probably got a jump on us,” Lucas said. He turned to the doctor. “Can you tell from the wounds when this was all done?”
“The autopsy will give a good approximation.”
“How about between, say, eleven o’clock and noon, today?”
The doctor nodded. “From the way the blood is crusted around the aeyes, from the extent of the bruising and discoloration…I’m no pathologist, but that might be a reasonable guess.”
“Nice old man for a ganglord,” Lucas said to Malone. To Martin: “He may also have been sending a message to us. With the timing, I mean.”
Martin nodded. “Not too much curiosity about this particular killing or the Mejias will be forced to prove their innocence by naming two high FBI officials and an American police officer as their alibis. And perhaps provide some details of what could be portrayed as an exceedingly cynical deal.”
“Your English is really good,” Lucas said.
“They didn’t have to do this,” Mallard said, moving his hand toward the ruins of Octavio Diaz.
“The killing wasn’t done for you,” Martin said. “The timing of the killing, possibly—but that would be a minor aspect of it. Perhaps we are even reading too much into that. Mejia needed to send a message to the…population. I knew that. I knew that Diaz was a walking dead man. But I hoped to find him before he died.” He looked at the body again, reluctantly. “I was late.”
5
TOM AND MICHELLE LAWTON LIVED IN a stucco house surrounded by rubber trees, with one overhanging tangerine, in Atwater Village off Los Feliz, behind a
Three doctors were standing in a hallway, smoking. They saw Martin coming, the Americans trailing behind, and the tallest of the three stepped toward them, shaking his head.
“Muerto,” he said.
“Shit,” Martin said. They spoke for a minute in Spanish, then Martin turned to Mallard, Malone, and Lucas. “He’s dead. He died five minutes after they got here. We will do an autopsy, because the doctors aren’t quite sure why he died—possibly shock. Possibly a stroke. Possibly something else.”
“Like what?”
“They don’t know.”
“Can we see him?”
“I’m going to. You may if you wish, but you may not want to.”
The three Americans all looked at each other, and Malone said, “Let’s go.”
THE MAN CALLED Octavio Diaz was lying faceup, nude, on a stainless-steel medical cart. His face was covered with blood—his eyes had been poked out—and his arms and legs were black. Lucas took a look and said, “Jesus Christ, what happened to his mouth? And he’s black…”
“Snipped his tongue off, looks like with a pair of wire cutters,” the tall doctor said. “Put his eyes out with a knife, and it appears they did something to burn his ears…. So he couldn’t see, hear, or speak. He was dying when he arrived. You can’t see it so much, but when we tried to get him out of his car…Look.” He picked up one of Diaz’s feet and lifted it above the cart. The leg hung in an almost perfect catenary arch down to his hip. “The bones have been minutely crushed in both legs and both arms. That must have taken a while, and they were very thorough. Picking him up, getting him out of the car, was like trying to pick up an oyster.”
Malone made a sour face at the comparison and said, “Why didn’t they just dump him out in the jungle?”
“Sending a message,” Lucas said.
Martin nodded. “To anyone else who thinks the Mejias have gone soft. They wanted people to see this—to see him alive. The nurses and the doctors. There will be stories everywhere in Cancún in an hour.”
“Wonder if they got anything out of him?” Mallard asked, looking down at the body.
“What do you think?” Malone asked. She still had the sour face. “Don’t you think you might have answered the questions if they were doing… that?”
“So if they’re looking for Rinker, or the assholes behind the shooting, they’ve probably got a jump on us,” Lucas said. He turned to the doctor. “Can you tell from the wounds when this was all done?”
“The autopsy will give a good approximation.”
“How about between, say, eleven o’clock and noon, today?”
The doctor nodded. “From the way the blood is crusted around the aeyes, from the extent of the bruising and discoloration…I’m no pathologist, but that might be a reasonable guess.”
“Nice old man for a ganglord,” Lucas said to Malone. To Martin: “He may also have been sending a message to us. With the timing, I mean.”
Martin nodded. “Not too much curiosity about this particular killing or the Mejias will be forced to prove their innocence by naming two high FBI officials and an American police officer as their alibis. And perhaps provide some details of what could be portrayed as an exceedingly cynical deal.”
“Your English is really good,” Lucas said.
“They didn’t have to do this,” Mallard said, moving his hand toward the ruins of Octavio Diaz.
“The killing wasn’t done for you,” Martin said. “The timing of the killing, possibly—but that would be a minor aspect of it. Perhaps we are even reading too much into that. Mejia needed to send a message to the…population. I knew that. I knew that Diaz was a walking dead man. But I hoped to find him before he died.” He looked at the body again, reluctantly. “I was late.”
5
TOM AND MICHELLE LAWTON LIVED IN a stucco house surrounded by rubber trees, with one overhanging tangerine, in Atwater Village off Los Feliz, behind a
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