Death on the River Walk Read online

  Death on the River Walk

  Carolyn Hart

  prologue

  ALFONSO scrab­bled every day to sur­vi­ve. He’d be­en on the stre­ets sin­ce he was se­ven. He knew no ot­her li­fe. He cad­ged fo­od from the gar­ba­ge bins be­hind fi­ne res­ta­urants, flas­hed smi­les at nor­te­ame­ri­ca­nos and of­fe­red in­for­ma­ti­on they li­ked, whe­re to find wo­men and drugs and ho­tels that ca­te­red to gu­ests with pe­cu­li­ar tas­tes. His En­g­lish was not gram­ma­ti­cal, but he spo­ke it well eno­ugh. In the sum­mers, he wan­de­red Cha­pul­te­pec Park, Me­xi­co City’s oasis of lo­ve­li­ness amid the stin­ging brow­nish smog that dim­med the por­ce­la­in-fi­ne sky and ta­in­ted lungs. It was only at night that the air fres­he­ned. Al­fon­so es­pe­ci­al­ly enj­oyed prow­ling in the dar­k­ness from his hid­den nes­ting pla­ce in a clump of wil­lows be­hind the Na­ti­onal Mu­se­um.

  Alfonso was as at­tu­ned to his sur­ro­un­dings as a co­ugar alert for a me­al. He first no­ti­ced the big blond nor­te­ame­ri­ca­no la­te on a mo­on­lit August night, slip­ping from sha­dow to sha­dow be­hind the mu­se­um. Al­fon­so wat­c­hed and won­de­red. The man ca­me a se­cond night. The next mor­ning, he was in a crowd wa­iting for tic­kets. The­re was a grand ex­hi­bit at the mu­se­um, dra­wing vi­si­tors from aro­und the world. When the man ca­me aga­in la­te that night, Al­fon­so cal­led out, “Se?or, if you are lo­oking for an­y­t­hing, I can help.”

  The man jer­ked to­ward him.

  Alfonso ten­sed his mus­c­les, re­ady to run. He wasn’t af­ra­id. And he had a kni­fe in his poc­ket.

  “So what do you sell?” The big man’s Spa­nish was ac­cen­ted, but he spo­ke it with ease.

  Alfonso felt a stab of di­sap­po­in­t­ment. He’d was­ted a lot of ti­me trac­king this man. No one who spo­ke Spa­nish that well ne­eded help to find wha­te­ver the city had to of­fer. But Al­fon­so slip­ped in­to his usu­al pat­ter. “Girls? I can ta­ke you to a spe­ci­al pla­ce…” But not even the men­ti­on of drugs or gam­b­ling evo­ked a res­pon­se in the alert eyes that wat­c­hed him so clo­sely.

  Instead, the man’s big he­ad til­ted back and he la­ug­hed. “How to Skin a Grin­go in One Easy Les­son.”

  Alfonso was tur­ning away when the man sa­id, “Wa­it. Wa­it a mi­nu­te. I’ve got a job for you. If you’ve got the guts.”

  Alfonso swung back. And lis­te­ned. When the man fi­nis­hed, Al­fon­so roc­ked back on his he­els and ga­ve him a cocky grin. “Su­re.” He spo­ke in En­g­lish. “No prob­lem.” He held out his hand. They hag­gled, but Al­fon­so wal­ked away with a third of the mo­ney he’d be­en pro­mi­sed.

  The next night, Al­fon­so slip­ped down a qu­i­et stre­et out­si­de the park. He car­ri­ed a pop bot­tle. The li­qu­id in­si­de slos­hed as he wal­ked. The rag stuf­fed in the mo­uth of the bot­tle was mo­ist and the smell of ga­so­li­ne ma­de his no­se wrin­k­le. When he re­ac­hed the tall fen­ce, he used a wax match, lit the rag, and threw. The sim­p­le bomb ex­p­lo­ded and hu­ge flas­hes mar­ked the des­t­ruc­ti­on of the elec­t­ri­cal tran­s­for­mers ser­ving this por­ti­on of Me­xi­co City.

  In the Na­ti­onal Mu­se­um, the lights went off. As did the alarm system. Al­fon­so’s em­p­lo­yer, dres­sed in black swe­ater and slacks, slip­ped from the co­ver of a clump of wil­lows and ran lightly to­ward the back of the mu­se­um. He flung high a ro­pe lad­der, pul­led to ma­ke su­re its ho­oks held snugly, and clim­bed swiftly. He pul­led the lad­der up with him and mo­ved pur­po­se­ful­ly to­ward the front of the mu­se­um, the small knap­sack on his back bo­un­cing with every step. His he­art thud­ded and he felt the swe­et, sharp eli­xir of ad­re­na­li­ne.

  one

  I glanced at the com­pu­ter prin­to­ut that res­ted on the pas­sen­ger se­at of the ren­tal car, a ca­su­al pic­tu­re of a gran­d­mot­her and gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, arms lin­ked, fa­ces ag­low with la­ug­h­ter and lo­ve. The bright pho­tog­raph had be­en scan­ned in­to a com­pu­ter half a world away and the re­sul­ting crisp pic­tu­re that had is­su­ed from my da­ug­h­ter’s com­pu­ter was one of the small mi­rac­les that no one re­marks in to­day’s tec­h­no­lo­gi­cal won­der­land. The gran­d­mot­her, Gi­na Wil­son, was one of my ol­dest fri­ends, a shi­ning me­mory from the hap­pi­est ye­ars of my li­fe. The gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, Iris Cha­vez, was a child I’d co­me to know be­ca­use she spent much of her gro­wing up ti­me with Gi­na. Iris was ne­ar in age to my own gran­d­da­ug­h­ter, Di­ana.

  The fa­ces in the pho­tog­raph we­re sharply dif­fe­rent, des­pi­te the­ir la­ug­h­ter on the day the pic­tu­re was snap­ped on a sunny sum­mer af­ter­no­on at La­gu­na. It wasn’t simply a mat­ter of age. Gi­na’s short-crop­ped whi­te ha­ir and Dres­den chi­na pa­le skin and Iris’s richly ra­ven curls and cre­amily dusky com­p­le­xi­on ma­de a lo­vely con­t­rast. Gi­na’s sharply pla­ned fe­atu­res we­re ar­res­ting, her light gre­en eyes cu­ri­o­us and skep­ti­cal, her smi­le amu­sed yet with a sar­do­nic un­der­cur­rent, as be­fit­ted a wo­man who’d be­en one of the cle­ve­rest po­li­ti­cal re­por­ters of her ti­me. Iris’s fa­ce was che­ru­bic, still so yo­ung the­re we­re no li­nes. Her eyes we­re al­so gre­en, but the­re was no chal­len­ge in Iris’s ga­ze. In­s­te­ad eager­ness vi­ed with un­cer­ta­inty. Iris’s bow of a mo­uth was mar­ked with bril­li­antly red lip­s­tick, but the vi­vid co­lor co­uldn’t hi­de vul­ne­ra­bi­lity.

  The two sets of gre­en eyes we­re the only re­al re­sem­b­lan­ce in the pho­tog­raph. What had Gi­na on­ce told me? She’d lo­oked out the win­dow at Iris pla­ying in the yard and smi­lingly ob­ser­ved, “Iris is the ima­ge of her fat­her, ex­cept for her eyes.”

  Iris. The na­me bro­ught to my mind the vi­si­on of a slim blon­de with star­t­lingly blue eyes. But not this Iris. Not Iris Cha­vez, whom I re­mem­be­red as a gig­gling lit­tle girl with a mop of curly black ha­ir and la­ter as a plump, eager-to-ple­ase te­ena­ger. A swe­et, bo­uncy, che­er­ful girl. I’d not se­en Iris or Gi­na in se­ve­ral ye­ars. Yet when the pho­ne rang yes­ter­day at my da­ug­h­ter’s ho­me in east Te­xas, I’d im­me­di­ately re­cog­ni­zed Gi­na’s vo­ice and just as swiftly known the­re was tro­ub­le. Or, to be pre­ci­se, re­ali­zed im­me­di­ately that Gi­na was ter­ribly af­ra­id.

  I ho­ped that so­on, very so­on, I co­uld call Gi­na and say ever­y­t­hing was okay. I slo­wed for a red light, chec­ked my map. Al­t­ho­ugh San An­to­nio stre­ets of­ten chan­ge na­mes, I was fin­ding my way wit­ho­ut dif­fi­culty. Gi­na’s di­rec­ti­ons had be­en cle­ar and ca­re­ful. Al­most the­re.

  Gina ha­ted to ask for help, but the­re is not­hing you won’t do, no mi­le you won’t walk, no mo­un­ta­in you won’t climb, no ef­fort you won’t ma­ke for a gran­d­c­hild. I un­der­s­tand that. I ha­ve two gran­d­c­hil­d­ren of my own.

  I didn’t bla­me Gi­na for be­ing frig­h­te­ned. Even tho­ugh Gi­na was half a world away, Gi­na in Ma­j­or­ca, Iris in San An­to­nio, they kept in clo­se to­uch by E-ma­il. At le­ast on­ce or twi­ce a we­ek, they ex­c­han­ged mes­sa­ges. It was the­ir cus­tom to chat on Sa­tur­day mor­ning Iris’s ti­me, Sa­tur­day af­ter­no­on Gi­na’s ti­me in Ma­j­or­ca.

  “Nothing, Hen­rie O, not­hing sin­ce last Wed­nes­day. And Iris ne­ver mis­ses E-ma­iling on Sa­tur­day mor­nings wit­ho­ut tel­ling me in ad­van­ce that she will skip. I’ve sent mes­sa­ge af­ter mes­sa­ge. I’ve cal­led and cal­led. The­re’s no an­s­wer. I tho­ught of con­tac
­ting the po­li­ce. But what co­uld I tell them? That I ha­ven’t re­ce­ived an E-ma­il? That I can’t get her on the pho­ne? That’s not eno­ugh to re­port her as mis­sing.” She pa­used. “And may­be she’s just out of town with a fri­end. Oh, the­re co­uld be many re­asons. I don’t want to em­bar­rass her. But I can’t wa­it any lon­ger.” Gi­na’s vo­ice qu­ave­red.

  E- mail. It links us to the world no mat­ter whe­re we li­ve. It was thro­ugh a ca­su­al E-ma­il that Gi­na knew I was vi­si­ting my da­ug­h­ter, Emily, and that I was only a three-ho­ur dri­ve from San An­to­nio, whe­re Iris li­ved. And yes, my days we­re free. I was no lon­ger te­ac­hing, tho­ugh I’d de­ci­ded to ke­ep my ho­me in the Mis­so­uri col­le­ge town whe­re I’d be­en on the jo­ur­na­lism fa­culty for se­ve­ral ye­ars. And yes, I co­uld easily go to San An­to­nio and yes, I wo­uld do that for my frig­h­te­ned fri­end.

  I’d re­ce­ived Gi­na’s call early this mor­ning. Now, the an­s­wer was ne­ar. Per­haps I wo­uld find Iris at her apar­t­ment. If I didn’t find her, I wo­uld go to the sto­re whe­re she wor­ked and per­haps we’d both la­ugh and-af­ter she’d cal­led her gran­d­mot­her, as­su­red her she was fi­ne-Iris wo­uld of­fer to buy me a cold ras­pa, the sha­ved-ice con­fec­ti­on so de­ar to San An­to­ni­ans, and I wo­uld stay a few days in this lo­vely city-what bet­ter pla­ce to do so­me early Chris­t­mas shop­ping?-then re­su­me my vi­sit at my da­ug­h­ter’s.

  I tur­ned to my left, my right, and fo­und the apar­t­ment ho­use at the end of the stre­et. I loc­ked my car and sto­od in the sha­dow of a palm tree. I ha­ted le­aving the win­dows up. Sep­tem­ber marks fall in the north. In San An­to­nio, sunny warm days con­ti­nue. Oh, an oc­ca­si­onal cold front will drop the tem­pe­ra­tu­re in­to the low eig­h­ti­es. Swe­at be­aded my fa­ce. My soft cot­ton dress clung to me. I to­ok a de­ep bre­ath of mo­ist air sof­ter than skin lo­ti­on.

  The two- story stuc­co­ed apar­t­ment bu­il­ding, La Ca­si­ta, was bor­de­red by dusty flo­wer beds with a few stalks of par­c­hed im­pa­ti­ens. A nar­row par­king lot abut­ted the bu­il­ding. I step­ped in­to the lot, sha­ded my eyes. I spot­ted Iris’s car im­me­di­ately. A fif­te­en-ye­ar-old co­upe with a bat­te­red left fen­der and one he­ad­light lo­wer than the ot­her. Gi­na had des­c­ri­bed the car per­fectly. “A rat­tlet­rap, but that’s all she can af­ford. She had it pa­in­ted pink and gre­en, sa­id it ma­de the car la­ugh. Oh, Hen­rie O, I can see her now, gig­gling and po­in­ting to the car. She ga­ve the car a na­me, too-Whif­fle.” That’s when Gi­na cho­ked back a sob.

  It was easy to see the car. Not only was it spec­ta­cu­larly, ja­un­tily pa­in­ted in swirls, bright even by San An­to­nio stan­dards, it was one of only three cars in the small lot. I wal­ked to the car. The win­dows we­re down. Was Iris ha­bi­tu­al­ly ca­re­less? Had she par­ked the car ex­pec­ting to re­turn shortly? Or did she fi­gu­re no­body wo­uld ste­al a di­la­pi­da­ted old car pa­in­ted in pink and gre­en swirls? A candy stri­ped be­ach to­wel was crum­p­led in the front se­at. A co­up­le of pa­per­back bo­oks we­re on the flo­or, the la­test by No­ra Ro­berts and Mer­li­ne Lo­ve­la­ce. On a pink she­et, over­si­ze prin­ting re­min­ded: “Cin­na­mon rolls, eggs, rum. Pick up cle­aning. Buy su­gar for pra­li­nes.”

  I ho­ped the sud­den con­s­t­ric­ti­on in my chest was not­hing mo­re than the press of he­at and hu­mi­dity. The car wor­ri­ed me. I’d cal­led Iris’s apar­t­ment be­fo­re I left Emily’s ho­use, cal­led aga­in on my cell pho­ne when I re­ac­hed the out­s­kirts of San An­to­nio. No an­s­wer. Sig­h­ting Iris’s car, af­ter my last fru­it­less pho­ne call, wor­ri­ed me. If her car was in the lot, why didn’t she an­s­wer her pho­ne?

  The ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od was qu­i­et, som­no­lent. An or­di­nary, un­re­mar­kab­le, ple­asant Sun­day in a mo­dest ne­ig­h­bor­ho­od off Bro­ad­way, not far from In­car­na­te Word Col­le­ge.

  I step­ped thro­ugh an ar­c­h­way, wel­co­ming the sha­de. The apar­t­ment ho­use was bu­ilt aro­und a bric­ked co­ur­t­yard. On­ce the­re had be­en a cen­t­ral fo­un­ta­in. No wa­ter pul­sed now. The ti­les we­re chip­ped, so­me we­re mis­sing. But a hu­ge mag­no­lia flo­uris­hed, dap­pling ben­c­hes on eit­her si­de of the fo­un­ta­in with sha­de. Glossy le­aves had drif­ted in­to the fo­un­ta­in. The gro­und flo­or apar­t­ment do­ors ope­ned to the co­ur­t­yard. On the se­cond flo­or, they ope­ned to a nar­row ex­po­sed cor­ri­dor.

  On the se­cond-flo­or cor­ri­dor, an el­derly man shuf­fled to an end apar­t­ment, un­loc­ked the do­or, clo­sed it be­hind him. Ot­her­wi­se, the­re was no one abo­ut. A wo­oden ar­row with fa­ded red let­ters-“Ma­na­ger”-po­in­ted to­ward the back of the co­ur­t­yard.

  I wal­ked up the sta­irs. Apar­t­ment 26 was hal­f­way up the cor­ri­dor. Two win­dows lo­oked out to the co­ur­t­yard. The slat­ted blinds we­re clo­sed. I knoc­ked sharply. The so­und was lo­ud in the Sun­day qu­i­et. Be­hind me, the mag­no­lia le­aves sud­denly rus­t­led. A crow erup­ted in­to flight, his stri­dent caw star­t­ling.

  I knoc­ked aga­in, bent my he­ad to lis­ten. No so­und. No mo­ve­ment. I rat­tled the knob. I step­ped to the ne­arest win­dow, ga­ve a tug. It didn’t bud­ge. Iris might be ca­su­al abo­ut her car, but as a yo­ung wo­man li­ving alo­ne she wasn’t fo­olish eno­ugh to le­ave her win­dows un­loc­ked. A lit­tle thing. It ma­de me fe­el bet­ter. The­re co­uld be a do­zen re­asons why her car was in the lot. May­be the bat­tery was de­ad. May­be she was out with a fri­end.

  Anything was pos­sib­le. But that, of co­ur­se, was why I had co­me. Ple­ase, God, let it simply be tho­ug­h­t­les­sness, an ener­ge­tic girl too con­su­med in li­ving to re­mem­ber that her gran­d­mot­her lo­oked for­ward to che­er­ful E-ma­il mes­sa­ges and wa­ited ex­pec­tantly every Sa­tur­day for a con­nec­ti­on to bring them clo­se des­pi­te the tho­usands of mi­les that se­pa­ra­ted them.

  Please, God. This was a child de­ar to me and a child be­lo­ved to Gi­na. Gi­na, my de­ar fri­end, my old fri­end, the kind of fri­end you ma­ke when li­fe is full of pro­mi­se and the fu­tu­re is gre­ater than the past. No mat­ter how of­ten or how ra­rely you me­et, the­re is a bond that de­fi­es ti­me and age. And Iris-I re­mem­be­red a vi­sit ye­ars ago, oh, she co­uldn’t ha­ve be­en mo­re than ten or twel­ve-her che­eks flus­hed with ex­ci­te­ment, her eyes spar­k­ling, Iris had bus­t­led abo­ut Gi­na’s small apar­t­ment, set­ting a tab­le for tea, brin­ging us da­inty fin­ger san­d­wic­hes of pe­anut but­ter and jel­ly and pi­mi­en­to and po­und ca­ke cut in sli­ces and wa­iting eagerly to he­ar our cri­es of de­light. A girl who al­ways tri­ed hard to ple­ase.

  This mor­ning, I’d re­as­su­red Gi­na that she was too qu­ick to worry, that the­re co­uld be many re­asons why Iris hadn’t E-ma­iled on sche­du­le. Gi­na sa­id, “I know. I know, but…” I he­ard her sud­den qu­ick bre­ath and knew the fe­ars she didn’t want to vo­ice. Gi­na and I had both spent many ye­ars as re­por­ters. We le­ar­ned that all things we­re pos­sib­le, and so­me of them we­re ugly in­de­ed.

  I ga­ve one fi­nal de­man­ding knock on the scuf­fed wo­oden do­or, then swung aro­und, wal­ked swiftly to the sta­irs and down. Brown-ed­ged mag­no­lia le­aves crun­c­hed un­der­fo­ot as I cros­sed the co­ur­t­yard. When I re­ac­hed the do­or mar­ked “Ma­na­ger,” I he­ard the tinny so­und of te­le­vi­si­on. This ti­me my knock was an­s­we­red.

  “Yes?” An im­po­sing wo­man in a gre­en-st­ri­ped smock and black slacks lo­oked at me wit­ho­ut in­te­rest. She lo­oked to be in her fif­ti­es, with dark salt-and-pep­per ha­ir and a sto­ic ex­p­res­si­on, a wo­man who no lon­ger had gre­at ex­pec­ta­ti­ons of li­fe.

  “I ho­pe you can help
me.” One ad­van­ta­ge of age is the pro­j­ec­ti­on of a non-th­re­ate­ning ima­ge. My dark ha­ir is stre­aked with sil­ver. I ho­pe the li­nes in my fa­ce ref­lect re­ason and go­od hu­mor. “I’m Hen­ri­et­ta Col­lins. I ha­ven’t be­en ab­le to re­ach Iris Cha­vez in Apar­t­ment 26

  . I knoc­ked on her do­or, but the­re was no an­s­wer even tho­ugh her car is in the par­king lot. Iris is the gran­d­da­ug­h­ter of a clo­se fri­end.”

  A thin black-and-gray stri­ped cat ed­ged in­si­de the open do­or. The ma­na­ger ga­ve an ex­c­la­ma­ti­on of an­no­yan­ce and wa­ved her hand, sho­o­ing it back in­to the co­ur­t­yard. “The­se cats. Pe­op­le le­ave them and think the go­od Lord will pro­vi­de.” But her dark eyes stu­di­ed me.

  “Iris’s gran­d­mot­her has be­en trying to get in to­uch with her for al­most a we­ek. She’s con­cer­ned that Iris might be ill and I pro­mi­sed to check on her. May I co­me in?” I mo­ved for­ward.

  She he­si­ta­ted, then step­ped back to let me en­ter. The win­dow air con­di­ti­oner scar­cely co­oled the tiny apar­t­ment. Bright shawls dra­ped two easy cha­irs. A sil­ver-flec­ked Ger­man shep­herd was spla­yed on the ti­led flo­or. The dog’s co­ol eyes wat­c­hed me ca­re­ful­ly. The te­le­vi­si­on sha­red a cor­ner with a shri­ne to Mary.