A Vote for Murder (28 page)

“Hard to say,” Seth replied. “If the voters back home are made aware of it, seems to me they’ll elect us another U.S. senator.”

“You said Mrs. Nebel admitted suggesting that Grusin get rid of Ms. Farlow,” George said after we’d been served lobster bisque and sliced red and ripe beef-steak tomatoes with raw onion. “Doesn’t speak too well of her.”

“I feel terrible about it,” I said. “She’s suffered a lot because of her husband’s behavior. But that doesn’t excuse what she did. She says she told Grusin to ‘take care of Nikki,’ not to kill her. I don’t know how the courts will handle it, or what will happen to her marriage to Warren.”

“Power does corrupt,” Seth muttered.

“But only with the corruptible,” George said. “Fortunately, the senator doesn’t represent the majority of public servants. At least, I hope he doesn’t.”

Seth chuckled.

“What’s funny?” I asked.

“The way people vote these days, wouldn’t be surprised if Nebel coasts to a third term, no matter what he’s done. Remember Mayor Curley in Boston? Won reelection while sitting in jail.”

“Really?” George said.

“Ayuh. Like I said, you never can figure how people vote. Anything new on your terrorist investigation?”

“No. The buggers haven’t been identified yet, although I’m told there are some promising leads. I’ll be following up on those the minute I get back.”

“When are you leaving?” Seth asked.

“Tomorrow, I’m afraid,” George said, looking at me.

“What about you, Jessica?” Seth asked. “I’ll be headin’ back to Cabot Cove in the morning.”

“I have another full day in Washington,” I said, “and I intend to devote it entirely to the literacy program. Tomorrow’s the final day for that. I’ve neglected it too much as it is.”

It was over our steaks that I brought up Oscar Brophy. “I promised to help him,” I said, “but I don’t know what I can possibly do for him.”

“Oh, meant to tell you that Oscar’s back home,” Seth said. “He’s out on bail.”

“How did he come up with the bail?” I asked. “Oscar doesn’t have any money.”

Seth laughed. “I spoke with Mort Metzger this mornin’,” he said. “Seems old Oscar had a bit of cash stashed under his mattress. Plenty of cash. And some folks passed the hat to make up the difference. Once folks hear about Nebel’s corruption, they might wish Oscar had bullets in that gun he was carrying.”

“Seth!”

“Just jokin’. ”

There was plenty of steak left over, but since we were all visitors to Washington, there was no sense in taking doggie bags. Seth asked the waitress if she had a dog. She did, and he suggested she take the leftovers home with her.

“Dessert?” the waitress asked, and reeled off the offerings.

“Not for me,” Seth said, wiping his mouth and pushing back his chair.

“Are you leaving?” I asked.

“Ayuh. I figure you two haven’t had much of a chance to spend time together, so I’ll drag this weary body back to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep.” He winked at me. “Red Sox game’s on TV, too. Don’t want to miss that.”

George stood and shook Seth’s hand. “A pleasure seeing you again, Doctor,” he said.

“I might say the same, Inspector. Enjoy the rest of your evening and have a safe trip back home.”

“Thank you,” George said.

“And if I were you . . .”

“What’s that?” George asked.

“I’d stay outa dark alleys.”

“I’ll heed that advice,” George said with a laugh. “And I might add that you should do the same.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Seth said. “If those punks who jumped you had met up with me, there might have been a different outcome—a
very
different outcome. Good evening.”

We watched him walk from the restaurant and both started to laugh.

“He’s quite a character,” George said.

“And a wonderful friend,” I said. “Would you like dessert?”

“Being here with you is sweet enough,” he said. “Still . . .”

“Yes?”

“I wouldn’t mind some rice pudding. You?”

“Let’s make it for two,” I said, and slid closer to him in the banquette.

The Buckleys left for San Miguel de Allende before I did. Last-minute additions to my book-signing tour, and an interview on The
Today
Show, which was delayed two days due to a deluge of news coverage following the kidnapping and rescue of a world leader attending a conference in Cozumel, wreaked havoc with my travel schedule.

There were compensations. I had an extra day to shop for a special gift for my hosts. The Buckleys were voracious readers, of course, and I’d seen a lovely pair of bookends in Takashimaya on Fifth Avenue that I thought would appeal to them. In addition, the producer who’d arranged my appearance on
Today
tried to compensate for the inconvenience. Grateful for my “flexibility” regarding the change in plans, she gave me a few extra minutes with Katie Couric, more than originally planned, to talk about my new mystery and the life of a mystery writer. On my way out, she stopped me.

“We don’t ordinarily do this,” the producer said, handing me a videotape with a picture on the box of all the stars of the show, “but we really appreciate your willingness to stick around New York, especially considering the miserable weather we’ve been having. I apologize for the heat and humidity, even though there’s nothing we can do about it.”

“It was no bother at all to stay in town. Besides, I’m leaving tomorrow for sunny Mexico. I have a feeling the weather’s not going to be much different. A little drier, perhaps. Thank you for the tape. What’s on it?”

“I thought you might like a souvenir of your interview with Katie.”

“How thoughtful,” I said. “I’ll take it with me on the trip. I don’t know if my friends get American television in Mexico. I know they’d enjoy seeing this.” I didn’t mention that one of those friends was my publisher, who would have more than a passing interest in any publicity that might increase book sales, especially mine.

I was lucky to get a seat on a mid-morning, four-hour flight to Mexico City. School was out and the tourist season had begun, filling planes to all the popular places. Olga and Vaughan had told me they usually took a bus from the Mexican capital to San Miguel, although they complained about its erratic timetable and frequent breakdowns in the air conditioning system.

“Fly to León instead,” Olga had suggested. “You’ll save hours of wear and tear on the road, and we’ll send someone to pick you up.” So I booked a connecting flight, and e-mailed the Buckleys my itinerary.

Upon landing in Mexico City, I learned the flight to León would be delayed. “Technical problems,” a sympathetic gate agent said, shaking her head sadly. The plane wasn’t leaving until that night. Since the bus was no longer an option—my luggage had been checked through to León and there was no way to retrieve it—I resigned myself to the wait.

“Take a taxi to the Zócalo,” Vaughan said, when I called to relay the news of yet another delay in my travel plans. “It’s a short cab ride, unless there’s traffic, maybe twenty or thirty minutes. But make sure you use the official cab stands. Don’t take a ride from anyone who approaches you in the terminal. There have been a lot of tourist robberies in those kinds of taxis.”

“Thank you,” I said. “That’s good to know.”

“There’s a beautiful café on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic. They have wonderful food and a spectacular view. Have a late lunch, relax, stroll around the square.”

“Sounds wonderful.”

“But if you do that, watch out for pickpockets. If you’re wearing any jewelry, take it off and hide it somewhere on your person. And stay away from crowds. Perhaps you shouldn’t purchase anything. You don’t want to be flashing American money.”

“I bought pesos before I left,” I said, a little taken aback by all his warnings. “Maybe I should visit the Zona Rosa instead.”

“I wouldn’t. It’s not the elegant neighborhood it once was. It fell into decay about twenty years ago. It’s being gentrified all over again, but it’s still a shadow of its former self and far too trendy for my liking,” he said. “I hear Olga calling me. Listen, Jessica, just hang on to your pocketbook, and have a good time. We’ll see you later.”

I hung up and wondered if I would be better off simply reading my book in the airport, but quickly discarded that idea. Despite it having been many years since I’d visited Mexico City, I remembered the beautiful architecture, the broad avenues, the wonderful museums, the exotic ruins, and the charming people. It was certainly worth giving the city the benefit of the doubt, I thought, as I joined the lines going through immigration.

The main hall of the Benito Juarez International Airport in Mexico City is an immaculate monument to marble—with sweepers pushing long dry mops across the gleaming floors, every twenty feet it seemed, never allowing so much as a dust mote to land on the colorful stone. It was also jammed with people. The hub not only for flights to anywhere in Mexico but also to a good portion of Latin America, the airport handles more than 20 million passengers annually. It looked to me as if a million of them were there when I exited customs. They were leaning on the ropes that separated the travelers from those who welcomed them, crowding the souvenir shops, clothing stores, coffee bars, and magazine stands, jostling me as I walked the length of the terminal, and lined up outside at the “official” taxi stand, manned by yellow-jacketed staff holding clipboards. I stood in line to buy a ticket and waited in line again until it was my turn to climb into the back of the taxi, a small green car in which the front passenger seat had been removed, presumably to accommodate luggage, which I did not have. I told the driver the name of the hotel on the Zócalo that Vaughan had recommended and leaned back against the cracked leather seat for the ride into town.

“Welcome to Mexico, señora,” the driver said. He pronounced it “meh-hee-co.”

“Muchas gracias,”
I said, showing off the little Spanish I knew.

“Do you come for business or pleasure?”

“Definitely pleasure,” I replied, smiling.

“You are traveling alone, yes?” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “You must be very careful traveling alone in the city,” he said. “There are some not nice people—
bandidos
—who will try to take advantage of you.”

“So I’ve been told.”

He leaned back in his seat, drew a card from his pocket, and handed it to me over his shoulder without taking his eyes from the road. “If you want someone reliable to take you around, show you all the beautiful and historic places, very cheap, you call me. I am Manuel Dias. I don’t let anyone cheat you. I take good care of you. Guaranteed.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but I’m not staying in Mexico City. In fact, I’m leaving this evening.”

He clicked his tongue. “We are sorry to lose you,” he said. “Where do you go? Acapulco? Cancun? I have a cousin in Merida. Very good man.”

“I’m going to San Miguel de Allende to visit friends. They’re sending someone to pick me up in León. My flight leaves this evening—at least I hope it will.” It hadn’t occurred to me till just then that I might have to stay overnight in Mexico City if the “technical problems” were not resolved and wondered if I should buy an extra toothbrush just in case.

“This is terrible,” the driver said.

“What’s terrible?”

“I have no one for you in San Miguel. In León, maybe yes. I could find someone to help you, but you don’t stay there.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m sure I’ll be just fine. My friends will take good care of me.”

“You be careful going to San Miguel,” he said, shaking a finger. “The country is no safer than the city.”

“I’ll remember that,” I said, leaning forward and extending my arm. “Since I won’t be needing it, here’s your card.”

“No, Señora. You keep it. You must go back to the airport tonight, yes? I will drive you. That way you’ll be safe. Some taxis are not reliable. What time is your flight?”

I told him.

“Give my card to the desk at the hotel. They will call. I will pick you up right away. In Mexico, we are very modern. I have the latest in technology.” He held up a cell phone.

“That’s a wonderful idea,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

“But to be sure, you tell me what time to be at the hotel, and I will be waiting for you.”

With Manuel Dias providing running commentary on the places we passed along our way, we set out for the Zócalo. The roads into the city funneled traffic from the wide boulevards of the outskirts, where he kept a heavy foot on the accelerator, to the clogged narrow streets around the downtown square. He guided us forward in agonizing inches, squeezing through impossible openings, and cutting off myriad vehicles to move ahead. Other drivers shouted at him, furious, and he responded with equal vehemence. I was grateful I didn’t understand what was being said, and was convinced that the only reason the angry exchanges of frustrated drivers didn’t result in violence was that no one had enough room to open a door. The trip took over an hour, and I calculated how much time I could realistically afford to spend in Mexico City before braving the traffic back to the airport in time for my flight. Manuel let me off on a side street around the corner from the front entrance of the hotel, instructing me to meet him at the same place when I was ready to leave. I had a feeling he wasn’t going to move from that spot till I got back.

Vaughan’s recommendation was a good one. The rooftop restaurant on the terrace of the Hotel Majestic not only overlooked the bustling Zócalo—reputed to be one of the largest public plazas in the world second only to Moscow’s Red Square—but afforded a spectacular vista of the city beyond. The hostess ushered me to an empty table by a stone wall from which, by leaning forward, I could observe the goings-on in the plaza below, or sitting back, rest my gaze on the city beyond it. The hot sun poured down on the terrace, but white umbrellas shaded the tables and a steady breeze made the air comfortable.