Broken English

CHAPTER 10: FRIDAY

12:49 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox stood in the background as the paramedics worked on Mendoza's arm. The bullet had traveled lengthwise up his forearm, following the bone, and remained inside near the elbow. There wasn't much blood, but a terrible swelling that gave his left arm a Popeye look. Two uniformed Monterey policemen waited just inside the doorway to place him under arrest. He would need to wake Zamora for this.
         There was little the paramedics could do but stop the bleeding and pack his arm in ice. That done, one of them went out to get their gurney. Kitfox stepped forward.
         "Filipe, do you understand that you're going to be arrested?"
         "What for? All I do is get shot."
         "After you came in and attacked me."
         "Why do you say I attack you? I no do nothing."
         "Then why did you come to my room?"
         "I— You—" He looked helplessly around at the people in the room. "I not know."
         The hairs on Kitfox's neck stood up as he looked into the face of whatever plot was afoot. The boy was frightened and confused, and all of Kitfox's experience told him that he was sincere when he said he had no idea he had done anything wrong. Darnall and the kid in Reno must have been just like this when they were taken. What a horrible feeling, to be arrested for a heinous crime and have no idea what anyone was talking about.
         "Officer," Kitfox said to the senior patrolman, "you may as well arrest and Mirandize now. Make the charge simple assault. I'll finalize it after we talk."
         "Yes, sir," the officer said, and stepped over to the bed where Mendoza sat. "Filipe Mendoza, you're under arrest for assaulting an FBI agent. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney, and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you so desire or cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you before any questioning. Do you understand each of these rights as I've explained them to you?"
         "Si."
         "In English, please."
         "Yes, I understand, but why you do this to me?"
         "I'll see you at the hospital, Filipe," Kitfox said. "I'll explain everything to you there. Where are you taking him?"
         "Bay General."
         "All right. I'll be in to see you as soon as you're treated. Is one of you riding with him?"
         "Yes, sir, that will be me," the junior officer replied.
         "All right. I don't expect any trouble. Note down anything he says, but don't discuss the incident with him."
         "Yes, sir."
         The paramedics loaded him up, the officer joined them in the ambulance, and all the city police departed to resume their regular duties. With a glance at the clock, Kitfox returned to the lobby and approached the sleepy clerk who had been called to relieve Filipe.
         "Can I use the phone?"
         "Certainly, sir."
         Kitfox picked it up and dialed the now familiar number.
         "Hullo," came a sleepy voice after about fifteen rings.
         "Inez, it's Leon."
         "Leon? What time is it? Are you all right?" The sleepiness lifted like a a fog bank as she spoke.
         "It's almost one, and I'm fine. I was just attacked in my room by the night desk clerk."
         "What?"
         "Yeah. He was whipping my ass like a red-headed stepchild until I got to my piece and shot him."
         "Is he dead?"
         "No, a superficial wound is all. That cooled him off right enough, but can you guess what happened then?"
         "Leon, it's too late— Too early for guessing games."
         "Oh, come on, guess."
         There was a long silence before she said, "He doesn't remember a thing about it?"
         "Pretty good guess. Have you ever thought about becoming a detective?"
         "It's crossed my mind. What's his status?"
         "I had the responding officers arrest him for assault. He's on the way to Bay General now. He's been Mirandized, and I thought Mitchell Pierce might be interested."
         "Mitchell... Darnall's attorney?"
         "That's right."
         "That's damned irregular."
         "So is this case. This isn't about Darnall anymore, or my night clerk, or burger-boy in Reno. There's something huge going on here, and if we can't find out what it is and stop it, your little town's going to be the talk of the western world for all the wrong reasons."
         "Mr. Pierce isn't going to like being woke up at this hour."
         "Then he should have gotten a different job. You want me to call him?"
         "No, I'll do it. You get on to the hospital and stay with your clerk."
         "You don't think he'll mind?"
         "Not if he listens long enough to hear what I'm saying. I'll meet you at the hospital. Give me an hour."

2:20 AM, Monterey

         "Filipe, this is Mitchell Pierce. He's a criminal defense attorney who's interested in representing you."
         "I can't afford no attorney."
         "That's all right, son. This one's on me."
         "Why?" the young man asked suspiciously.
         "That's not important for now. Suffice to say that you have competent representation."
         "Who's she?"
         "Inez Zamora," Kitfox said, "Monterey Police. We're working a case together, and she needs to hear this."
         They had removed the bullet in the ER, it being nowhere near as serious as it looked, and put him in a room with a uniformed officer in a chair beside his bed. He had taken the opportunity to go for coffee.
         "Your name is Filipe Mendoza?" Zamora asked.
         "Yes."
         "And you're employed as the night desk clerk at the Holliday Inn on Fremont Street?"
         "That's right."
         "You understand that you stand charged with assaulting FBI Special Agent Leon Kitfox, a guest at your motel?"
         "That I know, but I don't know how I got into his room, or what happen why he shoot me."
         "What was the last thing you remember before you were shot?"
         "I was at the front desk watching television. Very bad movie. Maybe I was going to sleep off and on."
         "What happened then?"
         "Then Mr. Kitfox shoot me."
         "And you remember nothing between those two events?"
         "No, nothing."
         Zamora looked at Pierce and sighed in frustration.
         "Mr. Mendoza, did you know Special Agent Kitfox before he checked into your hotel?"
         "No."
         "After you met him, what did you think of him as a person?"
         "Don't answer that," Pierce said.
         Kitfox drew him to a corner of the room.
         "Counselor, this is big. I don't believe for one minute that this kid is a dangerous psychopath that needs to be put away, in fact, if this is wrapped up with Darnall and the Reno assailant, I'll probably drop the charges entirely."
         "Are you offering immunity?"
         "Not yet. It could always be something else, but I don't believe it is. Do you want to help Darnall?"
         "At this boy's expense? How do you deal with conflict of interest, Special Agent?"
         "Fair question. How about, nothing I find here leaves this room. If he turns out to be a criminal, I'll prove it with other evidence."
         Pierce stared at him askance."
         "Look," Kitfox continued, "I'm trying to help him as well as Darnall. Whatever got to her got to him, and the kid in Reno. We have to have information if we're going to get to the bottom of this."
         "You level with me, Special Agent, and I'll consider it. What do you expect to find? Toxic drinking water? Alien mind control? What?"
         "I don't know. All I know is, something we haven't found yet is killing financiers, and when I started investigating, it tried to kill me. Putting a needle in Susan Darnall's arm isn't going to stop it. So the sixty-four-dollar question is, are you going to help us solve this, or are you going to stand in the way?"
         "All right, Agent Kifox, I'll give you some leeway, but if I say stop, it stops, agreed?"
         "Agreed. Go ahead, Inez."
         Zamora raised her pad and pen.
         "What did you think of Agent Kitfox as a person?"
         Mendoza looked at Pierce, who nodded.
         "I like him. He well dressed, he tip good, and he treat me with respect, like I not just some flunky."
         "Do you harbor ill feelings against Native Americans?"
         "He the first one I meet."
         "Yes or no, Filipe."
         "No."
         "Are you homophobic?"
         "Just a God damned minute?" Pierce exclaimed.
         "It's a legitimate question, counselor."
         "Legitimate how?"
         "Special Agent Kitfox is a gay man. Even if he didn't make an announcement, he could have given off subliminal signals that might have triggered an attack."
         "Thanks," Kitfox muttered.
         "All right, you can answer that, Filipe, but I recommend against it."
         "I no mind. I have a friend all through school. When we are sixteen, I find out he is, what you say, gay. When he get his work permit, I find him job. I not care if Mr. Kitfox gay. He no want me."
         "How about authority figures? Are you ever hassled by Immigration, for instance?"
         Suddenly the door flew open and a short, heavy, rumpled-looking woman stormed into the room, taking in the crowd surrounding the bed, and the young man in it in a single sweeping glance.
         "Filipe! What you do to him? Tell me!" she shouted, looking accusingly from face to face.
         "Is this your son, ma'am?" Zamora asked.
         "Si, he is Filipe Mendoza. Who are you?"
         "I'm Lieutenant Inez Zamora of the Monterey Police Department. Please have a seat right over here. We'll be through in a moment."
         "I no want to have a seat. What do police want with my boy?"
         Zamora put her arm around the woman's shoulders and turned her toward the chair, whispering something in Spanish as she did. The woman sat down, still looking gravely concerned.
         "Mrs. Mendoza," Zamora told her, "this is Mitchell Pierce, an attorney. He's representing your son, so nothing dirty is going to be done to him, all right?"
         "We can no afford attorney."
         "I'm not charging you, ma'am."
         "This is free?"
         "Yes. I'll explain everything to you when the police are finished. Go ahead, Lieutenant."
         "Do you feel angered or intimidated by authority figures?"
         "They can be scary sometimes."
         "What kind of times?"
         "Now."
         "I'm talking about your everyday life. Do the authorities ever hassle you, threaten to deport you, anything like that?"
         "It's happened once or twice. My papers are in order, though. They can do nothing."
         "If you saw a chance to get even with one of them, would you be tempted to take it?"
         "Lieutenant! I agreed to your fishing expedition, not an attempt to get him to incriminate himself in a crime that has yet to be committed."
         "Sorry. Never mind that, Filipe. Are you violent by nature? Do you get into a lot of fights?"
         "Almost never. I am lover, not fighter."
         Zamora had to smile at that. "All right, that's all for now. Try to get some rest, Filipe. We may need to talk to you again. Counselor?"
         She led Pierce into the hall and Kitfox followed, squinting against the bright corridor lighting.,
         "He may feel more free to talk without us there. If you want to help him and Darnall, try to find out if he's done anything out of the ordinary recently."
         "Do you have anything in particular in mind?"
         "Leon?"
         Kitfox gave a blank look and shrugged. "Anything that might turn a decent young man into a calculating killer. Use your imagination."
         "Thanks a lot. I'll be in touch if anything comes up."
         Pierce reentered the room, leaving the two cops in the hall.
         "What a night." Zamora said. "Want to get some coffee?"
         "I'd rather get some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
         "My office?"
         "No. I think I'll go to the Marriott and have a firsthand look at this convention."
         "What do you expect to find there?"
         "I have no idea, but we need to break something sooner rather than later. Say, what did you say to the mother in there?"
         "What? Oh, that was an Aztec proverb. 'The wolves chase those who run.'"

8:36 AM, Monterey

         In less than twenty-four hours the first PacRim Economic Conference would officially open. Most of the delegates were already in town, and the day before the opening ceremonies had been set aside for them to meet and exchange ideas in order to get the most from the official events. It was an easy environment for a dapper man with an exotic accent to infiltrate, and Uschi Ikhilevich blended in perfectly, fending off contact by feigning an inability to converse in the speaker's language.
         The conference room was magnificent, the pool area an inviting oasis, the large sitting room off the lobby an irresistible suggestion to lower one's guard and relax. The delegates, already people of books and pencils rather than athletes, would be unsuspecting, sleeping sheep for the wolves soon to visit them.
         Some of those wolves were already present. He had already spotted three of them who were hotel employees. The rudimentary security arrangements would hardly foil them, insiders that they were, and with almost two hundred strangers converging on the hotel, no one was likely to foil his outsiders, either.
         Ikhilevich had seen all he needed and was crossing the lobby to leave the building when Leon Kitfox walked in not fifty feet away. Uschi gave a violent start and stopped in his tracks, but quickly wiped the look of surprise from his face and turned into the sitting room where he picked up a magazine and stood flipping pages and watching the FBI man.
         Kitfox walked straight to the desk, flashed his credentials, exchanged a few words with the clerk, and walked deeper into the hotel. He identified himself to a security guard who pointed out a ventilator and a stairway door and made his slow way down the wide corridor toward the pool area.
Ikhilevich moved to keep him in sight, wandering aimlessly, studying the magazine, and trying hard to be invisible. When Kitfox stopped in the doorway to study the pool, Ikhilevich put his head down and brushed past with a muttered, "Pardon."
         "Sorry," Kitfox said, and stepped aside for him to go by. Ikhilevich couldn't make out what he was studying, but assumed it was the security arrangements in general. He got a good look at Kitfox's face as he passed. There was a fresh, tender bruise covering his right cheek. He had definitely been attacked and had taken some punishment but had persevered.
         Probably saved by his build, Ikhilevich decided as he entered a secondary hallway off to the left. Maybe his people would have better luck with the woman.

8:53 AM, Monterey

         Kitfox stood at one of the tables at the back of the big conference room trying to get a feel for what things would be like when the conference was in full swing. The room would be packed, hot, the rows of doors probably standing open for air circulation. Row upon row of international bankers and financiers would line the tables, attention on the dais where speakers of high standing would present the latest thing in... what? Trade? The IMF? The World Bank? All of these things and more, probably. What could a single resolute man stepping into one of these doors with a machine gun accomplish? How about a bomb?
         To what end, he thought, turning away and leaving the room. No heads of state would be in attendance, no cabinet ministers or state secretaries. All of these people had staffs and coworkers, and their replacements were already groomed for the most part, and ready to step into their shoes.
         Could that be the motive, simple advancement of the killer? People had been killed for less, far less. He pushed the elevator button. That didn't fit. People in different places, people with different jobs in different organizations had been killed, and certainly no one stood to gain by killing Kitfox, yet it had been attempted. No, it was something else, something much bigger than individuals. What?
         The elevator opened and produced Lieutenant Zamora, dressed today in jeans and a T-shirt with a light jacket.
         "There you are," she greeted him. "You're sure a hard one to get hold of. What the hell are you doing?"
         "Seeking an epiphany."
         "Down here? Your face looks terrible, by the way."
         "It only hurts when I touch it... or move it... or think about it."          
         "Great. So, where's this epiphany you're looking for?"
         "I don't know. I thought it was in the conference room, but I couldn't find it."
         "Let's have another look," she said, and started down the hall.
         "We're still not getting it. There's nothing to be gained from killing these people. They reschedule in a month, and their replacements come to the party."
         "Maybe somebody needs a month to prepare something," she said.
         "Prepare what?"
         They entered the room and Zamora stood taking it all in. "They aren't going to change any laws, they aren't going to sign any treaties. They're going to talk about money."
         "Do you know that for a fact?"
         "I know there aren't any government officials. The most they can do is make recommendations that may or may not be adopted."
         "Well, look at all the crap they go through with the World Trade Organization meetings every year. This is just a smaller version of that."
         "Exactly. They get rotten eggs thrown at them, urine poured on their cars, but they don't get killed. If these were terrorist killings, there should have been some statement, some demand made by now, and anyway, where do I fit into this plot?"
         "That's easy. You're onto something, and you're probably making the killer nervous."
         "The killer's in your jail."
         "Not that killer. The one you're so sure is putting people up to all this."
         "Yeah. God, if we had a motive, we could work backward until—"
         "Lieutenant!" the shout interrupted him. A uniformed officer walked briskly up to them. "Sorry, Special Agent. I was ordered to deliver this message at once."
         "That's fine, officer," Kitfox said. "What do you have?"
         "That attorney, Pierce, just called your office. The Mendoza kid vacationed in Cabo San Lucas this summer."
         "The same as Darnall," Zamora said.
         "Right," Kitfox seconded. "Question is, how does a minimum wage bellhop afford a vacation in Cabo?"
         "Maybe he has family there. The point is, he did. What are you going to do right now?"
         "Finish looking this place over."
         "You aren't finished?"
         "Not in detail. I think I'll go up to the roof and work my way down."
         "Okay. I'm going back to the office and call Detective Sturgeon in Reno. We need to find out the vacation habits of burger boy."
         "That will be good to know, but what if he did?"
         "Then we'll have a link, and we can start picking at it. I'll let you know what I find out."
         "All right. I'll meet you for lunch. We can compare notes."
         "It's a date," she said, and with the patrol officer in tow, she headed for the exit.

11:32 AM, Monterey

         Inez Zamora sat at her desk behind stacks of paperwork, a limp tuna sandwich staining the paper towel on her pull-out tray. The call to Reno was hours old, and now she was tied to her desk, at least if she wanted the reply first-hand. That was actually of benefit to her, as she had several other cases in progress, both her own and her subordinates, and it gave her a good compelling reason to stay at her desk and attack the paperwork. She was struggling with a probable cause question when the phone rang.
         "Monterey Police, Lieutenant Zamora."
         "Lieutenant, Sergeant Sturgeon, Reno PD."
         "Ah, good morning, Detective. I trust you have news?"
         "I have. Our perp vacationed in Cabo San Lucas four months ago. Stayed at one of the lesser places, off the beaten you might say, called Casa de la Playa."
         "Jackpot!"
         "Are you going to give me anything, Lieutenant? I have a murder investigation of my own here, and I'm real short on motive."
         "Us, too. We have two perps now."
         "Two?"
         "Yeah. Twelve hours ago a motel night clerk assaulted Kitfox."
         "The FBI guy?"
         "Yeah. He got shot for his trouble, but get this. Both of our perps vacationed in Cabo around the same time. We haven't gotten to where they stayed yet, but I'd be willing to give you pretty good odds if gambling was legal in this state."
         "It is legal in this state, and I wouldn't take them. Are you going to keep me in the loop on this?"
         "Unless this turns out to be coincidence, you bet. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to call a fed."
         She depressed the switch button of her desk phone, then dialed the Holiday Inn.
         "This is Leon," he answered after she had identified herself to the switchboard operator.
         "Good morning, Leon. What are you doing?"
         "Writing my shoot report."
         "Well, take a break. You'll never guess what."
         "What?"
         "The Reno perp took his summer vacation in Cabo. Stayed at a place called Casa de la Playa. Off the beaten path is what Sturgeon called it."
         "That's interesting, but does it help us, and if it does, how do we figure out how?"
         "The same way you cracked it at the beginning. Just keep picking at it until the next piece unravels."
         "That can be a lengthy procedure. The delegates are here now, and the conference starts in the morning."
         "We have to do something."
         "I agree. What are you doing right now?"
         "Clearing some old paperwork. I want the weekend free. I plan to attend this conference."
         "As do I. Okay, go ahead and clear your caseload. I'm going to call Counsellor Pierce."
         "Why?"
         "I'm going to see if he'll let Susan tell me about her week in Baja. if you aren't finished by then, I'll get Mendoza's statement as well."
         "All right, call my office. I may be on the move by then, but dispatch can get a message to me."

2:30 PM, Salinas

         "Thank you for seeing me so promptly, Mr. Pierce."
         "It's no inconvenience, Special Agent. I'm as eager to get to the bottom of this as you are."
         "Good. Shall we begin, then?"
         "Please."
         "All right, Mrs. Darnall, you'll first observe that I have come alone. There are no tape recorders or prosecution witnesses present. Anything you say to me here will be hearsay, inadmissible in court."
         "I should caution you, Susan, that if you should, for example, admit to a motive for killing Mr. Durant, and he can then prove it by other means, the immunity of this room will be meaningless."
         "I understand."
         "All right. Go ahead, Special Agent."
         "Mrs. Darnall, I don't know how much your attorney has told you about items that are peripheral to your case. We have given him extraordinary concessions in return for your cooperation because we believe you were tricked, coerced, or otherwise induced to commit an act you wouldn't otherwise consider. We think that your action is part of someone else's larger scheme and would rather endanger our case against you if it gives us greater access to the plot. Do you understand?"
         "No." She looked like a kitten surrounded by pit bulls, resigned to a fate she couldn't comprehend.
         "Does she know about the other cases, Counsellor?"
         Pierce nodded.
         "Similar attacks, one against a similar sort of victim, and the attackers remember nothing. We don't think that these are unrelated, and we want the person or persons behind them. Do you understand that?"
         "Yes."
         "Good. We believe that whatever happened to turn you and at least two other people to violence took place in Cabo San Lucas. I understand that you booked a vacation, but when your husband was unable to get away, you went by yourself."
         "He insisted. He said the rest would do me good."
         "That must have put a damper on the festivities."
         "It automatically eliminated wining and dining, the dancing, anything romantic. There are other things to do, though."
         "Such as?"
         "I read a novel. I got a tan. I swam, I bought souvenirs, I sampled a dozen restaurants. It wasn't exactly purgatory."
         "How did you feel when he told you to go alone?"
         "I didn't want to. I didn't think I'd have any fun without him."
         "Lots of married couples take separate vacations."
         "Not us. Twelve years into it, and we still go together like newlyweds."
         "You're very lucky."
         She looked around at the concrete walls.
         "I used to think so."
         "Yes. So, you already had some stress before you even packed."
         "I suppose."
         "Making you even more susceptible to whatever might have been done to you."
         "But what was done to me?"
         "That's what we're trying to find out. Where did you stay?"
         "A little off-the-beach place called Casa de la Playa. They were having a special."
         Kitfox and Pierce exchanged meaningful looks.
         "What do you remember about the place?"
         "Cheap. The cheapness. Lots of Formica, imitation wood, AstroTurf for carpets. You really do get what you pay for. I remember being glad that Jeff wasn't going to see it."
         "Was there anything unusual about the room?"
         "No, it was just... it's hard to describe. It was like a museum display from the sixties, like something from The Brady Bunch."
         "How about the people?"
         "Well, let's see. There was the manager. A real bootlicker, he was. Fat, always managed to have a two-day beard, and always apologizing for some shortcoming. A couple of bellboys, a hostess, housekeepers. Nobody stands out. Everyone looked and acted just like they were supposed to."
         "How about the restaurants? Did anything strike you as unusual there, something that made one feel different from the rest?"
         "No. Of course, I was eating Mexican the whole time. They just bring it on a plate, and drinks of course, all you can put away."
         "Did you ever get drunk, or maybe feel like you'd been drugged?"
         "Hmm. No, I wouldn't have more than one drink without my husband there, and as to the other, I don't have any gaps in my memory. No." She thought for a moment. "No."
         Kitfox rubbed his eyes.
         "What am I missing here?" he asked Pierce, who replied by shrugging his shoulders.
         "Souvenirs?"
         "Yes. What did you buy?" He asked Darnall.
         "Trinkets. A couple of shirts, some earrings, shells. Just junk, really."
         "Think carefully, Mrs. Darnall. Did you buy anything large enough to hold a tape recorder, a white noise device, anything like that?"
         "I don't think so, but it wouldn't matter. I bought them just before I got on the plane. I put them in my bags, checked them through, and passed them out when I got home. I hardly ever saw them."
         "Okay." Kitfox threw Pierce a frustrated look. "You have plenty of time on your hands right now. I want you to use it to mentally review your vacation. If you remember anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, call your attorney as soon as they'll let you get to a phone, all right?"
         "Of course, but what is it you're looking for?"
         "I wish to God I knew." He stood up and rapped on the door for the guard. "I know you're under quite a strain here but try to get some rest if you can."
         "Thank you, Agent Kitfox," she said as the guard unlocked her cuff from the table, "for everything you're trying to do. I just can't think of anything."
         "It's all right. If you do, call Mr. Pierce at once."
         "Not you?"
         "In the eyes of the law, I'm still your enemy. Your attorney's a good man. He'll pass along anything I should have."
         "Thank you."
         "What do you think?" Kitfox asked Pierce after she had been led away.
         "I think this is the strangest relationship I've ever had with a law enforcement officer."
         "That's sort of what I was thinking, but it's the right thing to do. I don't see her doing this. I mean, she did it, there's no doubt of that, but this carefully planned murder didn't come out of her head. Somebody put it there, and what I have to find out is who."
         "Yeah, there's the sixty-four-dollar question. Somebody, something, convinced her to kill a man she didn't even know, and yet nothing there struck her as unusual."
         "So, either there was really nothing there, or it's so sophisticated that she can't see it."
         "That's a scary thought. What do we do now?"
         "If you've got the time, we talk to Mr. Mendoza."