moment. He advanced
slowly, ceremonially, his hands wide and upturned.
“Licenciado Méndez,” the Colonel boomed. “It is sincerely a pleasure to see you. I would like to welcome you. I would like
to thank you humbly and profoundly for accepting my invitation and taking the time to come see me.”
The former police chief gave him a big hug with the requisite double back slap. Méndez smelled cigarettes, tequila and Old
Spice—the same aroma the Colonel had given off the day they had arrested him. The day the Colonel had warned Méndez that Junior
Ruiz Caballero would avenge this insult by cutting off Méndez’s ears and making him eat them, one at a time.
The Colonel disengaged. His laugh echoed in the compound.
This man is even more of a psychopath than I remembered, Méndez thought. But he’s shrewd. He’s using us and this scene out
here in the open, making people think he has new allies.
“Good morning,” Méndez muttered.
Araceli Aguirre leaned close to the Colonel and spoke in his ear, gesturing briefly at Isabel Puente. The Colonel’s eyesbrightened. With a mischevous smile, he stepped forward, took her hand and bent over it with a flourish.
“Welcome, señorita,” he murmured, all gallantry and discretion.
“Thank you,” Puente said, attempting a polite smile.
“I invite you all to come upstairs and have some coffee,” the Colonel declared. “Please, this way.”
The Colonel reached the base of the spiral stairway. He paused. A young woman had emerged from a door on the second-floor
balcony. She began a wobbly, hip-swinging descent. Her pointy heels rang on the metal steps. She had billowing, pink-streaked
blond hair and a heart-shaped face that looked fifteen years older than the rest of her. She wore a pink windbreaker zipped
to her throat and, despite the chill, tight denim shorts over sinewy legs.
The Colonel gave the woman a look of homicidal fury that stopped her cold. She gripped the stairway railing, one foot in the
air, hair tumbling. The Colonel turned his glare on one of the henchmen on the balcony. The man hurried over and reached to
help the startled strawberry blonde pick her way back up the stairs. He steered her into a doorway and slammed the door behind
them, cutting off the strains of a song by Los Plebeyos.
The Colonel wheeled with parade-ground precision toward Aguirre. Her face had registered uncertainty for the first time since
their arrival.
With a big smile and a little bow, the Colonel said: “After you. Please.”
A recent layer of lemon scent melded with musty and unpleasant smells in the Colonel’s windowless quarters. Méndez, Aguirre,
Puente and the Colonel sat on wood chairs around a metal folding table in a narrow living room area. There was a television
on a high shelf, a portable stereo, a cell phone hooked to a charger, a samurai sword on a little table near the short hallway
leading to a sleeping alcove. Whiskey and tequila bottles stoodon a tray. A bulletproof vest hung from a hook. A velvet tapestry depicting a colonial church in a country landscape covered
one wall; photos of the Colonel with relatives, soldiers and policemen filled another. The Colonel was a career army officer
in his fifties. He had been appointed chief of the state police when the theory held sway that the culture of the Mexican
military insulated its officers from corruption and made them the ideal reformers to clean up civilian law enforcement.
By some silent accord, the four prison guards remained outside the compound. Méndez doubted that any guard had come through
that gateway since the Colonel had moved in. Two Diogenes officers were downstairs in the yard. Athos checked the interior
and stationed himself outside the door on the balcony. Porthos settled his bulk onto a low couch near Méndez. Rico stood behind
a counter in the kitchenette. A short youth with Mixteco features, wet-combed hair and a Georgetown sweatshirt served
slowly, ceremonially, his hands wide and upturned.
“Licenciado Méndez,” the Colonel boomed. “It is sincerely a pleasure to see you. I would like to welcome you. I would like
to thank you humbly and profoundly for accepting my invitation and taking the time to come see me.”
The former police chief gave him a big hug with the requisite double back slap. Méndez smelled cigarettes, tequila and Old
Spice—the same aroma the Colonel had given off the day they had arrested him. The day the Colonel had warned Méndez that Junior
Ruiz Caballero would avenge this insult by cutting off Méndez’s ears and making him eat them, one at a time.
The Colonel disengaged. His laugh echoed in the compound.
This man is even more of a psychopath than I remembered, Méndez thought. But he’s shrewd. He’s using us and this scene out
here in the open, making people think he has new allies.
“Good morning,” Méndez muttered.
Araceli Aguirre leaned close to the Colonel and spoke in his ear, gesturing briefly at Isabel Puente. The Colonel’s eyesbrightened. With a mischevous smile, he stepped forward, took her hand and bent over it with a flourish.
“Welcome, señorita,” he murmured, all gallantry and discretion.
“Thank you,” Puente said, attempting a polite smile.
“I invite you all to come upstairs and have some coffee,” the Colonel declared. “Please, this way.”
The Colonel reached the base of the spiral stairway. He paused. A young woman had emerged from a door on the second-floor
balcony. She began a wobbly, hip-swinging descent. Her pointy heels rang on the metal steps. She had billowing, pink-streaked
blond hair and a heart-shaped face that looked fifteen years older than the rest of her. She wore a pink windbreaker zipped
to her throat and, despite the chill, tight denim shorts over sinewy legs.
The Colonel gave the woman a look of homicidal fury that stopped her cold. She gripped the stairway railing, one foot in the
air, hair tumbling. The Colonel turned his glare on one of the henchmen on the balcony. The man hurried over and reached to
help the startled strawberry blonde pick her way back up the stairs. He steered her into a doorway and slammed the door behind
them, cutting off the strains of a song by Los Plebeyos.
The Colonel wheeled with parade-ground precision toward Aguirre. Her face had registered uncertainty for the first time since
their arrival.
With a big smile and a little bow, the Colonel said: “After you. Please.”
A recent layer of lemon scent melded with musty and unpleasant smells in the Colonel’s windowless quarters. Méndez, Aguirre,
Puente and the Colonel sat on wood chairs around a metal folding table in a narrow living room area. There was a television
on a high shelf, a portable stereo, a cell phone hooked to a charger, a samurai sword on a little table near the short hallway
leading to a sleeping alcove. Whiskey and tequila bottles stoodon a tray. A bulletproof vest hung from a hook. A velvet tapestry depicting a colonial church in a country landscape covered
one wall; photos of the Colonel with relatives, soldiers and policemen filled another. The Colonel was a career army officer
in his fifties. He had been appointed chief of the state police when the theory held sway that the culture of the Mexican
military insulated its officers from corruption and made them the ideal reformers to clean up civilian law enforcement.
By some silent accord, the four prison guards remained outside the compound. Méndez doubted that any guard had come through
that gateway since the Colonel had moved in. Two Diogenes officers were downstairs in the yard. Athos checked the interior
and stationed himself outside the door on the balcony. Porthos settled his bulk onto a low couch near Méndez. Rico stood behind
a counter in the kitchenette. A short youth with Mixteco features, wet-combed hair and a Georgetown sweatshirt served
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