Silver Bullets Read Free

gestured toward the bedroom at the back. And you? Laura Frías wiped away a tear. We went in to see him. Besides being in the USB together, is there anything else? We were like brothers and sisters, he always stood by us. Dania Estrada had a lovely voice. Laura simply nodded. By the way, we called his family in Navolato and they’ll be here soon. What time was it when you found him? About 8:20. Did he live alone? Yes, sir. Did you visit him often? Not really, Figueroa said, we’d see him at our center, which is on Riva Palacio Street. We girls saw him last week, we had tea at the Verdi and we talked. About what? About his plans, about the news that he’d been nominated for professional of the year, he wanted to go back to the Safety Council to put an end to the violence. Really? The detective smiled, did he work? At Social Security, he was a legal adviser. The car in the garage, is that his? They nodded. Do you have any idea who killed him? They shook their heads. Okay, give your addresses, telephones, and cell phone numbers to Agent Toledo in case we need you for any clarifications, he made a quick note on his Palm; the technical people will behere soon, they’ll take your fingerprints just in case you touched anything else.
    He opened the door with a handkerchief. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Aromas assaulted his senses and were on the point of evoking a memory: What is that dry, spicy fragrance?
    He observed the body on the twisted sheets, the bloodstain. Black pants, white shirt, dark socks. The bullet hole was in the left temple. The detective took in the tidiness of the room, no mess on the floor or on the furniture. Thursday’s newspapers lay on a leather easy chair. On the chest of drawers, the novel News from the Empire by Fernando del Paso. He took photographs with his cell phone. Using a Kleenex, he picked up the remote and turned the television on: Channel 22, the favorite of the culture-loving middle class. “Every Wednesday at 8:30 p.m. Caught in Fiction , interviews with the authors of the latest in Mexican literature,” an advertising voice intoned. He turned it off. Under the bed he saw black shoes, a pair of sandals, and at the back a square object. He moved the bed: It was another copy of News from the Empire . He did not touch it. Two copies: a reader? One entire wall was covered by bookshelves, which as far as he could tell were filled with contemporary literature. Carefully, he opened the closet, also a model of perfect order. Typical, an example to us all, I swear I’ll be the same when I grow up. Shirts, pants, and suits hung in an impeccable line, polished shoes all in their places. From the window he looked out at the backyard: plants, a clothesline, a few used tires. The bathroom was immaculate: bathrobe, towels, soaps, colognes. He breathed in. The spicy aroma did not emanate from there. He looked at his watch: 10:58. He took a few pictures with the cell and went back into the bedroom.
    Zelda came in and stared at the cadaver: In a minute the techies will be here and also someone from the district attorney’soffice, Mendieta sniffed the sheets, he was thirty-seven years old, single, the son of Hildegardo Canizales. The former minister of agriculture, she added, the detective looked again at his watch, she moved close to the wound. And he was handsome, she scrutinized the hole in his head and then the carpet. Did you see this, boss? She pointed at the shoes, a pair of black loafers. What? They look a lot alike, but they’re different. Mendieta squatted and saw she was right. You are a genius, Zelda, we’ll have to watch out the Russians don’t grab you, one is even cleaner than the other. He called Dr. Montaño’s cell.
    We’re in Guadalupe near Río Piaxtla, get over here right away. What, weren’t you in Piggyback? Yeah, only that body got up to have another drink. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. Half an hour, thought the detective, and he asked Zelda to step out.