Michael McGarrity - Tularosa

The offices for the newspaper were on the Plaza Cervantine, a tiny square with a gold bust of the Spanish poet as its centerpiece. The buildings surrounding the plaza housed artist studios, workshops, apartments above, and an experimental theater that put on plays in a renovated cafeteria. The building for the newspaper had a number of passageways that took Kerney to a patio cafe in a central courtyard and up a flight of wooden stairs to a suite of offices that opened on a balcony. The door was open, and Kerney entered to find an unoccupied room filled with books stacked haphazardly in piles on every available space. The walls were plastered with art and film posters. An enlarged photograph of Pancho Villa on horseback was tacked to a side door. Against one wall a desktop computer was running, the screen-saver pattern flashing a colored starburst on the monitor. A messy desk with a phone and ashtray filled with cigarette butts completed the decor. Kerney called out in Spanish, and a very pretty woman opened the side door and looked out. She held a teapot in her hand. Her hair, cut just to the bottom of her ears and close to her neck, draped down to the top of her left eye. Her eyes, brown, speculative, and direct, were provocative. At the corner other right eye was a small mole. Her full lips did not smile. She wore a pink top with a scarf over a long skirt and black hose.

"Yes?" the woman said, in English. Kerney switched languages.

"I'm looking for Rose Moya."

"One moment." She stepped back and closed the door. After a minute, the woman reappeared carrying a coffee cup in her hand. She paused to examine the man before moving to the computer table. He was tall and rather good-looking in a cowboy sort of way.

"Why do you want to see Rose?" the woman asked as she put the cup on the computer table.

"I would like to speak to her about the series on corruption."

"You've read them?" Her tone was skeptical.

"Only the most recent one," Kerney admitted.

"What is your name?"

"Kevin Kerney." He held out his badge case. Tentatively, the woman crossed to Kerney, took the case, opened it, and looked quickly up at him, her expression cautious.

"Is this real?"

"Yes." She sized Kerney up one more time before speaking, switching back to Spanish.

"I'm Rose Moya. What do you want?" Kerney followed suit.

"Information."

"What kind of information?"

"Everything you can tell me about the Mafiosios. Especially smuggling."

"And why do you need that information?"

"To catch a murderer." Rose Moya gestured to a side chair filled with books.

"Sit down. Lieutenant Kerney, and tell me your story." After an hour of conversation. Rose Moya came through with a confidential source. Kerney had the cabby stop along the Avenida 16 de Septiembre, where the cityscape changed from tourist sleaze to an upscale, cosmopolitan area of theaters, restaurants, and department stores. Using plastic, Kerney went shopping. From what Rose had told him about Francisco Posada, he needed to dress for the occasion. According to Rose, Posada was an elderly, rich retired pharmacist who sold information to cash customers with good references, and asked few questions. Most of Posada's clients sought introductions to people who circumvented any number of Mexican laws. He got back in the cab, and the driver sped past a row of old mansions under shade trees with deep lawns, rattling over cobblestone streets until the residential area gave way to auto junkyards, repair shops, garages, and car upholstery shops, all with signs painted in hot, screaming colors. After a long stretch where the only scenery was the Juarez dump, they entered an opulent neighborhood of modern houses on winding streets in a series of low hills. The driver stopped in front of a two-story house with a tile roof, arched windows, and a wide set of granite steps leading to double entrance doors. The archway to the doors, supported by columns, was built of wedge shaped stones, each cut individually.

A burgundy Mercedes was parked in the curved driveway. Kerney asked the driver to wait. The door opened almost immediately after Kerney rang the bell. The houseboy, a young Indian in his late teens, dressed in an immaculate white shirt, trousers, and sandals, looked Kerney up and down without expression.

"Yes?"

"I would like to see Senor Posada." The boy studied Kerney, taking in the tailoring of the new suit and the shirt and tie that went with it. He dropped his eyes to Kerney's feet, clad in four hundred-dollar Larry Mahan boots.

"Do you have an appointment?" the boy inquired. He was as slender as a girl, with the lithe body of a swimmer. His eyes, darker than the rich color of his skin, were soft and innocent. He had the most beautiful natural eyelashes Kerney had ever seen on a man.

"No."

"Who referred you?"

"Rose Moya." The boy stepped back and let Kerney enter. He pointed to a chair in the foyer.

"Wait here." Within minutes Kerney heard padded footsteps on the marble floor as the houseboy returned.

"Follow me. The senor will see you." The foyer gave way to a courtyard with colonnades that supported arches under a low veranda. Ornamental trees ringed the space, and in the center a fountain gurgled water from a fish mouth. The boy opened a door under the veranda, stepped aside, motioned for Kerney to enter, and closed the door, leaving Kerney alone in the room.

It was a great room, bigger than Quinn's library; a large sunny space, with a wall of windows that looked out on an expansive patio, swimming pool, and cabana. The interior consisted of several conversation areas of plush off-white couches and easy chairs arranged to give the best view of the artwork on the back wall of the room. A large Diego Rivera painting held center stage over the fireplace, illuminated by recessed lights. It was a portrait of a strikingly beautiful woman wearing a Franciscan habit. Her arms were folded below her breasts and she faced a distant, unknown horizon with passionate eyes. It felt both pious and pagan.

"It is compelling," a voice said, speaking in Spanish. Kerney turned. An elderly man with long white hair, a waxed gray mustache, and a courtly manner, Francisco Posada smiled at him peacefully, his hand resting on the houseboy's thin shoulder. His fingers, grotesquely deformed, were twisted into a claw.

"Diego Rivera," Kerney said.

"You know his work," Posada said approvingly, continuing in his native tongue. He shuffled closer.

"There is a story to the canvas. Diego fell in love with this woman, but she was fulfilling a promise to God to do penance. That is why she wears a friar's robe. Rivera could not have her physically, so he possessed her through his art."

"I have never seen this image before," Kerney said, using his best Spanish.

"Few have. It has always been privately owned and never exhibited or reproduced." Posada eased himself down to a couch and gestured for Kerney to sit across from him.

"How did Rose Moya come to refer you? She has never sent someone to me before."

"I lied and told her I was a policeman working on a murder case involving the Mafiosios."

Posada chuckled, but his eyes hardened.

"I'm sure that appealed to her sense of social justice. Are you a policeman, Mr. Kerney? Kerney laughed.

"I was. Now I'm in business for myself. Imports and exports. I would like to expand into the Mexican market."

"What do you wish to export, Mr. Kerney?"

"Artifacts. Historical documents of great value. Military memorabilia and rare coins."

"An unusual assortment of merchandise," Posada commented.

"But quite valuable," Kerney replied.

"You need a broker, I assume," Posada noted. "Someone who will act on your behalf with discretion."

"Exactly."

"It might be possible to arrange an introduction," Posada said, with a serene smile.