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  She wondered if her relationship with Luisa could continue in some way despite her upcoming change in locale. They had distance between them now. A few more miles couldn’t make that much of a difference, could they? Besides, her phone worked just as well in San Francisco as it did in Cancún. Maybe this time—for the first time—writing “the end” at the bottom of a story could mean a beginning instead of a conclusion.

  She shuffled toward the front of the bus and climbed down the stairs. Outside, she took pictures of the primitive drawings of the Chichén Itzá pyramids painted on the weathered metal sign on the sprawling building’s roof and of the handwoven blankets hanging in an artisan’s display area. Then she joined the bathroom line, where Ryan was taking five-dollar bets on who would be last to board the bus.

  “My money’s on the Barbies,” she said, referring to the femme couple with teased hair and matching outfits who hadn’t checked in for the trip until a few minutes before the driver closed the doors. “They look like serious shopaholics.”

  “I’ll take that bet.”

  Ryan grudgingly paid up after the Barbies were the first to leave the tchotchke-laden confines of the flea market and Finn’s pick, a pair of school bus drivers from San Diego, were the last. “How did you know?”

  “If I’ve learned anything from this trip,” Finn said, pocketing the money, “it’s that people aren’t always what they seem.”

  ❖

  Luisa expected Mrs. Villalobos to be waiting for her when she exited her apartment. As usual, she wasn’t disappointed. Mrs. Villalobos took a long look at her and frowned in disapproval.

  “You look tired. Did you have a long night?”

  “Short night, long day.”

  Luisa had fallen into bed shortly after texting Finn and had slept hard until her alarm went off five hours later. Director Chavez had told her she could take the day off when she called him on the road from Agua Dulce, but she didn’t want her investigation to lose any of the momentum it might have gained yesterday. The case of the four unidentified men had been cold for years, but it was starting to heat up. She needed to act before the trail cooled off again—or disappeared altogether.

  “Where did you go?” Mrs. Villalobos said.

  Luisa thought of the six shrouded corpses lying on a hill overlooking the village where they had lived, loved, and ultimately met their painful and untimely ends.

  “I went to hell and back.”

  And she was about to make a return trip, this time by way of Santa Martha Jail.

  “You look nice today. I like you better in regular clothes.” Mrs. Villalobos ran a hand over the lapel of Luisa’s blazer. “But why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

  “I have an appointment this morning. I’ll change before I head to the office.”

  Luisa had been wearing uniforms so long she felt more comfortable in them than she did “regular” clothes. She hadn’t worn her police uniform to Agua Dulce because she hadn’t wanted to put the villagers on the defensive any more than they already were. She hoped the tactic would have the same effect on Salvador Perez today. He had shut down the instant he had seen the Federal Police insignia on her uniform shirt. She hoped seeing her dressed like a yuppie instead of an authority figure would make him more willing to talk.

  “What does your lady friend think about what you do for a living?” Mrs. Villalobos asked.

  “Finn? We haven’t talked about it much.”

  Luisa could tell Finn was anxious about the more dangerous aspects of her job. She wondered if her career could be a potential deal breaker if she and Finn could solve the logistics of living nearly two thousand miles and two time zones apart and try to form a relationship.

  “Finn. That’s an unusual name,” Mrs. Villalobos said pensively. “What’s her family name?”

  “Chamberlain.”

  “Luisa Chamberlain doesn’t have the same ring as Luisa Villalobos, but I suppose it will do in a pinch.” Mrs. Villalobos flashed an impish grin. “You don’t have to look so surprised. I’ve been around a while, but I’m hipper than I look.”

  To prove how hip she was, Mrs. Villalobos launched into a capable version of the Macarena, a dance that had reached its peak of popularity more than twenty years ago. Soon they were both out of breath, Mrs. Villalobos from dancing and Luisa from laughing at the impromptu performance.

  “What was that for?” Mrs. Villalobos asked after Luisa kissed her on the cheek.

  “I just wanted to thank you. After the day I had yesterday, I needed a good laugh to remind myself I still could.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” Mrs. Villalobos cupped Luisa’s cheek, then gave it a pat. “Tomorrow, I’ll show you my version of La Conquista.”

  “Something to look forward to.”

  If Luisa remembered correctly, the folk dance Mrs. Villalobos had referred to was a retelling of Spanish soldiers’ conquest of the Aztecs way back when. Dancers representing the soldiers usually wore modern clothes, but the ones representing the Aztecs wore feathers and dressed as eagle or jaguar warriors. All the dancers wore masks similar to the ones hanging in Mrs. Villalobos’s apartment.

  “Where are your people from, Mrs. Villalobos?”

  The Jarabe, also known as the Mexican Hat Dance, was the national dance of Mexico, and was performed all over the country. La Conquista was more popular in the states of Jalisco and Michoacán.

  “All over. My mother was from Guanajuato and my father was from Veracruz. My brother, my sisters, and I were born in Michoacán. I moved to Mexico City after I got married.”

  “Where does the rest of your family live?”

  “My children and grandchildren are in Nayarit. Except for Javier. He decided to forge his own path,” Mrs. Villalobos said proudly. “He moved east years ago. My brother and sisters lived in Michoacán all their lives. I’ve outlived them all. Javier says it’s because I’m too tough to die. But enough of all this talk about me. If I tell you everything now, we won’t have anything to talk about on Saturday.” Mrs. Villalobos shooed her away. “Now go to work. You’re already three hours late.”

  Luisa said her good-byes, then called Ruben when she reached the stairwell. She had turned the tire impressions over to him when they had returned to Mexico City in the wee hours of the morning. He had planned to head to the office early today so the guys in the forensics lab could give the molds the once-over and run them through their database.

  “Do you have anything yet?” she asked.

  “I just finished reading through the report. The tires came back as a match to a brand commonly found on 2012 Ford Suburbans.”

  Luisa knew the oversized SUV could seat up to nine. Perfect for ferrying a large family around—or a squad of hit men.

  “Were any 2012 Suburbans spotted near Agua Dulce two days ago?”

  “I called Miguel Serrano a few minutes ago,” Ruben said. “He said no one has reported seeing one, but one was found abandoned and burned some forty miles away from his farm.”

  “So the hit men dumped the car on their way out of Agua Dulce. Any prints, trace, or DNA we might have been able to obtain from it has gone up in smoke. Perfect. Was Miguel able to give you the VIN, at least?”

  “Yeah. The vehicle identification number he provided ties the car to Idoia Ocampo.”

  Luisa used her shoulder to hold her phone against her ear while she grabbed a pen and recorded the name in her notebook.

  “Do we have an address for her?”

  “The P.O. box at a mailing center appears to be a legitimate address. The physical’s a fake. I could tell you what it is, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t do you much good.”

  “Tell me anyway.”

  When Ruben recited the address, Luisa recognized it right away. It belonged to one of the most famous tourist attractions in Mexico City—the Monument to the Revolution. The edifice was located near two of the major thoroughfares in the heart of the city and served as both a memorial commemorating the Mexican Revolution as well a
s a mausoleum for the remains of some of the heroes from the conflict. Luisa could see the century-old landmark from her apartment window. Was the leader of the Jaguars hiding right under her nose or was this part of the game of hide-and-seek he had been playing with authorities for years now?

  “We’re back at square one.” Ruben blew out a sigh of frustration. “That family in Agua Dulce died for nothing because we’re never going to catch this guy.”

  Luisa refused to accept the possibility that her search would prove as fruitless as Carlos Ramos’s and all the others who had preceded him. Hundreds of innocent victims like Silvia Perez and her family deserved to be avenged, and she was determined to see them—and the leader of the Jaguars—receive the justice they were due.

  “I won’t stop looking until we find him, Ruben. Have someone watch the mail center to see if anyone picks up deliveries to the drop box, and talk to the manager to see if he or she can tell us anything about the box’s owner. I’m headed to Santa Martha Jail to speak to Salvador Perez again. Call me if you hear anything.”

  “I will. Be careful.”

  “You, too.”

  Luisa ended the call and headed to the parking garage. She set her notebook on the trunk of her car and dropped to her hands and knees to check under the chassis. Thankfully, she didn’t spot anything unusual. She turned when she heard footsteps behind her.

  A professional-looking man wearing a suit that looked like it cost ten times as much as hers asked, “Is everything okay? Do you need some help?”

  Luisa stood and dusted off her hands.

  “No, I’m fine,” she said with an embarrassed laugh. “I was just checking things out. Thanks, anyway.”

  Instead of walking away, the man took a step closer. His broad form filled the gap between her car and the one next to it, effectively penning her in.

  “El jefe says hello.”

  In one smooth move, the man dropped his leather briefcase and flicked his wrist, revealing a knife with a retractable eight-inch blade. Then he lunged at her.

  Luisa parried his thrust, using the heel of her hand to knock his arm away. She reached for her gun but couldn’t clear it from its holster before he was on her again. She held up her left arm to ward him off and cried out when she felt the knife’s sharp blade slice through her clothes and pierce her skin. Blood coursed from the wound, but she didn’t have time to stop and inspect the damage.

  She took a step back to give herself some distance. When the man advanced toward her, she turned sideways and drove his head into her windshield. As blood from his broken nose splattered on the glass, he dropped the knife and crumpled to the ground. Luisa kicked the knife away, cuffed the man to her front bumper, and called 066 for emergency police assistance. The connection was spotty because of all the concrete and reinforced steel surrounding her, but she was eventually able to relay her request for help.

  “Haven’t you heard?” she asked as her attacker began to stir. “You should never bring a knife to a gun fight.”

  He jerked at the handcuff on his wrist and let out an angry roar when he couldn’t pull free. Luisa held her gun on him as she examined the ID in the wallet she had slipped from his pocket while he was unconscious. His driver’s license said his name was Gilberto Ruiz and listed an address in Vicente Guerrero in the neighboring state of Tlaxcala.

  “You came a long way to ruin my best suit, Gilberto Ruiz.” Luisa pressed her palm against her left arm to staunch the bleeding. “Who sent you? Who’s your boss?”

  Gilberto pressed his lips together and shook his head like a toddler refusing to eat his vegetables.

  “I don’t talk to cops. Call my lawyer,” he said as the approaching sirens of police cars and ambulances signaled the backup Luisa had called for was on the way. “I’m suing you for police brutality.”

  “Good luck finding anyone but a public defender to take your case once you’re charged with the attempted murder of a Federal Police officer.”

  She held her gun and badge over her head to let the first responders streaming into the parking garage know she was on their side. She summarized the situation for them, then tossed a patrol officer the keys to her handcuffs. She needed to get going. She had to make her way to Santa Martha Jail to make sure Salvador Perez hadn’t been targeted, too. Then she needed to sit down with Gilberto Ruiz and find out who had ordered him to kill her.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The paramedic examining the cut on her arm clamped a latex glove-covered hand around her wrist. “You need stitches and a bandage. A tetanus shot wouldn’t hurt, either.”

  “Do what you have to do,” Luisa said impatiently. “Just make it fast. I’ve got somewhere I need to be.”

  The paramedic rolled his eyes. “Male or female, you cops are all alike.”

  She followed him to his rig and sat on a gurney while he tended to her wound.

  “Moreno.”

  She looked up to find Gilberto Ruiz, his hands cuffed behind his back, glaring at her vindictively as he resisted the officers’ attempts to put him in the back of their squad car. She tried not to tremble as she met his eye. His cold, unfeeling gaze had very nearly been the last thing she had seen. But his words struck even more fear into her heart than his dead-eyed stare.

  “You’re going to die today, bitch. You and everyone you love.”

  ❖

  After the tour bus pulled into the half-empty parking lot at the foot of the site containing the ruins of Chichén Itzá, Richard counted heads and handed out tiny red radios dangling from plastic lanyards.

  “The radios should be tuned to channel twenty-three. If you place the earbuds in your ears, you will be able to hear me speak even if you decide to wander off on your own. The vendors you see here are only a few of the ones scattered around the site, which covers nearly two square miles. We will be here for two hours. You are free to spend your time as you wish—shopping or following me around the ruins. If you do go off on your own, please be sure to meet the rest of the group at the bus at noon. We will be heading back to the resort promptly at twelve fifteen. We should arrive around two thirty. Just in time for a late lunch. Any questions?”

  Finn looked around, but no one raised her hand.

  “Good. Let’s go.”

  Finn and the rest of the group followed Richard through the gates. A short time later, they passed a restaurant and gift shop, modern additions that contrasted sharply with the ancient ruins they had come to see.

  “An estimated one point two million tourists visit the ruins every year,” Richard said. “We’re here relatively early so the grounds shouldn’t be too crowded. We’ll probably have to share our stay with a few students on field trips, but we shouldn’t have to deal with the masses of tourists that will be streaming in later in the day.”

  The temperature wasn’t too bad yet, but Finn could feel it starting to rise. She took a sip of her bottled water so she could stay hydrated. Beside her, Ryan mirrored her action.

  “The buildings of Chichén Itzá are grouped into a series of complexes,” Richard said. “Today, we’re going to focus on the best known. The Great North Platform includes the monuments of El Castillo, the Temple of Warriors, and the Great Ball Court. Directly ahead of you is El Castillo, also known as the Temple of Kukulkán.”

  He pointed to the pyramid that was the most recognizable of all the ruins in Chichén Itzá. The pre-Columbian structure stood ninety-eight feet tall and consisted of a series of nine square terraces. Each side of the pyramid featured a stairway that rose at a forty-five-degree angle. Finn was amazed by the ancient builders’ ability to create such precise measurements using such primitive implements. Like the pyramids of Egypt, which she had also been privileged to see in person, the feat was an engineering marvel she couldn’t wrap her head around even as she admired its beauty.

  “I’ll bet running those stairs would be a serious workout, especially in this heat,” Ryan said.

  “I doubt you’d get very far.”

&nbs
p; Finn indicated the ropes surrounding the base of the pyramid, barriers installed to prevent trespassers from inflicting damage to the centuries-old structure by enacting the exercise routine Ryan had just mentioned.

  “Details.”

  “This pyramid was constructed in honor of the serpent god Kukulkán,” Richard continued, speaking into the headset microphone transmitting his voice to the radios he had disseminated earlier. “Notice the snake heads at the base of the pyramid? During the spring and autumn equinoxes, the northwest corner of the pyramid casts shadows on the north balustrade that look like a serpent crawling down the stairs.”

  “Cool,” Finn said as she snapped a few pictures.

  “You really get into this stuff, don’t you?” Ryan asked.

  “Don’t you?” Finn took another sip of water from her slowly dwindling supply. She reminded herself not to drink it too fast so she wouldn’t run out before the end of the two-hour tour. “I mean, isn’t that why you’re here?”

  Ryan looked sheepish.

  “To be honest, I only signed up because Jill seemed so into it. We haven’t spent much time together this week and I thought this outing would help us fix that. Then she changed her mind to watch wrestling, the only ‘sport’ I can’t stand.”

  Finn smiled as she realized Jill’s feelings for Ryan might not be quite so one-sided after all.

  “I have a feeling she misses you, too.”

  “You think so?” Ryan asked hopefully.

  “I know so.”

  Finn turned her attention back to Richard as he demonstrated El Castillo’s peculiar acoustics. When he clapped his hands on one side of the pyramid, the echo sounded normal. On the other side, the reverberation sounded like the chirp of a native bird.

  “Whose idea was it for you to try out for Friends and Lovers, Jill’s or yours?” Finn asked.

  Ryan screwed up her face as she slowly clapped her hands and tried to figure out the secret behind the odd echo.