Free Effigy by Theresa Danley Page A

barista in the coffee stall knew how he liked his café de olla —stiff black with a hefty dose of cinnamon—and she had it made by the time he approached the counter. He left his money beside the jar of confectionaries like he always did, and walked out with one name pouring through his mind.
    Acatzalan.
    Who was Acatzalan? It wasn’t a name he’d heard before. None of the fifty-three arrested New Agers had ever mentioned this person. Could he be a New Age leader from another chapter? Was he Citlalpol’s superior? Diego had asked him that last night but as his luck would have it, Sanchez passed out before offering any further information.
    Might Acatzalan be the Equinox Killer?
    Diego had pondered over the question several times since he tossed Sanchez back in his cell and each time his mind returned to the American they’d stopped at the roadblock during the investigation in Teotihuacan two months ago. The boy had been the first to mention anything about the equinox but strangely enough, he wasn’t among the fifty-three arrested later that day. Had Diego known then what he knew now, he’d have arrested the kid on the spot. But at the time the equinox meant nothing to him and he’d promptly turned the gringo away.
    The missing identity of that American had been plaguing Diego’s mind ever since they learned of the equinox’s significance. Now, that nameless face taunted his thoughts. Was he Acatzalan? Had Diego unknowingly turned the Equinox Killer away from the scene of the crime?
    Diego had already checked the local car agencies for customers who’d rented silver Chryslers during the week of March 21st. He ended up with a two-page list of names and addresses that, once all other nationalities were removed, was whittled down to thirteen Americans. Only two of them were among the New Agers that were arrested, leaving him with eleven guesses. And even if the American’s name was among those still on the list, that still wouldn’t prove he was the Equinox Killer.
    The list was practically useless. It was a crap shoot, but at least it was a shot.
    Diego took a sip of his coffee as he continued along the street. He hadn’t yet swallowed the heat when he felt something hard press into his side.
    “ Buenos días , Armando,” a menacing voice growled low behind his ear.
    The gun nudged a rib—a warning not to turn around.
    “Get in the car.”
    A dark-tinted Lincoln waited in a no parking zone nearby. As if on cue, the back door opened to an ominously dark interior. Diego was shoved inside where he found himself wedged between the gunman and a second who silently but swiftly wound a cord around his neck and drew it tight.
    Diego reached for his throat but the gunman pulled his hands away. He heard his own air sucking down his throat, his lungs pulling for every ounce, and his lap was on fire from twenty-two ounces of spilled cinnamon coffee.
    The car began to move.
    “Agent Diego, mi amigo .”
    A well-dressed man turned in the front passenger seat to face him. He was a small man. What is it with small men this week?   His thinning black hair was oiled back, his toothy grin just as greasy. A blood-red carnation sprouted from his lapel.
    Zedilla.
    “Where have you been, Diego?”
    Diego gasped, fighting for air. “I can’t…breathe.”
    “But you can listen.” Zedilla turned back around and lowered the sun visor. He looked at himself in the small vanity mirror, then shifted it to get a better reflection of Diego.
    “You see, I have this problem,” he said, licking his fingers and stroking them across his hair. His eyes remained on Diego.
    “Your officers stopped one of my trucks last week. That truck was worth over two million American dollars. That’s a lot of pesos , my friend.”
    Diego struggled for more air, but the cord pulled even tighter.
    Zedilla was still watching him through the mirror. “The real stink of it is that while the AFI was seizing my shipment, a competitor drove right by, no