Free Tequila Blue by Rolo Diez

some comments made by the detectives when they questioned me over Cruz’sdeath, suggestions from Estela Lopez de Jones and Valadez and, above all, what the deceased Cruz had told me: all of which, thanks to my brilliance as an investigator, had led me to build up a picture which until now only I had been able to see, but which I was happy to put at his – ruthless pursuer of justice and truth – disposition.
    The Commander chopped the air with a “cut the crap” gesture and said:
    â€œTell me about the man or woman who was with Jones in the hotel on the night of the crime.”
    I admitted I hadn’t made much progress on that front. I did not admit I had not even visited the hotel. The fact was I hadn’t had the time. But who can tell their boss that?
    â€œYou investigate everything, except for what’s most important,” the Commander snorted. Like all bureaucrats who spend their lives with their arses stuck to a seat, he thinks he’s an expert and has the right to demand everything. “If Jones was filming pornography, and let me tell you that a bit of a thrashing on a backside and a few groans may be exciting, but the idea of filming someone’s death sounds like a drunk’s delirium to me . . . who would buy that kind of thing, eh? Tell me, who would run the risk of spending a lifetime in jail for something that can’t be that profitable anyway? . . . They’d have to be not only the most heartless criminal in the world, but the stupidest into the bargain.” He pointed his boss’s finger at me, the finger of a schoolmaster pointing at a backward pupil, of a cop accusing his good-for-nothingsubordinate, and went on: “As I was saying, if that guy was filming pornography, he must have worked with other people. Actors, a lighting crew, and so on. Why don’t you try to find them, Officer, or do I have to tell you how to do your job?”
    He’s like a father to me, that’s why I hate him so much.
    â€œI already have, of course, boss.” I improvised a little, using some of the information the accountant had given me. Jones’s accounts were all in order. The filmings were carried out in accordance with all the legal and union requisites. He took on professional people and did it all the Mexican way. That was his cover.
    â€œIf you’re talking about cover, first you have to show the pornography exists.”
    â€œI can show lots of suspicious facts: the complaint of sadistic treatment by two women; the link to a prostitute whose mutilated dead body has been found; and underworld rumours about the true nature of Jones’s business.” (I was spinning a yarn: nobody was going to say some of it wasn’t true.) “We’ve established that Jones did not need a crew to film with, he did his own lighting and camerawork. He has a processing lab in his home. I haven’t seen it yet, but I will do later today. Sometimes the gringo employed would-be actors nobody ever saw. They came from Tijuana and San Diego.”
    â€œWhat else . . . ?”
    â€œNothing. I’m working on my own and makingmore progress than if I was part of a team. The gringo was killed, and I’ll bet it wasn’t because the murderer – man or woman – didn’t appreciate the quality of his films.”
    There was something the boss didn’t like. I could tell because the mottled flaps closed still further.
    â€œTell me about Cruz. He was a good witness. Why did you have to kill him?”
    As I said, he’s like a father to me.
    â€œBecause if I hadn’t, he would have killed me.”
    â€œFine. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you don’t have any problems. It’s a clear case of self-defence. We won’t allow anyone to suggest otherwise.” The Commander was starting to defend me – implicitly, that meant I was guilty. I suddenly realized we were both behaving like cats on the prowl.