Neddo rose and disappeared into the confusion of his store. He returned with a skull on a crude wooden block, wrapped in blue gauze decorated with images of the sun. It had been painted black, apart from its teeth, which were gold. Cheap earrings had been screwed into the bone, and a crude crown of painted wire sat upon its head.
“This,” said Neddo, “is Santa Muerte. She is typically presented as a skeleton or a decorated skull, often surrounded by offerings or candles. She enjoys sex, but since she has no flesh, she approves of the desires of others and lives vicariously through them. She wears gaudy clothes, and rings upon her fingers. She likes neat whiskey, cigarettes, and chocolate. Instead of singing hymns to her during services, they play mariachi music. She is the “Secret Saint.” The Virgin of Guadalupe may be the country’s patron saint, but Mexico is a place where people are poor and struggling, and turn to crime either through necessity or inclination. They remain profoundly religious, yet to survive they have to break the laws of church and state, albeit a state that they regard as profoundly corrupt. Santa Muerte allows them to reconcile their needs with their beliefs. There are shrines to her in Tepito, in Tijuana, in Sonora, in Juarez, wherever poor people gather.”
“It sounds like a cult.”
“It is a cult. The Catholic Church has condemned her adoration as devil worship, and while I have a great many difficulties with that institution, it’s not hard to see that in this case there is some justification for its position. Most of those who pray to her merely seek protection from harm in their own lives. There are others who require that she approve the visitation of harm upon others. The cult has grown powerful among the foulest of men: drug traffickers, people smugglers, purveyors of child prostitutes. There was a spate of killings in Sinaloa earlier this year in which more than fifty people died. Most of the bodies bore her image in tattoos, or on amulets and rings.”
He reached across and brushed a little dust from beneath the empty sockets of the icon.
“And they are far from the worst,” he concluded. “More tea?”
He refilled my cup.
“The man who died in the apartment had a statue like this one hidden in the wall of one room, and he called on Santa Muerte throughout the attack,” I said. “I think he, and maybe others, used the room to hurt and to kill. I believe the skull came from the woman I was looking for.”
Neddo glanced at the skull upon his own desk.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Had I known that, I would have been more sensitive about showing you this icon. I can remove it, if you prefer.”
“You can leave it. At least I know now what it was meant to represent.”
“The man you killed,” said Neddo, “have they identified him?”
“His name was Homero Garcia. He had a criminal record from his youth in Mexico.”
I didn’t tell Neddo that the Federales were very interested in Garcia. The news of his death had drawn a great many telephone calls to the Nine-Six from the Mexicans, including a formal request from the Mexican ambassador that the NYPD cooperate in every way possible with Mexican law enforcement by providing them with copies of any and all material relating to the investigation into Garcia’s death. Former juvenile offenders did not usually excite such interest in diplomatic and legal circles.
“Where did he come from?”
I was reluctant to say more. I still knew little about Neddo, and his fascination with the display of human remains made me uneasy. He recognized my distrust.
“Mr. Parker, you may approve or disapprove of my interests, and of how I make my living, but mark me: I know more about these matters than almost anyone else in this city. I have a scholar’s fascination. I can help you, but only if you tell me what you’ve learned.”
It seemed that I didn’t have too much choice.
“The Mexicans are more interested in him than they should be, given his record,” I said. “They’ve provided some information about him to the police, but it’s clear that they’re holding back on more. Garcia was born in Tapito, but his family left there when he was an infant. He began training as a silversmith. Apparently, it was a tradition in his family. It seems he was melting down stolen items in return for a cut of the resale value, which led to his arrest. He was jailed for three years, then was released and returned to his trade. Officially, he was never in trouble again after that.”
Neddo leaned forward in his chair.
“Where did he practice his craft, Mr. Parker?” he said, and there was a new urgency to his voice. “Where was he based?”
“In Juarez,” I said. “He was based in Juarez.”
Neddo released a long sigh of understanding.
“Women,” he said. “The girl for whom you were searching was not the first. I think Homero Garcia was a professional killer of women.”
Harry’s Best Rest was less than busy when the Mercury, considerably dustier than before, pulled up in the parking lot. There were still rigs scattered through the darkness, but there was nobody eating in the diner, and any lonely trucker looking for comfort from the cantina women could have enjoyed a range of choice had he arrived earlier in the evening, although the attentions of the police in the aftermath of the Spyhole killings had somewhat depleted even their numbers. The cantina was locked up for the night, and only two of the women remained, slouched sleepily at the bar in the hope of picking up a ride from the man who remained with them, smoking a joint and sipping a last Tecate in the murk, the carnival lights that illuminated the bar barely touching his features.
Harry was out back, stacking beer crates, when Louis emerged from the darkness.
“You own this place?” he asked.
“Yeah,” said Harry. “You looking for something?”
“Someone,” Louis corrected. “Who takes care of the women around here?”
“The women around here take care of themselves,” said Harry. He smiled at his own little joke, then turned to go back inside. His partners would deal with this man, once he had informed them of his presence.
Harry found his way blocked by a small man with three days’ worth of stubble and a haircut that was a month past good. The guy looked like he was putting on a little weight, too. Harry didn’t mention that. Harry didn’t say anything, because the man at the door had a gun in his hand. It wasn’t quite pointed at Harry, but the situation was a developing one, and there was no telling right now how it might end.
“A name,” said Louis. “I want the name of the man who ran Sereta.”
“I don’t know any Sereta.”
“Past tense,” said Louis. “She’s dead. She died at the Spyhole.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Harry.
“You can tell her yourself, you don’t give me a name.”
“I don’t want any trouble.”
“Those your cabanas over there?” asked Louis, indicating three little huts that stood right at the edge of the parking lot.
“Yeah, sometimes a man gets tired of sleeping in his truck. He wants to, he can have clean sheets for a night.”
“Or an hour.”
“Whatever.”
“If you don’t start cooperating, I’m going to take you into one of those cabanas, and I’m going to hurt you until you tell me what I need to know. If you give me his name, and you’re lying to me, I’ll come back, take you into one of those cabanas and kill you. You have a third option.”
“Octavio,” said Harry quickly. “His name’s Octavio, but he’s gone. He left when the whore got killed.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“She’d been working for a couple of days when men came. One was a fat guy, real fat, the other was a quiet guy in blue. They knew to ask for Octavio. They spoke to him some, then left. He told me to forget them. That night, all those folks got killed up at the motel.”