Down Among the Dead Men

8

Vargas didn’t believe in ghosts. His childhood had been full of the usual stories, like the tale of La Llorona, the inconsolable widow who wandered the countryside crying for her dead children. Or the shuffling specter of a murdered husband in search of his golden arm.

But Vargas had always taken such tales for exactly what they were: harmless folklore. Make-believe stories told in hushed tones by his older brother, Manny, who was always trying to get a rise out of little Nick as they huddled in the darkness of their bedroom.

Yet there was something about this place-a sense of foreboding-that brought the memory of those nights flooding back to him, and he knew that if his brother were still alive he’d be milking it for all it was worth.

Vargas followed Junior through the doorway into a small room with a dusty plank floor and faded yellow walls. More graffiti. The word paraiso — or paradise-was spray painted atop it all in bold red letters.

A decades-old sofa sat against one wall, its upholstery ripped to shreds, its stuffing long gone. There were a couple of tattered aluminum patio chairs next to it, probably brought in by squatters long after the house had been abandoned. A few used syringes and crushed cigarette butts were scattered around them.

“This room was empty,” Ainsworth said as he stepped inside behind Vargas. “We found it pretty much like it is now.”

“Through here,” Junior said, then crossed to a doorway on his left. Vargas followed, moving with him down a narrow, litter-strewn hallway to a large room with a sink and overturned icebox. Obviously the kitchen. Beyond it was another short hallway that ended at what seemed to be the only door left in the place, a dilapidated slab of wood with peeling blue paint and a hole where the knob should be.

Junior came to a stop just short of the second hallway.

“In there,” he said, gesturing to the door. “That’s where we found ’em. Me and Big Papa.”

“All four?”

“Five,” Ainsworth said behind him.

Vargas turned. “Four in there and the one outside, right?”

Ainsworth shook his head. “There were six bodies altogether.”

“But the police said-”

“I don’t give a good goddamn what those bastards told you. We found one outside and five in the room. Even Junior can do the math on that one.”

“But I spoke to the investigating officer. He said there were only five bodies.”

“Cops say a lot of things. Don’t mean it’s true. Especially down here.”

“Why would he lie?”

Ainsworth shrugged. “My guess is he doesn’t want anyone to know about the American gal.”

Vargas paused. “The what?”

“You heard me.”

Vargas frowned. He had personally gone over the police file and there was never any mention that one of the victims was an American, female or otherwise. It was true that the lead detective, Rojas, had declined to show him the crime scene photos, but that had merely been a gesture to protect the dignity of the victims.

At least that’s what Rojas had said.

But could the police files have been sanitized before Vargas got hold of them?

If Ainsworth was telling the truth, this put a whole new spin on things. And maybe all the time Vargas had spent on this story so far would turn out not to be a waste. Far from it.

Ainsworth grinned. “You ain’t no Mike Wallace, are you, son?”

“Cut the bullshit,” Vargas said. “Did you really find an American?”

With an impatient gesture, Ainsworth pushed past Junior and moved to the dilapidated blue door.

“Let me show you,” he said, then pushed it open and stepped inside.