“This is Hollywood?” said Vega, speaking Spanish. “It is not as I imagined.”

I replied in his language. “Lots of people say that.”

“It is less…something.”

“Yes.”

Still looking around, but not at me, he said, “Would you like a job?”

“I have a job.”

“Excuse me, I mean, perhaps, a case?”

“This guy pulls a gun on me”—I gestured toward Castro—“and now you want to hire me to protect you?”

Castro slipped on a pair of sunglasses and then tried to stare me into submission. I would have tried it with the glasses off. “While I am here,” he said, “Comandante Valentín needs no other protection.”

I looked him up and down. Mostly down. “If you say so.”

“I do say it.”

“Uh-huh.”

He thrust his broad chest out and took a step toward me. “What do you mean?’”

Vega reached between us, gesturing toward a tree in a sidewalk grate beside the restaurant’s entrance. “Perhaps we could speak over there?”

I headed for the tree, with Vega at my elbow. When Castro tried to follow, Vega said, “Please comrade, if you would wait by the car?”

“But this idiot—”

“Fidel, this matter was decided long ago. Exercise the necessary self-discipline.”

The man aimed his sunglasses at me for another moment. When I failed to collapse from fear, he said, “As you wish,” then turned and walked back to the limousine, where he lit a cigarette.

Vega and I reached the shade below the tree. It was a welcome relief from the unseasonal January heat.

He wiped his forehead. “I apologize. He was a fine soldier, but he has very strong feelings now. Sometimes they overcome him.”

“We’ve all seen things we wish we could forget. It’s not an excuse.”

Vega stared at me. “I am surprised to hear you say that, Mr. Cutter. You, in particular, I mean. Were you not court-martialed and discharged from your Marine Corps because of… how did they put it? Conduct unbecoming a noncommissioned officer? Desecration of the dead? Oh yes, and failing to properly prevent or report misconduct by junior marines under your command?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Vega nodded. “Possibly. And there are things about my friend and comrade you do not know.”

I thought about Haley, out of her mind and flying toward the rocks. It was the single most important fact in my life, yet I knew almost nothing about it. There was a lot I didn’t know, a lot I would give my life to learn, if that was what it took.

Vega continued, “Now that you are a private citizen, you provide security? You drive people and keep them safe?”

“That’s right.”

“And sometimes you conduct investigations?”

“I’ll look into things for my regular clients when it’s connected to the security services I offer. But it’s not something I do on a stand-alone basis.”

Vega nodded, his eyes focused on something across the street. “I understand. But I hope you will make an exception in our case.”

“Are you saying you want to hire me for some kind of an investigation?”

“I do. May I explain why?”

“If you like.”

“There was a man, Arturo Duarte Toledo Ramos, who was the mayor of Cobán. That is a city of about one hundred thousand, and as you may recall, it is the capital of our state of Alta Verapaz?”

“Go on.”

“Toledo claimed to be a coffee grower, but his main business was politics. Which is to say, of course, that he was a thief and a murderer. Over the years he imposed many unofficial taxes on the people, which he called ‘fees,’ and he confiscated much property. Those who spoke against him were disappeared, or if their presence remained necessary to the junta for some reason, members of their families disappeared. Either way, nobody opposed Toledo for very long. Ríos Montt was Toledo’s original patron, of course, but nothing changed when Mejía overthrew Ríos Montt, or when Vinicio Cerezo took over after that. Our dictators came and went, but Toledo was a master politician and managed to survive no matter who was in control. He preyed on the people of Cobán for over twenty years. Finally in 1999 we had truly free elections. Like all the other cockroaches running from the light, Toledo left Guatemala. But there were rumors he had amassed a fortune worth more than sixteen million by that time.”

“Dollars?”

“Yes, Mr. Cutter. And every bit of it was stolen from the people.”

It was a lot of money for an impoverished country like Guatemala. I said, “Go on.”

“We do not know where he went at first, but he showed up in Mexico City in 2001. There he met Doña Elena Trujillo, the actress. You have heard of her, perhaps?”

“Of course.”

Vega nodded. “Yes, she has become quite famous in your Hollywood. But at that time, she was merely acting in what I believe you call a Mexican soap song?”

“Opera.”

“Ah. I knew that was not right. A soap opera, yes, on the Mexican television. She was not as famous then, at least not yet famous in the United States, but she was always very beautiful, of course, and Arturo Toledo was known to be quite rich, so it surprised no one when they were married. Then they moved here. Many people said it was so Doña Elena could become a movie star with her beauty and his money.”

“It’s coming back to me. I think I was out of the country at the time, but wasn’t her husband murdered?”

“Yes.”

“And that was this husband? Toledo?”

“Exactly.”

A woman passed us on the sidewalk, pushing a grocery cart piled almost eight feet high with a collection of seemingly random items tied in place with a spiderweb of different lengths of rope and cord. I saw plastic garbage sacks overflowing with clothes, a boom box lashed in place, a table lamp with the shade crumpled, a pair of hedge shears, and many other unrelated objects.

The woman could have been twenty, or she could have been sixty. It was impossible to tell beneath the grime; and the very large sunglasses she wore; and the purple hat with a wide, floppy brim; and the filthy pair of men’s penny loafers; and the red-and-white-striped leggings under a Lakers T-shirt, which hung like a dress to her knees. She argued with thin air as she pushed the cart along. A schizophrenic, probably. I recognized the symptoms. Where I had been lately, I had seen a lot of that.

I noticed that the ropes and cords around her worldly possessions had begun to move. I watched as they writhed in and out among her things like snakes among a pile of rocks. I told myself it wasn’t true. The ropes weren’t really writhing. I looked away.

I said to Vega, “It was a kidnapping gone wrong, if I recall. The kidnapper took Doña Elena. Her husband was killed when he delivered the ransom money, and they never caught the guy.”

“It was not a guy, Mr. Cutter. It was a woman. Alejandra Delarosa, who was Toledo’s mistress.”

“With a sex symbol like Doña Elena as his wife, he also had a mistress?”

Comandante Valentín shrugged. “It is not uncommon.”

Now that I had remembered some of the story, the rest began to come in bits and pieces. I remembered seeing pathetic videos that had been released by the police and posted on the Internet. Doña Elena begging for her life. Mascara running down her cheeks. Dried blood at the corner of her mouth. And her masked captor, in an olive-drab uniform, standing behind her, forcing her to state demands, pressing an old Colt automatic against her temple.

I looked hard at Vega. “They said it was you guys. They said the URNG did it to get Toledo’s money back.”

“They lied.”

“The kidnapper claimed to be with the URNG.”

“Our movement was not involved, Mr. Cutter. And we want to hire you to prove it.”

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