Can you see any blood? Please don’t let there be any blood. I don’t want to shame my mother with the blood of the man I just killed.
“Maria Luisa Alvarez!” Concha shouted as they exited the short tunnel and stepped into an enormous outdoor compound. Various rooms surrounded the prison yard: dormitories, workshops and prison cells. Almost nobody was locked up in the cages. Women and little children, dressed in shabby street clothes, peeked out from the dormitories.
Concha conferred with a woman in dark military garb. She disappeared into an office and started rifling through the cabinets.
“You are looking for Maria Luisa Alvarez?” asked one of the prisoners.
“Si,” said Concha.
The prisoner took a long look at Esteban before calling them into her dorm.
The women had constructed their own little rooms in the giant space, using stick frames attached to blankets. Some had narrow bunk beds, some had cooking equipment and shelves for clothing, but they were all crammed on the rough cement floor like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Babies suckled on their mothers’ bosoms while others slept on makeshift mattresses. The air was stale with the odor of confinement and hair oil and piss and sweat.
“Maria Luisa Alvarez.” The lady walked over to her space and handed Esteban a rusted metal box. It was green, with a red circle in the middle that said ‘Lucky Strike’, and underneath, in gold letters: ‘Cigarettes’.
“No,” said Estaban. “I’m looking for my mother.”
“Si.” The prisoner pushed the box back into his hands. “Tu madre.”
Esteban opened the box. In it were the earrings MaMaLu had been wearing, a hair clip and a newspaper cutting. Esteban was about to shut it when he caught a glimpse of the headline. He spread out the crinkled paper and moved closer to the lantern so he could read.
‘LOCAL NANNY ACCUSED OF STEALING FAMILY HEIRLOOM.’
Esteban scanned the words below. They were filled with heinous, horrible lies about how MaMaLu had stolen Skye’s necklace and how it had been found in her quarters. In a statement issued to the police, when the necklace was returned to him, Warren Sedgewick had expressed his shock and disbelief:
“Maria Luisa Alvarez was a trusted employee and a friend of my wife’s. This necklace belonged to Adriana and means a great deal to my daughter. I find it hard to believe that Skye’s nanny would be capable of committing such a crime against our family.”
It all fell into place for Esteban. The night he had seen Victor leaving their room, was the night Victor had planted the necklace. The cops who had swooped in to take MaMaLu away were all in on it. Esteban had been naive then, but now he understood how it worked.
Nothing . . . permanent, Warren had said to Victor.
Victor had framed MaMaLu for a crime she didn’t commit, and Warren had made sure she stayed locked up with his fake statement. Esteban felt like an idiot, running to Casa Paloma, expecting Warren to help. Victor had followed orders, but it was Warren Sedgewick who’d issued them.
He was to blame for this. Him and the man they called El Charro. They had done this to protect themselves, because MaMaLu had seen them, she could connect them and all the other members of the cartel that had gathered at Casa Paloma that afternoon.
Look after it, Warren had said, because he didn’t want to get his hands dirty; he never wanted to get his hands dirty. He’d left in a hurry, in case it caught up to him, in case MaMaLu talked, in case El Charro changed his mind about letting him leave the country.
The two of them had left MaMaLu to rot in jail.
“Where is she?” Esteban turned to the guard. “Where is my mother?”
“Concha.” The guard who had been looking up files in the office stood at the entrance and held out a piece of paper.
Concha walked over to her and scanned it. “Sorry.” She looked at Esteban. “Maria Luisa Alvarez is dead.”