“The CIA,” Rubén repeated.
“That’s what she said. It would make quite the story. The problem was that Leonora didn’t carry any evidence with her. No pictures, nothing. She told me she was keeping the negatives in a safe place but wouldn’t say where.”
“Maybe she didn’t know if she could trust you.”
Jessica chuckled and grabbed an ashtray made of barro negro, tossed the cigarette into it. “Maybe. Maybe she was getting cold feet. She kept insisting that she didn’t want the names of certain people in the story. She wanted to make sure no one in her family would be identified.”
“What did you tell her?” Maite asked.
“I couldn’t promise her that. If what she was telling me was accurate, then that family member of hers was a top-ranking military man who recruited and trained Hawks. His name was bound to come up.”
“What happened in the end?” Rubén asked.
“In the end, she said she needed time to think about this. I gave her my phone number, told her to call me. She didn’t.”
“And you heard nothing from her at all?”
“No. Frankly, I didn’t think she’d cooperate. You get a feeling for this stuff. The people who’re willing to talk and the ones who won’t give you anything. She gave me very little. It was a great story, but there was nothing solid behind it to make it stick. I figured I’d pursue other channels.”
“But you think she did have the photos?”
“Probably. She was scared. Very scared. Can’t say I blame her. There’s a reason why I live in Cuernavaca: it’s harder to be placed under surveillance outside of Mexico City.”
They were quiet. There was a low hum. Air conditioning, perhaps, for this was a nice house and it was cool inside. The journalist was not a starving one. If she’d had the chance, Maite would have loved to steal something from this place. A little figurine from the bookshelf, or the ashtray. But she was clasping her hands together, and it was impossible considering where she was sitting.
“Did Emilio tell you Leonora would be visiting you the day she came?”
“He had mentioned something about a girlfriend of his who had a story I might be interested in, but no. We didn’t speak that day.”
“Afterward, did you talk to him?”
“I didn’t. I’ve been busy.”
Maite looked at Rubén, frowning, wondering why he was asking about Emilio. He’d had nothing to do with this.
“Was there anything Leonora said that struck you as odd?”
“Aside from the fact that she was being secretive and nervous? Come on.” The journalist smiled and grabbed her glass again, letting out a low chuckle.
“We’re trying to look for any clue that might allow us to find her.”
“You might ask the man who dropped her off here. After all, he was driving your car.”
They both stared at the journalist, too stunned to reply. Finally, Maite licked her lips and spoke. “Our car?”
“Or one that looked very much like it. I’m pretty sure it’s that one, though. It was red, at any rate. The man didn’t come in; he waited for her and then they drove off together.”
“Can you describe him?” Rubén asked.
The woman nodded. “Yeah, a little. I got a quick look. He was young. Brown hair, glasses. He was wearing a bandana and had on a blue jacket. Does that help?”
“It does,” Rubén said, getting up quickly. “Thanks. We should head back.”
“Wait, let me give you my card,” the woman said, standing up and going to the bookcase, where she took a business card from a plain, white cardboard box. “If you find your friend, tell her to call me. I can help get this story out.”
“Sure,” Rubén said, stuffing the card in his pocket.
“Tell Emilio I say hi.”
