She assumed he was a client. He was out of luck. The boss had taken the day off. “Mr. Costa is not working today. Do you want me to make you an appointment?”
The man shook his head. “I’ve come to talk to you, not him,” he said.
“Me?”
“Yeah. I’m Mateo Anaya. Dirección Federal de Seguridad,” he said and took out his ID, showing it to her.
Maite was poorly informed about many things. Politics, government, crime, she tried to ignore the world’s ills. But even an idiot knew what the DFS was. And like any Mexican with two brain cells, Maite also knew it was a lousy idea to talk to the police. Cops were more fearsome than robbers—and sometimes they were robbers too. But the secret police! The secret police were terrifying.
She had always lived with one simple philosophy: keep your head down and stay out of trouble. Now here was trouble looking for her.
She licked her lips and managed not to stammer. “What do you need, Mr. Anaya?”
The man took off his jacket and tossed it on her desk, on top of her typewriter. On his index finger he wore a ring with a big green stone. “It’s hot in here. Feels like you’re a lobster being boiled, don’t it? Well, I’ll try and be quick. I’m looking for a missing girl. Leonora is the name. Now, I understand you’re friends with her. You have any idea where she might be?”
He pulled up a chair, sitting down and leaning back, a grin across his face. Then he took out a box of cigarettes from the front pocket of his shirt.
“I take care of her cat,” she mumbled as she watched him light his cigarette.
“Sure, but maybe you’ve talked to her and stuff. Maybe you know where she is right now. Because, like I said, the girl is missing. Hasn’t been seen for days and days, and that’s pretty worrisome. Help me out, would you know where she is?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t know. I hardly know her.”
“Maite, come on.” The man took a puff from his cigarette, spreading his hands. “You’re hanging out with people from Leonora’s crowd. They’re a rowdy crowd too. Not nice folks, like you. Because you look pretty nice. Good, stable job, no issues with the law. It’s the way I like it. Those hippie kids? They’re bananas, Maite.”
“What?” she asked, so dumbly that the man chuckled.
“You’ve been seen in the company of subversive elements, darling, is what I’m getting at,” he said, as if he were spelling a word out for a child.
“Subversive elements? I don’t—”
“Rubén Morales? Ring a bell?”
“I’m not sure. I watch Leonora’s cat.”
“You’re not sure?” the man asked. “Weren’t you at a print shop recently, a shop where Morales works? And then, weren’t you having coffee with him? Do you want the addresses where you’ve met him? I got them here somewhere in my jacket.”
“No…I mean, yes. Yes, I’ve met Rubén.”
“Then you do know Mr. Morales. Tell you what, Mr. Morales has a file. Soon you’re going to have a file too. Unless you’re friendly. I like friendly people. I’m real friendly myself. A real chatterbox. Or so my colleagues say. What do your friends say? Leonora’s your friend, no? And Morales?”
“No! I barely know him…her. Both of them, I barely know her.”
“Her sister said you know her.”
“She’s mistaken.”
“Is she?”
He held the cigarette between thumb and middle finger and stared at her. She recalled, incongruously, that she’d once read an article in a woman’s magazine that said you could determine a man’s personality by the way he held a cigarette. But she couldn’t remember the personality types. She noticed the yellow nicotine stains on the tip of his fingers and wondered if those could also hold a secret meaning, like a zodiac sign.
Anaya waved his cigarette in the air. “So you’re telling me that you’re a casual acquaintance of Leonora and somehow the both of you know Mr. Morales? It’s a pretty big coincidence.”
“It’s because of the cat.”
“What about the fucking cat?” he asked. He was still smiling. It was a mockery of a grin. Suddenly he leaned forward, stretched out a hand, and caught her right hand with his own, his fingers tight around her wrist. He might be a chatterbox, but clearly he was growing tired of her inane answers.
She began to babble. “I told you already, I’m watching her cat. She said she was going on a trip and I should watch the cat. That’s what I’m doing…it’s a cat. That’s all it was about, that’s all we’ve talked about. I live in her building. I have no idea what she’s up to.”
She really didn’t, and the more the man looked at her, the more her brain became a blank slate, the scant details she did know about Leonora erased from her mind. She stared at him. Her silence seemed to irritate him, and he twisted her wrist. She winced but didn’t speak, and he waited, impatient, his fingers digging hard into her flesh.
“You sure you don’t know her better than what you’re saying?”
She shook her head no.
Diana and two secretaries walked in, laughing. Anaya released her hand and stood up, snatching his jacket and placing it under his arm.
“That better be the truth,” he said. “If you’re holding out on me, I’ll know. See you around, Maite.”
He walked out of the office. Diana and the others secretaries gave her curious looks. Maite stood up and with shaky legs managed to make it into the bathroom, where she sat on top of the toilet seat and waited for a good ten minutes. When she returned to her desk she fiddled with a stack of papers. She couldn’t concentrate. She was famished and anxious.
“I’m not feeling well,” she told Diana, after she gathered her things. “I’m going to head home.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“My stomach,” she lied. “Can you cover for me? Just in case Costa phones and needs something, could you? I’ll see you Monday.”
“Sure.”
Maite smiled and left before Diana could ask about the fellow who had been speaking to her earlier. On Monday, if Diana still remembered him, she’d invent a lie.
When she reached the street, Maite looked everywhere, fearing Anaya might be around, watching her. But she saw no one suspicious. Of course, that didn’t mean anything. Surely secret agents didn’t dress like in the James Bond movies, with a full tuxedo. Anaya certainly didn’t resemble Sean Connery. An agent could look like practically anyone.