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you remember the son of Doña Librada, that nutcase who was your buddy? How could I not remember my pal Teo? Well, he said to hell with everything on the other side of the border, he bought a rig, and he’s driving around the country; he takes loads from Tijuana to Veracruz, from Culiacán to Laredo, and all over. Well, one of these days I’ll do something like that, how’s the Col Pop? Better than ever. Can you still score weed on the corner? Sure. Okay, I just called to see how you were, since you’re incapable of doing it. I appreciate it, truly. And what about your love life, kiddo? I’ll tell you about that some other time. That means you’re cold; don’t get stuck, remember love is renewable, any nail will pull out a tack. I’m all right, you’ll see when I tell you about it, do you think the Culiacán girls would let somebody like me be alone for long? No, that’s true, they must be tearing each other’s hair out over your bones. More or less. What about the blonde? Later, I tell you, how’s Isabel? We’re fine, going to fat but nothing else; okay, kiddo, say hello to the bros and take care of yourself.
    Briseño’s cubicle had his name printed on an acrylic strip glued to the door. Lefty went in. The chief, an overweight thirty-six-year-old, was drinking coffee and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. Family connections more than smarts or accomplishments had landed him the job. The detective sat down and waited for him to finish speaking on the telephone with his wife; he was giving her a recipe for fish wrapped in tinfoil he had found on the Internet. Photographs and certificates on the walls. Desk covered in documents and the computer turned on. No, mylove, he shouted, not mustard, no, do it the way I said, and he hung up.
    What’s up, Mendieta, how is it going with the Bruno Canizales case? We’re interrogating those involved, and as good luck would have it Paola Rodríguez, the principal suspect, committed suicide. Don’t forget who he is the son of, this is your chance. Chance for what? Don’t you want a promotion? No. What about this fine parchment? He threw a bulging brown envelope onto the desk. That I would like, they smiled, the detective put it in his pants pocket. Then he gave a quick overview of the day’s events. What’s your theory, Lefty? As of now none, given how tidy it all was, it doesn’t appear to be a crime of passion. Me, I’m inclined toward vengeance, the commander said; you know, straightening things up could just be a cover; his father is dreaming about the big chair in the presidential palace and that brings enemies out of the woodwork, the silver bullet might indicate the social standing of the killer. I’ll keep that in mind, too bad we couldn’t go over the crime scene carefully, remember you ordered us out. Lefty, don’t go all rhetorical on me, I’m sure you saw enough; besides Rodríguez, who else have you turned up? He told him. No doubt about it, you are a lucky man, you detest the narcos and the biggest of them all drops onto your chest; don’t hesitate, go get Marcelo Valdés and get his daughter too, and if they’re off traveling, go wherever you have to. Briseño’s cell phone rang, he saw it was his home number. How does it look? Perfect, now keep it on low for forty-four minutes, the detective stood up, Mendieta, he insisted covering the mouthpiece, this is your opportunity, don’t blow it, and he continued the conversation with his wife, no, my love, you don’t make sweet corn soup that way, what sort of mother did you have?
    He called Zelda Toledo into his tiny office. On the shamelessly peeling wall hung three diplomas that Angelita dusted with devotion and a Coppel department store calendar from the previous year. He brought her up to date: his chat with Laura Frías, Paula’s suicide, the silver bullet. She’d never heard of anyone being killed with a silver bullet. Haven’t you ever seen a vampire movie? No. Well, you ought to, he gave her