"Welcome, welcome!"
Seeing three handsome men and beautiful women enter the living room, the elderly Latino man on the sofa put down his cigar, having only taken two or three puffs, and rose with some difficulty.
Caesar Calderón was short, barely standing shoulder to shoulder with Beckett, who was wearing flat shoes. He wore an embroidered silk shirt in a distinctly South American style, and around his neck hung a silver necklace strung with small, cheap turquoise stones.
This accessory was somewhat inappropriate for his status. According to the DEA documents, Calderón laundered at least nearly $100 million before his "retirement."
Jack's eyes swept over the Cuban cigar box on the table and the bottles on the nearby bar. These luxury items were consistent with his assets.
Although the documents listed Calderón as being in his early sixties, his graying hair and beard, the wrinkled skin on his neck, and his slightly slow movements gave him a sense of aging.
Jack had no interest in dealing with this kind of drug lord. He completely ignored the other party's outstretched hand and stepped aside, letting Beckett take charge.
"Mr. Calderon, I'm Detective Kate Beckett, and this is Agent Jack Tavola who's here to assist me, and..."
Beckett put on a fake smile and shook hands with the other party.
Calderon was well-mannered and didn't get angry at Jack's unfriendly attitude, or perhaps his attention was completely attracted by the great writer.
"Nice to meet you, beautiful lady, and you, sir, no need for introductions, I'm a big fan of your novels."
Shaking Cassel's hand, Calderon's weak voice couldn't help but raise its pitch slightly. Although he spoke in English, his Spanish accent was very heavy, and the pace of his speech was deliberately slowed down, giving people the illusion of watching a Mexican TV series.
"Whenever I want to revisit the blood-and-fire days of my early years, I turn to your novels, searching for those feelings. Of course, your new book is quite good, too. I'd even say that Nicky Vjego is my favorite protagonist."
Cassel looked slightly confused, but then suddenly realized. "Ah, I think you're talking about Nicky Hitt?"
He subconsciously glanced at Beckett beside him. The Nicky Hitt series, based on a beautiful detective, is now in its third installment, and Shangri-La is negotiating with the renowned author for the television adaptation rights to the first two.
"No, I'm talking about Nicky Vjego. I'm reading the Spanish translation. Have you read your own novels in Spanish?"
Calderón said, before Cassel could respond. "You should. Everything becomes more exciting and romantic when written in Spanish."
He kept looking Beckett up and down, clearly recognizing the model for Nicky Vjego.
"So, a bestselling author, a charming detective, and an FBI agent..." Calderon glanced at Jack, who remained expressionless, and gestured for everyone to sit on the living room sofa.
The middle-aged man who had initially opened the door for the three of them moved behind Calderon, observing them with a wary gaze.
"What can I do for you?" Calderon maintained his unhurried tone, as if to mask his noticeably weak voice.
Castle glanced at Jack, seeing he still had no intention of speaking, so he took the initiative to explain his purpose. "We're investigating a murder case and need your assistance."
Calderon appeared to be chatting with Castle, but in reality, he was secretly observing Jack. For some reason, from the moment this FBI agent entered the room, he felt a tingling sensation.
Jack's previous operations in Mexico were high-level covert operations. If he knew how much blood of South American drug lords this FBI agent had on his hands, he would probably be on edge.
Taking his attention away from Jack, Calderon calmed himself down and looked at Beckett, who was taking information out of the file bag. "Ah, that sounds interesting. Who was the victim?"
But the detective's response instantly wiped his forced smile from his face. "Valerie Monroe? No, Valerie's dead?"
He looked at Cassel in disbelief, and the great writer smiled back at him, bewildered.
"What's your relationship with Dr. Monroe?" Beckett noticed his expression and asked softly.
"She..."
Calderon opened his mouth, his already weak voice now sounding like a dream, or perhaps a soliloquy. "She's my..."
"She's my personal doctor." His lips trembled as he spoke these words with difficulty, closing his eyes in pain. It took a moment for him to recover.
"I have a heart problem. I had a heart attack six months ago, and my brother Manuel took me to the hospital."
At this point, Calderon glanced back at the middle-aged man standing behind him. The middle-aged man did look somewhat similar to him, and he looked back at his brother with a worried look.
Calderón, leaning against the armrest of the sofa, struggled to his feet, walked to the small bar, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. "Valerie was on duty at the time, and she took care of me, so I gave her an extra job as my personal physician."
The drug lord seemed to age ten years in an instant. He shakily picked up his glass and emptied it in one gulp. He then sighed in relief, as if the alcohol had given him the strength to continue.
"From that day on, my brother took care of me two days a week, and Valerie took care of me the other five."
The three people on the sofa exchanged glances, each seeing a hint of surprise in their eyes.
While they had long suspected something was going on between the two, this man's current behavior suggested genuine affection.
Forty thousand dollars a month was certainly a bit low for a mistress, at least not befitting the drug lord's status. But for a personal physician, it was a generous price, but not outrageous.
"So she's just your personal physician?" Beckett pressed.
The female detective's inquiries were routine, not expecting a candid response. The drug lord's evasive recounting of their relationship clearly indicated he was reluctant to speak frankly.
Unexpectedly, however, Calderón slammed his glass back on the bar and, as if realizing something, spoke loudly.
"No, she's my miracle. Valerie has revived me, brought me back to the world, and restored my faith in life."
Calderón's lips trembled, as if to declare. "She'll force me to go for walks in the park, to relax me."
He dropped his eyelids and stopped talking. After a long silence, he glared at Beckett, "Whoever committed such an evil act will have to pay for it."
"That's why we're here: to find Dr. Monroe's killer, Mr. Calderón," Beckett said, his tone still businesslike.
"Where were you between 7 and 9 last night?"
"I was right here." The fierce gleam in Calderon's eyes disappeared, and he walked back to his sofa and sat down. "I ordered room service, and the hotel staff can prove it."
(End of this chapter)