“Last night, when you told me about your mother-in-law’s message, I checked what I could… without getting into trouble. I can’t see “everything,” he said, “but I do see transactions, and… Joaquín, that account doesn’t behave like an elderly lady’s.”
Joaquín looked down.
Deposits of $800, $1,200, $2,000… every week. And what chilled him to the bone: every time he deposited $300, the next day that money would be transferred to another account Joaquín didn’t recognize.
“This isn’t for paying the electricity bill or rent,” Óscar said, lowering his voice. “This is moving money around, like… traffic.”
Joaquín crumpled the papers.
“And the account address?”
Óscar swallowed.
“It’s not what you think. It’s registered to an apartment building in the San Bernabé neighborhood. It’s not a lady’s house, Joaquín. It’s one of those places where nobody asks any questions.”
Joaquín felt a void beneath his feet. He rubbed the back of his neck.
“And my mother-in-law’s phone number?”
Óscar pulled out his cell phone.
“I looked it up. It’s under someone else’s name. Leticia Rangel isn’t even listed.”
A heavy silence hung between them.
Óscar handed him a card.
“I don’t want to scare you, but… hire someone. Valeria Cruz, a private investigator. She specializes in financial fraud. And another thing: that account receives payments from other people too. You’re not the only one.”
Joaquín felt the weight of the business card in his hand as if it were made of lead. Valeria Cruz. Private Investigator. The card was cheap, matte white with black lettering, without any ostentatious logos.
—Do you think it’s necessary, Oscar? —Joaquin asked, his voice breaking, his gaze lost in the steam rising from his untouched coffee cup.
Oscar sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“Buddy, if it were just your mother-in-law spending money on bingo or expensive medicine, I’d tell you to leave it alone. But this…” He gestured to the crumpled papers on the table. “Multiple depositors. Immediate withdrawals to shell accounts. Fake names on the phone lines. This reeks of organized fraud. And if your name’s on it, putting money in every month, when the bomb explodes, the prosecutor’s office isn’t going to ask if you did it out of love for your late wife. They’re going to take you down.”
The mention of the prosecution was like a bucket of ice water. Joaquín thought about Camila. About who would braid her hair if he wasn’t there. About who would explain to her why her father was in jail for financing who knows what.
—Thank you, Oscar—he murmured, putting the card in his work shirt pocket, right over his heart.
When his friend left, the silence in the house felt oppressive. It was eight in the morning. He had to go to work; he had an installation pending at an office in San Pedro, a well-paying job he couldn’t afford to lose. But the engine of his life seemed to have broken down.
Camila came out of her room, rubbing her eyes, wearing the unicorn pajamas that were already getting too short for her.
—Who came, Dad?
—Your uncle Oscar, honey. He came by quickly before going to the bank.
—Ah… —she yawned—. Is breakfast ready yet?
Joaquín looked at her. He saw Marisol’s eyes. The same way she raised her left eyebrow when she was hungry. He felt a surge of rage so intense he had to clench his fists on the kitchen counter to keep from screaming. Someone was taking advantage of this. Someone was using the memory of this sacred woman, the mother of his daughter, to extract money he barely had.
—Yes, my love. Sit down. The quesadillas will be ready in a moment.
As he cooked, his mind worked faster than his hands. He remembered the last few times he’d tried to see Leticia. “Don’t come, son, I’m really sick with the flu, I don’t want to give it to the baby.” “I can’t today, I’m just leaving for the doctor.” Always excuses. Always by text or brief calls where her voice sounded distant, tired.
Was it really her?
She pulled out her phone. The message from the night before was still there, blinking like a silent threat.
*“I need to talk to you about the payment method. Call me today.”*
Joaquín took a deep breath. If he wanted answers, he had to go into the lion’s den, but carefully. He dialed the number.
One, two, three tones.
-Well?
The voice on the other end froze him. It was raspy, dry. Yes, it sounded like Leticia, but there was something… a metallic undertone, a lack of warmth he didn’t remember, not even in his worst moments of grief.
“Doña Leticia,” Joaquín said, trying to keep his voice from trembling. “It’s me, Joaquín. I received your message.”
There was a pause. There was background noise, like heavy traffic or a television playing at full volume.
—Ah, Joaquín. Yes. It’s good that you called.
—Are you okay? There’s a lot of noise.
“I’m… I’m out. I went to the pharmacy,” she replied quickly. Too quickly. “Look, about the money. The bank is charging me a lot of fees on that account. I need you to deposit it this month at Oxxo. To a Saldazo card. I’ll send you a picture.”
Joaquín felt his skin crawl. Óscar had warned him about that. Saldazo accounts were harder to trace, ideal for quick and anonymous transactions.
“Excuse me, Mother-in-law…” Joaquín lowered his voice, turning away so Camila couldn’t hear him from the table. “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen you. Camila’s been asking about her grandmother. Why don’t I stop by today and drop off the cash? That way you save on the commission and you can say hello to the little girl.”
The silence on the other end lasted so long that Joaquín thought the call had been cut off.
“No,” the voice said, sharp and harsh. “I’m not home. I’m staying with my sister for a few days. I’m not feeling well, Joaquín, I’m not up for visitors. Just deposit the money. I need it by two o’clock today. The medicine can’t wait.”
—But Mrs. Leti…
—Do it for Marisol, Joaquín. You promised me.
*Click.*
The call cut off. Joaquín stared at the phone with a mixture of nausea and disbelief. That last sentence. *“Do it for Marisol.”* It was the exact trigger. The master key they had used for five years to unlock his wallet and his conscience. But this time, the key didn’t turn. It broke inside the lock.
He served Camila breakfast, dressed in his work uniform—thick denim pants, a blue shirt with the faded logo of “Hernández Electricity,” and safety boots—and took the girl to school.
—Be good, shorty. I’ll pick you up at the exit.
—Yes, Dad. Hey… are we going to have electricity on Monday? I heard you were telling Uncle Oscar about some money.
Joaquín felt a pang in his chest. The girls heard everything; they understood more than anyone could have imagined.
—Don’t worry about it. I’ll take care of it. The power won’t go out. I promise.
And he was a man of his word.
Instead of going to San Pedro, Joaquín turned the wheel of his old Ford pickup truck toward downtown Monterrey. He had to see Valeria Cruz.
The address on the card led him to an old building near the Alameda, an area where cheap law offices mingled with dental clinics and pawn shops. He climbed two floors up a staircase that smelled of damp and cigarettes.
The door to office 204 was ajar. Joaquín knocked.
“Come in,” a female voice shouted from inside.
The office was small, crammed with metal filing cabinets, and a pedestal fan whirred furiously in one corner. Behind a wooden desk that had seen better days sat a woman of about thirty-five. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, she wore thick-framed glasses, and she was typing furiously on a laptop.
“Valeria Cruz?” Joaquín asked, taking off his cap.
She looked up. She had dark, analytical eyes, the kind that scan you and know how much money you have in your wallet and what you had for breakfast.
—That’s me. Are you Oscar Salas’s friend? He sent me a WhatsApp message letting me know you were coming. Sit down, move that box away.
Joaquín moved a box full of files and sat down in the plastic chair. He felt out of place, large and clumsy in that small space.
—Oscar told me that you know about fraud.
“I know about a lot of things. Fraud, infidelity, people who don’t want to be found… and people who find what they shouldn’t.” Valeria closed her laptop and interlaced her fingers. “Now, show me what you’ve got.”
Joaquín took out the papers Óscar had printed for him and handed them to Valeria. She reviewed them silently. Her expression didn’t change, but Joaquín noticed how her eyes lingered on the numbers, the dates, the locations.
—San Bernabé— she murmured. — A troubled neighborhood for a grandma’s savings account.
—That’s what Oscar said. And… the phone number isn’t in my mother-in-law’s name.
—Did you talk to her?
—An hour ago. He asked me to deposit money into an Oxxo card. He told me not to go to his house.
Valeria let out a dry, humorless laugh.
—Classic. Look, Joaquín, I’m going to be blunt with you. This looks exactly like a money mule ring. They’re using accounts belonging to elderly or vulnerable people to launder small amounts of money, or worse, someone impersonated your mother-in-law a long time ago.
—Did he impersonate someone? But… the voice sounded similar.
“Older people’s voices change. Or they can imitate them. Or…” Valeria looked at him intently, “your mother-in-law is involved in this, willingly or unwillingly. Sometimes the grandchildren, the nephews, or the ‘caregivers’ take control. They take away their cards, their phones, and leave them living in poverty while they collect the money.”
Joaquín felt the blood rush to his head. The image of Doña Leticia, kidnapped in her own home, or manipulated, made his stomach churn.
—How much do you charge for research?
Valeria sighed and scribbled a number on a small piece of paper. She slid it across the desk.
—That’s for starters. Operating expenses, gas, and my time. If I find something and we have to get lawyers or the police involved, that’s separate.
Joaquín looked at the figure. 3,500 pesos.
It was more than he had available. It was enough for the electricity bill and a little food for the week. Or it was enough for the transfer to his mother-in-law for the next ten months.
He thought about the $300. At the current exchange rate, that was almost 5,500 pesos. He had that money set aside in an envelope at home, ready to be sent today. If he gave it to Valeria, there wouldn’t be a transfer for “Leticia.” And if there was no transfer, what would happen?
“I don’t have all this right now,” Joaquín admitted, looking down. The shame of poverty always stung, even if you worked from sunrise to sunset.
Valeria watched him for a moment. She saw his calloused hands, full of small cuts and burns from cables. She saw his clean but worn clothes.
“Give me half now,” she said, softening her tone slightly. “And the other half when I hand in the first report. But I’m warning you, Joaquín: if we scratch the surface of this, we’ll find snakes. Are you sure you want to know?”
Joaquín thought of Marisol. Of his promise. *“Don’t leave my mother alone.”* If Doña Leticia was being abused, leaving her like that was breaking the promise. And if she was part of the deception, then the promise was a lie. Either way, she had to know.
-Sure.
He took out his wallet and counted the bills he had brought for the materials for the San Pedro project. He would have to come up with something with the architect to get an advance or buy the materials on credit. He put 1,800 pesos on the table.
—Start now —said Joaquín—. Please.
Valeria nodded and put the money in a drawer.
—Okay. First, we need to verify that address in San Bernabé. And I need your mother-in-law’s actual address, the last one you knew.
“She used to live in the Mitras neighborhood, in an old house. But two years ago she told me she was moving to something smaller, that she’d sold the house. She never gave me the new address, she said it was temporary…” Joaquín stopped, realizing how stupid he sounded out loud. “God, I was an idiot.”
—Grief blinds us, Joaquín. Don’t beat yourself up. Leave it to me. I’ll call you tomorrow.
Joaquín left the office with lighter pockets and a heavier heart. He got into his truck. The midday heat in Monterrey was already at its peak, 38 degrees Celsius (100 degrees Fahrenheit) that made the air dance across the asphalt.
He started the engine, but didn’t head for San Pedro.
His hands, of their own accord, turned the steering wheel north. Towards San Bernabé.
He knew it was stupid. Valeria had told him she’d take care of it. He wasn’t a detective, he was an electrician. But helplessness was a powerful motivator. He just wanted to see. He just wanted to walk past those apartments where the bank account that had swallowed five years of his hard work supposedly lived.
He drove down Aztlán Avenue, watching the cityscape change. Glass buildings and shopping plazas gave way to auto repair shops, street taco stands, and unfinished self-built houses, their rebar pointing skyward like accusing fingers.
He arrived at the location Oscar had written down for him:
Fresnos Street, number 402.
It was a three-story building, painted a peeling melon color. On the ground floor, a metal shutter was closed with a sign that read “Cell phones and computers repaired.” Upstairs, the windows had rusty bars. Laundry hung from the balconies.
Joaquín parked on the opposite sidewalk, with the engine running and the air conditioning struggling to cool the cabin.
He watched.
For ten minutes, nothing happened. Just a stray dog looking for shade and a couple of children playing with a deflated ball.
Then the side door of the building opened.
A young man, in his early twenties, came out. He was wearing a tank top, had tattoos on his arms, and wore a baseball cap backward. He walked with that characteristic swagger of someone who feels like he owns the sidewalk. He stopped at the corner, took out a cell phone, and started typing.
Joaquín squinted. The guy had two cell phones in his hand. He was typing on one, then looking at the other.
Suddenly, Joaquín’s cell phone vibrated in the passenger seat.
He looked at it.
Message from Leticia Rangel: *“Did you make the deposit yet? I need to buy the pills before the pharmacy closes. Don’t do this to me, son.”*
Joaquín looked up at the guy in the corner.
The man had just taken a cell phone out of the car and was scratching his nose, waiting.
A coincidence. It had to be a coincidence. There were millions of people in Monterrey sending messages at the same time.
Joaquín felt a suicidal urge. He picked up his phone and typed: *“I’m on my way to Oxxo. I’ll get it for you.”* And he pressed send.
He glanced at the guy in the corner.
A second later, the man looked at one of his cell phones, read something, and smiled. A crooked, mocking smile. He started typing again.
Joaquín’s phone vibrated: *“Thanks, son. God bless you. Send me a picture of the receipt.”*
Joaquín’s world stopped. The noise of traffic disappeared. Only the buzzing of his blood in his ears remained, and the image of that man, that stranger, calling him “my son” with his fingers, pretending to be Camila’s grandmother.
The rage she felt wasn’t hot. It was cold. Calculating.
That guy had Camila’s money. That guy had mocked Marisol’s death.
Joaquín turned off the truck’s engine.
He knew he shouldn’t get out. He knew he had a daughter waiting for him. He knew Valeria Cruz was the professional.
But he also knew that if he left then, he’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again.
He reached under the seat. There he kept a heavy, wrought-iron, 18-inch pipe wrench, his tool for the most stubborn pipes. He weighed it in his hand. The metal was hot from the sun.
He wasn’t going to hit him. He wasn’t a murderer. He just wanted to scare him. He just wanted to know who he was and where Leticia was.
He opened the truck door and got out. The heat hit him full force.
He crossed the street.
The guy in the cap was still engrossed in his phones, leaning against the melon-colored wall. He didn’t see Joaquín coming until his shadow fell right on top of him.
The man looked up. His bloodshot, glassy eyes shifted from surprise to a quick assessment. He saw the electrician’s uniform, he saw the wrench in his hand, he saw the unfriendly face.
“What’s up, boss? Can I get you anything?” the guy said, putting the cell phones in the wide pockets of his pants.
—Yes —said Joaquín, and his voice sounded deeper than usual, vibrating in his chest—. I’d like to know how my mother-in-law is doing.
The guy frowned, confused for a second.
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