Belascoarán rubbed his bad leg, the one that always ached when rain was coming. He looked at the single photo on his desk: a blurry shot of a man in a gray suit standing near the Tlatelolco ruins. The "Gray Ghost," as the papers were calling him, was rumored to be a fixer for the old guard, a man who could make problems disappear with a single phone call.
The man finally looked at him. His eyes were flat, like polished stone. "What do you want, Hector? I’m just a man cleaning up the past." BelascoarГЎn PI
He spent the next three days walking the streets, a ghost among ghosts. He talked to the shoe-shiners in the Zócalo, the taco vendors in Tepito, and the tired clerks in the city archives. He didn't ask for the man’s name; he asked for his habits. He learned the Gray Ghost liked his coffee black at Café La Habana and that he always carried a briefcase that looked heavier than it should. Belascoarán rubbed his bad leg, the one that
Hector lowered his gun. "Keep your secrets," he said, turning toward the exit. "But remember: eventually, even the ghosts have to go home." The man finally looked at him
"The traffic was a nightmare," Hector replied, leaning against a crate. "And I had to stop for a smoke."
His latest case wasn't about a missing person or a cheating spouse. It was about a shadow.