The Hidden Light of Mexico City

by Carmen Amato

  “I know. But let’s just do it as soon as we can.”

  “What about Lupe?”

  “She’s making a life with Tío and I need to accept it.”

  “The way she’ll have to accept that you’re making a life with me.” They moved gently in time to the music.

  “I’d like to send the girls to Santa Catalina,” Luz said. “If Tío’s there, he can do the rest.”

  “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.”

  “You’re a good man, Rodrigo,” Luz said against his shoulder.

  “Thought about a honeymoon?” Eddo asked.

  Luz was almost afraid to say it. “New York?”

  “The Guggenheim.”

  “But I don’t have a visa.”

  “My wife can get a visa.” Eddo swayed her as the guitars strummed a slightly faster riff. “So, first New York for the Guggenheim, then how about Madrid? We should go to the Prado and then the Museo del Ejército.”

  “Museo del Ejército?” That was Spain’s Museum of the Army.

  “I hear Tizona is on display there,” Eddo said.

  “Tizona,” Luz murmured. “I’d like that, Rodrigo.”

  “I love you, Jimena,” Eddo said into her hair.

  “I love you, too.” Luz felt the thread around her heart like the ribbon on a gift. Eddo would always have the other end and it would always stretch.

  The grass was cool and soft under her bare feet. Her head was in the right place against Eddo’s shoulder with the bump in the bone. Everyone else drifted out of the barranca. The party was winding down. Tío Bernardo was asleep in a chaise, Diego and the rest of the Los Hierros group were playing dominoes on the upper patio, aunts and uncles were picking over the desserts, the PAN contingent was having cognac, and Pilar was filling Bill with coffee.

  “Hey,” Eddo said. “You never told me who called you.”

  “What?” Luz yawned.

  “Upstairs. When we were talking. I was on one knee, if you recall, and your phone rang. Who was it?”

  “Oh.” Luz raised her head to look at him. So much had happened that night she’d all but forgotten the call. “It was Elaine Ralston. Guess how many of my paintings sold the first week the gallery was open?”

  Eddo stopped dancing and looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Four.”

  “Yes. All four.”

  “I knew it!” Eddo shouted, startling the mariachis.

  He lifted Luz off the ground and she tipped her head back and laughed. The sound echoed against the walls of the barranca and rippled past a thousand stars. Eddo’s hazel eyes sparkled silver at her and Luz was so ecstatically light that she was flying in his arms and time stopped because this was it.

  This was the moment she was supposed to have for the rest of her life.

  Epilogue

  The space was a paean to Mexican history, with an enormous framed antique Mexican flag stretched across one wall and vintage photographs of Mexican government landmarks on the other side of the room. The dark wood conference table could seat 40 and was half filled with the ministry’s top executives.

  The monthly event was equal parts status check and social gathering. A late lunch was always served; this time it was chicken broth with rice and egg followed by albóndigas en chipotle quemado. Monte Xanic merlot from Hugo’s favorite local winery accompanied the meal. Waiters took away the plates and set out a buffet of coffee and assorted postres, then discreetly left.

  Lorena carried her coffee to the head of the table and the meeting officially came to order. She said a few words about how happy she was to be there as the new Minister of Public Security and how welcome everyone had made her feel. She’d given up her presidential campaign to serve her country in its time of need, she stressed, implying that she really belonged at a higher level.

  She wound up her remarks to the group, with her wise yet sincere smile hiding the uncomfortable awareness that her audience appeared to be made of stone. Placards had been made with the name and office of each person and behind the placards all but one of the executives seated at the big table were men. All wore the same flinty expression. The lone woman was a tiny thing who at least had a small smile on her face. Lorena decided the woman would be her ally. Lorena’s your sister. She’d ask her to stay afterwards, be interested in whatever the Office of Special Investigations did, imply it could have a bigger budget.

  Lorena finished her remarks and gestured to the man on her immediate left. He was the head of the legislative liaison office and discussed some new law having to do with police retention and recruitment. There was a bit of discussion around the table that Lorena didn’t quite follow, and then the next man started talking about his office and what was going on there.

  When it was Conchita Félix Pacheco’s turn she mentioned that a new attorney had joined the office and they were at full strength for the first time since November. She didn’t say anything else, just turned to the next person around the table.

  The tiny woman was no doubt intimidated by being in a room of men. “Just a minute,” Lorena said magnanimously. “We’d all like to hear more about what your office is doing.”

  To Lorena’s surprise Conchita just smiled. “That’s all I have today,” she said.

  “Really, I must insist,” Lorena said.

  “Let’s keep going,” Ernesto Silvio said from his seat at Lorena’s right.

  The meeting continued as Lorena seethed that once again Ernesto Silvio appeared to be managing her affairs. She hadn’t wanted him to come to the ministry with her but Fernando had insisted that she’d need a new Chief of Staff. That had turned out to be a big job, with everybody except Lorena herself reporting to him.

  When all the discussion ended and Lorena adjourned the meeting, she asked Conchita to remain. To her chagrin, Silvio stayed in the room as well, chatting to the executives as they filed out the door. They all laughed at insider jokes Lorena didn’t understand.

  At last it was only the two women and Ernesto Silvio. The Chief of Staff puttered over to the dessert table. Lorena took advantage of his preoccupation and fixed Conchita with her wise, older sister look. “Please understand that I will be your patron here in the ministry,” Lorena said. “You can compete with these men, don’t let them intimidate you.”

  “Señora, I appreciate your consideration,” Conchita said. Her smile was cold when it should have been grateful. “I’m perfectly comfortable with my ministry colleagues.”

  “Of course you are,” Lorena said soothingly. “But it was obvious you didn’t want to say very much in front of them.” She patted the other woman’s forearm in a gesture of female solidarity. “I want you to know I think women have to speak up, demand to be treated as equals.”

  Conchita’s smile stayed in place but her eyes flickered over to Silvia and back before she spoke. “Most of the activity in my office is restricted and cannot be discussed in an open meeting like this.”

  “Well,” Lorena said, disguising the fact that she hadn’t known that some things would be classified. “You’ll have to brief me separately.”

  “Certain permissions are necessary and not everyone has them,” Silvio said. He had a plate of chocolate cake in one hand and a fork in the other as he came over to where the two women were standing by the head of the conference table. “Another dessert, Conchita?”

  “No, Ernesto.” Conchita’s smile for Silvio was genuine. “You know I don’t eat sweets.”

  He actually chuckled. “You spent too much time working for Cortez.”

  “I’ll see you next week, Ernesto,” Conchita said. She looked at Lorena, that coolness on her face once more. “Good afternoon, señora.” She picked up her purse, a very nice French leather bag, and left the conference room.

  Lorena turned on Silvio. “How dare you presume to dictate who is briefed and on what issues?” she snapped.

  “Authorization to access certain information is the law,” Silvio said and took a bite of cake.

  “Do
you mean to say,” Lorena said, realization dawning. “That I do not have the proper authorization?”

  “The President has instructed that you will not be authorized to see restricted information,” Silvio said. He put his cake plate on the table and moved to the conference room door. “So please do not press Conchita or any other department head for information you are not authorized to see.”

  He left.

  Lorena went into her office. It was a grand space and she’d filled it with framed pictures of her public appearances. She sat in Hugo’s chair, at Hugo’s desk, and thought about how confused everything had become. Once upon a time she was going to be president of Mexico.

  But now she was in jail and her own husband had provided the warden.

  Fin

  About the Author

  In addition to The Hidden Light of Mexico City, Carmen Amato is the author of the Emilia Cruz mystery novels set in Acapulco, including Cliff Diver, Hat Dance and the collection of short stories Made in Acapulco. Her books all draw on her experiences living in Mexico and Central America. She currently divides her time between the United States and Central America. Visit her website at carmenamato.net and follow her on Twitter @CarmenConnects.

  . . .And Her Next Novel

  Keep reading for an excerpt from Cliff Diver: An Emilia Cruz Novel by Carmen Amato, available at amazon.com.

  Chapter 1

  “It’s against Mexican law,” Emilia said.

  “Driving a car?” the gringo asked skeptically.

  “Just what is your relationship to the owners of this car and their driver?” Emilia asked. The man sitting next to her desk had yellow hair and a starched blue shirt and the impatient confidence all norteamericanos seemed to have.

  “The Hudsons come to Acapulco every few months.” He pulled out a business card. “I manage the hotel where they stay.”

  Emilia took the card. Kurt Rucker, General Manager, Palacio Réal Hotel, Punta Diamante, Acapulco. The Palacio Réal was one of the most exclusive and luxurious hotels in Acapulco, an architectural marvel clinging to the cliffs above the Punta Diamante bay on the southeastern edge of the city. Even the card was rich, with embossed printing and the hotel logo in the corner.

  “Let me explain,” Emilia said. She carefully laid the card next to the arrest file on her desk and tried to look unimpressed as she settled back in her desk chair. “A Mexican citizen may not drive a vehicle that carries a foreign license plate without the foreign owners of the vehicle being in it.”

  “So the problem was that the owners weren’t in the car,” Rucker said.

  “Yes,” Emilia said. “Señor Ruiz was alone in the vehicle.”

  “The Hudsons drive down to Mexico several times a year.” Rucker leaned toward her and one immaculate sleeve bumped the nameplate reading Detective Emilia Cruz Encinos. There were initials embroidered on his shirt cuff. KHR. Emilia resisted a sudden silly urge to run a finger over the stitching.

  “They always hire Ruiz when they come,” he went on. “They travel all over and he does errands alone. There’s never been any trouble before. Monterrey, Mexico City, Guadalajara.”

  “Well, señor.” Emilia moved her nameplate. “Here in Acapulco we enforce the law.”

  “Of course.” His Spanish was excellent. “I fully understand. But how do the Hudsons get their car back?”

  From across the squad room, Emilia saw Lt. Inocente watching her from the doorway to his office. El teniente nodded curtly at her then started talking to another detective. It was late afternoon and almost all the detectives were there making calls, writing up reports, joking and arguing.

  Emilia opened the file and scanned the report of the arrest of Alejandro Ruiz Garcia, charged with illegally operating a vehicle with foreign placas. Three days ago he’d been arrested in front of the main branch of Banamex Bank. Bailed out by a cousin the next day. Ruiz had been driving a white Suburban owned by Harry and Lois Hudson of Flagstaff, Arizona. The vehicle was now sitting in the impound yard behind the police station. The keys were in Emilia’s shoulder bag.

  “Why are you here instead of the Hudsons?” she asked.

  “They returned to the United States,” Rucker said. “Before they left they asked me to help get the car back.”

  “They left Mexico?” Emilia didn’t know why she should be so surprised. What was one car more or less to rich norteamericanos?

  “They flew. Said it was a family emergency.”

  Emilia closed the file. “Señor, in order for the Hudsons to regain possession of their car they must present proof of ownership.”

  “Of course.” Rucker passed a paper across the desk. “Here is their title to the vehicle.”

  It was a copy of an official-looking document. Emilia knew enough English to pick out words like name and number and address but it didn’t matter. The document was meaningless under Mexican law. She handed it back with a sigh. “Señor, they need to provide the history of the vehicle, including all sales transactions and verification of taxes paid every year of the car’s life.”

  “What?” His eyes widened in disbelief.

  They were the color of the ocean far beyond the cliffs at La Quebrada.

  Emilia had never seen eyes like that and it took her a moment to realize he expected an answer and another moment to untangle her tongue. “After six months, if they have not produced the necessary documentation, the vehicle becomes the property of the state.”

  The disbelief drained out of Rucker’s face as he realized she wasn’t joking. He exhaled sharply, as if he had the lungs of a swimmer, and his gaze traveled around the squad room, taking in the gray metal desks, ancient filing cabinets, and walls covered in posters, notices, and photographs from ongoing investigations. Most of the detectives were in casual clothes; those who’d been outside much of the day had shirts stained with sweat at the neck and underarms. All of them wore weapons in hip or shoulder holsters. Emilia wondered if he realized that she was the only woman there.

  El teniente went into his office and closed the door.

  “There’s a complicating factor,” Rucker said to Emilia. “The Hudsons’ cell phone is out of service. I was hoping that you could give me the contact information for their driver. He might have another number for them.”

  “I would have to check with my superior before giving out that sort of information,” Emilia said primly.

  “I’d appreciate it if you would and then call me.” Rucker stood and held out his hand. “Thank you very much, Detective Cruz.”

  “You’re welcome.” Emilia stood up, too, and shook his hand. His grip was dry and strong.

  Rucker smiled at her, a wide smile that lit his face and made the blue-green eyes. His teeth were perfectly straight and white.

  Emilia smiled back, caught, knowing this was the wrong place and the wrong time and the wrong man but unable to stop smiling at this gringo whose world of wealth and leisure was light years away from the barrio she came from. She wished she was wearing something nicer than her work uniform of jeans, tee shirt and the Spanish walking sandals that had cost two months’ salary. Her gun was in a belt holster and her straight black hair was scraped back into its usual ponytail.

  “Oye!”

  Emilia gave a start and dropped Rucker’s hand. Her partner Rico loomed over her desk.

  “You’re done here,” Rico said to Rucker, jerking his chin in Emilia’s direction, his leather jacket falling open to reveal his gun. “She’s got a man.”

  Emilia felt her face flush with embarrassment and anger, but before she could say a word, Rucker held out his hand to Rico. “Kurt Rucker. Nice to meet you.”

  The bustling squad room was suddenly silent. Lt. Inocente opened the door to his office and stood in the entrance again.

  Disconcerted, Rico shook hands. The handshake held for a fraction too long. Emilia watched Rico’s round face tighten. He let go first.

  Kurt Rucker nodded at Emilia and walked out of the squad room. The noise level went back to
normal.

  “Ricardo Portillo, you’re a pendejo,” Emilia hissed at Rico.

  “That gringo has a grip like the bite of a horse,” Rico said in surprise, flexing his hand painfully.

  “Don’t be lying and saying I’ve got a man unless I ask you to,” Emilia whispered hotly and slammed herself into her chair.

  “Stay with your own kind, chica,” Rico warned. There was an edge to his voice.

  “You’re not my mother.” Emilia jerked her chair around to face her computer, effectively ending the conversation. Rico made a snorting noise as he went back to his own desk.

  Emilia typed in her password and checked her inbox. A review by the Secretariat de Gobernación of drug cartel activities across Mexico. A report of a robbery in Acapulco’s poorest barrio neighborhood that would probably never be investigated. Notice of a reward for a child kidnapped in the nearby town of Ixtapa who was almost certainly dead by now.

  Emilia turned away from the computer and scanned the room. Silently she counted the detectives in the room. Including herself and Rico, eight of Acapulco’s ten detectives were there. Silvio, the most senior detective, was at his desk, as was his partner Fuentes. Gomez and Castro, the two most raucous men, were joking by the coffee maker. Macias was at the murder board wall copying something into a notebook about the latest set of virtually unsolvable cartel killings. Sandor was swearing quietly by the decrepit copier as he fooled with the paper trays. She knew that Loyola and Ibarra were out on a call that had come in after lunch. They were all accounted for.

  She took a roll of toilet paper out of her desk drawer and walked out of the squadroom.

  Maybe she shouldn’t care and just use the public women’s bathroom behind the holding cells but they weren’t going to scare her out of what she’d earned. As a detective she had the right to use the detectives-only bathroom. It was down the hall from the squadroom, quieter and brighter than any other facility in the building. The stalls had long since lost their doors and there was rarely any toilet paper but it was reserved for the elite of the police force and that included her.