by Carmen Amato
She nodded as he stepped back and closed the door.
“Jesu Cristo, Cruz,” Silvio said as he got behind the wheel. “You smell like a cigar factory. You’re going to stink up my vehicle.”
“You didn’t smell this good on your best day,” Emilia mumbled. She was asleep before Silvio drove around the corner.
Chapter 3
Emilia filed out of the church of San Pedro de los Pinos with her mother Sophia. As usual, Ernesto Cruz trailed behind. Emilia’s burned hand ached, it hurt to take a deep breath, and her hair still stank despite two showers and masses of shampoo. She would have felt better if she’d been hit by a car.
But Sophia had been upset when she saw the bandage on Emilia’s hand and started to cry when Emilia made the mistake of saying she’d been in a building that had been on fire. Ernesto had helped to diffuse the situation, distracting Sophia with talk of church and the social hour that Padre Ricardo always hosted in the church’s tiny garden after Mass. Although Emilia knew that Padre Ricardo would understand if she stayed home, she pulled her hair into a twist, dressed in a long skirt that hid most of the scratches on her legs, and pressed her sore muscles down the street to church.
The dark-haired priest always greeted his congregants in the tiny garden as they left the church. Padre Ricardo Suarez Solis was at least 50 years old and was the center around which the social life of the barrio revolved.
Emilia gave him the usual greeting of a kiss on the cheek and heard him sniff. “Don’t say it,” she murmured.
“You’ve been cleaning chimneys?” The priest gave her a questioning look.
“Restaurant fire last night.” Emilia held up her bandaged hand. “I helped get some people out.”
“Emilia!” Padre Ricardo’s eyes widened and he clapped his hands to his chest over his vestments. The priest had been her confidant for years, ever since she was small and had told the school she was an orphan living in the rectory in an effort to avoid Sophia coming to school for Science Day. Although he constantly had some church activity to organize, he was always available to talk. She probably would not have been able to get through the horrible ordeal of Rico’s death and the events surrounding it without him. “What happened?” he asked. “Were you working?”
“I actually was out for the evening.” Emilia managed a smile. “Nothing ends a date like the restaurant burning down.”
Her mother drifted to Padre Ricardo’s side. Sophia had on one of her flowered dresses with her hair loose and trailing down her back. Mother and daughter shared the same generous mouth, high cheekbones, chocolate eyes, and arched brows but Sophia’s guileless expression and floral clothing often made her look younger than Emilia. “Padre, this is Ernesto Cruz, my husband,” she said, introducing Ernesto the way she did every Sunday. “He was gone for a time but he’s back now.”
Emilia felt Padre Ricardo’s warning hand on her arm. “Yes, Sophia,” the priest said, his face showing nothing except pleasure at the encounter. “We’ve met before. How nice to see you again, Ernesto.”
Ernesto offered a work-roughened hand to the priest, and lines furrowed out from the corners of his eyes as he smiled in acknowledgment of the weekly introduction. His face was tanned from hours sitting in the sun, working his grinding wheel as he sharpened the neighborhood’s knives and scissors for a few pesos apiece. He wore a simple shirt and trousers, but they were clean and neatly pressed.
“If you need anything sharpened, you just bring it by,” Sophia went on. “Ernesto has his grinding wheel set up and he can sharpen anything.”
The pressure of Padre Ricardo’s hand against her arm reminded Emilia of the futility in telling her mother that everyone knew that Ernesto and his wheel were available in the courtyard of their house. The house that Emilia paid for and furnished. The house that she could not bring herself to deny him, a broken-spirited vagrant her mother had found wandering in the market a few months ago. His name was Ernesto Cruz, the same name as Sophia’s late husband and Emilia’s father. That Ernesto Cruz had died in a car accident when Emilia was small.
This Ernesto Cruz had left a wife in Mexico City after learning that his sons had died trying to illegally cross the border into El Norte. He’d wandered south, eventually fetching up at the market in Acapulco. Emilia had sent a letter to the wife but there had been no reply.
Either Sophia couldn’t understand that Ernesto already had a wife or had just decided to ignore the fact. Emilia wasn’t surprised at Sophia’s behavior; her mother’s inability to deal with hard decisions or complicated situations had forced Emilia to become the adult in their household at an early age. In this case, whenever Emilia brought up Ernesto’s marriage, Sophia either cried inconsolably or got angry at Emilia’s lack of respect for “her father.” Meanwhile, Ernesto blunted all of Emilia’s attempts with the simple phrase, “Sophia’s been good to me.”
Padre Ricardo smiled genially. “I hear Ernesto’s business is becoming very successful.” He gestured to the table on the other side of the garden that was laden with coffee and juice and pitchers of agua de jamaica. “Why don’t you help Sophia to a cafecita, Ernesto?”
Ernesto dipped his head and led Sophia to the table.
“He’s here to stay, Emilia,” Padre Ricardo said quietly.
“I know,” Emilia said. Her bandaged left hand was beginning to hurt and she cradled it in her right.
“Maybe this is a blessing in disguise,” the priest said. “You’re gone so much, maybe it’s good there is someone with Sophia.”
People milled about, waiting to have a few words with the priest. Emilia made to step away, but he held up thumb and forefinger pinched close together in the traditional wait a moment gesture. “Will you do me a favor, Emilia?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Can you speak to Berta Campos Diaz?” Padre Ricardo asked. “She’s the volunteer at the refreshments table this week.”
Emilia sighed. “Sure, I’ll do it next week.”
“Thank you for the offer, but the parish ladies have that taken care of.” Padre Ricardo shook his head. “No, this is about her granddaughter. The girl is missing.”
“Rayos.” Emilia usually tried not to swear in front of the priest, but today she was too tired and the word was out of her mouth before she could swallow it down.
“Yes,” Padre Ricardo said simply.
The priest was one of the few people who knew she maintained a binder of women who’d gone missing in Acapulco over the last few years, victims of Acapulco’s soaring drug violence or encounters with the wrong man. They were las perdidas—the lost. The binder currently held 51 names, women from the area whose lives had been reduced to a grainy photo and a sketchy biography. Most of their stories were sadly similar; they were young women from the poorest barrios, prostitutes, low-wage earners with little education. No one knew what happened to them, only that they’d disappeared one day and their families never knew why.
Emilia found some of them listed in Missing Persons reports, but more often she came across newspaper advertisements featuring a picture of the women and asking for information. When she could, Emilia combed police reports and the official records that were available to her in the hopes of finding out what had happened to those disappeared women. But closure was rare. The last woman whose picture she’d been able to take out of the binder had been found beaten to death by a common-law husband who was still at large.
“I’ll speak with her,” Emilia said. “I’m glad you let me know.”
She gave him a quick embrace and moved off as another parishioner greeted the priest. Emilia located Berta Campos Diaz behind the table. She was a dumpy woman like a hundred others in the barrio, with short permed hair streaked with a few strands of gray and a mouth set in a perpetual grim line that spoke of a lifetime of hard work, early widowhood, and family tragedy. Emilia steeled herself for the conversation to come.
“Emilia!” A deep voice called her name and she turned to see her cousin
Alvaro. He was a few years older, but they’d grown up together and she’d followed his path into police work. She gave him a hug.
“New perfume?” he asked and sniffed at her hair. “Charcoal?”
“Burnt cork,” Emilia said. The only way to avoid having to retell the story a dozen times was to shave her head. “I was downtown last night and the restaurant caught fire.”
“That restaurant near the Plaza las Glorietas that burned?” Alvaro raised his eyebrows as he saw the bandage on her hand. “It was in the newspaper this morning. They said that the mayor was there.”
“She was,” Emilia said.
“That was a very fancy restaurant, prima,” Alvaro said. “What were you doing there? Were you with the mayor?”
His expression was a mixture of curiosity and cool assessment.
Alvaro had been a cop longer than Emilia but was still in uniform as a sergeant. He’d never tried to climb the ladder by taking on dangerous assignments, but sought out jobs that kept him inside the central police administration building where he’d gathered an ever-widening network of those who knew all the right secrets. The strategy had paid off; he now ran the police department’s evidence locker in the main police administration building and had two junior uniformed assistants.
He’d been married for half a dozen years and his wife Daysi, who didn’t work, was pregnant again. They lived in a sizeable house not too far from what Emilia could afford on a detective’s salary, which was roughly double that of a uniformed cop in Acapulco. Alvaro and Daysi had furnished it nicely, and Emilia knew they had a color television, a computer, and modern appliances. Even a microwave. Daysi had a smartphone, too. Their son went to a private Catholic preschool.
“No,” Emilia replied. “I wasn’t with the mayor.” She glanced at the refreshments table. Berta Campos Diaz was still there, pouring coffee and keeping the table tidy.
“So you were just passing by?” Alvaro probed.
“The mayor was with Victor Obregon,” Emilia said, knowing her cousin would be distracted by this juicy bit of insider police information.
Alvaro’s eyebrows went up. “Business, you think?”
“I don’t know. They looked pretty cozy together.”
“Was anyone else with them?” Alvaro asked.
“Carlota had her security detail with her, but otherwise it was just the two of them.”
“The newspaper said the fire started right near where her security detail was sitting.”
Emilia nodded. “Three of her detail died.” The memory of the fire made her shiver and she hugged herself. “The place was a mess.”
“The names were in the paper,” Alvaro said. “I didn’t know any of them.”
Alvaro looked down as his young son pulled on his pants leg. He scooped up the boy, who leaned out from his father’s arms to give Emilia a slobbery kiss. He chattered at her, telling her some preschool adventure, and Emilia pretended to understand.
The little boy squirmed, apparently done telling Emilia about school. “I guess we need to find Mama,” Alvaro said, referring to Daysi. He raised an eyebrow at Emilia. “You stay safe, prima.” Alvaro gave Emilia a kiss, Emilia tickled his son’s chin, and father and son moved off.
Sophia and Ernesto were across the garden, her mother holding forth to a group of elderly ladies, Ernesto by her side as if he’d been trained to heel. Emilia slowly walked over to the refreshments table and got a cup of coffee. She added sugar and granulated plastic creamer and stirred. The simple motions made the pain in her hand flare, and suddenly she didn’t want to hear the story of the grim-faced woman on the other side of the coffee urn. All Emilia really wanted to do was to collect Sophia and Ernesto, walk home, and take a handful of the pain pills the ambulance attendant had given her last night. They’d let her nap, and when she woke up, she’d get a newspaper and read the report about the El Tigre fire. Make sure her name wasn’t in it. The only real defense a cop had these days against the drug cartels and their street gang disciples was anonymity.
She’d talk to Kurt, too. Hear his voice, not just the texts they’d exchanged that morning, to know he was all right.
Talk about this job offer in Belize.
Or not.
She put the community spoon back on its coffee-stained napkin and summoned up a smile for the woman behind the table. “I’m Emilia Cruz Encinos,” she introduced herself. “Sophia’s daughter.”
“I know who you are,” the woman said. “Padre Ricardo said you could help me.”
“Are you Berta?”
The woman nodded once. “I’m Berta Campos Diaz. I live on Calle Tulum. The sastrería.”
Emilia knew the tailor shop; it was only a few blocks away. “Padre Ricardo told me about your granddaughter.”
“Lila Jimenez Lata.” Berta’s face was stern. “She never came home.”
“Yesterday?” Emilia asked. “She didn’t come home yesterday?”
“Eight weeks,” Berta said. “Eight weeks ago last Thursday.”
Emilia’s heart sank. The longer a person went missing, the more stale the trail became. Eight weeks might as well be eight years. She mentally pulled out her well-worn list of questions. “Did you report her missing?”
“I walked all over,” Berta said with a sniff that implied Emilia should have known. “I knocked on every door in the neighborhood.”
“Did you report Lila missing to the police?” She knew Berta would not have enough money to call a private security company instead of the police the way a wealthy family would.
“Yes. They gave me this.” Berta had a battered vinyl satchel with her behind the drinks table. She pulled out a carbon copy of the standard police report form. Emilia put down her half-empty cup of coffee and took it.
The printing was so light as to be virtually unreadable. Squinting hard, Emilia made out the basics. The date on the form was 10 days ago. The signature at the bottom was an unrecognizable scrawl.
Emilia tried to remember if the name Lila Jimenez Lata had come up in the squadroom and was fairly certain it had not. She might have been busy with the El Pharaoh case, but the detectives reviewed cases every morning, and a missing girl would have gotten Emilia’s attention. “Exactly when did you see her last?”
“That day,” Berta said. “She went to school and dance class like always, but she didn’t come home.”
“How was she supposed to get home?” Emilia asked. “Walk?”
“The bus,” Berta said. “The driver is Maria Ochoa’s boy and Mercedes always waited with them, so it was all right.”
Despite the assurance, Emilia knew that many women disappeared around bus stops, victims of random drive-by snatches or unscrupulous bus drivers. She’d definitely follow up with both the driver and the dance teacher.
“Is there some relative she might be with?” Emilia continued down the mental checklist she’d used so many times before.
Berta shook her head. “No,” she said. “The pobrecita doesn’t have anyone else. Her father was my son. He was a good man.”
Emilia nodded. The aftereffects of the fire had sapped her and she didn’t feel strong enough to hear another story of bad choices, violent acts, or a gory death. Padre Ricardo had created a tiny oasis in the barrio, but Emilia knew it was an oasis encircled by danger. Yes, the tourists were still coming, filling the luxury hotels and dancing in clubs and sunning themselves on the beaches. But behind Acapulco’s sun-drenched façade, Emilia saw a tightening darkness. She found herself swaying with fatigue and thinking about Kurt. He was her light in that murk.
Emilia pulled herself back to see Berta still standing with her vinyl satchel held like a shield. The woman’s son was dead and her granddaughter was missing. People lived with such pain. The least Emilia could do was keep asking questions and not dissolve into an exhausted lump.
“Did she have a phone? Did you call it?” Obvious, but something she always asked.
“No phone,” Berta sniffed. “No calling boys.”
&nbs
p; “You said she went to school?” Emilia asked. It wasn’t uncommon for girls as young as 13 or 14 to go to work if their family needed the income. Many dropped out of school after the mandatory six years and worked as muchachas in the homes of the wealthy, earning a few thousand pesos each month.
“She goes to school,” Berta said. “The Colegio Javier. She has a scholarship.”
Emilia knew it. Colegio Javier was a private Catholic high school for girls. Not Acapulco’s most well-regarded, but certainly nicer than the public school Emilia had fought her way through.
“Friends?” Emilia asked. “A boyfriend?”
“Only girlfriends from school,” the older woman said. “No boys. I don’t allow her to be no puta.”
Emilia was surprised at Berta’s use of the coarse word, but kept at the questions. “Does she belong to any clubs? Do things with a church group?”
Berta nodded again. “She goes to dance class. And the Rosarians.”
“The Rosarians?” Emilia asked. She pressed her aching, bandaged hand into the warmth of the opposite armpit.
“A school club devoted to the Rosary and the Virgin,” Berta explained. “The girls collect clothes for the poor and toys for the children at Christmas.”
“And the dance class?”
“Mercedes Sandoval’s studio,” Berta supplied.
Emilia nodded. She knew who Mercedes Sandoval was, although they’d never spoken. Mercedes was from the same neighborhood and was a few years older than Emilia. When Emilia was young, Mercedes had been a successful ballroom dancer. Emilia and Sophia had lived with Alvaro and his brother and parents, and it was always an event when they all stayed up late to watch Mercedes and her late husband win ballroom dancing competitions on television. Sophia’s eyes had sparkled at the swirling fabric of Mercedes’s dresses and her handsome husband’s powerful moves. Emilia had recognized Mercedes once in a neighborhood shop, and the dancer still had the grace and athleticism of those days.