by Carmen Amato
Emilia wished she’d brought a pencil and paper with her, but the morning was supposed to have been just a brief walk to church and then home again. “I’ll need to keep this,” she said, indicating the copy of the police report. “I’ll come by tomorrow after work to get a list of her friends’ names, where they live, any phone numbers she kept. A recent photo would be good, too.”
“So you’ll find her?” Berta asked abruptly.
Emilia was struck by how little emotion the woman had shown during their conversation. Berta clearly was a woman for whom tears did not come easily. Maybe she’d cried enough when she was young. Now that she was older, she knew that tears did not mend broken things.
“I’ll look for her, Berta,” Emilia said.
“You’ll need my cell phone number,” the woman said with a sniff, as if she didn’t think Emilia could really be useful, and dug out an old-model phone from the recesses of the big vinyl bag.
Emilia keyed in Berta’s number, pressing buttons with a forefinger to avoid aggravating the burn. There was a touch on her shoulder and Emilia turned to see Sophia. Ernesto Cruz stood limply by her mother’s side.
Sophia nodded congenially at Berta. “Berta, have you met my husband, Ernesto?”
“Mucho gusto,” Berta said without changing expression.
Emilia wondered how many times Berta had met Ernesto. Padre Ricardo joined the group and gave Emilia a knowing look. “I see that you two have discussed Lila,” he said. “Emilia, I know that if anyone can find Lila, you can.”
“Do you need Emilia to find something?” Sophia asked Padre Ricardo. “I’m sure she can help.”
“Mama, let’s go home now,” Emilia said.
“Ernesto, maybe you can see the ladies home,” Padre Ricardo said. Emilia gave him a grateful smile.
“Emilia’s very good at finding things,” Sophia repeated brightly to no one in particular as Ernesto steered her toward the church gate and Emilia fell in behind. “Just like her father.”
Chapter 4
“Nice that you could make it, Cruz,” Lt. Rufino said. He pointed to Emilia’s bandaged hand. “Serious?”
“A little stiff,” Emilia admitted. “But I’ll be fine.”
“Make sure the clinic treats you right,” he said. “Let me know if they give you any problems.”
“Thank you, teniente,” Emilia said. She’d stopped by the clinic in the central police building on her way to the smaller police station on the west side of town that housed the detective unit. Business was slow that Monday morning, and in just a few minutes the nurse had rebandaged her hand and sent Emilia on her way.
He jerked his chin at the squadroom door. “Take a seat. We’ll be starting momentarily.” Lt. Rufino walked off down the hallway, his ever-present travel mug in his hand.
Most of the conversations with Lt. Rufino were like the one she’d just had: brief, to the point, and no longer than they had to be. In the few months he’d been in charge of the detectives in Acapulco, Lt. Rufino had made minimal efforts to get to know his underlings and usually wore an air of slight distraction, as if he was concentrating on a thorny work problem and could only lend part of his attention to the immediate interaction. He was in his mid-fifties, Emilia guessed, older by at least 10 years than any of the detectives and definitely old enough to be her father. He had a narrow face, a small moustache, and short hair that was thinning on top. He normally wore a dark suit with a white shirt, a skinny black tie, and a small revolver in a belt holster.
Emilia wasn’t sure yet if she liked him; Lt. Rufino’s distance from the Acapulco detectives made him hard to read. His door stayed closed for much of the day, although he didn’t seem annoyed if someone knocked. He sometimes popped out to confer on a case or to fill his ever-present steel travel mug from the community coffeemaker in the squadroom.
But Lt. Rufino was competent, keeping the paperwork moving and assigning cases according to the rota system that had started during Emilia’s brief stint as acting lieutenant after Rufino’s predecessor, Lt. Inocente, had been killed. Lt. Rufino chaired the daily morning meeting—another of her initiatives—and quietly made sensible decisions when they needed to be made. Most importantly, he had a good relationship with Chief Salazar, who’d made more appearances in the squadroom in the last two months than in the previous two years, something Emilia figured would have been of interest to Victor Obregon on Saturday night, but she wasn’t going to be the person who made it any of the union jefe’s business.
She continued into the squadroom and tossed her bag into her desk drawer. The front of Silvio’s desk abutted the front of hers, so that the backs of their computer screens kissed. It was a different arrangement than when she’d been partners with Rico and his desk was across the aisle. It was still there, empty, waiting to be given to a new detective someday.
Silvio grunted a greeting and slid a folded newspaper across their conjoined desktops.
Emilia opened it and her jaw dropped.
It was that morning’s edition. The bolded headline proclaimed Special Edition! Mayor Survives Assassination Attempt! Right below was a photo of Carlota leaving the hospital Sunday evening in a wheelchair with a bouquet of roses on her lap and waving to well-wishers crowded on either side.
Emilia hitched up her jaw and scanned the article, relieved to find that neither her name nor Kurt’s was in it. The descriptions of the fire and Carlota’s narrow escape were lurid and sensational, and by the time Emilia finished it, she felt a little sick. The newspaper’s sources appeared to be Carlota’s office and the fire department, with heavy emphasis on the deaths of the members of the mayor’s security detail and how people at the scene had heard multiple explosions.
She put the paper down, folded her legs underneath herself in her desk chair, and logged onto her computer. Her email inbox showed 38 unread messages, but she quickly navigated to the dispatch database, using the login that had been granted to her as acting lieutenant and never revoked. The Lila Jimenez Lata dispatch had been forwarded to the detective unit last Friday. She could tell from the update log it had been bumped around the system several times, passed from one uniformed unit to another before landing in the detectives’ queue.
But at least it was their case now. Emilia massaged her hand around the bandage as her typing caused the burn to sting again. The shabby, crowded squadroom with its metal desks and green filing cabinets, the place that she’d called her place of work for almost two years, felt like a good place to be today.
Macias, the best-looking man in the room, was rearranging the main bulletin board, making space to fit in some new pictures, which Emilia realized with a jolt were photos of the burned-out El Tigre restaurant. His partner Sandor was sucking down coffee by the machine and giving noisy directions. Beyond Silvio’s desk, Loyola, the bespectacled and bookish former schoolteacher, and Ibarra, his chain-smoking partner, were both at their computers, tapping on their keyboards. Gomez and Castro, the two most raucous men, were seated at their desks nearest the door, talking their usual crap while tipping their rolling chairs in order to bounce off the back wall, which was dented by previous efforts.
Lt. Rufino returned and filled his travel mug from the coffee maker. He said something to Sandor and then walked to the front of the room and stood by the single community desk that had open Internet access. “Listen up,” he said, which was the way he started all their meetings. The room quieted.
El teniente took a sip of coffee. “It’s been about 30 hours since the El Tigre restaurant near the Plaza las Glorietas burned down.” He gestured at the bulletin board and the big pictures of the charred building. “Eight people died, including three of the mayor’s security detail.” He read off names from a piece of paper. “No word on services yet, but we’ll all be going, in uniform, to pay our respects.”
There was a snapping sound behind her and Emilia knew that Castro or Gomez was shuffling cards again.
“In the meantime, we’ve got orders from Chief Salazar
to put as much as we can on hold and focus on the fire,” Lt. Rufino said. “We’ll proceed on the basis that this was an attack on the life of the mayor of Acapulco and will rework priorities and assignments to catch whoever is behind it.”
Silvio retrieved the newspaper he’d given to Emilia and held it up. “Is this the proof that the fire was an assassination attempt?”
Lt. Rufino raised a hand, palm out, before the buzz could start. “There may be some things we don’t know yet, but the mayor’s office and Chief Salazar think this is a legitimate threat. They’re bringing in an arson investigator from the national school in Mexico City.”
Emilia’s stomach tightened. This was serious. There were always jokes—based on suspicion, distrust, and active dislike between local institutions and any federale counterparts—about what happened when the federales got involved. Asking for federale help was generally a last resort rather than a first step.
“Silvio and Cruz will head up our side of the case,” Lt. Rufino went on. “Liaise with Fire Chief Furtado and the arson investigator. Cruz was at the fire so she has the best insights.” He pointed the steel travel mug at Emilia and Silvio, the metal catching the light from the overhead fluorescents. “I want you two all over that site. Run down every lead the arson investigator comes up with. Shake the trees. There’s a witness out there somewhere. Gomez and Castro will take over the El Pharaoh case.”
If Emilia hadn’t been sitting on her feet, she would have jumped up in protest. Maybe the fire had been an attack on Carlota and maybe it wasn’t, but the El Pharaoh was a solid money laundering case. To prove the case against the casino’s management, they would have to comb through the records, compare serial numbers of seized money against lists of known counterfeit bills, decode the money laundering process by tracking bank account deposits and withdrawals. Rico had died because of the players involved in that case and giving it to Castro and Gomez would be throwing away months of hard work. Castro and Gomez could barely count their own poker losses.
She shot a glance at Silvio, her eyebrows raised. He jerked his head in an abrupt shake of caution. Emilia hunkered down in her seat, knowing what he was telling her. She’d had run-ins with both of the other detectives. She and Castro had more or less made their peace with one another, but things were still bad with Gomez. A few months ago, he’d tried to force himself on her and she’d sent him to the hospital with a smashed nose and broken ribs. Gomez had been humiliated and received a reprimand from the union as well. Complaining that those two couldn’t cope with the El Pharaoh case in front of the entire squadroom would not be good.
“Macias and Sandor, you’ll be the liaison with the mayor’s office,” Emilia heard Lt. Rufino say. The meeting went on for another 30 minutes. Lt. Rufino went through the top cases the squadroom was currently handling, reassigning most of the other cases Emilia and Silvio and Macias and Sandor had open to Loyola and Ibarra. At any given time, each team of detectives worked at least a dozen open cases. Four or five new ones landed on their desks every week and an equal number were relegated to the file cabinet. It meant that they spent little time on extended investigations. The revolving case load was made more unmanageable by the fact that they were down in strength by two detectives and that most of the cases were drug cartel killings that were almost impossible to investigate or resolve.
When the meeting broke up, a wad of paper hit Emilia in the back of the head. She turned around to see Macias crumpling up another. “Just how many people do you think want the mayor dead?” he asked.
“Like I know,” Emilia said.
“Heard you and Carlota were there together.”
Emilia scooted back her chair. “Sure. We do dinner together all the time.”
“She wasn’t with the mayor,” Silvio said, not bothering to look away from his computer screen. “Had a hot date with Rucker, the guy who manages the Palacio Réal.”
Emilia was already out of her chair and headed for el teniente’s office before she fully realized that Silvio was shooting off his mouth about her love life. She got to Lt. Rufino’s door just as he was closing it. “Can I see you for a moment, teniente?” she asked.
“Questions, Cruz?” He ushered her in, closed the door, and went around the side of his desk. Before sitting, he placed his mug carefully on a cleared space amid the clutter of file folders, scribbled notes, file cards, and forms.
“I’d really like to stay on the El Pharaoh case,” Emilia said. He hadn’t indicated that she should sit down, so she stayed standing. “I know the most about the money laundering, I traced all the links that got us the closure order, and I’ve been working with the state attorney general’s office to build the case.”
“So you can brief Gomez and Castro.” Lt. Rufino shrugged. “Make sure they’ve got your contact list.”
“We’ll lose a lot of time,” Emilia said, knowing she had to play this one carefully. She didn’t want to seem like someone who shirked big cases, nor did she want the new lieutenant to brand her as someone willing to bad-mouth her colleagues. “It’s a pretty high-profile case,” she hedged. “I know the mayor wants to make sure it goes well.”
Lt. Rufino raised his eyebrows and the moustache twitched. “The mayor doesn’t want to get blown up, Cruz,” he said. “You of all people should know the danger she’s in.”
“Pair up Silvio with Castro and Gomez,” Emilia countered. “I can handle the El Pharaoh case alone.”
Lt. Rufino put his hand on the travel mug but didn’t raise it to drink. “Are you afraid to go back to the El Tigre, Cruz?” he asked.
Emilia didn’t answer.
“You’ll be all right,” he said. Part of his mouth drooped in the start of a sad smile. It didn’t last, however, and his bland, distant expression came back. “You have to get used to living with your fears in this business.”
“It’s not that, teniente,” Emilia started to say, but Lt. Rufino cut her off with a wave.
“Chief Salazar recommended you as my best scene-of-crime expert,” he said. “I’m sticking to his recommendation. You’re not working on anything else as of now. Castro and Gomez will manage the best they can.”
Emilia rocked up on the balls of her feet. “One other thing, teniente. There’s an unassigned Missing Persons case. A 16-year-old girl. You didn’t mention it this morning, but I’d like to be assigned to the case.”
Lt. Rufino blinked. “Did you not hear me, Cruz? You need to find whoever tried to kill the mayor last Saturday night.”
“It’s not a big case, teniente,” Emilia pleaded. “I’m sure—”
“No one is disputing that there are other urgent cases,” Lt. Rufino interrupted her. “But right now I’m sending any Missing Persons cases to the federal Attorney General’s new Missing Persons task force.”
Emilia gave a start. He was sending a local Missing Persons case from Acapulco to some faceless federal unit in Mexico City? “Teniente, I really—”
“You’ve got work, Cruz,” Lt. Rufino said pointedly. “Dismissed. Close the door behind you.” He adjusted the travel mug’s position amid the papers and started reading one of the forms on his desk.
Emilia waited, but he didn’t look up. She opened the door and left, carefully shutting the door as she went.
Silvio was waiting for her by the coffee maker, leather jacket on, impatient scowl on his face, car keys dangling from one beefy hand. Everybody else was already gone except for Loyola, who was still at his desk. “Telling Rufino that he’s fucking up, Cruz?” Silvio asked.
“Thanks for keeping your mouth shut about my personal life, Franco,” Emilia snapped as got her bag out of her desk drawer, chagrined at Silvio for talking about Kurt and at the way the conversation with Lt. Rufino had gone. She was mortally tired again, her hand throbbed, and once again she’d let Silvio press her buttons. “Looking forward to returning the favor.”
“Don’t call me Franco.” Silvio heaved himself off the wall.
“Don’t call me Franco,” Emil
ia mimicked.
As they left the squadroom, Emilia let her hand lightly brush Rico’s empty desk.
Chapter 5
The entrance to the courtyard of the El Tigre was draped with yellow PROHIBIDO EL PASO tape. Emilia heard Silvio grunt behind her as he bent low to step underneath.
The fire department had set up a temporary plastic shelter in the courtyard where the debris had been shoved to one side, blocking off the bar area. Without the people and the lights and the music, the courtyard was nothing more than a chaotic way station, and it was hard to believe that it was the same place Emilia had been only two nights ago with a yellow-haired man and dressed like a real woman instead of in her usual work uniform of jeans, tee shirt, black cotton jacket, and gun in a shoulder holster.
A young fireman in a dark blue uniform with his badge around his neck on a lanyard, like the two detectives, came out of the temporary shelter. “You two the detectives?”
“I’m Silvio. This is Cruz.” Silvio cocked his head in Emilia’s direction. “We’ll let you know if we’ve got any questions.”
The young fireman looked appreciatively at Emilia. Silvio glowered at him, making the other man take refuge behind his shelter’s transparent plastic walls. The two detectives walked into the restaurant.
Blackened tables and chairs lay tumbled about, strewn with chunks of glass and pottery. Everything was covered in ash and soot. The walls were streaked with black, burned shreds of fabric hung from the curtain rods, and every pane of window glass was gone. The stone sills oozed smoke stains. Only the restaurant’s chandeliers were still intact, their graceful metal arms covered in soot, fragments of glass stuck in the sockets that had once held whole candle bulbs.
A light breeze from the empty window openings stirred up ash that swirled in the thick, scorched air. A panicky memory of her nightmarish passage to the door on Saturday night pulsed through Emilia.