by Carmen Amato
“Cisneros know she was with you?” Silvio asked.
“No,” Santiago said. “I’ll get fired if they find out.”
He touched the door handle and Silvio smacked his hand away. “So you snuck her in?”
“Yeah.” Santiago tried to wedge himself into the corner of the backseat, away from Silvio’s volatile presence. “Just for some fun. That’s all.”
“So you two were in your room off the courtyard?” Emilia asked. “Inside? The whole night?”
“Not the whole night. We were outside for a while.” Santiago considered. “After we… you know… afterwards.” He gulped. “I didn’t hurt her or anything.”
“Okay,” Silvio interrupted. “After you fucked her dry you went outside.”
“In the courtyard. Maria wanted to dance. You can hear the music from the restaurant most nights.”
Emilia remembered the music, the lilting guitar music from a stereo, not a live band. She’d swayed a little as the wine had relaxed her, feeling sexy in her black dress, enjoying the spark of lust in Kurt’s eyes.
She pulled in a lungful of stale air. The air conditioning was off in the car, and the combination of sweaty bodies and the sun beating down on the roof was making the interior uncomfortably hot. “So you went outside to listen to the music,” she said. “What time was this?”
The chauffeur shrugged. “I don’t know. ” He blinked nervously. “Maybe a little before 11:00 p.m. When we went back inside the movie hadn’t started yet.”
“Okay,” Emilia said. “It’s a little before 11:00 p.m. You’re outside. Listening to music. Maria’s dancing. Anything else going on?”
Santiago looked miserable. Beads of sweat collected around his hairline and one trickled past his left eye. “A truck came through the alley. I was sort of surprised because so few cars are ever in the alley at night. Sometimes Señor Serverio’s car, but I know its sound. This was louder.”
“How did you know it was a truck?” Silvio asked. “Did you see it?”
“Maria saw it.” Santiago wiped at the sweat. “She was over by the gate, and if you look through the slats a certain way, you can see out. She said it was a real big truck, but kept dancing.”
Emilia bit her lip, the image of the young girl in her head. Dizzy with what might have been her first sexual encounter, maybe thinking she was in love with this older man who offered some crude affection and an escape from the Cisneros household. Emilia wondered if the young girl looked anything like the missing Lila Jimenez Lata.
“Did she see who was in the truck?” Silvio pressed.
“She didn’t say.”
Silvio handled the cuffs. “What happened next?”
The chauffeur darted a glance from Emilia to Silvio, obviously hoping to appease them enough to be released from the car. “The truck idled for a little while and then drove off. We heard a couple of big bangs, and I guess that’s when the fire started.”
“Did you see the truck?”
“No, Maria just said there was a truck and I heard it.”
“How long between the truck driving by and the fire starting?”
“I don’t know.” He wiped his face again. “Not long.”
“A whole song?” Emilia asked.
“What?”
Still kneeling on the front seat to face the rear, Emilia poked him in the chest. “You said you were listening to music. Did a whole song go by between the time Maria saw the truck and when you heard the bangs?”
“No, not a whole song. It was fast.”
Silvio leaned back as if to give Emilia the floor. “So the truck goes by and Maria keeps dancing,” she reminded the chauffeur. “You heard a big bang.”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“What else did you hear?”
Santiago shrugged. “We went back inside.”
“You didn’t go outside to look? Call the bomberos?”
“No.” For the first time he looked abashed. “I wanted to do it some more.”
Emilia clenched her fists. “Did you know the restaurant was on fire?”
Santiago shrugged. “We never did. Maria wanted to watch the movie, so I kept the television on.”
“What did Maria say about the truck?” Emilia pressed. “It’s a pretty narrow alley. That truck must have been right by the back gate. Maybe she saw faces, haircuts. Watches.”
“We didn’t talk about it.” Santiago eyed the door handle again. “We were busy . . . you know.”
“Think about it, pendejo.” Silvio gave Santiago’s shoulder a rough shake.
“Look,” Santiago said. “I’m supposed to get my lunch and go straight back. Matilda will have my ass if I take too long.”
“The way she’d get you fired if she knew you had Maria there Saturday night,” Silvio said.
“Yeah, she’s like that.”
“Did you use a condom with that little girl?” Silvio asked abruptly.
“Um . . . sure,” the chauffeur stuttered. His eyes darted between Silvio and Emilia.
Silvio grabbed the front of Santiago’s jacket. “You been to Franco’s, right?” the detective snarled. “A couple of weeks ago. Lost money betting the spread on Cruz Azul.”
Santiago’s eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re Franco.”
“That’s right.” Silvio shook him like a rag doll. “And in a couple of months, if I hear that little girl is pregnant, you’d better be doing right by her. You know I’ll find you.”
He let go of Santiago’s jacket, reached out, and hit the unlock button on the driver’s side door handle. Santiago scrambled out of the car and ran into the restaurant.
“Madre de Dios,” Silvio said in disgust.
Emilia drew in a few breaths and turned back in her seat to face the windshield. The aura of violence in the air settled to the floor erratically, like dust motes, as she scribbled the times Santiago had given them in her notebook.
“I thought you weren’t making book anymore,” Emilia said when Silvio was behind the wheel again.
“It’s got nothing to do with you, Cruz.”
“I got a partner who’s an illegal bookie? It’s my business.”
“I’m not your partner.”
“Rufino thinks you are,” Emilia pointed out. “So does Chief Salazar.”
“Shut up, Cruz.”
“You get in trouble, I’m not covering for you,” Emilia warned.
“Nobody asked you to.”
They sat in silence for a few minutes. Emilia felt Silvio’s eyes cut to her. “We going over to the lawyer’s house?” he asked. “To find the maid?”
The question was the big detective’s version of a peace offering. It wasn’t much, but she’d take it. “Yes. The Cisneros place is right around the block,” Emilia said. “This time, I do the shoving.”
Santiago came out of the restaurant carrying a paper bag. Silvio started the car and revved the engine. The chauffeur threw a wild glance behind him and darted down the street.
Silvio guffawed and eased the car into the mid-afternoon traffic. “Was that Mr. Hollywood Hotel on the phone before?”
“Speaking of.” Emilia put her head against the seat and closed her eyes. “Stop gossiping that I was with him. You sound like some old lady. He’s got nothing to do with anything that concerns you or anybody else.”
“He’s the big hero of Saturday night.”
“Jealous?”
“Just chatting up my partner,” Silvio said. “So if her personal calls get me killed one day, at least I’ll know she was getting a good fuck out of it.”
“I’m not your partner,” Emilia said.
☼
Emilia saw Silvio’s jaw harden as Maria came into the Cisneros’s kitchen, summoned by the cook. Another maid had let them into the house, a sprawling affair with a dramatic view of water and cliffs. When they identified themselves and asked to see Maria, the maid’s face had registered outright fear. She led them through a corridor to the back of the
house and the modern kitchen. Once she murmured a few words to the cook, she’d been instructed to find Maria and bolted from the room.
The wait was brief. Maria looked to be about 12, a flat-chested waif with a thick black braid hanging down her back that made her look even younger. Her navy blue uniform dress, with its white apron, looked two sizes too big, as if she’d inherited it from someone else. But she was a pretty thing, with big eyes and a full mouth, and she didn’t seem nervous when Emilia introduced herself and Silvio.
The cook edged out of the room after a pointed “Thank you” from Silvio. He remained in the doorway. Emilia took a seat at the counter-height stainless steel worktable in the middle of the room. After a moment’s hesitation, Maria sat on one of the stools by the table as well.
“We understand that you were out last Saturday night,” Emilia started.
Maria clasped her hands in her lap. “It was my weekend off,” she said carefully. Her diction was good, but her voice sounded as young as she looked. Emilia wondered how much schooling she’d had.
“You know Santiago, don’t you?” Emilia went on. “The chauffeur who lives at the law offices.”
Maria just stared at her hands.
“He told us you were there last Saturday night,” Emilia said gently.
“Are you going to tell Señora de Cisneros?” Maria whispered. “She’ll fire me.”
“Not if you answer all my questions.” Emilia heard the steel in her own voice.
“What do you want to know?”
“He said when you were there, you were outside,” Emilia said leadingly. “Listening to music.”
The girl’s face brightened. “Santiago had some beer and we listened to the music coming from the restaurant down the street. Santiago said he can hear it most nights.”
“It was guitar music,” Emilia said.
“That’s right.” Maria looked wistful. “Someday I’m going to be a dancer. I showed Santiago.”
Emilia gave her an encouraging smile, as if that was a real possibility. “Santiago said you heard a car drive by when you were outside showing him your dancing.”
Maria smiled. “A truck went by.”
“What kind of truck?” Silvio broke in.
Maria shrugged. “I don’t know. Dark.”
“A dark truck?” Silvio pressed. “You’re sure?”
The girl nodded. “Maybe. It went right by the gate and through the light on the outside wall. It was really big.”
Emilia pulled out her notebook and started writing. “A big dark truck,” she repeated. “As big as a dump truck? The kind they use for construction?”
“No. A regular truck.” The girl shrugged. “Just bigger. A big army truck.”
“An army truck?” Silvio came to the counter and leaned over it. “Why did you think it was an army truck?”
Maria looked at Emilia. “There were army guys in the back.”
Emilia nodded as if this made perfect sense. “How could you tell they were army guys?”
“They had on army clothes,” Maria explained. “All spotted like in the movies.”
“Camouflage,” Emilia said. “Men wearing camouflage in the back of the truck?”
“How many?” Silvio interrupted.
Maria looked at Emilia, who nodded encouragingly. The girl sniffed. “Two. Standing up in the back of the truck. Wearing their spotted jackets.”
“Which direction was it going?” Silvio asked. “Toward the restaurant or the white house?”
Maria made a brushing-away movement with her hand. “To the restaurant.”
“Did it stop in the alley?” Silvio pressed.
The girl looked confused. “Maybe.”
“You were right up against the gate and you didn’t see if the truck stopped?”
“I… I…” Maria looked at Emilia.
“Just think for a moment,” Emilia said softly.
Maria shook her head. “I don’t know. Santiago and me, we went back inside.” She blushed to her hairline.
“Did you hear the motor stop?” Silvio went on. “You were listening to the music. Was the truck louder than the music?”
Maria nodded, her hands now twisting in her lap.
“Did the truck sound get softer, then loud again?” Silvio pressed. “Or did it just die away?”
“I don’t know,” Maria said. “We went inside.”
“Did you hear a bang after that?”
“No.” The girl sniffed, frightened of Silvio’s blunt manner. “I don’t remember.”
“Tell us again about the truck,” Emilia said softly, wishing she could punch Silvio in the head. “You said it was dark. How dark?”
“Dark blue, maybe,” Maria considered. “Or dark green. Just dark.”
“Did it have fancy wheels?” Emilia went on. Silvio folded his arms and watched.
“No.”
Emilia asked every question she could think of, trying to pin down any distinguishing feature of the truck the girl had seen only briefly through the metal slats of a security gate. Every question was met by a simple “No,” until the last thing Emilia could think of to ask. “How many doors did it have?”
Maria’s face scrunched in concentration. “Two on each side, I guess.”
“Four doors?” Club cab trucks weren’t that common, and they had a close idea of the color. Emilia felt a surge of hope; this was something they could trace.
Maria nodded. “It was big.”
Chapter 7
It was nearly 8:00 p.m. by the time Emilia could leave what in less than 12 hours had changed from being a relatively organized detective squadroom into a shrill, panicky, pressure-filled madhouse. Carlota’s staff had assigned at least five different people to be the liaison with city police and another half a dozen to bring the investigation to the attention of her political party. Meanwhile, Obregon’s role had the union stepping over itself in an effort to get involved, and at one point Lt. Rufino had to come out of his office and broker a treaty between a mayoral staffer and a union flunky. Chief Salazar had been called, and then the whole lot of them left for the central police administration building.
Emilia took a pain pill just to help block out all the noise. The late afternoon had been a waste of wrangles with Carlota’s office, the union, and the state of Guerrero party offices, all while trying to run a trace on trucks with four doors registered in Acapulco and nearby areas.
When the city people and the union minions left, she and Silvio collected Macias and Sandor, and the four crowded into one of the interrogation rooms to map out a strategy. Over the next few days, she and Silvio would run down the truck, interview the owner of the El Tigre, and find as many people as possible who’d been at the scene Saturday night. Macias and Sandor would work with Carlota’s office to create a list of everyone who’d known the mayor was going to be at the El Tigre late Saturday night, plus try to formulate a list of anyone who’d ever threatened her or held a grudge against her.
Emilia called Sophia and told her that she wouldn’t be there to eat la cena before climbing into the white Suburban that she’d been driving since it had been confiscated in a routine traffic violation case. The vehicle turned out to have been rigged for drug and money smuggling. It had been taken apart and put together a few too many times so that it clanked when she turned corners. But only detectives got assigned cars, and clanky wreck or not, the big vehicle was a symbol that she was at the top of her profession.
She showed her identification to the guard at the parking lot gate, and he raised the barrier. Fifteen minutes later, Emilia pulled to a stop in front of the little tailor shop on Calle Tulum.
Berta Campos Diaz greeted Emilia with the same stoic expression she’d worn on Sunday.
“I haven’t found out anything yet, Berta,” Emilia said. “But I told you I’d need to come by and look through her things. Get a list of her friends.”
“I remember.” Berta stepped back to let Emilia in.
The bottom floor of the s
mall green house was taken up by the sastrería. What would have been the living room housed two sewing machines, a rack of clothes, and boxes and dressers labeled with handwritten words like “zippers,” “patches,” and “thread.” Emilia followed Berta up a steep staircase, ducking her head to avoid hitting the laundry strung across the opening.
The space at the top of the stairs functioned as both living room and kitchen, with dishes stacked on a bookshelf and a two-burner electric hot plate substituting for a stove. Next to the stack of dishes, a small television sported a rabbit ear antenna. A wooden table and matching chairs occupied center stage. The bathroom door was open and a coffee maker was on the floor, connected to an outlet by means of a power cord that snaked around the doorway. The walls were plain beige and decorated with a large canvas reproduction of the Virgin of Guadalupe. The floral curtains were worn but clean.
Berta crossed the space and opened a door next to the bathroom. Emilia followed her into a bedroom with a neatly made twin bed. A large crucifix competed for wall space with magazine pictures of Mexican telenovela actresses and Latina Hollywood stars. The small desk angled into a corner was piled with magazines and school notebooks.
“This looks like a teenager’s room,” Emilia said with a smile.
“You can look.” Berta gave a shrug as if to say Emilia would be better served looking for Lila on random streets than in her bedroom. “It’s all here.”
A pocket-sized closet revealed two navy blue skirts and two white polo shirts with a school logo, plus a couple of dresses and blouses hanging from a metal pipe next to a jacket with the same school crest and a navy cardigan. A box held shorts, underwear, and a pair of cotton pants. Black rubber-soled school shoes were lined up neatly next to two pairs of dressy sandals. Blankets were folded on a shelf above the pipe.
“Is this everything?” Emilia asked. “You said she took a dance class? Where are her dance clothes? Or her school backpack?”
“She had it all with her when she disappeared. When she didn’t come home,” Berta said from the doorway as Emilia rifled through the clothes to find anything in the pockets. “I didn’t want her to take that class. All she did was learn how to show off. And now this.”