by Carmen Amato
Emilia backed out of the closet to see Berta with her arms crossed, her mouth drawn into a scowl reminiscent of Silvio on a hot day. “What about jeans?” Emilia pressed. “Tops? Makeup? Nail polish?”
“I told you,” Berta said. “I don’t allow Lila to be no puta. No makeup. No boys.”
No fun. “Okay,” Emilia said. “Can you find me a recent photo of Lila while I look through her desk?”
Berta sniffed and left.
The desk yielded little that would help. Glossy teen magazines, two with pages torn out and ostensibly now on the wall. A dictionary and a sheaf of small blank maps, the kind that every school in Mexico seemed to require. Notebooks, math worksheets, a blank permission slip for a school trip. Pens and pencils tangled with cheap rosary beads in the single desk drawer. There wasn’t any makeup, notes from giggly friends, or those colorful rubber bracelets Emilia saw every other kid wearing. No mirror, either.
Emilia rifled through the papers again. A smudge of pink lacquer caught her eyes. Emilia rubbed at it. It was almost certainly nail polish.
She went through the closet a second time and looked under the bed. The floor was clean and bare. Emilia ran her right hand between the bed and the walls and again between the mattress and the wooden platform it sat on. Her finger touched something.
She pulled out a small zippered pouch and a magazine. Tucking the magazine under her arm, she opened the pouch to find a tube of lipstick, pink nail polish, an eyeliner pencil, and an eye shadow compact with most of the colors used up. She put down the pouch, glanced at the magazine, and nearly dropped it in surprise.
The woman on the cover had melon-sized breasts and a black leather thong. The headline promised Real Ass and Easy Bitches. As Emilia rifled through the pages, wincing at the raw poses, a photo strip with four images slithered out.
Tucking the magazine under her arm again, Emilia studied the photo strip. It was the kind taken in an arcade photo booth for 20 pesos: four color images of a girl with short dark hair and a handsome boy—a young man, really—with their arms around each other. They were laughing into the camera. The boy had perfect white teeth and high cheekbones and the same coal-black hair as the girl. He wore a bright blue polo shirt and his arms were well-muscled. The girl was stunning in an exotic sort of way, the sort of beauty that the society pages captured at parties and on fashion runways. She had on jeans and a pink satiny halter top, and her smile was genuine in all four images.
Emilia heard Berta moving around in the other room. Instinctively, Emilia shoved the porn magazine inside one of the notebooks on the desk, in the process catching the bandage on her left hand in the spiral binding. The burn gave a momentary throb that spiraled up Emilia’s arm.
Berta came in and gave Emilia a photo and a piece of paper with several names written on it. “Lila’s school picture. And her friends.”
Lila Jimenez Lata was even more striking than in the photo strip, with sleek black hair worn in a chin-length bob with bangs. Her eyes were big and slightly hooded, giving the girl a sultry Asian look despite her youth. “How old is this picture?” Emilia asked, breathing deep to counter the pain in her hand.
“Just a few weeks ago,” Berta said.
Emilia held out the photo strip, which, if the length of Lila’s hair was any indication, had been taken several months before the school picture. “Who is this in the picture with Lila?” Emilia asked.
Berta stared at the picture. Her lips twitched as if she couldn’t control them, and in that moment Emilia knew the older woman was going to lie.
“I don’t know,” Berta said.
“Lila’s boyfriend?” Emilia asked.
“He’s no one important,” Berta said.
Emilia sat down on the bed. It was late, people had been either lying or insanely stupid all day, and her hand hurt. “Do you really want my help, Berta?” she asked.
Berta looked confused. “Padre Ricardo said you’d help.”
“Why should I help if you’re going to lie to me?”
“He’s not important,” Berta insisted.
Emilia stood and dropped the school photo, list of names, and photo strip on the bed. “Well, good luck. I hope you find her. I really do.”
Berta blinked. “You’re done?”
“I have a job,” Emilia said angrily. “I don’t have time for games.”
She let the silence draw out.
Berta’s face tightened. “He’s Yolanda’s boy,” she muttered.
“Who’s Yolanda?” Emilia asked a little too loudly.
“Lila’s mother,” Berta said. “But the boy isn’t the child of my Enrique. She never even knew his father. A bastard boy. Wild.”
Emilia picked up the photo strip again. Only now did she see the resemblance between the boy in the photo strip and Lila. They were half-siblings. “What’s his name?”
“Pedro Lata,” Berta said scornfully. “He only ever had his mother’s name. And what kind of a name is Lata?”
Mexicans traditionally took their father’s name as their first surname and their mother’s as their second. More progressive Mexicans were dropping the second surname, but if the boy only ever used his mother’s surname of Lata, which meant can, his unknown paternity would be obvious to all.
“Where is he now?”
Berta shrugged. “She left when Enrique died. Took the boy with her. Pedro was grown. Lila was just a little thing, barely in school.”
“Do you know where he lives?” Emilia asked.
Berta gave her head a stiff shake.
Emilia considered what Berta had said. “Does Lila see her mother, too?”
“No!” Berta nearly spat the word. “She’s dead. Lila knows she’s dead.” The older woman exhaled sharply as she poked at the photo strip. “Maybe she saw him once. No more. He’s dirt.”
Hidden makeup, pink nail polish, porn magazines, visiting a wild half-brother. Lila Jimenez Lata was coming into sharper relief. But Emilia was fairly sure that the picture she was gaining of the teenager wasn’t the one her grandmother would acknowledge.
She saw Berta’s eyes go to the zippered makeup pouch on the bed. “That’s mine,” Emilia heard herself say. She tucked it into her bag along with the pictures and added the spiral notebook with the magazine hidden inside. “I’ll be looking for her, Berta. But you call me if you think of anything else that will be useful.”
Berta nodded and led the way down the stairs.
Emilia’s bag felt heavier than it should, given the few things in it, as she followed Lila Jimenez Lata’s grandmother down the dark stairway.
☼
Emilia threw herself on her own bed and tried to quiet her thoughts. The day had been an exhausting whirl, and random images kept passing through her brain like a slideshow she couldn’t control. Kurt covered in soot, hands on his knees, coughing his lungs out. Silvio threatening the chauffeur in the back of the car. The waif of a maid saying she was going to be a dancer. Berta lying, trying not to admit she knew the boy in the picture with her missing granddaughter. Fire licked toward Emilia, clouding her vision and choking her with smoke and heat.
Suddenly there wasn’t enough air in her room. Emilia drew herself into a sitting position with her head between her knees. She stared at her blanket, gulped big breaths, reminded herself that she was home, she was safe, and that she had things to do. Laughter floated up the stairs from where Ernesto and her mother were watching television.
The dizziness and panic subsided, and Emilia dug out the porn magazine from Lila’s bedroom. It was two years old. Less than 40 pages of grainy images, some in color but most just in black and white. The pages felt like newsprint.
Emilia wondered if Lila had been experimenting with sex. Or if a friend of hers had posed for the magazine. Or if Lila had.
Most of the pictures were amateurish shots of naked women in erotic poses or close-ups of couples having sex. A few were graphic group sex scenes taken from odd angles, although the participants appeared to be aware th
at they were being photographed. Emilia scanned the pages, looking for Lila’s face. It was a relief not to find it.
There was a gentle thump on the wall, followed by the creak of the bed in the next room. Other than that, the house was silent. The television was now off. The creaking continued, a rhythm of soft chirps that meant Ernesto Cruz was in her mother’s bed again. Usually the knife grinder slept on the living room sofa. But occasionally he’d slip upstairs, Emilia would hear a few minutes of creaking bedsprings, and Sophia would be wreathed in smiles for a week afterwards.
On one hand, Ernesto was married to someone else, a woman whom he’d deserted. He owed that woman an explanation, a divorce, something. But on the other hand, Ernesto helped Sophia stay in the here and now better than Emilia could do alone.
And Sophia was happy.
The creaking intensified, making Emilia think of Kurt.
Stay. Could she tell him she wanted him to stay in Acapulco? Would he stay? For her?
Maybe he would stay, bored where he was and resenting the loss of a more lucrative job. Or he wouldn’t stay, and his leaving would hurt all the more.
Emilia fell asleep listening to the creak of her mother’s bed.
Chapter 8
The arson investigator was younger than Emilia expected. His name was Lieutenant Antonio Murillo Gomez, and he wore a navy blue polo with an official logo. He had a bottle of water with him as he stood behind the podium. A slideshow of the burned El Tigre building was projected on a giant screen in back of him.
“As we were able to quickly deduce,” Murillo said, “The fire was caused by two explosive devices, which left a discernible burst pattern of destruction and caused secondary explosions of the propane tanks used for an indoor grill.” A picture of the wrecked restaurant kitchen slid onto the screen. He used a laser pointer to indicate the orange paint splotches Emilia had seen yesterday. The glowing red dot traced an outward path along the splotches.
“Recovered fragments were sent to the crime laboratory in El Paso and the preliminary report is already in,” Murillo went on. He paused and drank some water.
The auditorium could easily seat 800, Emilia figured. She’d last been there two years ago, when Chief Salazar had shaken her hand, given her a detective badge, and pressed his lips together in an unspoken message of disapproval.
The presentation in the central police building’s auditorium had started a little after 11:00 a.m. It had been slated to start at 8:00 but had been delayed as they all got conflicting text messages about the location. Emilia assumed that the messages were an online argument between the police and fire department over who was going to be in charge. She also assumed that Chief Salazar had won.
Both Police Chief Salazar and Fire Chief Furtado were seated on the stage near the podium. Lt. Rufino was behind Salazar. Obregon was there, not on the stage, but seated in the second row. Emilia had a good view of him from her vantage point on the other side of the auditorium. One cheek was a crosshatch of red scratches.
Several dozen seats in the auditorium were filled with union types, party officials, and minions from Carlota’s administration. Emilia’s side was filled with cops. Besides the detectives, a number of uniformed units had been called in to attend the briefing.
Next to Emilia, Silvio shifted restlessly. Macias and Sandor both had their arms crossed, as if impatient to get to dealing with Carlota’s people.
A new slide appeared on the screen: the image of a dull metal egg with a handle on top. Murillo trained the laser dot on the bottom edge, where some numbers had been pressed into the metal. “We believe the grenades used were similar to this one. If the estimation is correct, they were from a lot manufactured in the United States.”
“An attack on the mayor by the norteamericanos!” someone squealed.
The ensuing babble was quieted by Murillo’s raised hand. “A lot of several thousand was sold to the Mexican Army two years ago.” He paused. “Although the army isn’t subject to civilian law enforcement, we’ll be following up to discern if any have been stolen. We’ll also be using resources to investigate possible black market sources of grenades.”
Murillo wrapped up his remarks with some technical details and sat next to Furtado. Lt. Rufino came to the podium. He was smaller than Murillo, and there were a few awkward moments as he tried to adjust the microphone, swinging the metal arm jerkily until Murillo came and adjusted it for him. Lt. Rufino nodded his thanks and cleared his throat.
“Acapulco detectives developed our most promising lead yesterday.” He cleared his throat again. “We have a witness who claims a vehicle of this type was seen in the rear of the El Tigre building shortly before the fire.” He fumbled with something on the top of the podium and looked hopefully at the blank screen in back of him. Painful seconds crept by.
“What the hell?” Macias muttered from Silvio’s other side.
Emilia felt a stab of pity for el teniente standing up there, clearly uncomfortable speaking in such a large venue, the faulty projector making it worse. She glanced across the auditorium at Obregon. He was smiling.
Murillo got up again and the screen filled with the image of a black club cab truck. Lt. Rufino visibly collected himself. “According to the witness, at least two men in camouflage clothing were seen in the truck.”
He covered the type of truck, the large number registered in Acapulco and surrounding areas, and the methodology being used to connect the truck to any known threats or criticisms of the mayor. A citizen hotline was being set up so concerned citizens could call in with any information about a black truck seen near the Plaza las Glorietas last Saturday night. He didn’t once use the words “army uniform” instead of camouflage; everyone there knew how easy it was to buy fake uniforms in Mexico. But the question of army complicity hovered in the air and had those from Carlota’s administration muttering nervously.
Chief Salazar gave a nod as Lt. Rufino went back to his seat. For the next 20 minutes, the chief of police discussed enhanced security for the mayor’s office, gave assurances that all available assets were being used to make sure she was safe, and promised that the perpetrators would face arson, murder, and attempted murder charges. It was a masterful performance, targeted mostly to Carlota’s staffers, whom everyone knew would be leaking information to the media as well as making official press statements.
When it was over, the detectives waited, letting the over-excited city administration, political party, and union officials file out of the auditorium first. Obregon hung back as well. Emilia positioned herself so that Silvio was between her and the union chief and watched as Obregon engaged Chief Salazar and Lt. Rufino at the base of the stage. Even at this distance, and with all the people between them, the body language of all three was clear to read. Obregon’s black-clad body leaned forward aggressively. Chief Salazar kept tapping a forefinger against the clipboard he held in the other hand in an expression of impatience. Lt. Rufino stood partly behind the police chief, arms at his sides, fingers twitching.
“Excuse me.”
Emilia turned to see Murillo, the arson investigator. “Hello.”
“You’re Detective Cruz, aren’t you?” he asked. “The detective who was actually at the fire.”
“Yes.”
He put out a hand. “Antonio Murillo Gomez.”
Emilia shook it, liking the fact that he’d introduced himself without his rank and didn’t feel the need to express his manliness by crushing her hand. A lot of would-be colleagues had learned the hard way that Emilia had a very strong grip.
“I’d like to ask you a couple of questions,” Murillo said. “Mind if I walk out with you?”
“Sure.” She introduced Silvio, who said he’d meet her at the car.
“So you were there Saturday night?” Murillo asked Emilia.
“Yes. We’d just left,” Emilia said. “Stopped to talk just outside the entrance.”
“We?” Murillo asked.
“My date and I,” Emilia said.
&
nbsp; “So you weren’t there with the mayor?”
“No. Just a private night out.”
“Did you notice anything odd, any people in the area who didn’t look as if they belonged?” Murillo asked. “Somebody a little too excited, maybe?”
“No.” Emilia rubbed her hand below the bandage. “I’ve gone over it a dozen times in my head. We went out. We stopped walking to . . . to talk. I remember that a car drove through the intersection.”
“A car, not a truck?” Murillo asked. “You’re sure?”
Emilia nodded. “According to the witness, the truck would have been going in the other direction. This car was probably Jorge Serverio, the owner. He left when we did. To go to his other restaurant.”
Murillo tipped his head as if he didn’t quite understand her. His hair was military short and bristly. “We spoke to him already. He says he wasn’t there at the time of the explosion.”
Emilia leaned against the wall. “Technically, that’s right. He left the same time we did.” The timeline was laid out in her notebook.
“Do you think he knew the place was going to be attacked?” Murillo’s stare was direct and unblinking.
Emilia stood up straight again. “Silvio and I are talking to him later today.”
She waited for Murillo to insist it was his case, he’d follow up, and that she could give him whatever she had. But to her surprise, he nodded and handed her a card with his name and a cell phone number printed on it. “Your date was Rucker, right? Guy who got the mayor out.”
“Yes.” Emilia felt her face get warm.
“I’ll be talking to him, too,” Murillo explained. “Anything I should know?”
He’s leaving. He’s moving to Belize and leaving me. “He’s former military,” Emilia said. “A norteamericano. He fought in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“I hear you went in, too. That took guts.” Murillo gestured to her bandaged hand. “Doing all right?”
“Yes,” Emilia said. “It’ll be fine in a couple of days.”
Murillo seemed like a decent guy. He was her age. Handsome in a thick, square-jawed kind of way. Observant and employed.