by Carmen Amato
Put 40 pounds on him and he’d be Rico.
Chapter 9
The Polo Club was less serious than El Tigre but much larger. It catered to an exclusive clientele that had to present identification at an entrance gate before being admitted. It was only open in the evening, and this early in the day the place was empty except for two bartenders prepping the bar and several waiters setting tables with heavy silver flatware and dark green napkins folded into fans.
The vast space was styled as an Argentine polo lounge, with pictures of horses and famous players from the past. Most of the photographs were sepia-toned, and the padded booths were upholstered in dark green leather. The tables were pale wood parquet and the walls were papered in maroon tartan. A mirrored bar was at least three times as long as the bar in El Tigre, and almost as long as the mosaic-clad oceanfront bar at Kurt’s hotel.
Jorge Serverio was still dapper in a navy blazer and camel-colored trousers, but he appeared exhausted as he led them to a booth across from the gleaming mirrors. The Spaniard was unable to hide his surprise when Emilia asked if he remembered her from last Saturday night at the El Tigre and let him know she was an Acapulco city police detective investigating the fire.
Emilia saw herself pass in the mirror. She still had on the grey suit, cream top, and low sandals she’d worn to the briefing. Her hair was yanked back into its usual ponytail, her eyes needed some mascara, and she felt drab and out of place. Oddly enough, in his white tee, jeans and leather jacket, Silvio fit in just fine.
They slid into a booth near the bar and Silvio lost no time in getting to the point. “The El Tigre appears to have been set on fire by grenades possibly stolen from army stockpiles,” he said. “We’re investigating this as a deliberate attack of arson.”
“The news reports are true?” Jorge Serverio looked from Emilia to Silvio across the table, obviously referring to the media’s continued bold news headlines and sensational stories. “Someone tried to kill the mayor by burning down my restaurant?”
“Yes,” Silvio said.
“Are you sure?” Serverio asked. “A gas leak, I thought. The connection to the stove.”
“The arson investigator from Mexico City confirmed that it was a grenade attack this morning,” Silvio said.
Serverio looked as if he was going to burst into tears. Emilia looked away.
After the big auditorium briefing, they’d gone back to the station for a meeting with Lt. Rufino. There were over 300 club cab trucks registered in Acapulco and the surrounding towns. Lt. Rufino had talked knowingly about the methodology they would use, apparently unaware of the fact that due to the lack of integration between vehicle registration and identification card databases, his so-called methodology was little more than a labor-intensive comparison project.
One of the bartenders came with three cups of coffee. Serverio thanked him distractedly.
“Can you think of anyone on your staff who would want to harm the mayor?” Silvio asked.
“No,” said Serverio, appalled. “She’s very popular. It is always a pleasure to have her visit one of my restaurants.” He stopped and dipped his head, trying to stay in control. “At the El Tigre, she was always thanking the servers and going into the kitchen to compliment the chef. He’d trained at the Cordon Bleu, you know.”
Emilia nodded, feeling her throat tighten. That morning’s newspaper had contained short biographies of all of the dead, including the five-star chef.
“Did you know she was coming to the restaurant that night?” Silvio asked.
“Her office called ahead,” Serverio said. “Maybe an hour before she came. We immediately reserved the semi-private booth for her.”
“You say she’d been to the restaurant before.” Silvio stirred his coffee some more. “Had she sat in that booth before?”
“Yes.” Serverio’s anguished expression deepened as he understood the direction of the questions. “Every time she came.”
“Was Señor Obregon with her every time?” Emilia asked.
“I don’t recall,” Serverio replied. “He was the last time. About two weeks ago.”
“Did anyone ask about him, either that time or Saturday night?” Emilia sipped some coffee, looking at Silvio over the rim of the cup. She’d looked up Serverio’s business profile. He still maintained Spanish citizenship but had been in Acapulco for more than 15 years and his wife was Mexican. In addition to El Tigre and the Polo Club, he owned a company which provided restaurant supplies for numerous restaurants and hotels in the local area; it was headquartered behind the Polo Lounge. Among the three enterprises, he employed over 200 people.
“No. I always emphasized to the staff that they needed to be discreet about our clientele.” Serverio passed a shaky hand over his face. “I still can’t believe this. I have five dead employees. Everyone is frightened. My wife and I . . . ” He trailed off, swallowing hard while looking at nothing across the room.
The conversation was stalling out. If it was an inside job, Serverio wasn’t involved. They’d talk to the surviving members of the El Tigre staff, but Emilia had the feeling that if one of the restaurant employees was responsible—maybe they’d opened the gate or made a phone call—they were probably now among the dead.
“One last thing,” Silvio said. “We have a witness who saw men in camouflage uniforms in the area behind the restaurant shortly before the explosion.” He slowly drank some coffee.
Serverio clasped his hands together. Emilia watched as his fingers dug into his flesh and the knuckles strained against his skin.
“We know how popular camouflage is.” Silvio put down his coffee cup. “But we’re not discounting army involvement.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” Serverio said.
Silvio nodded. “As the owner, I think you’re entitled to as much information as we have. Of course, we’ll have to ask you to be discreet. This is an active investigation.”
Serverio nodded. His knuckles were now white.
“Señor,” Emilia started. Serverio mechanically turned his attention to her. “You left El Tigre before the fire. Where did you go?”
“Here.” Serverio relaxed. “Saturday nights are the busiest for both restaurants, and I split my time at the height of the dinner hour.”
“Can anybody substantiate that you came here?”
Serverio looked affronted. “Of course.” He turned toward the bar. “Alejandro? Can you come here for a moment?”
The bartender who’d brought the coffee left off slicing limes and walked over to their table. He was a handsome young man with an alertness that was very appealing.
“Alejandro Hernandez,” Serverio said by way of introduction. He stood and motioned the bartender into his seat. “I’ll let you speak in private.”
Emilia watched him walk over to the bar and finish slicing the limes. She liked Serverio, liked the way he’d do real work instead of just ordering people around. Kurt was like that; she’d seen him haul boxes around a storeroom, polish glasses, count sheets for the monthly hotel inventory, and clear dirty dishes from a table. Serverio spoke to the other bartender and they both smiled, obviously sharing some joke.
Silvio flashed his badge at the bartender at their table. “Have you worked here long?”
Alejandro nodded. “About two years.”
“As a bartender?”
“I started as a busboy. One night the bartender didn’t come in and I convinced el señor to give me a try. That was a year ago.”
“Any problems?”
“What do you mean?”
“El señor have any problems with his business?”
“No. He pays everybody on time. Never cheats anybody for their pay.”
“What about other people?” Silvio leaned back and toyed with his empty coffee mug. “Anybody doesn’t like Señor Serverio?”
“I don’t know.”
Silvio nodded. “You were working here Saturday night?”
“Yes.”
“What t
ime did Señor Serverio come in?”
Alejandro shrugged. “Around 11:30 p.m., I guess.”
“Anything special going on that night?”
“Here?” Alejandro gazed around the room. “His wife was waiting for him. Came in early, around 8:00 p.m. Looked real upset.”
“Upset?” Silvio frowned. “Upset how?”
Alejandro pointed to a small booth at the back. “She sat over there and ordered two whiskeys, neat. I’d never seen her drink like that. Plus, she looked like she’d been crying. Eyes all red. We all figured they’d been fighting or something.”
Emilia scribbled in her notebook, thinking furiously. At El Tigre, Serverio had given no indication that he was on his way to see an upset wife. “They fight a lot?”
“No.” Alejandro seemed sad at the recollection of Serverio’s wife sitting alone with her whiskey. “When he walked in around 11:30 p.m., she jumped up and hugged him. They sat back there for maybe 20 minutes and then went into his office.”
“You sure about the times?”
“Yeah. I was just starting the late shift when the wife came in. And Tina was still here when he came in, and she got off at midnight.”
“Does he usually come in around this time?”
“Yeah.” Alejandro nodded. “He splits his time between the two places most nights.”
Emilia jotted the word normal next to the time in her notebook timeline. “Do you know if he has any connection to the army?”
“The army?” Alejandro shook his head. “Some of the officers from the campo militar come in to have dinner here sometimes. General Hernandez was here once.”
Emilia knew enough about the local army presence to know that Hernandez was the general in charge of Mexico’s 27th military district which included most of the state of Guerrero. His headquarters was the campo militar in Atoyac, 30 minutes west of Acapulco on highway 200. “When was the last time any army officers were here?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe a few weeks ago.”
“Any arguments? Any of them go into Señor Serverio’s office and talk to him in private?”
“No.” Alejandro sounded bewildered. “They ate and paid and left. Maybe four of them with ladies, I think.”
“How did you know they were army? Were they in uniform?”
“No, but they looked like it.” Alejandro brushed a hand flat across the top of his head. “Military haircuts. And one of them kept saying mi coronel and the other one acted like he was a big shot.”
Silvio looked at Emilia and it was her turn to shrug. The Polo Club was a high-end restaurant, and it would naturally attract senior officers from the campo militar as a place to take their wives or mistresses. She handed her card to Alejandro. “Thanks for talking to us. If you remember anything significant about Saturday night, please call.”
They thanked Serverio and left the Polo Club. It was warm outside. Silvio tossed his leather jacket into the backseat before getting behind the wheel.
“Army?” Emilia asked as he turned the key in the ignition.
“Army,” Silvio agreed. “Serverio was scared shitless as soon as he heard the word.”
“You think he knew they were going to attack the restaurant to get at Carlota? Or Obregon?” Emilia replayed the scene with Serverio in her head, comparing today’s clenched hands and shaky gaze with the effusive charm that had been on display Saturday night.
Silvio turned the car out of the parking lot. “Or him.”
“Maybe Serverio knows something he shouldn’t.” Emilia started testing theories. “Overheard mi coronel plotting to do something.”
“Attack on El Tigre was a threat?” Silvio took up the thread. “Letting him know to stay silent.”
“I’ve heard worse theories,” Emilia said. It was as good as anything else they’d come up with in the last two days.
“The best lead is still the truck,” Silvio said.
Emilia agreed and took out her notebook with the timeline as Silvio drove back to the station. Things fit a certain theory, but only vaguely.
“What if this isn’t about Carlota?” Emilia thought out loud. “Or the army?”
“Obregon?”
“Yes.” Emilia felt slightly sick. Like her, Silvio had been caught up in the drug smuggling investigation that had cost Rico his life. And like Emilia, the senior detective also believed in Obregon’s complicity. The union boss was dirty, he played for high stakes, and going inside his game to uncover a killer could be a death sentence.
“Rayos, Cruz.” Silvio gave a short, crude laugh. “Weren’t you at that briefing? Even if we prove the cook committed suicide with two grenades he got at the Mercado Oriente, this whole fucking thing is going to be about Carlota.”
Chapter 10
The rest of the day was spent at Acapulco hospitals, interviewing other restaurant employees and the families of the deceased, trying to find some connection to the mayor or the army and failing miserably. Even Silvio’s normally gruff attitude was on a low simmer as they encountered yet another burn victim or grieving family confused by their questions and resentful at the intrusion into their personal hell.
The police radio crackled with updates on the situation in front of the alcaldía, the mayor’s offices, where a pro-Carlota rally was taking place, apparently spurred by the press releases coming out of her office. Each time they got into the car and called in, they were advised as to new traffic patterns in the downtown area.
Back at the police station, Emilia and Silvio parted silently. She got in the Suburban, drove out of the police lot, and found herself meandering in the direction of home, her throat tight and her head crowded with disturbing scenes.
The sign for Mercedes Sandoval’s studio loomed white and shiny in the twilight, and Emilia stopped the car. She looked around, surprised to find she was only a few blocks away from the church, in a small strip mall in the one of the better sections of the barrio.
A heavy security grille fronted a brown metal door. It matched the grilles over the windows. Curtains kept anyone from seeing in but showed that the lights were on. Emilia rang the doorbell and was rewarded with a metallic voice asking who was there.
“Emilia Cruz to see Mercedes Sandoval.” Emilia had to bend to speak into the small speaker panel next to the door. The intercom had been an afterthought and was fitted into a gouge in the green concrete wall.
“Do I know you?” asked the voice.
“I’m a detective,” Emilia said. “I need to ask you some questions about Lila Jimenez Lata.”
“Police?” Suspicion filtered through the speaker.
Emilia’s neck twinged from her stooped position in front of the intercom panel. “Her grandmother asked me to help.”
A buzzer sounded and Emilia was able to open the security grille. A key turned in a lock on the other side and the brown door swung open. Mercedes Sandoval moved to the side to let Emilia walk through.
The former ballroom dance champion was about 10 years older than Emilia, with thick brown hair plaited down her back and unruly wisps curling around her forehead. She wore a loose gray sleeveless tank, capri-length leggings and ballet slippers. Her bare arms were muscular. Despite the woman’s innate grace, Emilia figured she’d be good backup in a fight.
Emilia gazed around the studio. It appeared to be just one big room, with a wall of mirrors and stereo equipment sitting on a chair in the corner. A stack of CDs sat on the floor underneath. The floor was pale wood strips, worn almost to smooth whiteness.
Mercedes held out her hand. “I’m Mercedes Sandoval,” she said crisply.
“Detective Emilia Cruz Encinos,” Emilia introduced herself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about Lila. Her grandmother told me she disappeared after a dance lesson here.”
Mercedes nodded. “Do you want some coffee? I just made some.”
Emilia followed the other woman across the open studio area to a neat and comfortable office with a desk, a filing cabinet, a large sofa and a couple
of mismatched upholstered chairs. Emilia sat down and accepted a cup of coffee. It was at least her sixth of the day. She’d lost count several hours ago, but knew it would be nearly impossible to sleep tonight. “What can you tell me about Lila?” she asked.
“Lila’s been taking lessons for about two years.” Mercedes settled into another chair and drew up her legs. “I don’t think her grandmother likes it, but she always pays me on time.”
“Tell me about the last day she came.”
Mercedes shrugged. It was a fluid movement. “It seemed like a regular day. We had the class. The other girls got picked up. I walked Lila and Itzel to the corner and they got on the bus. Regular driver. He waved. And that was it.”
“Itzel Martinez Ramos?” That was one of the names on Berta’s list.
“Yes.” Mercedes wrapped her hand around her coffee cup as if she needed the warmth. “Both Itzel and the bus driver say she got dropped off right in front of her house, and they saw her go in. But I know Berta says she never got inside the house.”
“So someone’s lying.”
Emilia waited for the dancer to say who that might be, but Mercedes merely shrugged again.
“Is Itzel still coming to dance lessons?” Emilia asked. She got out her notebook and wrote Itzel? Reliable?
“Yes, although it’s clear she’s terribly upset,” Mercedes said. “Lila and Itzel are close, although Lila can be a little devious, and I think Itzel is afraid of her.” She resettled herself in her chair. “You know, the girl who wants to be as cool as the coolest girl but knows she never will? That’s Itzel.”
“And Lila’s the cool girl?”
“Definitely,” Mercedes said. “Very confident about her looks. That girl could own a room.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Neither had finished their coffee. Emilia put her cup on the floor, fished the photo strip out of her bag, and handed it to the dancer. “Have you ever seen this boy? His name is Pedro Lata and he’s her half-brother. Same mother, different fathers.”