Hat Dance (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 2)

by Carmen Amato

  General Hernandez folded his arms. “He can make a request to see the records.”

  “That’s fine,” Chief Salazar said.

  Obregon still said nothing, just watched Lt. Rufino and Chief Salazar with the same look of assessment he’d worn in the auditorium.

  On one side of Emilia, Silvio breathed noisily while on her other side Lt. Rufino seemed to wilt. It was clear to Emilia that the stress of the situation was getting to el teniente. In the squadroom, his exchanges with the detectives had become more and more terse as they reviewed what would be discussed at the meeting. On the way to the alcaldía, Lt. Rufino had breathed in short noisy bursts as the police driver navigated the official vehicle.

  Emilia pressed her lips together, chagrined at the power plays going on in the room as the burbles of noise from the chanting crowds outside rose and fell. Murillo’s brief was to determine the cause of fires, not to go grubbing around in the military district’s records. But by throwing the responsibility on to the visiting investigator, who had no jurisdiction and could be recalled to Mexico City at any time, Salazar kept his police department from getting into a tangle with the army. General Hernandez looked smart enough to see that for himself but probably couldn’t care less what Salazar did as long as the army didn’t get blamed for the fire without better proof than the use of grenades, which, as he’d rightly pointed out, were easily obtained on the black market.

  Hernandez struck Emilia as a seasoned player who was out of patience with Carlota’s posturing. He knew the army had a bad reputation but wasn’t going to let it get worse without some solid evidence.

  “May I speak for everyone here, mi general,” Carlota said as she stood up. “When I say we appreciate your goodwill and spirit of cooperation during a difficult time.”

  A muscle in Silvio’s jaw jumped.

  General Hernandez stood, as did the two officers he’d brought with him, neither of whom had said anything during the meeting. The general held Carlota’s hand for a moment, speaking in an earnest and low tone to her. When she smiled and let go he acknowledged Obregon and Chief Salazar. One of Carlota’s minions opened the door and the three army officers left.

  A little more air seemed to circulate in the room.

  “Army cooperation,” Carlota said with a sniff when the door closed behind the army officers. She snatched up a proffered glass of water from an aide and stalked back to the window to look at the demonstrations below, drama in every movement. The rest of the meeting participants were obviously her adoring audience. “No doubt it will be priceless. Now that Hernandez knows we have a suspect, anything could happen. I expect the police to be prepared.”

  Chief Salazar looked as if he had indigestion. “Before we take action, we all need to realize the severity of the accusations and be prepared to deal with what could become an even more tense situation. There is a delicate political balance here. Macario Urbina—”

  “Possibly colluded with the army to kill me,” Carlota said. She pointed to Chief Salazar. “I won the election, my opponent turned to the army for help, and they gave him Torrez. Hernandez thinks no one will find out but he’s a fool.”

  One of Carlota’s staffers leaned forward. “It would look bad to rush to conclusions, señora,” he murmured.

  “Eight people are dead,” Silvio snarled, speaking up for the first time. “We’ve got a suspect. Do we want to get this pendejo or not?”

  Everyone turned to look at him. A corner of Obregon’s mouth twitched.

  The staffer, a manicured young man with coifed hair and a herringbone suit, pursed his lips as if Silvio had said he liked sex with dogs.

  “We’ll go into executive session, now,” Chief Salazar said icily. “Rufino, I know you and your officers want to get back to the office.”

  “My officers want to make an arrest,” Lt. Rufino said. The lieutenant raised his chin toward the window. “Before this situation gets out of hand.”

  “This is support from the people of Acapulco,” Carlota purred as she settled back into her chair.

  Emilia looked at the smug faces of Carlota’s staff, all six discreetly ranged outside the main seating area. The demonstration had been going on for three days. Who was feeding the ever-growing number of people? Providing bathrooms? Water? What about the pro-Carlota and anti-army banners and signs that had appeared out of nowhere? Hernandez was no fool, surely he was asking himself the same questions.

  “Thank you for coming, detectives,” Carlota said.

  “I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Rufino,” Chief Salazar said.

  Rufino made a small sharp gesture and led Emilia and Silvio out of Carlota’s office. Once in the hall, it was as if the lieutenant had read Emilia’s mind. “Get your vests on,” he said. “Find Macias and Sandor, work the crowd. See if any pieces connect.”

  They walked to the lobby without speaking. The driver stood up from the bench where he’d been waiting, led the way to the lot inside the gates of the alcaldía, and popped the trunk. Lt. Rufino watched as Emilia and Silvio strapped the heavy vests on under their jackets to hide the word POLICIA stenciled on the back.

  “The mayor’s using the situation to get at the army,” Silvio said. “She’s got some problem with them and this is her opportunity. We should be arresting this guy. The riot cops can worry about this demonstration.”

  Lt. Rufino made a small nervous gesture. “We’ll wait for Chief Salazar to give us the go-ahead.”

  “Politics and police work are a bad mix, teniente,” Silvio warned.

  Lt. Rufino got into the car and the driver shut the door.

  Chapter 13

  Emilia moved uneasily through the chanting crowd, the bulletproof vest heavy and hot under her denim jacket. A small stage had been set up and spokesmen for the demonstrators took turns leading chants and booming through a bullhorn, keeping emotions high with questions and cheers. Can Carlota save our city? Yes! Can we tell the army we’ve had enough? Yes!

  Her shoulder holster fit even more tightly with the vest on. The gun was a reassuring presence on her left side, but using it in this situation would likely cause a stampede. Her best protection was the discreet police radio clipped inside her jacket.

  Do you want tanks on our beaches? No! Do you want our businesses up in flames? No!

  All the demonstrators waved small Mexican flags, held up signs or brandished pictures of Carlota. Big pro-Carlota banners were everywhere, strung up on the iron fence surrounding the front of the alcaldía and stretched across the walls of other nearby buildings. A few big anti-army banners were mixed in. Other signs professed support for Los Matas Ejercito. Several people wore black scarves across their faces in imitation of the video’s heroes.

  Can they come to our city and burn it down? No! Can we let them have our Carlota? No!

  Reporters tethered to television vans interviewed demonstrators, made noisy but earnest broadcasts, and made Emilia nervous about inadvertently being caught on camera. Uniformed cops with riot shields lined the streets, ostensibly protecting local businesses, most of which were closed.

  Static crackled in her earpiece and she heard Silvio’s voice. “Army convoy is heading toward the alcaldía. Maybe Hernandez is coming back.”

  A moment later, the bullhorn blared and volatility rippled through the crowd like the surge of the ocean during a hurricane. Shouts of The army! The army! They’re coming for Carlota! rose up and drowned out Silvio’s voice in Emilia’s ear.

  The crowd charged forward, taking Emilia with it. She fought to stay on her feet, locked inside the mass of people, as the surge carried everyone closer to the alcaldía. Emilia stumbled across grass, over a curb, and onto pavement. Shouts turned to screams and then to battle cries.

  Do we want martial law? No! Can they have our Carlota? No! NO!

  Some of the demonstrators broke ranks and Emilia realized that they’d surrounded a car. A swarm of at least 40 demonstrators rocked it from side to side as she watched, helpless to do anything. The driver
was dragged out but wasn’t in uniform. He managed to break free and made it to the safety of the line of riot cops.

  The crowd managed to dump the empty car onto its side. The vehicle hung suspended for a moment, the undercarriage exposed like the entrails of a metal monster. In the next moment it crashed down on its roof with the rending sounds of crumpling sheet metal. As it settled onto the pavement like a giant dying cucaracha, someone threw a bottle. Emilia barely had time to register the rag stuck in the mouth before glass shattered, the air filled with the scent of gasoline, and the car burst into flames.

  The crowd had been close and the blast of heat knocked everyone back. Emilia fell to the pavement amid the crush of bodies. Bright fire stretched out to touch her.

  Silvio’s voice crackled in her ear, asking where she was. Emilia groped to her feet, hardly seeing who or what she was stepping on, coughing as the smoke blew into the crowd. Panic enveloped her, and once again she was stumbling through a maze of blinding smoke, full of things that shifted and snapped in the scorching heat.

  The voice in her ear kept calling, but nothing mattered except survival. She was desperate to get out of the restaurant, to find Kurt, to see if he’d made it out, too. She used her elbows to break away from the jumble of panicked people closest to the burning vehicle. Battering a path for herself, the sound of explosions drove her on, over glass and china and pieces of brocade wallpaper.

  Once she’d fought her way out of the immediate crush, Emilia started to run, slamming aside anything in her way. Uniformed cops in riot gear streamed by in the opposite direction, but they hardly registered. Her breath came in ragged heaves, her eyes seeing only the inside of the El Tigre. The doorway was obscured by roiling smoke and greedy flames.

  Horns blared, too close, and Emilia jumped back. A fresh breeze made her gulp hard, almost biting the air around her, and she stood still.

  Panic ebbed and she saw that she was at a familiar intersection. South of the alcaldía, close to the wide Avenida Casa Blanca and the touristy art market at Mercado Artesanias Tlacopanocha, and not far from the Playa Manzanilla beaches. Traffic was solid and unmoving in every direction. Drivers swore at each other, half leaning out of the car windows. Tourists in cargo shorts, light jackets and floppy hats, clutching their colored plastic bags from the mercado, looked confused at the commotion.

  “Cruz!” The radio boomed in her ear. “Stay there!”

  Emilia clapped a hand to her earpiece, surprised to find it still intact. She also still had her gun and her cell phone. She wanted to call Kurt, make sure he was all right. Before she could make the call, footsteps sounded on the sidewalk and Silvio was there, face streaming sweat.

  “Fuck sakes, Cruz.” He bent over and drew in air, just as Kurt had done Saturday night. “What are you, some sort of fucking Olympic runner?”

  Emilia couldn’t have replied if she’d wanted to. She started to shake, her body churning with adrenaline and the residue of incomprehensible fear. Silvio grabbed her by the upper arm, pulled her down the street to a small lonchería, and tossed her into an orange vinyl booth.

  “What the fuck, Cruz,” he said hotly. “I must have called you a dozen times. You forget radio protocol all of a sudden?”

  Emilia blinked at him. Her teeth chattered like castanets.

  “I turn around and there you go, like a fucking speed racer,” Silvio said in disgust.

  The waiter put down two glasses of water and a pad of paper with menu choices on it.

  “The car turned into a big wall of fire,” Emilia said, her voice shaking as much as the rest of her. “Always smart to run away from a fire. Not into it. Away.”

  Silvio mopped his sweaty face with a paper napkin from the table dispenser. “This is it, Cruz,” he snarled. “I never wanted you in the squadroom. Sure as fuck never wanted you as a partner. You are living proof that women can’t do this fucking job.”

  Emilia started to laugh. Silvio was lecturing her with the same old shit he always said, and her teeth were clacking together, and all she could do was laugh. It wasn’t even funny. She didn’t know why she was laughing but she couldn’t stop, either. Maybe it was because her teeth were making so much noise inside her head: clakkety-clakkety-clakkety—

  Silvio threw a glass of ice water into her face and Emilia stopped laughing.

  The tourists at a table across the aisle gasped.

  The cold water ran down her chin and soaked the front of her jacket. Silvio grabbed a bunch of paper napkins from the dispenser and thrust them at her. Emilia slowly wiped her face. The napkins came away damp and sooty.

  She dropped the soggy paper, lunged across the table and slapped Silvio. He leaned back, but even so, she connected hard enough with his jawbone to send a jarring sting up her entire arm.

  The tourists scrambled out of their chairs and herded themselves toward the door.

  Silvio fingered the bright red mark that Emilia’s hand had left, then snapped his fingers at the waiter and ordered two beers.

  Emilia blew her nose on a napkin. It came away laden with black muck.

  The waiter put two cold bottles on the table and darted away.

  Silvio upended his bottle and took a long guzzle. Emilia swallowed a mouthful of cold beer, grateful for the cooling sensation as it went down her throat.

  “Just how bad was that fire at the El Tigre?” Silvio asked after a while.

  “Worse than I thought,” Emilia said.

  Chapter 14

  Emilia sat in Mercedes Sandoval’s office and watched the dance class, glad for the chance to decompress after what had happened that afternoon. Silvio had called a car to get them back to the police station, and she’d gone home after that to a long shower and a decent meal.

  The girls were all young teens. They practiced a jazz routine as Mercedes led them.

  It would have been such a gift if she'd been able to do what these girls were doing, Emilia reflected, hands wrapped around a cup of Mercedes’s coffee. Move with freedom and joy, have a break from worrying about food or school or their mother wandering away and never coming back because she’d forgotten where she lived.

  As Mercedes changed the music and the girls giggled and pranced around, Emilia realized that she hadn’t changed so very much in all the years since she was that age. She was still too serious, a worrier, ready to fight anything that got in her way, desperate to keep her small household afloat, always denying herself anything too nice. There was never any sense of freedom or spontaneity. She rarely did anything for the pleasure of it. No wonder Kurt was thinking of leaving Acapulco.

  After the class, Emilia volunteered to take Itzel home, saying that she and Mercedes were going shopping near Itzel’s house. Mercedes let Itzel get in the front and hopped into the backseat of the Suburban, and Emilia made small talk to Itzel about dancing and how she’d always wanted to learn how to dance but never had the chance. Itzel was a small thin girl with long wavy hair.

  They stopped at a light and Emilia turned to Itzel. “I’m a police officer, Itzel, and I’m looking for your friend Lila Jimenez Lata.”

  Itzel’s face tightened. “I don’t know where she is.”

  “You said she went home,” Emilia said. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nobody saw her go inside.”

  “She did,” Itzel insisted.

  “Someone else told me she got off the bus after one stop,” Emilia bluffed.

  “He’s lying,” Itzel said immediately.

  “Who’s lying?”

  “The bus driver.”

  “I never said it was the bus driver who told me that,” Emilia pointed out.

  Itzel started to cry.

  Emilia pulled into the parking lot of a paint store closed for the evening. Itzel tried to unlock the passenger door and Emilia hit the lock button on her side. Mercedes reached between the two seats and pressed down on Itzel’s shoulder.

  “Where did she go, Itzel?”

  “No,” Itzel said bet
ween sobs. She shrugged off her teacher’s hand. “I can’t tell you.”

  Emilia jerked Itzel around to face her. “You’ll be blamed if you know something and don’t tell. Your friend could end up dead.”

  “You’ll tell her grandmother,” Itzel whispered.

  “I don’t have to tell anybody,” Emilia said. “Where did she go?”

  Itzel gulped. “She went to find her mother.”

  “Her mother’s dead,” Emilia said.

  “Lila said she’s not.” Tears coursed down Itzel’s face. Mercedes passed her a tissue from the backseat and Itzel blew her nose. She wadded the soggy tissue in a small fist. “Her grandmother made it up because she hates her mother.”

  “Where does Lila think her mother is?” Mercedes scooted forward and wedged herself between the two front seats.

  “She didn’t say.” Itzel drew her shoulders together and struggled not to cry again. “She said that her mother is a Spanish princess. Lila says Lata isn’t her real name, but she used it because she was a spy once and had to change her identity. Her real name is much more grand, but she never could say what it was. Lila said Montealegre, maybe. Or Castillo.”

  Emilia was starting to have a very bad feeling about the search for Lila. “So where was she going to go to look for her mother?”

  Itzel shook her head. “Downtown. She only said downtown and she had to go that day because her grandmother had a big sewing job and wouldn’t be in the house until later.” The girl gave up the struggle and new tears poured down her face. “She made it sound like she’d only be gone a little while. She never said she wasn’t coming to school on Friday.”

  Emilia looked in the rearview mirror and met Mercedes’s eye. Downtown could mean so many things.

  Chapter 15

  “We made an arrest,” Emilia said. “All hush hush for now, but with any luck, this is all over.”