by Carmen Amato
Kurt’s eyebrows went up as she told him how Silvio had chafed and muttered throughout the Friday morning meeting. As it wrapped up, Lt. Rufino got a call from Chief Salazar’s office giving them the green light to arrest Torrez. He’d dispatched Macias and Sandor—pointedly not Emilia and Silvio—to the hacienda owned by Carlota’s defeated political rival Fidel Macario Urbina.
They had apparently found the foreman, Torrez Delgadillo, and his truck without much trouble. Torrez was currently in one of the detention cells in the central police building. Chief Salazar’s staff would handle the interrogation. In hopes of defusing the still volatile demonstrations which had spread to the gates of campo militar in Atoyac, an early press statement had gone out stating that the police had a suspect in custody and that Carlota and the people of Acapulco were once again safe.
Everyone was nervous because Macario Urbina was on vacation in Europe and unavailable for comment on the arrest of his employee. Emilia was surprised that his office hadn’t tried to issue some sort of contradictory statement, blaming Carlota for twisting law enforcement to hurt her political opponents. Emilia figured they were either scared because Torrez had indeed been acting on Macario Urbina’s orders, or they hadn’t been able to get in touch with him.
“Did he confess?” Kurt asked.
“He hasn’t said anything,” Emilia said. She jiggled her straw down around the ice cubes and crushed mint leaves in the bottom of her mojito. “No confession, no alibi. Won’t say where he was last Saturday night. Macario Urbina’s office sent a lawyer, but he hasn’t said anything either.”
“I don’t usually jump to conclusions, but that looks bad to me.” Kurt finished his own mojito and took a nut from the bowl on the table.
“If it wasn’t him, where’s his alibi?” Emilia raised her hands in pretended exasperation. “Maybe they need to put Silvio in with him for a couple of hours.”
Kurt laughed. “That bad, eh?”
Emilia had to smile. “Well, only sometimes.”
To her surprise, Silvio had not said anything to Lt. Rufino about her panic Thursday at the demonstration. Nor had he lectured her again. Silvio had actually been quiet on Friday after the morning meeting, as if he’d known he had pushed el teniente as far as the new lieutenant could go.
“The only bad part of this is that Carlota is going to start talking about her damned Olympics again,” Kurt said.
Emilia laughed. The mojito was cold and sweet, but not cloying, the lime and mint adding just the right double shots of zest. It was as if the Palacio Réal’s bartenders knew exactly what she’d needed.
The hotel was located on the far eastern side of Acapulco, on the tip of Punta Diamante, the spit of land that created the bay-within-a-bay called Puerto Marques. Emilia marveled every time she drove down the steep and winding cobblestone road that led from the Carretera Escénica down the side of the mountain that rose above the bay. The hotel hung like tiered jewels down the side of the cliff, the stunning architecture creating the ultimate in luxury and privacy.
The Palacio Réal was so secluded that few besides hotel guests were to be found in the five-star restaurant or the vast Pasodoble Bar with its two terraced levels, inlaid glass mosaic bar and white curtains that could be pulled to block out the rain. For Emilia, being anywhere in the hotel was like being on another planet, one where the bartender made the world’s best mojito, the white piano spilled out tunes that Emilia didn’t recognize, wealthy people floated by in expensive clothing, and the evening tide lapped at the sand beyond the terrace. She usually felt underdressed when she was there, even tonight when she had on a simple white tank, a skinny black skirt, and the turquoise necklace she’d bought when she made detective. The bandage was off her hand, too, and the remaining small red streak across the heel of her hand was barely noticeable.
Kurt put his empty mojito glass on the table. He wore a white polo shirt with a little alligator on the chest, khaki pants and loafers without socks. His muscular arms still showed scratches from his rescue efforts at the El Tigre. “This was all due to what you and Silvio found,” Kurt said. “Why don’t you seem more excited?”
Because you’re leaving tomorrow for Belize and I can’t compete with all that money. The evening so far hadn’t touched on Kurt’s plans. The need to get things out in the open was there, however; in his careful welcoming kiss, the stilted conversation, the way neither reached for the other’s hand as they usually did.
But now he’d given her the perfect opening.
Emilia took a deep breath.
“I’ve got another case,” she said. “A missing girl. Just 16 years old.”
Kurt raised his eyebrows and Emilia found herself babbling, her eyes looking everywhere but at his face, telling him about Berta, meeting Mercedes, the conversation with Itzel, and how Lila believed that her mother was alive despite what her grandmother had told her.
“I had a couple of minutes yesterday and looked up the mother,” Emilia went on. “Found an arrest record for Yolanda Lata from four years ago. Someone paid her fee and got her out a couple of days later. No address for either Yolanda or whoever paid her out.”
“So she was alive four years ago.” Kurt signaled for another round of mojitos. “Are you going to go back to the grandmother and ask?”
Emilia sighed. “I don’t trust Berta to tell me the truth. She either won’t face it or doesn’t know. I’d rather be able to ask the brother but I found zero on him.” She fumbled in her bag for the photo strip and put in on the table in front of Kurt.
Kurt studied the images. “This is the girl and her brother?”
“Yes,” Emilia said. She and Silvio had supposedly been hard at work researching the remaining club cab trucks on the list on Friday, but he’d worked the points spread for tomorrow’s games on his cell phone while Emilia looked up not only Yolanda but the woman’s son as well. Surprisingly, there’d been nothing in any database; Emilia hadn’t even found Pedro Lata’s cédula. As far as official records went, the boy didn’t exist. “All I have on him is a name. Pedro Lata.”
The waiter came by and put down two fresh mojitos and took away the old glasses. Kurt smiled and saluted him with the glass, and the waiter grinned back.
Kurt was always doing that with his employees, creating a moment of connection, of acknowledgment. It was never forced, just a natural extension of his confidence, of the quiet authority that he wore like a second skin. She liked that about him, liked to be around him, liked to watch and learn from him. Emilia thought again about him leaving Acapulco, wearing his confidence and understated authority in Belize, and the bottom of her evening fell away.
He put down the photo strip and ate another nut. “You know that he works at the CICI water park.”
“What?”
“The water park,” Kurt said. He put the tip of his index finger on the logo on the boy’s polo. “He’s wearing a uniform shirt. Dolphin logo.”
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia exclaimed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to the huge water park, the chief feature of which was the opportunity for tourists to swim with dolphins in one of the park’s huge tanks. Occasionally one of the dolphins would die, and the newspapers would be full of outrage over cruelty to animals and Mexico’s bad record in caring for marine mammals in captivity. The police and animal control would argue over who had to deal with the norteamericano animal rights activists until the issue blew over and the water park bought another dolphin. “Are you sure?” she asked.
“Took a group over there a few weeks ago,” Kurt said.
“You’re a genius,” Emilia marveled and tasted her fresh mojito.
They sat in silence as the surf slid up on the beach and the sunset spread itself into a kaleidoscope of pinks and golds.
Kurt took her hand and traced a circle around the red scar. “I’ll be gone for two weeks,” he said. “Don’t run off with anybody else, okay?”
Emilia felt her face get warm. “I won’t.”
&n
bsp; Kurt gave her hand a jostle so she’d finally look at him. “Even if I take the job, it’s not a problem,” he said seriously. “There’s a direct flight. We’d see each other about as much as we do now.”
“Is that enough for you?” Emilia heard herself ask. She felt like a moth dancing toward a flame, knowing it would extinguish her yet unable to help herself.
“I want what you can give, Em.” Kurt’s voice was steady, matter-of-fact, as if there was no pressure implicit in his words.
Emilia knew this was the moment. The moment to say Stay and he’d stay.
She looked away. Her throat was tight. She wondered how she’d remember this night when she looked back on it. Thought about how once upon a time, she’d had something really special. And messed it up.
“Want to take a walk?” Kurt asked. His voice was strained.
“Sure,” Emilia said.
He led her across the big open bar. A small group laughed and chatted near the piano, couples smiled at each other over the glow of the candles, and the bartenders juggled bottles and made drinks with sultry names. Kurt nodded at each person wearing a Palacio Réal uniform, and Emilia saw the immediate respect in their eyes as they smiled back at el jefe.
He kicked off his shoes and waited for Emilia to do the same. Together they stepped off the lower terrace and onto the hard-packed sand. They walked across the beach to the water’s edge and Kurt turned right to keep them parallel to the softly lapping surf. The sun was nearly below the horizon, just the rim of a fiery orange ball visible as it sank into the dark ocean, the kaleidoscope reduced to flickering stripes woven through the water.
They kept walking, holding hands, leaving the hotel further and further behind. Emilia let her sandals dangle from her free hand, trying not to think about Belize or the future or how the sunset reminded her of smoke and fire.
The hotel’s lights and music receded; the sand became more coarse and the ocean more angry and violent. The waves surged onto the beach and sucked at the sand, reaching higher each time, thirsty for something hidden underneath and angry when dragged away before the treasure was found.
Kurt slowed his steps, then stopped. Emilia looked behind them. In the distance, the hotel glittered down the whole length of the cliff. She could see the curve of the bay and the hotel’s private marina. Lights hung in the sky, and she knew it was the even more distant Costa Esmeralda apartment building. The dark night had swallowed up cement and stone, and only the lights were left to compete with the stars.
“I feel like there’s more to say, Em,” Kurt said. “About this whole thing. About us.”
Emilia swallowed hard. She wriggled her toes into the damp sand. “I know.”
He waited for her to go on. When she stayed silent, Kurt drew in a breath. “I mean, do you care if I go?” he asked. “I’d really like to know.”
The last flicker of the sun vanished below the horizon. There were no shadows on the beach, just opaque darkness and the smell of a wide and lonely ocean.
“There’s so much money at stake for you,” Emilia said. A noisy wave washed over her feet and she sank up to her arches in the wet sand. “I can’t even imagine how much.”
“Forget the money.” Kurt dropped her hand but didn’t move away. They stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the waves and the ocean and the darkness. “I’m saying I want to know if I matter a damn to you, Em. Or are we just having fun, no strings attached?”
“I can’t tell you what to do,” Emilia said, and knew that she was hurting him. But she couldn’t think of what else to say, anything that wouldn’t leave her open and vulnerable. “I can’t take that kind of responsibility for your career.”
“What about taking some kind of responsibility for us?” Kurt asked. “What are you willing to put into this relationship?”
Emilia turned to look at him then, provoked by the raw tone in his voice and her own anger at not being able to handle the conversation. For not being able to give Kurt what he wanted. Her moment of epiphany in Mercedes Sandoval’s studio came back like bitter acid. Maybe she couldn’t give Kurt what he wanted because she didn’t have it to give.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Emilia said. She pulled a foot out of the sand and traced a line with her toe. A wave drove up the beach and gobbled up the indentation.
“Why the hell can’t you answer a simple question?” Kurt demanded.
“Because it isn’t simple,” Emilia blurted.
“Because you’re a cop and your mother is losing it and you’ve had to fight for everything you’ve ever gotten in life.” Even if his face hadn’t been turned away, it was too dark to see his expression. “And I’m a gringo so nobody you know will approve.”
“Not true.” Emilia pushed herself to sound lighthearted in order to get past the emotion, the way she always did with him. “I told you about my new friend. Mercedes Sandoval. I bet she’d think you’re fantastic.”
“Is she my type?”
“No,” Emilia said with a nervous little laugh. “She’s not a cop and her mother’s dead and she knows what she wants and she’s really nice to people. I don’t think she’s shot anyone in a while, either.”
“Yeah.” Kurt took Emilia’s hand and started walking again. “Not my type at all.”
The beach was deserted. It was narrow here, where rich people didn’t come to play. Rocky patches and scrubby pines stretched toward the water, held back by sand and salt. Stars twinkled overhead, reflections streaking the ocean with silver.
“This would be simpler if you were more of a jerk,” Emilia said.
Kurt laughed. “Give me time.”
Just what we don’t have. Emilia’s eyes stung and she blinked until they didn’t. Why did she have to make everything so hard? Why did she feel a pull toward him and a fear that pulled her away at the same time?
They just kept walking, picking their way slowly in the dark. Maybe they’d never stop, just keep walking along the shore of the world until they found the North Pole.
Kurt stopped. “We should head back,” he said. “It gets pretty rocky further on.”
“Okay,” Emilia said.
He dropped his shoes and took her face in both hands and kissed her hard. When he pulled away Emilia clutched at him; the kiss had been urgent and bruising, and she didn’t want it to be over.
They made love on the beach, on the damp cool sand, breathless and laughing a little as Kurt produced a condom and they got it on him in the inky darkness. Emilia held on tight as he pulsed deep inside her, a little roughly, his breath fast and ragged. She didn’t know if this was a farewell or a claim he was staking, but either way she was right there with him, giving him everything she could and everything she’d ever held back.
The waves surged at them in the dark and Emilia came hard, shaking and crying, Kurt’s skin salty on her tongue as she pressed her mouth into his neck to keep from screaming in utter surrender. A minute later he came like a pounding drum inside her. She gripped his body between her legs, her ankles crossed over his spine, letting the drum beat her into the wet sand.
They lay together afterwards, both winded, until the night air cooled their bodies. Their clothes were damp and sandy when they got dressed, fumbling and clumsy, both a little awed at the rush of emotion they’d experienced, more powerful than the rise and pull of the ocean. They walked back to the hotel with Kurt’s arm around her shoulders. Emilia’s knees were like rubber and the echo of the drum still pounded in her blood.
Chapter 16
It was a relief to reach the privada gate. The steeply pitched road up from the Palacio Réal was always a challenge to navigate in the big Suburban when it was dark.
The guard opened the gate and Emilia turned left onto the Carretera Escénica toward Acapulco. There was little traffic along the road, which wound around the mountain above Punta Diamante and along the outer edge of the entire bay of Acapulco. The ocean twinkled on her left, but she rarely looked down. Experienced drivers knew that withou
t guardrails or a safety net, the road was best driven at night by keeping eyes on the painted middle lines.
After their wild interlude on the deserted beach, she’d collected her shoulder bag in his small fifth-floor apartment, refused the offer of a shower or drink, and picked up her vehicle from the valet. Their lovemaking had said it all, and she sensed that he was as emotionally exhausted as she was. He’d try to text her from Belize or London, and they’d parted with a last, lingering kiss under the hotel’s portico.
The lights of the city grew brighter as the Suburban rumbled along the smooth highway. Emilia abruptly started to cry. The sobs came from nowhere, violent and uncontrollable, forcing Emilia to gasp for air and fight to keep her eyes open. Suddenly it was all she could do to control the heavy vehicle, and she instinctively braked and turned right at the first intersection. There was a car behind her, so she drove down whatever street it was, blubbering and wiping her nose with the back of her hand, afraid that she was crying so hard she was going to throw up. She turned again and again until by a miracle she saw an open parking space. It took a second miracle to parallel park.
Emilia turned off the engine and gave herself up to it then, crying in the darkness over Kurt and the uncertainty of what she was doing with him and why she had been unable to answer his questions. She cried over the burn victims in the hospital, swathed in bandages and delirious from the pain. She cried, too, for the daily grind with Silvio, the dislike that emanated from him and the constant need to show that she was impervious to his barbs. And for the embarrassment of how she’d behaved on Thursday and the fear that she was unraveling, that she wasn’t a good cop anymore.
When her sobs subsided to a sad shakiness and a runny nose, she found a paper napkin left over from some comida corrida meal and wiped her nose. Her watch said it was a little after midnight and she realized she was in Playa Guitarrón, the popular nightclub area. If she got out of the vehicle, she’d see the pink neon glow from the famous spaceship-themed Palladium nightclub; the place was large enough for the lights to create a regional landmark. Even inside the car, she could hear the pulsing bass of music and dimly remembered a memo about uniforms working security at an outdoor beach concert that night.