by Carmen Amato
The car rocked. A flash in the rearview mirror caught her eye. Emilia snatched her head around, sure that something had hit the car. But instead of another car, she saw fire.
Emilia strung her badge around her neck, snatched her gun and holster out of her shoulder bag, and slammed out of the SUV with her cell phone.
She ran straight at the flames spouting out of a building on the corner of the next block. The neon sign proclaiming the Luna Loca club was still brightly lit. Emilia called it in as she ran, shouting her badge information and location, while also managing to get her holster on.
The Luna Loca wasn’t nearly as big as some of the clubs in the area, but it was packed with a good Saturday night crowd. Drunk patrons stumbled and screamed as they gushed out of a side door, the one Emilia got to first.
To Emilia’s intense relief, the club had ample uniformed security, and they all appeared to have working radios. She found the guy who seemed to be in charge and showed her badge. “I’m Cruz.” She had to holler to be heard over the din of people and fire. “I called it in. The bomberos should be here any minute. How many people inside?”
“Three hundred or so,” he shouted back. His face was streaked with sweat and soot, but he looked like he knew his business. “Most out the front and rear.”
“Where’d it start?”
“Behind the bar,” he shouted back. He waved an arm toward the other side of the building. “The bar just blew out.”
The Luna Loca was a corner property. Two sides were engulfed in flames. Black smoke billowed out of the crumbling wall and spread a pall over the street. The heat was too intense for Emilia to even stand on the opposite side of the street, so she yanked up the hem of her tank top to cover her mouth and ran through traffic again to the front of the building where more guards in Luna Loca uniforms were swiftly shepherding people away from the flames.
Traffic was a mess all around the area, even worse than at the El Tigre fire due to the many clubs and the maldita concert which must have just finished. Emilia was ready to place a second call to emergency services when she saw a club cab truck in the line of traffic. As it crept forward, a streetlight splashed light over it and Emilia saw that it was a dark maroon color.
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia choked. She ran down the block toward the truck, cursing the sandals she wore that had been for a date, not for running. Her gun was a reassuring pressure against her side as she went.
The truck moved with the other vehicles, caught in stop-and-go traffic. People thronged the sidewalks and parking lots that lined the streets, the snap and sizzle of the fire mingling with the music that continued to pour out of the other clubs and restaurants as well as the burning Luna Loca. Emilia tried to block out the chaos and the noise and focus on the truck as she ran down the sidewalk. She dodged honking cars trying to exit parking lots and muscle their way into the snarl of traffic, as well as shouting drunks who blocked her way as they stopped to gape at the burning building.
It was too dark and there were too many vehicles behind the truck for her to see the placa numbers. Emilia cursed as she realized that the street intersected with the artery leading back to the highway. She darted into the street, hoping to be able to move faster and catch a better glimpse of the truck as it passed under streetlights. A car’s bumper kissed her leg, spinning her around. The driver honked loudly, leaned out of his window, and grabbed her left arm.
“Let me teach you how to cross the street, chica!” The driver was in his early twenties, a rich party boy. She’d seen his type a million times. The alcohol on his breath rolled ahead of his words.
Emilia reached into the car with her free hand, snatched up a handful of hair, and banged his head into the steering wheel. The car horn blared and he let go of her arm.
The traffic lurched forward and picked up speed. Emilia hauled out her gun and started to run again. She was still two cars behind the dark maroon truck when it jinked around the car in front of it and jumped the curb. The right side tires bit into the concrete and the truck rumbled forward, right side elevated by the sidewalk, left side still in the street. Emilia saw a hand clutch the side of the truck bed; there was one, no, two people in the back.
Pedestrians scattered as the big truck accelerated, the sound of its engine competing with screams and the blaring of horns. The truck’s left front bumper crumpled as it pummeled the line of cars, sending them careening into the incoming lane, the truck’s size and weight allowing it to shove them out of its way.
Emilia bounced off the hood of a car tossed aside by the truck and somehow managed to land on her feet. She got onto the sidewalk again, dodging panicked people and debris thrown up by the truck’s tires.
The truck careened down the street, still partly in the road and partly on the sidewalk, almost at the intersection.
“Get out of the way,” Emilia hollered. She stopped running and aimed the gun at the tires, trying to slow her breathing, ignore the screaming around her, and keep the sights level. The automatic was both familiar and heavy in her hands as she fired over and over again at the moving truck.
Her ears rang with the sound of shots and breaking glass. The truck swayed violently. The right fender smashed into a metal trash can, one of Carlota’s prized Keep Acapulco Clean bins affixed to metal stanchions that rotated for easy clean-up and were cemented into the sidewalk. The bin sailed through the dark night, spewing trash, a brightly colored metal monster aimed directly at Emilia. She barely had time to throw herself to the ground and roll towards the nearest building before the projectile hit the sidewalk, chewing up pavement, bouncing like a runaway train into grass and plants, and bending the wrought-iron grating around a tree.
Emilia sat up in time to see the truck slam back into the street. Bits of rubber trailed it like sparks. She realized that it had no license plates.
The dark maroon truck made the turn that would take it to the highway and disappeared.
☼
“Cruz,” Lt. Rufino shouted. “Maybe you’re the firebug. You show up every time.”
It was dawn. For the second time in a week, Emilia stank of smoke and wet ash. Plenty of people had been taken to the hospital and at least two were dead. The Luna Loca smoldered quietly behind them, the once vibrant blue stucco building smeared with soot. A hole gaped in the side. Shards of pottery and broken plants were strewn all around, making walking difficult.
Until last night, the Luna Loca had been a trendy club-style restaurant that advertised 50 different types of margaritas in colorful flyers that cute girls handed to tourists on the beach. The front of the building was known for its eye-popping mural of a huge grinning moon face. Now the artwork was stained gray.
The emergency services vehicles were gone. The bomberos had set up a plastic shelter. The police were using it as an emergency conference room.
One of the nearby restaurants was doing an early morning business selling coffee to all the cops and fire department personnel, and Emilia was grateful for the double latte that Silvio had unceremoniously shoved at her. He’d taken down everything she could remember about the truck, what direction it had been going when she first saw it, the color, make and model, and the fact that it didn’t have any license plates. The two people hiding in the back.
Both Emilia and Silvio had been surprised when Lt. Rufino showed up, steel travel mug in hand. Emilia had repeated her story to him. Ten minutes later, Chief Salazar’s convoy shrilled up the street and halted in front of the restaurant. Lt. Rufino climbed into the back of the chief’s SUV and conferred for five minutes. Whatever had been said inside Salazar’s vehicle hadn’t been good. Lt. Rufino was livid.
“Teniente,” Emilia said. “I swear what I told you is true. I just happened—”
“You left the scene,” Lt. Rufino said. “To chase a car like a dog. I don’t expect my detectives to chase cars. Or don’t they teach detectives how to do things properly here?”
“The truck had the same description as the one at the El Tigre
, teniente,” Emilia said, torn between anger and surprise at his reaction. “It went up on the sidewalk to get away from me. A car behind the truck honked and it must have gotten the truck’s attention.”
Murillo parted the panels of plastic that formed the enclosure’s door and stepped into the shelter.
“So?” Lt. Rufino snapped at the arson investigator. “What have you got?”
“This looks like a copycat of the El Tigre,” Murillo said. He had on a big baggy orange coverall with cargo pockets and was soot-streaked from the thighs down. “We’re probably going to find that two grenades detonated against the side of the building, right where the bar was located. Might have been targeted because the arsonist knew where the bar was, or maybe the exposed side of the building made for an easy target. Either way, the initial explosion set all those bottles of alcohol on fire and it spread from there.”
“A copycat or a second fire for the same person?” Silvio asked.
Lt. Rufino drank noisily from his travel mug.
“I won’t know until we trace the fragments,” Murillo said. “But it’s the same burst pattern, the same signature. My guess is we’ve got a serial arsonist on our hands.”
“A serial arsonist,” Lt. Rufino said slowly. He swung around to stare at Emilia. “Impossible.”
“Or a copycat,” Murillo said reluctantly.
“And Cruz runs away from the scene,” Lt. Rufino said acidly.
“I was running after a truck that matched the description given by a witness at the last fire,” Emilia repeated.
“We’ve already arrested the owner of the truck,” Lt. Rufino shouted at Emilia, spittle flying.
Silvio made an abrupt cutting gesture that caught Lt. Rufino’s eye. “We haven’t proven that Torrez was there, teniente,” the senior detective said. “Just that he might have had motive and access to the weapons.”
Lt. Rufino’s eyes bulged.
“We’ll connect later,” Murillo said hastily to Silvio. The arson investigator’s face was expressionless as he nodded at Emilia and stepped outside.
His hand shook as Lt. Rufino jabbed a finger in the air at Silvio. “Don’t you dare presume to correct me, Detective.” He swung to Emilia. “You wanted to play the little heroine, no? First at the other fire, now at this one. Are we going to find a special radio hookup to the bomberos dispatch in your car, Cruz?”
Emilia took a step back and felt the plastic panel flap behind her. “No, teniente.”
Lt. Rufino barely heard her. “But this time you went too far. Numerous witnesses saw you discharge your weapon and destroy city property!”
“That truck was trying to get away so badly it went up on the sidewalk,” Emilia explained yet again. “The truck hit that trash can. Shouldn’t we be asking why?”
“Consider yourself suspended, Cruz,” Lt. Rufino snapped. “Today and tomorrow. When you get back, you’ll be in basic training again.”
“Suspended?” Emilia exclaimed.
Lt. Rufino ignored her, stalked out, and made his way to his official car and waiting driver.
Emilia clutched her latte cup with both hands, suddenly needing the warmth of the last dregs of coffee. “I am not trying to be some hero,” she insisted.
Silvio folded his arms and nodded. “He’s scared shitless we arrested the wrong guy. If we did, Carlota’s going to crucify Salazar and Salazar’s pretty much his only champion here in Acapulco. Obregon will make sure both of their heads roll.”
“So now what?” Emilia asked. “That truck matched Maria’s description, same as Torrez’s truck. This one had people in the back and they were lying down. Hiding.”
“We’ll get off with retraining and shit assignments for a year,” Silvio said, his voice low and harsh. “But if Rufino and Salazar go down because of the Torrez arrest, they’ll take Macias and Sandor with them because they made the actual arrest.”
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia murmured, knowing he was right.
“Macias and Sandor have friends, Cruz,” Silvio went on. “You know the kinds of friends I mean. You ever wonder why Inocente always gave them the best assignments even when their arrest record is dirt? Why nothing bad ever happens to either of them? Why they’re so fucking close, like fucking twins?”
“Payoffs.” Emilia mouthed the word, almost afraid to say the truth out loud. Some cartel paid Macias and Sandor to protect their interests. The detectives, in turn, had always passed a cut to Lt. Inocente and others who mattered to a cop’s career. “You think Lt. Rufino knows?”
“That’s not the point, Cruz.” Silvio rolled his eyes in disgust. “You think their friends won’t know we did the research, that we were the ones who started things rolling that got their boys in the shitter? If I were you, I’d be praying hard that Torrez doesn’t have an alibi, Murillo doesn’t know a fuck about doing his job, and you just shot up a truck full of nothing.”
Emilia swallowed back a lump of pure fear. “So what would you have done?” she asked quietly.
Silvio passed a hand over his face, kicked at the ground in frustration and exhaled. As before at the El Tigre fire, he’d been the first detective on the scene, and he’d rapidly created a semblance of order out of panic. The Luna Loca’s uniformed guards had done a good job and he’d talked to them, made it known they’d done everything possible and had minimized casualties by responding rapidly and well.
“I would have killed as many as I could,” Silvio said. “Including whoever was in the truck bed. They were the grenade throwers, same as at the El Tigre when they probably stood in the bed to get over the fence. If they were all dead, Rufino and Salazar could put it out that they’d been copycats. Salazar could still fry Torrez’s ass for the El Tigre and Carlota gets her wish to burn Macario Urbina. Maybe the army, too. Nobody gets embarrassed.”
“Torrez might be totally innocent,” Emilia said.
“Why doesn’t he have an alibi?” Silvio retorted.
When she didn’t reply, he grabbed her by the upper arm and shoved her out of the shelter. “Go home, Cruz,” he said. “Use tomorrow to clean up. See you on Tuesday.”
Chapter 17
“There was another fire,” Ernesto said from the table.
“I heard.” Emilia buried her nose in her coffee mug. Behind her at the stove, her mother was humming.
Sunday had been a lost day. Emilia had spent it alternately sleeping, showering, mulling over Silvio’s predictions, and wondering if Kurt’s plane had taken off yet. Now it was Monday morning and the day stretched out before her, a day she should be in the office, going through the truck records again, combing through to find specific color descriptions. Maybe Silvio was doing that. Or maybe he was up to his eyeballs in shit.
Ernesto pushed a newspaper across the table. It was a local rag that captured attention with sensational headlines and lurid pictures. On humid days the newsprint came off on skin and regular readers would be seen holding it as if the paper was delicate china.
The picture on the front took up nearly the whole page. The picture of the burning restaurant, flames silhouetted against the night sky as a tired firefighter paused to wipe his face with a soot-darkened glove, had a certain macabre beauty to it. The headline read ARMY STRIKES AGAIN?
The brief article said nothing about a police detective chasing a suspect truck or shots being fired. Instead, the article was a hysterical rant that the army was lashing out at Carlota because she’d refused to pay political kickbacks to them. Emilia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The charge could be a total fabrication or holy truth.
She put down the paper and fortified herself with some coffee.
Ernesto indicated the headline. “Is this your case?” he asked.
Probably not tomorrow. “Yes.” Emilia pushed the paper back across the table to him.
“Is this true?” Ernesto slowly shook his head. “The army setting fires?”
Emilia shrugged. “It sounds odd, doesn’t it?”
“Restaurants have money,”
Ernesto said pointedly.
“More than us, huh?” Emilia grinned at him.
“Who would want them to stop making money?” he asked as Sophia put a plate of fried eggs and potatoes in front of him.
“Whoever wasn’t getting their fair share,” Emilia said with a laugh as she got up to get her own plate.
Ernesto made a satisfied grunting noise, as if he’d had all the conversation he could manage but that it had pleased him. Emilia kissed her mother as Sophia scooped eggs and potatoes onto a plate. Ernesto was often as vague as her mother, but at other times there was a spark of a real person in there.
Sophia talked about some upcoming event at the church as they ate. Ernesto wolfed down his food and went outside. In a few minutes, Emilia heard the creak and whirr of the grinding wheel starting up and the whine of metal as he began to sharpen something. Still chattering happily, Sophia washed the dishes and joined Ernesto outside.
Emilia sat by herself in the kitchen and toyed with her food, her thoughts sluggish. She read through the newspaper article again, wishing desperately that she could text Rico. Instead, she found her notebook, made another pot of coffee, and sat at the table alone re-reading her notes from the fire at the El Tigre. They’d arrested Torrez because he had a possible motive, an army connection, and the right vehicle. His only connection to the El Tigre had been Carlota’s presence there.
Torrez had been behind bars since midday on Friday. His truck was impounded. Emilia doubted they’d find any connection between him and the Luna Loca.
She redrew the timeline, trying to see past the focus on Carlota and the army that they’d all had since the fire at the El Tigre. Something was there, but it was elusive. Each time she thought she’d grasped a thread, it turned out to be nothing more than a wisp of smoke.