by Carmen Amato
Emilia blew out her breath in frustration. “It’s important. Is he coming in later?”
Tinoco looked thoughtful as he eyed the money.
“Just looking for a little girl he met, Tinoco,” Silvio said. “That’s all.”
Tinoco shook his head. “You keep your money, Franco. I haven’t seen him in a week or so. Him and El Rey Demonio, they’re big names now. They don’t come in as much as they used to.”
“What about a job?” Silvio pressed but didn’t take back the pesos. “He’s got a job somewhere?”
“That trio got too big for jobs,” Tinoco said. “They won a lot of prizes. Cash money and El Rey got a set of fancy wheels. You want to find them, go over to the Coliseo on Saturday night.”
Silvio glanced at Emilia. She lifted a shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
“Are they worth betting on?” Silvio asked.
Tinoco smiled, showing his gold tooth. “Not like you, Franco. But they put on a good show.”
Silvio cocked his head at the 200 pesos on the desk. “Lay down a bet with me the next time you have a good fighter.”
They stayed a little longer, mostly because Tinoco seemed lonely in the nearly empty gym. It was nearly 2:00 p.m. when they finally walked down the hall to the barred door. Silvio shook a thick finger at Emilia. “You’re not going over to the Coliseo on Saturday night.”
“I’ll find somebody to go with,” Emilia said. They both knew that a single woman at the Coliseo was a woman who ended up in a Missing Persons file.
“Rayos, Cruz,” Silvio swore as he shoved open the door and walked out ahead of her. “No. The Coliseo can be a rough place on fight nights.”
“I’ve run down a lot of leads on this girl,” Emilia said. “I’m not stopping now.”
Silvio pulled out keys and bleeped open the car doors. “Get in the car, Cruz.”
Emilia slid into the passenger seat and decided to change the subject rather than get into another argument with Silvio. “Why did you quit boxing?”
“It was time.” Silvio started the car.
“Sounded like you had a big career going.”
Silvio leaned back. The engine was running and his hands were on the steering wheel, but he didn’t put the car in gear. “Tinoco wanted me to throw a fight. The other fighter had the same sort of friends that Macias and Sandor have. They offered Tinoco big money to make sure their boy won. Bigger money than the cut he’d have gotten if I’d won.”
Emilia swallowed hard. “And did you? Throw the fight, I mean.”
“Wasn’t up to me.” Silvio unclipped his sunglasses from his shirt collar and put them on.
“He accepted the deal before asking you,” Emilia guessed.
“Tinoco always looks out for himself,” Silvio said, and shoved the car into reverse.
Emilia sighed and found her own sunglasses. “You don’t need to come with me. I’ll find somebody else. I’ll talk to this Sergio on Saturday before the fights start.”
“I’m coming with you,” Silvio insisted. “But when this is over, I’m talking to Rufino. You and me. This isn’t working out.”
He backed the car out of the tight parking space and changed gears with a jolt.
“For once we agree,” Emilia replied.
They both stared straight ahead, hidden behind sunglasses, as the car turned south toward the police station.
Chapter 32
“It would seem that we are talking at cross purposes here,” General Becerra said nastily. “I want you to find this cabrón making threatening and accusatory videos, and you’re telling me that the army is responsible for an arson and extortion scheme. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that you were making a joke.”
“It’s a fair question, mi general,” Silvio said from across the table. “Could it be that the group calling itself Los Matas Ejercito knows something about the army’s involvement that the police don’t?”
“Very possible, as it seems the police know next to nothing.” Becerra looked around in triumph and got a patter of dutiful laughter from the military officers ringing the table.
Silvio went on. “It’s been in the news that the fires could be the work of an extortion scheme, but this group is still making videos blaming the army.”
“Well, it’s convenient to blame the army, isn’t it?” Becerra bared his teeth in a strange expression of disgust. “Especially when your mayor whips up public opinion and encourages demonstrators in front of our gates.”
“We have to rule out all possibilities,” Silvio said.
“You have the gall to make this accusation to my face?” Becerra snarled. “To accuse army personnel of arson and extortion?”
It was all bluster. The Mexican Army had been accused of everything from rape to blackmail to murder over the past few years. The army had never had a sterling reputation, and its supposed role as the country’s savior against the drug cartels had merely given it more opportunities.
General Becerra was General Hernandez’s deputy. Hernandez had been called to Mexico City for consultations, Emilia and Silvio had been informed by Murillo when he’d stopped by to say goodbye. The rumor was that Hernandez would be reassigned or forced to retire. His superiors in Mexico City had been less than impressed with his exchange of press statements with Carlota, lack of explanation over the origin of the grenades used in the arson attacks, and failure to stem the ongoing demonstrations in front of the military facility’s gates.
Becerra was in his early forties, with a long aristocratic nose, a bristly crew cut and an attitude of smug superiority. He had stamped into the conference room followed by an entourage that put Carlota’s baggage to shame. His aide was a flushed lieutenant with a nametag that read Aguilar who’d pulled out the general’s chair for him. All of the military minions who’d previously ushered Emilia and Silvio into the room rose to their feet, swivel chairs and booted feet making loud noises. They all wore pressed fatigues in the same camouflage pattern that Guetta and his friend had worn in the Casa Casa restaurant security video.
Counting the general, his aide Lt. Aguilar, and the two detectives, there were about 20 people in the room. Emilia was the only woman.
The general didn’t extend to either Silvio or Emilia the simple courtesy of introducing themselves. He didn’t shake hands, either, just launched into a 20-minute lecture on the Los Matas Ejercito videos, railing against the police incompetence that had led to citizens to believe that they had to be protected from the army. He accused them of mishandling the press and wanted to know the status of the investigation, not against the arsonists, but against Los Matas Ejercito. The three-man video team was depicted as a bigger threat than the Los Zetas cartel. He stabbed the air with his forefinger, making sure his underlings were paying attention.
As he went on, Emilia was reminded of Olga la Fea and her command of the room at Mami’s. The way her words were veiled threats and her minions laughed on cue.
Emilia kept her face composed, trying to let Becerra’s words flow over her without touching. Compared to Hernandez, Becerra was a joke.
But Silvio pushed back, outlining what public sentiment via social media was saying about the army’s likely involvement. He recounted the evidence they had that implicated the army in the extortion scheme: sightings of men in camouflage in the truck at the El Tigre, the Casa Casa restaurant’s security video showing camouflaged men asking for payment of an “army tax,” the use of grenades possibly attributed to army stockpiles. After all, neither the police nor the visiting arson investigator had been given access to the armory records at campo militar.
Before a red-faced Becerra could start yelling again or had a stroke, Emilia cleared her throat and both combatants glanced at her.
“Perhaps your staff would be willing to watch the videos, mi general,” Emilia interjected. “A few questions afterwards and we can be on our way.”
Becerra was sharp enough to know Emilia had just given him a way out of the meeting. He waved his hand idly in
assent. Silvio folded his arms and leaned back in his chair.
Emilia’s disc with four short videos on it had been turned over to their hosts before Becerra came into the room. Now someone dimmed the lights, a large screen television mounted on the far wall flickered, and the three masked men came to life.
Once again, Emilia mentally compared the size of the men to the water bottles in front of them. Each member of Los Matas Ejercito was as big as Silvio, with the one in the middle the largest.
The security video from Casa Casa played last. The video company Silvio had engaged proved itself useful. Some of the shots had been blown up, and in one view the name tag and the word Guetta was more clearly seen, as was the wedding band and the print of the army tax notice.
The videos ended and the lights came up. Silvio leaned forward. “All of the restaurants that have so far been contacted and asked to pay an army tax are turning over their security camera feeds to us. We’ll use facial recognition software to compare the extortionists to the cédula database and make a positive identification.”
He delivered the line perfectly, as if they had the technology to do that without the police intranet imploding, and Emilia scanned the table for reaction. Becerra looked as if he hadn’t heard a thing. His lieutenant, Aguilar, appeared not to understand what all the tech talk meant. The others waited for Becerra to give them a cue.
Emilia cleared her throat. “Would you be aware of any former army personnel who perhaps left service under certain circumstances and could be making videos in revenge?”
Becerra looked at his aide. Aguilar shook his head. The general looked at Emilia triumphantly. “No. We have no troubled current or former personnel.”
Of course not. Emilia smiled. “Has anyone received grudge messages?”
Becerra snorted. “Only threats as a result of the videos. Look at all the demonstrators!” Again, he got a polite round of duty laughter.
The rest of her questions got blunt and pointless answers.
Emilia closed her notebook. “Thank you, mi general. That’s all. But before we go, we’d like to look at the personnel records for soldiers named Guetta who are assigned here.”
Becerra waved a hand at his aide. “Check the records. We can show the good detectives here that we are cooperating fully.”
Emilia could almost see the press release forming in Becerra’s eyes. Of course the army would get some political traction out of the visit; she and Silvio had known that would happen. It was the only reason Silvio had held onto his temper.
Aguilar and three others quietly left the conference room. The general went to the far end where there was a small desk and several phones. No one said a word as the general called his secretary and in a loud voice postponed his next appointment.
The next 20 minutes were torture, everyone sitting around the table silently while the general barked over the phone at his secretary about various administrative issues.
The aide came back, carrying a slim folder. Becerra came back to the table.
“We do have a Sergeant Guetta assigned to our region, mi general,” Aguilar said. He glanced uneasily at Emilia and Silvio. “I brought his personnel file and asked for him to be sent for. He should be here in a few minutes.”
Becerra looked through the file, nodding thoughtfully as he slowly turned pages. When he was done, Aguilar brought the file to the other side of the table and gave it to Silvio. He slid it to the side so that Emilia could read it at the same time.
The file was slim. Guetta was young, maybe in his mid-twenties, with a thin face and sharp, indio features. Guetta had joined the military ten years ago, when he was 16. He was originally from San Luis Potosi, a good-sized town in the middle of the country. He didn’t work in the armory, but was a motor pool driver.
Another long time passed before there was a tap on the door. The other two officers who’d left with Aguilar now headed a small parade of soldiers in camouflage fatigues. One matched the picture in the file.
Becerra snapped his fingers and Aguilar marched the soldier identified as Sergeant Guetta to stand in front of the general.
“Have you asked any Acapulco businesses to pay an army protective tax?” Becerra barked.
“No, mi general.” Guetta stood at attention.
Becerra nodded. “Have you stolen grenades from the warehouse?”
“No, mi general.”
“Do you know anyone who has stolen grenades?”
“No, mi general.”
The soldier didn’t react to any of the questions. Becerra might have been asking him if he liked to eat fish or go to the movies.
The general dismissed the soldier, and the group that had come in with him all left.
Becerra tapped the table in front of him. Aguilar retrieved the slim personnel file and laid it on the table in front of his superior.
“You see,” Becerra said. “Full cooperation. You are wasting your time here.”
“We appreciate that cooperation, mi general,” Emilia said as Silvio passed out pictures of three charred buildings and Murillo’s glossies identifying the grenade fragments. They’d planned out this part of the meeting and knew it might prove the most controversial. “There is just one last thing.”
“As you are well aware, the grenades used in all three attacks were military-use explosives,” Silvio said.
“Permission was only given for the arson investigator to look at military records,” Aguilar interrupted. For a military man, he had a surprising tendency to look down, as if speaking into his chin. Emilia guessed that anyone who worked very long for Becerra adopted that habit. “He was from the federal firefighting school and carried federal authority. You are only from a municipal police department.”
“We understand that distinction,” Silvio acknowledged. “But as our investigation is focusing on Los Matas Ejercito and the attention they are bringing to the grenade—”
“Frankly, this seems to be more of a continuation of the mayor’s vendetta against the army than a legitimate police investigation.” Becerra stood up. “You can send us a written statement of the events you’d like us to look into and the army will carry out an internal investigation. Now get out.”
☼
“You think someone in that room was the arsonist?” Despite the sunshine and the heated tarmac of the police station parking lot, Emilia shivered. The meeting in campo militar hadn’t helped any investigation, just raised and confused her suspicions. She might have been sitting in a room with someone who’d killed eight people and wounded numerous others or she might have been sitting with rude but hardworking army officers trying to get on with the business of protecting the country.
Silvio stared at her. “There’s something we’re not catching here.”
“Like the whole sham with Guetta?” Emilia drank some of the cola they’d stopped to get after being hustled out of the building and given an escort back to the gates of campo militar, where nearly 100 protestors were still camped out. “The file was barely five pages long.”
“For a ten-year career?” Silvio crushed his own soda can in one hand and threw it into the trash can near the door. “I think they put that whole show together in a panic. Wanted to make sure they had a Guetta who was nothing like the person wearing the nametag.”
“But why?” The logic to this case had long ago ceased to be linear. “What are we missing?”
“Somebody in that room knows the real Guetta,” Silvio surmised. “Or at least the person stupid enough to wear a uniform jacket with a name tag on it.”
“Okay.” Emilia nodded. “Let’s go with the theory that one of them is in on it. What do we do?”
Silvio shrugged and opened the door to the station. “It’s Vega’s case now,” he reminded her. “You want to call and tell him you think something smells bad up at campo militar?”
What do you think Vega would do, Emilia started to say, but Silvio walked ahead of her past the holding cells, and she was left alone in the hallway.
Chapter 33
The Coliseo was a big arena. Not big enough for a really wild Maná concert, but big enough to handle the crowds that came to see the lucha libre battles held almost every Saturday night. There were two tiers of seating: on the ground floor surrounding the main ring, and up on the second tier under the ceiling’s lofty web of metal rafters. The second-floor seats gave the best views of the fights and the big Corona beer logo in the middle of the ring’s blue canvas floor. But Emilia knew that the ground-floor seats nearest the ring were the most coveted. The action sometimes spilled beyond the ropes, and everyone wanted to be up close and personal with a luchador when that happened.
Plastered to bulletin boards near the entrance, posters of that Saturday night’s lineup featured drawings of El Rey Demonio and the leaders of two other trio teams. All the fighters were in costume, with latex masks that totally disguised their faces. Most of the luchadores that made it to the Coliseo had managers and even product endorsements. Their nicknames were evocative of evil, mayhem, or outer space. Only a few used their actual names.
“The fighters will be in the locker rooms,” Silvio said. “Let’s go see if we can find your guy.”
They were on the ground floor of the arena about 45 minutes before the fights were due to start. Emilia followed Silvio past the posters in the wide lobby, past the concession windows, and into the main part of the arena. The ring dominated the center of the floor and was surrounded by rows of seating. It was on a platform raised nearly to the level of Emilia’s shoulder. As she walked by, her eye was drawn to the thick stripe of beige tape bordering the blue canvas.
The place was rapidly filling up, mostly with men ready to holler, bet, and drink. A few women who looked like rougher versions of the girls at Mami’s were mixed in. Emilia was grateful for Silvio’s presence. Not only could the big detective push his way through the crowd with ease, but he’d been recognized by the guards working the entrance. Emilia assumed it was because of his former boxing career or his current bookie status; either way, no one had said anything when he and Emilia walked around the metal detector instead of through it. Her gun was still in its shoulder holster under her denim jacket, no questions asked.