Hat Dance (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 2)

by Carmen Amato

  A burly man pushed Emilia aside. “I’m a paramedic,” he said.

  “Two shots to the chest.” Emilia’s voice sounded unnaturally calm. “He’s very drunk.”

  As the paramedic tore open Lt. Rufino’s bloody shirt, Emilia pushed her way out of the crowd that had rapidly formed around the prone body. Some people held cell phones high in order to take pictures over the shoulders of those closest to the man lying in the pool of blood.

  Chapter 34

  The main event had finally convinced most of the audience to stay in their seats, and the aisles were mostly clear. Up on the raised ring, two bulky bare-chested men, one in red tights and one in black, entertained the crowd with an extravagant display of bare-handed brawling. Emilia recognized the distinctive ears of El Rey Demonio’s devil mask. His powerful tattooed arms flexed as he picked up his opponent and threw him bodily into the ropes.

  The crowd roared with equal parts approval and dismay, and Emilia figured that El Rey’s opponent was the other team’s captain. The fighter shook himself off the ropes and thrust a meaty arm at El Rey, who made a two-handed bring-it-on gesture and lowered his head like a bull about to charge. The air pulsed with more roars of excitement and a rhythmic chanting started. El Rey! El Rey!

  On one side of the ring, the eye-catching figures of Puro Sangre and El Hijo de Satán waited their turns in the tag team battle by shaking their fists, yelling taunts, and whipping up the crowd with the same gestures they’d used during the parade.

  The two luchadores in the ring collided again. Both went down as a ripple went through the crowd to Emilia’s left. She caught a glimpse of Aguilar’s yellow shirt and set off after him, swinging around the rear section of seating.

  Aguilar walked rapidly ahead of her, gun still in his hand, making for the main aisle. A few people noticed the gun, screamed and shrank back. The crowd’s yells for the luchadores drowned out the reaction to the gun.

  Emilia drew her own gun but kept it close to her side as she took off after him. It was hard to know what Aguilar would do next or where he was headed. She rounded the rear set of seats, skidding as she turned to follow Aguilar, and a heavyset uniformed security guard stepped into her path.

  Emilia found herself looking into the barrel of a handgun.

  “Drop your weapon,” the guard demanded. His face was sweaty and the gun wobbled dangerously. Emilia was close enough to see that the safety was off. A radio clipped to his belt emitted a stream of excited static.

  “I’m a cop,” Emilia said rapidly. “Your shooter from the concession area is in a yellow plaid shirt just ahead of me.”

  “Drop your weapon,” the guard shouted at her, his voice cracking with fear.

  In another second, Emilia knew, he was going to pee his pants. Then he’d shoot her out of sheer embarrassment.

  “Rayos,” Emilia swore. She gently placed her gun on the floor by her feet and stood with her hands by her shoulders, palms out. “What’s come over your radio?” she asked. “Did anyone call in the shooting?”

  “If you’re a cop, where’s your badge?” the guard asked suspiciously. He scooped up her gun while keeping his weapon pointed at Emilia.

  Emilia pointed to her neckline. “I’m going to pull out my badge,” she said. “That’s all.”

  The guard gave a start as she pulled at the lanyard. Emilia nearly dropped to the ground, but he didn’t move again as she worked the lanyard out from under the tee shirt and held the badge out for him to see. “My name is Cruz. Acapulco Municipal Police. Detective unit. Call it in. Your shooter’s name is Aguilar. He’s wearing a yellow plaid shirt.”

  The guard frowned at something behind Emilia. She turned to see Aguilar dart into a row of seats, shoving his way over people’s feet and yelps of distress as the people in the seats realized he carried a gun.

  “Call it in,” Emilia ordered the bewildered guard and ran into the nearest row of seating herself. Aguilar was evidently heading for the main aisle on the other side of the section. She would emerge behind him. Without her gun, she didn’t know what she’d do, but she wasn’t letting him go.

  “Sorry. Excuse me.” There was little room to maneuver as Emilia crawled over knees, feet, and accumulated food leftovers.

  “Get the fuck out of the way,” a man bellowed and shoved Emilia forward into the lap of the next person over.

  The neighbor was blind drunk and flung Emilia aside as if she was a toy.

  She landed on an empty seat in time to see Aguilar point Lt. Rufino’s little revolver at her.

  He fired three times, emptying the chamber, his shots wild as he fought to stay on his feet as people scrambled madly to get away from him. The gun clicked repeatedly as Aguilar continued to pull the trigger. As people in the rows between him and Emilia screamed and struggled to move away, he threw down the empty gun, vaulted over the last few terrified people in the row, and sprinted up the main aisle toward the ring, shouting, “Get out, get out!”

  Emilia got herself untangled and half-fought, half-fell into the main aisle. Two security guards approached, but they were slow to understand the situation and even slower on their feet. She blew by them, straining into the sprint. Five steps and she launched herself at Aguilar, bringing him down in a flying tackle, arms wrapped around his waist. Aguilar pitched forward, landing face first, arms flung up in an abortive effort to break his fall.

  The wind must have been knocked out of him because Aguilar didn’t immediately put up a fight. Emilia felt hands grab at her, trying to drag her off him.

  “He’s the shooter,” she yelled.

  Her words were all but lost in the din. More than a dozen people surged around them, blocking her ability to move, deafening Emilia with shouts into her ears as confused drunks tried to pry her and Aguilar apart.

  Emilia got one arm hooked around Aguilar’s throat and pinned his legs with her own. Her free hand found her handcuffs. In a blur of noise, twisting muscles, and her own hammering heartbeat, she managed to get the cuffs fastened around his wrists with his hands behind his back.

  One of the uniformed security guards broke through the mob and together they got Aguilar to his feet. “He’s your shooter from the concession area,” she panted. “I’m a cop. Acapulco Police.”

  A cry of excitement went up from the stands on either side of them. Feet stamped and rustling filled the air.

  The trio fight had evidently been halted. All three luchadores in red tights were in the ring, gripping the ropes and staring down at the group surrounding Aguilar. The raised platform allowed the action in the ring to be seen from the stands, but it also gave those inside the ropes a bird’s-eye view of the floor below.

  As Emilia looked up, El Rey’s eyes connected with hers. The distance between them wasn’t much, just a few meters, and his stare slid down to her chest and connected with the badge dangling from the lanyard. Emilia stuffed it back inside her tee, but it was too late.

  She didn’t know if they said anything to each other, but the three luchadores hurled themselves out of the opposite side of ring, sending the audience on that side of the arena to its feet. Those in the seats nearest the torchlit walkway surged forward, eager for this unexpected chance to connect with their lucha libre idols.

  Emilia thrust her way past the security guard and fought her way to the base of the ring.

  She saw Silvio on the move on the other side, pitching people out of his way, and she knew by the intensity of his movements that he’d seen everything that had happened.

  El Rey was on the walkway. He uprooted one of the gas-fueled torches burning on either side of the doorway leading backstage and the shadow of a flame swung overhead. Emilia watched in horror as he heaved it toward the raised ring. And her.

  It landed at the base of the ring, forcing Emilia to take refuge in the nearest row of seats. Flames spurted up and licked the fabric bunting that skirted the raised platform.

  Another torch hit the front row of seats on Silvio’s side of the main aisle.
The arena erupted into pandemonium.

  The third torch ignited big fabric banners that decorated the walls, immediately flaring up the fabric to the second row of seating. The smell of charcoal and burning plastic filled the air.

  People stampeded toward the main entrance and Emilia was nearly swept off her feet by the tide of panicked spectators.

  Clinging to a seat by the ring, she saw El Rey pick up the last torch. His mask with its pointed ears was shiny and metallic in the reflection of the flames. Puro Sangre made a grab for the torch as well, and it became a flamethrower as the two men struggled for control. The third luchador in red, El Hijo de Satán, disappeared through the double doors.

  Puro Sangre lost his grip on the torch and El Rey heaved it after the others. It flew as far as the ring, bounced against the elastic ropes and catapulted back towards the walkway, igniting the carpet that ran like a stripe down the center.

  El Rey turned to follow El Hijo de Satán through the double doors, but Puro Sangre grabbed him. The two men wrestled violently. Flames sprouted in front of them, forcing Emilia to look away, and when she looked again, the larger luchador twisted his opponent’s head around as if his neck was a corkscrew driving into a bottle of wine. Puro Sangre slumped to the ground and El Rey passed through the double doors.

  The canvas floor of the ring blazed up, blowing heat like a furnace across Emilia’s left side. The rush of frightened, drunken lucha libre fans turned into a blundering stampede. Emilia felt panic engulf her, battle into her heart, replace her thoughts with animal fear. The arena filled with blinding smoke and things that shifted and snapped in the scorching heat.

  “Cruz!” Silvio yelled in her ear.

  Emilia stared at him. He shook her hard and she blinked. “El Rey,” she managed. She clutched at his jacket front. Silvio was the only point of stability in the fire, in the chaos around her. “He’s heading for the rear exit.”

  Silvio grabbed her by the arm. They both pulled their jackets over their mouths and somehow made it up the walkway, skirting the smoldering carpet. As flames licked over the rows of seating by the walkway, the burning plastic made Emilia gag. They stepped over the lifeless body of Puro Sangre. The luchador’s masked head was canted at an impossible angle.

  Smoke followed them into the performers’ area. The place was a madhouse of people who’d worked the secondary concession area as well as those rushing down a service stairway from the upper tier of seating.

  With Silvio leading the way, the two detectives battled through the teeming mass of hysteria. The exit door was logjammed with people, and they were caught up in the crush. The smoke was suffocating, and Emilia fought outright terror as the stampede threatened to crush her. But once more, Silvio’s size and strength got them through.

  The rear parking lot was more pandemonium as stunned arena workers and lucha libre spectators stumbled, sobbed, or threw up on the pavement. But at least they were outside.

  “I lost my gun,” Emilia croaked. Her eyes stung from the acrid smoke and she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pull in any air around the all-consuming panic.

  Silvio swung Emilia to face him. His face was streaked with soot and sweat. “I saw what happened,” he said. “Don’t quit on me now, Cruz.”

  “He’ll go for the truck,” Emilia gasped. “Drive it through the fence.”

  “Or whoever has been hiding the truck will unlock it for him.” He reached inside his jacket and hauled out his gun. “Can you make it?”

  Emilia coughed, spat out phlegm, and nodded. Silvio led the way through the back lot, weaving around cars and people. The arena popped and crackled as it burned. Ash began to rain down as the two detectives broke into a run.

  There were fewer people on that side of the arena, but the heat was more intense. No doubt the fires had spread to the concession kitchens. The rear door that led into the enclosure was open, and thick, oily smoke billowed out.

  In the distance, a tall figure lumbered toward the fenced-in enclosure.

  “Acapulco Police!” Silvio shouted, and fired.

  El Rey hadn’t taken off his mask and for a moment, before the smoke roiled up, the ridiculous ears were silhouetted against the dim blue haze of the mercury lamp above the door. Emilia heard a sizzling as the wiring melted or a fuse blew. The lamp winked out and the big figure was lost in the darkness.

  He doesn’t know how to get in, Emilia thought. Or maybe he has a key to the enclosure sewn into his tights. They couldn’t see him and any sound of footsteps was swallowed by the mingled roars of fire and screaming. She ran blindly, choking on ash, waiting to hear the crackling of the building turn into the roar of collapse. The only sure thing was Silvio’s solid presence in the nightmare.

  And then she and Silvio cannoned into the big luchador.

  Momentum carried them all into the chain-link fence. Emilia felt the slick fabric of his tights under her hands. A support post gave way, the fence plummeted to the tarmac, and they were all carried to the ground on top of the protesting mesh of chain link. Emilia’s face pressed into the wire, but her arms stayed locked around the luchador’s knees. El Rey let out a bellow of anger, and Silvio responded with a grunt, and Emilia felt the big luchador heave beneath the two detectives.

  It was like wrestling an angry elephant against a metal hammock. Emilia’s lungs sucked in soot as the luchador flailed and she felt herself tossed up as if she weighed nothing. She had a sense of a tremendous rushing and a dull, chunky sound cut through the continuing jangle of the chain-link fence. The luchador flopped down, suddenly a dead weight.

  “Get up,” Silvio rasped. “I think I broke my hand.”

  Emilia crawled to her feet, surprised to find that she was unhurt. Silvio was bent over, his right hand held to his chest and wrapped around his handgun, as he tried to get handcuffs on the unconscious luchador. The big detective’s face was white with pain.

  “You punched him out with your gun?” Emilia managed.

  “Cuff him to the fence before he comes to.”

  Emilia snapped one cuff around the luchador’s thick wrist and the other cuff to part of the fence nearest a still upright support post. If El Rey came to and ran, either the fence would hold or he’d take the entire enclosure, dumpster and all, with him.

  Silvio leaned against the hood of a nearby car. Emilia carefully eased his hand away from the gun, feeling the bones grate together as his fingers straightened. She clicked the safety back on and put the gun into his shoulder holster. Silvio’s mouth compressed into a tight line against the pain.

  Emilia found her cell phone. She had two missed calls. One from Kurt and one from Macias. She hit redial and got Macias. It was a relief to hear him shout where the hell she and Silvio had gone, saying he and Sandor were in the front of the arena, and that some uniformed security guard had given him a gun that purportedly belonged to a lady cop.

  “We’re by the dumpster in back of the arena,” Emilia told him. “We caught one of the luchadores. Another is dead. Look for the third one. He’s got on red tights and has tattoos all over his arms.”

  She explained about Lt. Rufino, heard that they had Aguilar in custody, and gave him directions to find the trash enclosure. A minute after she broke the connection, sirens sounded and a flashing light could be seen around the side of the blazing building.

  “You okay, Cruz?” Silvio asked.

  “I’m okay.” Emilia leaned on the car next to him. “How about you?”

  “My hand is fucked,” Silvio said. “But I’ll live.”

  “How many people do you think died here tonight?” Emilia’s teeth started to chatter.

  “Not us,” Silvio said.

  Chapter 35

  Dressed in a navy polo untucked over khaki pants and loafers, Kurt was waiting for her in the lobby of the Palacio Réal. It had been just over two weeks, but it seemed like so much longer since that night on the beach. He smiled, and his ocean-colored eyes lit up as she got out of the Suburban and handed the keys to the valet.<
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  For a moment Emilia didn’t know what to do; she was still sore and tired from last night’s drama and unsure where things stood with the man in front of her. She’d longed for Kurt to get back and talk to her about the job offer in Belize, but her brain was having a hard time shaking off images of the fire at the Coliseo. Lt. Rufino’s drunken expression and the crumpled body of a man who called himself Puro Sangre. El Rey and Aguilar both defiant and then deflated as Emilia and Silvio pitted them against each other in their separate interrogation rooms and taped their confessions. Vega’s smug expression as he came into the police station and announced that he was in charge.

  So she just stood there like an idiot in her simple gray jersey tank dress and flat sandals, clutching her shoulder bag. She’d added a skinny yellow belt and now regretted it. The thing was a stupid pop of color, just the thing some forgettable Mexican chica would wear. Hotel employees were there, attending to cars and guests, but eyeing her surreptitiously.

  Kurt swiveled his eyes at the activity around them, letting her know he’d read her mind. Emilia gave him half a smile and he held out his hand. She took it and he tugged her close for a quick kiss.

  “Good to see you again, Em,” he said quietly. “How about a mojito?”

  “I’d love one,” Emilia confessed.

  “Good.” Kurt didn’t let go of her hand as he led her across the wide lobby, down the steps by the white grand piano, and into the luxurious Pasodoble Bar with its blue mosaic-clad bar. A spectacular pink and bronze sunset was just beginning. The sinking sun spread a rosy glow over the ocean on the other side of the steps leading from the open bar to the beach.

  Emilia sank into a chair facing the ocean as a waiter came around and lit the candle on the table. Kurt let the waiter know their order and once again made a brief connection with the other man like he always did with his people. The waiter grinned as he made his way back to the long bar. The bartender looked at their table and touched his hand to his head in an informal salute to Kurt before reaching for two tall glasses.