by Carmen Amato
“You look nice tonight,” Kurt said. “I don’t remember you wearing that dress before.”
“I guess I haven’t worn it much,” Emilia said, deciding not to give into temptation and press him for information about Belize right away.
Kurt reached across the table and took her hand.
Emilia squeezed his fingers. “Did you meet the queen?”
“No.” Kurt chuckled. “I was so busy I missed our lunch date.”
“No doubt she’ll call to reschedule.”
The mojitos came. Emilia swirled her straw around the rum and crushed mint and took a long drink. The alcohol helped ease the soreness from her muscles, and she relaxed enough to remember the mantra she’d repeated to herself over and over while driving to the hotel. No matter what his decision, it will be the right one for him. And that’s all that matters.
A steel drum band began to play on the beach. The staff had lit torches, marking out a large area where an outdoor kitchen and a tapas bar were set up. Bar patrons began walking down to the torchlit area to sample the food and dance. The men wore expensively casual clothes like Kurt. Most of the women wore flowing maxi dresses and heavy necklaces or bikini tops and long pareo skirts. Of course, Emilia had chosen to wear a mini that night. She never got it right.
“Feel better?” Kurt asked.
“Why?” Emilia put down her glass. “Do I look sick?”
“Tired,” Kurt said. “Tell me why your hair smells like smoke.”
“We caught them last night,” she said simply. “The arsonists. A lucha libre team with a little help from an army officer handing out the contents of campo militar’s inventory.”
“A lucha libre team?” Kurt’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.
“A luchador named El Rey Demonio needed big money when his wife got arrested.” Between sips of her mojito, Emilia told him what had happened while he’d been gone: the Que Paso Acapulco advertising theory, how the hunt for Lila Jimenez Lata had led her to Julieta Rubia in prison, the meeting at campo militar, and how she and Silvio had ended up trying to talk to the luchadores at the Saturday fights at the Coliseo. She even told him about the link to the Sinaloa cartel, Aguilar, her talk with Obregon, Torrez’s death, and the bitter argument with Silvio over their partnership. And about Lt. Rufino.
The first mojito turned into two, along with small plates of tapas appetizers.
Kurt asked a few questions, but for the most part let Emilia tell her story. It was like therapy and the words tumbled out. She wound down as the sun sank into the water to the accompaniment of the steel drums. Kurt again reached across the table and took her hand as they watched the ocean turn into liquid bronze. “The dead luchador,” he said. “Was he the end of Lila’s trail?”
“Yes.” Emilia sighed. “I don’t have anything else. The priest at my church said he’ll help me break the news to her grandmother.”
“I’m sorry you didn’t find her, Em,” Kurt said. “And that so many innocent people got tangled up in the whole mess.”
“Me, too.” Emilia looked at their clasped hands. Talking to him always made her feel better, as if she hadn’t made so many mistakes and was smarter than she knew. “Thanks for listening.” I’ll miss this when you go.
He stood and pulled her to her feet. “Let me take your mind off this,” he said. “I need to show you something.”
“All right.” Emilia was surprised at his quick shift but followed him out of the bar, through the lobby and to the bank of elevators that led to the guest rooms as well as his efficiency apartment on the fifth floor.
The middle elevator swooshed open. It was empty and they got in. Kurt took a key card out of his pocket and waved it in front of a sensor. The top button on the display lit up. It wasn’t numbered but instead bore the letter “P.”
The elevator started to rise.
“Don’t you want the fifth floor?” Emilia asked.
Instead of pressing the button for his floor, Kurt hit the large Stop button on the panel below the numbers. The elevator juddered to a halt. An alarm began to emit a regular low beeping.
“Do you remember that night on the beach?” Kurt asked. “The night before I left.”
“Of course I remember it,” Emilia said. “But shouldn’t we—”
“We hadn’t been together like that before, Em,” Kurt interrupted, ignoring the alarm. “You know it and so do I. What were you telling me? Goodbye forever? Or something else?”
“Telling you?” Emilia faltered, unprepared for the question. The buzz of the alarm was insistent and the “P” button blinked furiously. She took a step back and gripped the handrail. “I was just . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think about it. I guess it was the way I wanted to be with you. All of you and all of me. You know . . . completely.”
She felt the color rise in her cheeks, both at the memory of them naked on the beach and at her absolute inarticulateness.
Kurt stared at her.
Emilia tried a nervous smile. “That wasn’t the answer you were looking for, was it?”
“It’ll do,” Kurt said, but he didn’t smile back.
He popped a button, the alarm stopped, and the elevator began to rise again. He opened a panel, took out a telephone, and told whoever was on the other end that there was no need to worry.
The elevator rose past the fifth floor and continued to climb past the sixth before finally stopping at “P.” The doors slid open and they stepped out into a vestibule decorated with a mosaic on the wall done in the same tiny blue glass tiles as the big one in the bar they’d just left. Tall aluminum pots of blood-red geraniums gleamed on either side.
They walked into a large living room decorated with white leather sofas, dark mahogany accent tables, and brushed nickel lamps. The far wall was all glass, divided in the center by a double sliding glass door bordered with black iron. None of the lights were turned on, but the big room was illuminated by a magnificent view of the moonlit bay. Emilia walked toward the glass doors. There was a covered balcony, wide enough to accommodate several sets of matching wrought-iron tables and chairs. Seven stories below, the torches on the beach were dots of flame, the steel drums were silver disks, and the dancers were happy colors in slow motion. The ocean was a deep cerulean, the leading edges of the waves striped with froth as they rolled towards the shore.
“Corporate office in London matched the offer in Belize,” Kurt said.
Emilia spun around. “Madre de Dios,” she exclaimed.
Kurt nodded. “A 25 percent salary increase and this penthouse.”
“Well. An eco-lodge in Belize or this.” Emilia clenched her fists, suddenly feeling tight all over. The glow from the mojitos evaporated. “That’s a pretty hard decision, isn’t it?”
“I took Corporate’s offer and signed a new two-year contract,” Kurt said.
“Just like that?” Emilia’s nails bit into her palms. “Don’t you need to think about it?”
“This is a great space,” Kurt said. “Double the size of my place on the fifth floor. Two bedrooms. Three bathrooms. Lots of closets.” He moved closer to where Emilia stood by the window and spread his arms in an expansive gesture as if he was a realtor on one of those home shows that Sophia liked to watch in the morning. “This place is big enough for two, Em.”
“Let’s get back to the contract—” Emilia still wasn’t sure she understood the situation. They were supposed to talk this out.
Kurt dropped his arms. “I’d like you to consider staying here with me. Just like it was your own place.”
Emilia felt her jaw drop.
“I know the hotel is all the way across town from the station,” Kurt continued. “It would be a pain for you to drive to work every day. But you could at least live here on the weekends.”
“You’re asking—” Emilia’s voice cracked and she coughed. She pressed a hand to her forehead and started again. “Are you asking me to move in with you? Live here? In this penthouse?”
“Yes.” Kurt
grinned at her discomfort. “That’s what I’m saying. Live. Move in. Stay here. At least on the weekends.”
Emilia sank onto one of the white sofas.
“After what you just said in the elevator, I didn’t think it would be that hard,” Kurt said, the grin fading. “All I’m asking is for you to stay the weekends.”
Stay.
He thought he did, but Kurt didn’t really know what he was asking. Emilia imagined the gossip that would fly around the police station, the way Silvio wouldn’t be able to resist rubbing her face in it. There might even be an internal investigation to see where her seeming sudden wealth came from. A hundred bad scenes ran through her head, but they all paled in comparison with what would happen when Kurt inevitably met Sophia and Ernesto.
Emilia looked around, feeling overwhelmed and disoriented. For a moment, the elegant room flickered as if she was back in the midst of fire and smoke. Things snapped and shifted or maybe it was the sound of her own heartbeat.
Stay.
She took a deep breath.
Chapter 36
“I cannot believe I’m going to work looking like this,” Emilia said as she looked at herself in the mirror.
“You look very trendy,” Kurt commented, and handed her a glass of orange juice.
They were in his fifth-floor apartment, and the reflection that looked back at Emilia was no one she recognized. She hadn’t planned on spending the night at the hotel and hadn’t brought clothes for work on Monday. But her gym bag, which Kurt had retrieved from the Suburban, yielded black capri leggings, and his closet held a black linen guayabera shirt he’d never worn. She started with the capris and one of Kurt’s white sleeveless undershirts, added her shoulder holster, and covered up with the guayabera, cinching it with her yellow belt from last night’s outfit. Coming to mid-thigh, the guayabera was nearly a mini-dress, and if she fastened the middle buttons, her gun could not be seen. The flat black sandals she’d worn the previous night completed the look.
It was a far cry from her usual work outfit of jeans, tee shirt, and cotton jacket. The other detectives, and probably the holding cell guards as well, would undoubtedly notice that she was wearing a man’s shirt. Emilia decided to cross that bridge when she came to it.
Juice in hand, she followed Kurt to the small bar by the galley kitchen, where he served her norteamericano-style scrambled eggs and bacon. Emilia settled onto a stool with her plate and enjoyed the unique experience of having strange food for breakfast in a man’s home. She supposed she’d have to get used to waking up with him and eating new things.
Her life had changed forever with one decision, one sentence. Emilia had cried a little and confessed how scared she was. But at some point during the night she’d opened her hand and let go of whatever it was that had been so frightening. In the morning, when she’d looked at Kurt asleep next to her, the decision seemed so simple, so obvious.
It wouldn’t be easy to implement the decision, but she would do it. Moving in together, even just for the weekends, meant sharing more about herself than she’d ever done. Sharing where she came from: her barrio and the church and the places in Acapulco that had made her into the person she was. Sophia’s vacant happiness and Ernesto’s fatherly status. The sharing would go the other way as well. Living with Kurt would mean making more of an effort to navigate his world and fit in at the hotel. She’d have to polish her high school English. Maybe ask Mercedes to take her shopping for some suitable clothes.
When they finished breakfast, Kurt walked her down to the lobby, carrying her sports bag. He put his free arm around her as they waited for the valet to bring the Suburban to the front, obviously not caring if hotel employees saw them together like that. Emilia did not pull away.
“Will you be all moved into the penthouse by Friday?” she asked.
“Yes.” Kurt grinned. “I’ll leave the second closet empty for you.”
The big white vehicle rumbled into the drive.
Emilia reached up to kiss Kurt. “Thank you,” she said.
Kurt touched her cheek. “What are you thanking me for, señorita?”
“Waiting for me, I guess,” Emilia said. “For being the light when everything else is shit. Having shampoo that gets the smoke stink out of a girl’s hair.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“It is.”
“I’ll have a key made for you,” Kurt said.
☼
A motorcycle engine growled in back of the Suburban as Emilia pulled into the police station lot. She didn’t recognize either the bike or the rider in a black leather jacket, but he was apparently another cop because as she looked in her rearview, he showed a badge and the gate guard let him pass through without stopping. The bike kept with her through the lot and pulled up beside her when she parked.
“Detective Cruz?” The rider flipped up the Plexiglas visor of the helmet. He was young, probably just a few years out of high school. “Courier message for you.”
Emilia looked around. It was 8:00 a.m. There were a lot of people in the lot, cops coming to work as well as those getting off the night shift. She was standing in the open and felt relatively safe. “All right,” she said “I’m Cruz.”
“I’m to pass along to you that your union dues are paid in full for the year.” The rider held out a large flat envelope.
“Thanks.” Emilia dimly remembered Lt. Rufino mentioning something about union dues at a morning meeting. Dues were deducted automatically from paychecks, and she’d never given his comment another thought.
“Have a good day, Detective.” The rider flipped down his visor and gunned the bike. He sped through the lot and out the gate.
The squadroom was quiet when Emilia walked in. Macias and Sandor were taking down the wall of photos and notes that represented the arson investigation. Loyola and Ibarra were at their desks, and as Emilia nodded good morning, she could smell the first cigarette of the day on Ibarra’s clothes.
She left the envelope on her desk, stashed her bag, made a pot of coffee, and traded a few grim jokes with Macias and Sandor about taking out subscriptions to Que Paso Acapulco. Logging on with a mug by her elbow, Emilia was pleasantly surprised to see that her inbox contained fewer messages than usual. A few stood out. Captain Vega would be holding a news conference at 11:00 a.m. Lt. Rufino’s condition was stable.
Reading between the lines of the message from Chief Salazar’s office about Lt. Rufino, Emilia knew he would not be returning to the squadroom. Maybe they could find him an innocuous desk job. Or maybe he had enough years to simply retire. Hopefully he wouldn’t drink away what was left of his life, but he certainly didn’t belong in police work anymore.
Before she could wonder if Silvio would be appointed acting lieutenant, or even if he’d get a permanent appointment as chief of detectives, he came into the squadroom, cell phone clapped to his ear with his left hand. Two fingers of his right hand were bandaged and a purple bruise stretched from knuckles to wrist. “I can’t help you, amigo,” he said to whomever was on the other end. “Rufino’s still in the hospital as far as I know. Call Loyola. I just got a text that he’ll be the acting.”
There was a screech of metal wheels as Loyola shoved back his desk chair and bolted up, a look of shock on his bespectacled face. A former teacher, he was a good and methodical detective, but was still junior to Silvio. Moreover, he usually avoided tasks that required that he take a leadership role.
Silvio pointed to Loyola’s cell phone on his desk. Loyola snatched it up. Ibarra moved around his partner’s desk to look at the phone’s screen as well.
As Emilia watched, Loyola’s face tightened. “No,” he groaned.
“No,” Ibarra echoed. “Nice way to get told.”
Silvio broke the connection on his own phone, and a second later, Loyola’s phone started to ring.
“That’ll be Castro,” Silvio said. “Brother is in trouble and he wants help.”
“What am I supposed to do for his brother?”
Loyola exclaimed as his phone continued to ring.
Silvio shrugged. “You’re the boss.”
Loyola muttered something under his breath as he punched the button to answer his phone. He listened for a moment, rolled his eyes, and walked out of the squadroom.
“What was that all about?” Emilia asked.
Silvio dumped his leather jacket on the back of his chair, picked up his mug, and peered inside. Apparently deciding it wasn’t too dirty, he went over to the coffee maker and poured with his left hand. “Salazar’s office says that Loyola’s in charge,” he said after a swallow. “He can deal with Castro and his pendejo of a brother.”
“His brother the Vice cop?” Emilia asked.
“Yeah.” Silvio sat down in his desk chair and leaned back. The swiveling mechanism creaked. “Castro and Gomez are at some bank. Castro’s brother was arrested two minutes after trying to exchange a big pile of euros. Apparently more than some new limit.”
Emilia tried not to react. Salinas had come through! But Castro must have been so worried that his evidence-tampering had been noticed that he sent his brother to make the currency exchange, never considering that their names were so similar as to trigger any alert. “You’re sure that’s what he said?” Emilia verified. “His brother the Vice cop has been arrested? He doesn’t have another brother?”
“Diego Castro Altaverde,” Silvio said. “Your friend in the parking lot. Vice has already suspended him. Must have been on somebody’s shit list over there and this was the last straw.”
Emilia tried to suck in a yelp of laughter, but part of it escaped in a snort.
Silvio eyed Emilia over the rim of his mug. “You know anything about that?”
Emilia shrugged “Sounds like a question for the state attorney general’s office,” she said. She waved a hand at his bandaged right hand. He’d broken two knuckles but had refused to go to the hospital Saturday night until both Aguilar and El Rey Demonio had confessed. “How’s the hand?”