by Carmen Amato
“Before that.”
“At home,” Emilia said.
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Got anybody can swear to that?”
“Yes. We had a Copa America party.” She leaned forward. “What are you getting at?”
Loyola refused to meet her eye. “Silvio called you. Right around the time of death for the wife.”
Emilia blinked. “That’s right.”
“What?” Macias and Sandor said it at the same time.
“Why didn’t you say anything, Cruz?” Loyola opened the file folder, extracted a phone log, and handed it to Macias.
“I never picked up.” Emilia shrugged. “It didn’t make any difference.”
“Unless it was supposed to be some sort of signal,” Loyola said.
“What are you talking about?” Emilia asked. “It was the middle of the night. I thought Silvio was drunk and butt-dialing me. By the time I got to my phone, it had stopped ringing. Dispatch called a few minutes later.”
“It’s here,” Sandor said, peering over his partner’s shoulder. “Two outgoing calls from Silvio’s phone during the autopsy’s time of death window.”
“Were Silvio and his wife having problems?” Loyola asked. “They argue on the phone a lot?”
“No,” Emilia said. “He didn’t talk to her on the phone while he was working.”
“So they didn’t get along.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Girl on the side?” Loyola snapped.
“No, and I’m not liking this line of inquiry,” Emilia said. It was too reminiscent of Prade’s words after the autopsy. “Are you implying that Franco killed his wife?”
“The gate was locked, Cruz,” Loyola said. “Nobody tampered with any of the doors, locks, or windows.”
“We’ve been over all of this,” Emilia countered. “Somebody had a key. Or Isabel knew them and let them in.”
She looked at Macias and Sandor. Both detectives shrugged.
Loyola shook his head. “Middle of the night? In her nightgown? Not likely.”
“You don’t have a motive.” Emilia folded her arms. “Franco and Isabel had been married over 20 years. Why kill her now?”
Loyola coughed. “Silvio never had a partner like you before.”
“I’m not following,” Emilia heard herself say.
“Everybody took bets on how long the two of you would stay partners,” Loyola mopped his face again. “Longest bet was two months. But something clicked, you know. You two made quite a team.”
A rushing sound filled Emilia’s head.
Loyola leaned over the desk and snatched the phone logs out of Macias’s hand. “I saw the autopsy report,” he said. “His wife was sick. Used-up. Silvio probably spent more time with you in the past six months than he did with her in the past six years.”
“We’ve been working like dogs.” Emilia couldn’t believe what he was saying. “With the results to prove it.”
“You took it to the bedroom,” Loyola said with a snort. “Eventually Silvio decides the wife is in the way. You’re a lot hotter and you’re always right there. Why does he need the old bag? Maybe she knew. Complained. Didn’t like being replaced by a pretty girl cop. Silvio saw him and you in a new life on the beach in Ixtapa, I don’t know.”
“This is nuts,” Emilia exploded.
“You helped him plan it,” Loyola said. “Figured out the right night, made sure you both had a good alibi. He kills the old bag. Calls you to give you the ‘mission accomplished’ signal. But he forgets to make it look like robbery before calling Dispatch. Wasn’t thinking clear. Kind of impatient to celebrate, you know what I mean?”
If Emilia could breathe, she could move. If she could move, she’d shoot Loyola in the head.
“After all, this isn’t the first time something bad has happened to someone close to Silvio.” Loyola scrabbled to find the folder’s open edge. “Got away with the whole Garcia thing a couple of years ago. So why not do it again, right?”
He nervously snatched at the folder. A snowfall of white paper fluttered to the floor.
No one else in the room moved.
“I’ve got it,” Loyola said hastily. He slammed the folder closed and scooted back his chair to pick up the mess at his feet.
With Loyola bent over, Emilia half-rose in her chair. “Cruz” and “Confidential” were written in small block letters on the cover of the folder.
Loyola straightened up and Emilia hastily settled back in her chair. Loyola rifled through the retrieved papers, plucked out a handwritten memo, and jammed the rest back in the folder. He held out the memo to Sandor and jerked his chin at the door. “You two take Cruz’s statement.”
Macias and Sandor reluctantly got to their feet.
“Wait a minute,” Emilia said. The fight or flight instinct was kicking in and she was ready to brawl. “Yesterday, we were all about the El Trio murders. How can you sit here now and say Franco killed Isabel when yesterday he was the intended victim?”
“Yesterday you were hiding a phone call,” Loyola said. “All worked up over the coincidence that you worked with the El Trio victims.”
Emilia jumped up. “Just to be clear, this doesn’t have anything to do with Silvio being a better detective or my knee in your crotch a couple of months ago?”
Macias made a sound like a snort disguised as a cough.
“Back off, Cruz,” Loyola warned. “For all we know you’re the El Trio killer. Maybe you and Silvio together. After all, you knew all the victims. Maybe the two of you killed the others just so when you got to the old lady, it would look like a serial killer knocking off law enforcement. Make us think he was supposed to be the next victim. That would be Silvio’s style.”
“This is such a load of shit,” Emilia said furiously. “Silvio’s been a burr under your saddle ever since they made you acting lieutenant. I can’t believe you’d stoop low enough to pin the murder of his wife―.”
Loyola bolted to his feet. “Shut up, Cruz!”
“That’s a two for one, isn’t it?” Emilia shouted, so angry she couldn’t see straight. “Get rid of your biggest problem in the squadroom and boost your solve rate. Chief Salazar will fucking love you.”
“Cruz, I could arrest you right now,” Loyola roared. “Charge you when hell freezes. You want to remember that.”
“I’ll remember—.”
Suddenly both Macias and Sandor were at Emilia’s elbow, opening the door and shoving her through. “Shut the fuck up, Cruz,” Macias said under his breath.
“Wait a minute,” Loyola snapped as the little parade was halfway out the door.
“What?” Emilia tried to turn but Sandor had a grip like iron around her right bicep. The old wound throbbed.
“Clean out her desk,” Loyola said, speaking to Macias and Sandor. “If she’s got any keys, collect them up. One of them probably unlocks Silvio’s house.”
☼
Each of the new interrogation rooms had an audio feed, one-way mirrors, a single table, and three chairs, plus cameras in the ceiling and a hidden squawk button in case a cop needed emergency help. There was a narrow anteroom outside where watchers could hear the audio and observe the interrogations, although at the press of a button the interrogators inside could block both window and sound. The space age techniques didn’t mask the traditional interrogation room aroma of stale coffee, old sweat, and fresh fear.
Out of habit, Emilia walked to the side of the table reserved for the police interrogator. Macias held up a hand. “Cruz.”
He indicated the opposite side of the table. The side with steel loops in the table to restrain a prisoner’s handcuffs.
The gesture jolted Emilia down to her shoe soles. She reluctantly took the proffered chair and crossed her arms.
Her anger was still running at full throttle. She’d watched as Sandor took everything out of her desk, in full view of all the uniforms. Castro and Gomez, like two village idiots, smirked an
d catcalled the entire time. Emilia had stared fixedly at the photograph of Isabel’s dead body on the murder board, until Macias shoved her out of the squadroom and made her follow Sandor down the hall to the interrogation rooms.
Macias switched the one-way mirror to a solid sheet and turned on the recorder. He stated that they were there to take the statement of Detective Emilia Cruz Encinos regarding the death of Isabel de Silvio.
He asked Emilia to state her full name, rank, and badge number.
And address.
“The Palacio Réal hotel.” There was grim satisfaction in the look of surprise that flitted over both detectives’ faces. They all knew that one night at the Palacio Réal cost more than an Acapulco detective made in a month.
“The Palacio Réal?” Macias asked. “How are you affording that, Detective Cruz?”
“My boyfriend is Kurt Rucker. The general manager of the hotel. I live in his apartment with him. Which makes it highly unlikely I had a motive for a relationship with anyone else.”
“Rucker.” Sandor said. “Is that the same guy who pulled the mayor out of the El Tigre restaurant?”
She’d been with Kurt when he’d plunged into a burning restaurant to save trapped patrons. Carlota had been one of them. “Yes.”
“Let the record show that Detective Cruz voluntarily gave updated personnel information,” Sandor said for the benefit of the recording.
“Detective Cruz, please give your whereabouts during the date and time in question.”
Emilia steadied her breath against the waves of anger coursing through her body. “I was at the Palacio Réal hotel. We hosted a party for the board of the Acapulco Hotel Association. About 40 people attended. All the guests saw me there.”
Macias and Sandor exchanged a sideways look.
“I never left,” Emilia continued. “I was at the Palacio Réal until Dispatch called about 3:00 am with information about a shooting in El Roble.”
“Can you name any witnesses who saw you at the hotel?”
“Yes,” Emilia said. “The head chef. The kitchen staff who set up the buffet. The valet who can verify my car was parked in the underground garage all day. The hotel is loaded with closed circuit television cameras, too. I’ll give you the name of the head of security. We know each other. I’m sure he’ll be willing to have you look at hours and hours of footage while whoever killed Isabel de Silvio picks out his next target.”
Macias gave a tight smile. “All these people work for Rucker, don’t they?”
“Call everybody who came to the party.” Emilia folded her arms. “Start with Tony and Jane Wilcox. They own the Santa Rosa. You know, the pink hacienda downtown. Magda and Sergei Porchenko. They own the Pacific Lotus. I spilled wine on her. They’ll remember me.”
She’d end this utterly stupid line of inquiry into Isabel’s death by sabotaging Kurt’s career. There would be a scandal when the rarified world of the Acapulco Hotel Association was tainted by one of their board members living with a cop. Kurt would be blackballed, lose his position on the board. Maybe even get fired by the Palacio Réal chain of hotels.
“Anyone else?”
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia swore. “Call the Association office. Get a list of the board members. Call them all.”
“Cruz,” Macias said warningly. “You know the kinds of questions we have to ask.”
Emilia took a deep breath and exhaled very slowly.
Sandor had the handwritten memo Loyola had given him It was covered in hastily scribbled lines. “Are you in a personal relationship with your partner, Detective Franco Silvio?” Sandor read tonelessly.
“No.”
Sandor wrote down Emilia’s reply before reading the next question. “Did you know his late wife, Isabel de Silvio?”
“Yes.”
“Describe the nature of your relationship with her.”
“We were friends. Not close, but friends. Talked a few times at Silvio’s house.”
“Did you know if there was trouble in the marriage?”
“No,” Emilia said. “No trouble.”
“Did she want him to quit the bookie business?”
“No. I think it was important to both of them so they could keep feeding the neighborhood kids.”
Sandor’s pen scratched against the paper. Macias watched his partner. Emilia plotted ways to destroy Loyola.
Eventually Sandor put down his pen and upended the box containing the contents of Emilia’s desk. Her shoulder bag thumped onto the table, followed by the heavy binder containing the Las Perdidas files. A shower of loose papers, snacks, and an old cosmetics bag followed.
Emilia kept her temper in check as Sandor opened her shoulder bag and picked out a set of keys. “What are these?” he asked.
“Keys to my mother’s house.” Emilia rattled off the address.
He rifled through her wallet, finding the keycard to the penthouse at the Palacio Réal. He spoke to the ceiling. “For the record, Detective Cruz is in possession of a keycard for the Palacio Réal hotel.”
It was a half-hearted job, both detectives sheepish as they poked through Emilia’s things. Finally Macias put everything except the keys back into the box. “We’ll have to take these,” he said.
“Sure,” Emilia said, loading as much sarcasm as she could into the single word. “You do that.”
Sandor noted for the record what time the interview ended. Detective Cruz had cooperated fully. He turned off the recorder, picked up the handwritten memo that now included his answers, and left.
Emilia drummed her fingers on the table. “So are we done with this nonsense?” she asked Macias.
“I don’t know, Cruz.” Macias got up and paced. He was the best looking detective in the squadroom, with wavy hair and deep set eyes. She didn’t know if he had a personal life; he and Sandor were always together and a little apart from the rest of the squadroom.
“The El Trio killer is out there,” Emilia warned. “The more time we waste, the harder it will be to find him.”
“I know.”
The door to the interrogation room opened. Sandor motioned for Macias to step outside. The door closed behind him.
Emilia concentrated on taming her breathing. This interview was a formality. Loyola had done a good job marshalling resources to find Isabel’s killer; he wasn’t going to derail the investigation because of one unanswered phone call. She should have said something, but between the Las Palomas job surprise and the murder investigation, she’d simply forgotten about Silvio’s call.
No, this was a tiny distraction. They would find Isabel’s killer. There would be a connection to the El Trio murders they hadn’t yet found. It was hiding in plain sight.
Sandor and Macias came back into the interrogation room.
“We’ll need you to leave your badge and gun, Cruz,” Sandor said.
Emilia stared at the two men. “You took my statement,” she said. “We’re done.”
Macias gave his head a tiny shake.
“Leave your badge and gun,” Sandor repeated. “Loyola says you’re to report to your new assignment on Monday.”
“You’re kidding,” Emilia looked from Sandor to Macias and back again. “I’m suspended?”
“Something like that,” Sandor said. “Take your stuff. Leave your gun. And badge.”
Emilia slowly drew the handgun out of her shoulder holster and laid it on the table. Neither Sandor nor Macias made any move to pick it up.
She slipped her badge lanyard over her head. The shiny detective badge clanked against the worn table top when she set it down. The lanyard coiled on top of it.
“What’s going to happen to Silvio?” Emilia asked.
“Loyola’s assigned a team of uniforms to pick him up,” Sandor said. “Taking him over to the bull pen.”
“But he’s a cop,” Emilia gasped. “He could get killed in there.”
Sandor shot a glance at the recording button. Emilia followed his glance. It was off.
“Listen,
Cruz,” he said in a low voice. “This isn’t time to be the loyal partner. If I was you, I’d keep my mouth shut and my head down. Loyola’s wound real tight. Let things with Silvio take their course.”
“Am I free to go?” This time Emilia couldn’t keep her voice from shaking.
Sandor nodded.
She slung her bag over her shoulder, picked up the file box and wheeled for the door. Macias opened it for her.
The walls on either side blurred as she rapidly made her way to the rear exit.
“Hey, Cruz.” The duty sergeant at the desk by the holding cells put out a hand to stop her. “Tough news about Silvio’s old lady. Tell him I’m real sorry.”
Emilia managed a smile and a nod. She juggled the box with one hand to shoot him with her thumb and forefinger, the same as always.
She shoved open the door and stepped into the hot afternoon sun. In a minute she was inside the Suburban with the air conditioning going full blast and the vehicle emitting its usual symphony of metallic rattles. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel and tried to collect herself.
This was wrong. This was so wrong.
Chapter 6
“Since when are you my sister?” Silvio asked.
“Since yesterday,” Emilia said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I had to turn in my badge and gun. Loyola thinks I was your accomplice.”
Silvio didn’t look as bad as Emilia had expected. His face was drawn with fatigue but otherwise he was holding up well. The former heavyweight boxer hadn’t been in the ring in years but retained the solid muscle mass and crew cut of his youth. Silvio was dressed in his usual attire of jeans and white tee shirt, both now streaked with grime. The bull pen didn’t issue uniforms, ensuring that prisoners fought over status symbols like rock band tee shirts. The exception was shoes; all prisoners wore cheap prison flip flops. In the plastic sandals, Silvio’s feet were dark with dust.
“What’s supposed to be the motive?” he asked.
Emilia swallowed hard. “We’re having an affair and wanted Isabel out of the way.”
To her surprise Silvio laughed. “One thing I’ve always admired about Loyola,” he said. “The way he knows his people so well.