by Carmen Amato
A male figure in tech gear walked out of the open pedestrian gate, cell phone clapped to his ear. Emilia recognized Julio Rodriguez, a senior tech she’d worked with before and who had never seemed to resent her presence as the only female detective, as did many of his colleagues.
Loyola had either sent the techs back in because they’d found nothing on their first pass. Or he was planting evidence to convict Silvio. Maybe her, too, with whatever had been in the file folder with her name on it.
As Emilia watched, Rodriguez punched a gloved finger at his phone’s display. He pocketed the phone and looked down the street in her direction. Emilia automatically checked her rearview mirror.
Too late, she recognized Ibarra’s ancient unmarked black sedan with the dinged front fender. He always said it was so old it was theft-proof; no one knew how to stick a key in a door lock any more.
Emilia dove for the floorboards, banging her right arm on the center console. The mended bone in her upper arm sang out.
The sedan passed but she knew Ibarra would recognize the Suburban. As if to prove it, her cell phone rang, causing her to flinch and bang her arm a second time. Her fingers went numb and she dropped the phone.
She groped around the floor with her left hand. The display showed the call had come from Loyola’s cell phone. No doubt he was riding shotgun.
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia muttered. She was a grown woman and a police detective and she was cowering on the floor of a car.
She slid back into the front seat. The sedan parked across from Silvio’s house, blocking the worried gaggle of neighbors.
Her phone rang again. This time Emilia took a deep breath and hit the button to talk.
“Cruz,” Loyola’s voice barked through the connection. “Get your ass out of here.”
“Hi, Loyola.” Emilia kept her tone neutral. “How’s it going? Been shining my badge for me?”
“Don’t give me any of your crap, Cruz,” he snarled. “Get out of here, or so help me, I’ll get a couple of uniforms to arrest you.”
Emilia hit the disconnect button and tossed her phone into the passenger seat.
She headed south through central Acapulco, hit the Costera Miguel Alemán, and turned east toward home. She was furious with herself for blundering along, for not thinking things through, for forgetting who held the power. She should never have gone to Silvio’s house so soon. Now Loyola could twist things around. Point to her lurking near the house as proof of guilt. Maybe even claim she had come to cover her tracks.
Emilia slammed her palms against the steering wheel in frustration.
☼
She stared up at the bedroom ceiling, where a soft angle of moonlight sliced across the stucco. It wasn’t just that she was afraid for Silvio, she was afraid for herself. Saying to Kurt that she wouldn’t live scared was one thing, grappling with all of the fears in her mind was another.
Fear of being the next El Trio victim and never knowing why.
Fear that Silvio wouldn’t make it out of the bull pen alive.
Fear of who she was without a badge.
Kurt was still up. He was in the office down the hall and Emilia could see a halo of light through the open bedroom door. The furniture in the office was dark, sleek, and modern, and she imagined him rifling through the drawers of the chrome and mahogany desk to find something he didn’t want her to see.
Whatever it was, and wherever it led, her imagination was probably worse than the truth. Emilia pushed aside the coverlet and followed the light down the hall.
Kurt sat at the desk, going through a file box. More were stacked on the floor. Emilia recognized them as several stored on the top shelf of the room’s spacious closet.
“Hey,” Emilia said from the doorway.
He was absorbed in what he was doing and her voice caught him by surprise. Emilia watched his expression shift from anxious intensity to false casualness.
“Did I wake you?” he asked.
“I couldn’t sleep,” Emilia relied. “What’s in the box?”
Kurt closed the box. “Paperwork.”
“Kind of late for that, isn’t it?”
He held out his hand and Emilia came to his side. He put his arm around her waist. “I’m sorry I woke you up,” he said. “Things are so busy with the Acapulco Hotel Association I thought I’d get some work done when it was quiet.”
“Okay,” Emilia said slowly. Madre de Dios but he was a terrible liar.
“You should go back to sleep.” Kurt jostled her a little. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
Emilia pulled away from him. “Sure.”
Kurt came to bed five minutes later. He kissed her and was asleep almost immediately.
Emilia slipped out from under the covers, went to the balcony and stared at the ocean. She’d never felt so alone.
Chapter 7
Under the clear morning sky, the sign for Mercedes Sandoval’s dance studio advertised tap, jazz, and ballroom lessons. The studio was in a small strip mall on the edge of the central Acapulco neighborhood Emilia thought of as her own. It was where she knew everyone and she paid the rent for the house where her mother and stepfather lived.
A heavy security grille fronted the dance studio’s metal brown front door. It matched the grilles over the windows. Curtains kept anyone from seeing in but showed that the lights were on. Emilia rang the intercom buzzer gouged into the green concrete wall while juggling the outfit she’d worn Sunday night, a cardboard tray of lattes, and a paper bag of pastries. She was rewarded with a metallic voice asking who was there.
“I have breakfast,” Emilia announced into the small speaker panel next to the door. The buzzer sounded and Emilia opened the security grille. A key turned in a lock on the other side and the brown door swung open.
“Why aren’t you at work?” Mercedes didn’t wait for an answer but hustled Emilia into the studio, locking the door behind her.
“I brought back your outfit,” Emilia said.
Mercedes took the cardboard tray. “I love friends bearing gifts,” the dancer said and sniffed appreciatively at the aroma of fresh coffee. “But you’re usually at work this time of day.”
She led Emilia across the big open space containing nothing more than a portable stereo sitting on a chair in the corner surrounded by stacks of CDs. One wall was mirrored. The wood plank floor was worn almost to smooth whiteness. Emilia followed the dancer to the single room that served as office, bedroom, and kitchen.
When Emilia was young, Mercedes had been a successful ballroom dancer. Emilia and her mother Sophia lived with her father’s brother and family and it was always an event in the crowded apartment when they stayed up late to watch ballroom dancing competitions on television. Sophia’s eyes had sparkled at the swirling fabric of Mercedes’s dresses and her handsome husband’s powerful moves. The husband had died at the height of their fame, leaving Mercedes to return home and scrape together a living as a dance teacher.
The former dance champion was a decade older than Emilia, but moved with a grace and strength that made her appear years younger. The two women were about the same size, but Emilia carried more muscle in her calves and upper body. In comparison to Emilia’s black tee, skinny jeans, and sandals, Mercedes wore a loose pink sleeveless tunic, capri-length leggings, and ballet slippers. A loose braid of dark hair hung down her back while unruly wisps curled around her forehead, framing thick-lashed eyes.
Mercedes set the cardboard tray on a table draped with gauzy print fabric and eased out the two coffee cups. “What did Kurt say when he saw you in that halter top?”
“He approved,” Emilia said. She looked around the room, jumpy and tense. She’d driven into central Acapulco from the Palacio Réal checking the rearview mirror every other second. Standing in line at the coffee shop had been nerve-wracking. She saw the faceless El Trio killer everywhere.
“What’s the matter?” Mercedes asked as she handed Emilia one of the coffee cups.
“Silvio’s wife was
murdered. He’s in jail and I’m suspended.”
Mercedes caught her breath. A hand flew to her throat. Even that gesture was balletic and graceful.
In a few short sentences, Emilia told Mercedes about the events of the past few days. The dancer had never met Silvio, but knew him well from Emilia’s stories.
“Por Dios, Emilia,” Mercedes said sadly. “What’s going to happen now?”
Emilia pried the lid off her cup and took a big swallow. “I have to find out who killed Isabel. And the others. Somehow.”
“But you just said . . .” Mercedes fetched the bag of pastries from the table.
“I have some leads.” Emilia selected a concha. Once again, sugar and caffeine would get her through the day. “People who knew Silvio was out and that Isabel was alone at home.”
“You’ll talk to them?” Mercedes sipped her own coffee. “Alone?”
“It’s a place to start.” Emilia drank more coffee and felt marginally better. She wasn’t going to hide. Badge or not, she was still a detective. “I need to figure out how the killer got into the house. Right now, the fact that there wasn’t any break-in supports Loyola’s theory that Silvio killed Isabel.”
“Silvio’s a pretty grumpy guy from what you’ve told me,” Mercedes said. “Does he have enemies?”
“Only at work,” Emilia said with a rueful laugh. “But he’s got this side business as a bookie. An unhappy gambler could have killed her.”
Mercedes gave a shiver. “Do you think that’s what happened?”
“Maybe.” As the caffeine began to do its work, Emilia realized she was saying too much. The less Mercedes knew, the better. She forced herself to brighten. “I could use your advice on another topic.”
“Something else?” Mercedes probed. “Besides being suspended and the murder of your partner’s wife?”
“I think so.”
“You’re not sure?”
Emilia put her empty latte cup on the table and came back to sit on the bed with her legs curled under her. “When you were married, did your husband ever lie to you?”
Mercedes frowned. “That’s an odd question. I guess he told a few white lies. Nothing that ever mattered.”
“Kurt has started lying to me,” Emilia said.
“Are you sure?”
“The night Isabel was murdered, he got out of bed to look for something. All over the apartment. When I asked, he said he was hungry, but I know he just made that up on the spur of the moment.”
“What was he looking for?”
“I don’t know.” Emilia dug out the last pastry. “It happened again last night. He was up in the middle of the night. Said he was getting work done while it was quiet.”
“You don’t believe him, I take it?”
“The problem is that all this started after I asked about Suzanne.” Emilia broke the pastry in two.
Mercedes took the proffered half. “Suzanne?”
“The chef at the hotel said something about her,” Emilia said. “When I asked Kurt, he said that she was an old girlfriend from when he lived in Las Vegas a few years ago.”
“So?”
Emilia swallowed before replying. “What if she’s here? To get Kurt back.”
Mercedes stopped in the act of dunking her last bite of pastry into her coffee. “You think he hid her in a box and forgot where he put her?”
“This is serious, Mercedes,” Emilia said. “Suzanne gave him something. He can’t remember where he put it. But he needs to find it before I do.”
“Emilia,” Mercedes said sadly.
Emilia froze, her cup in one hand and the pastry in the other. “Maybe she wasn’t just a girlfriend. Maybe he’s trying to find their marriage license―.”
“Por Dios,” Mercedes broke in. “Do you have any proof he’s looking for something related to this woman?”
Emilia narrowed her eyes. “Kurt lied to me.”
“Emilia, listen to me,” Mercedes said sternly. “Not so long ago you thought he was carrying on with the hotel concierge. That dull, skinny―.”
“Christine,” Emilia supplied.
“And it was all your imagination. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Emilia admitted reluctantly.
“Silvio’s situation is making you crazy,” Mercedes said. She finished her breakfast and brushed crumbs off her tunic. “It seems to me that you have two choices. Talk to Kurt and find out what’s going on. Or search the apartment until you either find something incriminating or realize you are being an idiota.”
The brash sound of Emilia’s ringtone stopped her retort. Emilia didn’t recognize the number on the phone’s display. “Bueno?”
“Emilia, it’s Claudia.”
The name meant nothing to Emilia. “Claudia? I’m sorry, I don’t know anyone named Claudia.”
“I am the head of Las Palomas.” Frostiness blew through the connection. “You are the chief of operations.”
Emilia closed her eyes. One phone call was all it took to go from despair to the ridiculous. “Claudia, of course. How did you get this number?”
“I had to call people.”
Emilia didn’t reply.
Claudia nervously cleared her throat. “There’s a planning committee meeting this afternoon that I’d like you to attend. We’re discussing our branding strategy. And uniforms.” She rattled on, giving Emilia the details of the Las Palomas meeting.
Emilia made no move to write down anything. She waited until Claudia took a breath and cut in. “I’m not available until Monday. I thought you knew that.”
“Lieutenant Loyola in your old office said―.”
“I’m in the middle of something right now,” Emilia interrupted. “Text me the address of where I’m to report on Monday.”
“But Lieutenant Loyola said you were available now,” Claudia protested.
“Lieutenant Loyola is a pendejo,” Emilia said and disconnected.
She left the dance studio feeling marginally better. A cup of coffee and a hour of friendship was enough to get her refocused.
The priority was getting Silvio out of the bull pen and finding Isabel’s killer. Emilia might not have her badge, but she was still a detective who could do her job, even if it meant looking over her shoulder every two minutes.
Kurt wasn’t the sneaky type. He was just working too hard.
☼
Emilia marched all over Acapulco to find Silvio’s friends with whom he’d watched the Copa America match at his cousin Antonio’s house last Sunday. One by one, they corroborated Silvio’s alibi. They’d expected to see both Silvio and Isabel at Antonio’s. All the wives were friends and they were surprised not to see her. All of them were visibly upset about Isabel’s death and Silvio in jail. All of them wanted to know when Isabel’s funeral would be.
To Emilia’s surprise, none had spoken to any cops. Nor did they want to make a statement at a police station. Everybody wanted to help Silvio, of course, but felt that the less contact with the police the better. Cops were all crooks. Even Silvio, but he was a bookie, too, so it didn’t count. The two occupations cancelled each other out. El Roble logic, Emilia surmised.
After the third such interview, Emilia called Macias as she plodded back to the Suburban in the blistering heat. Sweat darkened her tee shirt as his cell phone went to voicemail. Emilia kept her message brief. “This is Cruz. I have witnesses who can corroborate Silvio’s alibi. Call me back.”
Felipe Garcia was the fifth and final name on Silvio’s list. Garcia worked in a scuba supply and sporting goods store on Paseo de Pescador near the dive action at Playa Manzanillo. It was a prime location for both tourists and locals and the store had the happy vibe of athletic youth and the outdoor life. Huge posters of surfers, divers, and beach volleyball games were everywhere. Racks of brand name apparel marched along a center aisle, while signs in English and Spanish hung from the ceiling and directed shoppers to departments by sport. Surfboards marched along a wall like an army going into battle against the
waves. Colorful wetsuits and scuba gear, along with the latest high tech dive equipment, enticed divers. A long counter dominated the rear of the store, where patrons could sign up for dive trips and get their air tanks refilled.
I should bring Kurt here. The thought barely registered before a good looking man approached her.
“Can I help you?” The man had long straight hair parted in the middle that accentuated his hawkish nose, dark-lashed eyes, and high cheekbones. There was a lot of indio in his bloodline, Emilia decided.
“I’m looking for Felipe Garcia.”
“That’s me.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about Franco Silvio,” Emilia said. “I understand he’s a friend of yours.”
The young man grinned. “You must be Franco’s partner, Emilia Cruz.” He shook her hand with a firm grip. “Come on to the back. We can talk without being interrupted.”
He led her through the store, nodding to employees, who like Felipe, seemed to be in their mid-20’s. They all wore cargo shorts and a red polo shirt with an embroidered store logo. The customers were a beach crowd in shorts, tees, sundresses, and flip flops. If the number of people in the store was any indication, the place was doing well.
Felipe ushered Emilia into a small office with two desks, a semicircle of cheap folding chairs, and stacks of cardboard boxes. He held out a folding chair as if he was Emilia’s date in a restaurant, then took the seat next to her. “This is my office but we also have staff meetings in here,” he said with a wave of explanation. “Sorry it isn’t cleaner but we’ve been really busy lately. The Copa America is good for business.”
Emilia smiled as she looked around at the jumble of boxes and packages of sports equipment shoved up against the walls. “Are you the manager here?”
“And owner.” Felipe’s proud grin faded quickly. “Have you caught whoever killed Isabel? Is that what this is about?”