by Carmen Amato
Bonilla didn’t answer.
“It was him or you, wasn’t it?”
Bonilla stared at her.
“It was him or you,” Emilia repeated. “The whole thing was supposed to be smooth as glass. Load up the Ora Ciega in Acapulco. Sit on it until the ship docked in Miami. But he showed up.”
Bonilla folded his arms. “Go on.”
“It went down all wrong,” Emilia continued. He was on the brink, rattled by the phone call blunder, and all she had to do was guide him to the right offer. “You panicked. Anyone would. This wasn’t supposed to happen but you were prepared, weren’t you? Had a contact number but he said to take care of your own mess. You managed to dump both guns overboard but couldn’t get the body out. Ship buttoned up too tight. So you hid it in the freezer.”
“Unless I confess, you can’t prove anything,” Bonilla said.
“Don’t care about proving it,” Silvio said, sliding in behind Emilia’s narrative and going for the sting. “You’re right about shitty cop salaries. That’s why we want to know where the Ora Ciega is.”
“Now I get it,” Bonilla said. “A trade. You take the Ora Ciega and I walk away from a murder charge.”
There was a tap on the door. Before either Silvio or Emilia could rise, the door opened and Loyola, Ibarra, and Flores walked in. Loyola was carrying one of the plastic trays they used in the holding area for the contents of suspects’ pockets. It held Bonilla’s cell phone, wallet, and keys.
“Señor Bonilla, you’re free to go,” Loyola said. “We’re sorry if you’ve been inconvenienced in any way. The uniformed officer will escort you and Señor Ramos back to the Pacific Grandeur.”
Bonilla’s mask of condescension was back. He pulled out a wad of dollar bills from the wallet and dropped a handful on the table. “Glad to know I was right about shitty cop salaries,” he said mockingly. “Get yourselves some decent coffee, Detectives.”
No one spoke a word as Calles led Bonilla and Ramos out of the interrogation area.
The next few minutes were like the aftermath of a nuclear explosion; oxygen fled the room, the silence was shattering, a vacuum rose, and Emilia found herself holding her breath.
Suddenly the mushroom cloud, in the form of Silvio’s wrath, billowed out, encompassing everyone and everything. Loyola fought back, Ibarra defended the acting lieutenant, Flores looked scared, and the room turned into a sea of red anger.
Emilia pushed herself past the argument, stepped into the anteroom, and switched off the audio. The argument had come through loud and clear and a small crowd composed of uniforms from the holding cells, the secretaries from the Records department, and the sergeants who manned the dispatch desk had materialized. Emilia shot them all with her thumb and forefinger, then jammed her hand on the button which caused the one-way glass to shimmer into an opaque screen, effectively ending the day’s entertainment.
She went back into the interrogation room and slammed the door. The almost visible buffet of air made each of the four men swivel their heads toward her. “Okay,” she exclaimed. “We were this close to getting him to admit to the murder. Two more minutes. There better be a good reason for why you let him go. Like he’s going to lead us to the biggest fucking dealer in Acapulco.”
“Hold the bitch act, Cruz.” Loyola held up a hand. “Orders from on high. The case has been transferred to Organized Crime because of the Salva Diablo tie-in.”
“Where the hell is Organized Crime?” Silvio raged. “Cruz is right. Two more minutes and it would have all been on tape.”
“We’ll send a copy of the audio over to Perez,” Loyola said, naming the unit’s liaison officer. Organized Crime worked the major narcotics cases with deep undercover operations. “If they think they have a confession, they’ll run with it.”
“And if they don’t, what happens?” Emilia cut in. She checked her watch. “The ship leaves in a couple of hours--.”
“With a couple of killers on board.” Silvio finished.
Loyola yanked open the door. “Organized Crime wanted the case. Fine, they’re welcome to it.”
“This can’t keep going on.” Silvio grabbed Loyola by the shoulder and spun him around. “Every other police unit in this city is scraping its boots on you.”
“Take the rest of the day off, Silvio,” Loyola snarled. “That’s an order.”
Silvio shoved Loyola aside and stormed out of the room. Loyola and Ibarra looked at each other and moved off.
Emilia pocketed the dollar bills scattered over the table. Flores followed her out.
☼
With Flores in tow, Emilia found Silvio leaning against his car at the dock parking lot at 3:00 pm as the Pacific Grandeur slipped away from her berth at the docks. The white monolith began a slow glide that would take it around the tip of the peninsula that pointed like the thumb of a left hand into the mouth of the bay. Beachgoers on the east side of the thumb would see it pass Punta Grifo and leave Acapulco behind as it met the crystal waters of the Pacific past Isla la Roqueta.
The decks of the ship were lined with passengers. Some jazzy music played and a throng on shore waved frantically. Sail boats bobbed in its wake as the ship churned through the bay. The Pacific Grandeur’s horn blew twice, long brays that delighted the crowd on the dock.
Emilia had to admit that it was a majestic sight. An entire floating city, dazzling white in the afternoon sunshine, with every luxury conceivable for its citizens. Two weeks of purposeless playing, eating, and drinking.
She’d be loco.
Silvio showed his badge to the guard at the gate and walked to the loading zone by the ship’s now empty berth. Emilia followed suit with Flores. The three detectives watched without speaking until the ship rounded Punta Grifo and passed out of sight.
“This isn’t over,” Silvio said.
“You’re mad because that pendejo was right.” Emilia stood next to him.
Flores looked uncomfortable. He slipped on his headphones and stepped away.
Emilia stared at the water rippling across the bay. “No cop makes enough to put up with the kind of shit we do.”
Maybe Bonilla was guessing, but he’d come close to the truth when he’d mocked their salaries. Emilia had made 3000 pesos a month as a uniform and she made just over double that as a detective.
“You take the cash he threw down?” Silvio asked. “How much was it?”
“I bought Flores a cup of coffee,” Emilia said.
Silvio snorted. “Organized Crime only wanted the case because of the status thing,” he said. “Must think Salva Diablo’s the new player in town.”
“Yet they let Bonilla and Ramos go.”
“They don’t care who killed the damn kid.” Silvio looked at her as if she was stupid. “Adding Salva Diablo to their hunt list makes them look good to Chief Salazar.”
“So Bonilla sails off because Mexican cops are too incompetent and busy fighting each other to catch him.” Emilia slumped onto the same bench where they’d roosted the previous day. Flores wandered along the waterfront, headphones on, head bobbing.
“You’re not giving up on me, Cruz?” Silvio jammed one foot on the seat of the bench next to her knee. Gulls wheeled through the air behind him.
Emilia squinted up at him. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re going to nail Bonilla,” Silvio said. “Either get an extradition order from El Norte or arrest him when the ship comes through next time.”
“You mean stay on the case?” Emilia asked in surprise. “What if we bump into Organized Crime? Loyola will have a stroke.”
“Loyola doesn’t have to know.”
Emilia stared at the bay; at the sailboats tacking with the breeze and the dots on the far eastern side that were colored beach. Over the past six months, she’d come to respect Silvio as a good detective, probably the best in Acapulco, but she’d never completely stopped fearing him.
Silvio wasn’t simply trying to catch a murderer. No, he was testing her loyalty.
Testing her as a partner. He’d probably done that with Garcia, too, the partner who’d gotten himself killed a few years before Emilia became a detective.
If she passed the test this time, there would be another one. With higher stakes. How long would it take before she completely threw away her integrity?
Yet, trust was in short supply among cops these days. No one knew who was being paid to look the other way, who was being blackmailed, or who was willing to betray a fellow cop in return for cartel cash. Acapulco lost a handful of cops every year, betrayed to the cartels for irresistible sums of money. Nothing was airtight. Drug money bought loyalty and information. Holes through which blood poured through like water.
Franco Silvio and her cousin Alvaro Cruz were the only other cops Emilia truly trusted.
“I’ll check again with Prade tomorrow,” she said. “Make sure the Salva Diablo mug shot gets on his website of unidentified. Follow up with Customs to get that roster of who was working here.”
Silvio nodded and she had the impression he’d let his breath out. “I’ll ask around here again tonight,” he said. “Vendors, hookers, the usual types. Somebody must have seen the guy lurking around.”
“What about Flores?” Emilia asked.
“He’ll do whatever we tell him to do.”
Flores came toward them, as if he’d heard his name. “Are we done here?” he asked. “Just talking doesn’t seem like detective work to me.”
With a hand as fast as a knockout punch, Silvio snatched off the younger man’s headphones and palmed the music player as it dangled at the end of the cord. He wadded the equipment into a ball and sent it flying out into the bay. The shiny little music player spiraled away from the headphones, bounced on a wave, and then everything was swallowed by the water.
Flores blanched and emitted a little shriek before turning to Silvio. “Are you going to pay for that?” Face-to-face and dressed alike, Flores was Silvio’s slender and upset twin.
“You want to be a cop, kid,” Silvio growled. He shoved Flores in the chest. “You start paying attention to what is going on around you. You’re not on holiday. You’re not a tourist. You’re a cop and that means somebody is trying to kill you. Every fucking day.” He stepped closer and Flores struggled not to move. “So you either start paying attention or you can sit in the fucking office all day long. Cruz and I aren’t going to be collateral damage because you did something stupid and got yourself dead. As for real detective work, I’ll let you know when you’re doing real work or not.”
Silvio pointed at Emilia, turned it into a sort of salute, and left.
“He hit me,” Flores said dazedly when they were back in the Suburban. “He actually hit me.”
“He gave you a shove, Orlando.” Emilia watched the setting sun blaze itself into streaks of pink and gold. She had an overwhelming urge to go to the Palacio Réal instead of the little house where Sophia would ask her how school had been and Ernesto would occupy the television all night. At the hotel she’d curl up next to Kurt, sleep without dreaming, and tomorrow be ready to be a cop again.
“It was to make a point,” she went on. “He’s right. You need to start paying attention. This isn’t a game. And lose the white tee shirt. Silvio has that market cornered.”
Flores stared out the passenger side window and for a horrible moment Emilia wondered if he was going to cry.
“Look,” she said hastily. “You heard Loyola say that Organized Crime was going to take the Pacific Grandeur murder case. That’s fine and all. We’ll wrap up our end before we turn it over. You know, tie up loose ends.”
“Okay,” Flores said to the window. “I understand.”
“Loyola might not see it that way,” Emilia pressed. “I’d appreciate if you didn’t talk about it in the squadroom.”
Flores turned back to her. “Are you asking me to lie for you, Emilia?”
Emilia hesitated. “I’m asking for some discretion, Orlando.”
“Because I would,” Flores said. “Lie for you. If you needed me to.”
☼
The strange scene at the docks played itself over and over in Emilia’s mind as she lay in her narrow bed, listening to the creak of mattress springs coming from her mother’s room. Ernesto had gradually moved from the sofa into her mother’s bed. Emilia wasn’t even sure when he’d stopped being the man Sophia had found wandering in the market and when he’d slid into the role of husband. Sophia’s insistence that he was Emilia’s father helped blur the line.
Silvio had asked Emilia to help him nail Bonilla for the murder of the Salva Diablo gang member aboard the Pacific Grandeur, despite the fact that Loyola had given the case to Organized Crime. Emilia, in turn, had asked Flores not to talk about it. Yet somehow the conversation had ended with a declaration of loyalty. Flores would lie for her, he’d said. Maybe he’d seen too many norteamericano cop shows and was too immature to know the difference between television and real life. Or maybe he assumed that’s what partners did for each other.
But they weren’t partners. Her partner was still Silvio.
Emilia turned on her side, trying to get comfortable. She never realized how hard her mattress was until she started sleeping at the Palacio Réal on the weekends. As sleep blotted out the day, Emilia realized that she hadn’t talked to Kurt since Monday morning.
Chapter 8
“What’s going on?” Emilia asked Prade as they walked down the hall. The morgue was full of uniforms, or so it seemed.
“We’re missing a body,” the medical examiner replied.
“You mean you lost one?” Flores asked, making no effort to hide the surprise in his voice.
Prade didn’t answer as he led them past the main holding room and into his office. It wasn’t large, and made to feel even smaller by the teetering stacks of file folders and x-ray envelopes rising up from the cluttered desk. Books on anatomy, surgical techniques, and trauma procedures were jumbled together next to the computer, on top of a filing cabinet, arrayed over the seat of the single visitor’s chair, and towered precariously against the wall by the door. A folder was open in the center of the desk, with pictures of a website. Emilia leaned closer. The pictures were mockups for the website with pictures of the unidentified.
“Your case, as a matter of fact,” Prade said. “The victim from Honduras, if I remember correctly. With the boxing tattoo.”
“That’s not our case anymore,” Flores announced. He smiled proudly at Emilia.
“Our night guard saw nothing,” Prade continued. He sat behind the desk. “The staff on duty saw nothing, of course. But the back entrance was forced after the midnight shift change and one body is missing.”
Emilia’s thoughts reeled. Out of all the bodies to steal, why this one. Why now? Did it have anything to do with the ship leaving yesterday? For a wild moment she wondered if the body had been taken and put aboard the Pacific Grandeur, so that Bonilla could have his victim with him. But the ship sailed early, long before the morgue shift change.
Prade perched his reading glasses on his nose and looked up at Emilia standing by the desk. “Not your case?”
“Gang tattoo, remember,” she said. “It’s been reassigned to Organized Crime. You should let them know the body’s gone missing.”
“Perhaps they’d want the entire report,” Prade remarked casually.
Emilia got his meaning. Organized Crime hadn’t requested the report and probably had done nothing on the case. Of course, perhaps Loyola had sent it over himself. Either that or Silvio was right and Organized Crime only wanted the case to boost their hunt list and look good to Chief Salazar.
“Here we go.” Prade opened a file and resettled his reading glasses. His lab coat bore the same stains from Monday. “Your finger couldn’t have belonged to Padre Pro. It’s a woman’s forefinger from the right hand.”
Emilia had never expected this. “A woman’s finger? Are you sure?”
“Lots of DNA in that finger,” Prade said. “All of it female.”
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia swore. She gave herself a second to mourn the loss of Padre Pro as reality sank in. They were dealing with a chopper after all.
The daughters of rich families were sometimes snatched up, victims of express kidnappings in which the kidnappers used the victim’s own ATM cards to empty a bank account or called the family using the victim’s phone to demand a ransom of a few thousand pesos that the family could pay relatively quickly. In those cases, the victim was invariably returned within a day or two, as soon as the kidnappers had the money, and were generally shaken but unharmed. It was the serious kidnappers, demanding millions of norteamericano dollars from families with large holdings, who chopped off body parts. Those victims tended to be male businessmen or politicians. But some female politicians were snatched as well.
Prade pulled on a fresh pair of disposable latex gloves, opened a small refrigerator, took out a stainless steel pan covered with a cloth, and set it on the desk. He pulled off the cloth to reveal the short brown stick that had once been attached to someone’s hand.
Prade picked up the finger. He held it upside down so that Emilia and Flores could see the stump end; like a stiffened paper tube holding a loose collection of chicken bones and fibers. “It was severed from the hand with a snipping tool, probably something like a bolt cutter. Both sides are cut at the same angle and they broke the bone at the knuckle.”
Flores coughed.
Prade grinned. “Still got a glass stomach, Detective?”
“I’ll be all right,” Flores said.
Emilia crossed her arms in front of herself, an unconscious defensive posture as if to protect herself from whatever evil had befallen the owner of the finger. “Was she alive when the finger was cut off?”
“I don’t know,” Prade said. “It hasn’t been professionally preserved and there’s significant decay.”
“I’ll take your best guess.”
Prade probed the stump with the tweezers and Emilia’s stomach did a flip.