Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  “Go get all the letters,” Silvio said shortly.

  Tifani replaced the statue in the cabinet, darted into the back room again, and returned with a collection of letters.

  Like the Padre Pro letters, they were encased in glassine protectors. Gustavo separated them by item. “You see. There is a mistake. We have meticulous documentation. This is why my customers have complete faith in Villa de Refugio.”

  Gustavo trailed off as Silvio leaned against the counter and watched Emilia examine each letter.

  It wasn’t until she was about halfway through the pile that she found the match. The letter was written on heavy linen stationary, foxed with age at the edges. The handwriting was the same as well, thin spidery lines supposedly written in 1935. The letter referred to the Cristero conflict, nearly whispering an intense message about hiding religious relics and praying in secret even after the armistice between Church and government had supposedly been struck.

  “This one,” Emilia said. It was the last nail in Padre Pro’s coffin. “It’s the same paper, the same handwriting, almost the same wording as one of the relic letters.”

  “Your supplier is selling you false items,” Silvio said in disgust and threw down a card with his cell phone number on it. “Saint Francis was probably made in someone’s barn last week. If he gets in touch, you call and let us know. Otherwise we’ll be back to confiscate all of your inventory and arrest you for collusion, selling body parts, and anything else I think of in the meantime.”

  “How long have you owned this store?” Emilia asked Gustavo as Silvio went to unlock the door.

  “Ten years,” Gustavo said.

  “Do you have problems with hooligans?” Emilia wanted to run out of the store, find this Blandón and throttle him, but she couldn’t help asking. “With kids who come in and make trouble?”

  “This is a religious store,” Gustavo said. “There is nothing here of interest to troublemakers.”

  Emilia tightened her hold on her shoulder bag and followed Silvio out of the store.

  ☼

  Emilia’s phone rang as Silvio started the car. The display showed a name from the past.

  “Bueno?”

  “Detective Cruz, do you know who this is?”

  “Yes.” It was the recognizably bad accent of Alan Denton, a Pinkerton agent whose name had been on the list she’d given Flores.

  Silvio looked questioningly at Emilia as he gunned the engine. She gave him a thumb’s up.

  “A colleague of yours called me this morning,” Denton said. “I gather that you gave him my number.”

  “Did he explain the circumstances?” Emilia asked.

  “He was asking about kidnapping cases the Pinkerton Agency may be handling,” Denton said. “He should know that we don’t give out that sort of information.”

  Despite the bad accent it was clear that Denton was angry. He’d been almost manic about not being connected with the Acapulco police in any way when she’d first met him six months ago and apparently nothing about his attitude had changed. Of course, she could hardly blame him, given the frequent number of times it turned out that police across Mexico were complicit in kidnapping, murder, hiding evidence, money laundering, and extortion.

  “We’ve found a finger,” Emilia said. “A woman’s finger. Two or three weeks old and clipped from the hand with a bolt cutter.”

  There was a long pause. Emilia heard a sound in the background like running water.

  “Maybe we should speak in person,” Denton said.

  Chapter 9

  Emilia watched from the sofa in the dance studio’s tiny office as Mercedes Sandoval made them each a cup of tea. The dancer wore one of her usual outfits of leggings and colorful tunic. Mercedes was ten years older than Emilia, yet had the grace and flexibility of a teenager. She’d been a ballroom dance champion in her heyday, along with her late husband, and now struggled to make ends meet running a dance studio in Emilia’s neighborhood. She’d taught Lila Jimenez Lata and tried to help Emilia look for the girl.

  “The recital was great,” Emilia said, and tried to suppress a yawn.

  “How much did you actually see?” Mercedes handed Emilia a mug of tea.

  “Just Lila’s class,” Emilia confessed and blew on the surface of the hot liquid. “Maria is doing really well.”

  “Thanks to you.” Mercedes settled on the other end of the sofa. “How long are you going to keep paying her tuition?”

  “As long as she keeps coming.” Emilia had met Maria, a teenager who worked as a maid, during an investigation several months ago. The girl dreamed of being a dancer and had some promise. Mercedes gave her a discount and Emilia had been paying for the lessons ever since.

  Mercedes frowned. “You look tired.”

  Emilia took a comforting swallow of tea before she answer. “I found out this morning that Lila’s mother is dead.”

  Mercedes gave a start and spilled a little tea.

  “Drug overdose. Her body was found in an alley between the Fuerte San Diego and the city docks. She’d been dead awhile before they found her.”

  “La pobrecita,” Mercedes mourned.

  Emilia drank more tea. “Poor thing is right. She’d been robbed and beaten as well. No wallet, cell phone, jewelry, or money found on the body.”

  “Are you going to tell Berta?” Mercedes asked, naming Lila’s grandmother.

  “Madre de Dios.” A severe woman who’d tightly controlled her granddaughter’s life, Berta had gone to Padre Ricardo when Lila went missing and the priest had turned to Emilia for help. “I never even thought about Berta. She’ll probably want to know where Yolanda is buried so she can spit on her grave.”

  “What about the brother?” Mercedes asked. “Pedro, wasn’t that his name? Or did he change it?”

  “He’s Pedro Montealegre now,” Emilia said. “Works at the water park. I’ll have to go down there and talk to him. It’s not news you can deliver over the phone.”

  “Isn’t there someone else who can do it?” Mercedes asked. “Why do you always have to do things like that?”

  “We all do,” Emilia said. For all his brusqueness, Silvio was surprisingly adept at handling the onerous job of giving bad news, probably because he came at it straight as an arrow. No fooling around or drawing it out, and ready in case anyone fainted or threw up. “Except for the new guy.”

  “Really? You’re working with someone new?”

  “Flores.” Emilia took another sip of tea. “He’s right out of college and they dumped him in the squadroom. We’re supposed to be training him. It’s like having a confused puppy around all the time. Makes Franco nuts.”

  “I have to meet Franco one of these days.”

  “He’s married.”

  “I didn’t say I was romantically interested,” Mercedes admonished her. “He just seems like such a character.”

  “He is.” Emilia had a perverse sense of pleasure in gossiping about Silvio, who would be appalled if he knew she was talking about him.

  “Speaking of romance, how is Kurt?”

  “He’s--.” Emilia stopped in mid-sentence.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Madre de Dios,” Emilia groaned. She handed Mercedes her mug and dug her phone out of her shoulder bag. “We had an argument the last time I was at the hotel. He sent me a text about it. I meant to text him back but I forgot.”

  But she had responded, in a way. As Emilia stared in horror at the outgoing messages in her phone’s mailbox, she thought back to the moment she’d read his last text. She’d been sitting in Irma Gonzalez’s office in the Customs building. When Irma returned, Emilia had stuck her phone back in her bag. Her finger must have slipped.

  “Was it a serious argument?” Mercedes asked, her voice full of concern.

  “Sort of,” Emilia confessed. “It’s a long story, it was about one of my cases . . . Kurt he texted that he was sorry we’d argued . . . and I . . . Madre de Dios, that was two whole days ago. He probably th
inks I don’t care.”

  “Do you?”

  “Of course I care.” Emilia wanted to howl in frustration. How could she have been such an estupida? “Kurt’s great. Amazingly great.”

  “So what’s wrong?” Mercedes pressed.

  “There’s nothing wrong.” Emilia had been worried that meeting her family would end things with Kurt. But no, she could take care of destroying the relationship all on her own. “No, if I’m honest, I’m not sure things are working out.”

  Mercedes sipped her tea with a questioning look on her face.

  “Being at the hotel feels strange.” Emilia retrieved her tea. It had cooled but she drank it anyway as she struggled to put into words what she’d been feeling for weeks. “It’s not like being in my own neighborhood where people know me. Apart from the staff, it’s full of tourists and rich people. That’s fine for him but I never have on the right clothes or say the right things.”

  “If Kurt’s important enough, you can fix the rest of it,” Mercedes pointed out. “Get different clothes. Make friends with the staff. Talk about the news.”

  “I can’t fix this.” Emilia tossed the phone onto the sofa so Mercedes could see.

  The reply to Kurt’s conciliatory message had been simple: RRRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrr.

  Chapter 10

  The office of Señor Ignacio Blandón Hernandez, purveyor of antiquities and rare books, was located in an industrial warehouse complex. The guard at the security perimeter looked suspiciously at their badges, but eventually gave them directions to the third building in the complex and raised the barrier so that Silvio could drive through. Emilia could sense that Flores was restless by himself in the back seat, but that was his problem.

  At least the new detective hadn’t shown up in the squadroom that Friday morning looking like Silvio’s Mini Me. Flores wore black jeans with a gray tee topped by a trendy black cotton jacket with a drawstring waist. It was a daring choice for a squadroom that ran to worn leather and threadbare denim, but Emilia had to admit he looked good.

  Four long warehouse buildings made of white painted cinder block with corrugated tin roofs fanned across the tarmac of the huge parking lot like the fingers of a hand. A green circle of grass served as the palm. Silvio drove three quarters of the way around the circle to the third building.

  They spilled out of the car. Silvio yanked open the door to the building and passed through, showing his badge to the security guard sitting at a desk inside. Emilia followed as Flores darted forward to hold the door for her. The move took her by surprise; only Kurt ever held doors for her. When she was with other cops it didn’t feel right, as if it mocked the equality she’d fought so hard to achieve. He followed close enough for her to hear him breathing, as if using her as a buffer to protect himself from Silvio. Flores wasn’t the first youngster the senior detective had scared and he wouldn’t be the last.

  The inside of the warehouse was fairly sterile, with the same whitewashed cement block walls inside as out. A large board attached to one wall listed all the occupants of the building. On the opposite wall big promotional signs introduced the larger companies occupying spaces there, including an airline catering company, a sign maker, and a company providing instruments to the maritime industry. Construction noises filtered in from the far end of the warehouse; the buzzing of machinery and the muffled thumps of a hammer.

  The security guard verified that Blandón Hernandez’s office was on the second floor. Flores stayed on Emilia’s heels in the dim stairwell.

  A small sign in the middle of the second floor corridor indicated even numbered suites on one side and those with odd numbers on the other. Blandón Hernandez was located in Suite 209.

  They passed other offices as they headed down the hall. Only one door was open, revealing a girl frowning in front of a computer. The sign by the side of the door read Estrella de Acapulco, Charter Tours. “There’s a little of everything here,” Flores observed.

  Blandón Hernandez’s office was next. Silvio tried the knob; it was locked. He rapped on the door. After a couple of moments of silence, the senior detective flicked his eyes to Emilia. She pressed her ear to the door, listened to the silence.

  “You think he’s got any more fingers in there?” Silvio asked.

  “Go ahead and open the door, Franco,” Emilia said.

  “Isn’t it locked?” Flores frowned.

  “Shut up, kid.” Silvio pulled a small tool out of his pocket and used it to fiddle around with the keyhole in the knob. He turned the knob at the same time, easing on the pressure. The door opened as the tool turned in the keyhole.

  “Can you teach me how to do that?” Flores asked.

  Ignoring the younger man, Silvio walked into the office and found a light switch.

  It was a simple, two room set-up. The front room was an office, with a desk, filing cabinets, some comfortable chairs in a corner. The white cement block walls were undecorated. A doorless opening led into a room lined with industrial gray metal shelves on one side and glass-fronted barrister shelving on the other. There were about two dozen packages on the shelves. From the shape of the wrapped bundles, Emilia could guess at what the object inside was. Most appeared to be crucifixes, small framed pictures, or statuettes.

  A bale of new bubble wrap and a big strapping tape gun lay on the last shelf, along with a box of cards pre-printed with the office address.

  The barrister cases were about half filled with old books, many of which were in foreign languages. Flores came to stand next to her and as Emilia lifted one out. It was covered with worn blue leather. “It’s a Bible,” he said, taking it from her. “In Italian.”

  Emilia took out anther book. It was a encyclopedia-sized edition in Cyrillic. It appeared to be a picture book of religious icons, the glossy pages full of large photographs.

  “Greek,” Flores said. “I took a class in art history. Greek icons are marvelous. Some even say they’re more beautiful than Russian ones.”

  “There’s no computer in here,” Silvio called from the office.

  Emilia replaced the icon book in the bookcase and Flores followed suit with the Bible. She went into the other room with again Flores at her heels.

  “He probably uses a laptop,” Emilia said. “Let’s look through these files, see if there’s anything useful.”

  After an hour, Emilia was ready to admit defeat. They’d found nothing related to the relic of Padre Pro. No copies of the letters, no evidence of where they came from, nothing of the relic’s antecedents or where he got it.

  “He must keep everything on the laptop.” Emilia slid the last folders they’d examined back in the filing cabinet. “Or in his head.”

  Silvio look around to make sure everything looked the way it did when they’d arrived. “You think Gustavo called him and Blandón Hernandez has done a runner?”

  “Maybe,” Emilia said as Silvio carefully relocked the door behind them. “Gustavo’s got a reputation to protect. He might have been angry enough to call and accuse Blandón of selling fakes.”

  “That’s what police work is about isn’t it, Emilia?” Flores mused. “Figuring out what motivates people.”

  Silvio scowled.

  “Yes,” Emilia said. “Although if you guess it’s about money, you’ll be right almost every time.”

  As they went down the hall, Silvio jerked his head toward the open door to the Estrella de Acapulco charter service and they went in. The girl looked thrilled to have visitors. “Can I help you?” she said.

  “We’re looking for Señor Blandón Hernandez,” Emilia said. “The antiques dealer from 209. Do you know where he usually is this time of day?”

  The girl smiled at Flores. “No. He only comes in now and then,” the girl said. “Usually when he’s expecting a delivery.”

  “Do you know where he is when he’s not in the office?”

  “Well.” The girl kept her eyes on Flores. “I know that he travels.”

  Emilia edged Silvio to the side. Flores bo
bbed his head at the girl.

  “All the time,” the girl went on. “He’s not here very often. But when he does, he always has such interesting things.”

  “What sort of things?” Emilia asked, willing Flores to open his mouth and say something smart.

  The girl considered, cocking her head to the side. “Books. Sometimes little statues. Once he even showed me a gold chalice from a church in Brazil.”

  “What sort of deliveries does he get?” Emilia asked when Flores didn’t say anything.

  “Mostly paperwork,” the girl said. “His insurance company delivers a lot of paperwork. Senor Blandón says you have to have a lot of insurance for priceless antiques.”

  “Do you know the name of the insurance company?” Emilia felt that she was grasping at straws. Beside her, Silvio folded his arms, evidently amused at Flores’s lack of perception.

  “No.” The receptionist simpered a little at Flores and scribbled something on a piece of paper. “The courier is nice, he always waves.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “No, but he’s very handsome. Very thin. Like a supermodel.” The girl folded the piece of paper and slid it across the desk to Flores. “But not as cute as you.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  They left the building and got into the car. From the backseat Emilia heard the rustle of paper.

  “She gave me her cell phone number,” Flores said, seemingly surprised.

  Silvio backed the car out of the parking space.

  Emilia looked over her shoulder at Flores as they drove past the guard shack and got back on the main road. Flores was attractive, in his young pup sort of way. The black jacket made him look like a slightly dangerous young pup. “Lucky day,” Emilia said.

  “I wonder why she did that,” Flores said. “She had to know I was with you.”

  Chapter 11

  They talked to Loyola, who immediately put in a call to Chief Salazar’s office. Emilia wrote up the details while Flores continued to look through the files for kidnapping patterns and Silvio left to prowl the docks and call Irma Gonzalez at Customs. Emilia hit the Send button to submit the report, then grabbed her shoulder bag. She had two conversations scheduled for the afternoon and neither would be easy.