Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  Emilia wadded up her napkin and shoved it onto the table. “I can’t afford to eat here.”

  Obregon was an arresting man and once upon a time she’d felt weak-kneed around him. Every instinct told her she’d been a fool for following him, warned her not to become beholden to him for even as simple a thing as a meal.

  The waiter came back before Obregon could reply. “Your choice of wine, Señor Obregon.” The two men went through the elaborate uncorking and tasting ritual, Obregon pronounced the vintage acceptable, and Emilia’s glass was filled. As Emilia sat stony-faced, a second waiter whisked onto the table two appetizer plates, additional forks, a fragrant platter of crisp fried pumpkin sticks, and a glass bowl of seafood salad.

  “You’ll find the food is excellent,” Obregon said, helping himself to both appetizers.

  Emilia looked around. The place hadn’t seemed like much from the outside, and the first floor was the same; modern décor and half a dozen tables filled with people eating tacos and sandwiches. They’d climbed a narrow stairway to the second floor, which was a different story. Dark wood paneling and crystal chandeliers created exclusivity. Each private table was sheltered by an angled half wall. The diners that Emilia had seen were all men in business suits. The place was clearly some sort of exclusive men’s club.

  It was an odd place to bring her and Emilia couldn’t help but be curious why he’d chosen it. Nothing was coincidence with Obregon.

  He handed her the bowl of seafood salad.

  “I’m not hungry,” Emilia said.

  Obregon tucked his tie between two buttons of his shirt and did the same with his napkin, making him look startlingly like a younger version of Ernesto waiting for Sophia to put his dinner on the kitchen table. “Sure you are,” he said. “After reading Loyola’s charges you were mad enough to chew nails and spit rust.”

  “That was anger, not hunger.”

  “Anger creates appetite.” Obregon ate a piece of the fried pumpkin and closed his eyes for a moment in appreciation. “You really should try this. Superb.”

  “Maybe you should tell me why we’re here.”

  Obregon put down his fork. “Relax, Detective. Consider this the union’s apology for Loyola’s behavior.” He sipped some wine. “Besides, I don’t like to eat alone.”

  By now Emilia was ravenous. The tangy scent of the seafood mixed with tomato, onion, and avocado was enticing. But she still hesitated, knowing the danger of being in Obregon’s debt. She looked around at the quietly opulent room. “Since when has the union apologized for anything?”

  “I said for Loyola, not for the union. Man’s an idiot.” Obregon clicked his tongue. “Frankly, I’d always been impressed by your self control. Until now.”

  “So this is meant to be a lecture on my behavior?” Emilia demanded. “Go lecture him. Everything in his grievance was a total fabrication.”

  “I assumed as much.” Obregon helped himself to more pumpkin. “He’s far too old and worn out for you.”

  “If you knew he’d made it all up, why the whole farce of a hearing?” As much as Emilia hated to admit it, he was right about anger and appetite. She gave up, threw some food onto her plate, and began to eat. The pumpkin was fried into light puffs of flavor, the perfect counterpoint to the acidic bite of the seafood. She’d have to tell Jacques about this meal.

  “Loyola is entitled to union services, same as you,” Obregon said. He swirled the wine around in his glass. “Did he actually falsify his grievance charges? In a legal sense, hard to know. His word against yours. It works both ways. You could have filed a grievance for his blow job suggestion and he would have said you misunderstood his comments.”

  “Which is why I didn’t.” Emilia pronged a cube of avocado out of her salad.

  “You’re catching on.”

  “So where exactly does this leave the grievance process?”

  “Loyola will hear that we had lunch together, after which he’ll get the official notification that the grievance is on hold pending additional information. The paperwork will go into a desk drawer. You and he will learn to live with ambiguity. Which is hardly anything new in a detective squadroom.”

  “I see,” Emilia said. And she did. “His charges never get called into question. Which would embarrass Chief Salazar who picked him for the job.”

  Obregon saluted her wisdom, then drained his wine glass.

  “I don’t get punished but the charges never get dropped, either,” Emilia went on.

  “True,” Obregon said. “But after two years, unresolved grievances are taken off the books.”

  “But never out of the hallways. I get stuck with the reputation of being a sexual predator.” Even as Emilia said it, she knew it wasn’t a bad outcome. She wouldn’t be fired or busted back to beat cop.

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to turn that to your advantage somehow, Detective.” Obregon reached for the wine bottle in its silver cooler by his chair.

  The waiter came back to take their entrée orders. Other diners stopped by their table on their way in or out of the restaurant. Obregon made a point of introducing Emilia, saying that he was having a working lunch with Detective Cruz Encinos, as if discussing a critical investigation. None of the men in suits offered their name and Obregon didn’t introduce them, either.

  Their entrees came and Emilia was halfway through her chicken in a spicy peanut sauce before she realized how curious Obregon was about Flores. All of his questions came at the subject of the new detective in an oblique manner and Obregon remained studiously nonchalant, but it was clear that he’d known of the young man’s appointment to the detectives unit and her comments in the hearing had piqued his interest.

  But there was something else lurking behind the outwardly bland conversation about a new cop and how he was adjusting to the job. Obregon was an enigma in many ways and that included his relationship with Chief Salazar. Each man had a fiefdom to protect and she’d seen tense exchanges between them in the past. If Emilia had to guess, she’d say that they enjoyed a bitter rivalry based on personal hatred. Likely there was history she knew nothing about.

  Salazar had essentially made Flores a detective out of thin air. Directed that he ride with Emilia and Silvio, and when Silvio scared the kid, had directed that Emilia alone be responsible for on-the-job training. Of course Obregon would be burning with curiosity.

  Emilia gently parried Obregon’s questions. She didn’t want to become a pawn between Obregon and Salazar. Again.

  Obregon never probed too hard, however, and he didn’t try to spin out the meal with dessert. Before leaving, the union boss made a point of going around to several of the tables, exclaiming over the quality of the food, and wishing the diners a pleasant afternoon. Emilia smiled but didn’t say anything; this whole act was about being seen.

  His bodyguards rejoined them downstairs and they strolled back to the union building a block away. More of his protective detail were in two cars; one parked in front of the restaurant and the other outside the gates to the union building. Emilia wondered if the walk was another visibility stunt.

  “Was everybody in that restaurant a cop?” Emilia asked.

  “Some cops, some business associates,” Obregon said lightly.

  Once inside the gates Obregon went directly to the white Suburban parked in a visitor spot. “I remember this vehicle,” he said. “Still holding up, is it?”

  “Gets me where I want to go,” Emilia replied. She took out her keys and pressed the button on the fob to unlock the car, her shoulder bag in the other hand.

  “A very enjoyable lunch, Detective,” Obregon said.

  “I appreciate the union’s efforts to resolve the grievance,” Emilia said pointedly.

  Obregon gave a bark of laughter but then his face grew serious. He swiveled his eyes to either side and his security detail melted away. He stepped so close that his chest brushed against Emilia’s. He licked his lips and Emilia felt sparks of sexual tension coming off the man. One sip from the
bottle labelled insanity and she might be tempted. Sex with him would be like encountering a tornado in the dark; a spiraling blind rush. Everything in pieces afterwards.

  “Is Rucker still the one with permission?” Obregon asked.

  It was a reminder of one of their first encounters, the one that had set the personal boundaries between them. “He is,” Emilia managed.

  “Pity,” Obregon murmured.

  Emilia swallowed hard. He hadn’t put his hands on her, yet she felt pinned in place. “Lunch was your idea,” Emilia said softly.

  “You can pay next time.” Obregon slid away from her.

  Emilia nearly fell forward as Obregon went, as if she was nothing more than iron filings; bits and pieces pulled toward a magnet and massed into a single shape against it. But she caught herself. He’d be the unfixable mistake.

  Obregon gave her a nod, his security detail closed up around him, and they went into the building.

  Emilia was glad she had the car to hold her up. She’d been a fool to think lunch with Obregon would be debt-free.

  But she still had a job. And Kurt.

  Chapter 29

  “We should start with a dress,” Mercedes suggested as she steered Emilia into a boutique.

  “Something I can wear to Mama’s wedding.” Emilia looked around. Mercedes had navigated them through the dramatic atrium of the Galerías Diana mall, with its two-story palm trees wrapped in fairy lights, and into the flagship store of a fashion designer. The walls were lined with posters of Beautiful People, clothes were organized by color, and red glass light fixtures dangled from the ceiling. Sales clerks wore red aprons with the designer’s logo embroidered on them. “Por Dios,” Emilia groaned. “There’s nothing in here I can afford.”

  “Sales racks,” Mercedes said firmly. The dancer headed for the back of the store.

  Emilia followed, trying to muster some enthusiasm. Getting together with Mercedes was supposed to be a treat but after the hearing and lunch with Obregon all she wanted to do was go back to the Palacio Réal, climb into bed, and pull the covers over her head. She’d left the hotel that morning, yet it seemed forever ago. By the same token, Friday seemed impossibly far off.

  Mercedes was saying something. Emilia blinked and realized her friend was holding out a filmy pink dress.

  “You’re kidding,” Emilia said. “I’d look like a hibiscus with legs.”

  Mercedes made a face and hung the dress back on the rack. “You need style, Emilia. You wear too many bland things like that gray suit.”

  Emilia hitched up the lapels of her jacket. “This is fine.”

  “Please. It’s a gray suit with pants. The jacket looks like a box.” The dancer tossed her hair over one shoulder and plucked another hanger off the rack. “How about this?”

  The dress was a simple crocheted cream shift with a matching silk slip. Emilia fingered it gingerly. It was the sort of elegantly understated thing women wore at the Palacio Réal with chunky jewelry and rich men. “Maybe,” she said.

  “Go try it on.” Mercedes pressed the dress into Emilia’s hands and prodded her into a curtained dressing room. “I’ll pick out a couple of other things.”

  The dressing room was as lux as the rest of the store, with a gilt mirror, porcelain hooks, and a chair with a red velvet cushion. Emilia dropped her bag on the chair. She took off her suit jacket, wriggled out of her shoulder holster, and hung both on a wall hook, the weight of the gun pulling the leather straps taut as the rig dangled. Blouse, shoes, trousers, and then she slid the cream dress over her head.

  Mercedes is right, Emilia thought as she pirouetted in front of the mirror. The dress was clingy but not tight, cut to skim the top of her cleavage and leave her arms bare. The cream color offset the caramel tone of her skin. On impulse, Emilia pulled her hair out of its usual ponytail, shook it loose over her shoulders, and smiled at her reflection. The grim woman in the severe gray suit was gone, replaced by someone softer, sexier, more confident.

  Emilia poked her head out around the side of the curtain. “Mercedes?” she called softly.

  “She’s at the front of the store,” a male voice said. “The clerk will keep her talking for a couple of minutes.”

  The curtain in the dressing booth next to her opened and a man stepped out. Emilia hadn’t seen him in awhile. It was Perez from Organized Crime.

  He snatched up her arm above the elbow, pulled her out of reach of her gun, and shoved her into the other cubicle. “Nice dress,” he said as he flung the curtain closed.

  “Shopping for a friend, Perez?” Emilia asked, breathing hard. Perez had a big automatic in a belt holster under his jacket.

  Perez was a short, wiry man. He wore an expensive navy suit with a subtle chalk stripe, a white shirt and a dark paisley tie. As with every other time Emilia had seen him, unless his hands were occupied, his fingers rubbed against each other with small, fluttery movements. She knew that Perez had spent years on the razor’s edge as an undercover cop and the tic was his reward. He never appeared to notice.

  His grip on her upper arm tightened and he shook her slightly. “What did you tell Victor Obregon?”

  With her free hand Emilia grabbed his tie and twisted it into a chokehold. “We can have a conversation if you want,” she whispered, her face close to his. “Or I can scream and say you’re assaulting me.”

  Perez smiled, despite the stiff collar digging into his skin, and released her arm.

  Emilia let go of the tie and he immediately straightened it, doing that little head stretch thing men do when things are too tight around the neck. “Always liked your style, Cruz,” he said. “Had my eye on you ever since you killed that Esgrimidores gang banger. Took guts to run after him the way you did.”

  “That was two years ago, Perez,” Emilia said. Long before she’d met Kurt, Emilia was enjoying a night out when a gang invaded the club. Her date had gotten the credit but she’d been the one to take down the gang leader’s brother. “This is an odd place to talk about it now.”

  The curtain wasn’t fully closed. Emilia could see Mercedes across the store, chatting with a sales person. No one appeared to have seen the little tussle by the dressing rooms.

  “What did you tell Victor Obregon?” Perez asked again.

  “Why should I tell Victor Obregon anything?” Emilia parried. Perez had an agenda. She had nothing. “What does he have to do with me?”

  The Organized Crime liaison officer waved a finger in a classic don’t fib to me motion. “A pretty girl cop only has two reasons for having lunch with Obregon. Either she’s the fuck of the month or she’s his stoolie.”

  “Who said I had lunch with Victor Obregon?” Emilia asked.

  “Every cop in Acapulco knows you had lunch today with Victor Obregon,” Perez snarled. “I want to know why.”

  Emilia shrugged. “He wanted to know how my partner is doing.”

  His head gave a barely perceptible twist, like a sci-fi robot unable to process some bit of data, as the fingers of his right hand fluttered. Perez planted his other hand on the wall by Emilia’s head and leaned toward her. “Why? What’s wrong with your partner?”

  “I got stuck with some rookie. A kid who doesn’t know anything.”

  “Why should Obregon care about your rookie partner?”

  “Isn’t that his job?” Emilia countered.

  A sales associate came by and peeked into the curtain opening. “Pardon, but it’s one at a time.”

  Emilia flung open the curtain.

  “You look marvelous in that,” the woman caroled.

  “Doesn’t she,” Perez said warmly. He put his arm possessively around Emilia’s waist. “I was telling her the same thing.”

  Anyone who saw them together would think he was a business man who’d left work early to help his younger wife shop. A new dress for an upcoming event with investors. Anything you want, mi corazón.

  Across the store, Mercedes was still deep in conversation with the other sales associate. Part
of Emilia wanted to shout to her for help; another part wanted to keep Mercedes as far from Perez as possible.

  The woman smiled enthusiastically and bobbed her head. “Shall I get you a belt or a long necklace so you can see how it looks with accessories?”

  “No.” Both Emilia and Perez said it at the same time. He winked at the saleslady. “Let me talk her into it,” he said.

  The sales associate moved away. Perez swiped the curtain closed again and grabbed Emilia by the shoulders. “You expect me to believe that’s all you talked about with Obregon?” he said, his voice low and harsh. “Your rookie partner? What did you tell Victor Obregon about the Ora Ciega?”

  There it was. Emilia forced herself to keep breathing. “I could have told him quite a bit,” she said. “How you closed down the Pacific Grandeur investigation. Killed Irma Gonzalez from Customs to protect your partners. Ora Ciega being processed at the Fiesta Verde cannery in Gallo Pinto, then loaded on the cruise ship.”

  Perez let her go. “You got a good imagination, Cruz,” he said.

  Emilia took a breath, sure he was bluffing. “A finger got traded all the way from Gallo Pinto to Acapulco where it was sold as the finger of the Blessed Padre Pro. Remember him? From a long time ago? I bought it.”

  Perez let out a quiet bark of laughter. “What did you need a saint’s finger for? Praying for a miracle?” His eyes raked her body. “Always thought God did all right by you.”

  Emilia ignored the comment. “After the Salva Diablo murder aboard the Pacific Grandeur, I traced the finger all the way back to a killing field outside Gallo Pinto. The finger had Ora Ciega embedded in the skin. Same stuff the Salva Diablo kid had in his pocket. Your clowns have been following me around, trying to figure out what I know.”

  She had his full attention now and kept going. “The way I see it, the Salva Diablo kid went looking for his friends. Were they mules bringing Ora Ciega up to the Fiesta Verde Cannery for you? Tried to save a bit for themselves? Or were they a rip crew who traced the stuff to the cannery and tried to steal it? Either way they had to be dealt with.”