by Carmen Amato
“It’ll be like it always is,” Emilia said harshly. “A few clean cops, a few dirty ones. Some get rich and some get dead and you hope the cartels don’t win in the end.”
Kurt touched her cheek. “Are you scared?”
Emilia shrugged, her throat tight.
“Don’t go anywhere alone with that lieutenant, Emilia,” Kurt said. “He’s playing a dangerous game. You don’t know who he’s in with.”
“I’ll do my job.”
“Have dinner with me,” Kurt said. “Come down to the hotel and we’ll sit by the beach. We’ll figure something out.”
The sun was low in the sky, sending streaks of silver light across the roofs of the parked cars. Emilia tried to imagine herself explaining a relationship with this gringo man to her mother. To Rico. To her cousins.
“There’s nothing to figure out,” she said, forcing the words out. “It’s like they always say. ‘Poor Mexico. So far from God, so close to los Estados Unidos.’”
There was a movement at the open door to the shed by the impound yard gate. A uniformed cop came out and stood where he could see them.
Kurt looked around. Emilia followed his gaze to his green SUV in the second row of vehicles. He looked back at her. “I guess I should go.”
Emilia nodded.
Kurt nodded back. Neither moved to shake hands.
“Goodbye,” Emilia said.
Kurt turned and walked away. Emilia watched him go. As he passed between the rows of cars, the light blue plastic bucket dangled from his fingertips.
She went back inside and into the women’s public restroom. The latch on the door of the farthest stall was blurry as she struggled to lock it.
Emilia gulped air and yanked the envelope out of her pocket. She would rip those maldita bills unto bits, flush them down the toilet, and deny she’d ever seen them.
She opened the envelope and her tears gave way to an unexpected gasp of laughter.
Alongside the counterfeit money was a fancy laminated coupon for a free drink at the Palacio Réal’s Pasodoble Bar.
☼
Late that afternoon Lt. Inocente came into the bathroom again. Like before he didn’t say a word, just peed into the urinal and watched in the mirror as Emilia used the toilet paper and hauled up her jeans. She ignored him as she tucked the toilet paper roll under her arm, marched over to the sink, washed her hands and left the bathroom with her head held high.
It was at least 15 minutes before Lt. Inocente crossed the squadroom and went into his office looking as if nothing had happened.
Chapter 5
New assignments for the detective unit came in as messages from the police dispatcher. They were recorded on a form that Lt. Inocente always attached to a clipboard and kept in his office. During the day he’d hand out assignments as he saw fit. The best cases invariably went to Gomez and Castro or Macias and Sandor. Emilia and Rico got the fewest and the least complicated.
The day after Kurt picked up his car Silvio handed out the new assignments instead of Lt. Inocente. El teniente’s office door was closed.
“You two are free.” Silvio rested his hip against the edge of Emilia’s desk, bumping her nameplate. The most senior detective was a dense hardbodied man in his early forties with hooded eyes, a perpetual scowl, and a gray crew cut. A blunt nose and scar tissue around his eyes betrayed his early youth as a heavyweight boxer. Emilia had heard that Silvio ran a gambling ring on the side but people were generally close-mouthed about it; Silvio inspired fear and Emilia wasn’t totally immune. Silvio’s partner was Fuentes, the newest detective and a college boy. Silvio’s previous partner had been killed shortly before Emilia had joined the squad. Wisps of rumors floated around but mostly nobody talked about what had happened. Not even Rico.
“We’re still on the Ruiz murder case.” Rico came around his desk to stand by Emilia.
“And probably ten others.” Silvio pulled a dispatch form off the clipboard. “You know where the Palacio Réal hotel is, right? Powerboat found drifting off the hotel beach.”
“A boat?” Rico snatched up the form. “What do we look like, a couple of fucking lifeguards?”
“Hotel chef called it in. Said there was blood on the side of the boat.” Silvio pushed himself off Emilia’s desk. “Water Patrol’s been notified. They’ll meet you there.”
He walked over to Castro and Gomez, consulting the clipboard as he went. Rico glared at Emilia. “Madre de Dios,” he hissed. “If this is a set up so you can--.”
“Shut up,” Emilia mouthed. She plucked the dispatch form out of Rico’s hand. There it was. Palacio Réal Hotel, Punta Diamante. She didn’t know whether to laugh with happiness or tell Rico she was sick and he should go without her.
Rico threw on his leather jacket. Emilia unlocked her desk drawer, took out her shoulder bag and led the way out of the squadroom.
☼
As Emilia watched, the Water Patrol boat nosed in next to the sleek maroon speedboat. A Patrol officer threw a line over the side of the drifting craft and pulled the two boats together. Another officer clambered over and dropped onto the deck of the speedboat. Both hulls pitched with the motion. The air was a mix of motor oil and sea salt. Seagulls screeched overhead as they wheeled over the rolling water.
The Water Patrol supervisor was standing next to Emilia and she gave a start when the radio in his hand crackled to life. The words were clear over the static. “Got a body. Male. Pretty bloody.”
“I’ll call it in,” Rico said. “We’ll need the crime scene guys.”
Emilia nodded and he turned away to make the call.
From their vantage point on the Palacio Réal’s private pier, along with a half dozen hotel employees and a few guests, they watched the little drama of the two boats play out in the relatively shallow water. The hotel’s fleet of boats, as pristine as the rest of the place, rode gently at anchor in a marina formed by an extension of the pier on one side. This hotel, Emilia knew, in addition to all the other amenities, offered private water activities including boating parties, water skiing lessons, and water safaris and intimate picnics on a private small island that the hotel owned. As if that wasn’t enough, a huge floating platform within swimming distance of the beach was big enough for deck chairs and a fire pit.
A curved stone path led from the hotel to the beach with a branch leading off to the pier. The path was bordered by tiki torches that were probably lit at sunset. A few guests lounged on the white sand already, laughing and flirting. They all looked like honeymooners to Emilia.
Three hundred yards behind them, the hotel rose in tiers along the cliff, the various levels connected by wide stone stairs. Every level was an architectural marvel ablaze in blooming foliage; bougainvillea and climbing jasmine and espaliered citrus trees softened the stone and filled the air with fragrance. Expensively modern minimalist chaise lounges and dining tables were nearly hidden by low stone walls and giant pots of more blooming plants.
The lowest level boasted an enormous pool, and several restaurants, one of which jutted out into the bay and was covered with canvas sails so that it resembled a Spanish galleon. There were two more pools on the next level up, both of which were smaller and more secluded. That was the lobby level; from where Emilia stood she could just make out the grand piano she’d glimpsed from the other side a few weeks ago. The building flowed upwards for another six stories. From any location on the cliffside the view of Punta Diamante was breathtaking.
“Crime scene techs are on the way,” Rico said.
Emilia nodded and turned to face the ocean again. “Okay.”
“No coroner. Like usual.” Rico followed her gaze out to the two boats rocking in the waves. “What’s taking them so long?”
Emilia shrugged. If she kept staring at the boats she wouldn’t stare at Kurt Rucker. He was on the pier, too, in another crisp ensemble of white dress shirt and khaki pants. His shirt cuffs were turned back, just enough for Emilia to see tanned forearms and an expensive watch.
The hotel’s executive chef was with him, a dark-haired Frenchman named Jacques Anatole.
The circumstances made it easy to be all business. They’d said hello and then Kurt had explained quickly that he and Anatole often started the day with a swim. That morning they’d seen the boat bobbing in the distance and just assumed someone from one of the neighboring properties was out early. They raced each other around the swimmer’s platform and as they came abreast of the speedboat they both saw the blood and realized that it was adrift. Once they were back on shore Anatole had called the emergency number.
As Rico asked questions, Emilia had taken notes. As usual when there was a serious crime she started a timeline. In this case, the boat was discovered about 8:00 am, just an hour ago.
The officer in the speedboat gestured to the officers still in the Patrol craft. There was an apparent difference of opinion. The Patrol supervisor’s radio squawked and he joined the argument. Rico pulled out his cell phone. Emilia studied her notebook and didn’t look at Kurt.
The crime scene technicians arrived and set down their equipment. They joined Emilia and Rico and watched as the Patrol craft revved its engine and maneuvered ahead of the speedboat. The line keeping the two boats together straightened and the prow of the boat lifted. The two-boat procession slowly churned through the water.
The speedboat finally bumped against the Palacio Réal pier. Patrol officers tied it up next to the hotel fleet.
The two crime scene technicians cordoned off the area then hauled on latex gloves. Rico plucked some out of a box and handed a pair to Emilia.
“One dead. Male.” the Patrol officer called as he climbed out of the boat. “Bad. Like Santa Muerte got him.”
The Patrol officer strode over to Emilia, Rico and the two crime scene technicians. He looked at Emilia and clicked his teeth as some sort of signal that he expected to see a woman’s admiration for his uniform and daring boat-hopping maneuver. Water Patrol was Acapulco’s coast guard, charged with ensuring water safety and the Patrol officers had no arrest or law enforcement authority. Emilia fingered the badge dangling from its lanyard around her neck and suppressed a grin at his confusion.
“Well,” he said but quickly regained his cockiness. “Water Patrol’s brought in the boat. Over to you all.”
“Thanks,” Rico said. “We’ll let you know.” The two men exchanged numbers and the Patrol officer stalked off. Rico dangled the Patrol card at Emilia. “Make him jealous,” he said with a jerk of his chin at Kurt.
“Give it a rest, Rico,” Emilia murmured.
The lead crime scene technician was the same man who’d examined Ruiz’s head. He climbed into the maroon boat, hauling himself in his shapeless yellow crime scene suit up the small ladder and over the side while juggling his toolbox. He set down his toolbox, took out a camera, and snapped off a dozen pictures of blood smears near the handrail. The camera still clicking, he moved across the deck and went into the small cabin.
“Body,” Emilia heard him call through the open door. From where she was standing on the pier, she couldn’t see him. The snap of the camera went on for a few minutes. When the technician came out of the cabin he leaned over the side to talk to those on the pier. “Okay, that’s it for the pictures. We’ll dust for prints.”
A small crowd of hotel employees in their distinctive uniforms and guests in their bathing suits had gathered on the pier behind the police presence. One couple, holding hands like honeymooners, trailed behind two men in board shorts and starched Palacio Réal tee shirts carrying a heavy cooler.
Emilia watched as Kurt spread his arms in an inclusive gesture. “Sorry, folks,” he said with a friendly smile. The confidence he wore like a second skin projected both calm and authority. “We’ve had a little excitement here and we need to keep this area clear. Let’s move back to the beach or the hotel.”
“But we’ve booked the water safari,” the honeymoon lady squealed. She was wearing a long striped dress, a ropy necklace and a broad-brimmed hat. Emilia wondered how fast she could run in that getup.
“Our marina isn’t available right now,” Kurt said smoothly. The woman made more squealing noises while her husband huffed. Emilia heard Kurt’s voice rise a little but it never lost its pleasant we-are-working-together tone. “I understand how upsetting it is to have your plans turned upside down.”
There was a bout of unhappy chatter but instead of being drawn in Kurt turned to one of the hotel employees standing nearby. “Christine, could we change the Lambert’s day safari into an evening dinner cruise?”
“I’m sure that would be possible,” Christine answered. She was around Emilia’s age, with blonde hair a shade darker than Kurt’s and an unidentifiable European accent. Her printed hotel uniform was well tailored, showing off a slim figure and long legs. She stood closer to Kurt than necessary.
“If that is acceptable, Christine can take you up to the Lookout Level for a private breakfast.” He smiled at the couple.
The honeymooners’ attitude evaporated and they left with Christine. Kurt said something indistinguishable to the cooler-bearers which made them grin as they hauled it back up the path to the hotel.
The rest of the employees and guests were swiftly but easily moved off the pier. Emilia heard snatches of conversation about “breakfast” and “champagne.”
Kurt walked over to Emilia. “Jacques and I will be in the hotel if you need anything else from us.”
Rico pulled on a latex glove with a snap. His round face was sweaty from sun and stress. “Acapulco getting kind of hot for you these days, eh, Rucker?”
“Nice to see you again, Detective Portillo,” Kurt said. “Detective Cruz.” He nodded to Emilia and left the pier. Annoyed with herself for standing there like a lump and not saying anything, Emilia wrestled on the latex gloves Rico had passed to her even as she surreptitiously watched Kurt walk away. He moved like an athlete, with a loose, easy stride. Despite the hot sun, his shirt was crisp. There were no sweat marks under the arms or down his back.
The lead crime scene technician stowed his camera as his partner finished gathering fingerprints. Rico climbed over the side of the speedboat first, grunting with the effort. Emilia followed.
As she balanced on the shifting deck, Rico pointed out the blood spatters that led from the gunwale to the cabin door and Emilia nodded in acknowledgment. The techs were in the cabin and the door was open.
A man’s body was sprawled face down on the floor of the cabin, near the controls of the boat. The head was completely covered by a beige plastic bag, the kind with red printing on it from a popular grocery store. The bag was knotted around the corpse’s neck and from the way the bag lay it was clear that the head inside was not the usual rounded shape.
The body wore good quality jeans and a white knit short sleeved shirt. The shirt fabric had soaked up so much blood that the collar and shoulders were a mottled rust color. A heavy black flashlight rolled gently near the head. The scent of fecal matter mixed with the coppery smell of old blood.
“Where’s all the blood from?” Emilia asked. “Was he shot?”
“All from whatever’s under this bag.” The lead technician nudged the misshapen plastic bag with a gloved finger. “Let’s turn him. See what we got.”
The body was already stiff and it took all four of them to roll it over as the boat deck heaved under them. It settled into the new position with a thump that made the boat rock violently. Emilia grabbed a handrail to stay on her feet.
The front of the body was almost pristine, albeit damp from seawater. Most of the polo shirt was still white. The designer jeans were creased down the front of the legs and buttoned at the waist but not zipped. Clean but rumpled white underwear showed through the zipper opening. The feet were shod in expensive leather deck shoes without socks.
Squatting on his haunches, the lead technician sliced through the front of the plastic bag covering the victim’s head.
Rico recoiled, pushing Emilia back a step. “No,” he br
eathed.
Emilia peered around Rico’s leather jacket. Lt. Inocente’s face stared up at them from the deck of the boat. His eyes were open, bulging with surprise and staring at nothing.
“You know him?” the technician asked.
“Lt. Inocente,” Rico said hoarsely. “Chief of detectives.”
“Had some enemies, did he?” The technician took a picture of el teniente’s face.
“Call Silvio,” Emilia said. Kurt’s words, so easily dismissed yesterday, seemed prophetic now.
“Yeah, right.” Rico’s voice was thick. He thumbed his cell phone.
“Shouldn’t have cut the bag,” the technician said regretfully. “Back of the head’s gone and his brains are leaking out.”
He got out a large clear evidence bag and the two techs stuffed Lt. Inocente’s head into it, leaking beige plastic bag and all. The tech pulled out a roll of tape and secured the evidence bag around Lt. Inocente’s neck so none of the matter from the shattered head would ooze out. Emilia patted down the body for a wallet or other identification. There wasn’t anything, not even a watch or a wallet.
The people from the morgue showed up and unfurled a body bag. The boat rocked with the added weight of two more men and Emilia and Rico braced themselves on the bench lining the cabin. The techs said goodbye and left, causing the boat to rock again as they clambered over the side with their heavy toolboxes.
“I’m getting seasick,” Rico said.
“We have to notify his family.” Emilia watched the body guy from the morgue bundle Lt. Inocente’s unresisting corpse into the long black bag with practiced motions. She wondered how many bodies a day he handled.
“Silvio texted me the address. Said to go over. It’s not far.”
“Lt. Inocente lived around here?”
“Yeah.” Rico showed her the address. It was the Costa Esmeralda apartment building they’d passed coming down the steep road from the privada gate. Emilia gave Rico a look and he made an indeterminate pfft sound with his lips. They both knew Lt. Inocente’s police salary hadn’t paid for an apartment on the Punta Diamante.