by Carmen Amato
That was a nasty thought, especially given what had happened last night in the administration building parking lot. “Yeah.”
“You watch your step, prima.”
Alvaro’s son squealed behind him and he turned and scooped up the toddler. The boy shrieked with happiness and Emilia dangled her keys for him to try and grab. Alvaro bounced the child, keeping the keys just out of reach, and they all laughed.
As a uniformed cop, Alvaro had played it safe. He hadn’t annoyed anyone higher up the chain, hadn’t tried to move ahead. Neither had he ever had to patrol the worst neighborhoods. He was now in charge of the central evidence locker and had two junior uniformed assistants.
He’d been married for half a dozen years and his wife Daysi, who didn’t work, was pregnant again. They lived in a nice house not too far from what Emilia could afford on a detective’s salary, which was roughly double that of a beat cop in Acapulco. Alvaro and Daysi had furnished it nicely and Emilia knew they had a color television, a computer, and modern appliances. Even a microwave. Daysi had a smartphone, too.
Emilia hadn’t told Obregon about Silvio and the counterfeit money. She didn’t tell Alvaro, either.
Chapter 16
Going to the Palacio Réal on a Sunday afternoon was sort of a break, Emilia argued to herself as she swung the Suburban into the circular drive and handed the keys to the valet. She would get some questions answered and look at the finest beach in all of Acapulco and maybe use her coupon for a free drink. An hour to relax and pretend that the luxury hotel was somewhere she belonged. And if she happened to run into the hotel manager, well, for once she wasn’t wearing jeans and a tee shirt. She’d left on her starched go-to-church white blouse and added a skinny black skirt and flat black sandals. No ponytail but hair parted on the side so it could hide the bandage over the stitches. Her gun was in her shoulder bag rather than in its holster.
The lobby of the Palacio Réal was enormous, with the long check-in desk on the far right side and a vaulted passageway leading to the concierge area and corporate offices, according to a polished brass sign. The concierge desk was staffed by the blonde woman who’d been at the pier with Kurt when Lt. Inocente’s boat had been brought in. The woman again wore the hotel’s signature floral dress, which set off her slender arms, graceful neck, and bright blue eyes. Her hair was artfully caught up in a tousled bun with blonde wisps framing her face. The tag pinned to her dress read “Christine Boudreau” and gave her hometown as Geneva, Switzerland. Emilia wondered how she’d gotten all the way from Geneva to Acapulco.
She gave a perfect hotel smile. “How may I help you?”
Her Spanish was perfect, too, but the smile dimmed when Emilia showed her badge and asked if the hotel could verify a dinner event held in the Lido Room. She gave the date from the receipt copies Kurt had given her.
Christine picked up a telephone and used a pencil to press some buttons so as not to spoil her nail polish. Emilia couldn’t resist putting her own hand on the counter. Her nails were short and unpolished. The knuckles were bruised from the last punch to Gomez’s face.
After a brief and muted telephone conversation, Christine said she’d have to use the computer in the catering office. It might take some time; would Emilia like to come back on Monday when the catering manager was there?
“I’ll wait in the bar,” Emilia said.
Christine’s smile flickered once before she promised to bring the printout to Emilia and of course she’d make sure the bartender gave her a complimentary soft drink. Emilia responded with the semblance of a smile and walked through the lobby and down a few steps into the vast central expanse of multi-level terraces open to the ocean. A white grand piano anchored the patio and a pianist wearing a white linen shirt played some song Emilia didn’t recognize. The Pasodoble Bar was on the left side of the lowest level, the mosaic of its name a beacon of blue tiles. Tables and chairs were dotted about but somehow none obscured the view of the bay for the people soaking up the salty breeze and tasting frothy cool drinks from multi-colored straws.
Emilia walked to the lowest level and slid into a chair facing the ocean. A waiter materialized with a tall frosted glass of cola on a tray. As he arranged it on a coaster he let her know that Christine would have the information shortly.
The breeze coming off the ocean was fresh and clean and the waves made gentle rushing sounds as the water lapped at the sand. Far to the left, around the edge of the curving beach and the rush-topped palapas for sun worshippers, Emilia could make out the path that led to the hotel’s marina.
She sipped her cold drink and tried to not feel out of place. Most of the women had on a sheer printed caftan over a bikini, although some of the younger ones just had a pareo knotted around their hips. Thin hair braids threaded with colorful string and chunky necklaces seemed to be in fashion with skimpy bikini tops. Emilia knew she’d look good in a bikini top; she was in better shape than any woman there, but she just couldn’t picture herself lounging around all day with nothing more important to do than show off her body and how expensively it had been decorated.
“So Acapulco’s finest work on Sundays?”
Kurt Rucker dropped into the chair adjacent to her. He was dressed in his by-now-familiar uniform of khaki pants and crisp button-down shirt. Today it was white with a blue stripe. The cuffs were rolled to his elbows, hiding any possible monogram.
“I’m following up,” Emilia said. She’d never imagined that she would feel so foolish. She was there on legitimate police business, yet now it felt as if she was chasing him just a few days after she’d turned him down.
“So I hear.” He slid a sheaf of printer paper across the table. “There was an event the night that your Lt. Inocente stayed at the hotel. Baseball awards banquet in the Lido Room.”
Emilia scanned what he’d handed her. It confirmed what Maria Teresa had said.
In addition to the catering reservation form, menu for the event, and guest list, there was a list of those who would be recognized at the event. Juan Diego Inocente Diaz was to receive the Most Valuable Player trophy and Bruno Inocente would be honored for his support to the team. The latter award was probably on the display shelves at Bruno’s house.
She got out her notebook and leafed through the pages to find her timeline for the Ruiz case. “Alejandro Ruiz Garcia was arrested the day after this event,” Emilia said. “We found the Morelos de Gama boy three days later.”
“Your lieutenant and the Hudsons probably hooked up here the night of the sports banquet.” Kurt gestured to the waiter who immediately brought him a clear drink in a tall glass.
Emilia looked at it inquiringly.
“Water,” said Kurt.
“That’s right. I hear you’re in training.”
“Always. What happened to your head?”
“Oh.” Emilia touched the bandage. The breeze had blown her hair out of place. “Nothing.”
He didn’t move but Emilia felt a surge of tension in the man’s body like surf pulsing up the beach. “Is there someone in your life who’s not treating you right?” Kurt asked.
“What?” It took her a moment to get his meaning. “No, no. It was a stupid thing at work.”
“I’m not going to believe that you walked into a door.”
Emilia gave an embarrassed little laugh. “A fight with Gomez over bathroom décor.”
“You had a fight with a guy named Gomez?”
“One of the other detectives.” As she sat there in the beautiful bar, looking at the ocean and listening to the piano, the fight seemed as if it had happened to somebody else.
“Don’t ever lie to me, Emilia.” Kurt’s voice was totally without humor.
His face was tense. It struck Emilia that Kurt Rucker would be a dangerous enemy. Certainly he looked able to beat either Gomez or Castro to a pulp; he was extremely fit and his fighting skills would be that of a soldier. But he’d be even more dangerous than Obregon who wore his menace in front of him like a shield. Kurt hi
d his power behind a mask of congeniality and crisp shirts. Kurt would have the element of surprise.
“I’m not lying,” Emilia said. “You should see Gomez.”
“Was this before or after you brought food to work?”
“I never did,” Emilia said. “Just sent him to the hospital on an empty stomach.”
“Damn, Emilia,” Kurt exclaimed. “How big was this guy?”
“Gomez?” Emilia considered. “About as tall as Rico. But skinny. Seriously out of shape.”
“And you walked away with just this cut on your head?” He slid his hand along her jaw and gently tipped her head so that he could see the bandage.
“Well,” Emilia admitted, a little lightheaded from his touch. “I’m a little sore in spots.”
“I’m quite sure you are the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” Kurt said.
His hand was still on her check. There was permission this time; an unspoken asking and an equally silent granting. Emilia closed her eyes and held her breath and the feel of his lips on hers was going to be like honey on her fingertips--.
Someone said something to Kurt in English and he drew away from her. Emilia opened her eyes.
It was Christine, standing by their table, the breeze gently ruffling her dress. “Kurt, the tour group.” She spoke in Spanish this time then beamed her perfect smile at Emilia.
Kurt and Christine had a brief conversation in English that was very friendly and punctuated with laughter as if they had shared a private joke. Kurt glanced at his watch and turned back to Emilia. “I have to go. I’ve promised to take a tour group up to El Mirador. It’s an investment group connected to the hotel chain so I can’t get out of it.”
“Of course.” Emilia groped for her bag and the baseball dinner papers. “I have to go anyway.”
“Why don’t you come?” Kurt asked. Christine was still standing by the table, smiling brightly.
“To watch the cliff divers?” Emilia shook her head. “I shouldn’t. I can still put in a couple of hours reviewing the case before tomorrow. I have to have breakfast with the mayor.”
“Carlota will be thrilled that you understand the importance of tourism to her city.” Kurt put his hand on her arm and leaned forward. “Two hours. I think you owe me at least that much after turning me down flat for dinner.”
“You’ll be working,” Emilia protested, although she knew it sounded feeble. “You need to be with your guests.”
“They’re all Japanese. Won’t know a word we’re saying.”
He said something in English to Christine who smiled, all those Swiss teeth flashing, but it wasn’t as bright as before. Kurt stood and pulled out Emilia’s chair and they followed Christine back through the bar to the lobby.
☼
The El Mirador Hotel on the Plazas las Glorias was one of the landmarks of the old part of Acapulco. It overlooked La Quebrada, the famous cove where the cliff divers performed their death-defying stunts every day for the assembled tourists.
It was nearing sunset and the crowd was gathering on the plaza for the last show of the day. As the street vendors hawked trinkets people milled around, waiting to see the divers climb up the cliff to the small flat rock that made for a natural dive platform more than two hundred feet up the side of the mountain. The water was sapphire blue and the sky was painted with streaks of pink and gold.
The guide for the Japanese tourists staying at the Palacio Réal had introduced Emilia as a friend of the manager. Kurt went through some sort of bowing ritual with the Japanese tourists. When he indicated Emilia they bowed to her, too, forcing her to reciprocate. Kurt said a few things to the guide, who only spoke English and Japanese, and Kurt translated for Emilia’s benefit what he said to the guide and so the ride to the plaza in the hotel van had been a three way conversation; English to Japanese to English and finally to Spanish. Emilia said little, just watched Kurt and the easy way he interacted with the guide and the tour group. It was the same as when he’d moved people away from the crime scene on the pier the day they’d found Lt. Inocente’s body. He was comfortable being in charge, with a natural authority so different from Obregon’s aggression or Lt. Inocente’s stealthy watchfulness. Silvio had a bit of it, a confidence in his own decisions and the ability to lead and plan.
“You with me?” Kurt asked.
Emilia blinked, realizing that her thoughts had been light years away. She smiled at him. “Sure.”
He smiled back, his eyes twinkling like the ocean, and for a moment they were the only two people standing in the plaza in the twilight.
The crowd chattered noisily until the first man was standing on the dive platform. Everyone went quiet as the diver went through some stretching motions, then raised his arms over his head. He wore a small red racing suit.
The plaza was perched on the edge of an adjacent cliff and the diver was far away enough to look small. But Emilia could tell he was young, with the body of a gymnast. If his dive didn’t have enough forward momentum to clear the sloping cliff face, or he didn’t land in precisely the right spot amid the rocks jutting out of the water, his body would be shredded.
The Japanese tourists next to Kurt said things to each other in their strange language, almost whispering as they took picture after picture. They moved to get a different shot and Kurt was bumped against Emilia. He didn’t move, just let his body stay in contact with hers. Emilia didn’t move either.
The diver stretched to his full extension then pushed off. His back arched and his arms went wide and he looked like a crucifix as he sailed over the rocks. His arms rose over his head and his hands came together right before he impacted with the water. A spume of froth shot skywards and he disappeared into the depths as the crowd on the plaza gasped and applauded.
The diver popped out of the water beyond the rocks and the crowd applauded again. It took a few minutes before the next diver climbed onto the tiny platform on the cliff face. He was older, with a black suit and a heavy torso, and a less athletic look than the first diver. When he carefully turned his back to the ocean the crowd murmured excitedly.
“He’s got guts,” Kurt said. The back of his hand brushed against hers.
The diver launched backwards off the cliff face and twisted in the air. As his body rotated close to the cliff the crowd gasped, but he made a clean entry into the ocean, the water rippling out around him. The applause was wild.
As the sun set, they watched the other men laboriously climb up the cliff face to the small natural platform, stretch and limber their muscles and dive past the rocks to the perfect spot in the ocean far below.
“That’s me,” Emilia said as the youngest diver in the red suit stood poised on the platform again. The sinking sun was blood-streaked behind him, blotting out his swimsuit so that he looked naked and raw.
“What do you mean?” Kurt asked. His hand turned and a finger stroked the inside of Emilia’s thumb and forefinger.
“That’s me.” Emilia’s hand turned of its own accord and gently played with Kurt’s. He was looking at her, not at the cliff divers, and Emilia heard herself babble nervously. “Going off a cliff, not ready for it. Not knowing if I’m going to hit the rocks and be smashed to pieces or not.”
Emilia watched as the young diver swung his arms and rolled his neck and she wondered if he was doing it for the crowd’s benefit or if it was a release for his fear. He hunched his shoulders forward, then pulled them back. His knees bent and his thigh muscles rippled and then he launched himself into the air. For a moment he was silhouetted against the spectacular sunset and then he curled himself into a somersault. The crowd gasped in unison as his body rotated and his hair seemed to kiss the cliff face. Then he stretched out, straining for distance, and completed a soaring arc that plunged him into the water like an arrow shot from a bow and Emilia felt the strain and the pain and the rush of cold water.
“The investigation?” Kurt’s hand stopped playing and grasped hers gently but firmly.
“Have you ever
been too scared to do something,” Emilia asked. “But you did it anyway?”
“Yes.” Kurt gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “Jumped out of a plane a couple of times.”
Emilia looked at him in astonishment. “Madre de Dios. I could never do that.”
“I was wearing a parachute. And there weren’t any cliffs or rocks or water. Just desert and some hills.”
“And war,” Emilia said, recalling their conversation in her uncle’s garage.
“That, too.” This time when he squeezed her hand she squeezed back and their hands stayed tightly gripped together.
Emilia drew a shaky breath. She looked away from Kurt and at the next diver climbing onto the platform in the rock. “Do you think they’re scared to stand there like that? One wrong move and they’ll lose their balance before they’re ready.”
“I think they’re scared up there no matter how many times they do it,” Kurt said. “They just learn to control it. The same way a soldier or a Marine does. That’s the definition of courage, I think. Being afraid and doing it anyway.”
“I can’t do it.” She realized that she was clinging to his hand as if to a lifeline. “I can’t be acting lieutenant anymore.”
“You don’t want to finish the investigation?” Kurt asked.
“It’s a mess. There are too many odd pieces.” Emilia couldn’t help what poured out. “I want somebody to tell me what to do.”
“You don’t need anyone to tell you what to do,” Kurt said.
“It’s just that with all these pieces,” Emilia said, thinking of Silvio. “I don’t know which is the most critical thing. I’m afraid of what I don’t know.”
Kurt shook his head. “You’ll be all right. I don’t think I’ve ever met a woman quite so fearless.”
Emilia bumped him with her shoulder. “Where did you get that idea?”
“I’ve spent some time with you in stressful situations.” He paused. “Or did you forget?”