by Carmen Amato
The plant manager had introduced himself as Licenciado Hernandez, so that the riffraff from the police would know he was a professional with a degree. Emilia followed him as he strode across the plant floor, Rico and Fuentes trailing behind. He stopped in front of an impressive array of machinery. A seemingly endless line of pale transparent 5-gallon water jugs—the 5-gallon kind for water dispensers known as garrafons--moved along a gleaming metal conveyor belt. The thick plastic containers darkened as they were filled to the narrow neck.
“This is the capping machine,” Hernandez shouted above the noise of the conveyor belt and the surprisingly loud rub of heavy plastic things coming together as the containers jostled along. A contraption pressed down on the neck of each jug as it passed, leaving it with a cap decorated with the Aqua Pacifico logo. Workers in white coveralls and vinyl aprons made sure the jugs were positioned correctly as each one made its way to the capping arm. Emilia counted five capping stations.
“Five hundred jugs an hour at full capacity,” Hernandez said.
The conveyor belt looped under the machinery, forcing the capped jugs off the line and into the waiting arms of workers who loaded them on hand trucks. The jugs were then wheeled over to a loading zone beyond the sterile plant floor.
The detectives trailed Hernandez, looking at the distillation operation itself. The air in that area of the plant was like a warm, humid jungle. Giant vats of water were boiled and the steam collected in big pressure tanks. When the steam cooled the distilled water was clean and free of sediment and impurities. Gleaming pipes carried the purified water from the pressure tanks to the pumping stations where the water made it into the big jugs. In yet another room, used jugs were sanitized, rinsed and put back into the supply chain.
All the jugs were the same; thick heavy plastic tinted a pale blue that appeared darker when full of water. The Agua Pacifico cap was turquoise.
“Everything looks very new,” Emilia said when they were finally done with the tour and had shucked off the disposable jumpsuits and booties.
“Really clean,” added Rico.
Hernandez smiled. He was in his mid-thirties with regular features, his face only marred by large square teeth that reminded Emilia of tablets of chewing gum. “Everything is very new. State-of-the-art, really. Agua Pacifico is the fastest growing water supply company in Mexico.”
He walked them out to the loading zone. The plant boasted six loading docks and all were in operation, with signature turquoise Agua Pacifico delivery trucks backed up to each dock. Drivers in turquoise Agua Pacifico shirts checked their manifests while workers in coveralls took out empty jugs and replaced them with full ones. The jugs were loaded into the racks specially designed to hold them. When a truck was fully loaded, a metal roll-top door closed over the jugs. When a truck headed out with a driver and helper another truck rolled in to begin the unloading and reloading process.
“How many deliveries can one truck make?” Emilia asked.
Fuentes stared at Emilia as if she was the biggest time waster in the world. Which she supposed she was. Emilia wasn’t sure what she thought they’d find here. It appeared to be an orderly, well run business.
Hernandez flapped his hand. “It depends on the number of jugs each customer orders every week but the usual number of stops for a driver in one day is about 20.”
Emilia tried to do the math in her head and failed. “At five hundred bottles an hour, it’s no wonder your company’s trucks are everywhere,” she said. “And isn’t there another plant as well?”
Hernandez gave her a patronizing smile. “This is the flagship plant,” he said. “We’re growing at a rate of nearly seven percent a year.”
“So the other plant is smaller?” Rico asked.
“Yes,’ Hernandez said frostily. “Similar but a smaller capacity.”
“Weren’t both plants the same capacity when Lomas Bottling bought them?” Rico asked conversationally. “Wasn’t the recap the same for both?”
Hernandez froze for a moment, just like Carlota had done when asked about the undersecretary for administration. Staffing. Organization. Nothing at all because the job doesn’t exist yet.
Emilia waited.
The plant manager gave a brittle smile. “The truck repair facility is there. It must have taken up part of the bottling floor.”
“It’s on Highway 200 on the way to Ixtapa, isn’t it?” Rico was just making conversation.
A flush had crept up Hernandez’s neck. “The other plant doesn’t do tours,” the man said and showed them the exit to the parking lot.
☼
“You think Silvio turned up anything about Tito from the El Pharaoh?” Rico asked. He raised his empty beer bottle and the proprietor’s wife hustled over to replace it.
“Like if the guy’s got a boat?” Emilia asked.
“Yeah.” Rico burped. “Maybe this Tito character wanted to scare him and things went wrong.”
“I don’t know” Emilia shoved her sunglasses into her hair as the proprietor slung down two plates laden with food. “The timing is wrong. El teniente died on a Tuesday and the girls said they only saw him on Sundays. I don’t think they were lying.”
They were at a tiny loncheria near the fishing docks on Avenida Azueta, sitting at one of three tiny outdoor tables. Both had plates of rice, salsa, and pescado empapelado; marinated fish wrapped in foil and grilled by the sweaty proprietor. Emilia pulled apart the foil packet, taking care to keep her fingertips away from the billow of lemony steam. The whole fish lay nestled inside the packet, fragrant with citrus and tomato, the fish’s mouth open wide as if in surprise.
Rico ripped open his packet, cursed at the hot steam, and soothed his fingers with the cold beer bottle. “I don’t know, chica. Tito in another boat, lets el teniente do some other girl there. Knows he’s going to get a hefty cut.”
“You really think this is just some hooker thing gone wrong?” Emilia asked, her voice low. “Nothing to do with the phony money and the kidnapping?”
“My question first.” Rico forked up some rice. “You gonna go after Gomez?”
Emilia peeled white flesh from the fish bones. “Silvio asked me that, too.”
Rico chewed, swallowed. “So?”
“Silvio said Gomez should stick around because it’ll remind everybody that he tried to go after me and didn’t succeed.” Emilia plopped some salsa on her fish. “Said it would deter the next one.”
Rico shoveled in more fish and rice. “I don’t think Gomez has the guts to stay.”
“Let’s not talk about Gomez,” Emilia said, pushing aside a twinge of guilt about the money she’d taken off the man. The food was good and Rico was a pal again. She felt better than she had in a while.
Dusk was still at least two hours away but the sun was already promising another spectacular sunset. They had a view of copper and pink streaks across the sky.
“So Fuentes and I are checking on Lomas Bottling shit,” Rico said around a mouthful. “His accountant is happy to talk, show his boss to be Mr. Acapulco Business. When his son got kidnapped the accountant helped Morelos de Gama liquidate and get the cash together to pay the ransom. In pesos.”
“The ransom was dollars.” Emilia stopped with a forkful of rice halfway to her mouth. “Nobody ever said he was supposed to pay in pesos.”
“Maybe Ixtapa knew, maybe they didn’t.” Rico scraped a fishbone clean with his teeth. “Bet el teniente knew. But that’s what the guy said. They paid cash. Pesos.”
“You think Ixtapa was in on it with el teniente?” Emilia asked. “That’s why there wasn’t any follow-up?”
“Maybe,” Rico admitted.
“We need to talk to that Pinkerton agent.”
Rico found the card that Morelos de Gama had given him. “Alan Denton. Cristo, another gringo. They’ve got all the good jobs.”
Emilia pulled the card out of his hand and found her cell phone. The connection on the other end rang three times before switching to voice mail.
Emilia listened as the standard Telmex recording asked the caller to leave a message.
Rico continued to eat as she left her name and number, stressing that the matter was urgent and that Denton could call her any time. “Be interesting to know if this guy knew the Hudsons,” Rico said when she was done.
“El teniente sure did.” Emilia left her phone next to her plate and reminded him of the coinciding hotel stays.
Rico sucked a fishbone then tossed it onto the little heap that had once been a meal. “Here’s what doesn’t make sense. If el teniente kidnapped the kid, why would he want to end up with fake cash? Just take the real money and be done.”
“Because he wanted somebody else to end up with counterfeit,” Emilia said quietly. Lights blinked on around the patio. “Somebody he wanted to get into trouble. Silvio.”
“What the fuck does Silvio have to do with this?”
Emilia put down her fork. “Fuentes gave me this.” She dug the counterfeit bill out of her bag. “Says he lifted it off a snitch Silvio had given it to. Fuentes said he told Lt. Inocente about it just before he died.”
Rico dropped his fork on his plate and took the bill. “Isn’t this the stuff we got from el teniente?”
“Sure. It’s the same.”
“No,” Rico said seriously. “I mean the exact same.”
“What?” Emilia couldn’t hide her surprise. “You think I’m trying to frame Silvio?”
“Well, he’s trying to push you out and you hate him,” Rico pointed out.
“You pendejo,” Emilia said with heat. “Fuentes gave that to me.”
“Hey, calm down.” Rico gave her back the bill. “I believe you.”
“Fuentes said that Silvio had a lot. Gave some to the snitch and asked if he’d seen it around. To call him if he did.” Emilia took a deep breath. “There’s more I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Silvio took one of the dispatches last week. It was a call from a bank that somebody had come in with counterfeit.”
“Fuck,” Rico swore. “What did he say about it?”
“Nothing.” Emilia flipped over her fish and started on the other side. “He’s not going to give me his report.”
“So what are you saying?”
“What if they were partners?” Emilia sifted through the possibilities. “Something went awry and el teniente wanted Silvio to take the blame. Or el teniente set the whole thing up so he could find a way to get rid of Silvio. Make him think they were partners and then frame him.”
“And Silvio found out and killed him?”
“I don’t know,” Emilia admitted.
“I got a problem with Silvio doing any shit with el teniente.” Rico finished his second beer. “He’s a decent guy. And he kept his distance from el teniente.”
“What sort of detective was el teniente?” Emilia asked.
Rico rubbed his nose. “He never did much,” he said. “Everybody knew he was planning to move up.”
“Who was his partner?”
“Guy named Alfredo Suarez Lata.” Rico mimed drinking to the proprietor who brought him another beer. “He left when el teniente made lieutenant.”
“What happened to him?”
“Heard he got a union job.”
“What about Silvio back then,” Emilia pressed. “Were they friends?”
“Rayos, chica.” Rico’s face creased in an expression of exasperation. “No, they weren’t friends. I think you’re too hung up on Silvio and Inocente being partners.”
“But Agua Pacifico is really bothering him,” Emilia pointed out. The pescado empapelado had been delicious but now her stomach was on fire with nerves and confusion. “I think Silvio doesn’t want us looking at anything that ties back to Lomas Bottling and the kidnapping.”
“You going to tell Obregon?” Rico’s eyes narrowed.
Emilia pushed her plate away. “Maybe. I don’t know. There’s no proof.”
“Give it some time,” Rico counseled. “I don’t want Obregon messing up Silvio on a hunch.”
“Okay.” From the look on his face Emilia knew Rico was struggling with divided loyalties. “We’ll give it another couple of days. But it’s too slow. I need a break in this case to get Obregon and the mayor off my back.”
“I don’t know about Silvio, but I got a feeling about the water thing.” Rico leaned back in his chair and scraped at his teeth with a fingernail. “That manager was a weird shit. He pretended to be all nice but he hovered. Like he was afraid we were going to touch something. You know what I mean?”
“He didn’t like you asking questions about the other plant.”
“No, he didn’t,” Rico said thoughtfully.
Emilia’s cell phone rang. The display showed a number she didn’t recognize. “Bueno?”
“I’d like to speak with you privately at your earliest convenience, Detective Cruz,” Bruno Inocente’s voice said.
Chapter 19
Emilia paid the toll, switched on the headlights, and headed into the Maxitunnel, the modern 4-lane tunnel that bored through the mountain separating Acapulco from the rest of the state of Guerrero. The noise of the Suburban was distorted by the tunnel’s high arch and thick walls; the rumble of other vehicles was swept upwards into an echoing drone that set Emilia’s teeth on edge. The tunnel was long and had a slight curve to it, making it seem longer than its three kilometer length. She drove carefully as the pitch blackness was relieved only by the lights of oncoming traffic, the colored arrows pointing down from the roof to indicate which lanes were open, and the occasional neon sign warning of pileups beyond the tunnel.
The traffic wasn’t bad; there were always more cars coming into Acapulco than leaving it. She’d rolled relatively quickly through the toll plaza. The place held too many memories of weekends when she was a teen standing in the hot sun in front of the booths with boxes of guava candy in her hands and a blank expression on her face.
A warning light signaled the end of the tunnel and the big SUV popped into gray twilight with the setting sun trailing behind. For the next 40 minutes she followed the directions Bruno Inocente had given her, leaving the city behind until finally her phone’s GPS showed nothing and the Suburban bounced over a rutted dirt track. Emilia hadn’t seen any houses or other signs of life for at least two miles.
A black Mercedes was parked in front of a strange gray structure with smooth sloping sides. The back of it disappeared into a gentle hill. Scrubby pines and wild agave plants substituted for landscaping.
Bruno got out of the Mercedes when Emilia alighted from the Suburban. Other than his pressed gray pants and navy baseball jacket, he looked much the same as when she’d met him at his home: well-groomed, athletic, pleasant, a little dour. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “Alone.”
Emilia nodded as she looked around. “What is this place?” she asked. The structure reminded her of an oversized beehive.
“I know that your detectives have been talking to my accountants about my brother’s funds.” Bruno shoved his hands in the front pockets of the baseball jacket. It was a garment he was comfortable in, Emilia judged. “So you know that about a year ago my brother managed to borrow a considerable sum of money without my permission.”
“Yes.” Emilia shivered in her thin denim jacket. The sun still streaked the sky but the shadows on the ground were long. The opening into the beehive gaped like a toothless mouth.
“This is what he did with it,” Bruno gestured tiredly at the odd structure. “Said it was a prototype for a new house. Worked with some engineer. They were going to build these little tunnel houses and sell them. Revolutionize the housing industry in Mexico.”
“Was the engineer’s name Marco Cortez Lleyva?” Emilia asked.
“Something like that,” Bruno said. “I don’t remember.”
“We found his card in your brother’s study,” Emilia said. “He said your brother was planning to build a new house and consulted him about it.”
Bruno dug his hands deeper into his jacket pocke
ts. “It was just another gamble. Maria Teresa refused to live in a hill, away from the beach and her friends. My brother lost interest and here it sits.” He showed her a flashlight. “Would you like to see inside?”
“All right.” Emilia stepped through the shadowy entrance and took a quick look around, uncomfortable in the dark space. There wasn’t much. The strange house was divided into two equally dark windowless rooms, each shaped like half of a tunnel. The sloping walls had never been painted. Ventilation fans were built into the wall of one room but didn’t appear to be hooked to any electricity. The place smelled stale.
“He was going to market these as houses? Without bathrooms or windows?” Emilia asked when they were once more standing outside in the gathering twilight.
“That’s what he said,” Bruno affirmed.
“Why did you want me to see this?” Emilia asked. “You could have just told me this over the phone.”
“I want you to stop asking questions about my brother’s family,” Bruno said.
Emilia raised her eyebrows.
He glanced at her, his face tight, and then away. “Juan Diego and Juliana are absolutely devastated by the death of their father. They’re both so upset they can barely speak. They’ve retreated into each other and I’m losing them.” He passed a hand over his face. “Your cops are asking personal questions in the building where they live. You made them get fingerprinted. You’re pressing Maria Teresa and she’s unloading everything on them.”
“This is a murder investigation,” Emilia said. “I can’t ignore basic questions about the victim.”
“Maria Teresa didn’t kill her husband,” Bruno said. “She’s a silly woman but she hardly needed Fausto dead after 20 years of marriage. If she’d have asked for a divorce we would have seen her get a fair settlement.”
“She’s admitted to a relationship with Dr. Chang,” Emilia pointed out.