by Carmen Amato
“You just accepted what Morelos de Gama said about him?”
“No, we checked him out. Looked good. A lot of solid business connections.” Denton still had the magazine with him. He tapped it against his thigh as they walked.
“His brother Bruno,” Emilia supplied. “A lawyer named Sergio Rivas.”
“I’m told you don’t get much better in Acapulco than those two,” Denton said.
“So how did Fausto help?” Emilia finished the cone and scrubbed her hands with the napkin.
“We’d set up the command center at the Flamingo,” Denton said, naming a well-known hotel. “Three rooms, rotating so no one could tell who was in which room and when. I took the money out of Lomas Bottling in a rolling suitcase. Wasn’t trailed back to the hotel. I passed over the money to Inocente and he set up the trade. The kid showed up two days later in that car and we figured the cop had done his part all right. Now you’re telling me something else?”
“Inocente picked up the money?”
“Yes. Morelos set it up. Inocente showed me his badge, knew the code. Gave us a signed receipt.”
“Is that the only time you saw him?”
“Yes. We wanted to stay as far away from the police as possible. For obvious reasons.”
Emilia rummaged in her bag with still-sticky fingers and took out the identification photo of Lt. Inocente. “Just to make sure. Is this the person who picked up the money?”
Denton pulled off his sunglasses. His eyes were dark and deepset; reinforcing the Arab look. He studied the picture then shook his head. “No. The guy I met was bigger. Broad face. Tough looking, like a wrestler. Short hair. No moustache.”
Silvio. Emilia felt her chest thump in a mixture of fear and triumph and sugar. She stowed the picture in her purse. “Where were you a week ago Tuesday?” she asked.
“New York,” Denton replied. “I stayed at the Plaza for a conference. Go ahead and check.”
Chapter 23
The funeral of a high-ranking police officer was a tempting target and the church was ringed with security. The outermost ring was made up of 30 special forces wearing helmets, radios, and bullet-proof vests and carrying riot shields and long guns. The next ring was regular uniformed cops, there for ceremonial effect and cannon fodder in case of attack. The innermost security ring was the mayor’s private security detail; tall, good looking men in suits and earpieces who’d probably been trained by people like Alan Denton.
Inside, the back of the church was a sea of dark blue. Emilia was sandwiched between Rico and Fuentes in the first row of police officers about halfway down the church on the right side. From where she sat, she could see the back of Obregon’s head. Villahermosa was next to him, as always, and they were surrounded by a group of men she supposed were also from the police union.
Carlota had swept in with a retinue of at least a dozen people and sat in the first pew on the right. She was the last to arrive, except for the family, and Emilia was sure it had been planned that way. The mayor wore navy blue as well and Emilia wondered if it was a deliberate sign of solidarity with the police or an oversight by a now former member of the staff.
Everyone stood as the family walked down the aisle. Maria Teresa looked as if she was floating, no doubt tanked up on tranquilizers, on the arm of someone who probably was her father. Juliana and Juan Diego, both dressed in somber and expensive black, walked behind her. The son was taller than his mother and held his younger sister’s hand. His face was set, as if he’d finished his crying and was now ready to become the man of the family. The daughter’s face was white and blotchy. They moved deliberately, the boy matching his stride to his sister’s.
Bruno and Rita followed the siblings. Emilia looked away as they passed her pew. She’d let the man have the dignity of the moment and not be reminded of his attempted bribe or sad show of abandoned self-restraint.
The Mass was slow. The air inside the church was heady with the mash of flowers crowded around and against the altar. The arrangements were as tall as Emilia, set into bronze urns and bearing red and green ribbons that spelled out Loving Father or Peace in God. The tasteful dark wood casket was closed and centered in front of the main altar on its rolling cart. To the left of the casket, a table draped with a white cloth served as pedestal for a large framed photograph of Lt. Inocente looking up into the camera with water behind him. White pillar candles flanked the photo, creating a shrine to a father, husband, gambler, and dirty cop.
Emilia looked around. The other detectives looked bored and uncomfortable in uniforms most hadn’t worn in years. Sandor’s shirt stretched tight across his middle. Emilia decided that for all his interest in the new copier, he hadn’t been the one to leave the photocopy of his equipment.
As the squad of priests on the altar droned on, most of the detectives fiddled with their hats and moved restlessly. All except Silvio. His hands were still and he alone listened attentively. His uniform still fit like it had been tailored to his biceps. If he’d killed el teniente, then he had a heart like granite to sit like that, unabashedly saying the prayers and paying attention to the priests.
Next to Emilia, Fuentes looked down, gave a shuddery sigh, and pressed a finger to an eye. He was the only one who looked emotional at the death of Lt. Inocente. Emilia didn’t know how she felt herself. Angry, she supposed, at the danger the man had put her in that night driving Kurt to the Palacio Réal. Disgusted as well by his voyeurism in the bathroom, his gambling and use of prostitutes. All of his relationships, except for those with his children, had been tainted in some way.
But he was getting a funeral with all the pomp that the Catholic Church and the mayor’s office could provide. All the priests on the altar were getting taking their turn, and Emilia felt her thoughts drift in the warm, flower-scented air. She hadn’t gone to her own father’s funeral, which had probably been a small affair. There had been no funerals for las perdidas; Emilia doubted that many in her binder were still alive. The odds in Mexico of a missing women being found alive after two or three years was very slight. But the families had a right to know. To mourn and to have closure the way Dion’s aunt had.
There was only the rustling of restless people as the priests came closer to the casket with the silver vessel of holy oil. One took the small dipper, touched it to the holy oil and flicked it, sending droplets over the casket, the bunched flowers and those in the front pews.
An animal shriek rent the air, rising to a ear-piercing howl and then abruptly plummeting into hysterical sobbing. An involuntary movement rippled through the rows of mourners as everyone flinched.
A commotion whirled through the front of the church and Emilia had the impression of fighting. Juliana ran down the aisle, sobbing. Juan Diego caught up with her halfway and scooped her into his arms, hoisting her up easily. Bruno was on his heels but the boy turned to face him, even as his sister clung to him, her face buried in his neck. “Just leave us alone, tío,” Emilia heard Juan Diego say. “Please.”
Bruno stepped aside and Juan Pablo carried Juliana out of the church.
There was a pause as the entire congregation took a collective breath and then the funeral mass continued.
Emilia lasted only a few more minutes. As the priest started the Our Father she climbed over Rico’s knees and walked out.
Part of the mayor’s security detail was clustered by the door. Emilia brushed past them, her uniform hat in hand. She walked around the side of the church until she came upon Juan Diego on a bench, his arms tight around his sister. Juliana was curled into a tight ball on his lap, a thumb in her mouth. CeCe sat next to them, holding the little girl’s other hand. The scars around the maid’s mouth were nearly healed as were those of the little girl.
Juan Diego watched as Emilia approached over the grass. She was struck by how old he looked at that moment, how the boy had aged just in the few days since she’d seen him at the police station comforting his sister as her fingerprints were taken. Given his mother, Emilia wasn’t
surprised that the role of parent had fallen to him.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” she said. She held her hat with both hands, a shield against their grief.
“Thank you,” Juan Diego said. His honey-colored hair was short and parted on the side. He had his father’s jaw and physique but his mother’s bone structure. He’d be very handsome in a few years.
“I lost my father, too,” Emilia went on.
“I’m sorry.” The boy spoke stiffly, so protective of his sister that he seemed wary of other people.
“When I was very young. I don’t even remember him.”
“It’s better like that,” Juan Diego said. “It’s better not to remember.”
“You’re probably right.” Emilia went to step closer to the girl, to try and help somehow, but she felt both all three of them on the bench draw away. Her hands were sweaty on the shiny visor of her police hat. “CeCe has my number. Please call me if you need anything.”
Juan Diego nodded and then looked down, shutting her out.
Emilia wandered away, her throat tight enough to choke her. The organ blared, signaling the end of the service. Emilia didn’t want to see the pallbearers wheel out the casket on its cart or watch the burial in the big cemetery adjacent to the church. She kept moving along the path to a grotto where a statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe was surrounded by tall lilies. Our Lady’s face was gentle and sad.
The tightness in Emilia’s throat burst and tears cascaded down. There wasn’t any use in trying to stop them, the sadness was too much and so Emilia stood in front of Our Lady, hat in hand, and cried for the father she’d never known and the one her mother wanted so desperately and for the children of a man who hadn’t deserved their love. Somewhere in there Emilia knew she was crying for herself, too, for being proud and foolish and for having run away from Kurt Rucker.
And then she cried because she was scared.
Chapter 24
The morning meeting broke up and Silvio followed Emilia into el teniente’s office. “Why are you still harping on about this water company?” he asked. “I thought we were done with that.”
“I just want to run down everything that’s out there,” Emilia said. “And the first water plant was a little odd.” She’d brought in doughnuts. Again.
For two days in a row all the detectives had been there for the 9:00 meeting. Today they’d talked about all the cases, not just the Inocente investigation, as if the funeral had signaled the end of the el teniente era. No one had touched the new stall doors in the detectives bathroom or left any more lewd photocopies on her chair. It was progress.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” Silvio snapped.
“You need to find a new line.” Emilia crossed her arms and wondered if the man across the desk was a murderer.
Silvio narrowed his eyes at her. “We got a lot more problems in this city than a dead police lieutenant and you’re tying up everybody’s time with this shit.”
“So why don’t you go ahead and solve the case?” she challenged him.
“I’m coming with you and we’re finishing this water company crap.”
Emilia hadn’t been ready for that. “You don’t have to babysit me, Silvio.”
“Somebody does,” Silvio said darkly.
Emilia’s cell phone rang. Silvio didn’t move as she scooped it up and looked at the screen. Obregon. She turned off the phone.
“Boyfriend?” Silvio asked.
“Let’s go,” Emilia said.
☼
The other Agua Pacifico plant was about 20 kilometers outside of Acapulco, north of the city off the main highway to Mexico City. It was on the other side of the Maxitunnel and took them an hour to get there through the midday traffic.
The plant was on a narrow road. There were some other buildings in the distance, small factories or assembly plants and they shared a common security entrance; a small cement shack flanked by heavy fencing. Coils of razor wire topped the fence and a small metal sign announced that the razor wire was electrified. They showed their badges and the security guard at the entrance to the facility reluctantly lifted the post and let Silvio drive through.
All the buildings had some Lomas Bottling affiliation. The Agua Pacifico plant didn’t stand out. It was only identified by a discreet sign. There were two cars parked in front, by what Emilia guessed was an office door.
“Circle around first,” she said from the backseat.
Silvio drove past and slowly circled the plant.
It was an imposing structure of silver pipes and rounded corners, with its own gas pump and a loading dock large enough to handle five trucks at a time. Small conveyor belts ran next to each truck dock. There was one turquoise Agua Pacifico truck pulled into a dock, but all five garage doors were closed. They didn’t see any workers. The place had an eerie, deserted feel so different from the bustle and noise of Licenciado Hernandez’s plant.
“We must be early,” Fuentes commented.
Silvio grunted and parked in front.
The exterior doors opened but the lobby was empty, except for a sign that said Agua Pacifico, Water of Paradise Bay, under the same graphic that was on all the delivery trucks. Emilia peered through glass doors at a smartly appointed office suite fronted by a long white counter. Behind the counter there were two Plexiglas desks topped by modern white computer screens. The desk surfaces were clear except for a coffee cup on one and a blank notepad on the other. White filing cabinets shone glossily under fluorescent lights.
“Hello?” Emilia called uncertainly. Her voice seemed to echo in the high-ceilinged lobby.
Silvio gave her a look of annoyance. He took out a tool and started to pick the lock to the glass doors leading to the office.
“Good to know you’ve got a skill,” Emilia said.
Silvio straightened and pushed open the door. “Madre de Dios, you should have been a nun.”
The office was just as sterile and unused from the inside as it had been from the lobby side. Two doors presumably led into the distillation plant itself.
“Oye!” Rico called.
“Must be a holiday,” Fuentes said. He tapped on a keyboard. The screen stayed dark.
“Is anybody thinking what I’m thinking?” Emilia asked abruptly. Rico and Fuentes stared at her. “It’s a factory,” she said. “Supposedly in operation.”
Silvio hauled out the small tool again. “If you’re right, Cruz.”
It took him a little longer this time. The three others waited nervously.
“You want me to be out front as a lookout?” Rico asked.
“No,” Emilia said. “Let’s stay together.”
Silvio grunted, there was a tiny click and he nodded in satisfaction. He stood up and opened the door.
Rico and Fuentes followed him in. Emilia made sure the door didn’t lock behind them.
There was a dull thunk as Silvio found the fuse box and lights came on. The entire plant floor stretched before them, a cavernous space with gray concrete floor and walls. Silver rolling garage doors that they’d seen from the outside punctuated the rear wall. Small conveyor belts ran only about ten feet inside the space then stopped, like short headless snakes. A huge silver tank as big as Emilia’s entire house occupied a tenth of the floor space but wasn’t connected to anything else. There was no assembly line, no machinery for bottling water, no mechanism to cap the jugs.
“Fuck,” said Rico. “This was supposed to be another couple hundred an hour outfit.”
“There’s nothing here.” Fuentes stayed by the door to the office.
Silvio crossed the space to the garage doors. Emilia followed him. He looked for a button on the wall and found nothing. He bent and hauled on the handle of the first door and it didn’t lift.
“Locked?” Emilia asked.
“Not much gets by you, Cruz,” Silvio said.
Emilia walked toward the huge distillation tank. There were several big Agua Pacifico 5-gallon garrafons, standing on end, their
necks capped with the company logo. They seemed a darker blue than the filled jugs in the other factory and she prodded one thoughtfully with her toe. The garrafon fell over, knocking into the others and they all ended up in a heap like so many hollow bowling pins.
“They’re empty,” she said.
“Of course they’re empty,” Rico said. “You see any way to fill them with water around here?”
“Why have jugs here if you can’t fill them?” Emilia pried the cap off one. The jug was the same heavy plastic as the jugs at the first water plant but this one had been painted blue on the inside so that it appeared full. A rich, earthy aroma came out of the jug.
Rico squatted down next to her.
“Smell this,” she whispered.
Rico inhaled a couple of times, drawing in big breaths. “Good weed,” he said.
“Morelos de Gama is a very good liar,” Emilia replied, keeping her voice low. “Better than Hernandez.”
“You think they’re using this place?” Rico asked. “Some sort of smuggling point?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think el teniente knew it and that’s why he kidnapped the kid?”
Emilia shook her head, her thoughts running almost too fast to process. “Alan Denton said Morelos de Gama insisted that el teniente help. Described him as a trusted friend.”
“So they were partners,” Rico said.
“Then who took the child?” Emilia asked. She eyed the senior detective as he roamed the factory floor.
“They were dealing in somebody else’s territory and the kid was taken to teach them a lesson.” Rico picked up the jugs one by one and shook them. “They’re all empty.”
A hollow garrafon rolled toward Silvio and the big detective stopped it with his foot. “So we got a fake water purification factory,” he said. “What do you know about it?”