by Carmen Amato
Find all of Carmen Amato’s books on Amazon
CLIFF DIVER: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 1
HAT DANCE: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 2
DIABLO NIGHTS: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3
KING PESO: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 4
MADE IN ACAPULCO: The Emilia Cruz Stories
THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY
For your free copy of the Detective Emilia Cruz Starter Library, click here.
Money is a good servant but an evil master.
Mexican proverb
Chapter 1
Under the midnight sky, the ocean glowed like mercury. Waves charged at the shore, retreated, and surged again. Emilia Cruz Encinos made her way across the balcony to lean over the stone wall and watch the Pacific fight against gravity.
If only all these people would leave. Emilia needed to be alone in this spot high above the rest of Acapulco. Close her eyes and feel her heart beat in rhythm with the ocean. Draw in big breaths of salty darkness. Settle her mind.
Prepare herself for what she had to face tomorrow.
“Day after day I listen to Tony talk about his real estate investment club, eh.” The shrill voice made Emilia wince as she pulled her attention back to the party. Guests were everywhere, mingling between the spacious living room and the balcony, which was nearly as large. The speaker next to Emilia was Jane Wilcox. She and her husband Tony were the Canadian owners of the Santa Rosa hotel.
“His real estate investment club, eh,” Jane repeated in her accented Spanish. The breeze ruffled her short gray hair as she waved a wineglass to punctuate her words, red liquid sloshing up to the rim. “Buildings and occupancy. Rate of return.” She paused to suck down more wine, then fixed Emilia with a glassy stare. “Is Kurt a member?”
Emilia forced a smile. “Kurt and I don’t talk about money.”
Her stolen moment was over. Emilia led Jane back through the sliding glass doors into the living room in hopes of foisting the tipsy Canadian off on someone else. From across the crowded space, as if he’d heard his name, Kurt Rucker cocked his head and caught Emilia’s eye. He gave her a discreet wink, his wavy blonde hair haloed by the chandelier. Lean and muscled from his disciplined regime of triathlon training, he wore perfectly pressed khaki pants topped by a white polo shirt with the logo of the Palacio Réal hotel; his usual understated look of wealthy gringo hotel manager.
When Emilia returned the wink, he turned back to the two men with whom he’d been chatting. Both were fellow board members of the Acapulco Hotel Association. Twenty board members and their spouses were in the penthouse apartment Emilia shared with Kurt at the Palacio Réal, invited to watch the Sunday evening Copa America kick-off match between Uruguay and Mexico and dine on the buffet supper catered by the hotel’s 5-star restaurant. The Copa America soccer tournament was the biggest sporting event in the Western Hemisphere, with more than a dozen national teams competing for the region’s most prized trophy.
Mexico had prevailed over Uruguay an hour ago. Dessert and coffee had been served and eaten. Emilia wanted all these strangers to get out so she could prepare for tomorrow. She needed to find Jacques Anatole, the Palacio Réal’s head chef and Kurt’s best friend. If Jacques and the kitchen staff made a production about cleaning up, perhaps the guests would get the point.
She realized Jane Wilcox was looking at her expectantly.
“I’m sorry?” Emilia asked, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice.
“I said, you might be young and in love, eh, but make sure to talk about money.” Jane swayed a little. She had to be on her fifth or sixth glass of wine. “Every girl needs to know where she stands, eh. With your looks, you could catch as much money as you wanted.”
Emilia pretended to laugh and took a sip from her own wineglass to avoid a reply. Maybe it was because she was tired, or worried about tomorrow, but Jane Wilcox’s words struck a raw nerve. Talking about whether or not she loved Kurt, or if he loved her, wasn’t a place Emilia was willing to go.
Te amo. I love you.
Such small words. Such a big commitment.
“Emilia, I want to tell you what a beautiful outfit you have on.” Magda Porchenko joined them. Like Jane, Magda was in her fifties. She had blonde hair scraped into a tight bun and wore a white caftan that looked casual yet hideously expensive at the same time. The Porchenkos were Russian and owned the Pacific Lotus on the western side of Acapulco bay.
“Thank you,” Emilia said.
“You’re so fit,” Magda marveled.
Emilia smiled. “I try.”
She’d borrowed the teal silk pants and halter from her friend Mercedes and paired them with her own chunky turquoise necklace, the one Emilia had bought after making detective. With her straight dark hair out of the way in its usual ponytail, the halter top showed off Emilia’s abs and biceps. Carefully applied makeup hid the scar on her upper right arm where Emilia had been shot not so long ago.
“Darling Emilia.” Magda put a claw-like hand on Emilia’s wrist. “You never told us how you and Kurt met.”
“We’re dying to know,” Jane slurred in agreement. She edged closer. “Kurt’s the most eligible man in Acapulco and all the ladies at the tennis club . . .” She stopped to guzzle more wine.
“Are terribly jealous,” Magda finished her friend’s sentence.
All the norteamericano women are terribly jealous that a Mexican woman snagged him instead of one of their own, Emilia thought.
“Here, of course,” she said brightly. “We met here. In Acapulco.”
“But details, darling,” Magda cooed. “We need all the dirty details.”
“We can live vicariously,” Jane giggled. “I’ll bet he’s a powerhouse in bed, eh.”
Emilia glanced at the adjacent dining room, where the buffet table still bore the remains of dessert as well as a silver coffee service with the hotel monogram. “I think this is our last chance for dessert.”
“Don’t change the subject, darling.” Magda tightened her grip on Emilia’s wrist. “Was it a blind date? Or were you out clubbing?”
Magda’s husband Sergei Porchenko was probably Russian mafia. Emilia wasn’t about to admit to his wife that she was a cop or that she and Kurt had met because of a major drug smuggling investigation.
“Well, if you must know―.” She closed in on Magda, bumping into Jane in the process. The Canadian woman stumbled and the contents of her wineglass rained down on Magda’s bosom.
Magda gave a squeal of dismay as a dark stain bloomed over the sheer white fabric of her caftan.
“Oh, Magda,” Jane exclaimed loudly. “I’m so sorry.”
“My god,” Magda said. “This is ruined.”
Tony Wilcox barreled up. “Christ, Jane,” he barked to his wife in English. “Are you drunk again?”
“Entirely my fault,” Emilia apologized.
“Oh, Magda,” Jane exclaimed again and burst into tears.
“Let me get you a cloth,” Emilia said to Magda.
Two minutes later, Magda was in the guest bathroom with a helper from the kitchen staff, having the stain dabbed with club soda. The Wilcoxes called for the valet to bring their car around. Kurt gave Emilia a rueful grin as he left to walk them down to the lobby.
To hell with all of them, Emilia thought as the door to the penthouse closed behind Kurt. She left the other guests talking in the living room, went to the kitchen, and slumped into a chair at the table.
Jacques and two of his helpers were there. The chef glanced at Emilia, poured a glass of water from a fancy bottle, and set it in front of her.
>
Emilia sat without moving as the helpers cleared the buffet, shuttling back and forth with trays between the kitchen and the dining room. Jacques supervised, meticulously packaging up leftovers. She knew he didn’t normally cater events himself, but had done so tonight as a favor to Kurt.
A few months ago, when Kurt had asked her to move into his new penthouse apartment at the Palacio Réal, Emilia had come on weekends. Not only was there the issue of what her family would say about being unmarried and living with a gringo, but there were practical considerations. The Palacio Réal was on the southeastern edge of Acapulco Bay, a long commute across the city to the police station which housed the detectives squadroom. And her mother Sophia, who’d hovered between reality and fantasy for years, still needed Emilia.
But the commute was manageable and when Sophia remarried, Emilia began to stay at the hotel more frequently. Little by little, her things migrated to the penthouse; clothes, mementos from her childhood, awards and certificates from her police career.
But sometimes, like tonight, it was hard to convince herself that she belonged there.
Jacques gave the helpers a platter of food and let them take it into the unused maid’s quarters behind the kitchen. Emilia and the chef were left alone.
“Jacques,” Emilia said, her head propped by a hand. “Do something. Make these people leave.”
The white chef’s jacket and loose checkered pants disguised the man’s slim frame as he leaned against the stainless steel counter and crossed his arms. Like Kurt, Jacques was a competitive runner and swimmer. He had jet-black hair, a large nose, and a sharp, almost pointed chin that gave his face mobility and character.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in the other room playing hostess?” he asked.
“I’m done.” Emilia flapped her free hand at the door to the dining room. “I’m horrible at this sort of social thing.”
Jacques chuckled. “Especially when you hide in the kitchen.”
“Don’t joke,” Emilia reproved him. “This is important to Kurt’s career and I’m a disaster.”
“Let Kurt worry about his career.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” Emilia said.
The chef’s face grew serious and his eyebrows went up. “Emilia, it is foolish to worry,” he said. “No matter how difficult things get, you will always be much better for Kurt than Suzanne.”
Emilia blinked. “Suzanne?”
Jacques nodded. “How could you think otherwise?”
Emilia had no idea who or what he was talking about.
“Em.” Kurt appeared in the doorway and held out his hand to her. “Come and say good night. People are leaving.”
☼
An hour later, wearing a soft cotton nightshirt, Emilia propped her elbows on top of the waist-high wall edging the balcony. The tile floor was cool under her bare feet as she stared down at the moonlit ocean, letting the rhythm of the waves soothe her. The outside lights were off and the darkness was peaceful.
The balcony was one of her favorite things about living in the penthouse at the Palacio Réal hotel. It wrapped around two sides of the apartment and was accessible from every room. Teak chaise lounges, a dining table that could seat 12, cobalt cushions, and glazed pots full of geraniums and trailing greenery all helped make it the perfect escape.
The sliding glass doors leading to the master bedroom were open. Thanks to the hotel’s professional decorators, that room was straight out of a magazine, with tasteful touches of blue warming the otherwise all-white color scheme. The rest of the apartment was just as streamlined and elegant. Kurt kept telling Emilia that they could redo the penthouse any way she wanted, but it was already nicer than any home she’d ever seen, let alone lived in.
This side of the balcony overlooked the marina, private beach, and the famous two-level Pasodoble Bar that formed the heart of the hotel. A dozen ceramic lanterns, each as big as a barrel, created a dramatic barrier of flames and color between the water and the edge of the Pasodoble’s lower terrace. Pinpoints of lights bobbed in the inky sky beyond the shore. Emilia knew they were reflectors on the floating dock anchored in the middle of Puerto Marques, the bay-within-a-bay that was part of the secluded charm of the Palacio Réal. The hotel was an architectural marvel; seven stories of luxurious hospitality clinging to the cliffs along Acapulco’s southeastern edge. Diplomats, rock stars, and global business tycoons stayed at the Palacio Réal for the world’s finest in food, accommodations, and relaxation.
The Pasodoble was open to the ocean on two sides and bounded by the hotel’s immense lobby on the others. The ocean’s rhythm, along with guitar music and gentle laughter, floated up to Emilia. Even at this late hour people drank and danced, unaware of the woman looking down upon them.
“Just how drunk was Jane Wilcox?” Kurt asked.
Emilia turned around as Kurt stepped onto the balcony. He wore a tee shirt, cotton boxers, and was barefoot. The bedtime attire did nothing to lessen the combination of natural confidence and personal power that he wore like a second skin. Maybe it came with his job as manager of Acapulco’s most exclusive hotel or was forged during his years as a Marine in his country’s military. Either way, his confidence had been a magnet for her since the day they met. That was the first time she saw a man with eyes the color of the water beyond the cliffs at La Quebrada or felt a handshake she didn’t want to release.
He knew. Emilia felt her face get hot; she could never keep anything from him. “I just bumped her a little,” she confessed. “Are you mad?”
“No,” Kurt said. “I was ready to punch Tony in the mouth, so your timing was impeccable.”
Emilia accepted one of the two small glasses he carried. Brandy. She was learning about the finer things in life from him. “Punch him? Why?”
Kurt touched his glass to hers. “Let’s just say that Tony found you very attractive and wasn’t shy about letting me know how lucky I am. As if I needed that oaf to tell me.”
He leaned in and gave Emilia a kiss that nearly made her knees buckle. When they came up for air Kurt put his arm around her and they watched the ocean’s relentless chase.
“Is that why you’ve been out here?” Kurt asked. “You thought I was mad?”
“A little,” Emilia admitted. “I’m thinking about tomorrow, too.”
Kurt played with the ends of Emilia’s hair as the breeze lifted it away from her shoulder. “What’s going on tomorrow?”
Emilia leaned against him as she sipped some brandy. “I’ve been ordered to attend a meeting tomorrow morning at the mayor’s office.”
“Monday morning with Carlota,” Kurt said with sympathy. “What’s on the agenda?”
Emilia had dealt before with Acapulco’s charismatic mayor, Carlota Montoya Perez. Every interaction had left Emilia both awed by the woman’s commanding presence and repulsed by her political machinations.
“I’m not sure,” Emilia said. “Chief Salazar’s office called me with a royal summons on Friday afternoon. Everyone in the squadroom thinks it’s a task force to look into the El Trio murders.”
“An El Trio task force?” Kurt’s arm tightened. “What’s Carlota got to do with that?”
“Maybe she’ll give us a pep talk.” Emilia heard the false humor in her voice.
In the last few months the Acapulco police department had been thrown into disarray and Emilia knew she was partly to blame. She’d been the one to unknowingly take on the powerful head of Internal Affairs, who together with a lieutenant from Organized Crime and a vigilante group from a small town outside Acapulco, was shipping drugs to El Norte aboard a cruise ship. By a wholly unforeseen set of circumstances, Emilia had broken the ring. Both of the dirty cops were killed, but not before one of them shot her.
Maybe it was just coincidence, but since then violent crime in Acapulco had spiraled while arrest rates declined. The execution-style murders of three law enforcement officers in as many weeks had thrown the situation into sharp relief. Dubbed the El Trio murde
rs by the press, the fatal shootings had become a rallying cry for improved security. Tensions were high in the police department as every cop wondered if they were next. Emilia was no exception, but she had a better reason than most.
“The El Trio victims were all senior, weren’t they?” Kurt asked.
“Well, you know about Captain Espinosa,” Emilia said. “Killed last week. He was the federale in charge of the investigation into the killing field at Gallo Pinto.”
Kurt nodded.
“Captain Vega was the second,” Emilia went on. “He was on Chief Salazar’s executive staff. He took over that big arson case a couple of months ago.”
Kurt finished his brandy and set the glass on the smooth stone topping the wall. “And the first?”
“Javier Salinas Arroliza was my contact at the state attorney general’s office on the El Pharaoh casino money laundering mess.” Emilia thought back to that case, which had been tossed out when key evidence mysteriously went missing. But Salinas had helped salvage something from the wreckage before the casino reopened. “He was one of the good guys. So was Espinosa.”
The Copa America party had kept her busy all weekend; now the fears she’d tamped down since the phone call on Friday bubbled up again.
“There’s one more thing I need to tell you,” Emilia said reluctantly. She set her empty glass on the wall next to his.
Kurt tipped her chin up to see her eyes. “You sound serious.”
“I think I’m on the task force,” Emilia said. “Because I worked with all three victims.”
She’d crossed paths professionally with all three of the murder victims, although none had been a close colleague. She hadn’t even met Salinas, just talked to him a couple of times on the phone. But he’d been honest with her and done what he said he would do. A rare and rapidly disappearing commodity these days.
“Who else worked with all of them?” Kurt asked. “Silvio? What does he think?”
“Franco worked with Vega on the arson case, too.” Franco Silvio was Acapulco’s senior police detective and Emilia’s perpetually surly partner. “But he never met Salinas or Espinosa. He wasn’t invited to the meeting, either. None of the other detectives were.”
