by Carmen Amato
The autopsy seemed to go on forever. Prade’s voice was detached and clinical. “No sign of struggle. Nothing under the victim’s fingernails. No bruising anywhere on the body.”
Emilia scribbled his words into her notebook. “Rape?” she asked faintly.
It took some time before Prade answered. “She was not the victim of rape.”
Emilia let out her breath.
When Prade was done he came over to Emilia as she sat clutching her notebook. His assistant took over the job of sewing up the body before placing it in a temperature-controlled drawer. Isabel was luckier than the bodies from the bull pen prison. Those would remain stacked in their body bags for who knew how long. The morgue’s army of char women mopped constantly.
“Let me buy you a cup of coffee, Detective,” Prade said, taking off his mask.
Emilia took off her own mask, too. It was damp with tears.
☼
“Did Silvio ever talk about his wife’s illness?” Prade asked. He stirred sugar into his cup.
“Illness?” Emilia echoed. “What illness?”
“So I take it the answer is no.” Prade sipped coffee. “She had advanced endometriosis with severe uterine fibroids and scarring. She’d probably had multiple miscarriages with at least one dilation and curettage procedure that left her with excessive scar tissue.”
“No.” Emilia found herself cringing inwardly. “He never mentioned anything about that, only that she’d had miscarriages.”
“She likely experienced excessive bleeding on a regular basis,” Prade said. “Lived with a great deal of pain. She was also extremely anemic, which is a side effect of the bleeding. The bloodwork from the autopsy will take a day or two, but I don’t need tests to see that.”
“Is that why they never had children?”
“Without a doubt.” Prade shook his head sadly. “She should have had a hysterectomy long ago.”
The coffee shop was a few blocks from the morgue and the short walk had helped to clear Emilia’s head. She hadn’t expected the autopsy to be so traumatic. Thankfully, she had been there alone, without Macias or Sandor. Or Silvio himself.
The coffee was dark and strong and for the second time that day, Emilia was downing it as fast as her cup was refilled. “Did you autopsy any of the El Trio victims?” she asked.
Prade stopped with his cup halfway to his lips. “You think there is a connection between the El Trio killer and Silvio’s wife?”
“It’s possible the killer came for Silvio and got Isabel by mistake,” Emilia said.
“A fourth El Trio killing?”
“Yes.”
“A great leap of logic,” Prade warned. “Given the number of fatal shootings in this city every week and the El Roble neighborhood in particular.”
“Still,” Emilia said. “There’s a coincidence here I can’t ignore. I worked with all of them. Salinas, Vega, Espinosa. And Silvio.”
Prade put the cup back in the saucer. “They were all senior officers. No doubt they worked with many other law enforcement officers over the course of their careers. You shouldn’t read too much into it, Emilia.”
“Still,” Emilia said leadingly as she pulled out her notebook. “We are going to look at everything and anything.”
“All right.” Prade nodded. “I did the autopsy for Captain Vega. None of the others were autopsied in Acapulco.”
“Why not? They all died here, didn’t they?”
“Salinas’s family refused to allow an autopsy. Espinosa’s murder was handled by the federales. They have their own medical examiners.”
“That’s right,” Emilia said. “Espinosa introduced me to two of them when we worked that case in Gallo Pinto. They said they knew you.” She flipped to a new page in her notebook. “Okay. About the Vega autopsy. Did anything stand out?”
“Captain Vega was killed by two shots from a large caliber handgun,” Prade said. “Either were fatal. One pierced his left ventricle and the other was an execution-style shot to the head. There was nothing more than that. No sign of a struggle, no bruising, nothing. He was an extremely fit man, probably a runner.”
“No struggle. The same as Isabel.”
“That isn’t much of a connection.”
“Shots from a large caliber handgun at close range,” Emilia went on. “Another similarity.”
Prade leaned back. “Most shootings in Acapulco are with a large caliber handgun. Domestic killings aren’t rare in this town, either.”
Emilia put down her pen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Prade raised his hands. “I’m a great admirer of Franco Silvio’s professional skills. But are you so sure he didn’t kill his wife? Their physical relationship couldn’t have been very satisfying for him and he’s a bad tempered man at the best of times.”
“No.” Emilia laughed, no doubt from rising hysteria rather than humor. “Silvio can be a jerk, but he didn’t kill her.”
Prade swirled the coffee around in his cup. “Are you forgetting his past?”
“The unending scandal,” Emilia said. “The death of Manuel Garcia Diaz.”
Of course, it was inevitable that someone would connect the death of Silvio’s past partner with Isabel, but Emilia hoped it stayed out of the news. After all, Garcia died long ago, when Emilia was a uniformed cop pounding the pavement in a bulletproof vest, herding drunks off Acapulco’s scenic Costera Miguel Alemán and chasing kids who jumped the turnstiles at the CICI Water Park.
“Silvio was cleared,” Prade admitted. “But many people still think he killed Garcia.”
“Why?” Emilia asked.
“The rumors,” Prade said simply. “If there was no basis in fact, they would have died down by now. Whoever is keeping them alive probably knows the truth.”
Emilia felt a little sick. “Do you really think he killed his own partner?”
“Garcia was also killed with a large caliber weapon at close range,” Prade said.
Emilia closed her notebook. The pleasant taste of coffee was now sour in her mouth. “That’s the way everybody dies in Acapulco.”
Chapter 4
The squadroom was quiet when she got back. The Ball Busters, along with Castro, Gomez, and Ibarra, still combed El Roble. The hotline phones were silent. The uniforms in the corner drank coffee and chatted in low voices.
Emilia felt a ridiculous spurt of resentment at the young uniformed officer occupying Silvio’s desk chair. He was still clicking through old case files and hadn’t found anything significant while she was gone.
Macias handed Emilia a printout.
It was the preliminary crime scene report. The techs did a thorough job at Silvio’s house but found nothing. All the gates, doors, and windows were locked and there was no sign of forced entry. No finger prints other than those of Silvio and his wife on door knobs or window latches. The house was surrounded by a 10-foot wall topped with razor wire. The wire was in good shape with no signs of sagging or breaks.
The living room had been disturbed. The other rooms appeared tidy and normal. The television and DVD player were there, as was a radio in the kitchen. The house contained no other major electronics or personal electronic devices. Some pieces of gold and silver jewelry were still in the victim’s bedroom, along with a cell phone and a handbag containing wallet, keys, and some cosmetics.
Emilia put down the report and went over to the murder board. Sandor had already written out the obvious questions.
“How did the shooter get in?” Emilia read loud.
“Either the shooter had a key or was already in the house before Silvio left,” Sandor said.
“Or she let them in,” Emilia said.
“Dressed like that?” Sandor tapped the picture of Isabel’s body in its blood-soaked white nightgown.
Emilia nodded. “Maybe it was someone who pretended to need help. Isabel might have let in someone if she thought it was an emergency.”
“Good point.” Sandor scribbled on the board.
&nb
sp; “Did Silvio give you anything?” Emilia asked.
“Nothing new.” Macias joined them in front of the wall of gory pictures and unanswered questions. “You wouldn’t believe the crowds at his cousin’s house. A parade of people with food and holy cards.”
“I told you, everybody in El Roble knew her,” Emilia said. “She fed all the homeless kids.”
“This is garbage.” Loyola was suddenly at Emilia’s shoulder, waving a copy of the same crime scene report she’d just read. “What are we paying these pendejos to do? Sit on their asses?” He looked at Emilia. “You got anything else from the autopsy?”
“No, just what I called in. Isabel was shot from below. The shooter was likely at the foot of the stairs as she came down. Prade will have his full report for us in the morning.”
“Fuck, fuck, we got nothing.” Loyola’s face was red with either anger or frustration. “The story is already online. The saint of El Roble gunned down in her own home. Just like we predicted.”
“Tied in to El Trio?” Macias asked.
“Not yet.” Loyola stomped back into his office and slammed the door.
“And no calls asking to join efforts with any of the other El Trio investigations,” Macias said softly.
Emilia went back to her desk, powered up her computer, and the time flew by. She and the young uniform at Silvio’s desk set aside the cases she had worked on with the three El Trio victims. Emilia knew them by heart but reread each, hoping against hope that there was a detail related to Silvio that she’d overlooked.
Salinas, the first El Trio victim, had been her contact at the state’s attorney general’s office on the El Pharaoh casino money laundering case. Silvio had led the raid that closed the casino but she’d done the liaison work. As far as Emilia knew, the two men had never spoken.
An arson case brought Silvio into contact with Vega, the arrogant captain from Chief Salazar’s office. Vega had taken over the case and Silvio briefed him. There was no collaboration or coordination afterwards.
There was no link at all between Silvio and the case involving Espinosa, the third El Trio victim. Silvio didn’t work that case and never met Espinosa. Emilia knew little about the federale officer and his law enforcement career other than the investigation into a killing field she’d stumbled upon.
Out of everything connected to El Trio victims, Silvio was most involved in the El Pharaoh casino case. Indeed, Silvio had led the raid on the casino, Emilia by his side. They seized evidence and closed the casino, sure that it was doing a roaring trade in money laundering for drug cartels.
Key documents went missing, however, before being properly logged into police custody. Fellow detectives Castro and Gomez were thought to be responsible for the loss of evidence, but like so many other things, were never held accountable. The El Pharaoh reopened and was more popular now than ever before.
Emilia got up and made a fresh pot of coffee. Macias and Sandor got access to the traffic camera database. A fresh team came to manage the hotline and had nothing to do.
The lines on her computer screen blurred. Emilia sat back and closed her eyes and tried to make sense of the last 24 hours. This time yesterday she was worried about making a good impression on the members of the Acapulco Hotel Association. Those concerns seemed so irrelevant now.
The chatter of the uniforms staffing the silent hotline grated on her nerves. Emilia pulled out the envelope with Yolanda Lata’s cell phone record and gave it to the loudest. “Please run traces on all the numbers in this log,” she instructed him. “Incoming and outgoing. I need everything you can find.”
Ibarra arrived an hour later. Emilia jumped to her feet, as did Macias and Sandor, a silent question on all faces. Ibarra was a stocky chain-smoking bachelor who smelled like a chimney and lately sported a cotton duster from an Australian clothing store, making him look like a Latino gnome who got lost in the outback. He rarely spoke to Emilia. Unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, he spread his hands to indicate they were empty after hours knocking on doors in El Roble. He disappeared inside Loyola’s office.
One of the Ball Buster sergeants came in. Again, all the detectives rose to their feet. He shook his head. “Nothing so far.” He stayed in Loyola’s office for five minutes and left. Ibarra stayed inside with the acting lieutenant.
Macias and Sandor took a break from watching camera footage and fetched pizza. Emilia brewed another pot of coffee.
She’d lost track of time when the hotline uniform brought back the printout of Yolanda Lata’s cell phone records, plus a neatly typed note summarizing his findings.
Emilia’s heart sank. “That’s all?”
“Yes, señora.”
“Detective,” Emilia corrected him.
“What?”
“Never mind.” Emilia was too tired to give him a lesson in how to deal with superior officers who were female. Not that he was likely to encounter many.
Two of the four numbers the late Yolanda Lata had called or texted were no longer in service and there was no information on either. A third number belonged to the beauty school that Emilia knew was run by Yolanda’s husband. The fourth number was a cell phone that was in service but registered to the president of Mexico.
“We checked and rechecked,” the uniform said. “That’s the name associated with the number.”
Emilia nodded. Cell phone registration was mandatory but easily gamed. She’d heard that at last count over 100 cell phone numbers were registered to the president. “Let me try the number.”
The outgoing hotline connection was untraceable so Emilia dialed the number from that workstation. A warbling male voice answered with “Digame.” Emilia hung up without speaking. The distinctive voice on the other end was that of Chavito, a pimp for whom Yolanda had worked off and on for years. Chavito had already told her all he knew about the late hooker and her missing daughter, Lila. Once again, Lila’s trail had evaporated.
Emilia went back to her desk and to the tedium of the old case files.
There were no cameras close to Silvio’s house and it was pointless to keep reviewing the feeds. Macias and Sandor left. Eventually Loyola and Ibarra left, too.
At midnight, the uniform at Silvio’s desk asked if he could go home. Emilia let him leave. She gathered up her shoulder bag and stumbled out after him.
Fatigue heightened the fear that had shadowed her for too long. Four people murdered and she’d known them all. The El Trio killer was picking off law enforcement officers who were all connected by some invisible thread that she should be able to see. Except that she was too stupid.
Driving back to the Palacio Réal so late at night was nerve-wracking. Everything was a potential death trap; a light in her rearview, a deserted intersection. She ran three red lights and drove the Carretera Escénica like a Formula One racer, spinning the heavy Suburban without warning off the highway and into the turnoff for the Palacio Réal. She almost rammed the privada gate leading to the cliffside development.
Her hands shook as she gave the vehicle keys to the hotel valet and punched the button for the elevator. Kurt woke up when she came into the bedroom. He might have said something but Emilia was asleep before her head hit the pillow.
Chapter 5
The sense of urgency in the squadroom was just as intense on Tuesday. Teams were back on the streets in El Roble, running down leads about unfamiliar cars and bar talk between drinkers who’d bet on the Copa America match. Loyola’s phone rang constantly. In between calls he barked out orders that he was the only one to speak about the Isabel de Silvio case to either the press or Chief Salazar’s office.
Current cases were put on hold, at least for the next two days. Dispatch sent over details of overnight shootings and Ibarra was tasked with getting the cases transferred to another unit. Emilia overheard the holding cell desk sergeant say that the Acapulco police could be called upon to investigate the deaths at the bull pen prison. With any luck, that sordid mess would be handled by Chief Salazar�
�s office.
Emilia and the same young uniform started on the cases Silvio had handled with Garcia.
It didn’t take long before Emilia realized that they couldn’t access older files stored in an archive system. It took her two hours and three cups of coffee to get access, only to have it freeze when she put in a search term.
The door to the lieutenant’s office crashed open. Loyola tore through the squadroom, struggling into a suit jacket as he went, and disappeared without speaking to anyone.
Emilia caught Sandor’s eye over the top of her computer monitor. He shrugged.
At noon the system administrator told Emilia that some files were corrupted and the system was basically unusable, despite the millions of pesos spent on transferring files into its new state-of-the art database.
The alternative was to go over to the central administration building and request the paper files from the Records department.
The young uniform went off to get some lunch. Emilia sat at her desk and took out the food she’d brought from the hotel. Jacques would probably be appalled if he knew she was eating his balsamic roasted vegetable ravioli with a plastic fork.
Loyola walked into the squadroom, walking appreciably slower than when he’d left. He had a file folder in one hand and a crumpled handkerchief in the other. He looked at Macias and Sandor. “You two.” The file folder fluttered in Emilia’s direction. “Cruz. My office. Now.”
Once they were all assembled, he took off his jacket, sat behind his desk, and plied the handkerchief across his forehead. Loyola appeared to have aged 10 years in two hours.
“What’s going on?” Emilia asked.
“We got Silvio’s phone records,” Loyola said. He rested his free hand on the file folder. “Home and cell for both him and the wife.”
“They had a stalker,” Macias said immediately.
“No,” Loyola said. “Where were you Sunday night, Cruz?”
“At Silvio’s,” Emilia said. “The crime scene, remember? Same as all of you. Until sunrise.”
