by Carmen Amato
As Emilia walked down the familiar corridor leading to the parking lot at the back of the building, she shot the sergeant at the holding cells with her thumb and forefinger, the same as always.
But nothing felt the same.
☼
With a police badge dangling from its lanyard around her neck, the bull pen was an entirely different place. Emilia went in the Officials Only entrance, showed her badge to the wizened man in a bulletproof glass booth and received a nod of acknowledgement that made his oversized prison guard uniform flap around him. A solenoid buzzed, a heavy metal door opened, and Emilia went into the inner processing area where the release papers were collected. A receptionist pointed to a coffee urn and told her Silvio would be brought out in 15 minutes.
The room was stuffy and hectic. Guards passed through and harassed the receptionist. Two different families tried to plead for the release of men who didn’t have enough money to pay their bail. Both families were practically shoved out of the processing area, the women in tears. Emilia’s thoughts hopscotched from Kurt’s nocturnal searches to Rio’s circle man to Loyola’s folder with her name on it. The back of her head itched. Her eye hurt like hell.
It took three hours before Silvio appeared, clad in the same tee and jeans but with his own cross trainers. He carried a small plastic bag containing his phone and wallet.
Silvio jutted his chin in an I’m-all-right motion that made her forget everything else. Neither said anything as they both signed more paperwork. Finally, Emilia led him out to the Suburban.
“Did they make an arrest?” he asked as soon as they were both inside the vehicle.
“No,” Emilia said. “But we’ve got some leads.”
The administrative side of the bull pen complex was enclosed by a wall topped with electrified wire and accessed by a single gate barred by a long horizontal pole. Emilia expected to be asked for the prisoner release receipt she’d been given but the guard merely left his cinderblock hut and leaned on the barrier’s counterweight to raise the pole blocking the exit. He didn’t put much effort into it and the aluminum pole banged against the roof of the Suburban. Emilia didn’t stop; one more dent hardly mattered.
“Got your badge back, I see.” Silvio leaned back against the passenger seat.
“Until Monday. I’m still reassigned.”
Silvio squinted in the rush of sunlight as the prison grounds fell behind. “Find someplace that sells food.”
“Sure,” Emilia replied. She pointed over her shoulder to the back seat. “There’s some clean stuff in that bag for you.”
Silvio pulled out a blue Palacio Réal tee shirt that she’d scooped up in the gift shop on her way out of the hotel.
“I didn’t have time to pick up anything else,” Emilia said apologetically.
Silvio reached over and slid down her sunglasses until they rested on the tip of her nose and she had to look over them to keep her eyes on the road. “That shiner got anything to do with Hollywood’s fist?”
“No,” Emilia said and resettled the sunglasses in their proper place. “Nothing to do with Kurt.”
Silvio unfastened his seat belt and peeled off his grimy tee shirt. Emilia chanced a quick glance. His knuckles were cut and raw and his muscled torso was spotted with bruises, but his body was solid as stone. Biceps and abdominals flexed as he pulled the clean shirt over his head.
“Do you need to see a doctor or anything?” Emilia asked.
“I’ve been in jail, Cruz,” Silvio said. “Not the plague ward. I’m fine.”
“Okay.”
The Palacio Réal tee fit him well. Silvio flipped his old tee into the back seat, and rifled in the glove compartment for Emilia’s phone charger. He plugged in his phone and dug out his wallet.
“What do you know.” There was sarcasm in every syllable. “Not a peso in it.”
Emilia glanced at the open wallet. The prison system was notorious for corruption; the theft of a few pesos was hardly a surprise. “How much did they take?”
“Couple hundred pesos,” Silvio said. “At least my cédula is still here. And my keys.”
“I’m to bring you back to the squadroom to get your badge back,” Emilia informed him. “Loyola wants to brief you, give you back your badge.”
“Does he now,” Silvio said, his voice again laced with sarcasm. “First, you can tell me what you know. With food.”
Emilia muscled the Suburban to the curb in front of an outdoor restaurant on Calle Escudero. White plastic tables, roofed by green cloth umbrellas, formed a semicircle around the place, which was really little more than a food stand. The place was one of Silvio’s favorites and a frequent stop for the duo when work took them to the old part of Acapulco. Patrons were locals, not tourists, and the food was plentiful and cheap.
The specialty was tostadas topped with seafood ceviche. Emilia paid for two melamine platters encased in disposable plastic bags and heaped with crisp tortillas and seafood marinated in lime, tomatoes, and onions. Silvio asked for two Cocas; Emilia bought three bottles of cola for him and a glass of sweetened aqua de jamaica hibiscus tea for herself.
They commandeered one of the small tables and Emilia watched as Silvio wolfed his food. She gingerly chewed one of her tostadas, the black eye twinging with every bite. Halfway through, she gave up and put the remains of her meal on his plate.
Silvio shoveled it down and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. “Leads but no arrest. What the fuck has been going on?”
Emilia clasped her glass of cold agua de jamaica with both hands. “Do you remember a little boy in your neighborhood named Rio?”
Silvio stared at Emilia. “Yeah. Maybe seven, eight years old. He runs with the glue boys. So?”
Having her sunglasses on helped; somehow they were a welcome barrier between what Emilia had to say and Silvio’s intensity. “Did Isabel ever talk about him?”
“Once or twice. She knew all the kids. What are you getting at, Cruz?”
“She gave him a key to the house.”
“No, she didn’t,” Silvio said. It was an automatic response.
The child she never had. Emilia plowed on. “Isabel gave him a key so he could sleep in the garden shed.”
“No,” Silvio said again. “Isabel would never have given a key to the house to some drugged-up kid without telling me.”
Emilia dug out the used tube of glue from her bag and set it on the table. “I found this in your shed yesterday, along with a blanket and a kid’s toy.”
Silvio stared at the tube without speaking. A couple walked by their table and took the next one over, setting laden plates under the green umbrella and laughing over some shared joke.
The neighborhood was nice, with shops lining the streets and a small park behind them. Tinny music from the food stand’s ancient boom box competed with the sounds of traffic and the chatter of passersby.
“You’re telling me,” Silvio said finally. His voice was dangerously low. Intensity had been replaced by incomprehension, a rare look for the big detective. “That this kid had a key so he could sneak in. Isabel arranged it and didn’t tell me.”
“He talked about watching movies in the house after he did jobs for her,” Emilia said. “There are some kid’s DVDs in the living room. Rio knew which ones.”
“I don’t fucking believe this.” Silvio shoved the spent glue tube across the table.
A light breeze fluttered the plastic covering Emilia’s platter and somewhere a bird called to its mate. Emilia looked in the direction of the birdsong but all she saw was blue sky, slow-moving cars, and a line of palm trees shading the street.
“He was special to her, Franco,” Emilia said softly. “His hair’s cut. He’s cleaner than the rest of the kids.”
“Okay.” Silvio swiveled to face Emilia. He was back in control. “Let’s go on the theory that she gave him a key. Did the kid kill her? Is he is custody? Did you at least get the key back?”
Emilia held up a hand for him to stop. “No, he di
dn’t kill her. And no, I didn’t get the key back. Rio sold the key.”
Silvio stared at her. “Who’d he sell it to?”
“I don’t have a name,” Emilia said. “But I think he sold it to someone who had been watching your house enough to know the kid had access.”
“Watching the house?” Silvio repeated. “I’ve got my own halcones in El Roble. Someone would have told me.”
Of course Silvio had his own watchers; they probably reported things to him for a few pesos and his promise of protection. It was an asset she and Macias and Sandor hadn’t taken into account.
“Rio said one thing that might lead somewhere.” Emilia lowered the sunglasses to trace a circle on her forehead. “He said he sold the key to the circle man. That’s how Rio described him.” She repeated the gesture. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Silvio shook his head. “The circle man? No.”
“A ball cap maybe,” Emilia suggested. “Something with a circle logo on it. Macias and Sandor are researching logos. Maybe when you see them, it will ring a bell.”
“Is that all the kid had to say?” Silvio asked.
“When I tried to get more out of him, he tagged me in the eye and I bashed my head into the wall by the gate.”
“The kid gave you the eye?”
“I told you Kurt had nothing to do with it.”
“Was the kid doing glue when he talked to you?” Silvio gestured to his neck.
“Yes,” Emilia admitted. “But he was still able to reason and remember. I think he was telling me the truth.”
“What about the crime scene reports?” Silvio asked. “Prints. Ballistics? Anything?”
“No,” Emilia said. “But at least we know how the killer got in.”
Silvio passed a hand over his face. “I still find it hard to believe that Isabel would have given out a key and not told me. She was a cop’s wife for 20 years. She knew the danger.”
“There is something else,” Emilia said. “Your accounting ledgers are gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“Not in the house,” Emilia said. “Not picked up by the techs for evidence. Your cousin doesn’t have them.”
Silvio leaned back in the cheap white plastic chair and drank deeply from his last bottle of cola. His face got the look of deep concentration Emilia knew well; she could almost see the gears meshing as her partner tried out various connections that would break open the investigation.
“Anyone who wears a ball cap with a logo on it ever bet with you?” Emilia asked. “And lose big?”
“That’s the lead?” Silvio asked. “Our best lead?”
“I think so,” Emilia said.
“Not El Trio?” Silvio asked. “There’s no connection?”
“Doesn’t look like it,” Emilia replied and finished her agua de jamaica.
Silvio stood up. “I’ve got business at the morgue.”
☼
It was late afternoon before they got to the squadroom. Emilia’s head hurt and she was emotionally exhausted.
The trip to the morgue had been unbelievably hard. Silvio insisted on seeing Isabel’s body. Prade pulled out a drawer to reveal a naked gray body rendered clinical by the slices and stitches of a full autopsy. Silvio didn’t react, just stared as if to convince himself Isabel was truly dead. When he nodded, Prade rolled the body back into the freezer. Emilia went to the restroom where she splashed cold water on her face and took an aspirin. Silvio said something about a funeral as they got back into the Suburban. Emilia replied but had no idea what came out of her mouth.
As they’d done with her that morning, Macias and Sandor met them in the entrance.
“Good to see you, Silvio.” Both detectives embraced their colleague.
“Got your car in the back lot,” Sandor said as they made their way to the squadroom. Several uniforms left their desks to shake Silvio’s hand and say they were glad to see him. The holding cell guards left their post to clap him on the back and express condolences.
Everyone stepped carefully around the topic of Silvio’s recent sojourn in the bull pen.
Loyola came out of his office as Silvio and Emilia came into the squadroom with Macias and Sandor.
“Franco,” he said, falsely hearty. He held Silvio’s badge. “Good to see you again.”
In retrospect, Emilia should have expected what happened next. Silvio grabbed Loyola’s outstretched hand, swung him around, and suddenly the acting lieutenant was caught in a wrenching headlock. His mouth opened in a soundless gasp and his wire-framed spectacles flew off his face. Silvio’s badge skittered over the worn linoleum.
“My wife is murdered and you lock me up?” Silvio’s voice was low. “I don’t know who you’re taking orders from, but it ends right now.” He drew Loyola’s head backwards, making the other man emit a hoarse rasp of air.
“Franco, stop!” Emilia shouted.
“Oye,” Macias exclaimed. Sandor raised his voice, too.
“Do you understand me?” Silvio thundered. The muscles in his arms bulged as Loyola flailed against his captor.
“Yes,” Loyola gurgled. “Yes, yes.”
Silvio abruptly shoved Loyola away from him. Loyola cannoned into Emilia’s desk and saved himself from a bad fall by clutching the edge.
Emilia picked up Loyola’s glasses and held them out. The air in the squadroom crackled with anger and electricity.
Loyola replaced his glasses on his nose with a trembling hand. He coughed a couple of times and cleared his throat. “Okay, Franco,” he said. “I know you’re pissed and maybe you have a right to be. But people are still killing each other in Acapulco and we have work to do. We need you.”
“Like you needed me at the beginning of the week?” Silvio was still close to Loyola, his menace real and immediate.
Loyola was so shaky that Emilia almost felt sorry for him. “Macias and Sandor are handling Isabel’s murder investigation,” the acting lieutenant said. “They’ll brief you on the latest developments.”
Emilia held out Silvio’s badge, trying to think of something to diffuse the tension in the room. “Franco. Look―.”
“Take the weekend to get your feet under yourself again,” Loyola said to Silvio, not paying any attention to Emilia. He adjusted his glasses again and sidled around Silvio towards his office. “We’ll see you on Monday and forget today’s unpleasantness.”
“You’re a fucking pendejo, Loyola,” Silvio said in disgust. “Who told you to get me out of the way, eh? I know you didn’t think it up on your own.”
Loyola spread his hands. “Look, Franco. We had to play by the book on this one.”
“The book?” Silvio roared. “Whose fucking book are you talking about?”
“I’m sorry about Isabel,” Loyola flung back. “But no forced entry, no robbery. You know as well as I do that the husband is the prime suspect every time.”
It was the wrong thing to have said. Silvio’s fist connected with Loyola’s face, lifting the slimmer man off the ground and disintegrating his glasses before Loyola crashed to the floor, tumbling against Emilia’s desk on his way down. The impact rocked the furniture enough to knock the coffee mug off Silvio’s adjacent desk. It shattered on the floor, spraying coffee scum and sharp shards against everyone’s feet.
“Look, Silvio,” Loyola croaked as he struggled to his feet, blood streaming from his nose. “Don’t think―.”
Then Silvio was at him, hands buried in Loyola’s shirt collar. Loyola’s feet bicycled ineffectually as Silvio’s momentum carried them across the room to culminate in a heavyweight’s body blow. Loyola doubled up, snot and saliva dripping down his chin. Silvio landed another punch to the ribs, next an uppercut to the jaw that sounded like a crack of thunder. Loyola’s eyes bugged as he smashed against the murder board. The pictures of the three homicide victims fluttered off the wall.
It took the combined efforts of Emilia, Macias, and Sandor to peel Silvio off Loyola. Silvio shrugged off the detectives an
d jabbed a finger in front of Loyola’s nose. “Don’t wet yourself, Loyola,” Silvio snarled. “You’re not worth killing. This was just a little farewell present from me to you.”
Still leaning against the wall, Loyola’s chin and shirt front were red from the blood steaming from his nose. “You know how the system works,” he wheezed.
“Fuck the system.” Silvio looked around the room, his gaze sweeping over the scarred floor, dented metal desks, the half-destroyed murder board, his fellow detectives. “Consider this my resignation.”
“No,” Emilia heard herself protest.
Silvio turned to Macias and Sandor standing in shock next to Emilia. “Do what you think you need to do,” he growled. “Just don’t get in my way.”
He walked out, leaving them all stunned, as if the room had been struck by a swift and violent tornado.
Loyola raised a hand to his lip and it came away bloody. He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. “Well,” he said faintly. His eyes rolled back in his head.
“Jesu Cristo,” Macias said.
With Silvio’s badge still clutched in her hand, Emilia ran out of the squadroom.
She headed to the rear of the building near the holding cells, knowing that Silvio would look for his truck. The sergeant who’d been on duty Tuesday afternoon was there and nodded his head at the hallway leading to the exit.
Silvio was almost to the door. Emilia skidded to a halt and blocked his way. “Franco, take it,” Emilia began, holding out his badge to him. “You need it. This isn’t the time to make hasty―.”
“Move it, Cruz.” He made no move to take the shield. “I know what I’m doing. I had a week to do nothing but think.”
“Thinking in a place like that doesn’t count,” Emilia said. “We should―.”
“Get out of my way, Cruz,” Silvio ordered.
“No,” Emilia said. “You didn’t tell me―.”
Silvio reached around her and shoved open the door. Emilia was propelled backwards into the parking lot still clutching his badge as he strode between the rows of cars toward the impound section. “Franco, please,” Emilia said. “This isn’t fair. You can’t just walk out on me like this.”
