King Peso: An Emilia Cruz Novel (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 4)

by Carmen Amato

  Evening shadows stretched across the room as Emilia made a timeline of El Trio events. Javier Salinas Arroliza from the state’s attorney general’s office had been the first victim. The lawyer had been found in his car, dead from two shots to the head, execution style. The car was parked on a quiet side street about a block from a favorite restaurant near Playa Hornitos. He’d reportedly eaten there alone that night. One website displayed a photo of Salinas’s car. The driver’s side window was so splattered with blood it was completely red.

  The news reports she found about Vega’s murder corroborated the report in the folder. Police captain Helio Vega Corona had been killed in his car after dining out. There was no picture of Vega’s car. Vega left behind a wife and two children.

  The third victim was federale Juan Carlos Espinosa, who died six days after Vega. The officer had been killed in a parking lot near Playa Bonfil, a rustic beach that catered to surfers. It was 45 minutes south of Acapulco. Espinosa had been found in his car by a pair of early morning joggers staying at the nearby Bonfil condo complex. Espinosa was survived by his ex-wife and four children.

  Emilia stared for a long time at pictures of Espinosa; an official portrait in uniform in front of the Mexican flag, and a grainier photo of a body held upright by a seat belt with the back of its head blown off. He’d been one of the few federales with integrity and didn’t deserve to have this be his memorial.

  Each of the victims had been in their cars and behind the wheel when they’d been killed. The cars were parked and the ignition was off. No doors found open, no windows smashed, no bullet holes suggesting a drive-by shooting. Each had been armed, yet their weapon had not been drawn or taken by the killer.

  The obvious answer was that the killer was in the car with each one. Not a random carjacker, but someone they’d all known and been friendly enough to sit with for a chat. There had been an element of trust between victim and killer.

  Three law enforcement officials. Three men executed in their cars. Emilia circled the dates in her timeline; she’d find out what Loyola had been doing each night in question.

  If Silvio was to be the fourth victim, there had to be reason why the same method wasn’t used. Why had the killer gone to Silvio’s house instead of killing him in a car like the others? A home invasion in El Roble had to be much riskier. The killer had to surveille the house, looking for a weak spot. Which he found in the form of a glue boy named Rio.

  The logical answer was that the killer simply didn’t know Silvio as well as the others. That ruled out Loyola; he certainly knew Silvio well enough to be in a car with him.

  Maybe Loyola wasn’t the killer. But another law enforcement official was the likeliest type to know all of the El Trio victims. Loyola had even said it could be her.

  Did the circle man wear a cap with a police emblem? If so, the only cops bold—or dumb—enough to wear a police emblem when out of uniform were the Ball Busters.

  Emilia got up and stretched, surprised to see the night sky beyond the sliding glass doors to the balcony. The room was dark, except for the square of light projected by the computer screen. Kurt was late. The thought made her uneasy.

  She drifted onto the balcony. Below her, the Pasodoble Bar was busy. The happy sounds of a steel drum band floated up. Couples danced on the beach while waiters in the hotel’s trademark blue floral shirts served specialty cocktails.

  As Emilia went back to the desk to shut down the computer, she realized there was another possible answer. Each of the El Trio victims was killed near a restaurant or a beach. Places the men might have taken a date.

  Maybe a woman was killing her lovers. Or men who had rejected her.

  On one hand, it meant that Emilia herself wouldn’t be a target.

  On the other hand, however, it meant that Silvio knew the killer. She was suddenly glad she hadn’t called to tell him of the connection between the murders of Isabel and Vega.

  Emilia slumped into the desk chair in front of the computer. She’d believed Silvio when he said he hadn’t cheated but maybe the whole drama at the police station was a front because he knew something and didn’t want to answer any more questions.

  As she examined the theory, Emilia imagined a scenario in which Silvio and the woman were no longer on speaking terms. An execution in the car like the others was impossible. So the woman hired someone to find a way into Silvio’s house. Perhaps Silvio’s ledgers had been stolen simply to make the home invasion look like a burglary. But why those ledgers when so many more valuable and obvious things could be taken?

  It was a workable theory, except for the fact that Emilia believed Silvio when he said he never cheated on his wife.

  The phone rang, scaring a small scream out of her. Emilia took a deep breath before answering.

  “Bueno?”

  “Em, we’re downstairs in the bar,” Kurt said. “Come celebrate.”

  “Celebrate?” Emilia echoed. “Did you win?”

  “Yes,” Kurt said. “Jacques is opening the champagne now.”

  “Give me five minutes,” Emilia said.

  She threw on a dress and sandals and met him in the Pasodoble. They toasted Jacques, who’d finished six minutes after Kurt. The two men were tired but went over the race in detail, until Emilia imagined herself on the beach at the finish line, shouting herself hoarse.

  Make the time count, Silvio had said.

  Chapter 11

  “Emilia,” her mother reproved her. “Did you get in a fight at school?”

  “I work now, Mama, remember?” Emilia said impatiently. The black eye had faded since Rio’s punch three days ago, but there was still an impressive purple half-moon above her cheekbone that no amount of makeup could hide.

  “Of course,” Sophia said. “I don’t like to see you bruised like that. You play too rough.”

  “It was an accident,” Emilia said, knowing it was hopeless to argue. “But it’s fine.”

  “How are you, señora?” Kurt stepped out of the church pew and kissed Sophia on the cheek. “It’s good to see you and Ernesto again.”

  “Mama, you remember Kurt—er, Carlos,” Emilia said.

  “Carlos.” Sophia’s face broke into one of her vaguely happy smiles as if she had received a gift but didn’t know what it was. “You’re Emilia’s friend from school.”

  Kurt shook hands with Ernesto, who trailed his wife as they all walked toward the open door at the back of the church. Ernesto and Sophia had been married nearly three months, yet the itinerant knife grinder remained a broken soul. Sophia had found him wandering the neighborhood market and brought him home. His name, Ernesto Cruz, was the same as the husband Sophia lost when Emilia was a toddler. The loss had prompted the nervous breakdown which left Sophia in her own version of reality. Emilia still didn’t know if her mother understood that this Ernesto was not the man she’d married as a teen.

  Sophia prattled on to Kurt about people he didn’t know and Emilia took a last look at the altar. Sunday Mass at San Juan de los Pinos and the social hour afterwards was one of the sacrifices of her move to the Palacio Réal. The church was no longer convenient. Besides, Kurt wasn’t Catholic and Emilia found herself forgoing Sunday Mass to be with him on the one day of the week neither of them worked. He came with her from time to time, however, treating the experience as a social experiment. But for Emilia, visiting the little church now was a sweet sharp pain.

  Padre Ricardo, by the steps in his threadbare vestments, greeted parishioners as they left the church and made for the garden. He beamed as Emilia and Kurt followed Sophia and Ernesto, the last to leave.

  “So nice to see you again, Señor Rucker,” Padre Ricardo said.

  “And you, Padre.” Kurt smiled and shook hands with the priest. “A rousing sermon.”

  They talked for a few minutes before Emilia drew the priest aside. “Padre, do you have a moment?”

  “Of course,” he said. “Here or shall we go inside?”

  “I need to talk to Berta,” Emilia
said. “And I’d rather not do it alone.”

  “You found her granddaughter?” Padre Ricardo asked. “Is it bad news?”

  “No.” Emilia raised her hands in resignation then let them drop. “I don’t think I’m going to find her.”

  “Is she dead?” Padre Ricardo had brought the missing teen to Emilia’s attention and she knew he wanted a happy ending as much as she did.

  “Not that I know,” Emilia said. “I simply don’t have anywhere else to look. It’s only fair to tell Berta.” She heard the desperation in her voice.

  Padre Ricardo frowned. “That’s not like you, Emilia. You always seem to find a way. I often think of you as indefatigable.” He cocked his head to one side. “Were you in an accident?”

  Emilia pulled her sunglasses off the top of her head and settled them on her nose to hide the fading black eye. “In a way,” she grimaced. “I was questioning a little boy and he hit me.”

  “Just how little was he?”

  “Too little,” Emilia said sadly. “And scared.”

  Padre Ricardo shook his head. “Things seem to get worse every day. My prayers are with you.”

  Emilia tilted her head in the direction of the refreshments table on the far side of the church garden, where a stern-faced woman in a dark brown dress filled paper cups with coffee for thirsty churchgoers. “Best to get it over with sooner than later.”

  Padre Ricardo nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

  Parishioners stood in happy groups around the garden, adults drinking coffee while children played noisily, fueled by a Sunday treat of limonada and store-bought cookies. Padre Ricardo and Emilia threaded their way through to the table and the woman attending to the refreshments.

  “Berta,” Padre Ricardo said. “Thank you for volunteering again this week.”

  “I haven’t anything else to do, Padre,” Berta sniffed. “But you know that.”

  “Emilia has come to talk to us about Lila,” Padre Ricardo said gently. “Perhaps we could go sit inside the church. Anyone who wants more coffee can help themselves.”

  Berta’s eyes narrowed at Emilia but she moved around the side of the table and grabbed a scarred leather handbag off a nearby folding chair. Padre Ricardo took her elbow to guide her across the lawn. Their progress was slowed by people seeking to chat with the priest. Each time, he begged their pardon and said he’d be back shortly.

  Emilia stopped to tell Kurt she was going inside for a few minutes.

  “Sure,” he said, with a sideways glance at Sophia. “Take your time.”

  “Just a few minutes,” Emilia said and squeezed his arm. He was the only gringo there, tall and blonde, standing out in a linen guayabera shirt and starched khaki pants. “I promise.”

  Emilia followed Berta and Padre Ricardo to the church and turned to look before she went in. She felt vaguely guilty for abandoning Kurt to the challenge of making small talk by himself with her mother and Ernesto but he didn’t seem to mind; Kurt was in command of any situation; be it the fanciest restaurant or the lowliest barrio crowd. He caught her eye as he said something that made Sophia laugh, and winked the same way he’d done that night in the penthouse. Her heart clenched and Emilia winked back.

  She went into the church just as Berta and Padre Ricardo sat down in the last pew. Padre Ricardo took Berta’s hand. “Nothing bad has happened,” the priest said. “Emilia just wants to talk.”

  “I want to tell you that I’ve been looking, but I don’t have any new information about Lila, Berta,” Emilia began. “The best thing I can say is that there isn’t any evidence that Lila is dead. But there isn’t any evidence that she is alive, either. The fact is I don’t have anything at all.”

  “But you were looking,” Berta looked from Emilia to Padre Ricardo.

  “I was but I’ve hit a dead end,” Emilia said. “There’s nothing new to tell you, no more leads to follow. I thought her mother Yolanda’s phone would be helpful but it wasn’t.”

  “Yolanda,” Berta scoffed. “You see? I always said no good would come of that skank. And I was right.”

  Emilia swallowed hard. “Lila’s been gone nearly eight months now, Berta. The odds are not good we’ll ever find her. I’m sorry.”

  “All you gave me was fancy talk about that no good Yolanda,” Berta sniffed. “But I don’t need you no more. Lila wrote me a letter. She’s fine. She got herself a job. Sent me 200 pesos, too. Not like that worthless mother of hers.”

  “You got a letter from Lila,” Emilia gasped. “That’s wonderful.”

  Berta opened her big purse and took out a scrap of paper. It was half of a photograph, with a torn and ragged edge. In a pink tank top and skinny jeans, Lila Jimenez Lata smiled into the camera, her china doll features and short black hair immediately recognizable. A male hand was at her waist but the rest of him was undoubtedly in the missing half of the photo.

  Lila stood in front of a wrought iron fence. There was a yellow stucco building in the background, with a grassy area bordered by tall red canna lilies. A corner of the building was visible and shone with something smooth and gold, like part of a sign affixed to the stucco.

  “Where is she?” Emilia asked. “Did the letter say where she is?”

  Berta bristled. “She didn’t say, just that she has friends and a job.”

  “How did you get the letter, Berta?” Emilia pressed. “Did you have to go to the post office to get it? Was it delivered to the house by a messenger?”

  “She sent me 200 pesos, more than her mother ever made,” Berta snapped. “And you ask me about the envelope? Her father would be proud, God rest his soul.”

  Emilia swallowed back a retort. “Berta, would you mind if I made a copy of the picture?”

  “Use the printer in the sacristy, Emilia,” Padre Ricardo said.

  Berta looked reluctant to surrender the photo but Emilia plucked it out of her fingers and ran into the church.

  ☼

  “So just the picture,” Kurt said.

  “Berta seemed much more impressed with the fact that the girl sent her money than with trying to find her.” Emilia handed it to him. “Where do you think it was taken?”

  Kurt took off his sunglasses to study the image. Next to him on the doublewide chaise lounge, Emilia sipped her mojito and watched him. His ocean-colored eyes filled with concentration and he absently rubbed his cheek with his knuckles.

  The breeze off the waves rustled the palm fronds roofing their palapa. After church they’d driven to La Luna, the new five star resort on the far side of Playa Revolcadero. They both needed to relax, Kurt had declared, and he wanted to check out the competition. To Emilia’s surprise, he’d reserved one of the secluded and thatched cabanas for the entire afternoon, so far out on the beach they were chauffeured in a dune buggy. The cost was probably more than she made in six months but would hardly put a dent in Kurt’s wallet. She knew he made a preposterous amount of money and had minimal expenses. The penthouse came with the job, as did meals.

  “I’m not going to be very helpful.” Kurt handed back the photo. “I don’t recognize the building. It might not even be in Acapulco. For all you know, she could be in the Bahamas.”

  “No, I think she’s alive and well and still in Acapulco.” Emilia stuck the photo in her bag. “If I didn’t have to start this stupid job tomorrow I could look for the building. How many buildings in Acapulco have a shiny gold sign?”

  “I don’t know.” Kurt grinned. “On another topic, your new boss is going to be mighty impressed with your eye.”

  “I’ve been directed into this job.” Emilia gingerly touched her eye. “They can hardly complain if I’m not what they expected. At least that stupid Claudia stopped texting me.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Kurt said.

  Emilia laughed. For the first time in a week, she relaxed. Silvio was out of the bull pen, and Loyola got what he deserved. She wouldn’t have to see Castro and Gomez any time soon. Lila wasn’t dead.

  It was a better day
than most.

  The red and white fabric walls of the cabana were pulled back and tied to the stanchions supporting the thatched roof. Their chaise faced the shore. The sky was royal blue lacquer above a restless ocean. They’d already had a swim, gently wrestling each other through the waves.

  Kurt rolled onto his side and pressed up against her. “I’m thinking of an appetizer before dinner.”

  “Here?” Emilia felt her cheeks get warm.

  “Here,” Kurt murmured.

  There was no dishonesty in his eyes. Emilia could lose herself in those eyes, in his arms, in the way he made her feel. The suspicions she’d poured out to Mercedes now seemed ludicrous.

  Kurt tied the canvas walls of the cabana in place and they made love on the chaise as the breeze sighed through the fabric. Kurt was an intense and powerful lover and like so many other times, he left her gasping for air but stronger than before. Healed, renewed, and exhausted.

  Emilia felt the sweat dry on her bare skin as they lay together afterwards. Shadows crept up on the cabana walls as they listened to the unseen surf and the rustle of the thatch.

  Kurt hoisted Emilia to her feet for another dip in the ocean. As tendrils of extravagant color portended another gorgeous sunset, a fleet of waiters catered dinner to the cabana, making Emilia feel like slightly sandy royalty.

  Late in the evening, they headed home to the Palacio Réal, driving west on the Carretera Escénica. The road was a ribbon of tarmac carved from the face of the cliff, two dark lanes without guardrails or a safety net amid a dramatic scene of mountain curves and glittering ocean.