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

by Carmen Amato

  The Palacio Réal was part of an exclusive gated community built into the cliff face below the highway. From the huge privada gate, a steep cobblestone road led down to the water, the only means of access for a few dozen private villas, a luxury condominium building, and the hotel at the bottom.

  Emilia yawned as they reached the turnoff.

  “Almost home,” Kurt said. The guard swung open the privada gate and the SUV bounced onto the cobblestones.

  Just beyond the first curve, Kurt’s headlights picked out a red reflection on the opposite side of the road. He slowed and Emilia saw a car half hidden in the foliage. The car was parked at an angle, although well off the road. They passed and Emilia realized the rear driver’s side door was ajar.

  “This does not look right,” Emilia said.

  “Hold on,” Kurt said.

  He spun the vehicle and started back the other way, coming to a halt behind the parked car. Emilia snatched her gun out of her shoulder bag while Kurt found a flashlight in the glove compartment.

  The night air was still as Emilia approached the rear of the vehicle, guided by Kurt’s steady beam. She used the muzzle of her gun to fully open the door. There was nothing in the back seat. There was no sound or movement, only the coppery smell of blood.

  “Hold the light higher,” Emilia said.

  Kurt lifted the beam and she heard him swear in English. Emilia rose up on her toes to see over the front seat.

  A man in an Acapulco police uniform was behind the wheel but slumped over, his bloody head resting on the passenger side.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Emilia said, more to herself than Kurt.

  ☼

  It took 25 minutes for a patrol car to arrive, followed shortly by the crime scene techs and a body wagon from the morgue. Ibarra pulled in behind the tech van, his clunker belching exhaust.

  Ignoring Kurt, Ibarra nodded at Emilia as he pulled out his phone, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Did you call in the placas?” he asked her.

  “Yes.” Emilia held up her own phone to signal that she’d called Dispatch with the license plate numbers. “Still waiting for them to call back.”

  The crime scene techs set up a noisy diesel generator. Mounted on tripods, two big searchlights emitted an electronic whine as they stabbed the darkness. The army arrived and took charge of the privada gate. Ibarra introduced himself to the commander as the police officer in charge and snapped out orders to keep the press away from the crime scene. Emilia didn’t say anything else, just waited with Kurt beyond the reach of the searchlights.

  Finally the team from the morgue eased the body out of the car and laid it on a gurney.

  “Another cop,” Ibarra said to no one in particular.

  Emilia wished she had a sweater; she was shivering despite the warm night air. The private road leading to the Palacio Réal was not like the public parking areas where Salinas, Vega, and Espinosa had been found. It was no coincidence that the body was there. The El Trio killer had left his latest victim as a message for her.

  The senior crime scene tech walked over to Ibarra. “Male victim. Probably mid-40s. Been dead awhile. Shot three times but not in the car.”

  “They wanted it to look like the El Trio killings,” Emilia suggested.

  The tech shrugged. “Looks that way. You want to try for a visual?”

  Led by the tech, Emilia and Ibarra stepped inside the funnel of light. Kurt hung back, arms folded, hip resting on the fender of his SUV.

  Emilia found herself looking down on the body of a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and a thick waist. He’d been shot in the head, execution style, like the El Trio victims. A dark stain across the front of his uniform blouse revealed two more wounds near the center of his chest. The body smelled of old blood and feces. Emilia was strongly reminded of the disgusting mass of flies infesting Silvio’s house.

  Ibarra took a last drag on what was left of his filterless cigarette, then flicked it away. A red glow arced through the air before disappearing into the night. “Look familiar to you, Cruz?”

  Emilia realized she was hugging herself so hard her elbows hurt from the fingers digging into them. “He’s familiar, but I can’t place him,” she said.

  “It’s Hernandez,” Ibarra said. “Chief of Ballistics.”

  Chapter 12

  El Cuarto, the headlines screamed the next morning. The fourth victim of a killer targeting law enforcement! Another execution! How can Acapulco’s law enforcement officers defend us if they can’t defend themselves?

  The gory details of Hernandez’s death followed, along with an official photo of the late ballistics expert. There was no shot from the crime scene. To fill space and entice readers, the murders of Salinas, Vega, and Espinosa were rehashed with lurid delight.

  Thankfully, the media had already forgotten Isabel and her death was not mentioned. It was old news. After all, someone was killed in El Roble at least once a week.

  Emilia compulsively bought every paper she could find before starting off for the Las Palomas office building. Someone had murdered Hernandez to ensure that a whitewashed ballistics report ended up in the official case file on Isabel’s murder.

  Who else knew about the original report besides Loyola? Who knew she’d taken the file folder?

  Those questions had Emilia up at dawn. She reread the ballistics reports on the deaths of Vega and Isabel before hiding them inside waxed paper in the freezer of the penthouse, under a container of something Jacques had left. Wearing a look of grim determination, Kurt wished her luck in the new job and left the penthouse early for a meeting with his chief of security. There should be closed circuit camera coverage of the spot where Hernandez’s vehicle had been found. The deep intimacy she and Kurt shared at La Luna was gone, replaced by tension and urgency.

  Emilia’s nerves were stretched thin as she drove, once again constantly checking her rearview mirror.

  The address Claudia provided turned out to be a modern glass and steel affair on Avenida Almendros, a wide but short street studded with office buildings in Acapulco’s posh commercial district. That hardly seemed right for a police unit and Emilia continued past.

  The Torre Metropolitano skyscraper loomed ahead. The structure was complete now, but Emilia could not suppress a shiver. She’d been shot on top of the half-constructed building and only the hand of the Virgin had kept her from falling to her death.

  The GPS told Emilia to turn around. Once around the block and the metallic voice said once again that she’d arrived. Emilia showed her police badge to the guard at the entrance to the lot but he asked to see her cédula. She waited while he consulted a clipboard and was mildly surprised when he handed her a laminated pass and pointed to the front row of parking spaces. As Emilia pulled in she saw a sign proclaiming that the space was reserved for the City of Acapulco.

  The lot in front of the building could hold at least 30 cars and there was a sign for underground parking, too. Yet there were only three cars in the lot, including her white Suburban.

  She checked her watch. It was 8:15 am. Claudia’s text said to report at 9:00 am. Las Palomas apparently wasn’t an early riser.

  Time for a little reconnaissance. Emilia grabbed her shoulder bag, the jacket to her dependable gray pantsuit, and headed into the world of police fantasy.

  She found herself in a soaring two story foyer, the spacious effect amplified by the creamy limestone floor’s herringbone pattern. A steel and glass stairway rose to her immediate left while a gallery wall showcased half a dozen abstract oil paintings. The bright slashes of blue and magenta were taller than Emilia.

  The dramatic space was devoid of receptionist or furniture save for a narrow leather and chrome bench and a man-sized saguaro cactus in a silvery pot.

  The herringbone floor pointed to the far wall, which was a dramatic panel of tinted glass. As Emilia approached, she saw that the wall was in fact two sets of doors leading to a patio dotted with umbrella tables, dark woo
d chairs, and more plants in shiny pots.

  Claudia had instructed Emilia to go to the second floor but she still had plenty of time to explore. Emilia wandered past the oil paintings, her footfalls amplified by the pale stone. The gallery wall ended in a long white corridor. To the right, Emilia found two darkened office suites and a set of restrooms.

  Whatever business was conducted by Consolidated Solutions and Vector Analytics, it wasn’t done in the morning. Glass doors revealed reception areas in both office suites. They were both outfitted with a tall counter in the middle presiding over space for waiting clients complete with water cooler, plush chairs, and a coffee table with a flower arrangement. In each suite, the company name and logo hung on a sign mounted behind the counter.

  The corridor ended in a stairway to the underground parking garage. Emilia retraced her steps, passed the foyer and found another office suite. The layout was the same; reception counter, client seating area, and a sign proclaiming Soledo Enterprises. The lights were off; no one was there.

  Twenty meters past the Soledo Enterprises suite, Emilia came across a door labelled “Gymnasium.” She pushed it open, flicked on a light switch, and was rewarded with a the sight of a fully outfitted gym. Brand new weight machines, a rack of free weights next to a bench, two rows of treadmills, floor mats for stretching and wrestling, even a heavy bag suspended from the ceiling and a speed bag bolted to the wall.

  The job wouldn’t be a total loss.

  Emilia heard the rattle of pans and someone talking; the first human sounds in the so-far deserted building. She quickened her steps, her heels tapping, and found a small restaurant. The building’s address was etched on the glass door. The place was at once dramatic and comfortable, with oil paintings and the building’s signature limestone floor tempered by rustic Mexican pine furniture.

  “Can I help you?”

  An older man in a maroon uniform shirt and pants smiled at Emilia from behind the tall steel-topped serving counter. He was quickly joined by two women in the same uniform.

  “An omelet, perhaps, señora?” the man inquired. “A fresh omelet with queso and jamón? Or maybe a fruit plate? We have mango, papaya, piña.” He turned to one of the women. “Delores, show the señora how fresh the mango is.”

  Emilia held up her hand. All three were a little too excited to have a customer. “Thank you,” she said. “Just a coffee, please.”

  “Cappuccino, latte, café Americano?”

  “A latte, please.”

  Her order galvanized all three into action. After much ceremony, Emilia left the café with a piping hot latte and new friends in the form of Esteban, the owner, and his wife and daughter.

  She went back to the foyer and climbed the airy staircase. It led to a mezzanine. Emilia walked the length of it and found two doors, both with a discreet label that read “City of Acapulco.” Both were locked.

  Emilia continued up to the third floor. It was a mirror image of the second, with doors labelled “Building Services.” Those doors were locked as well.

  Back in the soaring foyer, Emilia sat on the bench and sipped her latte. She didn’t have long to wait. Promptly at 9:00 am, half a dozen women walked in, Claudia Sanchez at the center of the gaggle. She wore a suit similar to the one she’d had on the day Emilia met her; a navy affair with brass buttons like a sea captain’s blazer cut down to size. The salon-perfect hair was curled as artfully as before and her nails gleamed with lavender polish.

  “Detective Cruz!” Claudia caroled, the corner of her mouth lifted in a knowing smile. “Right on time.”

  Emilia stood, feeling dull in her gray pants and jacket, her hair scraped back and secured with a rubber band. It was the same outfit she’d worn to the mayor’s breakfast and it coordinated nicely with the fading black eye.

  She’d lost the first round already.

  “Good to see you again, Claudia,” she said.

  Introductions were made. The four women were administrative assistants for one thing or another. Emilia quickly got the impression that at Las Palomas, titles were more important than names.

  “We have a busy day ahead and I want you to get settled in quickly,” Claudia said. She led the way up the staircase, her minions trailing behind. Her stiletto heels clacked against the steel stairs. “It’s a shame you weren’t available last week.”

  “I was investigating a murder last week,” Emilia said.

  “Of course,” Claudia said, without changing her buoyant tone. “We have a deadline set by the mayor and the chief of police. Things simply have to get done.”

  Claudia swiped a card against a key reader, a low tone sounded, and the glass door released. The administrative assistant for liaison activities pulled it open and they all filed into a reception area.

  The space looked so new that it hurt Emilia’s eyes. Every surface reflected, whether it was glass, steel, or glossy paint. White walls gleamed like crystal.

  “Our administrative assistant for customer service sits here,” Claudia said, waving a hand to indicate a large lacquer desk and pale gray upholstered chairs clustered around a marble coffee table “Of course we still need artwork.”

  “Of course,” Emilia said, looking around. This wasn’t a police department office; it was a picture from one of the hospitality trade magazines Kurt left lying around.

  “Emilia.” Claudia cocked her head to one side. Despite her breezy demeanor, her lower lip trembled with nerves. “Paola will be your administrative assistant for operations. She can get you situated in your office. Your first meeting is in the conference room at noon.”

  “Fine,” Emilia said.

  A girl, presumably Paola, detached herself from the gaggle around Claudia. She was stamped out of the same mold, in a severe business suit and platform heels. Emilia was sure they’d get along great.

  Paola led her down a gleaming white hallway, the brightness accentuated by modern chrome sconces. Claudia’s office was right next door, Paola explained, and the administrative assistants were across the hall. She stopped by a simple black nameplate reading “Emilia Cruz Encinos, Chief of Operations.”

  The office was the size of the entire detectives squadroom.

  A picture window overlooked the patio with its bright umbrellas and dark wooden chairs. The desk was even bigger than Kurt’s desk in his office downstairs in the Palacio Réal’s administrative offices and that was as big as a cruise ship. Emilia ran her hand along the shiny gray lacquer, which matched the desk in the reception area. Two gray upholstered chairs fronted the desk while another two flanked a console that resembled a silver torpedo. Built-in shelves ran the length of the wall behind the desk.

  “You’ll be wanting some artwork,” Paola said.

  The rest of the Las Palomas office suite was just as impressive. There were easily a dozen private offices and a large staff area with 20 cubicles. The place also boasted a coffee bar, two bathrooms, a conference room, and a work room with printers and a copier. Everything looked brand new, from the color copier to the espresso machine.

  The rest of the morning passed swiftly. Emilia received a keycard on a lanyard so she could open the doors. Next came a briefing by the administrative assistant for information technology, after which Emilia was shown how to access the new Las Palomas network.

  She logged on easily but couldn’t navigate to any familiar database. “How do we access the police intranet?” Emilia asked.

  “What police intranet?” the girl asked.

  “This is an Acapulco police unit,” Emilia said. “We have to be tied into the network.”

  The girl shrugged. “Don’t worry. We’re on a commercial server so it’s blazing fast.”

  “I’m not talking about speed,” Emilia said. Apparently all the Las Palomas network allowed her to do was access the open internet. Even the unit’s information was stored in folders hosted by a commercial service. “We have to be tied into the main police network in order to do background searches and find arrest records. Be connected
to Dispatch and the radio network.”

  The girl gaped as if Emilia had suddenly started speaking a different language. “No one’s told me anything like that.”

  Emilia opened her notebook and began a list.

  At noon, Paola brought her to the conference room. It was as magnificent as the rest of the office space, with a giant lacquered table topped with a rose-colored bowl the size of a small car. The chairs were upholstered in mauve leather. More chrome wall sconces and views of a grassy courtyard completed the modern and impersonal effect.

  The room was packed with people Emilia remembered from the meeting in Carlota’s office. Public relations types. A few men from Chief Salazar’s office.

  Victor Obregon Sosa.

  The corner of his mouth lifted when he saw Emilia. “How nice to see you again,” he said. “Detective.” He lingered over the last word, letting her know that it was now merely an honorific.

  Emilia didn’t speak as Claudia sat at the head of the table, her every word and manner copied straight out of Carlota’s playbook. The first item on the agenda was the Las Palomas logo and the public relations people had several for them to choose from. The debate ranged on for an hour, while Emilia thought about finding Hernandez dead in his car, if Loyola could be the El Trio killer, and what Silvio was doing right now. Talking to Rio to find out more about the circle man? Or prowling a house that stank of blood and feasting flies?

  The meeting droned on. Emilia was grateful she’d brought her notebook and a pen. She flipped open to the timeline of the El Trio murders she’d made on the weekend and added last night’s events. If nothing else, Hernandez’s murder meant she could cross out the half-baked theory that the El Trio killer was a woman killing old lovers.

  “Emilia, do you have a preference?”

  She jerked up her head to see Claudia looking at her expectantly. “For what?” Emilia asked.