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

by Carmen Amato

  “This makes up for a lot,” Mercedes sighed.

  The string quartet ended the concert to a smattering of applause. Darkness closed in, replacing the brilliant colors of the sunset with a purple veil pierced with stars. Spectators left the tiered benches and filed into the aisles leading up to the parking lot. Emilia and Mercedes made their way to the closest aisle, anticipating a slow walk behind those from the upper tiers.

  Mercedes suddenly clutched Emilia’s arm. “Lila had a knapsack like that. Do you see it? It’s pink.”

  Several steps above them, Emilia saw a female figure with a bob haircut, denim jacket, and pink cartoon knapsack. The girl’s back was to them as she climbed the steps surrounded by others making their way out of the amphitheater.

  “Madre de Dios,” Emilia gasped. “It’s her. It’s Lila.”

  She bolted up the steps, focused on the distinctive haircut and the pink knapsack. People protested as she shoved them aside, forcing herself through the throng until she could reach the knapsack. Emilia got a hand on the slippery fabric and pulled, forcing the owner to spin backwards. A scream stabbed the tranquil night air, followed by shouting.

  Emilia found herself looking at a woman considerably older than herself. She had a narrow face framed by obviously dyed hair. “Leave me alone, leave me alone,” the woman shrieked and threw up a hand as if to ward off danger. A little girl grabbed the woman by the leg and cried for help.

  Before Emilia could apologize, a burly man slammed a hand into her chest. The force of the blow sent Emilia sprawling backwards into the crowd coming up the aisle. Shouts of panic echoed against stone as people fell. Emilia ended up in a thrashing tangle of arms and legs.

  “Run, run,” the burly man yelled. “Run!” He scooped up the child and pulled the woman with the knapsack up the steps, knocking over more people.

  “Run!” The word careened around the amphitheater.

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia gasped, trying to pick herself up. “I thought she was someone else.”

  Her words were blotted out by a rush of sheer terror. What had been a peaceful evening at an iconic spot turned into a panicked stampede to escape a funnel and the unknown violence it contained. Emilia crossed her arms over her head to protect herself as frightened people clambered over her to gain the aisle. She crashed against the base of a stone bench and her right arm blazed with pain from the old gunshot wound.

  Suddenly it was over, leaving a handful of dazed people. Shouts and footfalls of those thundering to the parking lot slowly died away. A few seagulls flapped to a stop near the top row of the amphitheater and pecked at the trash scattered behind. Someone laughed nervously.

  Emilia levered herself onto a bench and sucked in air, trying to still her heart. Mercedes stood two rows below, scanning the upper tiers. Emilia waved to get her attention.

  The dancer rushed up the aisle. “I saw you go down and I didn’t know what happened,” Mercedes exclaimed. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so,” Emilia said. Her right arm was killing her. Her dress was torn and dirty. The buckle on her sandal was broken. “It wasn’t Lila.”

  “I saw,” Mercedes said. She sat next to Emilia.

  “I’ll never find her,” Emilia said miserably. “Or any of the others.”

  “Don’t say that,” Mercedes protested.

  “My entire life has unraveled,” Emilia gulped. “My job is taking photos for tourists and getting drunks back to their hotels. I’ll never be a detective again and who knows what Silvio is going to do with his life. He hates me and thinks I was a terrible partner. He actually said that. All I wanted to do was help him find out who killed Isabel. Now he hates me.”

  “Emilia, don’t say that,” Mercedes said.

  Emilia couldn’t stop the tears if she wanted to. “Here I was so worried that I was a disaster as a girlfriend and that Kurt would break up with me. But he’s a pendejo in disguise. Did you hear what Jacques said? I’d never play a trick on Kurt like that. Like a child is a trick.”

  It all came crashing down. Emilia sobbed because Kurt wasn’t the man she knew after all. For the loss of her detective status, the hurt of Silvio’s words, and the feeling that she was wasting her time in the Las Palomas office. For each of the more than 40 women in the Las Perdidas binder.

  She cried out of fear, too. The El Trio killer was out there, watching her. He’d killed five people and warned that her turn was coming. She had collected a few scraps of information but in her heart Emilia knew she wasn’t good enough to catch him first.

  After all, she was a shit detective, just like Silvio said.

  Mercedes grabbed her hand. Emilia hung on as if she’d never let go. The pressure of her friend’s fingers was the only thing preventing Emilia from flinging herself off the stone ledge at the bottom of the amphitheater. Plunging into the ocean and letting the water take her to the bottom. Her bones could sink into the silt, erasing the existence of a woman stupid enough to think she mattered.

  The two women were alone in the dark amphitheater but for a few couples taking advantage of the relative privacy created by the sky’s endless arch of royal purple. The ocean surged over and over.

  Mercedes’s grip was a lifeline. It carried a message for Emilia, telling her that tomorrow she’d be able to pick up the pieces and go on.

  Telling her that she wasn’t alone.

  Chapter 22

  Emilia and Mercedes were having coffee in the dance studio the next morning when Prade rang with good news. The medical examiner’s federale counterpart had agreed to meet with them at the Universidad Autónoma de Guerrero, where he taught forensic science. UAGro, as the university was called, had several facilities across the state. Doctor Enrique Furtado’s office was in the main campus in Chilpancingo northeast of Acapulco.

  Emilia left a message for Paola in the Las Palomas office, picked up Prade at the morgue, and drove to Chilpancingo along the wide Carretera Federal 95 highway. They made small talk as the Suburban ate up the miles and Prade was pleased to hear that Emilia was still hunting for Lila. Prade had performed the autopsy on Lila’s mother, discovering a lethal dose in the body that helped Emilia break a drug trafficking operation.

  The large university campus was easy to find and their identification got them through the huge gates set beside the school’s shield emblazoned on a blue background. The guard gave Emilia directions where to park and how to find Furtado’s office. As they walked into the main building, the rounded steps and gleaming white architecture promised things Emilia didn’t have: money, higher education, and professional respect. Last night’s mood was still with her.

  Furtado was expecting them. He met them at the door to his office, where Prade introduced Emilia.

  The office was a small, windowless, and claustrophobic room lined on three sides with wooden shelves, all bowing under the weight of thick hardbound books, stacks of glass trays, jars of fluids and jumbled piles of papers and laboratory notebooks. Emilia pulled in her elbows to avoid knocking into any of the precarious cargo, as she edged past to the wooden chair Furtado offered. Once seated, she found herself inches away from a jar of eyeballs floating in a cloudy solution. Coffee-flavored bile seared the back of her throat and she fought it down.

  “Enrique,” Prade began. “As I said on the phone, this is a private conversation. Detective Cruz worked with Captain Espinosa and needs some closure regarding his death.”

  Furtado nodded. He was younger and slimmer than Prade but carried the same professional exhaustion. When Emilia met him during the investigation with Espinosa into a killing field on the Costa Chica coast south of Acapulco, the doctor was a pair of eyes above a surgical mask and gown, orchestrating the recovery of body parts. Now he was the examiner who’d done the autopsy of Captain Espinosa.

  “You’ll safeguard any information I give you, Detective Cruz?” Furtado said.

  “Yes, of course,” Emilia said.

  “This is extremely important.” Furtado placed his hands
flat on the desk and leaned in. “I can’t overemphasize the need for discretion.”

  How many times had Emilia heard that lately? “I fully understand,” she said.

  Furtado’s narrow shoulders drooped. “Captain Espinosa’s death was not murder,” he said. “The poor man shot himself.”

  “But everybody knows he was the third El Trio victim,” Emilia protested. “Same pattern. Shot in his parked car.”

  Furtado shook his head sadly. “It was suicide. He left a handwritten note for his ex-wife in the glove compartment.”

  “Why let everyone think he was murdered?” Emilia exclaimed.

  “It served a purpose,” Furtado said. He had large eyes ringed with circles and deepened by his grim expression. “Captain Espinosa was in a unique position to manipulate evidence for a case the federales were prosecuting and was, shall we say, encouraged to do so. When he refused, one of his sons was kidnapped.”

  The eyeballs in the jar stared at Emilia accusingly, as if she should have known. They seemed closer than before.

  “Madre de Dios,” Prade murmured.

  Furtado went on. “The boy’s body was discovered the day before Captain Espinosa killed himself. The note to his ex-wife said it was to protect the other children.”

  It was stuffy in the office, the air thick with dust and death. Emilia could barely breathe. It took a moment for her to find her voice. “Why hide the fact that it was suicide?” she asked.

  “The investigation into his murder is ongoing,” Furtado said carefully.

  “Did he deliberately stage his death to look like a murder?” Prade asked.

  Furtado didn’t reply.

  Emilia looked from one medical examiner to the other as the eyeballs silently taunted her. The suspicious reaction of Espinosa’s boss, Captain Torres, now made sense.

  “His note named names,” she guessed. “With enough creative thinking, the federales will be able to get someone for his murder. And the murder of his son.”

  “I can’t overemphasize the need for discretion,” Furtado said.

  ☼

  Both Emilia and Prade were silent as the Suburban rumbled along the highway.

  “You’re very quiet,” Prade said finally.

  “What happened to Captain Espinosa was awful,” Emilia said.

  “But does it help to know?”

  “Yes. I guess so.” Emilia felt sick at what Espinosa—and his family—had suffered. The cruelty of Mexico’s drug war violence, and the choices it drove, was crushing the life out of the country. She almost wished that he had been murdered by the El Trio killer; it would be easier to accept.

  Espinosa’s suicide subtracted one victim from the El Trio scorecard. That left the killer responsible for the deaths of Salinas, Vega, Isabel, and Hernandez.

  Out of the four victims, Emilia only knew why Hernandez had been killed. The reason for Isabel’s death remained especially murky. Even if the killer had intended to kill Silvio and not Isabel, what was the motive?

  As they passed the exit for Tierra Colorada, Emilia thought back to Dario Delgado’s account of the quarrel between Salinas and Vega, possibly over money, the week before Salinas was murdered. Maybe money was the key, as it was in so many other cases she’d encountered as a detective. Her efforts so far had been scattered, what with everything else she was juggling, but maybe now she should focus on financial transactions. Of course, without the authority of a formal police investigation, her chances of finding out anything were slim to none.

  “You were wrong, you know,” Emilia said. Tucked into the corner of the big front seat, Prade wore half moon reading glasses, a trademark plaid shirt, and a rumpled sports coat that had been in fashion during the Mexican Revolution. He was a medical examiner and a friend but certainly not a fashion icon.

  “A common occurrence,” Prade replied.

  “You thought it was possible that Silvio killed his wife.”

  “Ah, you are correct,” Prade said. “I was unduly influenced by his political enemies.”

  “He’s still got the personality of a gorilla,” Emilia said.

  Her cell phone was on the console between the two seats. It rang and Emilia glanced at the display. It was her contact at Missing Persons.

  “Could you get that?” Emilia asked Prade and told him who it was.

  Prade answered the phone. The conversation was brief. He thanked the caller and replaced the phone on the console. “No one named Lila Jimenez Lata is employed at the El Pharaoh casino, Emilia,” he said. “Missing Persons has no time for further inquiries.”

  Emilia bit her lip to keep from crying. It was all too much. Hunting for Lila, suspecting Kurt, the echo of Silvio’s words, the constant fear of the unseen El Trio killer, Claudia nattering in the background.

  She’d fallen apart last night at the Sinfonia. Today was no better.

  ☼

  Kurt called that night as Emilia sat on the sofa in the penthouse living room, staring at some norteamericano police drama on television. In one hour, the tall thin lady detective and the rich handsome writer always solved the most perplexing crime. Later they danced around the issue of whether or not to have sex. They were never hopeless or overwhelmed.

  “I miss you,” Kurt said. He sounded happy and sexy and wholly normal, as if he’d never keep secrets from her.

  “You’re not missing much,” Emilia replied. “I’m not good company right now.”

  “Work?” Kurt asked.

  “A lot of things.” Emilia wasn’t going to gossip over the phone about desperate suicides or El Trio murders or missing girls.

  Or abandoned children. They had to talk face-to-face so she could see the lie in his eyes if he tried to deny it.

  “Have you seen Silvio lately?” Kurt asked.

  “No,” Emilia said.

  “Claudia making you crazy?”

  “No.”

  Silence stretched across the miles between Las Vegas and Acapulco.

  “Did I call at a bad time?” Kurt asked.

  “Kind of,” Emilia said.

  He told her when he’d be home and the call ended. Emilia eventually fell asleep on the sofa in front of the television, her face wet with tears.

  Chapter 23

  Emilia came into her office the next morning to see Rosalita sitting behind the desk. The former hooker was in uniform with the Las Perdidas binder open in front of her.

  “What are you doing?” Emilia demanded.

  Rosalita looked up. “What happened to all these women?”

  “I’m looking for them,” Emilia said. “Why are you in here?”

  “I . . . I.” Rosalita sniffed hard. “I’m sorry. I came in to ask if Tina Maria was in trouble for what happened yesterday. Or if I was.”

  “And thought you’d sit down at my desk and look through my things?”

  Rosalita closed the binder and covered her face with her hands. “My daughter is in your book,” she choked out.

  “Oh.” All the air went out of Emilia.

  She dumped her shoulder bag on the console, closed the office door, and waited.

  Rosalita swiped at her eyes and gave a shaky cough. “She was 13. One night she vanished.”

  “Show me,” Emilia said.

  Rosalita reopened the binder. “I filed a report but no one cared that some hooker’s kid was gone,” she said bitterly. “Probably thought she was a hooker, too.”

  Leaning over the desk, Emilia scanned the entry for Rosalita’s daughter. The first and last piece of information was a standard Missing Persons report over two years old.

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia said. “I don’t have any leads on her. But I’m always looking in police reports and the news. Plus, I have friends on the street. In the morgue. They tell me if they hear anything.”

  “And this is where you keep it all.”

  “Yes. If I get anything else, I’ll tell you.”

  Rosalita sniffed. “At least she’s not forgotten. You’re a detective and you’re still
looking for her. That’s more hope than I had an hour ago.”

  “That’s why you wanted this job, isn’t it?” Emilia asked. It explained everything, including the close relationship with Tina Maria. So clearly in need of a mother herself, the youngest patrol officer was nearly the same age as the lost daughter.

  “I thought maybe the police had information they weren’t sharing,” Rosalita admitted.

  “No,” Emilia said. “I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll quit Las Palomas.”

  “I won’t,” Rosalita said. “If you’ll let me help. Is there someone you’re searching for right now? What can I do?”

  Emilia straightened up. Sometimes gifts came when least expected. “Did you ever work the El Pharaoh casino?” she asked.

  “Once or twice,” Rosalita said warily. “Why?”

  ☼

  Two women are hookers waiting for business, Rosalita had said, whereas four women are out to have fun. Emilia had to admit the logic of what she’d said and so Natividad and Tina Maria were there, too. All four were dressed for an evening out. Rosalita had on a slinky red dress that was going to attract more attention than they needed, while Natividad and Tina Maria both wore skinny jeans, heels, and strapless tops. Emilia found a dress and high heels, glad Kurt wasn’t there to ask where she was going.

  She gave each woman Lila Jimenez Lata’s background story and a picture, piled them into the Suburban, and prayed that Tina Maria’s false cédula would fool the doorman at the El Pharaoh.

  It did and now they were at a table for four in the bar. Tina Maria’s eyes were as big as saucers. Every man in the place noticed Rosalita.

  The casino was big, noisy, and crowded. Waiters and waitresses were dressed as ancient Egyptians. Costumes leaned heavily on metallic leather, imitation gold, gladiator sandals, and jeweled collars extending beyond their shoulders. Emilia’s senses were assaulted by blaring pop music, incessant electronic bleeping and ring tones from hundreds of slot machines, and a circus of visuals inputs including blinking lights and wide screen televisions broadcasting Copa America highlights.