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

by Carmen Amato

  Emilia ordered a mojito and looked around. The first and last time she had been in the El Pharaoh casino was with a detective badge around her neck and a warrant in her hand. She remembered telling Kurt that Silvio had walked into the place as if he owned it and had the doors shuttered ten minutes later. Of course, it had all been for nothing, thanks to those idiots Castro and Gomez.

  A costumed waitress with an elaborate headdress served their drinks. All of the croupiers, security staff, and money counters were male, as were the bartenders. If Lila worked there, she was either a server, kitchen staff, or part of the cleaning crew. Or a hooker trolling for business.

  Slot machines lined the perimeter of the bar. Bells went off and lights flashed as a couple cheered their win. Noisy onlookers joined in.

  Tina Maria was agog. Rosalita looked at home. Natividad grinned at Emilia. “Shall we circulate or stay here?”

  “Let’s take turns circulating,” Emilia said. “In pairs. Leave your glass on the table so the sharks know the seat is taken.”

  “I see some familiar faces,” Rosalita said. “Tina Maria, let’s go over there.” She indicated a horseshoe-shaped lounge area for smokers.”

  Tina Maria obediently got up. “Can I take my drink?”

  “I’ll take mine, too,” Rosalita said. They’d both ordered non-alcoholic cocktails.

  Rosalita and Tina Maria left, serious about their reconnaissance mission.

  Natividad swiveled her chair. “Lila isn’t at the bar,” she said after a minute.

  “Not a waitress, either,” said Emilia.

  Excited bar chatter competed with English-language pop music. Three large screen televisions mounted above the bar formed a panorama of sports events, each with their own soundtrack.

  “Madre de Dios,” Emilia said. “This place is so loud I can barely hear myself think.”

  “You work a lot,” Natividad said.

  “What?”

  Natividad leaned closer. “What else do you do besides work?”

  “Besides work?” Emilia repeated.

  “Yes.”

  Emilia shook her head. “I’m very one dimensional,” she said and they both laughed.

  They talked as they watched the flow of people through the bar, Lila’s photo on the table between them.

  “You know,” Natividad said at one point. “We could give all the patrol officers pictures of this Lila. You’d have a lot luck with all of Las Palomas looking.”

  Rosalita and Tina Maria returned after a few minutes. Rosalita shook her head. “No one knew her,” she said.

  “I was just saying,” Natividad said, as Tina Maria and Rosalita sat down. “We should give copies of this picture to all the Las Palomas officers.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea,” Tina Maria said.

  “What about the others?” Rosalita was quick to ask.

  “Others?” Natividad queried, looking from Emilia to Rosalita.

  Emilia nodded. “Lila is one of about 40 women currently missing in Acapulco.”

  “She has a binder of all the missing women,” Rosalita said.

  “Rosalita’s daughter is one of them,” Tina Marias added.

  “What if we made playing cards with their pictures and details?” Natividad asked. “Officers would use them as reference and even hand them out if we made enough.”

  It was a good idea, but Emilia knew Claudia would never go for it. “First things first,” she said lightly.

  She and Natividad strolled out of the bar, ignoring several lingering glances.

  Below lurid murals of a Mexican version of ancient Egypt, endless rows of slot machines advertised Double Diamond Sweepstakes and Hot Tamale Hot Cash. Flashing lights and rolling symbols called attention to directions in both English and Spanish. Bet twice and triple your winnings! Players sat on tall stools in front of the machines and punched blinking buttons or pulled a lever. The machines emitted a collective orchestra of electronic tones and clunking cogs. An occasional dingdingding and flashing red lights, along with excited squeals, indicated a winner. No coins tumbled out, however; everything was recorded on the casino’s version of a debit card.

  The area devoted to slot machines was a maze, no doubt designed to trap gamblers in front of all the excitement and promises of easy money. Emilia wasn’t immune. She paused in front of a Double Diamond machine. Images of jeweled rings tumbled behind the glass display; rubies, sapphires, and the occasional lucky diamond horseshoe.

  “You didn’t say anything about my idea,” Natividad said.

  Emilia turned away from the hypnotic machine and its empty promises. “About making playing cards to find missing women?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought it was brilliant,” Emilia admitted as they strolled on. “But Claudia will never go for it.”

  “Why not?”

  Emilia didn’t want to trash their boss to a subordinate. “She’s focused on image,” she said carefully. “The role of Las Palomas is to project a very positive image of Acapulco.”

  “What if it was her idea?”

  “How would you do that?”

  Natividad shrugged. “I’ll think of something. After all, I’m the assistant chief of operations.”

  Emilia laughed.

  They passed a couple squabbling over how many bets to place at once. “New gamblers,” Natividad observed. “Probably still believe the odds are in their favor.”

  “Lila isn’t here,” Emilia said after their second circuit of the slot machine labyrinth.

  “Why not just ask the management?”

  “I was hoping to avoid that,” Emilia said. “The casino doesn’t have a great relationship with official Acapulco.”

  “Look, roulette,” Natividad said. “Let’s watch.”

  They drifted over to the table and watched the wheel spin. Half a dozen gamblers leaned over the side, hands drumming nervously on the felt or stacking colored squares of plastic embossed with the El Pharaoh logo. Emilia didn’t know the denominations of the colored chips and was startled when one man pushed four chips into play and announced “Twenty thousand pesos on black.”

  The El Pharaoh was too rich for her blood.

  “Over there,” Natividad whispered. “Isn’t that the man from the union?”

  It was Obregon, in one of his trademark black suits complete with black shirt and tie, coming out of a doorway marked “Employees Only.” Through the open door, Emilia saw a long hallway with thick carpeting.

  Obregon was accompanied by a jowly man with oiled curls swept back from a high forehead. Obregon’s usual security detail wasn’t around as the two men approached the opposite side of the roulette table.

  The other man wore a navy blazer with the El Pharaoh logo embroidered on the breast pocket. His white shirt was open at the throat, the better to show off a thick gold chain. A white silk square bloomed out of his breast pocket, drawing attention to the logo. He was older and stockier than Obregon, and everything about him screamed ostentatious wealth.

  The conversation between the two men paused as the El Pharaoh blazer consulted a heavy gold watch. Obregon looked around and saw Emilia. It was as if radar had directed his gaze straight at her.

  “Shit,” Emilia hissed under her breath.

  The two men approached, the gamblers at the roulette table quickly moving to the side to make room. “Well, Detective Cruz,” Obregon drawled. “Where is the heroic Señor Rucker this evening?”

  Emilia managed a half smile as Natividad stared. “This evening is for Las Palomas,” she said. “Celebrating our new badges.”

  Obregon gave her one of his predatory smiles before turning it on Natividad. “We haven’t been introduced.”

  The four exchanged names. The jowly man was Pedro Duarte Ochoa, the owner of the El Pharaoh and their host. Emilia managed a smile as Duarte Ochoa fawned over her hand. Many of the high rollers must be regulars and knew him, which explained why gamblers had quickly made room for him at the roulette table.

&nb
sp; “Are you here to play roulette, Detective Cruz?” Duarte Ochoa asked. “You don’t have any chips.”

  “No,” Emilia said. “Just the slots.”

  Obregon licked his lips. “Detective Cruz is always a player,” he said. “Whether she admits it or not.”

  Duarte Ochoa laughed and snapped his fingers. Out of nowhere, a young man in a King Tut costume appeared. He opened a small wooden box and offered it to the casino owner. Duarte Ochoa took out a blue chip embossed with the golden logo of the casino. Five thousand pesos. Nearly a month’s salary for Emilia. Double that for Natividad.

  Emilia’s gaze travelled from the chip to King Tut. Despite the costume, which included a jeweled headdress covering his forehead, she recognized Felipe Garcia. The long hair flowed over his bare shoulders and the high cheekbones were on full display.

  The sporting goods store wasn’t doing so well after all. It was too bad that Felipe had to moonlight at the El Pharaoh.

  She flashed him a smile of recognition but he didn’t acknowledge her. Emilia wasn’t offended; Felipe probably had to stay in character. Duarte Ochoa dismissed him with a wave and the costumed King Tut went back to his pyramid. The casino owner held the chip between his second and third fingers as if toying with it. “Red or black, Detective Cruz?”

  She certainly wasn’t picking Obregon’s favorite color. “Red,” she said.

  Duarte Ochoa put the chip on the felted table. The croupier announced that bets were closed and spun the wheel. The clatter of the ball bouncing inside the wheel was louder than the grinding pop music.

  “Red wins,” the croupier announced.

  Duarte Ochoa smiled broadly as the croupier raked a combination of colored chips to his designated spot on the table. “Do we let it ride, Detective?” he asked Emilia.

  Obregon lounged against the table, watching her with that hawkish expression on his face that always made her so nervous. If he suddenly sprouted wings and talons, Emilia would not be surprised.

  “It’s your money,” she said.

  Duarte Ochoa let it ride.

  “Red wins,” the croupier announced again.

  Another bet was placed, the wheel spun, and Duarte Ochoa won a third time. The pile in front of him grew. Emilia counted at least a dozen blue chips and an equal amount of red and yellow. A year’s salary.

  “If we win on red again, we’ll share it four ways,” Duarte Ochoa said. “With champagne.”

  Natividad dug her fingers into Emilia’s arm.

  The wheel spun again, the ball bouncing and clattering until finally settling into a numbered slot.

  “Black wins,” the croupier announced.

  “Que lastima,” Duarte Ochoa said as the croupier raked away all his chips. “When you are a gambler you know that tomorrow the odds will be better. I hope you ladies are not disappointed.”

  Obregon let his gaze linger on Emilia. “Don’t worry about Detective Cruz, Duarte. She knows that sometimes you win.” He licked his lips. “And sometimes you lose.”

  It had been a strange encounter and Emilia had had enough. “We’ll say good night, gentlemen,” she said hastily. “We have a celebration to rejoin.”

  She didn’t wait for either protests or pleasantries but steered Natividad towards the bar.

  “Why didn’t you ask them if Lila Jimenez Lata worked here?” Natividad asked.

  Because I’d forgotten all about her. “It didn’t seem like the right time,” Emilia said lamely. Maybe she could ask Felipe Garcia about Lila.

  “That union guy,” Natividad said. “I don’t like him.”

  “I’ve run into him before,” Emilia said. “He’s always testing. Trying to find your weak spots, figuring out how to exploit you.”

  “I’ve met his kind before,” Natividad said. “He likes to butt fuck because he knows it hurts you.”

  Emilia looked at the younger woman, surprised at her vulgar language. “What would you know about things like that?” she asked.

  Natividad met her eyes. “You’ve met my father, haven’t you?”

  Chapter 24

  “Oh Emilia!” Christine caroled. The Palacio Réal’s concierge waved from behind her tall counter. “Do you have a moment?”

  Emilia transferred the gym bag containing her street clothes to her left hand, shoved her sunglasses up on her head, and stalked across the lobby. She was still in workout gear—sports bra, capri leggings, cross trainers—and couldn’t resist a smile as Christine blinked at the puckered scar on Emilia’s right bicep.

  Emilia deliberately put that elbow on the counter and leaned in. Christine pasted a hotel greeter smile on her pale gringa face.

  “There is a gentleman waiting for you in Kurt’s office,” the concierge said. She inclined her head to indicate the corridor behind the reception desk where the executive offices were located.

  “You mean Kurt is back?” Emilia asked. He wasn’t supposed to return until tomorrow.

  “Yes, and imagine his surprise to find this gentleman waiting for you.”

  Emilia frowned. “If this person was asking for me, you didn’t need to call Kurt.”

  Christine’s mouth twitched. “He always wants to know if anything irregular happens,” she said sweetly.

  Puta. Emilia managed a smile. “You’re always so on top of things, Christine.”

  The door to Kurt’s office was closed but opened swiftly at her knock.

  “Em.” Kurt gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and tossed her sports bag in the corner. “You have a visitor.”

  Emilia looked beyond Kurt to see Dario Delgado’s bodyguard. He rose from a chair at the conference table. “It’s good to see you again, Detective Cruz.”

  “And you.” Emilia realized she didn’t know his name. “Is everything all right with your employer?”

  “Thank you for asking. He’s fine and sends his regards.” The bodyguard indicated an oblong box wrapped in brown paper on the table. “He would like you to have this.”

  Kurt folded his arms, his face expressionless. There was a tray with a bottle of sparkling water and two glasses on the table next to the package. Both glasses still had water in them. Emilia wondered how long the two men had sat in the office looking at the view outside or the seascape paintings and saying very little to each other.

  The bodyguard held out the package to Emilia. “My employer asks that you open it in private.”

  It was heavy. Emilia imagined what was inside. A piece of expensive artwork. One of Delgado’s film awards. Something told her that whatever it was, the item was totally inappropriate. She tried to hand it back. “It’s very kind, but I cannot accept his generous gift.”

  The bodyguard kept his arms at his sides. “It is not a gift, Detective Cruz.”

  He turned to Kurt. “Thank you for your hospitality, señor.”

  “I’ll have your car brought around to the front,” Kurt said.

  The bodyguard inclined his head and walked out, closing the office door behind him.

  At his desk, Kurt punched a button on his phone and murmured some directions into the receiver.

  Emilia put the package on the table and sat down.

  Kurt hung up the phone.

  “Hi,” Emilia said. “How was your trip?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’re back a day early.”

  “I missed you.”

  Kurt pulled Emilia out of the chair and kissed her hard. The embrace wiped Emilia’s mind and her body responded the way it always did to him. When reason returned she pulled away, nearly breathless. Despite everything she knew, he still sent her pulse soaring. If he asked, she’d make love to him right on the floor of his office.

  She scrambled back to the relative safety of the chair. “Did you hire an assistant manager?” she asked.

  “Yes. He’ll be here in a couple of week when his visa gets squared away.” Kurt sat down beside her.

  “Great,” Emilia said.

  Kurt tapped the package on the table. “You want to t
ell me what this is all about? I walk into the hotel and find the international man of mystery asking for you.”

  Emilia took a deep breath. “You remember Javier Salinas. The second El Trio victim.”

  “Yes.”

  “He and Dario Delgado were lovers.”

  “Dario Delgado, the actor?”

  “Yes, that Dario Delgado.”

  Kurt gave a laugh. “Somebody is having you on, Em.”

  “The man who brought the package works for him.”

  “Okay,” Kurt said. He rifled a hand through his hair. “So now you know Dario Delgado.”

  “One of Salinas’s friends arranged for me to meet him.” In a few sentences, her hand resting on the package, Emilia told Kurt about going to the state’s attorney general’s office to discuss the Salinas murder investigation, her discussion with Josefina Vargas Guzmán in the parking garage, and the subsequent trip to Ixtapa to speak with Delgado.

  “Well, let’s get this over with,” Kurt said skeptically. He produced a pair of scissors from a desk drawer. Emilia cut away the heavy paper to reveal a cardboard box. She lifted the lid, pushed aside sheets of tissue paper, and saw two green linen-covered accounting ledgers.

  “Silvio’s books,” Emilia gasped.

  Kurt peered over her shoulder. “Why would some actor have Silvio’s books?”

  “I don’t know.” Emilia dug out the ledgers. Both were foxed on the edges from long use.

  She found a blue note card underneath.

  “‘J gave these to me but I was not to tell anyone I had them,’” Emilia read aloud. Punctuated with blots from a fountain pen, the slashing handwriting was difficult to decipher. “‘He said he was going to give them to you because you were the only honest cop he knew. You would fix what he’d done. Yours eternally, D2.’”

  “‘Yours eternally?’” Kurt echoed.

  Emilia glanced at him. “The man is gay.”

  “He’s not gay,” Kurt said. “He’s Dario Delgado.”