by Carmen Amato
It grew dark as Silvio silently processed what Emilia had thrown at him.
“If Vega stopped the investigation into Salinas’s murder,” he said finally. Silvio found the handwritten questions posed to Emilia before her suspension. “Who’s pulling Loyola’s strings now? This isn’t his handwriting.”
“I don’t know, but―.”
“What did you think about Vega?” Silvio interrupted her. “When you met him in the office?”
Emilia blinked at the abrupt change in direction. “He was pompous. Power-hungry and not very nice.”
“Not very nice,” Silvio mimicked. “Rayos, Cruz. Vega was a mother-fucking pendejo. Chief Salazar’s very own mother-fucking lapdog pendejo.”
“Well, yes.”
“Here’s what I think happened.” Silvio spun out of the chair and began to prowl the sacristy, from the closet where Padre Ricardo kept vestments, to the cabinet for candlesticks and altar linens. “Salinas comes to Vega for help. Vega sees it as a money-making opportunity. Get some cash out of this Duarte Ochoa.”
“Blackmail?” It was a twist Emilia hadn’t considered.
“Exactly.” Silvio punched the air for emphasis. “Salinas told his colleague, this Josefina, that he had to choose between two evils.”
“She thought he meant coming out as gay or not.”
Silvio snorted. “His choices were to cooperate with Vega, whose price for protection from Castro was help blackmailing Duarte Ochoa, or face Castro alone with Vega breathing down his neck for the ledgers.”
“You’re right.” Emilia felt sick. Salinas had made two fatal mistakes. The first mistake was accepting the books from Castro and the second was asking Vega for help.
“Salinas tells Vega he won’t go along.” Silvio was on a roll. He backed against the cabinet, his body tense. “He’ll take his chances with Castro. But Vega can’t leave Salinas out there knowing about the blackmail plan. So Vega shoots him and makes sure there’s no investigation.”
“But if Vega killed Salinas, that means there’s not just one El Trio killer.”
Silvio grimaced. “The evidence didn’t make up the legend of El Trio. The press did.”
Emilia held up her hand, palm out. “Hold on. Why would Vega have killed Salinas unless he got the ledgers first? He needed them to blackmail Duarte.”
“Salinas made some mistakes but he was at least smart enough not to show off the ledgers,” Silvio said. “If I was him, I’d have waved a couple of pages at Vega and inferred I knew where to get the rest.”
Emilia nodded. “Vega leaped to the conclusion that you kept the ledgers after the El Pharaoh raid. It’s what he would have done.”
Silvio nodded. “That’s why whoever killed Vega also killed Isabel.”
“Somebody working for Duarte,” Emilia supplied.
“But how did they know we wouldn’t be home that particular night?” Silvio launched himself away from the cabinet and slammed his hands down on the table by the ledgers. “Rayos, Cruz. Where’s the picture from Hollywood’s security camera?”
Emilia rifled through the documents she’d brought along with the ledgers. She found the grainy photo taken from the closed circuit video feed featuring a slender and hooded figure by Hernandez’s car. “Here,” she said.
“Fuck,” Silvio breathed, his eyes fixed on the photo. “I know who the circle man is.”
Chapter 29
Emilia’s heart was in her throat as she and Silvio plunged into the casino. She’d shown her badge to get them past the metal detector at the entrance and they probably had less than two minutes before casino security intercepted them.
The noise inside the casino was deafening and the crowd was thick. It wasn’t just the ring and tumble of the slot machines. Tonight, televisions blared out the final Copa America match from at least a dozen huge screens. Patrons with key cards on lanyards around their necks and drinks in their hands filled every square meter of floor space as they screamed support for underdog Honduras against the seemingly invincible Argentina.
“There he is,” Emilia shouted and pointed to the pyramid montage by the roulette tables.
In front of the giant mock-up of an ancient pyramid, King Tut was resplendent in his jeweled headdress, spangled leather collar, and shoulder-length hair. He had a large wooden box and exchanged gambler’s plain poker chips for special chips with the El Pharaoh symbol stamped in gold, the kind Duarte Ochoa had used. A steady stream of casino patrons posed for a picture against the pyramid with the casino’s theatrical version of ancient Egypt’s child king.
Emilia stayed close to Silvio as he muscled aside a tourist to face King Tut. “Hello, David,” Silvio said. “Felipe told me you had a new job.”
“Franco?” The color drained from the man’s face.
So fast that Emilia only saw a blur of hands, Silvio grabbed the collar of David’s costume with one hand and knocked off the headgear with the other.
Emilia gasped. David Garcia Diaz looked enough like his older brother Felipe to be his twin, except for a whorl of dark hair that interrupted the hairline. The pronounced cowlick created a circular wave that he combed straight back.
David stared from Silvio to Emilia, his mouth open in fear. Then he thrust the wooden box full of chips against Silvio, breaking the other man’s hold. Silvio stumbled back as golden chips clattered all over the floor, prompting a raucous melee as tourists and gamblers dove after them. As pandemonium reigned, David disappeared through a doorway concealed in the pyramid’s side.
Emilia was nearly dragged down by the frenzy of grasping hands and slippery plastic scattered across the floor. Silvio’s firm grasp kept her on her feet. He led her through the hidden doorway, following David.
In three steps the corridor turned. The door sighed shut behind them, muting the clamor of the casino. Emilia recognized the hallway ahead; she’d seen it beyond the Employees Only door when she was with Natividad. White walls, tile floors, bleached pine doorframes, and sudden quiet.
“David,” Silvio bellowed.
Faster than Emilia would have thought possible, Silvio was on the costumed man, hands locked around his throat. “You killed, Isabel, David. For what? What did they promise you?”
“I didn’t mean to hurt her, Franco,” David gurgled, eyes bulging in terror below the distinctive cowlick. He clawed at Silvio’s arms. “Felipe said he was going to a party with you. She wasn’t supposed to be home.”
“You killed her, David.” Silvio shook him like a dog with a bone. “Why? Tell me why!”
“The books.” David writhed in Silvio’s grasp. “That’s all. Just the books. I never meant―.”
“Who sent you to my house?” Silvio shouted. He slapped David across the face. Once, twice, three times.
“Franco, let’s take him and go.” Emilia’s eyes were glued to the cowlick. Rio’s description had been perfect.
“I didn’t meant to kill her,” David gasped. Blood streamed out of his nose and mouth.
“Who sent you to my house?” Silvio said again and slammed the younger man against the wall.
Emilia expected to see security at any moment. They were close to an open doorway. “Franco,” she said urgently. “Let’s get out of here.”
David punched Silvio in the ribs and face. It made no difference. Silvio moved down the lushly carpeted hallway, blind to where he was going. He hauled the costumed man along by the neck and threw David against the wall with every step.
“Who.” slam “Sent.” slam “You.” slam
“Franco! Let’s go!” Emilia pleaded.
Silvio ignored her as he halted across from the doorway, his back to it. “Who sent you, David?” he repeated.
“My boss,” David mumbled. “Get the books. That’s all I was supposed to do.”
Silvio propped up David’s head. “And the others? How many cops did you kill?”
“I was getting rid of the bad guys,” David said, his hands wrapped around Silvio’s wrists. Blood and tears streame
d down the young man’s face. “They told me I was just like you and Manuel.”
“Isabel didn’t do anything bad.”
“I’m sorry, Franco. I didn’t mean to kill her.”
Silvio and David were still locked together when Emilia heard the shot. She saw Silvio whip his head around and for an agonizing second she was sure he was shot. But it was David’s expression that slackened and his eyes that rolled up to the ceiling. Silvio let go.
David’s shoulders sagged and his knees buckled. A split-second later, his body jerked as he was shot a second time. David crumpled to the floor.
Before Emilia could process what had happened, Silvio pulled a handgun from his belt under the black tee and plunged through the open doorway. Emilia followed recklessly on his heels, her own gun in her hand. She had no conscious memory of drawing the weapon from her ankle holster.
They were in a spacious office with shiny wallpaper, crystal chandeliers, shuttered windows, and pale wood furniture. Both Duarte Ochoa and Obregon stood in front of an enormous desk. Both men were armed.
“You used him,” Silvio said to Obregon. “You fucking used him and then threw him away.”
Emilia heard the click of a safety being released. Silvio’s weapon dug into the soft flesh under Obregon’s jaw.
Obregon dropped his gun and raised his hands.
“Who the fuck are you?” Duarte Ochoa shouted and trained a polished gold pistol at Silvio’s heart.
Emilia jammed her gun into Duarte Ochoa’s back and felt him stiffen. “My safety is off, too,” she said.
No doubt Duarte Ochoa had closed circuit cameras all over the casino. His security was going to flood the hallway and shoot them all.
The tension in the air was like boiling fog and it took Emilia a moment to realize they’d formed an armed lineup. Obregon kept his hands in the air. A half a smile flitted across his face as he realized the same thing.
“Pedro.” Obregon’s voice was as silky as ever. He flicked a finger at Silvio. “This is the famous detective Franco Silvio. Until a few weeks ago, he was my brother-in-law.
Emilia gasped.
“Yes, Detective, Cruz,” Obregon said. His eyes flickered between Emilia and Silvio’s gun. “Isabel de Silvio was my sister.”
“You don’t even deserve to say that,” Silvio snarled. He pulled one of Obregon’s hands behind his back and wrenched it upwards into a wrestling hold. “You spent 20 years treating her like dirt and trying to knock me down so low that she’d leave. When she didn’t, you had her killed.”
“You always think it’s personal, Franco,” Obregon mocked breathlessly. Silvio’s grasp bowed him backwards even as the gun threatened his throat. A trickle of sweat ran down the union chief’s forehead. “You have no idea. Isabel simply got in the way.”
“You killed Isabel, as sure as you pulled the trigger yourself.” Silvio ratcheted up the pressure. “This time she’s not here to keep me from killing you.”
“I’ll take your head off,” Duarte Ochoa spat at Silvio.
Emilia gave Duarte Ochoa a hard shove with the snout of her gun. “Don’t be stupid,” she hissed. The only reason casino security wasn’t there had to be the noise and excitement of the Copa America final.
“I’m unarmed, Franco,” Obregon said and cut his eyes to the gun on the floor. “Two witnesses would see you kill an unarmed man.”
“You piece of shit,” Silvio snarled. “You used David. Knew that he was Manuel’s brother and you could manipulate him. How many people died for your fucking real estate scam? What would one more mean?”
Emilia heard barely-controlled rage in Silvio’s voice and knew he would murder Obregon in cold blood, right here, right now. Twenty years of conflict and hurt had boiled down to this moment of fury and revenge. She saw David’s inert body through the doorway. The Egyptian costume looked oddly out of place in the hall, as if men were supposed to die in dark pants and bloody tee shirts.
“Franco, listen to me,” Emilia said. Her right arm ached already. She couldn’t hold this pose for long.
Obregon cut her off. “Your hands are dirty, too, Franco,” the union boss said. “Vega said you kept the ledgers after the raid. Shared them with Salinas. You probably still have them.”
“Vega didn’t know shit.” Silvio gave a grating laugh. “He had you going.”
“Look, we can cut you in,” Duarte Ochoa said urgently.
“Shut up, fat man,” Silvio said. “No deals. Just justice for the dead.”
“That other cop,” Duarte Ochoa said, eager to deflect guilt. “Vega. He got a little too greedy. Lied about everything. This was all his fault.”
“You see?” Obregon’s voice was rough; the bird of prey was caught in a trap. “This isn’t what you think, Franco.”
“Vega made it like you had the ledgers.” Duarte Ochoa took up the argument. His small gold pistol wobbled in his hand. “He said you must have them, because you led the raid. That’s the reason David went to your house. Killing your wife was his mistake.”
“Shut up, Pedro,” Obregon said savagely.
Even as the pain in Emilia’s upper arm quivered up her shoulder and licked at her neck, everything made sense. Silvio was right. There never was only one El Trio killer.
Vega murdered Salinas in their dispute over the ledgers, and with sketchy information, tried to blackmail Duarte Ochoa and Obregon. David was dispatched to kill Vega and recover the ledgers from Silvio’s house. Isabel was collateral damage.
Loyola wasn’t involved, although Vega’s orders made him suspicious enough to collect some information.
“Was Hernandez a mistake, too?” Silvio went on. Every muscle in his body bulged with tension. His arm was an iron bar trapping Obregon and the muzzle of his gun was still jammed into the other man’s throat. “I know the same gun killed Isabel and Vega. So did he.”
“Look, Franco,” Obregon said. Sweat beaded his upper lip and his eyes squinted against the pain. “For Isabel’s sake, we can both walk away from this.”
Silvio’s face twisted with cruelty. “She’s dead. She’ll never know I killed you.”
“You’re better than this,” Obregon rasped.
“Pretty weak last words, Victor,” Silvio said.
“Franco,” Emilia said. Her right arm was ablaze with the effort to hold the heavy handgun against Duarte Ochoa and she knew Silvio would do what he said. “Don’t do this.”
“Shut up, Cruz.” Silvio didn’t waver.
“Isabel didn’t marry a killer,” Emilia said. “She wouldn’t love that sort of man.”
“This doesn’t concern you,” Silvio replied.
“He’s going to be a father,” Emilia burst out.
Silvio darted a glance over his shoulder at Emilia. “What are you talking about?”
“Claudia Sanchez is carrying his baby,” Emilia shouted. Adrenaline coursed through her body. Life had boiled down to the pressure of Silvio’s finger on the trigger. “Franco, please. He’s going to be a father. If you kill him, you’re letting him abandon that child.”
Disbelief flashed across Silvio’s face.
“I can sweeten this for you,” Duarte Ochoa said. “I’ll give you 100,000 pesos for the ledgers and cut you in for a share of the real estate club profits.”
The shot was deafening in the room without anything to soften the flash or the bang. Duarte Ochoa cannoned into the desk and knocked Emilia off balance. For a moment she was disoriented. Had she shot him? Her right arm was alive with pain with the effort of holding her gun steady, but she could swear she hadn’t fired.
Duarte Ochoa sank to the pale carpet and his head knocked against the edge of the desk as he went down. The small gold pistol was still in his hand as he stared sightlessly at the ceiling. He had been shot once in the chest.
Emilia slowly turned away from the dead man, her heart thundering.
Chief Salazar stepped into the office, his handgun trained on Silvio. He was wearing a suit with a starched white shirt op
en at the collar and his bald head reflected the chandelier’s dangling prisms. With his free hand, he closed the door, blocking the view of David’s body in its elaborate costume.
“Well, Detective Silvio,” the police chief said. “Detective Cruz. Every time there’s a problem, the two of you show up.”
Emilia found herself panting like a racehorse; there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room. She’d lowered her gun when Duarte Ochoa fell; now she knew without a doubt that if she tried to draw on Salazar he’d kill Silvio without hesitation.
“You’re hardly going to shoot the head of the police union, Detective Silvio,” Salazar went on. “He’s unarmed.”
Silvio kept his gun pointed at Obregon. “He killed my wife.”
“David Garcia Diaz killed your wife,” Salazar said. “Señor Pedro Duarte Ochoa killed him, and was about to shoot you in a killing spree I just averted. So it would seem that justice has been served today. Mexican-style, I admit, but justice nonetheless.”
“What about justice for Salinas and Vega?” Silvio asked bitterly. “And Hernandez?”
“What happened to Salinas was entirely between him and Vega,” Chief Salazar said. “On the other hand, Vega got what he had coming. He wanted money he didn’t earn.”
Obregon’s eyes darted nervously between Chief Salazar and Silvio. Sweat streamed down his face and disappeared into the collar of his black shirt. Emilia had never seen him like this; broken and at someone else’s mercy.
The sight was a tonic. She moved away from Duarte Ochoa’s body, gun at her side, and faced the police chief. “You must have been thrilled when Captain Espinosa was found dead,” she said.
“The federale?” Chief Salazar raised his eyebrows.
“The federale,” Emilia confirmed. “Another dead body, with a crime scene that looked just like the first two. Espinosa’s death was a gift that created an entire cover story for you. Suddenly the El Trio killer was on the loose.”
