by Carmen Amato
“I’d say the woman was between 25 and 35 years old,” Prade said. “Worked with her hands. The fingertips are calloused and the cuticle wasn’t trimmed with any special care. No nail polish residue under the varnish. Not extreme callouses, but a definite thickening of the skin at the fingertips. Whoever she was, or is, she was accustomed to manual labor.”
Emilia swallowed hard. Up close, without the distance that the glass box had created, the finger was too intimate, too immediately painful. She had seen many dead bodies, but severing a finger had a deliberateness about it that made Emilia sweat. “Can you tell how long since the finger was, uh, detached?”
“I’d put it at between two and three weeks ago,” Prade said. “The varnish on top stopped some of the corruption.”
He picked up a tweezers and started to pull back the skin. Flores coughed again.
“We don’t have to see,” Emilia said hastily. She got out her notebook and began rapidly writing a list. Flores could start making calls, as Loyola had suggested. Put him onto the files, too, now that he had intranet access. See if they could match this up with previous kidnapping cases; who else cut off fingers, used a bolt cutter, had religious affiliations. She and Silvio would go back to Villa de Refugio. He could vent some of his bad temper on the owner, find out where the relic had come from.
Prade put the finger back into the steel pan. “As I thought, it was mounted on a construction nail.”
The remains of the display case, a wooden block covered in red velvet impaled by a nail as long as the finger, was amid the jumble of books on the floor. “This was hardly the way to treat a sainted relic,” Prade observed, setting the block on the desk next to the pan. “Somebody simply shoved the finger onto the nail. There was enough loose skin for them to do it and not break any of the bones. They varnished the finger after it was mounted. Some of the varnish spilled onto the velvet.”
“Any fingerprints?” Emilia asked.
“No,” he said. “The varnish filled in too many of the ridges.”
Emilia felt sweat trickle down her neck. The air in the office felt cloying and warm. “So basically we have the finger from a woman who did some sort of manual work, which was cut off her hand two or three weeks ago. It was mounted like a trophy, varnished, labelled as Padre Pro’s finger, and sold in a very nice store with false documents saying it was a sainted relic.”
Prade shrugged. “I’m sorry I can’t give you more than that,” he said. “More time and a better lab might get you something else. But you know more now than you did before.”
“This is the strangest thing I’ve run into in twelve years as a cop,” Emilia confessed. “Can you write up a formal report so that Loyola knows we’re not kidding?”
“Of course,” Prade said. “More importantly, can you take all this with you now?”
Emilia had a mental image of Castro and Gomez tossing the finger around the squadroom in a morbid game of monkey-in-the-middle. Flores, of course, in the middle. “I’ll come back for it,” she assured Prade.
“Bury it, pickle it, donate it to a church,” Prade said. “Just make sure you pick it up this week. We don’t have room for odds and ends.”
He replaced it in the refrigerator, started to take off his latex gloves, then stopped. “Before you go, another one of your perdidas came in yesterday.”
“Perdidas?” Flores asked.
“Unidentified women,” Emilia said.
They followed Prade to the holding room where they’d viewed the Salva Diablo body. He consulted a clipboard, scanned the numbered drawers, and rolled one out. As the refrigerated unit released the section with a slight hiss, Emilia steeled herself. Too many of these nameless women in the morgue weren’t a pretty sight. Generally they’d been raped, beaten, mutilated with a knife by some insane hand.
The drawer slid all the way open, the body was revealed. Emilia felt the shock like a blow to the back of her knees and she dropped her notebook. Without thinking she grabbed Flores’s arm to steady herself.
Even with the gray skin of death and all makeup wiped away, Emilia recognized the woman’s slightly Asian features, china doll haircut, and voluptuous figure. Except for the bruises, she looked exactly like the magazine photograph Emilia had of her, a relic of the hunt for missing teen Lila Jimenez Lata.
Yolanda Lata. Estranged mother. Professional hooker.
“Cause of death?” Emilia heard herself ask.
“Take your pick,” Prade said and pointed out the recent needle tracks on the left arm. “Drug overdose or internal bleeding. She was badly beaten.”
“Her name is Yolanda Lata,” Emilia said.
“One of your missing?”
“Yes. When did she come in?” Sadness washed over Emilia as she let go of Flores and picked up her notebook. When Lila Jimenez Lata went missing, she’d been hunting for her mother Yolanda. Emilia had looked for Yolanda as well, as a possible lead to Lila, and had come up empty-handed. Emilia’s last hope to find the teen had been a man who’d had a brief fling with Lila; he’d been murdered. It was hard to think that Yolanda must have been working the streets right here in Acapulco and that Emilia had missed her.
Prade consulted the toe tag. “Found dead on the street yesterday. Avenida Galeana. Beaten, robbed. Nothing on the body except a dress. Dead for 48 hours before she arrived here.”
Emilia copied down the information on the tag, sick at heart. The woman had been dead in an alley for two days.
“Do you know if there’s anyone to notify?” Prade asked. “Someone who’ll claim the body?”
“She has a son,” Emilia said. She’d met Yolanda’s son once. He’d parted ways with his mother long ago and now had a new name and identity. “I’ll notify him but I’m not sure he’ll claim the body.”
“If he won’t, let us know and the city will take care of her,” Prade said matter-of-factly. “There won’t be a full autopsy, just the routine blood work and report. There’s no time and we need the space.”
☼
Emilia opened her desk drawer and took out the thick binder of Las Perdidas. The squadroom was quiet. Silvio was probably eating a double order of fish tacos somewhere, Ibarra had grabbed his jacket and announced to his computer that he was out of cigarettes, and Flores had gone to find a vending machine. The other detectives were all out on cases. Loyola’s door was closed.
She flipped to the report she’d written about Yolanda Lata. The woman had married Lila’s father, bringing into the marriage a 10-year-old son from a previous relationship. When Lila’s father died, Yolanda left with the son, but leaving her daughter in the care of Berta, the paternal grandmother. As Lila grew, Berta told her that Yolanda was dead. Yet somehow, Lila had connected with her half-brother, who periodically received money orders from their mother. When Lila ran away from Berta on her quest to find Yolanda, she’d had ample cash from those money orders. What little else Emilia uncovered suggested that Lila had experimented with being a hooker, too. The girl was as striking as her mother and looked older than her 16 years. The brother had the same looks. Emilia copied down his contact information.
When she looked up, Flores was sitting quietly on the edge of her desk. He held out a cold can of cola. “Thought you could use this.”
“Thanks,” Emilia said gratefully. “I owe you.”
She closed her eyes and drank, willing the caffeine and sugar to do their job quickly. Seeing Yolanda Lata in the morgue had been more unsettling than she wanted to admit. The case had obsessed her a few months ago and Yolanda had stayed in the back of her mind as an unresolved lead. She’d always thought that with enough time, she’d be able to track down Yolanda, and through her, find Lila. That hope had been shut away in a refrigerated drawer.
“Are you all right?” Flores asked.
Emilia nodded. “I’m fine.” She exchanged the binder for a slim folder from the bottom of the drawer and handed it to him. “This is a list of the major private security companies in Mexico,” she said. “They all handle kidnappings
for private families. These are my personal contacts.”
She went down the list, giving him some details about each of the contacts, then wound up by saying, “Call each one, explain who you are and ask if they have handled any kidnappings that has involved a loss of the victim’s arm, hand, or finger within the last year. If they have, ask to set up a meeting.”
“Arm, hand, or . . .” Flores trailed off as he understood her implication.
Emilia handed over a second file. “Here’s the number for the federale anti-kidnapping unit to call as well. Over there you want to talk to Captain Genaro. He’ll give you a yes or no answer and if it is yes, we’ll have to follow up in official channels.”
“Okay.”
“Do you remember how to access case files online from the training the other day?”
“Yes.”
“Good. You’ll want to read through any old kidnapping files.”
“I’m looking for similarities,” Flores interrupted. “Same tool, same part. Church things.”
“Exactly.”
“This is real detective work, isn’t it, Emilia?” Flores asked. Once again he reminded her of an eager young pup, looking for her approval and wanting to be petted.
She regretted the vertigo that had caused her to hold his arm so tightly in the morgue.
☼
Silvio parked in front of the Villa de Refugio in almost the same place where Kurt had parked on Sunday, reminding Emilia that yet again almost another day had rushed by and she hadn’t even had the time to text him. She’d apologize Friday night when she got to the hotel. Let him know he was right about Padre Pro’s finger, too.
“The Salva Diablo body’s really missing?” Silvio asked. He’d been uncharacteristically quiet since she’d told him about developments at the morgue. “Any others?”
“According to Prade, just the one. Nobody saw anything, of course.”
“Fuck sakes.” He cut the engine. “Coincidence?”
“Hard not to think so,” Emilia agreed. “But it happened on the midnight shift, after the Pacific Grandeur left.”
“Bonilla’s mystery cell phone contact?” Silvio threw out. “Covering his boy’s mistake?”
“Another couple of days and the morgue website would be up,” Emilia said. “The Salva Diablo picture would be on it. Now, without a body, they probably won’t include him.”
Silvio punched her in the shoulder. “Good thinking, Cruz. Who else knows about the website coming online?”
A rare compliment and a new bruise. Silvio always managed to keep things even. “Prade,” Emilia said. “Morgue staff. Chief Salazar’s office. Mayor’s office. Site developer. A bunch of cops whose cases are going to be on that site.”
“Conspiracy theory time,” Silvio said.
“Let’s get this over with first.”
The guard in front of the turquoise door didn’t recognize Emilia in her cop clothes: jeans, black denim jacket, loafers, ponytail, badge. Silvio held out his own badge as he brushed past, his always effective combination of menace and bulk on full display.
“You the owner?” Silvio barked at the dapper man behind the long glass counter.
“Yes.” The man adjusted his half-moon reading glasses and smiled nervously. He wasn’t the owner from Emilia’s childhood but looked enough like him to be the son; same protruding eyes, moustache, and slicked hair above a stiffly starched white shirt and conservative gray tie. “Señor Fernando Gustavo at your service. Perhaps you are looking for something special? A gift, perhaps.”
“Señora!” Tifani, the attentive salesgirl who’d waited on Emilia and Kurt on Saturday, hustled over to her boss’s elbow and beamed at Emilia. “Another wedding gift, señora?”
“You sold a relic,” Silvio said. He raised a wooden statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe and grimaced at the price tag stuck to the bottom. “Finger of Padre Pro, the Cristero martyr.”
“Ah.” Gustavo took off his reading glasses in a gesture of respect and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “The sainted Padre Pro. It was a blessing to have such an artifact in our store.”
“I’m sure it was,” Emilia said dryly.
“I’m sorry, but it has sold,” Gustavo said. “It came and went so quickly. Even before the official unveiling.”
Before Tifani could get a word in, Emilia showed Gustavo her badge. “I know. I bought it. And it’s a fake.”
Silvio put both hands on the glass and leaned forward so that his badge was likewise visible as it dangled from its lanyard. “That means, señor, you’re about to be arrested for dealing in human body parts.”
Tifani gasped and covered her mouth.
Gustavo replaced his glasses with an indignant jab at his nose. “Officer, I assure you, the Villa de Refugio does not sell fake articles. Doing so would be a defilement of the Church.” He glanced sharply at the salesgirl. “Tifani! Go get the inventory list.” The girl darted into the back room.
Silvio gestured to the guard to close the turquoise door.
Tifani rushed back to Gustavo with a large ledger. The store owner took the book and flipped through the handwritten pages, his face pinched with indignation. “Let me assure you both, the Villa de Refugio only sells genuine articles and our reputation as Acapulco’s most authoritative dealer in religious antiquities and relics has been firmly established for more than 100 years.”
“Until the day you put that finger up for sale,” Silvio said.
“The Villa de Refugio only sells genuine articles,” Gustavo insisted, his voice growing shrill and his face mottled with emotion. “You should have received the letters of provenance, proving and verifying that the relic was in fact from the most holy body of the blessed Padre Pro.” He turned to Tifani, nearly frantic. “Where are the copies? What did you do with the letters?”
“I have the letters.” Emilia held up her hand to keep the girl from scurrying off. “They are fake. The Acapulco medical examiner has determined that the finger is actually a woman’s forefinger.”
“This is police harassment,” Gustavo shrilled. “You want protection money. So that thieves don’t break into my store? Is that it?” He looked from Emilia to Silvio as if he’d trumped them.
“This is trafficking in body parts.” Silvio snatched up Gustavo by his shirt collar and hauled him over the counter. “It’s the same as if you’d sold a kid’s liver to some norteamericano who drank his own to pieces.”
“Señor Gustavo,” Emilia said, putting on her good cop role. “This is really about the relic.”
“Enough of this crap,” Silvio scowled and let go. “Where did you get it?”
Gustavo slid back to his side of the counter. “One of my best suppliers. It’s all right here,” he said breathlessly.
Silvio swung the ledger around. “How much did you pay for it?”
“Eight thousand pesos.” Gustavo sniffed.
“The finger of a saint is only worth 8000 pesos?” Silvio exclaimed.
“That’s more than I usually pay,” Gustavo was still trying to reassemble his dignity. “But for such a remarkable item, I was willing to make an exception.”
“Fuck, Cruz.” Silvio cut his eyes to Emilia. “How much did Hollywood pay for the thing?”
“You don’t want to know.” Guilt swept over Emilia at the thought of how much Kurt had lost because of her.
Gustavo looked from one detective to the other while Tifani hovered next to him, wiping her eyes. “My supplier assured me that it had been in the Church of San Sebastián in the Distrito Federal for years. The relic had been in the chapel of the school and the church was clearing out the building before it was sold.”
Emilia gave Silvio a shrug. “That’s what one of the letters said.”
“What did you do to verify the letters?” Silvio asked.
“I read them,” Gustavo said.
“You didn’t do anything else to verify if they were real or forgeries?” Silvio thundered. “This was an entire finger in a glass box, supposedly 100
years old. You just took it on faith?”
“Faith is the foundation of the Holy Mother Church,” Gustavo ventured. “Villa de Refugio is a symbol of that faith.”
“Rayos,” Silvio exclaimed. “How did you know this supplier wasn’t cheating you?”
“I’ve been dealing with this supplier for years. He brings in religious antiques from all over Mexico. Central America. Brazil and Argentina. Paintings from Peru.” Gustavo ran a shaky finger down the entries on the ledger, still obviously not believing that the relic was a fake. There were numerous entries of purchases from the same vendor, each with a detailed description noting condition, age, and provenance.
Emilia realized that Tifani was holding out a business card. “Señor Ignacio Blandón Hernandez,” the salesgirl said softly. “He comes every few weeks with things to show Señor Gustavo. Always rare things. Expensive.”
The card was embossed with the man’s name and the legend Antiques and Rare Books. There was an address in the upscale Colonia Costa Azul neighborhood.
“There’s no phone number,” Emilia said. “How do you get in touch?”
“Always by email,” Gustavo said.
“How many times did you buy a finger from him?” Silvio asked.
“Only the Padre Pro relic.”
Emilia noticed how the store owner refused to acknowledge the finger. No, it was always the holy relic.
“What else do you have from him?” Silvio asked.
Gustavo came out from behind the counter cradling the open ledger in his arms. He moved in a wide arc to avoid Silvio. “Tifani. Take down the statue. The tall one.”
Tifani crossed the room to the wall of cabinets Kurt had studied so assiduously on Sunday. She carefully lifted down an antique wooden statue of Saint Francis. The chipped hands were outstretched, a bird sat on his shoulder, eyes stared forward. The saint wore a long vestment clinched by a frayed belt made of real leather.
“Did this come with letters as well?” Silvio asked.
“Yes,” Gustavo read something in his ledger. “Two.”
With the help of the ledger, Gustavo identified four other items purchased from Blandón. All were purported rare antiques, with letters of authentication.
