by Carmen Amato
Emilia looked at her toes.
Kurt jackknifed off the edge and disappeared underwater. When he resurfaced, he was already halfway back to the beach. Emilia watched as he swam rapidly back to shore, pulled himself out of the water, collected his shirt, and went into the hotel. He didn’t look back once.
Chapter 13
Emilia’s watch said 8:30 am. Prade would have been at work for almost an hour already. She punched in the number for the morgue and asked to be put through to him.
“Detective Cruz.” His voice boomed over the line. “How are you this fine Monday morning?”
“Excellent,” Emilia lied. She was sitting in the Suburban in the police station lot, hoping she didn’t look as bad as she felt.
Yesterday morning, she and Kurt had smoothed things over, although she suspected they’d been able to put the week behind them only because he’d made a conscious decision not to press her. After Kurt had overseen the dismantling of the regatta exhibits, they’d gone to a movie and a new restaurant in Playa Guitarrón. Sunday night sex was as fantastic as it ever was, but later as Kurt slept, Emilia had stared at the ceiling, wondering if she was being fair to him. Kurt deserved more than distracted weekends and the lies that slid off her tongue so easily.
“Did a courier from the Pinkerton agency pick up the finger from the relic?” she asked.
“Yes,” Prade said. “Fine work on your part, making that connection.”
“They’re trying to get a match for a kidnapping victim.”
“I assumed as much,” Prade said.
“One other thing,” Emilia said. “It’s about Yolanda Lata. The perdida I identified. Her son declines to claim the body. Sorry.”
“Lata.” Prade sounded surprised. “Hold on . . . let me check.”
Phone to her ear, Emilia watched the ebb and flow of both uniformed and plainclothes cops in and out of the building. The day shifts were getting out on the street. The night shifts were coming in to report. Her life was falling apart but police business continued as usual, supported by drugs and thieves and killers.
Prade came back on the line. “You must have been mistaken,” he said. “Her name wasn’t Yolanda Lata, it was Yola de Trinidad. The body was claimed on Saturday by her husband.”
“What?” Emilia scrabbled in her purse for her notebook and pen, nearly pulled out her rosary instead.
“Claimed by her husband,” Prade repeated. He sniffed and she imagined him at his metal worktable, reading glasses perched on his nose, messy file in hand. “Saturday. Late in the day.”
“Are you sure?” Emilia felt as if she’d been punched in the gut. The body had been that of Yolanda Lata, she was sure of it. The Asian cast to her face, the disturbing similarity to her daughter Lila.
“Yola de Trinidad,” Prade repeated. “Wife of Vikram Trinidad.”
Emilia tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder so she could write. Yola. Yolanda. “Do you have an address? A phone number?”
Prade clicked his tongue. “Of course.”
☼
Silvio wiped greasy fingers on a paper napkin before speaking. “You’ll have to go in unarmed,” he said. “If these forgers have been in business for more than a week, they’re looking for cops.”
“What about you, Orlando?” Emilia asked. “You feel okay about going in there with me? Are you comfortable with the story?”
After Prade’s revelation about Yolanda Lata’s husband, Monday morning had swung into hyper drive. Chief Salazar had decreed the finger to be a high priority kidnapping case, Loyola announced at the morning meeting. Emilia briefed on what she’d gleaned from Denton, as well as her research into Blandón Hernandez’s business, and there was a lively debate over whether or not the antiques dealer was knowingly dealing fakes or was being duped by a secondary vendor. That led to the decision to follow up on the forged letters, with Loyola almost breathless with the need to show Chief Salazar some action on the case. The acting lieutenant actually authorized some folding money to use in the operation.
There had been no time for Emilia to check out the cédula from the driver of Saturday’s gray sedan before she and Silvio, with Flores in tow, scouted the park where Denton claimed El Flaco, the taxi-driving half of the forgery duo, was to be found. They looked around, then retreated to a fast food place a block away to figure out how to play it. A pile of burgers and colas later, they had a plan.
Flores carefully folded the waxed paper wrapper his burger had come in. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
The plan wasn’t complicated and having Flores along was actually an asset. Flores had no street history, and none of Silvio’s muscular street swagger that so many found intimidating. Flores appeared to be what he was; a naïve and nonthreatening young man. He’d give Emilia an extra layer of cover and they’d worked up a story that fit their profiles. If Denton’s information was solid, they’d convince El Flaco of what they needed, get in the taxi, and meet El Gordo, the master craftsman. It would be up to Emilia to guide the conversation around to Blandón Hernandez and the so-called letters of authenticity. Silvio would tail the taxi, find a spot to wait near the final destination, and be ready to move in if Emilia called.
Flores headed off to the men’s room with Silvio’s backpack to take off his holster and gun. Silvio reached across the table and grabbed Emilia’s wrist. “You break up with Hollywood?” he asked.
Emilia jerked her arm back. “No, I didn’t break up with Kurt. Not that it’s any of your business.”
“Then what’s the problem?” he snapped. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks, Franco. You’re a fashion statement today, too.”
“You know what I’m talking about.” Silvio ignored her jibe. “What the fuck’s going on with you?”
Emilia wadded up her wrapper. “Nothing. I didn’t get much sleep last night. Had stuff on my mind.”
Silvio frowned. “If you’re not ready for this, we’ll put it off.”
“I’m fine,” Emilia said sharply. Her personal life had never interfered with being a cop and it wasn’t going to start now. “If this is a kidnapping, we’re working against the clock.”
Flores came back to the table, Emilia hit the ladies room to stash her gun and badge, and they left. Silvio separated from them to go to his car, taking the backpack of weapons. Emilia and Flores strolled down the street flanking the park, toward the corner where two taxis were pulled over to the curb. The drivers lounged against the hood of the second car, talking and smoking and evidently not in a rush to get a fare. Both men were ordinary looking, neither tall nor thin.
“We’ll have to wait,” Emilia said out of the corner of her mouth when Flores slowed down.
They crossed at the intersection and went into a café. Emilia sat at a table by the window. Flores took the chair opposite her. The waitress gave them two menus.
“We’ll stay here for awhile,” Emilia said. “See if El Flaco drives in. For all we know he could be home eating or taking a siesta.”
“Or with a client.”
“That, too,” Emilia agreed. “We don’t even know if he’s here every day.”
“So you’re sure about this story?” Flores asked. “Silvio seemed to like it but I’m not so sure.”
“It’ll be fine,” Emilia said. “I got fired. In order to get a new job I need a letter of recommendation.”
“But I’m supposed to be your brother.”
“It’s a good cover story. What girl would go to a stranger’s place alone to get a forgery? She’d be too stupid to live. Of course I’d bring my brother.”
“Do you have a brother?”
“What, for real?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“I don’t either,” Flores said. “I’ll bet we have other things in common, too.”
“You keep looking on that side of the park and I’ll look this way,” Emilia said. The park wasn’t large and by sitting across from each other they could cover all the intersections.
/> The waitress took their orders for iced coffees and a chocolate pastel for Flores. Emilia kept watch on the square, willing El Flaco to show up
“—about yourself.”
Emilia glanced at Flores. “Excuse me?”
The waitress set down two tall glasses loaded with caffeinated froth and a plate with a thick piece of chocolate cake.
Flores grinned as he stuck a straw into his iced coffee. “I said, I’m glad we have an opportunity to talk. You know, really talk. Tell me about yourself.”
“I’ve been a cop for more than 12 years.” Emilia didn’t look at him as she found a packet of sugar, tore it open, and poured the contents into her glass. “A detective for almost three. I didn’t go to college. I came up through the ranks. Was the junior man in the squadroom until you showed up.”
“What about besides work?” With his lips pursed around the straw Flores looked even younger.
“I’m a pretty private person,” Emilia replied.
When she didn’t offer anything else Flores held out his fork. “Would you like to try some pastel?”
“No, thanks.” Emilia stirred her coffee with a straw. There was something too intimate about sharing food with a man who’d already put the fork in his mouth.
Flores ate his cake in silence as each of them looked across the other’s line of vision. There was some play equipment in the middle of the park being enjoyed by a preschool class and some teachers. Women with plastic bags of vegetables and bread strolled the shops along the flanking streets, school kids in their uniforms and backpacks darted into the candy store and the stationary place, the bank guard repeatedly held the door open for patrons. A few cars honked as they jostled at intersections.
Another taxi came around the corner and pulled in behind the others on the corner, but not so close as to make it appear that it was in a line or unable to pull out easily. The driver angled himself out, unfolding like a blind man’s cane into one long length.
“That’s him,” Emilia breathed.
El Flaco was tall, almost emaciated. His gauntness accentuated the planes of his face and threw his cheekbones into sharp relief. His hair was so short as to be nothing more than a shadow. The descriptions had been accurate; he was as thin as a female supermodel, with a startling beauty created by the hollows of his face and the smoothness of his head.
Flores snapped his fingers, the waitress materialized, and the younger man paid the bill before Emilia could grab her wallet.
They left the café, circled around the park and approached El Flaco’s taxi from the rear.
He watched the street, as attentive as a cartel lookout. His fitted shirt, skinny jeans, and suede loafers did nothing to pad his skeletal frame. His clothes were better quality than that of the other two taxi drivers, whom had only given him a cursory nod before resuming their conversation. He wasn’t part of the usual taxi driver network and it showed.
El Flaco’s gaze gradually settled on Emilia and Flores as they strolled up the street toward his taxi. Emilia looked up and down the street, letting El Flaco see that she was nervous. El Flaco looked at her with undisguised interest and half a smile played on his narrow lips.
“How you doing, mamacita?” he asked as they came closer. His eyes stayed on Emilia, ignoring Flores.
“I’m looking for a ride,” Emilia said. “A ride so I can get a letter.”
“What kind of letter?” El Flaco asked Emilia with a slow wink. He knew his looks were striking and Emilia thought back to the young receptionist in her lonely office.
“Not so much a letter, as a certificate,” Flores broke in, stepping in front of Emilia. “A marriage certificate.”
Emilia froze.
“He’s too young for you.” El Flaco smiled knowingly at Emilia.
“We want a marriage certificate,” Flores said more forcefully. “We can’t get the apartment without a marriage certificate and my parents won’t approve.”
Emilia knew her face was burning and hoped that El Flaco would take it for embarrassment rather than the fury it was. What the hell was Flores doing?
Flores pointed at El Flaco. “We heard you could help.”
“Who said so?” the taxi driver asked.
“Señor Blandón Hernandez,” Emilia managed.
El Flaco showed no signed that he recognized the name.
“Señor Blandón Hernandez,” Flores repeated. “He’s an antiques dealer. Sells things to my father. He’s been kind to us.”
“Is that so.” El Flaco regarded Flores with amusement but again, the name Blandón Hernandez seemed to be meaningless.
“I hate my father,” Flores said with heat.
Emilia had to admit that Flores wasn’t a bad actor, but she didn’t know where he was taking them. Damn him for departing from the script.
“So you want to be married, eh?” El Flaco asked. “Get your apartment and score off your papi?”
“That’s right.” Flores put his arm around Emilia.
“Marriage certificates are expensive,” El Flaco said.
“That’s not the issue,” Flores said.
“A thousand pesos,” El Flaco said. “Plus the cost of the trip.”
“Will it look real?” Emilia had the presence of mind to ask. “City seals and all?”
“It will be identical to the real thing,” El Flaco said.
“We can pay,” Flores said.
El Flaco told them to wait and folded himself into the car again. Through the window of the taxi Emilia watched him take out a cell phone and make a call. It was brief. After a minute he rolled down the window and repeated the price.
Flores handed over the pesos and for a moment Emilia thought El Flaco was going to drive away with the money. But after slowly counting it, he told them to get into the back of the taxi.
Emilia tried to look excited and nervous as the taxi pulled away from the curb. Flores kept his arm around her shoulders as the vehicle swung into the street and was soon bumping down side streets north of the park. Silvio was behind them somewhere; keeping the taxi in sight, playing a better game than Juan Colón Sotelo and his gray sedan.
El Flaco glanced at them in the rearview mirror. Emilia managed a shaky smile and Flores kissed her on the cheek. She kept herself from jerking away or punching his head and instead began to mentally compile the howling lecture she was going to drive through his thick, self-centered, rich boy head when this was over.
At least she’d learned two things. First, El Flaco was just the conduit. He took his orders from someone else. Second, El Flaco wasn’t all that bright. He was more interested in getting laid than in driving his taxi.
Twenty minutes later, after a series of maneuvers Emilia knew were designed to both spot a tail and confuse his passengers, El Flaco pulled into the drive of a walled house. El Flaco touched a remote control button and the gates opened. He pulled through as soon as the gates opened and parked on a brick driveway in front of a tidy house painted a soft melon color. They all got out of the car and El Flaco patted them down for weapons, his hands lingering on Emilia’s torso longer than necessary. Next, he searched Emilia’s purse, pulling out her water bottle, her wallet, her rosary. For a moment she thought he was going to pocket the beads but he merely dropped them back into their case and into the bag. He didn’t look at any papers. Emilia took the bag back with relief.
The house was nicely furnished with a cotton rug over terracotta pavers, cushioned woven willow furniture, and bold pen and ink drawings on the far wall. An older woman, with El Flaco’s cheekbones and gaunt frame, stepped into the hall from a doorway that likely led to a kitchen. Her short gray hair didn’t match her jeans, white blouse, and floral apron similar to those Sophia always wore. The woman watched without reacting as they filed past her.
El Flaco led them out a back door, across a small courtyard, and to a small building. He knocked once and a voice yelled for them to enter.
The door opened into a small art studio crammed to bursting. Shelves stacked
to the ceiling faced the door and a triple cabinet of drawers ran the length of the adjacent wall. In the middle of the space, a desk dominated by a jeweler’s magnifying lamp was dwarfed by the fattest human being Emilia had ever seen. He was ten times as wide as El Flaco, with a huge moon face stuck on top of a tent-like blue shirt, rolls of fat spreading over the collar where a neck should have been. A smell like moldy peas rose from his body.
“They want a marriage license,” El Flaco said.
El Gordo’s fingers were long and slender as they adjusted the jeweler’s loupe in one eye. “Who is getting married?” he demanded. His voice had a wheezing quality as if his lungs were perpetually constricted by the weight of all that fat. “Let’s see your cédulas.”
Flores turned a questioning face to Emilia and she wanted to throttle him. By throwing out this unrehearsed story, he’d placed them in a position of having to reveal personal identification. They hadn’t planned for that and she didn’t have a false identity to use. They’d discussed the identity issue over burgers and she knew she could play the fake employment letter without it. But by hooking the license to an apartment rental--a real transaction--he’d boxed them into a corner. Before Emilia could figure out how to create false names and cédula numbers on the spot, Flores had whipped out his cédula and put it on the desk in front of El Gordo.
El Gordo picked up the cédula and held it up to the light, turning it to see the authentic watermark. Satisfied that it was genuine, the big moon face looked at her expectantly, the loupe still in place.
She was stuck. Emilia opened her shoulder bag and slowly fumbled around as if looking for her wallet. She brought out the copies of the Padre Pro letters and put them on the desk.
“What the hell is this?” El Flaco asked.
“Did you make these letters?” she asked. “They’re about a finger belonging to Padre Pro.”
Like a mountainous cyclops, El Gordo swung his head to look at his brother.
“I only need to know who paid you to make them,” Emilia said. “Was it Blandón Hernandez or somebody else?”
