Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  Kurt refilled her glass, poured some Scotch for himself, and came back to the table. “What about Gloria and Juan Fabio? Are you going to arrest them?”

  “I doubt it. Everybody’s got bigger cases. Maybe we can get Blandón Hernandez for fraud but nobody has even suggested we try. I don’t even know where he is.” The Scotch had taken the edge off her hysteria but the adrenaline was still there, clanging an alarm through her veins. Emilia felt herself start to shake. “Plus, it’s not likely any of them will do it again, is it?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “I’ll see those mangled hands forever,” Emilia said. “That thumb coming up out of the dirt. Hair. A foot. Hear that dog in my head every time I close my eyes.”

  “Em--.”

  “All those pieces that had once been people. Madre de Dios, it was as if they were all clawing at me, asking for help. And the smell.” She pressed her hands to her eyes. “There were birds, too. Did I tell you about the birds? They’d pecked out eyes. Lips. All the soft tissue. Someone’s eyes that could have been mine.”

  “You can’t think like that, Em.”

  “I can’t do this anymore. I’ve had enough.” Emilia wanted to be quit of everything. Of being a cop. The dead bodies and the dregs of humanity who cut off the fingers of the dead.

  “I know,” Kurt said. He downed his Scotch.

  “I’m going to have nightmares forever. Wake up screaming for the rest of my life.” Her whole body was shaking now, icy cold, her teeth clattering together. The strength and control that had gotten her through the afternoon and evening fell away, routed by exhaustion. Emilia dropped her hands and looked around the room, unable to remember where the thermostat was. “It’s freezing in here. Why is it always so cold in here? Why do you have the air conditioning set to frozen all the time?”

  Without a word, Kurt pulled Emilia out of her chair and propelled her down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the en suite bathroom. As she stood shaking on the mat, he stripped off her shoulder holster, jeans, socks, shoes, and tee shirt. A moment later she was standing under a hot shower in her bra and panties. Still in his swim shorts, Kurt stepped into the tiled stall with her.

  Hot water cascaded down and warmth seeped into her skin. Kurt pulled her against his chest. Emilia slid her arms around his waist, pressed her face into his bare skin, and wept for the dead.

  “Listen to me, Em,” Kurt said softly when she ran down. “This place is your safe zone.”

  Emilia gulped moist air, grateful for the steam curling off the tiles and the way his arms held her upright.

  “Your safe zone,” Kurt repeated. His voice was as clean as the falling water. It penetrated her fear and adrenaline-fueled reaction. “The place where you rest and get strong enough to face whatever you have to. It’s tough out there. I know. I’ve been there, too.”

  His body was strong and solid. A bulwark standing between her and the horror she’d seen.

  Kurt pushed wet hair off her forehead. “I’ll never let you walk out before you’re ready.”

  They stayed under the hot water for a long time. Emilia clung to Kurt’s strength as her body defrosted, listening to him quietly tell her all the things she very desperately wanted to be true.

  An hour later, having finally eaten some dinner and dressed in one of his old tee shirts, Emilia curled up against Kurt and pulled the covers up to her chin. She’d asked him to leave the bathroom light on, so that the bedroom wasn’t completely dark. Kurt had left the curtains open as well, so that they could see the moonlight shining on the ocean far below.

  She closed her eyes and slept deeply, without dreaming.

  Chapter 24

  The federale in charge of the killing field excavation was a Captain Espinosa. The place looked totally different than it had 15 hours ago.

  The path Emilia had followed on foot yesterday was now a dirt road scooped out of the ground by machinery. Half a dozen distinctive navy and white federale trucks were parked in the scrub on either side.

  Yellow crime scene tape blocked off an area the size of a fútbol field. Two large tents, erected at right angles to each other, dominated one corner of the field. At least 25 people in uniform were at the site with another half dozen in civilian clothes. Teams were scattered around the field, using various tools to dig up the remains and a system of plastic markers and neon spray paint to mark their findings.

  Espinosa was a hard-faced man in his early fifties who gave her a brief rundown as he handed her a cup of coffee from a makeshift coffee bar in the tent. “Can’t give you an actual body count yet,” he said and raised his own paper cup to indicate the workers in the field. “They’re still finding parts.”

  Emilia stared out the tent flap at the teams of excavators. Dismembered bodies were once a hallmark of the Los Zetas cartel. The intimidation practice, however, had spread to other cartels and associated gangs. “Somebody was out to make a statement.”

  Espinosa nodded. “Exactly,” he said. “We’ve already got a team looking to see if a video was posted. That’s become the message channel of choice. If there is a video, it will help identify not only the victims but whoever is responsible.”

  “How can I help?” Emilia asked.

  Espinosa crumpled his paper cup. “I want to go over what happened yesterday and then we’ll go talk to the kid who brought you up here.”

  Emilia finished her coffee. Without her nose buried in its aroma, the smell of death and decomposition assaulted her. Like yesterday, Emilia felt the restlessness and terror of the souls trapped in that place.

  Espinosa wasn’t given to small talk as he took her statement as they sat at a small table in the tent. Emilia gave a brief account of how she’d tracked down Pepe, omitting details about the forgers, and what the strange young man had told her yesterday. Espinosa typed it into a small laptop as she talked. Her cell phone didn’t have service but his gear appeared to be connected to some central server. Federales might have the worst reputation but they always had the best equipment.

  The troubled national police force was routinely blamed for aiding drug lords, hiding or tampering with evidence, taking kickbacks, and conducting kidnappings and extortions. Even murder. There was little evidence to refute the charges and journalists who reported the abuses often went missing or had to flee to safety north of the border. She could only hope that Espinosa was an exception.

  Emilia watched as two uniformed federales, both wearing surgical masks and gloves, brought a canvas stretcher over to one of the excavation teams. They loaded it with a leg, identifiable by dirty denim and a once-white sneaker, and carried it to the second tent about 50 meters from where Emilia sat.

  “What about Los Martillos?” Espinosa asked. “The community police? Were they with you yesterday?”

  “When we drove in they were almost paranoid about a private vehicle,” Emilia said. “But once the head, a man named Valentino Pinto, let us in, no one bothered us. None of them came up here with us.”

  “Did they respect the badge?”

  “It was a strange dynamic. I actually think they let us in because Valentino Pinto thought it was funny that a woman was driving.” Emilia paused, wondering how forthcoming Espinosa would be. “Do you think they’re responsible?”

  “Let’s first figure out when this happened, Detective,” he said and pulled out disposable masks and gloves from boxes near the coffee maker. “But I’m not ruling out anything.”

  Espinosa led Emilia into the other tent. He introduced her to two forensic experts who would do the initial examination of the findings. Doctors Vargas and Furtado were both acquainted with Prade and seemed to be as serious about their work as the Acapulco medical examiner. Like Emilia and Espinosa, they wore surgical masks and gloves.

  The floor of the tent was mostly covered with a thick black plastic tarp. Body parts were arranged on the tarp by type.

  Albeit streaked with dirt and remnants of clothing, the pieces of flesh were pale, as if the blood had
drained out long ago. The body parts were lifeless, impersonal, simply so many pieces of meat. If it wasn’t for the recognizable shapes, the lumps might have been Serrano hams selling in a gourmet store for 300 pesos a pound.

  Emilia breathed shallowly behind her mask. She’d eaten a light breakfast that morning, at Kurt’s insistence, and hoped it wouldn’t make a return engagement.

  “Last one. Female.” The two uniforms Emilia had seen before trundled in with their stretcher and awkwardly rolled a woman’s torso onto the tarp.

  The remains wore a stained blue bra and denim shorts. Both legs had been cut off at the knee and the arms severed at the shoulder.

  “It’s as if a mad man swept through here,” Emilia said.

  “We’ve seen this sort of thing before,” Vargas said. “Chopping houses in Colombia, killing fields in Sinaloa and Michoacán. Lots of specialists in mutilation out there. It’s usually to send a message.”

  “This brings the tally to 11 total. Nine men and two women.” Furtado stood at the edge of the tarp and pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves before touching an obviously male arm. “All but one have been in the ground six or eight weeks at least. One set of parts looks distinctively fresher as if buried relatively recently. All dismembered the same way, however, regardless of length of time in the field. Each was executed by shots to the brain. Bodies were cut up and scattered after death. Hatchet, if I had to make an immediate guess.”

  “Any identifying marks?” Emilia asked, forcing herself to stay composed.

  “Yes.” Furtado nodded, eyes serious above the surgical mask. “Despite the decomposition, there are still some distinctive body markings. All the men have the same tattoo.”

  He directed Emilia’s attention to a male arm lying on the tarp. It bore a tattoo on the inside of the forearm. Green dye stood out on the bloodless flesh. Two crossed fists in front of a devil’s pitchfork and the words “Salva Diablo” printed across the wrists.

  “Salva Diablo,” Espinosa said. “Honduran gang.”

  “I’ve seen that tattoo before,” Emilia said.

  “Where?” There was a sharp edge to Espinosa’s voice.

  “A shooting victim found on a cruise ship a couple of weeks ago,” Emilia said. She wasn’t sure she had permission to share an Organized Crime case with a federale; but it was clear now that the cases were linked. “Aboard the Pacific Grandeur, one of the largest ships that come through Acapulco. Male, shot twice in the head execution style just like these. Stuffed into a meat freezer and found about 12 hours after the time of death.”

  Espinosa ushered her out outside the tent, out of earshot of the two doctors. “Are we looking at a range war?” he asked urgently. “Somebody going after the Salva Diablo gang in Mexico?”

  “Maybe,” Emilia admitted. “There’s a good reason for thinking that. We think the Salva Diablo from the cruise ship was dealing Colombian Ora Ciega, maybe looking to move it on the ship. He’d been with a hooker who died of an overdose. We’re testing her for it.”

  “A range war over Ora Ciega. This field might be the tip of the iceberg.” Espinosa pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket and offered it to Emilia. When she shook her head he lit one for himself and replaced the packet. “What else can you tell me about your cruise ship victim?”

  “Not much,” Emilia said. “We never got an ID on him. His prints weren’t in the system. Before we could add him to the morgue’s new website his body went missing.”

  “Now he’s probably the fresher set of parts.” Espinosa waved his cigarette at the entrance to the doctors’ tent.

  As Emilia stared at the field in front of them, she realized that the friends Chavito talked about had never been Bonilla and Ramos. The Salva Diablo gang member had been waiting for these other gang members from Honduras. But they’d been long dead.

  Espinosa blew cigarette smoke upwards and breathed it in. “Go back to Ora Ciega. Did you trace it? We don’t see that much of it.”

  “Test these bodies for it,” Emilia said. “The finger that led us here had Ora Ciega embedded in the skin under the nail. It was tested in a private lab so I trust the results.”

  “Under the nail is consistent with someone who handled it a lot,” Espinosa said. “Mixing, measuring. Packaging. If we find the same presentation here we can draw the obvious conclusion.”

  “These people were either mules or they stole a stash from someone else,” she said. “Could the same people have killed our cruise ship victim as well as all these people?”

  Espinosa drew hard on his cigarette. “I take it you didn’t get an arrest?”

  “No,” she said. “We had two suspects, both members of the crew. The purser all but confessed. We were in the interrogation room, when we learned that the case was being reassigned and they were both free to go. The ship sailed the same day.”

  “Could the crew have done this as well?”

  “I don’t know,” Emilia said doubtfully. “They were prissy norteamericanos. It seems a long shot.” Without knowing Espinosa’s allegiances, Emilia wondered if she’d said too much. For all she knew, he’d gotten himself placed in charge of this investigation in order to hide evidence or deflect blame.

  One of the uniformed officers walking the perimeter of the yellow tape marched up to Espinosa. The senior officer turned his back to Emilia and had a conversation with his subordinate. Emilia gathered that the press had heard of the killing field and a news team was on the way.

  As Espinosa talked and smoked, Emilia shivered despite the heat. She felt those restless whispers again, stories from the souls of those who’d been chopped up and discarded like trash. Mexico was full of untold stories of people who disappeared or died violently and left little behind except sorrow and questions. Someday, someone like Emilia might find out what had happened. But even if she did, who could she tell?

  ☼

  Ten minutes later, after a bumpy drive over the new dirt road, Espinosa parked in front of the crazy quilt fence. The dogs howled an angry welcome.

  Emilia got out of the vehicle. “Pepe,” she yelled.

  Father and son emerged from the curtained doorway. The old man beat the dogs into silence with a stick as Pepe shuffled over to the makeshift gate.

  “You didn’t say goodbye yesterday,” he said to Emilia.

  “I know.” Emilia nodded. “That’s why I came back.”

  She and Espinosa had stopped by the equipment tent to grab some sweet rolls from the coffee mess. Emilia held out the box, conscious of offering the food as if to an animal. “I brought you a treat.”

  Pepe cautiously passed through the gate. To Emilia’s relief he closed it behind him without letting any of the dogs through. “What’s in there?”

  “Conchas,” Emilia said.

  Espinosa got out of the car but stayed on the other side of the vehicle.

  Pepe grabbed the box, opened it, and took out a shell-shaped roll. He squeezed it, mashing the fluffy pastry, and jammed half of it into his mouth.

  “I want to talk to you about the finger field,” Emilia said.

  Pepe stuffed in the rest of the roll. He chewed with his mouth open, beige bits of dough swirling between rubbery lips.

  “How did you know it was there?”

  Pepe shook his head. He reminded Emilia today of a cow. Dull, slow-moving, cud-chewing.

  “It’s far to walk all the way up there,” Emilia tried again. “A long walk from here.”

  Pepe swallowed. “I like to walk.”

  “How did you know to go there?”

  “I followed the trucks.”

  “You told me about seeing trucks yesterday,” Emilia said encouragingly. “Whose trucks were they?”

  “The men who planted the finger field.” Pepe stuffed another pastry into his mouth. “I wanted to watch the people grow. But nobody came to water them.”

  Emilia felt her stomach flip again. She forced a smile. “Who were the men who planted the field, Pepe? Were they friends of yours?
”

  “There were trucks,” Pepe said around his mouthful.

  Before Emilia could speak again she had to turn her head to find a breath that didn’t smell of either sewage or body odor. “How many trucks?”

  “He doesn’t know his numbers.” The old man behind the fence spoke up for the first time.

  Emilia took a roll out of the box in Pepe’s hand and went over to the fence. “Did you see who was in the trucks?” She handed the roll to the old man, keeping her arm high to avoid the dogs’ snapping jaws.

  The old man turned the roll over in his hands. “They came at night. In the dark.”

  “When was the last time they came?”

  The old man bit into the roll. “One truck came six or seven days ago. Not like the feast day of the Virgin of Guadalupe when there were lots.”

  Emilia looked at Espinosa. The feast day was 12 December. That made the timing right, based on what the forensic experts at the field had said. The federale nodded in silent agreement.

  “Did you tell anyone about the trucks?” Emilia asked.

  The old man turned.

  “Did you tell Los Martillos?” Emilia called. “Or did the trucks belong to them?”

  He went into the house.

  Pepe dropped the box and edged toward the fence. Emilia blocked his path. “Did you tell Los Martillos? The men in the white tee shirts.”

  “His dog’s dead,” Pepe said.

  Emilia took a step back, disconcerted by the abrupt change in direction. She looked around. The dogs were still on the other side of the rattletrap fence, stropping their paws in the dirt and nosing at unseen debris. “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “I forgot,” Pepe said. “We’re not supposed to talk to you.” He disappeared through the gate and into the house. Left alone, the dogs began to bark and howl as they ran along the inside perimeter of the fence.

  “Over here,” Espinosa said.

  The federale was standing in the tall grass several meters away. Emilia clambered over the ruts in the hard-packed dirt and waded into the grass. Espinosa held up a hand to stop her progress.