Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  There was a dead dog at his feet.

  It was a short-haired mongrel like the dogs in Pepe’s yard. It had been shot several times and flies buzzed around the bloody wounds. From the sight and smell, Emilia guessed that the dog had been dead less than 24 hours.

  She stumbled back to the path and counted the dogs behind the fence. There were four. One less than yesterday.

  “A warning from Los Martillos,” Emilia gulped. “We have to check on Gloria’s mother. She’s a friend of Pepe’s. They might think Gloria took me to see her mother, too.”

  Espinosa looked grim as he dug out his keys. “You’re a decent cop,” he said, to Emilia’s surprise.

  ☼

  By the time Emilia was ready to leave Gallo Pinto, the television news trucks from Acapulco had begun to arrive. Emilia drove slowly down the main road toward the roadblock still guarding the route to the highway and the turnoff to Acapulco at San Marco. She saw men in brilliant white Los Martillos tee shirts, including Valentino Pinto, surrounding two vans. The Televisa logo on the vans was outlined against the setting sun. Journalists were showing their credentials. One had his cell phone pressed to his ear and was speaking excitedly. A couple of federale cops in dark uniforms watched, long guns hanging off their shoulders by safety straps, their hands on the stocks of the weapons.

  Emilia slowed the Suburban. She’d driven in that morning in a convoy with the federales, but this time she was alone. She fully expected to be stopped.

  Valentino turned away from the vans to watch the Suburban. His eyes met hers.

  Emilia knew he’d recognized her. His stony expression shifted imperceptibly.

  One of the Los Martillos moved to halt the Suburban. Keeping his eyes locked with Emilia’s, Valentino used the flat of his hand to stop him.

  Emilia rode the brake and the Suburban inched through the roadblock. Valentino’s gaze followed and she felt the release like the snap of an elastic band when she was clear of Gallo Pinto.

  Chapter 25

  Loyola wasn’t in the squadroom Thursday morning, and the morning meeting was cancelled again. Which was just as well, because the first thing Emilia saw when she opened her email inbox was a notice that Loyola had filed a grievance with the union.

  She read the message through twice, furious with herself, both for dropping her guard and for responding with such a show of anger. The message directed her to appear at a preliminary union hearing on Monday regarding the charge of sexual assault. She should be prepared to answer questions related to a reported incident on the date in question. A lawyer was not advised at this time.

  Emilia looked around the squadroom, Besides herself and Flores, only Castro and Gomez were there. Ibarra and Silvio had left already, taking the day’s dispatches with them, and Macias and Sandor were still at that training course in Mexico City. Without Loyola radiating waves of uncertainty, the place felt calm.

  Gomez sang something vulgar as he filled his mug from the coffeemaker and Emilia felt another flush of anger. Emilia had never filed a grievance against either Castro or Gomez for their attacks on her in the detectives bathroom, knowing that any complaint would have been turned into a career-killing farce.

  Apparently Loyola had no such qualms.

  One by one, she’d called it a draw with the detectives who’d openly opposed her, even Castro, although not with Gomez. She’d gotten used to the mix of open taunting and silent resentment, but also grudging acceptance, that had developed in the squadroom over the years. But Loyola had shown her how tenuous it all was. She’d fallen into a trap of her own making with her rash response.

  Castro and Gomez left, noisily shoving at each other like a couple of teenaged idiots, and Emilia and Flores were alone in the squadroom. The young detective had called in sick on Wednesday while she’d been in Gallo Pinto. Today he was pale and subdued.

  “You want some coffee?” she asked as she got up with her mug.

  “No, thank you, Emilia.” Flores sat hunched in front of his computer, as if he’d been recently filleted with a boning knife.

  “Let’s go over some case files in ten minutes, okay?”

  “All right.” His voice was nearly inaudible.

  She got herself a cup of coffee and read through the rest of her inbox. Nothing was of real consequence until she found a note from Prade, confirming that a test of the blood sample taken from the body of Yolanda Lata, alias Yola de Trinidad, indicated the presence of drugs. Of interest, the substance in the blood sample matched the substance taken from the unidentified finger. Prade helpfully quoted the report provided by Señor Denton of the Pinkerton Agency.

  Emilia stared at the message. Three violent crimes: the killing field, Yolanda’s overdose, and the murder victim aboard the Pacific Grandeur. All connected by two threads: the Salva Diablo tattoos and the Ora Ciega deadly heroin mix.

  Bonilla and Ramos might be the chief suspects for the Pacific Grandeur murder but that was based on proximity and their own nervousness. There was nothing to link them to the death of a drugged-up hooker or a killing field 30 miles outside of Acapulco. Except the fact that the victim’s body had been stolen from the morgue, cut into chunks and dumped along with the pieces of other Salva Diablo gang members in the middle of nowhere.

  She uploaded the tattoo pictures she’d taken at the killing field, found her notebook, and copied all her disjointed notes into a master timeline encompassing the events of all three cases, going back as far as the feast day of the Virgin of Guadalupe, 12 December, when Pepe and his father had first heard the trucks. The feast day was always celebrated with fireworks, which would have been loud enough to cover the executions and melee of body chopping afterwards. Pepe had harvested the fingers about two weeks later.

  The timeline grew as she filled in the approximate dates when the Padre Pro finger was sold each time. Those dates were all prior to the day the Pacific Grandeur docked in Acapulco. Which coincidentally was the same day a man with a Salva Diablo tattoo went looking for a hooker, filled her full of Ora Ciega heroin from Colombia, and wound up dead of execution-style gunshots to the head. By the time he appeared on the scene, his fellow Salva Diablo gang members had been dead in their shallow graves for six weeks.

  Had he been part of the group but had somehow escaped the slaughter? Stayed in Mexico to look for whoever had killed his fellow gang members in that lonely field? Or had he been expecting the return of gang members who’d been muling drugs north, and came looking for them when they didn’t return to Honduras? Emilia didn’t have the answers to those questions and didn’t know if they mattered or not.

  The timeline wasn’t telling her anything. She flipped to a fresh page and started listing linkages. Customs and the cruise ship docks. Bonilla and Ramos. The Salva Diablo gang and Perez’s Organized Crime unit. Valentino and Los Martillos and Pepe’s dead dog. Espinosa and federales. Ora Ciega.

  She put down her pen, remembering the look on Valentino’s face as she’d driven through the roadblock on her way out of Gallo Pinto yesterday. Emilia wondered what his reaction would be if he knew that a box of sweet rolls had had a greater impact than his gun. Valentino and Los Martillos almost certainly had killed the dog belonging to Pepe’s father. Had they also murdered and dismembered the people in the killing field? But why?

  A second cup of coffee and her nerves were on fire. Emilia pulled out the schedule of all the dates the Pacific Grandeur had visited Acapulco. She’d have to requisition immigration records to see if Bonilla and Ramos had been on the ship every time. But even if the ship’s schedule said the timing was right, and Bonilla and Ramos had a reason to kill the Salva Diablo gang member, how did the two officers connect to Los Martillos?

  That was the problem. The players didn’t connect in any reasonable fashion. A gang from Honduras, two cruise ship officers, and the ragtag community police from some obscure Costa Chica village known only for poverty and a vegetable cannery.

  “Fuck,” Emilia blurted out loud.

  She
shoved back her chair and nearly ran across the squadroom to the one computer that had an open link to the web. The machine took forever to boot up but then she was in, typing Fiesta Verde cannery into the search engine.

  The first 5 pages of results listed recipes for salsa verde. Emilia searched again: cannery Gallo Pinto, but that, too, yielded only recipes. Eventually she came to a directory of agricultural industries in the state of Guerrero. On the third page of the directory website she found a one paragraph listing for the Fiesta Verde cannery:

  Fiesta Verde Holdings. 30 employees. Specializing in canned tomatoes, beets, and beans for Acapulco food service firms. Major customers: Noble Pacific Cruise Lines, Sea Salt Restaurants.

  A phone number was listed, along with a post office box address.

  Emilia forced herself to breathe. She had it. The cannery was the cornerstone of the whole mess.

  It was why Bonilla and Ramos were so worried about the kitchen holds being taped off. She replayed the scene at the ship the first time she and Silvio were there. The way they’d insisted that the food deliveries had to be made, even to the extent of taking down the crime scene tape.

  Somehow the Salva Diablo gang had figured out that someone was running an Ora Ciega pipeline from Colombia, through the Fiesta Verde cannery, and onto the cruise ship from El Norte. The known tumbadores had followed the route and tried to intercept and steal the drugs at the cannery. Whoever ran the pipeline killed them and chopped them up to send a message. As Espinosa had opined, the executions must have been videotaped; a very effective way to get a brutal point across.

  The video had found its way to the lone Salva Diablo who’d ended up in the Pacific Grandeur’s meat locker. The “friends” he’d been looking for weren’t either the people in the field, nor were they Bonilla and Ramos. No, he’d been looking for killers, but only had information about the Pacific Grandeur’s schedule.

  “Are you all right?” Flores asked.

  Emilia started and realized he was over by the coffee machine looking at her quizzically. She refreshed the screen in front of her. “Orlando, come look at this.”

  “All right,” he said.

  Flores wheeled his chair over to the internet machine and sat down. His eyes were red.

  “When we were at the docks,” Emilia said, trying to sound brisk and hoping that he’d pull himself together. “The Pacific Grandeur was loading supplies. Some of the trucks were from a company called Fiesta Verde--.”

  Without any warning, Flores began to cry. He covered his face with both hands and the quiet squadroom echoed with his gasping sobs.

  “Look, Orlando,” Emilia said uncomfortably, after a minute of unrestrained weeping. “This is part of police work.”

  “Those poor people.” Flores sucked in his breath and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “It doesn’t matter who they were. No one deserves to die like that.”

  “No, they didn’t.”

  “All cut up like cows in a slaughterhouse.” Flores began to cry all over again.

  If she didn’t get him to stop, Emilia knew that she’d be sobbing, too, right in the middle of the squadroom. And with her luck, it would be right when Castro and Gomez decided to come back. Not that she wanted them to catch Flores crying, either. They’d never let him live it down.

  The problem was that Flores was so unprepared for this job. Too young, too immature. Madre de Dios, but he was in the wrong line of work.

  Emilia swiveled her chair, and put her hands on the younger man’s shoulders. “Orlando, look at me.”

  “I’m sorry, Emilia.” Flores gulped.

  “It’s okay,” Emilia said. She gave him a gentle shake, then dropped her hands. “This was a really bad thing. But if you’re going to be a cop you have to learn to deal with stuff like this.”

  Flores shook his head. His eyes were swimming. “I didn’t know this job was going to be so hard.”

  “It is a hard job,” Emilia agreed. “But after a while you get used to it.” Or you quit.

  “Like you.”

  “It’s still hard for me,” Emilia admitted, thinking of Tuesday night. She didn’t know how she would have coped without Kurt. She’d probably still be crying two days later, too.

  “How do you cope?”

  “Family. Friends,” Emilia said vaguely. “I work out. Kickboxing helps get a lot of the anger out.”

  Flores shook his head. “I’m terrible at boxing.”

  It was like consoling a sad puppy. Despite everything, Emilia felt a protective rush for this kid. She’d had her cousins to take care of her, explain things, and prepare her for what she’d have to face as a cop. But Flores, despite his por dedazo appointment, seemed to have no one. Except her.

  Emilia gave half a smile. “Everybody does something. Runs or lifts weights or martial arts.” She paused. “But if this job isn’t for you, there’s no shame in that, either.”

  “I have to be a cop,” he said, seemingly startled at her implication.

  Emilia didn’t really want to deal with Flores’s life choices right now. “Just give it some time,” she said.

  “Thanks, Emilia.” Flores sniffed again.

  “Sure--.”

  Before she could take the conversation back to her theory about the Fiesta Verde cannery, Flores enveloped her in a hug with his arms around her waist. He nestled his head on Emilia’s shoulder.

  Emilia didn’t move. It was an embrace a child would give to a teacher. Her body was pinned awkwardly to her chair by his weight. She desperately hoped no one was anywhere near the open squadroom door.

  After a count of three, she twisted her weight to one side. Flores immediately let go. But to her surprise, he brushed his lips against her cheek before settling back in his chair. His eyes were still watery and he gave no indication that he’d done anything peculiar.

  “Maybe you should go home, Orlando,” Emilia heard herself suggest. “Take a little more time to get past this. Nothing is going to happen today.”

  Flores unconsciously turned to look at the open doorway. “Are you sure that will be okay?”

  “I’m sure.”

  Flores stood and looked down gratefully. “I’m really lucky, Emilia,” he said. “So lucky to have you as a partner.”

  “On the job training,” Emilia corrected him. “Mentor, not partner.”

  Flores closed down his computer and left. He hadn’t heard her. Probably hadn’t even realized that he’d kissed her.

  With the Fiesta Verde information still on the computer screen, Emilia slumped in the chair, trying to process exactly what had just happened with Flores. His crush wasn’t going away. Sooner or later she was going to have to deal with it.

  Her cell phone rang, giving her a start as it buzzed angrily against her desktop across the room. Emilia got to the phone and leaned against the desk as she answered the call.

  Ronaldo Olivas Camacho, head of security for the Palacio Réal, was on the other end. He was a former cop from Monterrey, humorless and discreet. They’d spoken before and exchanged greetings when she was at the hotel. But he’d never called her. Emilia braced herself to hear that something bad had happened to Kurt.

  “I’m calling about an incident in the bar a week or so ago,” Olivas said. “A drunk accosted you.”

  “It was hardly even an incident,” Emilia said, both relieved and surprised. “To tell the truth, I’d almost forgotten the whole thing.”

  “Our staff takes such things seriously,” Olivas said. “Not because you’re associated with the Señor Rucker, you understand. The Palacio Réal has certain standards.”

  “Of course.” Emilia relaxed. She hitched herself up onto the desk and let her feet dangle off the side.

  “The man who accosted you carried a cédula in the name of Efraim Vilez Garcia,” Olivas said.

  Carried a cédula in the name of. Not was named. Emilia tensed again. “Go on,” she said.

  “I still have some contacts,” Olivas said. “They ran his cédula. Ef
raim Vilez Garcia died six months ago in Puerta Vallarta.”

  Emilia found a pen. She scribbled the name in the margin of a robbery report. “Anything else?”

  “His business card listed him as a rep for a medical supply company in Mexico City.” Olivas paused and Emilia heard the rattle of papers. “Acuna Technologies.”

  “It doesn’t exist,” Emilia said.

  “You knew all this already?” Olivas asked sharply.

  “No. I’m guessing.” Emilia wrote down the details he read off from the business card. “One other thing. Was he driving a rental car? From Banderas Rentals at the airport?”

  “Yes.” Olivas cleared his throat. “Is there something we here at the Palacio Réal should be aware of, Detective?”

  “Nothing that involves the hotel,” Emilia said.

  “What about Señor Rucker?” Olivas asked.

  “He’s not involved, either.”

  Olivas cleared his throat again. “I’ll be passing on this information to him. This was a courtesy call, given that you were involved in the incident. And of course, your position in law enforcement. In case there was additional information we needed to be aware of.”

  Emilia felt a grudging respect for the man. Olivas was fishing for information, the way any good investigator would do. He was well connected and loyal to both the hotel and his boss. But if Kurt was going to find out that Emilia was in trouble, he wasn’t going to find out from his security chief.

  When the call ended Emilia went back to the internet computer and tried to concentrate again on her discovery. The excitement over the Fiesta Verde cannery was still there, but now it was tempered by fear.

  The gray sedan on the cliff above the Palacio Réal, Señora Navarro’s insurance agent, and the drunk at the hotel. Three encounters, three dead men.

  She could guess who they were and why they were circling around. But it would be better to know.

  Before a fourth showed up.

  Chapter 26