Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3)

by Carmen Amato

  On the last weekend of her administrative leave, Emilia asked Kurt to take her back to Gallo Pinto.

  “Are you sure you’re up to it?” Kurt asked.

  “Yes.”

  Kurt put on some music as they headed east on the highway to San Marco. Maná sang about a lost love. It was one of Emilia’s favorite songs, even if the video was incredibly tragic.

  “Thanks for doing this with me,” Emilia said. “I know you think it’s crazy.”

  “You do a lot of crazy things, Em,” Kurt said. “This isn’t one of them.”

  She’d stayed at the Palacio Réal after being discharged from the hospital and had a feeling that she’d be spending more time there and less time in the house with Sophia and Ernesto. Jacques brought her fabulous dinners, Olivas paid his respects, all the bartenders from the Pasodoble Bar visited, Raul the pianist played her a special concert one night as she and Kurt sat in the lobby, and even Christine came up with some magazines for her. Emilia was touched by it all, even as she realized it had taken a shooting to make her feel more at ease in the hotel.

  There was no roadblock as they approached Gallo Pinto, although they saw two navy and white federale trucks parked near intersections in the center of town. Shops and outdoor restaurants were open. The small church was having an event and the adjacent playground was in full swing with kids playing on the apparatus and parents on nearby benches eating churros, roast corn, and cotton candy.

  The road that the federales had carved through the sugar cane and scrubby landscape wasn’t hard to find. Kurt’s SUV rocked and bucked as it climbed to the top of the hill. He stopped near a stanchion the federales had left behind. A ribbon of yellow crime scene tape fluttered from the top like an explorer’s pennant.

  When Kurt opened her door, Emilia got out of the car with her shoulder bag. She walked past the stanchion, taking in the desolate scene, listening to the whisper of restless souls as they plucked at her own.

  There was little left to show what the place had been. Before leaving, the federales had flattened the earth where they’d dug up those piecemeal graves. What stray clumps the wind coming off the ocean hadn’t scoured away, the sun had beat into submission. The field was flat and empty. The only movement came from scraps of yellow tape stuck to scrubby pines or the few remaining stanchions.

  There was no trace of the atrocities that had been committed. Nothing except whispers on the wind.

  “Are you okay?” Kurt asked.

  Emilia swallowed and nodded.

  “Pick a spot,” he said.

  Emilia walked across the field. It seemed larger than when she’d been there with the federales and their tents of equipment. She found herself drawn to the cliff side. The pines and palms still hid the view but she could hear the surf far below. Two metal stanchions remained, joined by a straight piece of crime scene tape that rattled in the breeze. It could serve as a headstone.

  “Here,” she called.

  Kurt brought a shovel and the cooler from the car. “You okay?” he asked. “Want to sit in the shade while I do this?”

  “No,” Emilia said. “I’ll stay.”

  Kurt drove the point of the shovel into the ground. The dirt was rock hard from months without rain and it took a long time for him to dig the hole. Sweat was rolling off Kurt’s face and arms and staining the front of his shirt before he was done. Emilia was drenched in sweat, too, her cotton sundress limp against her skin. Her right arm itched inside the cast.

  When the hole was deep enough, Kurt put down the shovel and opened the cooler. Emilia took out the small package. The finger was wrapped the way it had come from the Pinkerton lab, swathed in waxy cloth and encased in a zip-lock bag with directions to return it to the Acapulco morgue.

  “Do you want to say something?” Kurt asked.

  Emilia bent and gently put the package into the hole. “May Padre Pro be there to receive you,” she murmured.

  “Amen,” Kurt said. He filled in the tiny grave.

  Emilia found her rosary in her shoulder bag. “Do you remember the day we went to Villa de Refugio?” she asked.

  Kurt nodded. “You told me about stealing chocolate coins.”

  “I didn’t tell you the whole story,” Emilia said.

  “Why not?” Kurt asked.

  Emilia squeezed the rosary so hard the edges of the case dug into her palm. “I’m not sure. I’ve never told anyone.”

  He didn’t respond, just waited. A gust off the ocean lifted a wisp of yellow hair that lay across his forehead and Emilia’s heart stuttered.

  “Everything I told you was the truth,” she said. “Except the part about getting the coins. Remember I said that the big display case got knocked over? Glass everywhere? I grabbed up the coins and we ran away.”

  Kurt nodded.

  “I thought I had grabbed a coin but what I’d really gotten was this.” Emilia opened her palm and held it out for him to see.

  The rosary case was a gold disk about 2 inches in diameter and about half an inch thick. The cover was embossed with the likeness of a man with an oval face and large eyes. Running along the circular edge were the words Blessed Miguel Pro Juarez S.J.

  “It’s solid 18 karat gold,” Emilia said as she popped the tiny latch. The rosary inside was a delicate thread of gold chain and tiny round beads. “A special rosary to commemorate his beatification in 1988.”

  “This must be worth a couple of pesos,” Kurt said. He took the rosary beads from her and inspected the cross and the Padre Pro medallion that joined the thread into a circle.

  “It’s a limited edition.” Familiar guilt swept over Emilia. “Worth a fortune.”

  “Hey.” Kurt tipped her chin up. “You didn’t mean to steal it, Em.”

  “I never gave it back, either.” Emilia pulled away from his hand, ashamed to meet his eyes. “I didn’t want to. A few times when money was really tight, I thought about trying to sell it. But I never could.”

  “Nobody’s judging you, Em.”

  “I had it in my shirt pocket when Perez shot me,” Emilia said. “Right over my heart. The point-blank shots compromised the vest. One of the rounds impacted right over the rosary.”

  Kurt looked again at the case in her hand. “I don’t see any dents.”

  “I know,” Emilia said. “It should have been destroyed. But it wasn’t. I wasn’t, either.”

  “I’ve been on the battlefield, Em,” Kurt said slowly. “They say nobody there is an atheist and it’s true. You were meant to have that rosary. It was meant to be protecting you that night up on the Torre Metropolitano.”

  Emilia felt tears prick the back of her eyes. “You think Padre Pro saved me?”

  Kurt coiled the beads back into the case. “From what you told me, Padre Pro was on the right side. Could be he’s been looking out for you all this time.”

  Emilia blinked hard.

  “You okay?” Kurt asked.

  “One more thing. Help me open this.” Emilia showed Kurt the tiny vial of holy water from the Vatican hidden inside the top of the case. She had never taken it out. Until now.

  As Kurt held the case, Emilia pried out the vial with her left hand. She worked the cork loose and let a drop of holy water fall onto the dirt covering the grave containing the finger. As the breeze freshened, she walked across the field, scattering holy water.

  The breeze stilled as she emptied the vial. The whispers faded to nothing. The air was soundless. Clean. Empty.

  Kurt came up beside her and tears slid down Emilia’s face. He put his arms around her.

  “You were wrong, you know,” Emilia sniffed into Kurt’s chest.

  “Impossible. About what?”

  “You said the hotel was my safe zone,” she said.

  “That I did,” Kurt said. “And it is.”

  “No, you were wrong,” Emilia said. “You’re my safe zone. Not the hotel. You.”

  ☼

  They left Gallo Pinto as easily as they’d come, with no roadblocks or me
n in white tees carrying long guns. Emilia’s rosary was back in her shoulder bag and she felt buoyant. Absolved. Shed of a heavy burden she’d carried for too long.

  “Given that today seems to be a day for clearing the air,” Kurt said as he drove. “I want it on the record that there’s nothing going on between me and Christine. I’m no cheater, Em.”

  “I know,” Emilia said. “I’m sorry. Everything was wrong with the world that night. I didn’t mean to go all crazy on you.”

  “As long as you believe me.”

  Emilia couldn’t stop smiling. “I do. I don’t like Christine but that doesn’t mean you’re fooling around with her.”

  “Wow,” Kurt said. “Such a solid vote of confidence.”

  “Why do you put up with me?” Emilia asked. “I’m either getting shot at or acting like a crazy woman.”

  “Put up with you?” Kurt flashed her a broad grin. “This sounds uncharacteristically like angling for a compliment.”

  “No, I’m serious,” Emilia said.

  Kurt’s happy expression faded into introspection. “When I was a Marine, life was . . . I don’t know. Bright. Sharp. On a knife edge. Lives depended on you. Things demanded more than you thought you had and you always had to find a way to come up with it.” He glanced away from the road and at Emilia. “You know what I mean?”

  The road unwound before them and the wind whistled through the open windows as Maná sang. Emilia nodded. “I know.”

  “Living on the edge is addictive,” Kurt said. “I missed that feeling. Until I met you.”

  “So it’s because I’m a cop?” Emilia asked.

  “No, it’s because of everything you are,” Kurt said. “You’re a fascinating woman, Em. I can’t resist the challenge.”

  “Challenge?” Emilia wasn’t sure she liked that word in this context.

  “It’s my personal challenge to uncover all your secrets, Em. Every last one.”

  “You make it sound like I keep things from you,” Emilia said indignantly.

  Kurt laughed all the way to the turnoff at San Marco.

  Chapter 34

  Emilia walked into the squadroom with Silvio. The cast and sling meant that she was on limited duty, but it was good to be back.

  Macias and Sandor were back from the training course in Mexico City. Ibarra exuded enough smoke stink to be a chimney. Castro and Gomez were still dangerous idiots.

  The only change was an empty desk where Flores had sat.

  Loyola greeted her with a curt nod before starting the 9:00 am meeting. It was a litany of the same violent crimes. Everybody had a pile of unsolved. The morgue was fully stocked. Two overnight shootings. Macias and Sandor were up on the rota and took the dispatches.

  After the meeting the detectives milled around with coffee and sweet rolls. It was a rare few minutes of camaraderie. Loyola didn’t join in, however. As soon as the meeting was over, he went into his office and shut the door.

  When the group broke up, Emilia wrapped a pastry in a paper napkin and tapped on the office door.

  “Come.”

  Emilia went in and closed the door behind her. “Brought you a concha before Castro and Gomez finish them off.”

  “Thanks.” Loyola nodded and she put the roll on his desk. “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “Pretty grateful for that vest,” Emilia said.

  Loyola nodded again, dug some file folders out of a pile on his desk, and held them out to her. “Taking you and Silvio off the rota for two weeks until you can shoot again. Got a couple of robbery cases might be related. Looks like a ring is operating around the Fuerte San Diego. Lifting small tech items off tourists. Break it up before the mayor’s office starts calling.”

  He hadn’t offered her a seat but Emilia sat down in one of the chairs facing his desk. “Electronics? We got a lead on a fence for the stuff?”

  Loyola sighed. “Nothing.”

  “Well,” Emilia said, thinking of Chavito and the pimp’s network of contacts. “We’ll get on it. I’ve got a source down in that neighborhood.”

  Loyola stared at the pastry on his desk. Emilia made no move to leave.

  “You heard the news?” Loyola asked after a long moment. “About the head of Internal Affairs?”

  “I heard.”

  Loyola poked the concha as if assessing the amount of icing on top. “He had something on everyone. Eyes everywhere.”

  Emilia shrugged, but her thoughts raced. Was Loyola referring to himself? Or Chief Salazar? Or was Loyola simply demonstrating that he knew the truth about the deaths of Almaprieto and Perez? Had Flores told him before resigning?

  “Internal Affairs,” she said noncommittally. “Crap job.”

  “Rumor has it,” Loyola continued. “Almaprieto had something on everyone except Obregon Sosa, head of the union.”

  “Obregon’s pretty slick,” Emilia said warily.

  “I heard you had lunch with him awhile ago,” Loyola said. “Was he slick then, too?”

  “Yeah,” Emilia said, with as much meaning as she could muster. “Pretty slick.”

  Suddenly Loyola threw himself back in his chair. “Look, Cruz. I don’t know if that grievance was the way to go but you fucking nearly killed me. My balls were stuck in my throat for a week.”

  “You suggested I owed fellow officers blow jobs for not raping me,” Emilia exclaimed. “You’re lucky to have any balls left at all.”

  Loyola reddened. “Okay, so maybe not every fucking word that comes out of my mouth is perfect. Rayos, I didn’t ask for this job.”

  “Well, I asked for mine,” Emilia countered. “And fought damn hard to get it. If I have to fight to keep it, I will.”

  Loyola lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Por Dios,” he swore. “You and Silvio deserve each other.”

  Emilia stood up, clutching the robbery folders with her good hand. “You want a cup of coffee to go with that roll?” she snapped.

  “No,” Loyola bit back. “I got a cola.”

  “So much cola isn’t good for you.”

  “With any luck, I’ll have a heart attack and someone else can have this fucking job.”

  It was a draw, Emilia decided, and she was oddly pleased as she left the office. They both understood that the grievance was dead in the water. Neither had apologized, although Loyola had all but said that he knew he sucked at his job. It was as decent an outcome as any having to do with personnel issues that she’d experienced in over 12 years as a cop. Still, she wouldn’t let her guard down again.

  On the other side of their computer screens, Silvio was slurping coffee and swearing at his keyboard. From the commotion she knew he was completing the monthly statistics report. Emilia ignored him as she opened the first folder Loyola had given her. Ten statements from tourists who’d been pickpocketed after visiting the Fuerte San Diego. All had lost cell phones and small cameras.

  The second report was a raid on a house thought to belong to a local gang. Anonymous tip. No arrests but a big haul of stolen electronics.

  Photos of the seized items were clipped to the folder. Emilia flipped through them. The techs had done a good job of documenting the evidence. Big clear plastic bags, like the zip-lock bag used by the hospital to save her clothes, were full of small electronics. She counted four bags of cameras in one photo. A larger photo of each individual bag followed. Each bag contained at least 20 devices.

  The next set of photos were of bags of cell phones. Emilia paged through each shot, not that it really made a difference, but it felt good to be at work again, engaging her brain and trying to make sense of the city’s crime.

  A jolt of hot pink stood out in a bag of gray and black cell phones. The pink case was studded with rhinestones around the edges. More sparkles formed a big “Y” on the back.

  “Madre de Dios,” Emilia said out loud. “It’s Yolanda’s cell phone.”

  “What’s your problem now, Cruz?” Silvio growled from the other side of their computer screens.

  The tra
il to Lila Jimenez Lata was suddenly fresh again.

  “Get your keys, Franco,” Emilia said.

  El Fin

  Glossary of Spanish Terms

  Abarrotes: snacks

  Bayos blancos: white beans

  Chatarra: junk

  El Norte: the United States

  Jefe: chief, person in charge

  Madre de Dios: Mother of God

  Mercado: market

  Norteamericano: North American

  Pendejo: asshole, jerk

  Por dedazo: expression meaning “by the finger” to indicate patronage

  Rayos: exclamation, similar to “oh hell”

  Sicario: cartel henchman or assassin

  Tumbadore: person who steals drug shipments

  About the Author

  In addition to political thriller The Hidden Light of Mexico City, Carmen Amato is the author of the Emilia Cruz mystery novels set in Acapulco, including Cliff Diver, Hat Dance and the collection of short stories Made in Acapulco. Originally from New York, her books draw on her experiences living in Mexico and Central America. A cultural observer and occasional nomad, she currently divides her time between the United States and Central America. Visit her website at http://carmenamato.net and follow her on Twitter @CarmenConnects.

  Fiction by Carmen Amato

  THE HIDDEN LIGHT OF MEXICO CITY

  CLIFF DIVER: An Emilia Cruz Novel

  HAT DANCE: An Emilia Cruz Novel

  DIABLO NIGHTS: An Emilia Cruz Novel

  MADE IN ACAPULCO: The Emilia Cruz Stories

  The Angler: An Emilia Cruz Story

  The Cliff: An Emilia Cruz Story

  DIABLO NIGHTS is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons living or dead, is entirely coincidental.