by Carmen Amato
“What about their official statements?” Emilia indicated the hotel.
“You can do that when you come to visit Loverboy. Or make them come down to the station.”
“I’m not--.”
“Here we go,” the body guy said. The two morgue workers wrestled the heavy body bag over the side and let it drop to the pier where it landed with a muffled thud. The workers climbed after it and carried it up the pier, the awkward bundle swinging as the few hotel guests on the beach gawked.
There was nothing to see on the open deck; it was clean except for the blood stains that crossed to the cabin door. Emilia and Rico went into the cabin. The big flashlight was still on the floor, rolling with the swells that rocked the docked craft. Emilia picked it up, consciously stepping around the big bloodstain where the corpse had been. The flashlight was turned on but the batteries were dead. Although it was wet with the seawater that was on the deck, the batteries were not corroded. “You think someone could have killed him with this?” she asked.
Rico glanced at the flashlight as Emilia put it into a evidence bag. “Why didn’t the techs take that?”
Emilia shrugged. “When was the last time they got everything?” The crime scene technicians were busy with a crime rate that made it impossible for the small unit to respond to every call.
Rico gestured to the boat controls. “The key’s in the ignition and turned. But the fuel gauge says empty.” The key was turned to the “on” position, the throttles were pushed forward, and the gas gauge was on empty. There was no blood on any of the controls.
Emilia started to examine the benches running around the interior of the cabin as Rico rifled through maritime charts. She lifted the bench cushion. The compartment underneath was full of clean beach towels. “We don’t know what we’re looking for, do we?”
“We’ll know it when we see it,” Rico muttered. “Like a fucking head in a bucket.”
The boat was slim and compact. Emilia opened all the compartments under the cabin benches, finding nothing more exciting than two men’s swimsuits, a small one for a girl or petite woman, a few more clean beach towels and a shrink-wrapped carton of bottled water. There were no scratches or gouges in the polished wood planking of the deck or on the white fiberglass sides of the boat.
“No sign of a struggle besides the blood,” she said.
“None.” Rico looked around the sleek cabin. The edge of the cabin dashboard was rounded and trimmed with dark wood. The handrails inside the boat were tubular metal. Everything was polished and well maintained. “You think it was his boat?”
Emilia nodded. “It goes with the address.” She looked down the line of boats riding at anchor in the hotel marina. The bay curved and there was foliage in the way but she knew the Costa Esmeralda apartment building was just around the bend. No doubt the building had its own marina, too.
“I gave Silvio the registration number on the hull.” Rico wiped his face with his forearm. “They’ll run the ownership.”
“So either the boat is his or he borrowed it,” Emilia said.
“Good kind of boat for making fast trips.”
“Deliveries,” Emilia murmured. Fast boats were extremely useful in the drug running business. Mexico’s Pacific coast both north and south of Acapulco was pockmarked with coves perfect for small smuggling operations.
Rico shrugged. “Two boats meet up, deal goes bad. Bang. They take the stash, they leave him on his boat.”
“Too close to where he lives.” Emilia shook her head. This part of Punta Diamante was so exclusive in part because it was a bay-within-a-bay. “Lt. Inocente was smarter than that. He wouldn’t deal where he sleeps.”
“Maybe they followed him home and he couldn’t outrun them. Or when he ran out of gas they boarded and shot him.”
“Madre de Dios.” Emilia squinted out to sea. This investigation was going to be a nightmare. Hopefully, she and Rico would notify the family and then dump the whole mess into Silvio’s lap. He was the senior detective. He’d deal with it.
Rico went around the cabin once more, lifting cushions again and poking around in the storage compartments. “They must have taken all his identification. Wallet. Money.”
“And didn’t leave anything except the normal things you’d find on a boat.”
They walked back out to the open deck, again avoiding the blood trail. The short ladder leading over the side had the only sharp metal edges. The ladder steps were flat but clean.
Music was playing from somewhere on the hotel property. A couple of families had set up under the thatched palapas on the beach and kids shrieked in the waves lapping at the beach.
“What if he hit his head on the ladder?” Emilia asked, pointing to the steps.
“And then found a bag and put it on to keep his brains from falling out, then gunned the boat for home?” Rico asked sarcastically. “Only died because he ran out of gas?”
“Okay,” Emilia said. She’d spoken before the thought was fully formed. “Doesn’t explain the blood on the hull, either.”
“That probably came from the body being carried over the side.”
“What are the odds this is connected to the counterfeit?” Emilia asked softly.
“No bet.” Rico grimaced, found a bandana and mopped his face.
“Maybe he never told anyone he gave us some of it,” Emilia said, before Rico could say we’re next.
“I think he fucked us.” Rico wadded up the bandanna and stuffed it back into his jacket pocket. “We don’t know what he said, who he was in this with, or his killer’s next move. The question is what do we do now?”
That was Rico’s talent. He could identify a problem, worry at it. But he rarely had the imagination to solve it. Emilia felt fear like an iron band around her throat and she gulped warm sea air as the sun shone down and the Pacific glinted like a jewel. A pelican beat its wings into the air from where it had been perched on a piling at the far end of the hotel marina. A hoarse bird call carried on the breeze.
Rico looked at her hopefully, waiting for an answer. “We’ll do our job,” Emilia finally said and picked up the evidence bag containing the flashlight. “Maybe we’ll get something from the fingerprints.”
Rico slid a hand under his jacket and adjusted his shoulder holster. “Let’s go find his family,” he said. “Make sure they’re not dead, too.”
They climbed over the back of the boat and walked down the pier, shedding their latex gloves as they went. Kurt met them as they crossed the open lobby on the way to the parking lot.
“The body is that of police lieutenant Fausto Inocente,” Emilia said staring straight at Kurt. “Chief of detectives. We’ll have to wait for the coroner’s report to be sure of the cause of death.”
She saw Kurt suck in his breath. This time she knew he was a swimmer.
Rico took out his keys.
“Someone will be back to take statements,” Emilia went on, speaking stiffly so her face wouldn’t betray her fear. “The boat will stay where it is for now while we figure out who it belongs to. We’re sorry for the inconvenience to your dock.”
“Well,” said Kurt. He drew in another breath. “Any reason for him fetching up on my beach?”
Emilia shook her head. “Probably just a coincidence.”
Chapter 6
The Costa Esmeralda apartment building had 15 floors, a fountain in the entrance courtyard, a lobby bigger than Emilia’s entire house, and its own private marina. Lt. Inocente’s apartment was one of four penthouses.
“Who paid for this, do you think?” Rico looked around as Emilia rang the doorbell. The door itself was elaborately carved with an iguana design that followed the grain of the wood. Enormous stone pots of ferns stood on either side like sentinels and a skylight illuminated the spacious hallway. The elevator had been mirrored, inside and out. In the lobby, an elaborately uniformed concierge with a pencil moustache had been unimpressed with their badges and insisted on calling the apartment to see if they could be rece
ived. Rico had nearly shot him.
Emilia pressed the bell again. The doorbell chimes sounded like church bells. Emilia’s stomach was tight as they waited for someone to answer.
A maid opened the door. She was around Emilia’s age, with wide dark eyes and glossy black hair pulled back in a bun. Despite the standard grey maid’s dress and white apron, she had a good figure and shapely legs. She would have been a beautiful woman except for a startling spray of puckered scars around her mouth and lower cheeks. Several open sores looked inflamed and painful.
“Police,” Rico said and showed his badge. “We need to speak to la señora.
“Of course,” the maid said. She opened the door wide and they walked through the foyer into a living room so icy white it made Emilia squint. The only color was a breathtaking view of the bay with blue sky and green water showing through the wall of windows opposite the door.
A stylishly slim woman rose from the white sofa and set aside the magazine she was reading. “Hello,” she said. “I’m Maria Teresa Diaz Inocente. You must be the people Fausto’s office called about.”
“I’m Detective Portillo and this is Detective Cruz,” Rico said.
“Yes,” Maria Teresa said vaguely. She let her eyes travel up and down Emilia. “And what is it that you do, señorita?”
“I’m a detective,” Emilia said. The woman was only a few years older than Emilia but she had the bearing of a woman born to privilege and used to elegance. Her hair was the color of brass and lifted into a high shiny ponytail. She wore superbly fitting beige silk capri pants, a black silk sleeveless blouse and flat shoes decorated with a gold buckle on the toe.
“I didn’t think they allowed women detectives.” Her expression said that no woman who wore faded black jeans, sports sandals and denim jackets should have walked through the front door, much less hold a position of responsibility.
“Do you mind if we sit, señora?” Rico asked huskily.
“Oh.” Maria Teresa looked around, obviously unprepared for the question and Emilia gathered that they weren’t welcome to sit on the living room’s white sofa or chairs.
“Would la señora prefer to receive in the dining room?” the maid asked quietly.
“Yes.” Maria Teresa smiled at the maid. “An excellent idea, CeCe.”
The maid led them through a wide swinging door into the dining room. The room was only a little less stark than the living room, with a gold veined slab of marble for a table top and clear plastic chairs that Emilia had seen once in a magazine. Sheer white curtains flowed from floor to ceiling, outlining the incredible view through yet another wall of windows. The floor was limestone brick set in a herringbone pattern and a light fixture from outer space dangled from the ceiling.
Maria Teresa sat down and Emilia and Rico followed suit. CeCe shrank against a wall, next to a doorway that probably led to the kitchen.
The plastic chair bowed under Rico’s weight and he shifted uncomfortably and cleared his throat at the same time “Señora, you are married to Fausto Inocente, chief of detectives?
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you have any children, señora?”
“Of course. Two. They’re in school right now. Why do you ask?”
“We regret to say that your husband Fausto Inocente was found deceased this morning.”
“What nonsense,” Maria Teresa said immediately.
“Our condolences, señora,” Rico went on. “He was found on a boat adrift near the Palacio Réal Hotel. That’s the hotel--.”
“Of course I know where that is,” Maria Teresa snapped. “How dare you come here with such nonsense.”
Emilia put her hand on Rico’s wrist and leaned forward. “Señora, I’m sorry, I truly am, but Lt. Inocente was found deceased this morning. That’s why we’re here.”
Emilia’s words resonated in a way Rico’s had not. Maria Teresa closed her eyes and seemed to fold in on herself a little. The room grew quiet. Emilia glanced up at CeCe. The maid was like a statue, staring at nothing, her disfigured face immobile.
“The cause of death appears to be a head wound,” Rico said, breaking the silence.
“You said on a boat?” Maria Teresa opened her eyes. They were watery but she wasn’t crying. She frowned as if she had just now understood what Rico had said. “Our boat?”
Rico nodded. “Could you describe your boat, señora?”
“It’s one of those fast boats. He always drives it too fast, even with the children on board. Likes to scare us all.”
“What color is it?”
“Dark red.”
“Where did he keep it?”
“Here.” Maria Teresa dabbed at an eye with a forefinger. “The building has a private marina. That’s why we moved here. Fausto wanted a boat.”
“Do you have the registration information?”
“CeCe,” Maria Teresa said. The maid took a step forward. Maria Teresa waved a hand at the her. “Go find my husband’s boat registration papers. Check in his study.”
“Of course, señora,” CeCe said softly and walked away, her feet practically silent on the stone floor. Emilia watched her for a moment, wondering about the woman’s disfiguring facial scars, then turned back to Maria Teresa.
“Is there someone you’d like to call, señora? A family member, maybe.”
“My parents,” Maria Teresa said distantly. Her eyes had strayed to the magnificent view out the window. “I’ll have to tell them. They’ll say they told me so. That I should never have let him be police. And Bruno. His brother.” She trailed off and pressed a finger to the bridge of her nose.
Emilia and Rico waited for a moment. Maria Teresa ignored them and stared expressionlessly out the window.
“Señora,” Emilia said. “This must be a terrible shock. But we need to ask you some questions about your husband’s whereabouts last night.”
Maria Teresa swung her head around, her shiny ponytail bobbing. “We have tickets to the Midsummer Ball in three days,” she said. “Do you have any idea how much they cost? Or who will be there? No, of course you don’t.” She shoved her chair back and stood up. “That pendejo! Dead on a boat three days before! Now what am I going to do?”
“Hey,” Rico started and Emilia jumped up before he made it all worse.
Maria Teresa touched her ponytail as if making sure her hairstyle had survived the bad news. “Fausto told me he’d die of alcohol. That being a police officer wasn’t as dangerous as they say.”
“I’m sorry, señora.” Emilia stood too. “Can I make you some tea--.”
“Tea?” Maria Teresa snapped. “You’re offering me tea in my own house?”
“Señora--.”
“Let’s just get your questions over and done with.”
“Yes, of course.” Emilia took out her notebook and slowly sat down. After a moment Maria Teresa sat as well.
Emilia turned to the timeline page she’d started at the hotel. “Señora, can you tell us what time your husband came home last night?”
“I don’t know.” Maria Teresa shook her head. “He came home after I left.”
“And where were you last night?”
“There was a fundraiser for the San Pedro children’s clinic. I go every year. I’m a trustee.”
“I see,” Emilia said. Maria Teresa Diaz Inocente obviously lived in a social circle not usually frequented by police officers. “What time would that be?”
“I left about 9:00 pm.”
“Was anyone home when you left?”
Maria Teresa ignored the question and stood up again. “He didn’t have to work, you know.” She walked over to a brass and glass sideboard laden with cut crystal tumblers and several liquor bottles. She poured an inch of Osborne brandy into a tumbler and drank it down swiftly. Emilia waited for the shudder as the alcohol hit her throat and stomach. “His family owns this city,” Maria Teresa said, without a trace of a reaction to the liquor. “Real estate, properties. Agua Pacifica.”
Emilia and Rico
exchanged a look.
“Police work was just his hobby.” Maria Teresa slammed down the heavy tumbler with a sound that might have been a laugh. “Kept his blood warm, he said. I never wanted him to do it. My parents didn’t want him to. Or his brother. But I could never tell Fausto anything.”
CeCe came back into the dining room holding a sheaf of papers. “The boat papers, señora,” she said and placed them on the table.
Maria Teresa came back to her chair and slid the papers across the cold marble to Rico. “Will that be all? Obviously I’ll need to call some people. Make . . . make arrangements.”
“It’s his boat,” Rico said after a swift look at the papers. He passed them to Emilia.
The boat was only two years old. Lt. Inocente had purchased it new from a dealer in Acapulco.
Emilia swallowed hard. “Señora, I just have a few more questions.”
Maria Teresa went back to the sideboard and poured herself another brandy. She drank with her back to the dining table.
Emilia waited but the woman didn’t turn around.
Rico gave Emilia a go-ahead motion.
“Señora Inocente,” Emilia said. “Was there anyone at home when you left?”
“CeCe,” Maria Teresa said without turning around. “And the children.”
“Did you drive yourself?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you come home?”
“Around 3:00 am.”
“And you were at the San Pedro fundraiser all that time?” Emilia asked. “From nine in the evening until three this morning?”
Maria Teresa didn’t answer.
Rico rubbed his chin.
“Is there anyone who can verify that you were at the fund raiser, señora?”
“Several hundred, I would think.”
“Would you have a ticket, señora--.”
Maria Teresa spun around and pointed at CeCe. “Get my bag from last night.”
No one said anything until the maid came back to the dining room with a satin evening bag. Maria Teresa snatched it out of the maid’s hand, pulled out a cardboard ticket, and thrust it at Emilia. “There. Go talk to my friends.”
