by Carmen Amato
Emilia took the gilt-edged ticket. It had a punch hole in it indicating admission. “If you weren’t home, señora, do you know of anyone who might have been with your husband last night or know what his plans were?” Emilia asked.
Maria Teresa blinked. “His brother, Bruno.”
“Did he have any close friends?” Emilia pressed. “Neighbors in the building?”
Maria Teresa shook her head. “I don’t know his police friends.” She went back to the serving cart. “Are we done?”
Rico cleared his throat. “You’ll be notified when . . . uh . . . Lt. Inocente’s remains can be released. There will have to be an autopsy as soon as possible.”
Maria Teresa held her glass at eye level and filled it from the brandy bottle. Tawny fluid sloshed over the lip of the glass. “It will be simple, though, won’t it?” she asked. “Fausto was investigating something and he was killed to stop the investigation. Some cartel kingpin who wants to control Acapulco’s drug trade. Fausto was so close to cleaning them all up.”
Emilia’s jaw dropped. Lt. Inocente had pushed paper and reported up the chain of command. Emilia had never seen Lt Inocente do any street work, but then she’d only been a detective for two years.
“Is that what he told you about his work?” Rico asked. “Did he seem worried? Concerned for his safety or that of you and the children?”
“No,” Maria Teresa said. Her voice was finally getting thick from the brandy. “He just always said he was rolling up the kingpins. To make Acapulco safe for our children.”
“We’ll look into that, señora,” Rico said.
Emilia closed her notebook. “Would you like someone here when you tell your children?” she asked. Even though it had happened 25 years ago, she still remembered the chaotic way she’d found out her father had died, with her mother screaming for hours and relatives and friends and the priest coming and going. She’d been largely forgotten; the little girl in the corner alternatively suffocated and ignored by her mother. Emilia had grown into an adult that day and she didn’t wish the experience on any other child.
“No.” Maria Teresa took another healthy mouthful of brandy. “I’ll go with CeCe to pick them up at school today. I can tell them then.”
Emilia and Rico exchanged a look. Rico shrugged and got to his feet. “I’m sorry, señora, but we’ll have to look around the house. Try and get an idea of what Lt. Inocente did last night. Where he went. Anyone he might have met.”
“I suppose CeCe can show you.” Maria Teresa flapped a hand, both to indicate the rest of the penthouse and to end the interview. The woman had consumed at least half a liter of brandy yet was still steady on her feet. An experienced drinker, Emilia decided.
“We may have to take some items as possible evidence. His computer, address book, that sort of thing.”
“Something that will tell you how selfish Fausto was?” Maria Teresa snapped. “Well, just remember I wasn’t his keeper. Go talk to his brother. Tell Bruno Inocente that he got his wish. His little brother is dead.” She pushed open the swinging door to the living room and walked through. The door swung to and for several times before staying shut.
CeCe took a step away from the wall but said nothing, her head down as if trying to hide her scarring.
“Well,” said Rico.
Emilia took a deep breath and smiled at the maid. “Could you please show us where Lt. Inocente kept his keys?”
“Yes,” CeCe murmured. “This way please.
Emilia and Rico followed CeCe into the kitchen. It was as modern and stark and spotless as the rooms they’d already seen, with stainless steel cabinets, appliances, and countertop. There was a metal pegboard above a long work counter, with keys hanging from rows of hooks. Each hook was neatly labeled.
“Which were Lt. Inocente’s car keys?” Rico asked.
“These are el señor’s car keys.” CeCe pointed to a set dangling from their hook. “He drove the big SUV.”
Emilia nudged Rico. El teniente’s house keys were also hanging on a labeled hook.”
“CeCe,” Emilia asked. “What time did Lt. Inocente come home last night?”
CeCe twisted her hands together nervously. “I don’t know. Maybe 9:00 pm.”
Emilia jotted that down in her timeline in the notebook. “Did anyone come with him?”
“No.”
“Did someone come to see him later?”
The maid shook her head.
“Did you see him go out?” Emilia pressed. It was clear the maid was not going to volunteer anything.
“No.”
“Do you know if he came back?”
“He didn’t come back.”
“You were here the whole night?” Emilia asked. “Are you a planta?” A muchacha planta was a live-in housemaid.
“Yes.”
“Were the children here?” Rico asked.
“Yes, señor,” she said softly. It was clear that the woman’s open sores were painful by the way she tried to move her mouth as little as possible.
“So you were here and the children were here and Lt. Inocente was here,” Rico said impatiently. “And then he went out?”
“Yes.”
“Why did he go out?”
“I think he got a telephone call around ten and then he left.” The maid touched her face, fingertips finding the open sores in an effort to conceal them. It was an unconscious movement.
“Ten?” Emilia held her pen over the notebook. “You’re sure?”
“Yes, it was just after Juliana went to bed.”
“He left with the boat keys but no house keys?”
The maid shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Did he usually go out without keys?” Emilia pressed. “If he thought you would be there to open the door for him?”
The maid hesitated. “Maybe.”
Emilia walked toward the doorway leading back to the dining room. “CeCe, could you show us the rest of the apartment?”
The maid led them out of the room and down a hall and into a bedroom with a king-sized bed covered by a white matelassé spread. The wood of the headboard and dresser was a rich mahogany, making for more warmth than in the rest of the house combined. CeCe pointed at a tall dresser. “El señor’s clothes are in there and in the closets.”
There was a large wooden case, like an oversized jewel box, on top of the dresser. Emilia gingerly lifted the top to reveal at least a dozen expensive watches and a Virgin of Guadalupe medal with the gold chain coiled on top of it.
“I’ve seen him wear that in the gym,” Rico said, indicating the medal. Emilia closed the box. Rico pulled open the top dresser drawer to reveal a tidy row of men’s briefs and a box of condoms.
“I can’t do this.” Emilia turned away. Looking at the condoms, all she could think about was Lt. Inocente standing in front of the urinal.
“I’ll check in here,” Rico said. “Go see if he had a computer or files or anything like that.”
CeCe led Emilia out of the room. The next two doors were children’s bedrooms. Across the hall Maria Teresa’s voice filtered through a half-opened door. She was talking about the Midsummer Ball.
“La señora’s sitting room,” CeCe said. She led Emilia through the main part of the house again and to a pocket door off the front foyer. A short hallway led to yet another door, revealing a small breezeway lined with potted geraniums, sunshine visible through skylights. The breezeway ended in a large rooftop patio dotted with chaise lounges and tables topped with colorful umbrellas. The maid pointed to a door cut into the far wall. “The pool is on the other side.”
“This is beautiful,” Emilia marveled. The apartment was huge, there was a pool next to a private rooftop space, and the views were breathtaking. She turned to CeCe. “Do you like living here, CeCe?”
The maid looked startled to be asked such a question. It was a moment before she answered. “Yes.”
“Does anyone else work for the Inocentes?”
CeCe shook her head.
“Just the gardening service on Mondays.”
“Who takes care of the pool?”
When the maid flushed, the scars stood out like bits of white glass. “There’s a man who comes for the pool on Tuesdays and Fridays.”
“What time?”
“For the pool?” When Emilia nodded the maid furrowed her brow. “Maybe 9:00 in the morning.”
Emilia jotted that in her timeline but doubted it mattered. Too early. “How long have you worked for Lt. Inocente and la señora?” she asked.
CeCe produced a key from her pocket and unlocked a door set into the wall of the breezeway. “Eight years,” she said. “I came to work here when Juliana was just a baby.”
“And the other child?”
“Juan Diego is 16,” CeCe said proudly. “He plays baseball. He was on a champion Little League team that went to Taiwan.”
“Really?” It was the most the maid had volunteered and it made Emilia realize how little she’d known about Lt. Inocente, aside from the fact that he did a lot of paperwork, handled counterfeit money, and had a penchant for watching women in the bathroom.
CeCe pushed open the unlocked door and Emilia followed her into a large room set up as an office. It had no windows, but a large skylight with adjustable louvers kept the sun from heating the room. Unlike the other rooms in the house this one had a strong masculine flavor. There was a large mahogany desk, a thickly padded leather swivel chair, and an expensive oversized laptop computer next to a cordless telephone. A decorative clock, made to look like an antique watch face, hung over the desk. A floor-to-ceiling mahogany cabinet dominated the other side of the room. A flat screen TV was mounted on the wall above a wrought iron bar cart with a sofa and matching chairs angled toward it. An abstract painting hung above a cigar humidor the size of a washing machine. A silver tray of rare tequilas topped a small table by the sofa.
“El señor’s office,” CeCe said.
“Did he bring friends in here?” Emilia counted half a dozen glasses on the bar cart and three crystal ashtrays; one on the desk, one on the bar cart, and another on the small coffee table.
“Sometimes. To watch fútbol. To talk and smoke cigars out on the patio.”
“Do you know his friends’ names?”
CeCe looked uncomfortable. “Only his brother. Señor Bruno.”
“Did anyone come last night?”
“No.”
Emilia circled the room. It was as spotless as if it had just been cleaned top to bottom. The entire house was sparkling; CeCe obviously kept it that way.
The office was the one place in the house that didn’t seem cold and harsh but it still seemed at variance with the Fausto Inocente she’d worked for. The man who’d lived in this house had money, a boat, children, and an expensive wife. Went to lavish parties and entertained his friends in his private men’s lounge near the pool.
The maid watched silently as Emilia opened the desk drawers and collected a few things of possible value: some CDs, a folder of papers. There was a small pile of business cards in a pewter bowl. The one on top was a business card from Bruno Inocente with a cell phone number scribbled on the back.
“Did Lt. Inocente get along with his brother?” Emilia asked as she tucked the card into the back of her notebook alongside the fund raiser ticket.
CeCe looked at her shoes. They were black and rubbery looking with a strap across the instep. “I don’t know.”
Emilia unplugged the connections to the laptop and was just about to turn her attention to the tall mahogany cabinet when her cell phone rang. It was Rico.
“Where the fuck are you?”
“El teniente’s office,” Emilia said. “It’s like a separate part of the apartment. I’ve got his computer.”
“Silvio just called me,” Rico said. “Said to get to the station. We can come back here to look through his stuff later.”
“You think he sent word up that the body was el teniente and the shit hit the fan?”
“You got it.”
“Meet you by the front door.” Emilia hit the red button on her phone and grabbed up her bag and notebook as well as the computer and other items. CeCe led the way back to the main part of the apartment. Maria Teresa met them in the living room. The woman had looked as if she’d finally cried hard; her eyes were red-rimmed and she had on considerably less makeup than when they’d arrived. When CeCe saw her employer, she discreetly withdrew.
“Someone will be back to look through the rest of your husband’s office,” Emilia said. “And we may have a few follow-up questions.”
Maria Teresa nodded, a swift jerk of her chin. “CeCe makes my appointments.”
“Señora, I must ask.” Emilia knew this was out of line and Rico was glaring impatiently but she couldn’t help asking. “You maid seems very efficient. Your house is spotless. And she’s obviously devoted to your children. But she has a condition?”
Maria Teresa’s mouth pursed in distaste. “Every few months it flares up again. I can hardly have her serve at parties anymore. Now I think she’s given it to my daughter. Juliana woke up this morning with the same sores on her mouth.”
☼
Emilia sat slumped in the passenger seat as Rico drove up the cliffside in low gear.
“I’d kill myself not to be married to her,” he said.
Emilia couldn’t help but laugh, although Maria Teresa’s reaction to her husband’s demise had been the most self-absorbed that Emilia had ever seen in a profession that dealt with death on a regular basis. “You suck at being married,” she said.
“I love women.” Rico grinned. “I’m just a bad husband.” He punched the accelerator and the car lurched onto level ground in front of the privada gate. The Army vehicle was there. He flashed the soldiers his badge. The gate swung open and he drove through and turned the car onto the Carretera Escénica heading toward Acapulco proper. “Okay,” he said. “What have we got so far?”
Emilia consulted her notebook timeline. “Maid says he came home at 9:00 pm. We can check how long he stayed at work. Wife was gone before he came home. He got a call at 10:00 pm. Left the house with boat keys but not house keys. Never came back. Wife got home at 3:00 am, didn’t seem to notice her husband wasn’t home.”
“Where was he between the time he left the station and getting home?” Rico asked.
“Good question,” said Emilia and scribbled it down. “Here’s another. Why did he leave his stuff when he left the apartment at 10:00 pm.” She made a list of items. “Medal, keys, wallet. Police credential.”
“He left his gun, too,” Rico said. “Bedside table drawer.”
“So wherever he went he didn’t think he’d need it,” Emilia said. “Or anything else. Maybe he didn’t plan on going far.”
“Or he felt safe around whoever he was going to be with.”
“His partners call at 10:00 pm.” Emilia took up the thread. “He figures just a chat.”
Rico finished the thought. “But something went wrong.”
“But what about the wife?” Emilia asked. “I never pictured el teniente married. And certainly not to someone like her. You think she killed him and got the maid to lie for her?”
“Nah. She’s not the type,” Rico snorted. He rode the brake as they wound down the mountain, the vehicle shrilling a metal-on-metal protest. “Can you picture that woman hitting him with her teensy bag hard enough to bust up his head? Besides, he had to weigh 40 kilos more than her.”
“We need to check her alibi just the same.” Emilia knew they’d cover all the possibilities no matter how improbable.
“Probably a hundred people saw her at that charity event.”
“She could have hired somebody.”
“She seemed pretty genuine about needing el teniente to go to that ball,” Rico pointed out.
Emilia sighed. “I think we’re back to the Ruiz case, the kidnapping and the fake money.”
“Maybe they went after him the way they went after Rucker,” Rico said.
&
nbsp; “They thought Kurt had the ransom money,” Emilia reminded her partner. “You think El teniente had something somebody wanted?”
“Maybe he wasn’t supposed to ever get any of the counterfeit.” Rico slowed as they came up on an overloaded truck. “Or maybe he had another scam going.”
They were silent as wisps of straw blew off the lumbering truck and peppered the car. Two men sitting on the bales of straw in the open truck bed stared impassively at the bay far below.
“But he had money,” Emilia burst out. Dirty cops were usually the ones who didn’t get paid enough to take the risks they did. Cops like her and Rico. There was just such a disconnect between the man who’d lived in that sterile white high rise and the man who watched her in the detectives’ bathroom. “So why was he dealing in kidnappings and fake money on the side?”
Rico shrugged as the truck made a right turn off the highway and he brought the car up to speed again. “Some people can never have enough. And Maria Teresa seems like the kind of woman you need a lot of money to keep.”
Emilia’s mouth was dry. She needed a cola. Or a beer. “How much do you want to tell Silvio?”
“Fuck.” Rico’s moon face creased with worry. Distrust was rampant throughout every police force. No one knew which of their colleagues was an informant for a cartel or even another law enforcement agency. Everyone was out for themselves and the consequences of a misjudgment were often fatal.
“So we don’t say anything,” Emilia said. She watched the city come into focus and she remembered that night driving the same road in the shattered SUV with coolly confident Kurt Rucker. His hands were on hers, helping her, giving her strength.
“Think she knew he liked to watch you pee?” Rico asked and the spell was broken.
Chapter 7
All the detectives were in the squadroom when Emilia and Rico walked in. The atmosphere was an odd combination of defiance, anger, and disbelief. The questions started as soon as Emilia and Rico set foot inside but were immediately cut off when Silvio bolted up from his desk and shouted “Callate!”
