by Carmen Amato
“You gotta drill that lock out,” he said as he pocketed the tool and slurped from his can of cola. “That’s not a standard lock.
The desk drawers yielded little of value; gum, a dirty mug, a couple of copies of El Economista, the usual office supplies. There were some pictures of the Inocente family, snapshots from a vacation to Disneyworld, and a color copy of their maid’s identity card. The photo in CeCe Hoya Perez’s cedula had obviously been taken before her condition had started. She was attractive, with skin that looked like creamy caramel.
Emilia thought about what would be found in her own locked desk drawer if anyone broke in and looked: a log of unidentified serial numbers, a coupon for free drinks at the Palacio Réal, the las perdidas binder, a prescription for an anti-depressant from a doctor who had said to give it to Sophia if she ever had an “emergency.”
Most of what they found was routine paperwork. Invoices to be approved, case reports needing to be reviewed and initialed, notices about union meetings and detective training opportunities that Emilia had never seen before.
Emilia was sitting by the mini-fridge with a pile of folders on her lap as Castro emptied the last unlocked drawer. “Check this out,” he guffawed and held up a package of condoms. “Guess he thought he was getting lucky at the office.”
“Funny,” Emilia said.
“You got no sense of humor, Cruz.” Castro pocketed the condoms and looked around the office. “There’s nothing worth shit in here. After telling us about his swank apartment I figured there would be. That’s why I said I’d help. First dibs on his shit.”
“Yeah,” Emilia said slowly. “Not much at all.”
“Okay then.” Castro loaded up with cold cans from the fridge and left.
Emilia finished her own drink and shoved all the files to the side of the desk. So much for her theory.
She picked up the phone and dialed home. Sophia answered with a breathy “Bueno?”
“Mama, it’s Emilia.”
“Are you having a good day?”
Emilia pressed her free hand to her forehead. “I’m having a busy day, mama. I won’t be home until very late.”
“Another school project?”
Emilia closed her eyes. “Yes, Mama.”
She spent the next hour working through the bureaucratic process to get the records for Fausto Inocente’s home phone and cell phone records. The major problem was that only Fausto Inocente was authorized to approve the requisitioning of phone records for the detectives. Emilia printed off the digital photos of el teniente’s body that the techs had already sent as attachments to help convince the telecommunications office.
When she headed out to see the brother the squadroom was completely empty.
Chapter 9
Bruno Inocente, his wife Rita, and three small white dogs lived in a dramatically modern house in the Las Brisas area above Punta Diamante. Rita was a slight woman, with the same slick, pampered look as Maria Teresa who introduced herself using her husband’s surname but without the “de” that most upper class women used. Emilia sat on their cream damask sofa, took out her notebook, and flipped to the timeline page.
She’d introduced herself and told them the news of Lt. Inocente’s death. Bruno Inocente had taken the news stoically, asking about the Inocente children’s reaction. When Emilia said that Maria Teresa had planned to tell them after school, Bruno and Rita had exchanged glances. He’d placed a warning hand on his wife’s wrist, then excused himself. By the time Rita had invited Emilia into the living room and sent for refreshments, he’d rejoined them, shaken but composed.
Their maid brought glasses of bubbly water with lime peel curled over the rim and set one down on the cocktail table by Emilia, carefully centering the frosted glass on a coaster.
“Again, my sympathies for your loss, señor,” Emilia said when the maid left the room. “I understand that you and your brother were close.”
Bruno and his wife sat in matching blue armchairs across from the sofa. The room managed to be contemporary but warm at the same time, with bay views and a wall devoted to an artful arrangement of baseball memorabilia. The three dogs made a silky heap on the floor between their two chairs.
“Fausto is my little brother,” Bruno said. He was at least ten years older than Lt. Inocente, Emilia guessed, with gray hair at the temples and in his moustache and a physique that suggested a still active former athlete. The resemblance to el teniente was minimal. “Best of friends and worst of enemies.”
“Can you tell me if your brother had any real enemies?” Emilia asked.
Bruno looked out the window and his chin trembled. Emilia waited. After a few minutes he spoke again. “He gambled. I knew one day it would end like this.”
“What sort of gambling?” Emilia probed. Most men she knew gambled; horses, dogs, cockfighting.
Rita reached between the two chairs and took her husband’s hand. She had short dark hair cut to curl around her jaw and wore designer jeans and a fitted white blouse.
“He bet on anything,” Bruno acknowledged. “And with anything. It was a sickness for him, I suppose.”
“Was this an issue between you?”
“I didn’t approve.” Bruno said it without rancor.
“Maria Teresa said that, uh, that with his death you had gotten your wish,” Emilia said.
Rita gasped and Bruno pressed his wife’s hand. “Maria Teresa is angry with me because I control the family business affairs.”
He didn’t say anything else. Emilia coughed softly. “This was a problem?”
“We had to sell assets two years ago to pay off Fausto’s gambling debts,” Bruno said. He wiped his eyes with the thumb of his free hand. “Since then I’ve refused to give him anything else. The family trust pays for his apartment.”
“The children,” Rita murmured.
“That’s right.” Bruno nodded in his wife’s direction. “My wife and I pay the children’s tuition. We wanted them to go to the best school.”
“They’re beautiful children,” Rita said. She smiled but it faded quickly.
“Could you tell me more about the family trust?” Emilia asked.
“Seguros Guererro,” Bruno said. “Started by our great-grandfather. It started as a shareholding company for a gold mine that closed before I was born and later expanded into real estate investment. My father and uncles expanded further into capital investment and small manufacturing.”
“And you and your brother inherited this business?” Emilia was more amazed than ever by the picture of Fausto Inocente that was emerging.
“When our father died six years ago, I took his place as chairman of Seguros Guerrero,” Bruno said uncomfortably. “Fausto was guaranteed an income.”
“Do you have any other siblings?”
“No.”
“When was the last time you saw your brother?” Emilia asked.
“About two weeks ago,” Bruno said. “At his son’s baseball game.”
“He was there with his wife and children?”
“Yes.”
Emilia swallowed hard. “How would you describe your brother’s relationship with his wife?”
Bruno ran a finger over his moustache. “You don’t believe Maria Teresa killed him? They’ve been married for years.”
“Their relationship was solid?” Emilia asked. “Exclusive?”
The look that passed between Bruno and Rita was so fleeting that Emilia nearly missed it.
“Excuse me,” Rita said and stood up. She clicked her tongue at the dogs and they followed her out of the room.
“Is there a problem?” Emilia asked.
Bruno pressed his thumb to his eyes again. “Fausto was a man of . . . let us say . . . big appetites.”
Emilia was reminded of the detectives bathroom. And that packet of condoms. In a sick way, this was the first thing she’d heard about el teniente that made sense. “You mean he had a mistress?”
“No one in particular,” Bruno said. “He liked w
omen and gambling.”
“Did his wife know?”
Bruno shrugged. “I gather she has her own appetites.”
Emilia hadn’t liked Maria Teresa and could well believe what Lt. Inocente’s brother was saying. “I gather your wife was aware of your brother’s . . . appetites and didn’t approve.”
“No.” He hesitated then gave a small, sad smile. “We have no children, you see, and she’s devoted to her niece and nephew. That’s why we picked that apartment for them. We could be close to Juliana and Juan Diego. Fausto would have a place for his boat.”
“And Maria Teresa could have the address she wanted.” Rita Inocente was back in the room. Her eyes were red and she clutched a limp tissue in one hand. “I’m sorry,” she said to Emilia as she returned to the chair next to her husband. “It’s just the thought of what is going to happen to those children. Maria Teresa--.” She trailed off and wiped her eyes.
Emilia suddenly liked her much more.
“Do you have any more questions for us?” Bruno asked. “I expect I’ll need to make some calls.”
“Just a few,” Emilia said. She glanced at her open notebook. “Can you tell me where you were last evening after 10:00 pm?”
“Meeting with my lawyer and several members of my board of directors,” Bruno said without hesitation.
“Isn’t that late for a business meeting?” Emilia asked.
Bruno nodded. “We had a lot to cover. We’re trying to streamline the real estate holdings. I had dinner afterwards with my lawyer. I knew my wife would be out and I hate eating alone.”
“When did you get home?”
“Around 1:00 am.”
“And did anyone see you come home?”
“You could ask the security service at the gate.” He frowned. “Am I a suspect?”
“It would help if we could verify with your lawyer.”
“You can call him,” Bruno said. He got up and walked to the desk by the baseball memorabilia, picked up a card and returned to Emilia holding it out. “Here’s his number.”
“And you, señora?” Emilia took the card and turned to Rita. “Were you here last night after 10:00 pm?”
Rita pressed her tissue to each eye before replying. “I was at the San Pedro charity fundraiser last night. I’m on the board.” She gave a bitter laugh. “And yes, Maria Teresa was there.”
“She said she was there until 3:00 am,” Emilia said. “If you’re one of the organizers you must have been there that late as well.”
Rita glanced at her husband before answering. “Maria Teresa left early, around 11:00 pm.”
“You’re sure?”
Rita again glanced at her husband. “Her absence was, shall we say, noted by several of the other members of the board.”
“Why is that?” Emilia felt she had to tread cautiously.
Bruno nodded at his wife. “It is what it is,” he said quietly.
“Maria Teresa left with a male companion.” Rita sniffed. “She never came back.”
“Do you know who it was?”
Rita sighed. “Doctor Rodolfo Chang. He’s . . . he’s.” She paused as if trying to formulate her thoughts. “He makes the rounds.”
“A popular man in certain circles,” said Emilia leadingly.
“Maria Teresa’s type of friends.” Rita balled up her tissue. “Please don’t mention my name if you speak about him with any of the other San Pedro board members.”
“I’m sure I won’t need to,” Emilia said. She looked at the timeline in her notebook. “What time did you get home, señora?”
“I was home by 1:30 am.”
“So your husband was already home?”
“Yes.”
“A driver took you?”
“Yes,’ Rita said. “Pedro, our chauffeur.”
Emilia closed her notebook. There didn’t seem to be much else to say. She stood up. “Thank you very much for your time. I appreciate how helpful you’ve been.”
Bruno stood as well. Rita offered her hand. Bruno led Emilia out of the room, stopping to let her look at the baseball memorabilia. Glass shelves floated from the wall and showcased autographed baseballs in glass cubes, pennants--some of which looked quite old, an autographed wooden bat, and dozens of pictures. Emilia had no idea if the items had a high value but from the careful display she guessed they did. “This is an unusual collection, señor,” she said.
Bruno beamed. “I love baseball, always have. Played in college. Wished I’d been good enough for the pros.” He pointed to a ball in its cube. “Autographed by Sammy Sosa.”
That meant nothing to Emilia but she put an interested expression on her face and murmured, “Oh my.”
“But this is the real treasure,” Bruno said and took down a framed picture of a youthful baseball team in pinstriped uniforms. “Juan Diego’s team won the national Little League title three years ago.”
“Which one is Juan Diego?”
Bruno indicated a handsome boy in the middle row. “He’s a pitcher. But the boy has a great swing as well. We work together on Saturday mornings.” Bruno’s mouth pulled into a frown as he replaced the picture. “Fausto doesn’t care for baseball, he likes his boats.”
Emilia didn’t reply.
Bruno led the way out of the room but stopped as they went into the entrance hall. “I guess I should have said ‘didn’t.’ That Fausto didn’t like baseball.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss, señor,” Emilia said again. He seemed so different from his brother. Genuine.
“When can we collect the body for the funeral?”
“We’ll let you know.” Emilia gave him a crooked smile. “I wish I could say more than that.”
“Thank you for handling this so delicately, Detective,” Bruno said. “I know my wife is upset. Not because she and Fausto were close. But because of the children. Their father is gone and, their mother . . . . well, Maria Teresa is what she is.”
“When I spoke to her, Maria Teresa gave me the impression that your brother was very much involved in the running of your family’s business interests,” Emilia ventured.
“I don’t know what he might have said to Maria Teresa.” Bruno shook his head. “Fausto’s name is on the letterhead and I kept him informed for a while after our father died but he’s never held a position in the company.”
“Why not?”
“My brother only saw the company as a vehicle to subsidize his . . . interests.”
“Ah.” Part of Emilia knew she’d have to verify his alibi, another part felt sympathy for the man.
Bruno went on, spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “He used access to his own children as a bargaining chip. When his gambling debts mounted and he needed cash, he wouldn’t allow us to see them until the company helped him out. It hurt the children as well as my wife and was a source of great unhappiness between our two families.”
Emilia nodded. “His wife has no private income from her family?”
“No, although she wants to live like she does.” Bruno said. One of the small white dogs padded into entranceway and settled at his feet.
“Just to clarify,” Emilia thought back to the conversation with Maria Teresa. “Your brother’s only involvement with the family company was to receive a fixed income?”
Bruno considered. “After we sold Agua Pacifico and paid his debts, Fausto no longer participated in any discussions.”
“Agua Pacifico, the water company?” That was the company Maria Teresa had said the Inocente family owned. Emilia knew the brand; Agua Pacifico delivery trucks were a common sight in Acapulco.
The dog at Bruno’s feet whined for attention and he bent and stroked the animal’s head. “We sold it a few years ago to avoid having to recapitalize the equipment.”
“This morning Maria Teresa said her husband didn’t need to work because his family owned Agua Pacifica,” Emilia recalled.
Bruno shook his head sadly. “I don’t know what Fausto ever told his wife but I had to con
tribute my share of the dividends from the sale to cover his debts.”
“May I ask who he owed money to?”
“He had a tab at the El Pharaoh casino.” Bruno straightened up.
“That must have been quite a lot of money, señor,” Emilia said softly. El Pharaoh was a high-end place with an entrance shaped like a giant golden Sphinx head, acres of slot machines, table games, and betting booths for horse racing. Tourists lost thousands there every night.
“I was angry with my brother for throwing away his money, playing policeman, and neglecting his children, Detective.” Bruno looked guilty. “But he gave me Juan Diego and Juliana so I can forgive him anything.”
Best of friends and worst of enemies. “Thank you, señor,” Emilia said.
☼
The coroner and director of the Acapulco morgue was Antonio Prade. Emilia had heard he’d been a proctologist earlier in his medical career.
Emilia hated the morgue, hated that she was there so often. There were invariably more bodies than the building was meant to accommodate. The two big freezer vaults always held bodies stacked like sardines. And it always happened that Emilia needed to see one at the bottom and the morgue workers would pull out the bodies like so many pieces of cold meat before getting to the right one.
When there was a big accident or a mass cartel grave was discovered the body bags lined the halls. Prade would prioritize them or abbreviate the autopsy to just a handful of procedures. Naked bodies on gurneys would form a queue waiting for their turn in the small operating theater while the cleaning crew--about six older women who seemed immune to the death around them--continuously mopped the floor. The place always smelled odd; a mixture of cloying sweetness and eye-watering antiseptic.
It wasn’t that Prade wasn’t a methodical professional, it was just that demand exceeded capacity for morgue services. And if the coffin makers fell behind everybody else did, too.
