by Carmen Amato
She dumped the bloody partition on Gomez’s desk. The clang of metal on metal was loud.
The room went silent. Most of the detectives were there, clustered around the murder board. Rico dropped a mug. It shattered at his feet.
He caught up with her in the parking lot. Emilia wordlessly held out the keys to the white Suburban and he drove her to the clinic.
☼
With three stitches in her head and a tidy bandage, Emilia made it to Personnel in the main administration building a bare hour before the department closed. Obregon had done magic and the files were waiting for her. She settled into a small alcove set aside for the file clerks.
Lt. Inocente’s personnel file was fat, but not quite as fat as Silvio’s. The files for the rest of the detectives were appreciably thinner.
Fausto Inocente had been 38 years old. He’d been a police officer for six years. He never wore a uniform, but had joined as a detective and been promoted to lieutenant within two years. He was a college graduate, and Emilia assumed that gave him the right to bypass street work. Few police officers went to college.
His correct home address was listed, along with his awards, citations, and qualifications. He’d been an average cop and there was little in the file to suggest that he should have been promoted so fast. Emilia scanned the file, looking to see if he’d been brought along by anyone in particular but she couldn’t find any trends. Like so many who’d done nothing spectacular, his rise was no doubt due to kickbacks or favors to more senior officers. According to the file, he’d never been caught gambling, run up big debts or been to Flagstaff, Arizona.
The back of the file held his application to join the force, his processing papers, and his identification photo and fingerprint card. Emilia stared at the photo for a long minute. Fausto Inocente looked handsome and relaxed, as if he knew he was going to rise quickly. She pulled it out of the file and stuck it in her bag.
The other files gave tidbits about the other detectives. Franklin Ibarra Olivas had been born in Spain. Luis Gomez had taken the detective exam twice. Both times his scores were extremely low; Emilia could only guess how he’d paid his way into the squadroom. Five years ago Castro had scored surprisingly well. Macias and Sandor both had been to college at UNAM in Mexico City, but there was no graduation information for either of them.
Rogelio Fuentes Furtado had only been a cop for four years, but he was a college graduate and had scored the highest on the detective examination last year. There was a note in his file from none other than Victor Obregon Sosa himself citing his outstanding achievement. Emilia leafed through her own file to see if there was a similar letter when she’d scored the highest on the examination the year before. There wasn’t.
Emilia turned to Silvio’s file. He’d been a cop for nearly 20 years. Like her, he had finished secondary school, taken a certificate at a private security academy that taught teens how to hit with a nightstick and shoot a gun, and tested high enough on the municipal police exam to be hired as a uniform. He’d worked in just about every police station. A detective for eight years. Never been shot although he’d worked some of the worst areas of Acapulco.
Silvio had beaten the odds for cops. He was a survivor.
She turned a few pages and read the account of his former partner. Franco Silvio and Manuel Garcia Diaz had been partners for five years when Garcia was killed in the line of duty. Lt. Inocente was already head of detectives. It was the year before Emilia had joined the force, when she was walking la Costera in uniform and a bulletproof vest, hauling drunk tourists out of trashed hotel rooms and shaking up kids who tried to jump the turnstiles at the CICI waterpark.
Silvio and Garcia had been investigating reports of drug dealing out of a dry cleaning shop. A shooting had gone down and Garcia was killed by the same caliber handgun that Silvio carried. It was never proven that it was his gun. Nonetheless, charges were brought against Silvio, accusing him of collaborating with the drug operation and killing Garcia in order to protect the involvement. The formal charges were dropped after a week, but the investigation ground on for three months. In the end, Silvio was censored for poor judgment and forced to take a six month suspension without pay.
There wasn’t anything else in the personnel file; if Emilia wanted more she’d have to find the Garcia investigation file, which was undoubtedly sealed. Obregon probably could get it for her. Emilia mentally toted up what Obregon could say she owed him and decided not to ask.
The stitches throbbed but she didn’t want to take any of the painkillers the hospital had given her. A new timeline was coming together and she had to keep a clear head. Silvio’s suspension had been squarely within the three years between the sale of Agua Pacifica and Lt. Inocente’s death. She could imagine a situation where Silvio struggles to make ends meet while suspended without pay and Lt. Inocente is disgruntled over his brother’s fast and minimally profitable sale of Agua Pacifico to Lomas Bottling. He hatches up the plan to get more money out of Morelos de Gama and identifies an ideal partner when a surly and impoverished Silvio comes back to work.
Emilia pulled out her notebook and wrote down the dates, then tossed down her pen. That theory didn’t cover the sex. Or Silvio’s personality. It was hard to think of him and Lt. Inocente doing anything together; their relationship had been one of mutual tolerance, sometimes bordering on open dislike.
Her thoughts ran up against Morelos de Gama as well. Whose idea was it to use counterfeit money to pay the ransom? Had Inocente been both kidnaper and solicitous friend? Did Inocente convince Morelos de Gama to pay a counterfeit ransom that he, Inocente, would receive and then use to pay gambling debts?
But why take the risk?
It all boiled down to the money and who knew it had been counterfeit.
“We close up in 15 minutes.” The Personnel section manager was a tightlipped woman in a police uniform that had fit well 10 pounds ago. Emilia promised she’d be done in time and turned back to Silvio’s file. The personal information was routine. He was married, no children. His home address was in a poor neighborhood, which surprised her. Most cops lived in a better location.
She found the paper that Obregon had given her with the address of Silvio’s gambling den. It was the same as his home address.
☼
Obregon was lounging against the fender of the Suburban when Emilia came out of the administration building. She’d worked out at the gym in the basement before leaving, despite being sore from the fight with Gomez, and her hair was still wet from the shower. The gym had been empty that late and she’d worked off a lot of stress and fear by skipping rope and pounding on the heavy bag. The sight of the union boss, however, loaded it all back on.
The sun was setting behind him, silhouetting his face as he cupped his hands around a cigarette. She automatically looked around for Villahermosa. He was on the other side of the visitor parking lot, in the driver’s seat of the same sedan that had taken her to the meeting with the mayor.
Emilia pressed a hand to her head near the bandage. She didn’t feel like engaging in whatever game Obregon was playing tonight. All she wanted to do was to go home, not see Ernesto Cruz, and crawl into bed.
Her feet slowed of their own accord but Obregon had seen her coming and there was no way to avoid him.
“Doing a little homework on a Saturday night, Cruz?” He called it tareas, a word usually reserved for children’s school work.
“Isn’t that what acting lieutenants do?” Emilia said bitterly.
Obregon grinned and exhaled a stream of cigarette smoke. “Carlota wants to talk to you over breakfast on Monday. There will be a car for you at 10:00 am.”
Mercury lights placed at intervals around the razor-wire enclosure blinked on as the sun dropped lower. They made a faint hum and an occasional static noise when a bug flew into the bulb.
“I need to make an international phone call,” Emilia said.
“That’s Salazar’s jurisdiction,” Obregon said.
&nbs
p; “I’m asking you,” Emilia replied. Even el teniente hadn’t been authorized to call outside Mexico.
“Where’s the call going?”
“You go eat with the mayor.” Emilia took out her keys to signal she was done with the conversation. “I don’t think she liked me.”
Obregon shifted slightly on the Suburban’s fender. “A personal call, Cruz?”
Emilia jingled the keys. “I’ve got to go.”
Obregon pulled himself away from the fender and she had the impression of a sleek cat. He was dressed in black again; jeans and a leather jacket and a snug tee shirt that outlined the contours of his chest. His hand hovered near her head but didn’t touch her. “A couple of stitches? Carlota will be very impressed.”
“Look,” Emilia said. She jingled her keys again. “We’ve got a witness says Inocente took his boat out just before he was killed and he’d done late night boat trips before. Lots of fingerprints on the boat, still haven’t identified them all. Running down some of his gambling issues. Might be connected with the family business. He was fighting about them with his brother. And the wife was humping her sometime boyfriend while her husband was getting his head smashed in.”
“So,” Obregon said, as if her recitation hadn’t impressed him. He exhaled a thin stream of blue smoke as if he had all the time in the world. It curled and dissipated in the humid evening air. “Anything you’re not telling me?”
“Sure,” Emilia said, hitching up the strap of her bag so it didn’t rub on a bruise. “The mayor could get her wish and it’ll be a nasty personal thing.”
To her surprise, Obregon took the cigarette out of his mouth, tipped his head back, and shouted with laughter.
“Glad I could be so amusing.” Emilia pressed the button on the key fob and heard the click as the driver’s door unlocked.
“They had to call an ambulance for Gomez, you know,” Obregon said. “Concussion, broken nose, busted rib.”
He moved closer and she got a scent of leather and cigarettes.
“Is that what you do all day?” Emilia heard herself say. “Follow me around?”
He flicked away his cigarette, reached out and caught Emilia by the upper arm and drew her to him. Being that close to him was like being clasped by a magnet; there was no choice, just a compelling pull.
As his head bent to hers, Emilia stiffened. “You don’t have permission,” she said.
Obregon paused and she saw his jaw tighten. When Emilia pulled away he let her go. “We could make a very good team, Cruz,” he said softly.
Emilia’s heart thumped like a train going off the rails. In the rising darkness, his body bent toward hers, Obregon almost had her. The instinct that told her he was dangerous warred with simple lust and the fact that it had been too long since she’d been kissed. “Tell Villahermosa to put new doors in the detectives’ bathroom,” she said.
Obregon smiled. His teeth flashed in the twilight. He reminded Emilia of an animal stalking its prey.
“Don’t forget about Monday with Carlota,’ Obregon said.
Emilia willed herself not to move. “Fine.”
“Next time, Cruz.” It might have been a promise or a warning. Obregon strode off to the sedan. The engine started as soon as he touched the door handle. Maybe it was Emilia’s imagination but she thought she heard laughter before Obregon slammed the door shut.
Chapter 15
Emilia and her mother, along with Tío Raul and Tía Lourdes and her cousins and everyone else they knew, went to Mass at San Pedro de los Pinos every Sunday and joined Padre Ricardo for the social hour afterwards.
The dark-haired priest always greeted his congregants in the tiny garden as they left the church. Padre Ricardo Suarez Solis was at least 50 years old, with the energy level of a teen. He was constantly organizing social events, holy day events, children’s religious instructions, food drives to help the needy in other parts of the country, teen groups, women’s groups, fatherhood lessons. His imagination and efforts were constant and for many he was the center around which the social life of the barrio revolved.
“Emilia,” he said. “Your mother tells me you’ve been working too much.”
“A big investigation, Padre.”
Sophia had on one of her flowered dresses and her hair was loose and trailing down her back. The combination made her look younger than Emilia. “Padre.” She gave him one of her widest smiles. “This is Ernesto Cruz, my husband.”
The priest didn’t skip a beat. He shook hands with Ernesto. “Welcome to our little community, Señor Cruz.”
“Gracias, Padre.”
“Will you join us for dinner next Saturday?” Sophia asked. “It’s Ernesto’s welcome home party.”
Emilia swung around to stare at her mother. Wasn’t it bad enough that the entire barrio was talking about them? About how feather-headed widow Sophia was trying to pass off a complete stranger as her husband? Was her mother now going to rub their noses in it with a party?
Emilia felt Padre Ricardo’s warning hand on her arm. “That would be very nice, Sophia. Thank you for the invitation.”
Sophia pulled Ernesto Cruz to a group of ladies talking over cups of fresh agua de jamaica or coffee and began to introduce him around. Emilia raised her eyebrows at Padre Ricardo and they walked a little way away from the rest of the congregants.
“His name really is Ernesto Cruz,” Emilia said. “He’s a knife grinder she found in the market.”
“Found?”
“He’s a vagrant. Came to Acapulco on a bus from Mexico City.”
Padre Ricardo raised white eyebrows. “And your mother has taken him in?”
“My father’s name was also Ernesto Cruz.” Emilia hastily looked backwards over her shoulder. Her mother was in her element, one arm linked through that of Ernest Cruz, the other holding her best Sunday purse. Emilia turned back to Padre Ricardo. “He has the same name as my father and Mama has gotten it in her head that he’s her Ernesto Cruz come back to her.”
“But your father’s been dead for years.”
“So you see the problem, Father.”
“I do indeed.” Padre Ricardo searched Emilia’s face, his eyes lingering on the bandage and the purpled bruising around it. “Is there something else you’d like to tell me?”
“Ernesto has a wife in Mexico City,” Emilia said. “He told me that when they found out their sons had died trying to cross into the United States he just picked up his grinding wheel and left. His sons were following some pollero who left them stranded and they died. I don’t even think his wife knows where he is.”
“What does your mother think about that?”
“She says he’s my father.” Emilia let her hands fall to her sides helplessly. “She refuses to believe anything else.”
“Can you try to find his wife? With your resources, Emilia . . .” Padre Ricardo left the suggestion hanging in the air.
“I can’t even begin to try and find his wife to tell her where he is unless I at least have a name. He won’t give me that. Not even what delegacion she lives in.” Emilia shook her head. “I’ve checked to see if there’s a missing persons out on him but there isn’t.”
“Dear me.”
“He knows my mother thinks he’s her long lost husband. At least he’s still sleeping on the sofa.”
“You could make him leave if you wanted, couldn’t you?”
Emilia sighed. “That’s just it, Father. I think something is broken inside him. He’s like some hurt dog that I can’t kick. And she’s convinced he’s her husband come back to her. I don’t know what will happen if I make him leave.”
“And what about you, Emilia?” Padre Ricardo shook his head. “What happened to your head?”
“I know the answer to that one.” Her cousin Alvaro joined the conversation. He was two years older than Emilia and still a uniformed cop. “Beat the crap out of another detective. Word is he had it coming.”
“Oh, my.” Padre Ricardo frowned.
Emil
ia gave Alvaro a quick hug and kiss. “We don’t need Padre Ricardo to get all upset.’
“I always taught her to take care of herself,” Alvaro said.
“You did.” Emilia let him give her another one-armed hug. She’d grown up with Alvaro and his older brother Rubén but now the only time they saw each other was Sunday Mass.
“When was the last time you took a break, Emilia?” the priest asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Sounds like today would be a good day.”
“I’ll think about it, Father.” Emilia gave the priest a swift kiss and moved away so the next parishioner could speak to him.
Alvaro moved with her, grinning as if Emilia had won a prizefight.
“So the story is all over?” Emilia asked.
“All over,” Alvaro verified. “Did you really lay him out with a metal shelf?”
“It was the door to a toilet stall,” Emilia sighed. “Nothing to get too proud about. I’m not sure what happens next.”
“He try--?”
“Yes.”
“I taught you good, didn’t I?”
“Pretty good.” Emilia feinted a punch to the gut and Alvaro pretended to double up.
“But what’s this shit about you getting promoted to lieutenant?” Alvaro kept his fists up. “A big promotion and you don’t call me?”
“Por Dios,” Emilia groaned. In a few brief sentences she told him about Lt. Inocente’s death, Obregon’s intervention, and what the investigation had so far turned up.
“The big union guy, eh?” Alvaro looked impressed. “Obregon started out as a uniform here in Acapulco, you know. Him and that sidekick Villahermosa. Everybody says they came right up the ranks together, always one and two.”
“They’re still one and two,” Emilia said. “Every time I’ve seen Obregon, Villahermosa’s been there.”
“I heard they do everything together. Even girls.” Alvaro made a smacking sound. “You get what I mean?”
