by Carmen Amato
“I didn’t forget.” The crowd cheered another dive but Emilia had missed it. She was holding hands with a gringo in public but it felt as if they were alone, caught up in a moment of fragile intimacy.
“I’m glad you didn’t.”
“You aren’t what I thought you were, the day we first met,” she said.
He bent his head closer to hers. “Just some arrogant gringo with a snotty shirt, right?”
Emilia grinned. “The initials.” He was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. His mouth smelled like cinnamon. “Did I stare?”
“A little,” he said and grinned back. “I thought that you were a diamond that got mixed up with the coal.”
“Hardly.”
She was saved from more conversation by the end of the show. All of the divers climbed up the adjacent cliff to the plaza and walked together through the crowd to the applause of the onlookers. The tourists put money in the hat that was passed around. Kurt put in 200 pesos; the Japanese tourists stopped taking pictures long enough to do the same.
As the divers passed, their bodies gleaming with droplets and coursing with adrenaline, younger women in the crowd looked at them appraisingly. Four times a day these men are gods to the crowds and to themselves, Emilia thought. They probably weren’t paid much. Most of their pay came from tips gathered after each show. Then they’d go home and drink beer and eat tortillas and be ordinary again.
Kurt tugged at her hand as the Japanese tourists headed for the hotel minivan. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” he asked. “We don’t have to go back to the hotel with the group.”
“What about Christine?”
“The hotel concierge?”
“Yes,” Emilia couldn’t help herself. “She seemed to expect you back.”
Kurt shrugged. “Christine can manage on her own.”
Emilia resisted asking about his relationship with the pretty blonde woman. It shouldn’t matter anyway; tonight had already been reserved for her mother. “I can’t tonight.”
“But another night?” He still had her hand clasped in his.
“Yes,” Emilia heard herself say.
The Japanese tourists chattered away and snapped more pictures. Emilia found herself smiling and posing like she hadn’t a care in the world.
☼
Emilia had promised Sophia she’d be home for Sunday dinner. It was the first meal she’d had at home besides morning coffee since the investigation into Lt. Inocente’s death had begun.
She and her mother hadn’t talked in weeks it seemed, and Emilia made an effort to connect with the simple easy things that were comfortable for her mother; cooking and movies, and letting Sophia tell her what had been on last night on Sabado Gigante, the Saturday variety show everyone watched. Sophia recounted in detail the fashion show and the musical groups and the quiz segment and the woman who won a new washing machine for answering a question about China.
Emilia got the ingredients ready for arroz rojo as they talked, following Tía Lourdes’ recipe, which was different than the way Sophia had taught Emilia to make it, because of course Tia Lourdes was not from Acapulco but from Mexico City. Everyone knew that people from the city, los chilangos, had no real cooking style to call their own. Emilia chopped up white onions then dumped them into the big pot with garlic and oil. The oil sizzled around the tiny white cubes and the smell was tantalizing. It was a relief to do something so familiar, something that hardly required thought.
“Your father wants to know why you aren’t married,” Sophia said.
“Mama,” Emilia said, completely taken aback. “My life is none of Ernesto Cruz’s business.”
“Alma Romo’s son is back from Monterrey. He’s got a good job now working at the water park.” Sophia wiped iodine solution off tomatoes and brought them to the table. “We’ll have him over for a meal. So you can get to know him.”
“Mama, I’m not interested in some guy from the water park.” Emilia stirred the sizzling onions and garlic with a wooden spatula. “What does he do, cut up fish for the dolphins all day long? I want something more than that.” Kurt’s eyes came to mind. They were the color of the sea and sometimes when he looked at her, she felt that he could see everything that was in her and that it was all good.
“You already have a boyfriend,” Sophia said delightedly. “Someone from school. I’ll tell your father.”
Emilia looked up guiltily. She’d held hands with Kurt and agreed to have dinner with him and it was the best secret she’d ever had. “Don’t talk about me with Ernesto Cruz, Mama.” Emilia poured rice into the hot pan and stirred the grains into the onions and garlic, feeling her mother staring at her expectantly. “Looking at blood and mangled bodies and trying to figure out who was the cheater who survived to kill the other cheaters doesn’t really make me a fun date. If I ever find somebody it has to be on my own. Someone who can deal with me and what I do.”
Problems crowded in again, over powering the good feeling she’d had since the trip to El Mirador. The messiness of the Inocente investigation. Rico’s distance. Silvio and the counterfeit money. Obregon’s strange directions and the way he made her feel both scared and aroused. And tomorrow Carlota Montoya Perez would again try to squeeze her into a corner.
Emilia was tired, too. Tired of the other detectives ignoring her or fighting her or doing a shit job because of her. She was tired of being scared of Silvio. Tired of worrying if she and Rico were in danger. She stepped to the table, took a tomato that Sophia had cut in half, squeezed it over a cup until the pulp and seeds dribbled out and set the remainder on the chopping board. “I can’t have some knife grinder gossiping about me in the mercado. You know we don’t talk about my job.”
“No.” To Emilia’s surprise Sophia’s shoulders crumpled and tears started running down her face. “No, don’t say that.”
“Mama, I’m sorry.” Startled, Emilia hastily wiped her hands. “I didn’t mean to sound angry.”
“That’s what happened to your father, you know. He saw things that weren’t meant for him and those things took him away from us. And they’ll take you away from me, too, and there’ll be nothing left.” Sophia didn’t wipe away the tears that cascaded down her face and dripped onto her lap.
“What are you talking about, Mama?
Sophia started to rock back and forth in her chair. “No. They’ll kill you just like they killed my poor Ernesto. My poor beautiful Ernesto.”
“Mama, nobody’s going to kill me.” Emilia didn’t know if her mother was lucid or not. She turned off the stove and sat at the table. “Talk to me.”
Sophia took a ragged breath. “Ernesto was a driver, you know, for a fancy norteamericano family that lived high above Las Brisas. Hollywood people. And their house was so big that they gave him his own little house up there. That’s where we lived.”
“You never told me that.” Emilia didn’t remember living anywhere as a child except with Tía Lourdes and Tío Raul.
“It was beautiful.” Sophia’s eyes were still watery but she smiled. “There was a pool and six maids and someone else to park the cars. Your father didn’t do that. He was too important because he drove the big car just for el señor and la señora. Parties all the time in the big house. We were invited sometimes and your father was so proud. Many times we ate dinner in the big house, too. Afterwards la señora and I would play with you. She bought you dresses, you know. Ernesto would play pool with el señor and smoke cigars. And then sometimes in our little house Ernesto would smoke cigars. They were expensive but he had gotten accustomed to expensive things.”
Emilia didn’t dare say a word. This story was spilling out of her mother and it was something Emilia had never heard before. All she’d ever been told was that her father was a mechanic like his brother, and a chauffeur, too, and that he’d died in a car accident.
“He thought he was living just the same as el señor and that was wrong. He took too much and God punished us because Ernesto had forgotten hims
elf.”
“What happened?” Emilia asked quietly. It was a fragile moment and she didn’t know if she’d never get her mother to open up like this again.
“One day he and el señor went somewhere. They were such good friends that el señor didn’t sit in the back of the car anymore. He sat up front like they were equals when everyone knew they weren’t. And a truck hit them right in the face and they both died. La señora was very angry because if el señor had been in the back seat he would have lived and only my poor Ernesto would have been crushed. She was angry and we had to leave and say goodbye to our little house near the big house and goodbye to Las Brisas and everything your father thought would last forever.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. That must have been so hard for you.” Emilia swallowed back a lump in her throat. “I only remember you crying and crying at Tío Raul’s house. I think it’s my first memory.”
Sophia wiped her face with the towel used to dry the vegetables.
Emilia leaned forward, not sure if she’d have such a chance again anytime soon. “Mama,” she said softly. “You can’t keep pretending that the man in the front room is my father. He has a wife in Mexico City and he needs to go back to her.”
As if he’d heard the conversation, Ernesto Cruz pushed open the door to the kitchen and stared at them.
“Mama,” Emilia whispered urgently. “Listen to me.”
Sophia dropped the towel and straightened her spine. “I think we should buy you a new dress, Emilia. Something for school parties.”
“Mama,” Emilia groaned. She turned to the man in the doorway. “Ernesto, we can’t keep pretending and letting her tell people something that isn’t true. What about your wife in Mexico City?”
“Sophia’s been good to me,” he said apologetically. He went back into the other room, letting the kitchen door close behind him.
“No one is going to take Ernesto away from me again,” Sophia sniffed.
Emilia watched as her mother retreated into that mysterious place again, where Sophia was 19 and Emilia was an intruder.
Chapter 17
Emilia cleared off the tabletop next to the coffee maker and slung down a box of sweet rolls and a bag of gourmet roasted coffee subsidized by Gomez’s bankroll. She took the coffeemaker carafe to the public bathroom and washed it out, then made a new pot of coffee. Twelve cups. The smell of fresh coffee filled the empty squadroom. Emilia poured herself some and took it to her old desk instead of el teniente’s office.
She logged in and read the latest updates. Chief Salazar had officially released Lt. Inocente’s body to the family. The funeral would be on Wednesday. The city’s undersecretary for tourism said that Acapulco was enjoying a boom in visitors from other areas of Mexico due to the decline in the city’s petty crime. He didn’t mention any statistics and Emilia couldn’t recall having seen anything that said petty crime was down. She hoped he wouldn’t be in the meeting later that morning with Carlota.
There was nothing in her inbox from the telecommunications office about the phone records or the security staff about unlocking the last drawer in el teniente’s desk. But she did have two emails from Chief Salazar’s secretary; the first saying that he wanted to speak with her and the second cancelling the summons and telling her that her aggression toward another officer last Friday had been referred to the union for adjudication. Madre de Dios, Emilia swore to herself. She re-read that last several times, knowing that it meant that Obregon would have yet another thing to hold over her head.
Ibarra and Loyola’s voices filtered in from the corridor. Silvio’s bass rumbling came through as well and then all three of them were in the squadroom. None of them acknowledged Emilia. They separated to their respective desks and for a while nothing was heard except the click of keyboard keys and the occasional jeer. Out of the corner of her eye Emilia saw Loyola look at Gomez’s desk. The stall door was gone.
At 9:00 am Emilia printed out the day’s dispatch assignments and attached them to the new clipboard. She could all feel their eyes on her unfamiliar outfit: her Sunday skinny black skirt paired with a black and white blouse and the maldita high heels again. And the thick turquoise necklace that had been the reward to herself when she made detective.
“Fashion show today, Cruz?” Silvio asked.
“I wish,” Emilia said, determined to follow Kurt’s advice. She made a show of taking out pen and paper. “The mayor wants a briefing on the investigation with a list of all the detectives and their contribution to the investigation.”
It was a very effective lie and had the intended effect even if only three detectives were there. But they’d tell the others.
Silvio went to fill his coffee cup, froze for a moment when he caught sight of the caricature pinned to the wall above the machine, then filled his coffee cup and sniffed suspiciously at the brew before drinking. “Castro and Gomez are both off sick,” he said.
Ibarra gave a deep smoker’s cough.
The voices of Rico and Fuentes were heard before the two detectives appeared. Silvio’s eyes swung from Emilia to the newcomers.
“What the fuck?” Rico said by way of a universal greeting.
“Morning meeting,” Emilia reminded him.
Rico went to the coffee maker and sniffed much as Silvio had done. “Good. I’ll start,” he said as he poured himself a cup of coffee and took a roll, ignoring the caricature. “We got some luck. The El Pharaoh keeps extensive records. Lt. Inocente was a good customer. Guess if you pay off a big tab once they let you keep going. He was a member of their Club del Oro and stayed pretty close to the debt limit.”
Fuentes stepped to the table and selected a roll, looking his usual put-together self. Emilia realized that he reminded her a little of a younger non-gringo Kurt Rucker. Well-groomed, sharply pressed. Quietly confident. “But all of their staff has an alibi for Tuesday night. They were all working.”
“Somebody from the El Pharaoh would have hired a hit.” This from Silvio. “They’re high rollers.”
“But why?” Rico inhaled some coffee, his roll already gone. “He’d paid out good once, they got no reason to think he won’t again. They saw him as cash in hand. A compulsive loser who liked to give them money. Didn’t meet anybody who didn’t like Inocente’s gambling style.”
Loyola went over to the table, got a roll, and leaned against Silvio’s desk. “Got a tie-in with that,” he said, his long face smug behind his glasses. “Finally got all the fingerprints identified. Matches for the whole family, plus two more.” He looked around the room to make sure everybody was paying attention. “Two hookers. They were in the system. Both work the El Pharaoh.”
The room went silent and Ibarra mimed for applause.
“Let’s bring them in,” Silvio said.
To Emilia’s surprise he looked at her. “Of course,” Emilia said. “That explains the sex right before he died."
“Two boats out there that night,’ Rico said, jabbing his finger at the picture of the maroon speedboat on the murder board. “He stiffed them. Argued. Whatever. Hooker or her pimp bashed in his head. Dumped his body back on his own boat. Hooker and friend took off in their own.”
Silvio nodded. “Macias and Sandor are making the rounds of the marinas this morning. They got somebody says they saw a boat that night around 2:00 am with a light blinking on and off. Looks to be the right place for it to have been Inocente’s boat. But didn’t the coroner say he’d died around midnight?”
“Flashlight was left on.” Rico refilled his coffee cup. “Anybody saw his boat drifting at 2:00 am would have been seeing the flashlight rolling around on the floor of the cabin.”
“Okay.” Silvio added the 2:00 am sighting to the murder board.
“Last thing,” Ibarra said. He went to the murder board with a couple of printouts in one hand. “Forensics got into the laptop. It wasn’t hard, apparently, which means nothing on it was worth hiding. They recovered a bunch of emails to somebody with a segurrosg.com email address. Looks like a fig
ht over money that he had and was supposed to give back. A loan or something, maybe. Accused the person he was supposed to pay back of ruining his marriage, hurting his kids. Real angry stuff.”
“The brother’s company is Seguros Guerrero,” Rico said and grabbed the printouts from Ibarra. “Segurrosg.com is the website.”
“Okay, maybe he had money from the company?” Ibarra looked from Silvio to Emilia.
“The emails went to Bruno Inocente’s accountant’s email address,” Rico said, reading the printouts. “Cristo, this is harsh stuff. Maybe he wrote this when he was drunk as well as mad.”
“Maybe we need to talk to the brother again,” Fuentes said. He gone back to his desk after selecting his roll and had been taking notes.
“And the accountant,” Emilia said. She was inwardly thrilled with the way the meeting was going. So many detectives were there and they were having the sort of conversation she’d wanted to have each morning; comparing notes, discussing the case. “I’d like to know what they say before we go over to Lomas Bottling this afternoon.”
“The water thing again, Cruz?” Silvio sneered.
The convivial mood of the last few minutes popped like a soap bubble.
“It’s a loose end, Silvio.” Emilia pretended not to see the thunder in his face as she unclipped the dispatches and handed them to Loyola. “You two are up next.”
“What?” Loyola looked at Silvio.
“Silvio took the last one, Rico got the assignments before that,” Emilia explained. “You two are next. Just keeping it fair.”
It took two beats before Loyola caught her drift and his attention came back to her. “Okay,” he said uncertainly and the meeting was over.
Emilia went into el teniente’s office to find the old press release file so she could remember what she’d told the mayor before. Silvio followed her in. He loomed in the doorway, broad, bulky, wearing his gun in its shoulder holster, white tee shirt stretched over heavy muscles. The usual scowl tightened his face. “What’s with Gomez?” he said.
