by Carmen Amato
“Are you asking if I’m going to bring a complaint against him?” Emilia kept the desk between them.
“Yes.”
“I don’t know.” That was the truth. Gomez deserved to be thrown out but Emilia knew she’d be crucified if she brought charges against a detective who, from his file, obviously had someone influential looking out for him. Chief Salazar and senior officers would close ranks, accuse her of leading on the other detective and clamoring that Lt. Inocente had been right in not wanting a female detective in his squadroom in the first place. Gomez would say she had told him to meet her there, that he’d thought she was his girlfriend, that she’d wanted to have sex with him. They’d work up any lie that would pit his word against hers. Emilia had seen those tactics hush up a dozen rape victims. Few rapes ever got prosecuted.
“He went after you, didn’t he?” Silvio surprised her by saying.
“Yes.”
“And got the shit beat out of him by a girl.” Silvio’s eyes raked over her. “You got on high heels today and he’s home with busted ribs and a face like a moldy jitomate. Castro’s babysitting.”
The other detectives had probably turned up just to see how good a beating she’d gotten from Gomez. “So what are you suggesting?” Emilia demanded. “That he should be able to come right back and act like nothing happened?”
“I’m saying that a lot of guys want to do what Gomez did,” Silvio said. “That’s why you don’t belong here. But if he stays it’s a reminder that they can’t.”
“A lot of guys, Silvio? What that’s supposed to mean?”
“Rayos, Cruz,” Silvio swore. “I’m trying to show you how things are.”
“The case got bumped to the union for adjudication,” Emilia flung back. “So Gomez can do his explaining to Obregon.”
“That must suit you just fine,” Silvio snarled. “His little chica in trouble and Obregon comes rushing in.”
“It’s not like that with Obregon, Silvio,” Emilia blazed. The pendejo had jumped to exactly the opposite conclusion regarding Obregon. “You don’t know anything.”
“I know you’re still sniffing around after that water company,” Silvio said. “So you can waste some time for him. You stalling so he can cover up some shit?”
Emilia folded her arms, wary now. “I told you. We’re going to tie up all the loose ends.”
“Those loose ends just got tied up for you on a plate and you don’t even know what to do with it.”
“I have to go talk to the mayor,” Emilia said tightly. “Tell her how fucking helpful you’ve been.”
Silvio stepped aside at the last second as Emilia headed out of the office with the press release file. She swung by her old desk to get her bag and left. Fuentes looked as if he wanted to say something to her but she couldn’t stay in that maldita squadroom one more minute.
☼
“So you see, I’m very interested in making sure we bring along talented professional women. That Acapulco sets a standard for opportunities for women in Mexico.”
“That would be very helpful, señora,” Emilia said.
“Take you, for example,” Carlota said. The mayor was a vision in another two-piece outfit, this time a heather purple tweed with cream piping, decorated with an enormous amethyst brooch. Her shoes were matching cream suede sling backs with a slight platform. She put down her fork and looked earnestly at Emilia. “You’re our first female detective. Self-educated. Handling big cases. A role model.”
Silvio would roll over dead if he heard this. Emilia managed a smile. “I wouldn’t say that, señora.”
“You should be making contacts now, Lieutenant,” Carlota said. She took a small bite of the omelet on her plate. “Planning your next career move.”
“I’ve only been a detective for two years, señora,” Emilia said. “I’ll probably stay in the job as long as I can.”
“No, no,” Carlota put down her fork and waved a hand in dismay. “That won’t do. Now, who is in your network?”
“My network?” Emilia asked.
Breakfast with the mayor, in a private alcove off the main office, was turning out to be a learning experience. Emilia had briefed the mayor on the progress of the investigation as they were served champagne and orange juice cocktails and small plates of smoked salmon and shrimp seviche with lemon and capers. By the time they’d gotten to the omelets studded with green peppers Carlota had deftly changed the subject to Emilia’s career.
“Your professional contacts,” Carlota clarified. She ate in small bites. Although she dabbed at her lips frequently with her gold linen napkin the woman’s lipstick never smudged. Her nails were a mocha tone and her hair was a perfect sheet of dark silk.
“Well,” Emilia considered. “I guess that would be the other detectives. Maybe Antonio Prade, the coroner.”
“The coroner?” Carlota looked thoroughly shocked. The napkin was dropped into her lap. “A man who spends all his time with dead bodies is hardly a professional contact.”
Emilia ate some of her own omelet to keep from having to reply.
Carlota took up her fork again. “My point is that you have a very promising career in front of you. But you have to build a network, meet the right people, and have them open doors to the next level.”
“I see.” Emilia glanced at her watch as she reached for her coffee cup. It was 11:15 am. Loyola and Ibarra should have found those hookers by now.
“I can help you get ahead, Emilia,” Carlota said. “I see you moving on, not stuck with the police. A fine start and you’ve gotten what you could from it, but there’s so much more ahead for you.”
“I hadn’t really ever considered any other job,” Emilia said. The mayor was now calling her Emilia, as if they were best friends. “Sometimes, señora, I know I’m doing something important. For people who need help.”
“There are better opportunities for you.” Carlota refilled both their coffee cups from the silver pot on the table. “The city government has marvelous opportunities. For example, the position of undersecretary for administration will be opening up soon. A smart woman like you should be reaching for that kind of position.”
Emilia must not have been able to hide her surprise because the mayor smiled knowingly. “I can be your mentor, Emilia. Help you build that network and move to the next level. I know a lot of people who would like to see you move forward. Once this terrible case about poor Lt. Inocente is wrapped up.”
Some omelet got caught in Emilia’s throat. She swallowed hard to push it down.
“Wouldn’t you like a job here?” Carlota asked.
Emilia sipped some coffee to help the omelet stay down. “What does an undersecretary for administration do?”
Carlota considered for a moment, lovely face composed, fork in the air. “Staffing,” she finally said. “Organization. It’s a very powerful position. It pays at least three times what you’re making now and a driver and car come with it.”
Emilia nearly choked. Three times her current salary would be a fortune. She had a sudden vision of herself in Carlota’s tweed suit, nails polished. The undersecretary of administration for the city of Acapulco was a sleek, confident women who had a nice office, didn’t need to bribe people with food, and dated men like . . . like . . . norteamericano hotel managers.
Carlota ate a grape from the fruit salad nestled in a cut-glass bowl next to her plate. “Those people who could be so helpful to your career are watching this case, you know. Seeing how you handle pressure and if you’re ready to move up.”
Emilia reluctantly put aside the notion of herself in nail polish and a fancy office, although the prospect of such a job dangled at the edge of her vision, like a bright, shiny Christmas ornament. “We’re just trying to find the truth,” she said in response to Carlota’s statement. “That’s how we’ll find the killer.”
“It’s been a week already,” Carlota said. “How close are you to finding your truth?”
“It’s a very complicated situatio
n, señora,’ Emilia said. Which you have just made worse. She put her napkin on the table next to her plate.
“I have a lot of confidence in you, Emilia. I think you know that being a professional woman is hard. You have to be smarter than the men.” Carlota threaded her fingertips together so that her hands formed a loose bridge. “Women have to work together. Make alliances. Help each other move forward.”
“I really should be going, señora.” Emilia needed to be alone. She needed time to think through what Carlota had just offered her. “As I said, we have the new fingerprint results and another interview with the brother.”
“And I have a meeting with some Olympic supporters. Negotiations are at a delicate stage. We can’t afford any bad news to chase them away.” The enamel bridge fluttered apart so that Carlota could give Emilia’s hand a brief pat. “We understand each other, don’t we, Emilia? Two women helping each other.”
“Thank you for the wonderful breakfast, señora,” Emilia managed. “I appreciate your time.”
The mayor smiled tightly, gestured to her ever present and discreet staff, and Emilia was escorted back to the car that had brought her.
The drive back to the police station took 15 minutes. Emilia sat in the back while some anonymous chauffeur drove. The same thought kept circling, circling, trying to find a reason to stop. What had happened since Thursday, when Carlota first insisted that the result of the Inocente investigation not embarrass the city, which made the mayor feel she had to up the stakes?
And then Emilia lost herself in a daydream in which she was dressed in a tweed suit, opening the door of her office to a yellow-haired man with initials on his shirt.
☼
According to her file, Rosita Vasquez Garcia was 23 years old and a veteran hooker. She wasn’t a street walker, the type of girl who gave 50-peso blow jobs in back of the cheap hotels beyond Avenida Pinzon. Rosita was a girl with upscale looks that would let her have an easy time of it at the El Pharaoh. Most nights she prowled the floor, looking for customers who needed a friend when the slot machines went against them. The casino took a cut, the girl made it fast, and in 20 minutes the customer would be back in the main casino, smug with satisfaction and ready to pull the lever again.
But as soon as Ibarra threw down a picture of Fausto Inocente on his table at the morgue, Emilia knew they had a problem.
Rosita’s face went white. “Is he dead?”
“Yes,” Ibarra said. “Head smashed in.”
“I don’t know him,” Rosita breathed.
“Your fingerprints were found on his boat.” Ibarra tossed down a picture of the boat. The blood spatters were visible.
Rosita shook her head. She was about Emilia’s height and weight and had her hair caught up in a loose ponytail. The pictures had shaken her, that was clear, but she recovered fast and a look of grim determination settled on her face that let everyone in the room know she had nothing to say.
They were in the same interrogation room where Emilia had had her talk with Maria Teresa about Dr. Chang. It was crowded, what with Ibarra and Loyola, Silvio, Emilia and Rosita. The hooker was the only one sitting in a chair.
They’d picked up the other girl, Begonia Torres Blanco, at the same time. The other girl was sitting alone in the other interrogation room. The two hookers lived with Begonia’s grandmother who’d pitched a screaming fit, according to Loyola, and obviously didn’t realize what the girls did for a living.
It had been Silvio’s idea to keep them separate; see if their stories matched. “Did you meet him at the El Pharaoh?” Silvio asked.
“I don’t know him,” Rosita repeated.
“How did your fingerprints get on his boat?”
“Police magic.” Rosita folded her arms.
Ibarra and Silvio took turns asking questions. Rosita continued tough.
Emilia left, found the picture of Lt. Inocente she’d taken from his file, and went into the other interrogation room.
Begonia and Rosita could have been sisters. They were roughly the same size. Begonia had the same big dark eyes rimmed with thick black eyeliner and long hair caught up in a tousled ponytail. She had on a short skirt, a turquoise bra and a denim jacket that came just to her waist. She wasn’t as tough as Rosita, however, and waiting alone had made her nervous.
“Do you have a cigarette?” she asked Emilia.
“No, but this will only take a minute,” Emilia said. She sat across the table from Begonia. “Sorry you’ve had to wait so long.”
“Where’s Rosita?”
“Talking in the other room.”
“I don’t want to wait any more,” Begonia said.
“Just a minute more.”
“What are you? The secretary?”
“It’s a shit job,” Emilia sighed.
“You want to earn more,’ Begonia said with a nervous giggle. “I can help you.”
“I could use some help,” Emilia said “I gotta find out something about some guy before they start yelling. And stuff.” She touched the bandage on her forehead.
“Pendejos,” Begonia muttered.
“All of them.” Emilia gave another sigh, making sure to put a little teary sound into it. She showed the girl the picture of Lt. Inocente. “I’m trying to find him.”
“Fausto?” Begonia was clearly surprised.
“Yes,” Emilia said. “You know him?”
Begonia squirmed in her seat. “Well, sort of.”
Emilia tried to look abused and interested at the same time.
“He comes into the El Pharaoh.” Begonia gave her nervous giggle again. “To gamble.”
“Is that the only place you’ve ever seen him?”
“Well.” Begonia looked around the little room. “Who wants to know?”
“Me.” Emilia wasn’t sure if the girl was stupid or had a real reason for the question.
Begonia licked her lips. “You’re pretty. You’d do good at the El Pharaoh,” she said. “But the real money is when you freelance.”
“You mean go to the customer’s place?”
Begonia looked around the room again. It was plain concrete block with a constant odor of sweat and fear. Evidently satisfied that no one was listening in, Begonia leaned forward. Emilia leaned forward too, so that their heads were almost touching over the table. “Everybody who comes to El Pharaoh has money,” Begonia said in a low voice. “But the El Pharaoh has rules. You know. It’s their room. You can’t take too long. So the big money is when you can get one of the regulars to get you out of there.”
“And Fausto got you out?”
“Me and Rosita.” Begonia smiled proudly.
“Did the El Pharaoh know?”
“No, that’s one of the rules. You aren’t supposed to do that.”
“Where did he take you?”
“He had a boat.” Begonia was pleased to be sharing a confidence. “I never did it on a boat before. I thought it would be different.”
“Was it?”
Begonia sighed. “He likes to do it from behind. Even on the boat.”
“When were you on the boat?”
“A couple of times.”
“Alone?”
“No, me and Rosita both. He always pays for both.” She looked coy. “He likes to do one while the other watches and then we switch. The one who watches has to talk. Tell him how hard he is and that she likes to look at him. The one he’s doing has to be absolutely quiet.”
Emilia’s elaborate breakfast with the mayor threatened to make a return appearance.
“It’s his thing,” Begonia said.
Emilia took a deep breath, willing the omelet to stay where it was. “When were you on the boat last?”
Begonia shrugged. “Maybe two Sundays ago.”
“What about last Tuesday?”
“We only ever go on Sundays. It’s the only day me and Rosita have off from the El Pharaoh.”
Emilia nodded. “Who makes the schedule at the El Pharaoh?”
“If I te
ll you, Tito’ll get mad.”
“Tito have a really bad temper?” Emilia tried her best to look sympathetic. So many pendejos.
Begonia bit her lip. “Sometimes.”
“Does he like boats?”
“Tito?” Begonia frowned. “I don’t know.”
“Would he have gotten mad at Fausto?”
Begonia was beginning to get bored. She picked at her chipped nail polish. “Usually Tito just gets mad at us. So we always give him a propina, you know?”
A propina was a tip. Obviously Tito acted as their off-hours pimp as well as the bouncer or whatever at the El Pharaoh. Emilia told Begonia she’d go find her a cigarette. She got one from the holding cell guard and walked into the hall just as Silvio came out of the other interrogation room. He gave her a questioning look.
“Rosita not talking?”
“No.”
“That’s because she probably thinks the bouncer at the El Pharaoh offed el teniente and she might be next,” Emilia said. “Ibarra never should have showed her the picture of a dead guy. The girls aren’t supposed to make extra money on the side with anybody they’ve met at the casino and some guy named Tito keeps them in line.”
“Fuck,” said Silvio.
Emilia gave Silvio a rundown of what Begonia had told her.
When she was done Silvio’s customary scowl turned to mild surprise. “Why’d she spill all this to you?”
“We talked about me needing a new job,” Emilia said.
Silvio looked like he was going to laugh but checked himself. “I’ll check out Tito. Maybe Portillo and Fuentes have already run into him. Verify the Sunday thing as well.”
“Maybe Tito caught him on Tuesday,” Emilia said. “With a different girl who wasn’t going to give him a cut.”
“A girl who wore gloves,” Silvio said.
Emilia shrugged and turned to go back into the room with Begonia.
“You have a nice time with the mayor?” Silvio asked.
“Best friends,” Emilia said and kept going.
Chapter 18
The Agua Pacific bottling plant manager was happy to show them around. Emilia was glad she’d changed into her usual jeans and tee shirt as she, Rico, and Fuentes were helped into disposable yellow coveralls and booties, given hairnets and safety goggles, then shown onto the plant floor.
