by Carmen Amato
“It doesn’t matter,” Bruno said. He looked to be on the brink of tears. “I don’t know who killed my brother but it had nothing to do with anyone in his family.”
“I’m sorry,” Emilia said uncomfortably. “I want this to be over as much as you do.”
“The children can’t take any more. They’re suffering and I don’t know what else to do.” Bruno reached inside the jacket and pulled out a thick envelope. He held it out to Emilia. “If it’s not enough there can be more. Don’t ask any more questions in the apartment building. Don’t make them come to the police station again. Leave my family alone.”
“Don’t do this,” Emilia said.
The hand holding the envelope shook uncontrollably. “Please.”
Emilia didn’t touch the envelope. She got back into the Suburban and made a wide circle in front of the concrete beehive, dirt and gravel spraying over Bruno Inocente’s Mercedes. As the Suburban rumbled over the dirt track she glanced in the rearview mirror. Bruno Inocente remained in front of the beehive folly, one hand over his eyes, his shoulders trembling. The envelope was in the dirt by his feet.
Emilia hoped she could find her way back to the Maxitunnel.
☼
When Emilia came back to the squadroom at 8:00 pm it was empty. She went into el teniente’s office to check for phone messages and found a thick brown envelope from the telecommunications office on the desk chair.
The records for el teniente’s home and cell phone. Finally.
She’d felt tired and shaky after the encounter with Bruno Inocente and the drive back into the city but the prospect of some solid information woke her up. The envelope contained six months’ worth of phone calls for both his home and cell phone. The records indicated whether it was an outgoing or incoming call but provided no information regarding the identity of the caller. Cell phone numbers had an extra digit, so at least there was a distinction between a cell call or a call to or from a land line.
She found the day of Lt. Inocente’s death, slowly comparing every call made from the Costa Esmeralda land line phone to every number she’d so far collected during the investigation. In the afternoon there had been a number of outgoing calls from the Inocente’s apartment. Two calls had been made to Dr. Chang’s office number. One to the children’s school. Another number wasn’t on her list. Emilia called and found it was the chairwoman of the San Pedro charity event Maria Teresa had attended.
There were fewer incoming calls. One from the children’s school. One from Maria Teresa’s cell phone. No call around 10:00 pm.
Emilia picked up the record for el teniente’s cell phone and located the same day. There were two outgoing calls to the house and one to Maria Teresa’s cell phone. Two incoming calls from an unidentified cell phone number, the first at 9:56 pm, the next at 10:12 pm.
Emilia carefully compared it against her list of numbers related to the case. When nothing matched she reached across the desk to el teniente’s roster of squadroom cell numbers. She held her breath, not wanting to see it. But it matched.
Obregon’s warning rattled through her bones like a cold wind off the ocean.
Chapter 20
Emilia brought in a box of ridiculously expensive designer doughnuts and made a pot of coffee. Her heart clanged in her chest as 9:00 am approached. Her nerves weren’t helped by the sight of Gomez and Castro, both of whom avoided looking at her as they went to their desks and turned on their computers. Gomez had two black eyes, a bandage across his nose, and his left arm was in a sling. Silvio, Rico, and Fuentes came in shortly afterwards. They all nodded at Gomez but no one remarked on his appearance. Macias and Sandor were there as well.
Silvio filled his mug. Ibarra and Loyola came in together, both looking glum. Loyola brightened up when he saw the doughnuts.
“Tito Vela’s got an alibi,” Silvio announced. “He was at work until 2:00 am the night Inocente died. Got a couple hundred witnesses who can place him at the El Pharaoh.”
Loyola swallowed a bite of doughnut. “The hookers were our best lead.”
“Nights that Inocente took his boat out late were Sunday nights,” Silvio went on. “Matches the times both girls said they’d been with him.”
Emilia felt herself start to shake. Of course the thug from the El Pharaoh was a false lead. Everything was narrowing down to the man by the murder board with a marker in one hand and her overpriced coffee in the other. Silvio had on his usual white tee shirt, jeans and shoulder holster. The coffee mug looked ridiculously tiny with his big fist curled around it.
Emilia listened as Silvio walked them through the murder board again and the detectives rehashed what they already had. The marina watchman who said Inocente went out shortly before midnight. The boater who saw lights flashing on a speedboat about two hours later. The alibis for Maria Teresa, Bruno, Rita, Dr. Chang, everyone connected to the El Pharaoh. Useless statements from hotel guests and residents of the Costa Esmeralda apartment building.
Probably none of it mattered.
“I say we comb through the apartment building again,” Fuentes said. “He didn’t take his car keys, he wasn’t going far to find his girlfriend.”
Rico pointed to the timeline. “Agree. We gotta fill in the time gap when he was having sex.”
Silvio nodded thoughtfully. “Okay,” he said. He pointed at Loyola and Ibarra. “Go with Portillo and Fuentes.”
Castro bristled. “We can do that.”
“We don’t need to be scaring the shit out of whoever doesn’t want to be found,” Silvio said with a hard look at Gomez. “You two get on the hotline, see if there’s anything today. If not, we can turn it off. It’s been a fucking waste of time.”
“The funeral is tomorrow at 5:00 pm,” Emilia said when they were done and everybody had been assigned a follow-up. Macias and Sandor took the dispatches.
She took a deep breath and plowed on. “Orders from Chief Salazar. Everybody goes. In uniform.”
Silvio took a doughnut. One with sprinkles on top.
☼
Emilia parked the Suburban in the parking lot of the Bodega department store. The barrio streets were too narrow for the big vehicle although the vandals who’d strip it if she left it closer to the address would leave it considerably thinner.
The area got progressively more run down as she walked and she was glad she’d worn jeans and running shoes today. The GPS feature on her phone showed that she’d have to walk six long city blocks.
The address for Horacio Valdez Ruiz turned out to be a bar called Los Bongos. The place was located in the center of a block of shabby businesses specializing in tattoos, bootleg video rentals, and used electronics. Its faded blue concrete front was plastered over with posters for bands that played there on weekends. The front door was open. Canned music, the smell of stale beer, and male laughter let passersby know that the drinking started early in this neighborhood. Los Bongos wasn’t on the tourist trail; it was the sort of place where the locals drank before going home and beating their girlfriends.
Emilia unbuttoned the top buttons of her denim jacket so she could reach for her gun if she needed to, slung her shoulder bag over her head to carry it across her body, and pulled back her shoulders. She mentally told herself she was as big as Silvio and walked into the bar.
The shift from bright sunlight to dim interior made her blink but she kept moving toward the long bar running along the left side of the place and the bartender who regarded her with a sour look. Cheap plastic tables and chairs filled most of the space. Two older men in a corner quarreled over a chess board. Another couple of men hunched over drinks without speaking and were probably junkies just trying to survive until their next score.
The rear of the room was taken up with two pool tables. Four younger men circled the tables, carrying cues, talking loudly, beer bottles balanced on the edges of the tables. A Maná song, one of Emilia’s favorites, rattled the speakers over the bar with a persistent bass pulse. A neon Corona beer sign buzzed off and on
each time the bass thumped too hard. There was a space between the pool tables and the main area with a small black stage and some blocky tower speakers. Emilia supposed that was where the weekend bands played.
The chess players stopped their game to watch Emilia as she made her way to the bartender.
“Buen’ dia,” Emilia said.
He gave her a grunt and a sizing-up look that said he knew she didn’t belong there.
“I’m looking for Horacio Valdes Ruiz,” Emilia said, trying not to sound like a cop.
The pool players stopped circling the tables and gathered together by the stage.
The bartender pulled at his nose with thumb and forefinger. His nails were long and had black half-moons of dirt under them. “This place is for drinking or pool.”
“Beer,” Emilia said. She put down two 100-peso bills, the red and tan motif unmistakable against the sticky dark countertop.
The bartender palmed a bill and set down a warm bottle. He had a tattoo on the inside of his left arm shaped like a long, thick blunt-bladed knife.
Emilia was in El Machete territory. She’d heard about the gang before. It was small but notoriously violent. Errand-runners for the Los Zetas cartel.
“So where’s Horacio?” Emilia asked.
“You don’t like the beer?” The bartender put her change on the counter next to the second 100-peso bill.
Emilia took a pull from the bottle. She set it down by the money. “Horacio said I could find him here.”
“You look kind of old for him.” The bartender said it loudly enough for the pool players to hear and the line was greeted with a ripple of laughter.
“He’s the father,” Emilia said.
The laughter degenerated into catcalls to the bartender.
Emilia shrugged and tried to look pregnant.
The bartender pocketed the second 100-peso bill. “His mother lives upstairs.” He wiped his nose again, the black nails scraping against greasy skin. “Stairs are in the back.”
The pool players gyrated and made air kissing noises as Emilia passed by with the beer bottle in her right hand.
The stairway was dim but looked clean, which she took to be a good sign. Two heavy wooden doors met her at the top, neither identified in any way. Emilia knocked hard on the first with the side of her fist.
As she waited for someone to answer she was conscious of a shadow behind her. Turning around, she saw the bartender and two of the pool players standing at the foot of the stairs grinning up at her.
Emilia pounded on the door again.
“Other door,” the bartender called.
Without turning again Emilia raised the beer in acknowledgment and hammered on the other door. The words to the Hail Mary prayer ran through her head, as if the Virgin could somehow save her from the trap Emilia had foolishly gotten herself into.
“Who’s there?” a muffled female voice rasped.
“Is Horacio there?” Emilia called through the heavy door.
“Why?”
“Open the fucking door, Marlena!” a male voice bellowed from the foot of the stairs.
“It’s important,” Emilia said. She glanced at the cluster of men below her. “No trouble, I promise.”
Heavy metal clanked, a bolt screeched and the door opened a crack. Emilia angled herself into the corner so she could smile encouragingly into the narrow opening. She saw a bloodshot eye and the glow of a cigarette. “I’m Emilia,” she said.
Something scraped away from the door on the other side. The door swung open just enough for Emilia to see a short woman wearing a gray smock-type apron. She had a short perm. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth.
“What do you want with Horacio?” the woman asked. Her voice had the grate of a heavy nicotine user.
“Marlena?” Emilia asked. The apartment smelled strongly of cigarettes and cat urine. “I just need to ask Horacio a question about a friend.”
The woman gave Emilia an appraising look then stepped backwards and bawled, “Horacio!” The cigarette never left the corner of her mouth but bobbled as she yelled. Ash shook onto her apron front.
Emilia shut the door behind her and looked around. They were in a short hallway that ended in a small windowless room equipped with a bare mattress pushed against a wall and a television balanced on concrete blocks. An older woman sat in a rocking chair watching a telenovela. She didn’t pay any attention to either Marlena or Emilia and seemed immune to the ammonia-like miasma beginning to make Emilia’s eyes water.
Several expensive game consoles were stacked in front of the television, with at least half a dozen different controllers. Videogames in bright plastic sleeves spilled across two plastic chairs that had looked more at home in the bar downstairs. A corner outfitted with a wooden table, a two-burner hotplate, and a stack of dishes apparently functioned as the kitchen. Magazine pages featuring pictures of Our Lady of Guadalupe, San Juan Diego and the pope adorned the walls.
A door opened halfway down the hall and a slight man clad only in low-riding jeans stumbled out, cell phone in hand. He was in his early twenties, Emilia guessed; as tall as her and slightly built, with long hair caught up in a ponytail and a scar on his forehead. The distinctive El Machete tattoo decorated the inside of his left forearm.
“She says she knows you, Horacio,” Marlena said without preamble.
Without warning Horacio charged at Emilia in the narrow space, head down. He was slower than Gomez. She caught him under the chin with the neck of the beer bottle and shoved it into the soft skin of his throat with both hands. He wasn’t heavy and his head flipped back and carried the rest of him with it. His legs buckled slightly and Horacio ended up almost squatting, his back plastered against the wall, beer foam running down his chest.
“I never fucked you,” he gasped, still holding the phone.
Emilia eyed him warily. “They got it wrong downstairs. I just want to ask you a couple of questions about your cousin Alejandro.”
Marlena mumbled something and made the sign of the cross. Her cigarette was down to the filter.
“He’s dead, puta,” Horacio said. He stood up slowly but stayed by the wall. “You’re out of luck if he’s the father.”
“Did you ever meet the people he drove for?” Emilia asked. “The Hudsons. Norteamericano.”
“No,” Horacio said. “They’re not going to care shit about some puta their driver fucked up.”
“Did he have a number for them?”
“No. They just called him when they came.”
“Did he ever tell you where they went? If they had friends that he drove them to see?”
Horacio scowled. “They were some rich tourists, puta.” His expression changed to a sly grin. “It wasn’t Alejandro, was it? You get in trouble with that gringo, eh?”
Emilia gave half a shrug, not saying yes and not saying no. “Do you know how your cousin met them?”
“No, but they paid good.”
“Did you ever work for them, too? Fill in for your cousin?”
Horacio peeled himself off the wall and came toward Emilia, his swagger back. “No.” He leered. “You’re all right, puta. Just surprised me before. You came to see a real man, no?”
If anything, Horacio smelled worse than the apartment. Emilia tightened her grip on the beer bottle. “You got money?” she bluffed. “I heard you paid big to get Alejandro out of jail. Where’d you get the money?”
“El Machete always has money,” Horacio said. He leaned in close, one hand on the wall by Emilia’s head. “I always take care of my putas.”
“You got real money?” Emilia asked. “Or that crap kind of money Alejandro had?”
A moment later Emilia found herself on the other side of the heavy wooden door looking down into the upturned face of the bartender.
☼
Emilia kept walking until her heart rate slowed. The only thing she’d learned was that Ruiz had probably been El Machete, too, something they would have known if the body had ev
er turned up. From the explosive reaction to the mention of counterfeit money, she could guess that Horacio knew something but she could only guess what that might be. Maybe they could bring him in, stick him in a room with Silvio and see what happened.
It was that thought that kept her walking through Silvio’s neighborhood just a few blocks over, one step up from the poorest of the poor. This was the unlovely part of old Acapulco, where the sidewalks were broken and everyone looked furtive. There was a small church with a decided lean and a heavy corrugated metal door set into the wall around it. The houses had once been pastel colors, peach and sky blue and rose pink but no one in the neighborhood had had money for paint in a long time and the sea air had weathered everything but the graffiti to indeterminate shades of gray. Most of the walls around the houses were topped with broken glass set into the cement. The few windows she could see had bars set into the stucco, making each house a mini prison.
There was an abarrotes shop on the corner, a closet-sized place selling candy, cigarettes, soda, and telenovela magazines that were a month old. Emilia selected a bottle of sports drink. “I hear there’s a place to make a bet around here.” She smiled at the older woman behind the tiny counter hemmed in by cartons of Chupa Pops. “My husband wants me to do it for him. He got work today.”
The woman jerked her head to indicate the next house over. Silvio’s house.
“They take the bets over there?”
“Ask for Franco.”
“Thanks.” Emilia turned to leave.
“Not today,” the woman scoffed as if Emilia had said something stupid.
“You mean later? Tonight?” Maybe Silvio only took bets at night when he was home.
“Only Fridays.”
“Why only Fridays?”
The woman shrugged. “Place your bet on Friday. Games on Saturday. Pay up or pay out on Monday.” She gave a cackle. “If Franco says anybody wins.”
So Silvio’s book was a basic bet on fútbol games that were played on Saturday nights. Emilia gave him points for organization but not for imagination. She took a small bag of chips down from a peg and put them on the counter with some money. “Franco’s the bookie? Is he, you know, okay?” She let hang the notion that a mere slip of a girl might be afraid of a bookie.
