by Carmen Amato
“What’s she talking about?” Villahermosa’s eyes swung to Fuentes.
“She drives a white Suburban,” Fuentes said and shrugged.
Emilia was starting to gag from the gun pressed under her jaw. “Maybe Inocente switched it. He took the money from someone pretending to be him and then told the kidnappers where to find the counterfeit.”
“You think Inocente took the ransom from me?” Villahermosa said. “Took Morelos de Gama’s money and gave fake to El Machete?”
“Everybody tried to blame Silvio,” Emilia went on. “Fuentes. Obregon.”
Villahermosa looked at Fuentes. “What the fuck is she talking about?”
Fuentes didn’t say anything.
Emilia was quicker than Villahermosa and it all came together almost too fast for her to realize what she was saying. “Fuentes and Inocente did it together,” she gasped. “Tricked Morelos de Gama and you, too.”
“El Machete took the kid to squeeze Morelos de Gama.” Villahermosa still didn’t get it.
“And he turned to his partners for help to get his kid back,” Emilia said.
“The kid got back,” Fuentes said. Sweat ran down his face. “Nobody got hurt except that driver who didn’t know anything, anyway. El Machete didn’t know the difference.”
“Yes, they did,” Emilia managed. “Ruiz, the driver, had some before the ransom got delivered. They know.”
Villahermosa finally caught on. He swung the gun from Emilia to Fuentes, who stepped back. The other men had disappeared and the door in the far wall was partially open.
“Where’s the real money, Fuentes?” Villahermosa’s voice was flat.
“She’s lying.” Fuentes realized his mistake. He backed up a pace. “Just trying to save her own skin.”
“Inocente needed money,” Villahermosa wasn’t the smartest but he understood the situation now. “Clean money to pay off El Pharaoh and you and everybody else. He wasn’t making enough this way. Too many partners.”
“Too many like you,” Fuentes sneered. “You’re so thick. Fausto never told you shit.”
“Did you kill Inocente and take it all for yourself?” Villahermosa asked.
“I didn’t kill him,” Fuentes spat. “He was mi patrón. I owed him everything.” He spread his hands, one still holding his own handgun. “Maybe you did, eh? You and Morelos de Gama. Probably fucked him first, too. You like boys, don’t you?”
Villahermosa squeezed the trigger. The sound exploded in the small space and his hand moved back with the recoil. The shot left a thumb-sized hole in Fuentes’ forehead. Fuentes sank to his knees, then pitched sideways into one of the workbenches, sending it crashing into a ventilation pipe. The pipe wobbled and came apart at a seam. Metal venting cascaded over the concrete floor, clattering loudly. Villahermosa threw up a hand as sheet metal tumbled onto him.
Emilia dove for the door as piping clanged to the cement floor. Villahermosa shouted but she didn’t stop. She got through the door, slammed it shut behind her, and groped her way up the slope, feeling the roughness change texture as the new cement gave way to the original. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she headed back down the maintenance tunnel the way she’d come, feeling her way with one hand on the wall. She ran as hard as she dared, legs pulsing with desperation.
There was a door on the right side of the tunnel, closed with a long lever. Emilia shoved hard on the lever and after a teeth-gritting moment of intractability it ground upward and the door swung open. Emilia tripped up two steps and spilled into the near lane of the Maxitunnel.
A car loomed, honking its horn and spraying yellow light into her face. Emilia rolled to the wall and the car tires went by at eye level. She clawed her way upright, clinging to the hard concrete. The tunnel was dark, lit by speeding headlights and a few fluorescent overhead lights set into the ceiling arching high overhead. The bend in the tunnel meant she couldn’t see either end.
Emilia started to run toward the Acapulco entrance, hugging the wall, feeling the rush of oncoming traffic like a force field. Ten steps and she stumbled on an old soda bottle and went down hard on one knee, narrowly missing being brained by the side view mirror of a truck. She struggled upright, Kurt’s image again flashing through her thoughts. She would die with regret in her heart if Villahermosa caught her.
He did, catching the neck of her shirt and hauling her back into the doorway she’d come through. The door clanged shut behind him. A gun jammed into the back of Emilia’s neck. Villahermosa said nothing, just marched her back down the tunnel toward the workshop and its half-open door.
Emilia dragged her feet but he was stronger and taller and forced the pace, his gun bruising hard. And then they were both falling backwards, Emilia flailing as she went, skinning her leg and arm against the rough tunnel wall. There was a clatter and grunting and she saw Villahermosa reach out and Silvio was there, too, and the two men were snarling and grappling like wild dogs, rolling on the floor of the tunnel. Emilia could barely see them in the gloom and then she was caught up in it, too, when something sent her tumbling to the ground in the confined space. Her head banged against the tunnel wall and Emilia saw stars. She rolled down the incline, towards the workshop, stopping spread-eagled and unable to breathe.
The fight was carried to her, desperate and grim. Emilia looked up groggily to see Villahermosa holding Silvio in a headlock. Silvio grasped Villahermosa’s forearm with one hand and flailed with the other to find Villahermosa’s face. Both men were bloody. The whites of their eyes and Silvio’s teeth--bared in a snarl of pain—were bright flashes in the darkness. Villahermosa opened his mouth in a grunt of triumph. Silvio started to gag.
There was something sharp under Emilia’s thigh. Her splayed fingers touched cold metal. Rico’s gun. She staggered to her feet, pressed the gun against Villahermosa’s eye, and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 27
Emilia kept it together, but just barely.
“Officer Villahermosa was operating undercover,” Chief Salazar said. His eyes flickered from Emilia to Silvio sitting across from him, testing their reaction. “For some time. Then yesterday you blundered in with an unauthorized surveillance and we ended up with a mess at the tunnel, dead cops, and drugs in the headlines again. The mayor’s not happy and neither am I.”
“We shut down a major smuggling operation route through the city, a bogus business, and two dirty cops,” Silvio said through gritted teeth. His arms were scratched, his face was swollen on one side and his neck was mottled with bruises. He kept rubbing one ear; the result of a temporary deafness.
“You’re forgetting what I just told you about Villahermosa’s undercover work,” Salazar replied sharply. “The same goes for the other detective.” He paused, as if the name wasn’t familiar, then got it out. “Fuentes.”
Neither Emilia nor Silvio replied.
“That’s it then,” Salazar said. He leaned back, as if his acre of polished wood desk wasn’t enough distance between the two sullen detectives. “The mayor wants closure. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” Silvio muttered.
Emilia nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
She was tired, sore, heartsick, and scratched up from the cement walls of the tunnel. Her brain kept going back to the fact that Rico was dead, touching the thought as if an open wound.
She’d woken early that morning with no memory of how she’d gotten home after the fight in the tunnel and the crazy chaos of cops and army that had crashed down upon her in the following hours. Once she’d pulled herself together, however, she knew that the only hope of protection against Obregon’s wrath was Chief Salazar. Silvio had apparently had the same thought and they’d swiftly written a report as the day dawned. But Salazar had been ready for them even before they were announced into his office at midday.
Salazar put on a pair of reading glasses that had been lying on the desk. He peered through the half-moons at papers from an open file. The two detectives waited while he licked a fin
ger and turned to the next page. Emilia glanced at Silvio but the senior detective had his eyes fixed on the wall. He appeared to be staring at Salazar’s framed diploma from a police training course in Cuba.
Eventually Salazar looked up. “You get the water company,” he said. “Go ahead and arrest the head of the outfit. The usual charges. Make it stick.”
“Is that all, sir?” Emilia said, her anger simmering. They’d sent Loyola and Ibarra to pick up Morelos de Gama and the building materials engineer Marco Cortez Lleyva hours ago.
“Silvio, you can go,” the chief said. “Take a couple days off. See a doctor.”
Silvio nodded and walked out without looking at Emilia.
Salazar closed the file folder and threw down his reading glasses. “A partnership gone bad?” he asked tiredly. “Villahermosa killed Inocente? Or Morelos de Gama?”
“Or El Machete,” Emilia said.
“Can you prove it?”
Emilia hesitated, trying to figure out which side Salazar was playing after all. “Probably not,” she finally admitted.
“We’ll close out the Inocente investigation,” Salazar said. “I’ll give you three days to figure out how.”
“Three days?” Emilia asked.
“There will be a much-publicized police funeral in three days, Detective,” Salazar said, his voice pinched. “The newspaper accounts of it will carry a brief footnote regarding the Inocente case. The mayor’s Olympic committee will be the next day’s headline.”
Emilia opened her mouth and nothing came out. It was all so ludicrous.
“So in three days,” Salazar went on. “You’ll come back here and tell me how you’re closing the book on Inocente. You’ll tell me first, Detective, because for once you’re going to respect the chain of command.”
“You mean I shouldn’t talk to Obregon?” Emilia heard herself say. The man who makes you jump like a spider on a skillet?
Salazar’s face darkened. “Three days, Detective. After we talk, you’ll give my office a press release, put something in the file, notify the family, and go back to being the junior detective. Dismissed.”
Emilia stood up and moved to the door. She felt old and broken.
“Too bad about Portillo,” Salazar said from his desk. “He took care of you but he was a sloppy cop.”
“He was a decent man,” Emilia said.
“You’re a good cop, Cruz,” Salazar said. “The kind that die young.”
He stood and turned his back on her to look at something on the other side of his desk.
A paper shredder ground out a symphony as she left.
☼
Morelos de Gama was in the holding cell when Emilia got back to the station. Silvio, Macias and Sandor were in the squadroom. The drawers of Fuentes’ desk were open and there was a little pile of items on the top. Snacks. A clean tee shirt. An empty notebook.
“Nothing,” Silvio said in response to Emilia’s questioning look. He jerked his chin at Rico’s desk. “We left you Portillo’s.”
Emilia dumped her shoulder bag on her old desk and went to the coffeemaker. Not only would she have to clean out Rico’s desk but she’d have to call his two ex-wives with whom he’d stayed close. She poured herself some coffee, her back turned to the men. The penis face photocopy was gone. “I saw Morelos de Gama,” she said. “How did it go?”
“He was packed and loading up his car,” Sandor said with a rough laugh. “Ibarra and Loyola are going through his house. See if there’s anything there. Gomez and Castro are at the plant.”
Emilia finally turned around. “Think he’ll tell us anything about el teniente?”
“No,” Silvio said. “We shut down the drugs but he won’t tell us anything. The lawyers are already doing his paperwork. He’s got enough money to wrap it around him like a shield.”
Emilia sipped her coffee. “Salazar says the Inocente case is closed in three days.”
“Three days,” Silvio said. “Generous.”
“At least we can make some phone calls,” Emilia said. She put down the coffee mug and pulled a cell phone in a silver case out of her purse. She put it on Silvio’s desk. “Here. Villahermosa’s cell phone.”
Silvio grabbed up the phone. “You’re shitting me, Cruz.”
Emilia shrugged. “I don’t even remember taking it off him.” She studied Silvio as he stood there, thick fingers prodding at the touchscreen. “You look terrible. You should go home.”
Silvio looked up. Emilia couldn’t read his expression, but for once there was no malice in it. “You’re more fucked up than me,” he said.
“Food will help,” Macias said.
Emilia shook her head then sat at Rico’s desk as the other three detectives left the squadroom. She cleaned out the drawers, finding little of value, and then made the calls to his ex-wives, both of whom she’d met at least once. She fought tears with each call, as she promised both that she’d let them know the funeral arrangements.
Another cup of coffee fueled her to go into el teniente’s office. She sat down behind the desk, and pulled up the dispatch log. Stared at it until she realized that all the entries were closed out. Nothing new had come in that morning. She opened all the drawers except the one that was still locked, and removed the few things she’d put into the drawers: files, bottles of water, a small bag with toiletries. A roll of toilet paper.
The office was cramped and airless. The walls receded and Emilia was back in the dark tunnel, panicked and trying to run, knowing that Villahermosa was behind her. Cold sweat seeped through her tee shirt and she found herself gasping. She went home and fell into bed. Nothing was going to happen in three days.
Chapter 28
CeCe didn’t seem surprised to see Emilia. The maid opened the door for her and Emilia walked into the apartment. It was the same sterile white it had been before.
The maid looked better, however. The open sores around her mouth had mostly healed into scars, the new ones brighter than the old. She didn’t look to be in pain anymore.
“CeCe,” Emilia said. “I’m still looking for the keys to Lt. Inocente’s desk back at the police station. I never really got to look through his office here and I was wondering if it would be all right if I looked.”
“I’ll ask la señora,” CeCe offered.
“She’s at home?” Emilia asked. The apartment was virtually silent.
“Yes. The children, too. It’s summer holiday.” The maid left Emilia in the entranceway and disappeared down the hall.
Emilia realized that she hardly knew about school schedules any more. Alvaro’s son was too young, she didn’t have friends with school-age children, and the children she saw on the streets probably didn’t go to school at all.
CeCe came back a few minutes later and led the way down the hall and through the breezeway. Emilia was struck again what a fabulous apartment this was, with the rooftop patio and the study tucked away from the rest of the house for maximum privacy. A nice private place for Fausto Inocente to bring Villahermosa and Morelos de Gama and stupid, gullible Rogelio Fuentes.
“CeCe,” Emilia began. “You said that Lt. Inocente brought his friends here sometimes to watch fútbol.”
“Yes.”
“Was one of his friends young with a thin face but handsome? Another was big and strong like a wrestler.”
“That one had no manners,” CeCe said softly.
That would be Villahermosa. Emilia wondered if he’d groped the maid or frightened her somehow. “I know,” Emilia said.
CeCe bent her head and unlocked the study door.
“Thank you, CeCe,” Emilia said.
CeCe turned on the light and left. Her soft footsteps disappeared down the hall.
The study looked just the same. Emilia doubted anyone had gone in since she and Rico had left. Emilia put her shoulder bag on the desk and sat in the swivel chair. His computer had turned up nothing. She doubted she’d find anything relevant but hopefully she would at least find the keys to the damn desk
drawer at the police station. The drawer wasn’t that big but she imagined finding all the real ransom money in it nonetheless.
The desk yielded almost nothing of interest. Mostly it was household accounts. The condominium association sent regular updates about the building. They belonged to a sports club and paid that bill on time, too. Ironically, the Inocentes got their water delivered from Bonafont. There were no keys.
Emilia felt under the desk for hiding places, then scoured the shelves above the desk. There were no hiding places behind the big painting on the wall or under the cocktail table.
The big mahogany cabinet stretched to the ceiling and had four doors. Emilia found the usual supplies in the bottom; printer paper, ink cartridges for the printer. She opened the top doors. On the left side there were bottles of water--Bonafont again--as well as extra bottles of tequila, whiskey, and a variety of sodas.
“Party supplies,” Emilia mused aloud.
The right side held some books on computer troubleshooting, several rolls of white toilet tissue, a roll of silver duct tape, and a large pair of dressmaker’s scissors. Cup hooks were screwed into the rear wall of the cabinet. Several keys dangled from the hooks and Emilia scooped them all up and put them into her shoulder bag.
She arranged the odd mix of items back the way she’d found them. The toilet paper rolls reminded her uncomfortably of Lt. Inocente’s sightseeing excursions to the detectives bathroom. She looked around. There was no bathroom nearby. The toilet paper rolls seemed out of place in this masculine place.
As did the duct tape. She searched the room again, looking for something repaired with the heavy silver webbing. The roll was halfway used up. The scissors bore traces of a gumminess that had probably come from cutting the tape. Yet there was nothing in the room that had been repaired with duct tape.
