by Carmen Amato
The judge pronounced for misadventure, banged his gavel and it was over.
☼
Loyola, the former teacher, had the best English, so he made the call. All of the detectives were impatient to hear what he found out. Phone pressed to his ear, he scribbled furiously, then asked another question. Emilia tried to make out what he’d written but it was upside down and his handwriting looked like fireworks.
At long last Loyola punched closed the connection on Villahermosa’s cell phone and rubbed his ear. He looked around at the detectives clustered around his desk. “Those cops in Arizona are all right,’ he said grudgingly. “Guess what Señor Hudson does?”
“Say it before I kill you,” Silvio growled impatiently. He’d lost the tie and suit coat he’d worn at the inquest.
“Owns a company that provides equipment to casinos,” Loyola said in triumph. “They’re sending a fax tomorrow with everything they’ve got on him but it includes at least two prior arrests for fraud. They were all over the counterfeit shit and the link to Morelos de Gama. We can ask for extradition.”
“They were laundering through El Pharaoh,” Emilia guessed.
“With Inocente’s gambling helping it along,” Silvio said. “Maybe that’s how they met.”
“Closing down El Pharaoh and the Maxitunnel drug ring in the same week,” Macias said. “A good week for the Acapulco cops, eh?”
Something from the wreckage, Emilia thought. She unlocked her desk drawer, hauled out the list of counterfeit serial numbers, and gave it to Macias.
Somebody made a pot of coffee and the conversation in the squadroom swirled with ideas for El Pharaoh. Emilia went into the office with her shoulder bag. She took out the key she’d found in Lt. Inocente’s cabinet. It fit perfectly into the keyhole of the last locked desk drawer.
The drawer revealed a roll of white toilet paper and two thick bundles of peso bills, each in a plastic zip-lock bag. Emilia laid the bags on top of the desk.
Each bag held thousands of pesos, much more than a police detective made in six months. It looked real, too. Emilia walked shakily to the office doorway and asked Silvio to come in.
His eyes bulged as his eyes fell on the cash. Emilia closed the door behind him.
“Where’d this come from?” Silvio asked.
“His desk drawer. I found the key in his study, along . . . along with the other things.” Emilia held out one of the bags. “It’s not enough to be the real ransom but there’s no way I’m giving it to Morelos de Gama or Maria Teresa. Give it to your wife. She can feed the neighborhood kids for a year.”
Silvio took out the pesos, looked at them intently then shook his head. “It’s real. Give it to the maid. Tell her to get a doctor to fix her face.”
Emilia showed him the other bag. “This one’s for her.”
Silvio hesitated then nodded. “You know, nothing’s changed between us, Cruz.”
“I know,” Emilia said. She put the other bag of pesos into her bag to bring to CeCe.
Silvio pocketed his share. “Maybe you can eat with the kids some night.” He looked around the room, at everything except Emilia. “Isabel would like to meet you. For real this time.”
“I’d like that.” Emilia grinned. This was as close as they’d ever get to thanking each other.
Silvio seemed on the brink of saying something more when the office door crashed open, slamming against the opposite wall. Obregon walked in, his perfectly tailored black suit hardly seeming to crease as he moved. He stared at Silvio. Emilia crossed her arms as her heart thudded an all-too familiar warning.
“Detectives.” Obregon acknowledged both of them.
Silvio nodded.
“I need to talk to Cruz,” Obregon said.
Silvio sat in one of the chairs in front of el teniente’s desk.
“Sure,” Emilia said, still standing.
Obregon’s mouth twisted in a cold half-smile. He gazed around the room. “You didn’t exactly make this place your own, did you, Cruz?”
Emilia didn’t reply.
“The mayor is pleased with your handling of the Inocente investigation,” he said.
“Are you?” Emilia couldn’t help asking.
“A personal issue with no implications for the city.” Obregon moved restlessly past the desk, not bothering to look at Emilia. “Carlota is sorry you’re not going to pursue a position with her administration.”
Silvio cut his eyes to Emilia. She shrugged. “I like being a cop,’ she said to the back of Obregon’s finely tailored jacket.
“Of course Carlota isn’t too pleased with the Lomas Bottling scandal,” Obregon went on as if Emilia hadn’t spoken. He examined the papers stuck on the wall.
“No, I guess she wouldn’t be,” Emilia said.
“Unfortunate,” Obregon replied, drawing out the word. He stood in front of the detective phone roster and slowly drew his finger down the list.
Emilia waited for him to say something else. A silent tension filled the room. As she tried to think what he really was there for, it dawned on her that Obregon was waiting for her to tell him how much she knew about Villahermosa and Inocente and the whole smuggling scheme. He’s looking for the real money, she thought. He’s been looking for it all along, setting me up to find it for him. Cold sweat prickled the back of her neck.
Finally Obregon turned around. Once more Emilia was reminded of a hunter. He was a hawk silently assessing its prey from a great height. “The union has considered the case of an alleged altercation between yourself, Detective Cruz, and Detective Gomez.”
“That was quick,” Emilia said. No one from the union had asked her any questions, called her, or otherwise been in touch.
“Detective Gomez has been fined for the destruction of public property and a letter of reprimand will go into his file.”
“I see,” Emilia said. She wondered what her own censure would be.
“The union is also recommending that unisex signs be placed outside police restrooms that are so designated.”
Silvio made a gagging sound that subsided into a cough.
“That would be very helpful,” Emilia said neutrally. It was a subtle message but she understood it. With the ruling on Gomez, Obregon was reminding her that he had the power to protect and to punish.
Obregon turned, gave a last look around the office and let his gaze rest on Emilia. “You’re smarter than I thought, Cruz,” he said. “I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”
She didn’t reply.
He nodded at Silvio. “Nice to see you’re making friends, Silvio.”
Silvio didn’t react.
“My condolences on the passing of Señor Villahermosa,” Emilia said.
Obregon strode to the door, gave Emilia a lingering look, and then walked out. The squadroom had been hushed before, as no doubt all the detectives tried to make out the conversation going on inside el teniente’s office, but as Obregon passed the space was deathly quiet. Emilia heard the door to the squadroom open, then close as someone walked through. The noise level went back to normal.
Emilia sat down abruptly, her knees wobbly.
“You think he was in on it?” Silvio asked.
“One and two,” Emilia replied.
Chapter 31
Emilia hugged Sophia. “I love you, Mama.”
“I love you, too, Emilia.” Sophia patted her daughter’s back.
“You kept me safe, Mama.” Emilia reluctantly let go. “When I was a little girl. That’s important.”
Sophia smiled. “And now you’re a big girl. Going to so many school parties.” Her mother sighed. “I wish you’d wear one of my dresses.’
Emilia was in her skinny black skirt with a simple white tank top and flat sandals. Her turquoise necklace was the only spot of color. She picked up her bag and kissed her mother. “Your dresses are too fancy for me, Mama.”
They went downstairs together. Ernesto was reading the newspaper in the living room. He smiled and told Emilia that she looked
pretty. Sophia went into the kitchen and Ernesto took an envelope out of his pocket. “Can you send this?” he asked.
It was addressed to Beatriz de Cruz, in care of a school in Mexico City. The envelope was creased in several places, as if it had been in his pocket for some time. The clumsy printing betrayed his lack of education.
“This is for your wife?” Emilia asked.
“Yes.” Ernesto said. His eyes had lost that watery look and he was tanned from days sitting in the courtyard in front of the house sharpening knives. Emilia had noticed a few new things in the house, too, obviously bought with the money he’d earned. There were new curtains at the window and flowers on the table by the television.
“Are you telling her where you are?” Emilia asked.
“I’m telling her that I’m married to Sophia now so I can’t be married to her anymore.”
“You’re asking her for a divorce?”
Sophia drifted back into the room and sat on the sofa. “I’m married to Sophia now,” Ernesto said again.
Eventually they’d have to deal with his wife’s answer, whenever it came and whatever it said, but not tonight. Emilia stowed the letter in her bag, told Sophia and Ernesto good night and got out her keys.
She drove the big Suburban across the city, the sunset blazing across the sky and her hair blowing in the open window as she drove along the Carretera Escénica. She listened to one of the Maná CDs as she drove, the music pumping up her courage.
The turn into the privada gate came sooner than she recalled and she rode the brake down the steep cobbled road. She passed the Costa Esmeralda apartment building and the villas with their manicured lawns and the espaliered trees along the stone retaining wall that led to the Palacio Réal.
At the main entrance, the valet opened the driver’s door and offered her a hand to step out of the vehicle. Emilia gave him the keys and 20 pesos and walked into the wide lobby.
Christine was behind the big concierge counter. Emilia didn’t stop, just shot the blonde woman with her thumb and forefinger. Christine blinked but recovered and reassembled her professional smile. Emilia punched the button for the elevators.
She found her way to the door on the fifth floor and paused to take the little slip of cardboard out of her bag. Gripping it with one hand she knocked with the other. It took a few moments before the door opened.
Kurt stood there in his khaki pants and crisp shirt, the shirttail out and the buttons undone as if he’d just come off duty and was preparing to change. He looked very much like a gringo.
“Hi,” Emilia said. She took a deep breath and balanced on the cliff edge.
“Hello.” Kurt’s ocean-colored eyes were just as she remembered.
Emilia let out her breath and felt herself falling. She’d totally forgotten her speech, the one about how she hadn’t been ready before but now she was.
“How have you been?” Kurt asked into the silence.
Emilia dredged up the thing she was supposed to do after delivering the speech. She held out the coupon. “Can I buy you a drink?” Her voice cracked with nerves.
Kurt took the coupon. “It’s expired,” he said.
“The coupon?” Emilia managed. “Or me?”
There was an awful moment of nothingness.
Then Kurt smiled and Emilia knew she wasn’t going to hit the rocks after all.
Fin
About the Author
In addition to political thriller The Hidden Light of Mexico City, Carmen Amato is the author of the Emilia Cruz mystery novels set in Acapulco, including Cliff Diver, Hat Dance and the collection of short stories Made in Acapulco. Her books all draw on her experiences living in Mexico and Central America. A cultural observer and occasional nomad, she currently divides her time between the United States and Central America. Visit her website at carmenamato.net and follow her on Twitter @CarmenConnects.
. . .And Her Next Novel
Keep reading for an excerpt from Hat Dance: An Emilia Cruz Novel by Carmen Amato, available Summer 2013 at amazon.com.
Chapter 1
“I never thought we’d be able to close down the casino,” Emilia Cruz Encinos said. “Much less do it in only three months.”
Kurt Rucker poured them both more wine from the bottle of Monte Xanic cabernet. “Three months isn’t exactly fast, Em,” he said.
“Maybe not in El Norte,” Emilia observed. “But that’s lightning fast in Mexico. Especially when we’re talking about the El Pharaoh. It’s an Acapulco institution.”
“May it never regain its glory.” Kurt raised his glass and Emilia touched her own to it. The crystal chimed, Kurt drank, and the flame of the candle on their table flickered, sending shadows across the restaurant’s brocade walls and creating a momentary halo over his yellow hair. Emilia drank her wine with a surge of incredulity that she was here in this elegant place, with a gringo man in a suit and tie, celebrating an event she was sure would never happen.
“Another toast,” Kurt said. “To you, Em. The smartest detective in Acapulco. Rico would be proud.”
“I hope so.” Emilia smiled over the rim of her glass but the mention of her dead partner brought a lump to her throat. Rico and another detective had been killed during an investigation into dirty cops and drug smuggling that had led to the money laundering case against the El Pharaoh casino. The squadroom was far lonelier now without Rico’s good humor and the over-protective attitude that she’d once found so annoying. He hadn’t been replaced and his empty desk was a constant reminder of her loss.
“How’s Silvio holding up?” Kurt asked. “You obviously haven’t strangled each other yet.”
Emilia put her glass back on the table. “He came through,” she admitted. “Walked into El Pharaoh yesterday morning as if he owned the place, showed the closure order and got the files out before the manager really understood what was happening. You wouldn’t believe all the stuff we took out of there. Spreadsheets, money orders, employee records. Boxes and boxes of dollars, pesos, euros, you name it. Half of that money is probably fake.”
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” Kurt said. “But you and Silvio make a good team. Brains and brawn.”
“Franco Silvio is not my partner,” Emilia reminded him, waggling a finger for emphasis. “He’s a pendejo who makes me nuts.”
Kurt laughed.
“As soon as Lt. Rufino gets organized we’ll get some replacements,” she went on. “After everything that’s happened, they owe me a real partner.”
“I know.” Kurt slid his hand over hers, stilling it against the white linen tablecloth. He had a tan but her skin was still a deeper café tone than his. “Dessert?”
Emilia looked guiltily at her empty plate. The El Tigre was a fancy restaurant, a close rival to the restaurant at the Palacio Réal, Acapulco’s most luxurious hotel which Kurt managed. If she’d been to more places like this she might have known that ‘fancy’ meant minute portions. Despite it being a Saturday, she’d been at work that morning, wrestling the boxes of evidence from the El Pharaoh into some sort of order, then spent the afternoon in a kickboxing training session with uniformed cops in the basement gym of the central police administration building. By the time she’d washed up, pulled her hair into its usual high ponytail, dressed in her one nice skinny black dress and driven across Acapulco to the Palacio Réal to meet Kurt, her stomach had been growling. Her elegant dinner of broiled corvina topped with caviar and accompanied by a dab of asparagus puree had hardly filled her up.
Kurt leaned forward. “Maybe we should just see what they’ve got.”
Emilia raised her eyebrows at him. “You never eat dessert,” she said. A marathon runner and triathlete, Kurt was always in training. Not only did he look different than any other man she’d ever been with, he didn’t even eat like the men she knew.
“I just ate a piece of chicken the size of a peanut,” he whispered and squeezed her hand. Emilia grinned. A moment later the waiter had cleared the table, wheeled over the desse
rt cart, complimented their choices and served them coffee.
They traded bites of Emilia’s chocolate cake and Kurt’s flan. Kurt stirred cream into his coffee and put down his spoon, taking a moment to align it with the edge of the table as if needing time to gather his thoughts. “Now that the El Pharaoh is closed,” he said. “How about a vacation?”
Emilia blinked as she stirred her own coffee. “A vacation? On Monday we start on all the crap we hauled out of there yesterday.”
Kurt opened his mouth to reply, but his attention slid away from Emilia and towards the front of the dimly lit restaurant. Emilia half turned and followed his gaze.
“Local celebrity?” Kurt asked.
“It’s the mayor’s security detail,” Emilia murmured.
Six burly men in dark suits and earpieces fanned out as the owner of the El Tigre stepped towards the door. Kurt had introduced Emilia to him, a dapper Spaniard named Jorge Serverio who had bowed over Emilia’s hand and complimented Kurt on finding the most beautiful woman in Acapulco. Serverio owned several high-end restaurants in Acapulco. Kurt knew him from meetings of businesses supporting the local tourist industry.
Emilia watched as Carlota Montoya Perez walked into the restaurant, followed by a dark figure obscured by the security detail and Serverio’s effusive gestures of welcome. Carlota gave a tinkling laugh and everyone in the elegant restaurant pretended they weren’t watching Acapulco’s enormously popular and photogenic mayor.
Emilia swung around in her seat to again face Kurt across the table. There was a 100-peso piece of chocolate cake on her plate, a gorgeous man across from her, and every expectation that the night would end with a shower together in his apartment before she left the Palacio Réal and headed home. The mayor’s choices of restaurant and dinner companion were none of Emilia’s business even if her previous encounters with Carlota had left Emilia torn; captivated by the woman’s dynamism yet repulsed by her political machinations.
