Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3) Page 11

  “Maybe we can get together for dinner tonight, Emilia,” Flores said when she stopped by his desk on her way out. “Celebrate my first week as a detective.”

  “Another time,” Emilia said vaguely, her thoughts already running ahead. “You have a good weekend, Orlando.”

  She checked her watch as she drove along Avenida Cuauhtémoc, cutting south to get onto the Costera. Fifteen minutes later, she was walking through the administrative offices at the popular CICI Water Park, breathing in fishy air from the dolphin tanks and hearing delighted screams from patrons hurtling down the water slide. The last time she’d talked to Lila’s brother, he’d been one of the dolphin handlers, looking like a model in his wetsuit and tossing fish to the dolphins like bones to dogs.

  Before that he’d been a young boy named Pedro Lata, set adrift by his mother. Emilia had tracked him down during the hunt for his half-sister Lila and he had been the one to give Emilia what little information there was to be had about Yolanda Lata.

  He’d impressed her when they’d met, with his combination of brains, street smarts, and the striking looks he’d inherited from his mother. Emilia didn’t know the full story of how the abandoned boy named Pedro Lata had remade himself into Pedro Montealegre from Monterrey, rising star of Acapulco’s premier tourist attraction. She suspected she never would.

  According to the plaque on the door, Pedro Montealegre was now the Director of Guest Visits. Before she even had a chance to knock, Pedro jumped up and came around the side of his desk.

  “Emilia!” He was still fit, handsome, and polished. His pronounced cheekbones and sultry good looks topped a CICI Water Park polo shirt and crisply creased khaki pants. “I was so surprised when you called.”

  “Congratulations on your promotion.” Emilia looked around the office. “What does the Director of Guest Visits do?”

  The space was bigger than the lieutenant’s office at work, with a window that overlooked Playa de Ioacos. Blonde wood desk, streamlined sofa, modern metal guest chairs, expensive view. Yet even this office couldn’t avoid smelling like a can of sardines.

  “In charge of scheduling private visits to swim with the dolphins.” Pedro had a precise and educated manner of speech. Emilia guessed he’d practiced it long and hard.

  Emilia’s eye was drawn to two big posters of dolphin shows. “Is that you?” she asked, pointing at a dark head bobbing in the water in each photo.

  “Yes,” Pedro said. He gestured for her to sit on the sofa. “I still substitute when one of the swimmers can’t make a shift.”

  They both sat. Emilia looked around the office again. “I’m really happy for you. I know you’ve worked hard for this.”

  “You could have said all that on the phone.” Pedro clenched his hands together. “This is about Lila, isn’t it? Is she dead?”

  “I don’t have anything new on Lila,” Emilia said slowly. “I wish I did, but I don’t. We’re still where we were.”

  “Okay.”

  Emilia took a deep breath of fishy air. “Your mother was found dead Wednesday morning.”

  “Where?”

  There was a world of meaning behind the question. Emilia knew that since parting ways with his mother about ten years ago Pedro had never known her whereabouts. The money orders she’d sent him never had a return address.

  “Here in Acapulco.” There was no way to make this sound better. “Behind a store dumpster a couple of blocks away from the Fuerte de San Diego.”

  “Drug overdose?” Pedro’s question was without emotion.

  Emilia nodded.

  Pedro suddenly got up, walked to the door and checked that it was firmly closed.

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia said.

  Pedro leaned against the door and closed his eyes. He was five or six years younger than Emilia but in that pose, with his lips compressed into a line against his teeth, he looked as old and hard as Silvio. “Did she have a phone?” he asked. “A wallet? Anything that could be a lead to Lila?”

  “No,” Emilia said. “By the time the body was found, she’d probably been dead at least a day. If she’d had a phone or a purse, they were stolen. When the morgue team picked her up, there was nothing on the body except a dress.”

  Pedro opened his eyes. “Maybe it isn’t Yolanda.”

  “I recognized her from the picture,” Emilia said. “She was still a striking woman. You and Lila look just like her.”

  Pedro didn’t reply. With the door closed, the scent of bait was spreading like a storm cloud through warm air. Emilia wasn’t sure she’d ever be able to eat fried fish again.

  He crossed the room and stood in front of the window, hands spread apart on the sill.

  “She’s in the morgue,” Emilia said softly. “Can you claim the body? Give her a decent burial. Say goodbye once and for all?”

  Pedro continued to stare out the window, his sculptured face like stone. The silence stretched out.

  Finally Pedro turned around. “Do you think Lila ever met her?”

  “There’s no way to know.” Emilia gave a slight shrug.

  “Was she still a hooker?”

  “Possibly.” Emilia had been dreading exposing the details but he had a right to know, although she could put it more delicately than Prade. “Wear and tear on the body . . . was . . . consistent with that line of work.”

  “Only the best for Yolanda,” Pedro said savagely and turned back to the window.

  Emilia waited for him to come to grips with his feelings. The minutes stretched out and the air thickened into caldo de mariscos fish soup.

  “I can take you down to the morgue now, if you want,” Emilia prodded. She had time before she had to meet Alan Denton.

  “I said my goodbyes to Yolanda Lata a long time ago,” Pedro said without turning around. “I have no intention of claiming her body.”

  “If no one claims the body,” Emilia said. She went to stand next to him at the window. “The next time the morgue has to clean house, she’ll be buried with other unclaimed bodies in a city grave.”

  Pedro looked sideways at her but his glance took in the whole bright office. “I’m Pedro Montealegre from Monterrey,” he said softly. “What would I be doing with the body of a hooker named Yolanda Lata?”

  ☼

  The Pinkerton Agency was the preeminent private security company in Mexico; the ultimate in personal security, the refuge for the country’s rich when they had to deal with kidnappings, blackmail, or extortion. It was nice to be affiliated with an organization with the opposite reputation, Emilia thought wryly as she watched Denton from across the park. Twilight had fallen over the Vicente Suarez park. It was mostly locals this far away from the water, although a few tourists were there, too, milling about or lounging on the grass.

  Like before, Denton didn’t want to be seen openly with an Acapulco cop in any place where they might be recognized. And like before, he didn’t want to meet in a restaurant where they’d be trapped into waiting for food or the check to be delivered. Emilia had only met Denton once before but it was enough to know that he prized anonymity and mobility even more than she did.

  It had been six months since Emilia had seen the Pinkerton agent, but Alan Denton seemed much the same. He was a trim, swarthy man with sun-darkened skin and hooded eyes that gave him an Arab look.

  He was already on the northeast corner of the park, paying a vendor for a cardboard cup of ceviche when Emilia strolled up. He didn’t acknowledge her as he finished paying. She waited behind him as he got a napkin and a plastic fork. When he moved off Emilia bought a portion of the pickled fish and shrimp salad for herself.

  She caught up with Denton as he sat on a bench forking up the food. She sat down and opened her container and inhaled the scent of fresh lime and cilantro.

  “So, Detective,” Denton said without looking at her. He kept his attention on the container of ceviche in his hand. “A grand Friday night in Acapulco. Do we have unpleasant things to discuss?”

  “It would se
em so,” Emilia said. “I told you we have a finger. It was being sold as a religious relic at the Villa de Refugio Catholic shop.”

  “Selling body parts seems to be an odd sideline for a religious goods store.” Denton finished his ceviche, left his fork in the empty cardboard container, and set it down on the bench between himself and Emilia as if to create a barrier.

  “They were billing it as the finger of a martyred priest,” Emilia went on. “Padre Pro, who died during the Cristero War.”

  “The Cristero War,” Denton said dryly. “I’ll have to look it up.”

  Emilia didn’t like the way he seemed to be mocking the Church. “The store owner bought it from one of his regular suppliers. Antiques dealer named Ignacio Blandón Hernandez with an office in Colonia Costa Azul.”

  “Never heard of him,” Denton said.

  “He supplied letters of authentication for the items he sold to the store,” Emilia said. “Some of them look alike. Probably done by the same person.”

  “I don’t care about your letters, Detective,” Denton said testily. “Tell me about the finger.”

  Emilia pronged some shrimp. The ceviche wasn’t as good as the ceviche at the Palacio Réal’s Pasodoble Bar. “According to the medical examiner, it’s a woman’s right hand forefinger. Probably came off the hand two or three weeks ago. Snapped the bone, likely with a bolt cutters or pruning shears.”

  It was still light enough to read. Denton took his time studying the photos and letters Emilia passed over.

  Emilia finished her ceviche. She stacked her empty container on top of his with both of the used forks in it. Denton looked up from the materials in his hands and she could tell he didn’t like the fact that she’d touched something he’d used, as if by doing so she’d stolen his DNA.

  “I’ve shared,” Emilia said as twilight slid into darkness. “Your turn.”

  Denton put everything back in the envelope. “We have an ongoing case,” he said. “Not in Acapulco but close enough.”

  Emilia waited for him to tell her where the kidnapping had occurred but he didn’t. “I need a little more information.” She held out her hand for the envelope.

  Denton passed it over, hesitated, then started speaking. “She’s the wife of a Russian businessman who has been buying up property in Mexico. She went to the same gym every day, always at the same time and they picked her up on the way home. They’re asking for 10 million dollars and he doesn’t have that much money liquid cash here. It’s taking him awhile to get it together.”

  “How long has it been?” Emilia asked.

  “Four months,” Denton said. “I know what you’re thinking. Right about now the kidnappers are getting antsy. They want to get rid of the woman and pick up their money. So they’re upping the pressure with a body part left for the family to find or a video of them shooting her in a place that will wound but not kill.”

  “Tried and true methods of upping the pressure.”

  “In this case, that would probably make our client lose his mind. The wife is a former Miss Nigeria who competed in the Miss Universe pageant. That’s where they met, although I don’t know what he was doing there. At any rate, she’s his jewel in the crown.”

  Denton spoke dryly and Emilia inferred that he didn’t like the unnamed Russian businessman. She could imagine the type, many of whom were using their newly minted Russian mob money to buy up condos in Acapulco. The Russians were easy to spot; they wore too much polyester and flashed stacks of cash in the city’s nightclubs and casinos. The detectives had all been briefed on Russian mafia attempts to get into the Mexican drug business but so far it didn’t seem likely that they’d cracked the local wholesale market.

  “Does he have cartel ties?” she asked.

  “Not that we can tell.”

  “Do you think she’s dead?” Emilia asked. “That’s why they never sent the finger to the husband? She died and either the kidnappers had this creative way to make money or the finger fell into the hands of somebody else who did.”

  “I’m not going to speculate, Detective,” Denton said. “But I do think you need to be on the lookout for the rest of the hand. Might be a few more martyred priests coming to your attention.”

  Emilia froze. “What are you implying?”

  “Only that Mexico is a very violent place and the sanctity of life is hardly what it used to be.”

  That was hardly new information. Emilia felt the same as the last time she’d spoken to Denton; she was dealing with someone who didn’t like her, didn’t like Mexico, but was making good money out of the country’s drug war violence. “So how do we determine if my finger belongs to Miss Nigeria?” she asked. “Do you have the victim’s DNA? Can you send it to Doctor Prade at the Acapulco morgue?”

  “We’ll send a courier service to pick up the finger,” Denton said without hesitation. “We’ll use our own resources to determine if it’s a match.”

  “And make sure nothing related to Pinkerton falls into the hands of corrupt city employees,” Emilia said.

  “You know the game, Detective.”

  “Sure,” Emilia said, for lack of anything else.

  Denton tapped the envelope in Emilia’s hand. “The testimonials,” he said. “I suppose you plan to track down who made them.”

  “I plan to try,” Emilia said.

  Denton looked away. “There’s a man called El Flaco who runs a business out of a taxi in the Universitaria neighborhood.”

  “A forger?”

  Impatience passed over Denton’s face. “You tell him what you need. He decides if you’re legit. If you are, you get in the taxi and he takes you to his brother who does the work.”

  “You think these brothers did this?”

  “I hear the brother is a hell of an artist but never goes out. He’s known as El Gordo.”

  “El Flaco and El Gordo,” Emilia murmured. The Skinny One and The Fat One. “Do you have any real names?”

  “No.”

  “How will I know which guy is El Flaco? A lot of skinny guys drive taxis.”

  “He’s very tall,” Denton said. “And very thin. Supermodel thin.”

  Emilia caught her breath.

  Denton stood up. “I’ve given you all the information I plan to, Detective. Might I remind you that when we spoke before, it was with the implicit understanding that it was a private conversation?”

  Emilia stood up to face him.

  Denton’s lip curled as he went on. “So you can imagine my surprise when a voice calling itself Detective Orlando Flores Almaprieto blithely said he got my number from you.”

  Emilia bristled at Denton’s lecturing tone. “We’re talking a kidnapping case that your company may have fucked up and you’re whining about Flores calling with information?”

  “Flores,” Denton interrupted her. “Is he related?”

  “Related?” Emilia echoed. “What are you talking about? He’s a new detective.”

  “This the second time, Detective,” Denton said softly. “That I have the feeling that you’re either abysmally naïve or running one of the best bluffs I’ve ever seen.”

  Emilia took a step back.

  Denton looked over his shoulder, assessing the crowds. “I’d appreciate it if you lost my number.”

  Emilia didn’t reply.

  Denton walked away. He almost immediately melted into a knot of tourists.

  ☼

  Drained. Spent. It was the week that wouldn’t end. Emilia felt like a zombie as she pulled the car into the courtyard next to Ernesto’s grinding wheel. He was in front of the television. They exchanged nods. Sophia had already gone to bed, he said.

  Emilia got herself a beer and stared at the kitchen wall as she drank. Finding something to eat seemed like too much effort so when she finished the beer she plodded upstairs. It wasn’t until she’d changed into a tee shirt and slid under the blanket that she realized she was in the wrong bed.

  It was Friday.

  She sat up and grabbed her cell
phone from the bedside table. Kurt answered after the second ring.

  “Em.” Steel drums played in the background. “Where are you?”

  “I’m on a case.” Emilia was too tired to feel guilty about serving him up another lie. “I won’t be able to come out to the hotel until tomorrow.”

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  The steel drum music made it difficult to hear him. “What’s going on there?” Emilia asked. “Where are you?”

  “It’s the regatta weekend,” Kurt said and Emilia nearly dropped the phone.

  He’d been talking about it for weeks, yet she’d totally forgotten. The hotel chain was sponsoring an America’s Cup yacht, Kurt’s hotel was the flagship, and this weekend was the kickoff.

  “I’m sorry,” Emilia said. “I’ll be there tomorrow morning as early as I can.”

  “Don’t worry,” Kurt said. “Christina is here. Everything’s fine. Take care of things on your end.”

  Christina meant Christina Boudreau, the hotel’s skinny blonde head concierge. The woman was from some European country where everybody’s skin looked like alabaster. She spoke English to Kurt, touched his arm when she laughed, and always managed to make Emilia feel like an interloper. Fuck. Fuck.

  “Hey,” Emilia said hastily. “I didn’t mean to send that weird text. I was in the middle of something for a case and got interrupted.”

  “It’s okay, Em,” Kurt said. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow. I’ve got to go.”

  “Sure,” Emilia said, and then the connection to Kurt was gone.

  Chapter 12

  Between breakfast with her mother and the need to do some laundry, Emilia didn’t head for the Palacio Réal until after 10:00 am. Traffic was bad and she found herself winding through the Costa Azul neighborhood, not far from Blandón Hernandez’s office, in an effort to avoid the worst of the traffic heading for weekend beach parties.