Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3) Page 16

  The sign on the corner stall was simple: Juan Fabio The Best For You. The other vendor was right; the corner location got Juan Fabio foot traffic from the main aisle but also from the intersecting one. A café across the way was an added bonus.

  The stall was full to bursting with the odds and ends of life: dishes, pots, pans, trays, flashlights, hammers, packages of nails and screws, knobs, cans of paint with color smeared on top so the customer would know what they were buying. Emilia picked her way through packages of hairpins and sewing notions, a collection of dog leashes, stacks of nearly new school notebooks, and a display of rolled up towels. Empty frames of all sizes hung on nails protruding from the back wall. The stall was more orderly than others, with items tucked into wooden shelves. An effort had been made to arrange things by household category.

  A teenaged girl sat on a stool near the entrance to the stall. A corner of the wooden shelves functioned as a desk, and held a calculator and a pad of receipts. Pink plastic bags dangled from a hook on the wall. Like most of the vendors, the girl had a money belt strapped to her waist in lieu of a cash register. She was playing a game on the same sort of expensive tablet that Kurt had given Emilia for Christmas. The tablet was sleek and modern and out of place.

  “Hi,” Emilia said, forcing the girl to look up. “Is Juan Fabio around?”

  “No.” The girl appraised Emilia. “Cool hair. You look like Avenga.”

  “Who’s that?”

  The girl held up the tablet. “Avenga. You know. From the game.”

  Emilia nodded like, sure, she knew who Avenga was. Had always wanted hair like a cartoon character. “Is he going to be back soon?”

  “No,” the girl said. “You need to buy something or are you here for the petition?”

  “What petition?”

  The girl sighed, put down the tablet, and handed Emilia a brochure.

  The cover proclaimed Sainthood for Padre Pro! It was decorated with a color drawing of a priest in a cassock with his arms outstretched being threatened by a soldier with a drawn sword. It was an exact copy of the picture on the back of the Padre Pro relic case.

  Emilia skimmed the text. The brochure was from the Friends of Padre Pro, asking the faithful to sign a petition forcing the Vatican to canonize him as a saint. Details of Padre Pro’s life, death, and reported miracles were given. Emilia recognized some of the language from the forged letters that had accompanied the relic. Contact information for the Friends of Padre Pro was an email address from a free service.

  “If you sign the petition, you can have a novena dedicated to Padre Pro said for you.” The girl rattled off the words as if he did it dozens of times a day. “Only 200 pesos.”

  Emilia pocketed the brochure. “Let me see the petition.” Juan Fabio might be a junkman, but he was also either a religious zealot or a con artist scamming Padre Pro’s legacy.

  The girl thrust a grubby clipboard at Emilia. The first page repeated the message from the brochure. The rest of the pages were full of barely legible signatures. Emilia estimated that the total number of signatures on the clipboard was around 200.

  As she studied the signatures, half-hoping to find something relevant, it occurred to Emilia that the Friends of Padre Pro might not be local to Acapulco. There could be national chapters hawking the petition, with other body parts floating around purporting to be that of the long-dead priest. The thought made Emilia’s stomach churn.

  “I need to talk to Juan Fabio before I sign anything.” She handed back the clipboard. “When is he going to be around?”

  “Saturday.”

  “I really need to speak to him now,” Emilia said. She tucked 400 pesos under the receipt pad; 200 for the novena, 200 for the girl. “Where does he live?”

  The girl eyed the money, obviously making the same calculation. “I don’t know.”

  “How about a cell phone number?” Emilia asked.

  “He doesn’t have one.”

  “What do you do when there’s a problem here at the stall and you have to ask him a question?”

  “I tell him on Saturday.”

  “What about the money at the end of the day?” Emilia pressed. “What do you do with it?”

  “There’s a safe.”

  Emilia slid the pesos back into her pocket, teeth gritted in exasperation.

  “You don’t look so much like Avenga after all,” the girl said scornfully.

  ☼

  Sophia dropped a plate and screamed when Emilia walked into the kitchen. “Emilia, you’re bleeding!”

  Madre de Dios. Panic surged as Emilia felt her chest, her arms, her face.

  Sophia screamed again and pointed to Emilia’s head.

  Emilia swayed with relief. “Mama, it’s hair dye.”

  She pulled her mother close so that Sophia could more clearly see the red streaks.

  “Hair dye?” Sophia cautiously touched the colored strands. “Why did you do such a thing? What was going on at school today?”

  Emilia set down her shoulder bag, stripped off her jacket and holster, and picked up the shards of broken china. “It was an accident. I’ll get Mercedes to help me dye it back to normal.”

  Ten minutes later, the kitchen floor was clean and Emilia tied an apron around her waist. It didn’t happen often, but when Sophia was having a good day, it was nice to putter in the kitchen with her mother and talk of insignificant things; the price of onions, Padre Ricardo’s Sunday sermon, how fast her cousin Alvaro’s children were growing. Of late, the talk had turned to Sophia and Ernesto’s upcoming wedding, as well as Ernesto’s growing business. A sewing workshop a few blocks away continually brought him scissors to sharpen, and the courtyard saw a steady stream of gardeners with blunt-edged grass clippers, pruning shears, and machetes.

  “Padre Ricardo said I should ask you if we want music for the wedding.” Sophia poured oil into the bottom of her biggest pot.

  “Sure.” Emilia stuck a fork into a tomato, wrapped a cloth around the handle, and began the careful process of roasting off the tomato skin over the stove’s gas burner. “We could get a mariachi. Everybody does. But it’s up to you, Mama.”

  Sophia sniffed. “But this is a remarriage. Do people do that for remarriages?”

  The tomato skin blackened and blistered and Emilia turned it carefully to get the other side. Ernesto bore the same name as Emilia’s late father. Despite many conversations, Sophia frequently insisted that her intended was her original husband. “I think you can do what you want, Mama,” Emilia said.

  Sophia reached into her apron pocket and pulled out a handful of paper. Receipts from the market, a folded piece of lined school paper, and a business card fell onto the counter. She unfolded the lined paper. “This is what Padre Ricardo gave me.”

  Emilia’s eye slid to the business card. The name Lupita Navarro was printed on it. “Mama, where did you get Señora Navarro’s card?”

  “Honestly, Emilia. I told you.” Sophia shook her head at such a forgetful daughter. “Señora Navarro was here this morning asking to talk to you.”

  “No, you didn’t tell me,” Emilia said, trying to mask her irritation. Lupita Navarro was the owner of their house. Emilia had first rented from the woman eight years ago, when the monthly payment had felt exorbitant, and had always been the one to deal with her. Señora Navarro rarely dropped in unannounced. She almost always called first or sent an email asking if it was convenient for her to stop by.

  “Yes, I did.” Sophia looked at the crisping tomato. “Don’t burn it.”

  Emilia plunged the blistered tomato into a bowl of cold water, rubbed away the scorched skin, then began the process again with a second tomato. “Did she say why she wanted to talk to me?”

  “Something about insurance.” Sophia began chopping a white onion.

  “Did you give her my cell phone number?”

  “Was I supposed to?” Sophia asked. “You didn’t tell me to.”

  “I didn’t know she was coming.”

  S
ophia made a disapproving face as she minced the onion. “You should have told her to tell you.”

  Emilia counted to ten in her head. “Yes, that would have been good. I guess I’ll have to call and see what she wanted.”

  Sophia stirred rice and onions into the hot oil while Emilia chopped the peeled tomatoes. When the rice changed from opaque to transparent, Emilia added the tomatoes, cilantro, and chicken broth. While the arroz rojo cooked, Sophia took out three small sea bass. Emilia was reminded of Pedro Montealegre’s office.

  The stink of sardines and sadness. A sense of things struggling to remain hidden.

  Chapter 16

  Wednesday morning, Emilia’s police badge got her through the security at the entrance to the Customs building. Once inside, her name was still in the computer from the last time she’d been there and the security guard handed her a visitor tag to pin on her lapel. She remembered the way to the Human Resources department and Irma Gonzalez Perot’s office.

  She rode the elevator to the right floor. When they opened she saw the frosted green glass wall, plush carpeting, and the semicircular receptionist desk that sat like a guard post in front of doors leading into the Human Resources department. The doors were of the same frosted glass and their long chrome handles were the only way to tell they were doors and not a continuation of the wall. Again, in that setting, Emilia thought that Irma had done well career-wise. The place was certainly a big step up from a battered metal desk in the detectives squadroom.

  The receptionist popped to attention as the elevator doors swished closed behind Emilia. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Irma Gonzalez Perot,” Emilia said. She tapped the visitor chit. “I’ve been here before and she has something for me to pick up.”

  The young girl sucked in her breath as she blinked nervously at Emilia. “Was she expecting you?”

  “Yes,” Emilia said. “My colleague called yesterday.”

  The girl pointed to a row of chairs. “Could you please take a seat?”

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” Emilia said. Either the red-streaked hair had unnerved the girl or there was another problem.

  “Yes, of course,” the girl assured her. “It will only take a minute.”

  Emilia walked over to the chairs. There was a small coffeemaker in the corner, the type that swallowed up capsules of goo and dribbled out plastic-smelling liquid. Magazines were artfully arranged into a fan. Emilia selected a thick fashion magazine featuring a well known Hollywood actress. Emilia flipped through the glossy pages. None of the clothes looked remotely practical, everything cost a fortune, the shoes had ridiculously tall heels, and for the first time Emilia wanted it all. Not for everyday life, of course, when jeans and a jacket to cover her gun were the most sensible things to wear. But when she was at the Palacio Réal or when she and Kurt went out.

  The elevator doors swished open and an older man in an elegantly tailored brown suit got off. The receptionist indicated Emilia. He approached and Emilia stood up.

  “Wilfredo Sarmiento,” he introduced himself and held out his hand. “I understand you are here to see Irma.”

  “Yes.” Emilia shook his hand and was pleased he didn’t give the limp or partial hand grasp handshake so many men did. “Emilia Cruz Encinos.”

  “What was the nature of your appointment?” Sarmiento looked at her with concern. “A job application perhaps?”

  “I’m a police detective,” Emilia said. “Irma has some information for me that may be helpful in a murder investigation. But if she’s not available, maybe one of her staff can help.”

  “What sort of information?” Sarmiento asked.

  “A list of Customs employees who were working a particular shift at the cruise ship dock several weeks ago.” Emilia watched Sarmiento as he wrung his hands in distress. He was close to retirement age, a grandfatherly man with thick gray hair and a moustache. He obviously held a very senior position from the way the receptionist regarded him with a mix of awe and fear.

  Sarmiento gestured for Emilia to resume her seat and took the one next to her. “Were you close to Irma?” he asked.

  Emilia noted the past tense. “Has something happened to her?”

  Sarmiento pressed his lips together, closed his eyes as if in pain, and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes. “We lost Irma yesterday. No one knew that she was depressed. She wiped the entire Human Resources employee database then drove her car off the road.”

  Emilia blinked. “Irma committed suicide?”

  “We lost the data for the last two years,” Sarmiento went on as if Emilia hadn’t spoken.

  His words rattled around in Emilia’s head as if the walls of the handsome lobby had become an echoing canyon.

  “You say Irma wiped the database?” Emilia verified, trying to keep her face from betraying her thoughts. “Why would she do that?”

  Sarmiento shook his head sadly. “The database was her baby. She’d written the code for it. Nursed it into being. There were a few glitches. But no one blamed her.”

  The back end is all magic to me. Emilia felt her mouth start to tremble and put up a hand to cover her lips.

  Sarmiento gestured to indicate the modern Customs building and all the compassionate employees it housed. “As I say, no one knew how depressed she must have been. Irma was very popular. A successful young mother. We are all still in shock.”

  “Of course,” Emilia murmured from behind her fingers.

  “I’m afraid we won’t be able to provide you with your list, Detective.”

  Emilia stood up, desperate to get out of the building. “I understand. Thank you for letting me know.” She managed a mournful expression, despite her wild heartbeat and the need to run, flee, get away now now now. “It wasn’t that important. An afterthought, really.”

  “I’m sorry you had to come down here for nothing,” Sarmiento said with feeling.

  ☼

  Emilia’s dumped her shoulder bag on the desk, slumped into her chair, and buried her face in her hands.

  “Rayos, Cruz.” Silvio’s snicker filtered from across their desks. “Head get caught in one of those machines that paint stripes on the road?”

  “Yolanda Lata’s husband runs a beauty school,” Emilia said from behind her hands.

  “Must not have passed your finals,” Silvio guffawed.

  “She’s dead,” Emilia said, trying to get her breathing under control.

  “I know, that’s why you went there.”

  “Not Yolanda,” Emilia said. “Irma. From Customs. The nice lady with the little kid and the handsome husband.”

  “She’s dead?” Silvio demanded. “Since when? I talked to her yesterday.”

  “After talking to you, she supposedly destroyed their human resources database and committed suicide by driving off the road.”

  “Did you get the employee rosters?”

  “What do you think?”

  The only answer Emilia got was the furious clicking of Silvio’s computer keys, followed by a string of muttered profanity. “Got the accident report,” he said finally. “Uniforms responded. Went off the cliff east of Playa Revolcadero by the new construction.”

  Emilia dropped her hands. “Madre de Dios,” she breathed. “The same road.”

  “What about the road?”

  “I think I was followed on that road on Saturday,” Emilia said. “Rental car, but I have a name and address. I haven’t had time to check out the cédula.” She told him what had happened with the gray sedan and produced the information that the dispatch sergeant had given her.

  “Juan Colón Sotelo, Mexico City,” Silvio muttered, typing furiously again.

  Flores was across the squadroom at his desk, a pile of folders at his elbow. He didn’t look up. Emilia assumed he was still plowing through past kidnapping cases, trying to find a link to the Padre Pro finger case.

  “If this is your guy, he’s a ghost,” Silvio said quietly. Emilia walked around to look at his screen. Silvio
pointed to the database entry.

  The name was correct. The address was correct. But Juan Colón Sotelo had died two years ago.

  The squadroom blurred and Emilia had to steady herself with both hands on Silvio’s desk. Recycling old identities was a well-known cartel practice, as was using forged cédulas. Certain national police operations reportedly used cédulas from the deceased for undercover operations, but as far as Emilia knew the practice was limited and not used by municipal police forces. She hauled in air and the room steadied. “Now what?”

  “What else besides the Pacific Grandeur case have you been working on that could get somebody real mad at you?” Silvio asked. “Somebody big.”

  They quickly reviewed the last dozen or so cases they’d handled. Several thefts, a string of car window smashes, two murders that looked like the result of domestic disputes. The investigations had gone the usual way, which meant that no witnesses had come forward with credible information and they hadn’t even come close to an arrest. There hadn’t been any security lapses or other odd episodes during the investigations that would call attention to her. “There’s nothing here that would make me a target,” Emilia said. “No more than you.”

  Silvio closed down his computer. “You got something to do the rest of the day that doesn’t involve the Pacific Grandeur case?” he asked. “Or anything to do with Ora Ciega? What about your finger?”

  “We’re on hold until Saturday.” Emilia gave him the short version of her trip to Juan Fabio’s stall at the market. “But Trinidad gave me another possible lead to Lila. I need to look into it.”

  “Take Flores with you,” Silvio said as he stood up and grabbed his jacket. “He’s better than nothing.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Another little talk with Perez,” Silvio said.

  ☼

  “I hear you had a friend named Yolanda Lata,” Emilia said. “Some people called her Yola.”

  “Lata,” Chavito corrected her. “That was her street name.”

  Chavito was definitely a dwarf, but he wasn’t as small as Trinidad had indicated. He had a broad, flat face with a high forehead and a sheen of hair marcelled into ringlets. Given his custom fitted jeans, designer logo tee, and heavy gold neck chains, Emilia figured he was making decent money off his stable of girls.