Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3) Page 25

  “Don’t you see?” Emilia pressed Silvio. “They’re using the cannery in Gallo Pinto to package up the Ora Ciega. It’s probably loaded onto the ship labelled as canned tomatoes or green beans.”

  To her surprise he didn’t respond. He turned his beer glass around on the coaster.

  Emilia leaned over the table. The music in the Counter Club was too loud and she wondered why he’d picked the trendy tourist bar as a meeting spot. Especially on a Friday night, when the place would be even more crowded than usual. She’d been surprised when he suggested meeting there, but it was on the way to the Palacio Réal so she’d agreed. “Did you understand what I said?” she asked.

  “I heard you fine, Cruz.” Silvio took a deep swallow of beer. He’d taken off his jacket to reveal his usual white tee shirt but not his shoulder holster. Emilia assumed his gun was strapped to his ankle. She still had on her work uniform of jeans, black tee and khaki blazer, and felt underdressed amid the night club denizens with their flashy clothes and overdone makeup.

  “So?”

  A techno light show flashed, bathing Silvio’s grim expression in purple and blue sparks. His white tee shirt glowed. Again, Emilia wondered why he’d picked the club; he was at least 20 years older than the average patron, hated this type of synthesized music, and the beer cost double what it would be anywhere else.

  Silvio squinted as the lights flashed. “This isn’t your case any more.”

  “So? We take the information to Loyola. Perez. Somebody.”

  “No. We don’t do anything.”

  “Are you kidding?” Emilia exclaimed.

  Silvio slapped his hand on the table. “You got bigger trouble than this case, Cruz. I overheard Loyola and Ibarra talking. Loyola’s got it in for you. Said if it wasn’t for the fact that you were keeping Flores busy, he’d can your ass tomorrow. Want to tell me why?”

  Emilia swore under her breath. “We had a little argument and my knee accidentally . . . Okay, to be honest, I nailed him in the balls.”

  Silvio sputtered beer. “What the fuck, Cruz?”

  “He suggested that I give Flores a blow job or two. Then perform, uh, similar services for the rest of the squadroom.”

  “Rayos.” Silvio shook his head like a bull about to charge.

  “He filed a grievance with the union accusing me of sexual assault. There’s a hearing on Monday.”

  “That’s it,” Silvio announced. “Forget the fucking Ora Ciega. You keep your head down. Babysit Flores. Say whatever you have to say to the union and get it over with.”

  “I’m not dropping the case,” Emilia exclaimed.

  “You have to,” Silvio said. “Think about it. You know a hell of a lot more than Irma Gonzalez and have run into three dead men. Somebody’s got to be wondering when you’re going to get the message to lay off.”

  Emilia drank some beer, ignoring her suddenly shaking hand. She remembered the moment Loyola had come into the interrogation room, and let Bonilla go, just as the ship’s officer had been about to incriminate himself. “Is that somebody Loyola?” she asked.

  “I don’t have anything solid,” Silvio said, barely audible above the music. “My guess is that Loyola’s following somebody’s directions. He’s too scared to be in charge of whatever is going on.”

  Emilia looked around at the jolting lights, the twentysomething tourists, and the bartenders juggling rum bottles. No wonder Silvio had picked this place to meet. Nobody they knew would come here. She thought of the lines she’d drawn in her notebook yesterday. Lines connecting the players. Maybe she needed to add a few more players.

  “I gave him a great excuse to get rid of me, didn’t I?” Emilia asked.

  “That’s right. You reacted like a fucking girl.” Silvio glared at her. “At least a union grievance is better than him taking it to Alma.”

  Emilia clenched her fists on the table. “I can’t believe this. I’ve got the key to the whole Ora Ciega mess and you’re telling me I can’t use it?”

  Silvio’s face tightened. “Listen to me, Cruz,” he growled. “Loyola’s more scared of whoever is calling the shots than he is of you. If you continue with the case, Loyola will have to take you out.”

  His words were scaring her but Emilia wasn’t ready to give up. “What about Irma Gonzalez? Yolanda Lata? Where’s the justice for them?”

  “Somebody else will make the same connection,” Silvio insisted. “This Espinosa sounds all right for a federale.”

  “He didn’t see the Fiesta Verde trucks loading up the ship,” Emilia pointed out.

  Silvio shrugged. “The ship will come back. Bonilla’s cocky enough to try again.”

  “Staying on the case was your idea, remember?” Emilia pressed. “You were so pissed when Bonilla walked. We both knew Organized Crime wasn’t going to do shit and they haven’t.”

  “We’re not going to win this one, Cruz,” Silvio said. “Live to fight another day, okay?”

  Emilia didn’t reply. They sat without speaking. The music changed tempo and at random intervals the DJ shouted out words like “Booty” and “Hustle.” Emilia wiped all the condensation off her glass with a still shaky hand, then pressed her palm onto the table top. When she took it away a perfect watery handprint remained.

  “Give me your word, Cruz,” Silvio said finally. “You’ll drop it.”

  The techno light show ended. In its place, a purple spotlight roamed the room. As it passed over their table, Silvio looked strangely deflated; a boxer who knew that his best days were behind him.

  “Ibarra must be rubbing off on you,” Emilia remarked. “Minimal effort, maximum smell. You a chain-smoker yet?”

  Silvio stood up, shrugged on his jacket, and threw down some peso bills. “If you keep after it, Cruz, you’re on your own,” he warned. “I been down this road before and I’m not doing it again. You get yourself killed, I won’t be at the funeral.”

  “Thanks for the beer,” Emilia said.

  Silvio stalked out, leaving Emilia alone with her warm beer and sticky handprint.

  Chapter 27

  Juan Fabio was not pleased to see Emilia and Kurt at the entrance to his stall at the Mercado Municipal early Saturday morning.

  The place looked much the same as before. Kurt browsed the stall as Emilia cornered the junkman.

  “I already talked to you,” Juan Fabio said to Emilia.

  “Let’s talk again,” Emilia said. “Different question this time. Easier.”

  Juan Fabio shook his head and pretended to be busy with his receipt book. “I got nothing to say to you. Gloria is real mad. Bad things are happening up in her mother’s village because of you.”

  The discovery of the killing field was all over the national news. Kurt had put away the morning newspaper when he saw Emilia blanch at the pictures.

  “So far nobody’s mentioned the finger that came from the field,” Emilia said slowly. “Or the junkman who passed off the finger as a relic of Padre Pro.”

  Juan Fabio looked up from the receipts. “You’re a bad woman,” he said. “You don’t deserve to say the name of Padre Pro.”

  Emilia found herself inexplicably on the brink of tears. She took a step back, clutching her shoulder bag. “You’re a middleman,” she said harshly. “You know a lot of people who buy and sell things.”

  He waved a hand at the aisle full of people haggling over prices. “It’s a mercado. What did you expect?”

  “Who’s been buying and selling cédulas of the dead?”

  It was clear that Juan Fabio hadn’t seen her question coming. He blinked and rapidly glanced around.

  His reaction gave Emilia a moment in which to pull herself together. She leaned in close. “Not fake cédulas. Not forgeries. Real cédulas from people who have died. But the cédulas haven’t expired yet.”

  Juan Fabio clutched his receipt book as if she was trying to take it. “How should I know? I sell real things, not bits of paper.”

  “You hear things,” Emilia said. “From fr
iends in the mercado. Or your business associates like El Flaco.”

  “Never heard anything like that.” The words came out a little too fast.

  “Juan Colón Sotelo. Periliano Roa Fuentes. Efraim Vilez Garcia,” Emilia said. She showed him a piece of paper with the three names written on it. “Vilez Garcia hasn’t even been dead six months. Whoever is buying the cédulas is moving pretty quickly.”

  “Never heard of any of those people.”

  “I need the name of the buyer,” Emilia said. “That’s all. Just the name of whoever is dealing cédulas.”

  “I don’t know anything about cédulas,” Juan Fabio declared with false bravado, pointedly not looking at the paper. “You should go. If you aren’t buying anything, you should go.”

  “Maybe if I called Televisa and told a reporter about the finger, it would help you remember.”

  “Can’t remember what I don’t know,” Juan Fabio said.

  The junkman’s knuckles were white. Just like Loyola. Juan Fabio was more afraid of whoever was calling the shots than he was of her. She put the paper next to the receipt book. Juan Fabio didn’t touch it.

  Emilia and Kurt walked out of the stall. She felt eyes on their backs as they made their way out of the market.

  “You gave him three names,” Kurt said as they got into the car. “How many drunks have you run into lately?”

  “Silvio. Every day.” Emilia pretended to be busy with her seat belt.

  Kurt frowned. “Olivas told me that Vilez Garcia, the drunk in the hotel last weekend, had false identification. But you gave Juan Fabio three names. You’re looking for three fake cédulas.”

  Emilia gave him a tired smile. “Macias and Sandor have had a couple of cases where unexpired cédulas have shown up. We think there’s someone local dealing in fake identities. We’re all asking our contacts.”

  It came out naturally, her best lie to date.

  Kurt’s gaze didn’t lighten. Emilia reached across the console and kissed him. “Don’t get all crazy on me, gringo,” she said with her lips against his.

  “My girlfriend’s a cop,” Kurt said and kissed her back. “Crazy is the norm.”

  He drove out of the parking lot and started talking about a new restaurant they should try for lunch.

  Emilia hadn’t planned on lying to Kurt again, but something in the back of her mind said that the less he knew, the safer he’d be.

  Chapter 28

  By Monday morning, Emilia’s equilibrium had returned. If the union hearing went badly, and her job was in jeopardy, she’d use the Fiesta Verde information as a lever with Espinosa. Not every job with the federal police stank of shit; maybe he could help her find something that protected her from dead men and didn’t involve selling her soul.

  At 10:00 am, dressed in her gray suit, Emilia was ushered into a conference room in the union building. As instructed, she took the chair in the middle of one long side of the table. It meant that her back was to the door, which made her uncomfortable. Every cop needed to be able to see when danger entered the room. No doubt the seating was intentional and intended to keep the accused off balance.

  The secretary told Emilia to help herself to the water and cookies on a tray in the center of the table, then left.

  Emilia poured herself some water. She was ready with a statement. Hopefully, this preliminary hearing would be brief. Afterwards she’d go shopping with Mercedes. No matter which way the hearing went, she wouldn’t want to be in the squadroom this afternoon.

  Too jittery to stay seated, Emilia got up and made a circuit around the conference table. The room was fairly forgettable. The conference table dominated as if intended for a bigger space and crammed in this room by accident. The chairs were nice; navy leather over a wooden base on casters. One wall was covered with heavy draperies. Emilia pushed a panel aside to find iron bars protecting the window from a view of the parking lot.

  She sat down again. No one came in.

  After 10 minutes, Emilia got up, circled around the table and sat in the chair directly facing the door. There was a small control panel set into the table at that place.

  Two more glasses of water and Emilia left the conference room and went down the hall to a restroom she’d seen on the way in. The hallway was deserted both coming and going.

  She’d been in the conference room almost an hour when the door opened and Victor Obregon Sosa marched in. The union chief for the state of Guerrero was followed by three minions. The two women and one man were all well dressed and carried a variety of recording equipment.

  As his staff began setting up, Obregon came around the side of the table. “Detective Cruz,” he said slowly, as if savoring the words on his tongue. “You’re sitting in my place.”

  As every other time Emilia had seen him, Obregon was dressed entirely in black. His suit was an immaculate silk weave, his shirt was starched cotton, and his tie was a tone-on-tone stripe. Black suited Obregon’s ebony hair and the high cheekbones which betrayed a strong indio bloodline.

  “Señor,” Emilia said in acknowledgment. She took her glass of water and slid over one chair.

  Obregon gave her the appraising stare she remembered. It was the look of a hawk assessing how fast a mouse could run. When Emilia met his eyes the look changed to faint amusement. He sat down in the chair she’d vacated.

  Their last encounter had been months ago, a chance meeting in the gym in the central police administration building. She’d called in a marker, as he called it, and asked for a favor which would balance the books between them. Obregon had come through, to her surprise, and saved a man’s life in the process. The act had reversed her opinion of him only a little; Obregon almost certainly had his finger in a number of dirty enterprises including money laundering and drug smuggling. Emilia had come close to his involvement once, but they both knew she’d never be able to prove it.

  Even if Emilia had wanted to try, Obregon had better protection than most. He had a relationship with Acapulco’s wildly popular mayor, Carlota Montoya Perez. Emilia wasn’t sure exactly what that relationship was, but a few words came to mind. Lover. Advisor. Spy.

  One of the minions signaled from behind the video camera that they were ready. Obregon pressed a button on the panel set into the table and a microphone lowered itself from a panel in the ceiling.

  Obregon cleared his throat, gave the date, and announced that this was a recording of a preliminary hearing of charges against Acapulco police detective Emilia Cruz Encinos. He asked her to state her full name, date of birth, and badge number. Emilia rattled off the information.

  “Detective Cruz, are you aware of the full extent of the charges filed against you?”

  “No.”

  Obregon opened a thin file folder he’d brought into the room with him. He took out a piece of paper and slid it across to Emilia. “The union is making a copy of the grievance filed against Detective Cruz available to her,” he said for the benefit of the recording equipment. “Detective Cruz is accused of making lewd advances to her superior officer and conducting a sexual assault upon his person for the purpose of sexual gratification.”

  Loyola’s grievance sounded as if Emilia had raped him in his office. “This is a piece of crap,” she said hotly.

  Obregon read out each of four charges and asked her to confirm or deny each one. Emilia denied them all. Madre de Dios, but Loyola was a pendejo.

  “You may now make a statement, Detective,” Obregon said, again with that smile of faint amusement playing around his lips.

  “Acting Lieutenant Loyola suggested that I give blow jobs to the newest detective, Orlando Flores Almaprieto, to keep him happy,” she said, rolling out the script she’d rehearsed in front of the bedroom mirror at the Palacio Réal all weekend. “Flores was having some trouble fitting into the squadroom owing to his youth and inexperience. Acting Lieutenant Loyola also suggested that after making Flores happy I could give blow jobs to the rest of the squadroom. He said I owed it to all of them for not ra
ping me. After that I helped Acting Lieutenant Loyola fix a printer jam. My knee might have accidentally touched him in an inappropriate place while we were working on the printer. If so, I deeply regret the incident.”

  Obregon grinned and shook his head. “Detective Cruz, is it your opinion that Acting Lieutenant Loyola mistook this inadvertent touch for a sexual advance?”

  “I would have thought it unlikely,” Emilia said. “But it’s possible.”

  “Were there any witnesses to this event?”

  “No, it was just myself and Loyola in his office.”

  “You alluded to Flores? Was this officer nearby?”

  “No. Detective Franco Silvio had been in the office with us but he’d left by then.”

  “This hearing is suspended at this time,” Obregon drawled. “Examination of the grievance charges will be resumed pending collection and examination of new information.”

  He punched the button to turn off the microphone. His staff was told to make a transcript and have it on his desk in two hours. “Detective Cruz,” he said. “Please come with me.”

  Emilia followed Obregon out of the room and into the elevator. They rode down to the first floor in silence and continued down a corridor to the lobby. Everyone they passed either nodded, or if they were seated, bolted to their feet. Obregon ignored them all as he strode across the lobby, Emilia in his wake.

  Five minutes later they were seated in an elegant restaurant a block away. Obregon perused the wine list and Emilia tried not to look disoriented as the waiter draped a linen napkin over her lap.

  Obregon gave the waiter an order for what Emilia was sure was a very expensive bottle of wine. The waiter thanked the union chief by name and reeled off a selection of appetizers. Obregon chose the mariscos a la marinera and the Yucatan-style calabaza frita. They’d decide their main courses later, he intoned, as if they had all the time in the world.

  The waiter bowed and scraped his way out of earshot. Emilia leaned forward. “What is going on here?”

  “Lunch.” Obregon gave her that assessing smile again. “Your investigative skills need polishing, Detective.”