Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3) Read online

  “This is the only option,” Emilia said. “We’ll see this through. Get them all.” She had both hands on the steering wheel but hadn’t yet started the engine. Now that everything was in place, she felt calm.

  There were only a few cars in the lot. The guard was sitting on a box by the entrance, listening to a radio. The Suburban was parked in one of the few spaces that wasn’t lit by the mercury glow of lights built into the enclosure walls.

  The moon was full, hanging low over the city like a wheel of yellow cheese. The sky was ink blue and the stars were flecks of glitter that reminded Emilia of the gold in Villa de Refugio’s window. The store and the lie that had started it all.

  She and Flores both wore bulletproof vests under their clothes. Emilia had changed from the gray suit she’d worn all day into the gym clothes she always kept in the trunk; tee shirt, capri leggings, and cross trainers. A loose hooded sweatshirt hid the vest but made her gun in its shoulder holster a little less accessible. She’d put her wallet and badge into the sweatshirt’s zippered pocket and slid her rosary into the chest pocket of the tee shirt. She’d need all the help she could get tonight.

  Flores had on jeans and loafers topped by a khaki cotton windbreaker that covered his vest and gun. “This jefe,” he said. “He murdered all those people at Gallo Pinto, didn’t he?”

  “The community police probably did most of the dirty work but he ordered it,” Emilia said. “Dumped the body from the morgue there, too. Had Irma Gonzalez from Customs killed because she started asking questions about the Customs officers who probably were in on it.”

  “Cut them all up.” Flores’s voice sounded like that of a small kid in the dark.

  “Don’t think about that, Orlando,” Emilia warned. “Keep your mind focused on catching them.”

  Flores took a deep breath. “I won’t let you down, Emilia,” he said and turned to face her.

  Emilia flexed her fingers; she’d been gripping the wheel so hard her hands hurt. “This isn’t about me, Orlando,” she said. “This is about staying cool. Not getting excited. You don’t have to say much, just back me up. Don’t make up anything, just follow my lead, and we’ll be out of there in 15 minutes.”

  “I know.” Flores had an earnest, yearning look on his face. “I’ll make you proud. No mistakes this time. Not like when we talked to those two forgers or Gloria.”

  Made de Dios, he was like a child trying so hard to please. “I think when this is all over,” Emilia said. “We should have a talk. About the kind of cop you want to be. What kind of choices are out there for you.”

  Flores blinked. “A career talk, you mean?”

  Because you’re suited for any career except this one. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Emilia,” Flores said. “Thank you for caring.”

  To her surprise, Flores threw himself over the console and hugged her. It was the same awkward embrace as he’d given her in the squadroom a few days ago, with his face buried in her shoulder. Emilia gave him a pat on the arm, realizing the security guard had chosen the moment to look around and that Flores had given their cover story a boost. But Madre de Dios, the pending career talk with Flores was also going to be about personal space.

  Her cell phone rang. Flores dropped back into the passenger seat and smoothed his hair.

  “The construction gate at Torre Metropolitano is open,” Silvio said when Emilia answered the phone. “Nobody watching it that I could see. A few lights on around the base, same as always at night, so that tourists can see the design.”

  His voice sounded strong. Silvio was no defeated boxer; he was a champ ready for the ring. Me, too, Emilia told herself.

  “We’re on our way,” she replied and started the engine.

  Chapter 31

  Emilia constantly checked her mirrors for a tail as she drove east. The traffic was light around the bay even in the touristy zones near Playa Morro. She rounded the traffic circle at the Diana monument and kept going. At the midpoint of the bay, near the CICI Water Park, she wondered distractedly what Pedro Montealegre was doing and if he’d been promoted again. They passed the three white rounded Torre Victoria towers and the slightly taller Hotel La Palapa, with its 30 floors and angled sides, as they continued into the Colonia Icacos area. Most of the high-rises along the bay were spotlighted at night, tall white columns that graced postcards and distracted the eye from the dirt at street-level.

  The site of the half-built Torre Metropolitano loomed ahead as the road curved into the eastern side of the bay. When finished, the tower would be another one of Acapulco’s iconic skyscrapers rising from azure ocean, defiant and modern against a backdrop of iron mountains. Its innovative spiral design had been hotly debated in the news last year. Some said it would become Acapulco’s most famous landmark, others argued that the design was inherently unstable. But a consortium of investors had pushed it through.

  The building would be 25 stories when done and about half had been erected. Steel and glass cladding rose into the sky, topped by a mammoth yellow crane. The whole structure was partially hidden by temporary construction barriers of corrugated steel. A picture of the Building’s final state was repeated on the barriers, as if miniature Torre Metropolitanos were strolling down the street, interrupted by the royal palms along the avenue.

  Emilia made the block twice, seeing nothing unusual. Lights were on in the abarrotes store. She called Silvio, told him they were going in. When she broke the connection she steered the Suburban into the open construction gate on the street running parallel to the Costera.

  Once inside, Emilia could see that the upper floors of the partially finished building formed a raw skeleton of steel and cement. The girders gleamed red, an effect of moonlight and the glow from the uplights ringing the base of the building. The bottom stories were sheathed in dark green glass but the upper stories were still bare steel elbows jutting into the air. Each story rotated, the corners floating free, to form an overall spiral effect. The first time Emilia had seen the design in the newspaper, she’d wondered how it would feel to sit in the corner room, knowing it was hanging in midair. There would be only the pull of the center to keep the edges from unraveling and plunging to the ground in a mess of glass and electrical wires.

  She let the engine idle. An orange construction elevator was clamped to the outside of the structure. Six cement trucks and an equal number of small front loaders were parked in the lot. There was space for thirty cars inside the enclosure and across the pavement Emilia could make out the silhouettes of three long trailers. Closer to the structure, piles of iron girders and concrete slabs loomed higher than the top of the Suburban.

  It was exactly 2:00 am. A light snapped on over the construction elevator.

  “Is that for us?” Flores asked.

  “I think so,” Emilia said. She hadn’t said so to Flores, but she knew why the meeting had been set for the Torre Metropolitano. If anything went wrong, it would be easy to stuff their bodies into a cement truck. By tomorrow they’d be part of Torre Metropolitano’s foundation.

  She parked the car close to the building and cut the engine. They got out and crossed the short distance to the elevator. The orange cage was at ground level. The light flashed.

  “Looks like somebody wants us to take the construction elevator on the outside of the building,” Emilia said, for Silvio’s benefit. The rosary in her chest pocket was heavy and the wire under her tee felt prickly, but both were reassuring.

  They stepped into the cage and Emilia pulled the grating closed. The floor gave a lurch. The orange cage lifted the two detectives into the night air.

  They rose high enough for Emilia to see over the construction barriers, over the lower buildings along the Playa Guitarrón, and almost to the rounded dome of Punta de Guitarrón. Bars and restaurants were open on a Monday night, music carried on the breeze, tourists were having a good time, and the ocean lapped at Acapulco’s door. Business as usual.

  The cage ground to a halt. Emilia and Flores step
ped out onto a lunar landscape of exposed steel girders, tarp-covered mounds of construction supplies, and needle-edged wind. The building’s central shaft was cloaked in cement walls. Only a few vertical beams stretched into the sky along the perimeter, ready to bear the weight of the next story to be placed on top. Otherwise the huge space was open and lit only by the ambient glow of city lights and the single bulb at the top of the elevator. Emilia made out a small wheeled cement mixer and the base of a crane.

  Maybe it was her imagination, but the framework of the building seemed to shiver with the gusty breezes. Emilia walked forward, instinctively disliking the edge. Flores came with her and they were halfway to the interior walls when the elevator light went out. The empty cage rattled and began to descend. Cold snaked down Emilia’s back at the thought of their only retreat being gone.

  “I bought the dress,” she said loudly into the darkness.

  A flashlight clicked on near one of the central shaft walls. Two shadows emerged from behind the wall. Emilia couldn’t make out faces.

  “Right on time.” The voice was that of Perez.

  “I do what I say I’m going to do,” Emilia said, squinting into the glare. “I’m here, my partner’s here. Let’s talk Ora Ciega.”

  “What does your partner think of your idea?” The light illuminated Flores.

  Emilia pressed her hand against Flores’s arm. She could hear him breathing in short little spurts. “He’s with me. All the way.”

  “Let him speak for himself.”

  Flores pressed his hand over hers. In the darkness they were joined together, a team. “What my partner said,” he called. “We’re together on this.”

  The flashlight disappeared, replaced by a light on the wall behind the two shadows that threw a half-circle of dim yellow over both. Perez was in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. The other man was older and heavier and wore a suit topped by an expensive trench coat. He looked familiar. A face that had looked at her with interest when she was at the restaurant with Obregon.

  Flores let go of Emilia, clapped his hands, and burst out laughing. Emilia froze as he doubled over in mirth, sure he’d cracked under the pressure.

  Still laughing, Flores darted forward, navigated a pile of steel rebar, and held out his hands to the older man. “Tío José Ramón!” he called. “I can’t believe it. You’ve played such a joke on me!”

  “Orlando,” the older man greeted him.

  Flores embraced the man as Emilia watched in confusion. “I told you I wanted you to meet Emilia,” he said breathlessly, between gusts of mirth. “But this is too much. Even Emilia was in on it.” He flapped a hand at her. “You were so serious! And you knew all the time.”

  “Did she,” the older man said, his glaze fixed on Emilia.

  Flores took in a big breath, his face split by a huge smile, and backpedaled to Emilia. “Of course,” he said. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Tío, let me introduce my Emilia. My partner and so much more. Emilia Cruz Encinos, may I introduce my uncle, Captain José Ramón Almaprieto Chavez.”

  Emilia forced herself to keep breathing. Madre de Dios, Flores’s uncle was el jefe.

  Flores went on. “He’s the head of Internal Affairs and the reason I’ve always wanted to be a cop.”

  It was true. But it couldn’t be. Emilia had all but forgotten that the rookie’s full name was Orlando Flores Almaprieto. At any rate she’d never known the name of the head of Internal Affairs. Few cops ever did. Is he related? No wonder Denton thought she was a fool.

  From the names, it was clear that Flores’s mother and the head of Internal Affairs were sister and brother. Rigoberto Flores might be an indulgent father, but it was the uncle who’d bought the nephew his childhood fantasy.

  José Ramón Almaprieto Chavez. The man behind the legendary Alma. The man who held the soul of the Acapulco police force at his mercy.

  Alma, who no doubt had something on everyone from Chief Salazar all the way down to Loyola and Ibarra.

  Alma, whose name had become synonymous with his unit so long ago that no one remembered any more.

  “Detective Cruz.” Almaprieto acknowledged her with a nod but made no other move. “I think you know Lieutenant Perez from Organized Crime.”

  “Yes,” Emilia managed.

  Alma’s flunky, she thought. Organized Crime handled the bulk of the Acapulco police department’s drug smuggling cases. Almaprieto doubtless told Perez which investigations--like the Pacific Grandeur murder--to kill or keep.

  Perez smiled, the amusement on his face as plain as if he was a ringmaster standing in the spotlight. No wonder he’d wanted her to bring Flores.

  “Lieutenant Perez tells me you think we’ve been following you around,” Almaprieto said.

  We. Of course. It all made sense now. “Internal Affairs cops use identities of the dead,” Emilia said, as if it was a fact she knew.

  “You must be as good a detective as Orlando keeps telling me.” Almaprieto’s face was a mask, betraying no emotion. “How did you find out?”

  Emilia felt the wind play around her bare calves. “Your unit rents all your cars from Banderas at the airport,” she said.

  “Very good. I’ll make a note to mix up the rental companies.” Almaprieto had his hands in his coat pockets. Emilia knew he was armed but she didn’t know in which pocket. “Before we get down to business, tell me about your conversation with Victor Obregon.”

  “It didn’t have anything to do with Ora Ciega,” Emilia parried. “I don’t give him my opportunities.”

  Almaprieto switched on the flashlight, momentarily blinding her. When she brought up a hand to block the glare, he turned it off.

  “Obregon could have been a deal breaker,” Almaprieto said. “I’m pleased by your attitude.”

  He paused and looked at Emilia expectantly.

  “Thank you,” she said, for lack of anything else.

  “When Orlando told me his intentions toward you, we had to make sure you’d be a good fit for the boy. A little private investigation to be sure you’re right for him. As long as you make a few adjustments to your private life, I have no objections.”

  Emilia didn’t understand. Was he implying she had been followed because of Flores, not because of the Ora Ciega investigation?

  “This was just family, you understand,” he went on. “There’s no official file on you at Internal Affairs.”

  “Good to know.” Emilia felt blind and on shifting sands.

  Almaprieto raised his chin at Flores. “Orlando, say your piece to Detective Cruz now.”

  “Tío! I’m not ready,” Flores protested.

  “What’s going on?” Emilia murmured to Flores. Cutting across her shock was the thought that Flores was in on the Ora Ciega scheme. Had he been planted inside the squadroom to subvert the investigation?

  “Emilia, I know we haven’t known each other very long,” Flores began. He tried to catch her hand but Emilia pulled away.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” Emilia hissed.

  “Tío José Ramón said he needed to make sure you were a good cop.” Flores caught her hand this time and held it tightly. “And a good person. I knew you were but he insisted. To make sure we’re right for each other. I love you, Emilia. I want us to be partners. Not only at work. Partners in every way. Forever.”

  Emilia felt as if she’d been walloped by one of the bags of cement forming a lumpy pyramid by a small wheeled mixer. A moment ago she’d believed Flores might be Almaprieto’s stoolie, now she should believe he wanted to be her husband? “Orlando, we’ll talk about this later,” she murmured and tried to extricate her hand.

  “Emilia, don’t you see?” Flores didn’t let go. “My uncle wants us to be happy. This was the best joke ever. We’ll never forget the day I proposed.”

  Perez made a funny sound, as if muffling laughter.

  “You knew?” Emilia asked the Organized Crime officer.

  “You’d better tell him about your weekends at the Palacio Réal befor
e the wedding,” Perez drawled. His fingers fluttered by his side.

  Emilia finally pulled away from Flores, her heart clanging in her chest. She’d been set up. She’d thought she was being so clever, setting a trap to catch the head of a smuggler ruthless enough to order the killing field at Gallo Pinto. In reality it had been a trap for her.

  She couldn’t wrap her mind around it, didn’t know how to recover the situation. Could she play it through and get Perez and Almaprieto to incriminate themselves? Or was the only chance to laugh about the joke on Flores and get out? But Perez knew why she was really there. Panic kept circling her brain. She couldn’t think, couldn’t plan her next move.

  Behind her, the light to the construction elevator flicked on. The cage rattled loudly. No one said a word as it rose to their level and jolted to a halt. Emilia and Flores turned around to see the grating open. Valentino stepped out, clad in a nylon jacket and jeans. Flores gave an involuntary cry.

  “Our little group is complete,” Almaprieto said. “I take it you all have met before.”

  Emilia and Flores were trapped in the middle, between Valentino by the elevator and the others by the central building shaft. The wind whipped Emilia’s ponytail against her neck and flapped the skirts of Almaprieto’s trench coat around his legs. The elevator light clicked off. Valentino turned into a faceless dark hulk. For the first time that night, Emilia was truly afraid.

  “I’m here because of her.” Valentino’s voice was loud and raspy. “There are federales crawling all over my town.”

  “We’re here to talk business,” Perez said. “A new plan with less risk. Use Fiesta Verde. But not the ship. Bonilla’s messed that up.”

  “Fiesta Verde and the ship are a good system,” Valentino said. “We don’t--.”

  “You!” Flores shouted, his outburst drowning out the vigilante leader’s last words. He pointed a shaky finger at Valentino. “You killed all those people at Gallo Pinto. Chopped them up.”

  “Orlando, stop,” Emilia whispered. “Let’s hear what they have to say.”