Diablo Nights (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 3) Page 7

  “Madre de Dios.” Emilia got out her phone but there was no one else to call.

  “Bonilla’s in there laughing,” Silvio went on angrily. “Watching me and the music man here do jack shit about them taking down the tape.”

  It was noisy by the trucks, what with the continual rumble of hand trucks being wheeled down the gangplanks, crew shouting directions to each other, trucks driving in and out of the loading area, and the cries of gulls and pelicans sensing easy pickings around the food. Emilia pulled Silvio over to the fence around the parking lot. “Did you talk to Bonilla or Ramos? They say anything?”

  “I had a five minute conversation with Ramos earlier. Told him that we’d be coming on board with a K-9 unit,” Silvio said. “Didn’t say anything about drugs but my guess is that he knows. Wouldn’t make eye contact after that.”

  “What about Bonilla?”

  “Nice conversation about the delivery. Said what he said yesterday. The cruise line has contracts with Acapulco vendors that can’t be broken. The ship will be leaving tomorrow.”

  Silvio’s phone rang and he punched open the connection. The conversation was brief. He hung up and nodded at Emilia. “Finally. Two dog teams on their way.”

  Afternoon stretched into evening. The Fiesta Verde trucks departed and a dairy delivered gallons of milk and ice cream. Both Silvio and Emilia worked their phones, getting a mix of assurances and notices of delays in regard to uniformed backup and the dog units. Flores strolled around the parking lot, listening to whatever the hell a Toccata and Fugue in D minor was.

  At 8:00 pm, as Emilia was seriously worried that Silvio was going to have a stroke, three men in white waistcoats and black pants proceeded down the Pacific Grandeur’s gangplank. They each carried a tray topped with a silver lid.

  “What the fuck is this?” Silvio muttered as the three waiters came directly toward them.

  “Compliments of Mr. Bonilla,” one of the waiters said in English. The trays were carefully deposited on a bench and the three men headed back to the ship.

  Flores lifted one of the lids to reveal filet mignon, a lobster tail, and an assortment of roasted vegetables. “Wow, look at this--.”

  Silvio wrenched the lid out of the younger man’s hand. “Don’t you fucking touch that food, boy,” he said furiously.

  “What’s the matter?” Flores asked in amazement.

  “Bonilla is a fucking murder suspect,” Silvio thundered.

  “But I’m hungry,” Flores said.

  Emilia stepped between them. “You never accept gifts from a suspect,” she said to Flores, knowing full well that Silvio would have swallowed that steak in two bites if the food hadn’t been a such obvious attempt at mockery by Bonilla. “Doesn’t matter if you’re hungry or not.”

  Her phone beeped with a text and she got Silvio’s attention. They moved away from Flores but Emilia’s heart sank as she read the screen. The dog units weren’t coming after all. According to the union, they had already worked more than the allowable number of hours per day for dogs and handlers.

  “I think we’re screwed for today, Franco,” she said. “Well and truly screwed. We can try for the dogs again tomorrow.”

  “No, tomorrow morning bright and early, we question both Bonilla and Ramos at the station,” Silvio said. “We’ll get some uniforms here to bring them in. Put them each in a separate room and act like we know all about their Ora Ciega smuggling ring.”

  “Look, I like the strategy,” Emilia said. “But all we’ve got to go on is some bad smack in a no-name dead guy’s pocket.”

  “Maybe,” Silvio said. “Maybe the guy strolled onto the ship looking to get lucky. Maybe he was fucking lost and wearing a friend’s jacket. But it fits together too well. I say we use everything we’ve got to build a story. Crank up the pressure on Bonilla and Ramos, accuse them of dealing. See who cracks first.”

  Emilia nodded. “Okay. Maybe if we have them in for questioning, Loyola will go up the chain and ask to hold the ship. Maybe we can keep it here another day. Or at least detain Bonilla and Ramos, not let them depart with the ship.”

  “I like it. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” Silvio marched back to the bench, tossed aside all of the food lids, grabbed Flores by the arm, and marched the younger man to the car.

  Within seconds, the benches were blotted out by a storm of screaming gulls tearing at the food and each other.

  Chapter 7

  As the detectives assembled for the morning meeting on Wednesday, Emilia realized that Flores was dressed exactly like Silvio. The newest detective was clad in faded jeans, a white tee shirt, a short brown leather motorcycle jacket, and scuffed work boots.

  A titter started in the back and ran around the squadroom as Loyola came out of the lieutenant’s office. That’s when Silvio noticed Flores. Emilia watched her partner’s face slowly redden as he pretended to drink his coffee.

  The week had picked up pace, with the discovery of three bodies in a house in the hilly Colonia Libertad, the deliberate sabotage of a water main in Colonia San Miguel up in the northwest, and the death of a squadroom alumni who’d gone to work in Internal Affairs before Emilia had become a detective. Apart from the late detective, who’d severed all ties when he transferred, no one in the squadroom knew who worked in the shadowy Internal Affairs unit, which was routinely referred to as Alma. No one knew how it had gotten the nickname, which meant soul. The joke was that once a cop came under the scrutiny of Internal Affairs, their soul was as good as lost.

  A couple of robberies rounded out the day’s new assignments. Briefings on existing cases were brisk. Silvio reported the previous day’s utter failure and Loyola nodded mournfully, reminding Emilia uncomfortably of Ernesto Cruz at home. Loyola promised to lodge a protest about the canine unit with Chief Salazar’s office, which they all knew would be a feckless exercise given that the chief himself had been at the airport with the dogs and the departing Olympic committee. Silvio went on to say that a couple of uniforms had already brought in their two chief suspects for questioning. Loyola nodded his agreement.

  When the meeting broke up Emilia showed Flores how to resume his intranet training. Once he understood the process, she gathered up the recently augmented Pacific Grandeur murder file. Silvio joined her and they headed for the new interrogation rooms on the other side of the station.

  “Looks like you’ve got a Mini Me, Franco,” Emilia said as they passed the holding cells. She shot the guard with her thumb and forefinger and she shot her back.

  “I blame you,” Silvio sputtered. “What the fuck did you say to him?”

  “I told him to lose the suit.” Emilia grinned. “Take it as a compliment.”

  “He calls me Franco and I’ll beat the shit out of him,” Silvio warned.

  Each of the new interrogation rooms had an audio feed, one way mirrors, a single table, and three chairs, plus cameras in the ceiling and a hidden squawk button in case a cop needed emergency help. There was a narrow anteroom outside where watchers could hear the audio and watch the interrogations. Space age techniques compared to the solid cinderblock walls of the grubby interrogation cells down the hall from the squadroom, although from personal experience Emilia knew those vastly more private rooms had their uses, too.

  Bonilla was in one interrogation room, Ramos in the other. Both men were seated. Ramos was jiggling his knee up and down. Bonilla’s arms were folded and his eyes were closed.

  “Is he asleep?” Emilia asked the cop by the viewing window into Bonilla’s room. He was a young uniform named Calles.

  Calles shook his head. “Asked for some coffee. Wants his cell phone and keys back, too.”

  Silvio snorted. “Ramos?”

  “Hasn’t said a word.”

  Emilia checked her watch. Both men had been stewing in their separate rooms for almost an hour by now. “Anything from the tech team yet?” she asked. Bonilla’s cell phone had been turned over to the small technical unit with orders to trace any questionable numbers.
Ramos had been smart enough not to bring a cell phone.

  Calles shook his head. “Not yet.”

  “I saw we start now, anyway,” Emilia said.

  “You ready?” Silvio asked. “Thirty minutes. Wind him up, see what we get.”

  “I’m ready,” Emilia said.

  She flounced into the room where Ramos sat impatiently, the thick file under her arm. Most of the content was paper from the recycling bin by the copier in the squadroom, but some useful pages had been lifted out of the squadroom’s collection of cold cases.

  Ramos looked up as she closed the door, slapped the heavy file onto the table, and sat across from him. “Good morning, Señor Ramos,” she said. “If you recall, we met Monday morning. I’m Detective Cruz Encinos.”

  “Yes,” Ramos said with an annoyed spin on the word. “You took my statement. I really have nothing to add.”

  “Some new evidence has come to our attention since Monday,” Emilia said.

  “I don’t see how that’s possible,” Ramos said dismissively. “Your investigation technique appears to be limited to sitting on a bench staring at cruise ships.”

  Emilia gave him a brief, pained smile, and turned her attention to the thick file on the table. She opened it, ran her finger down the page, flipped it over, studied the next page. As the silence thickened in the room, Emilia could hear a rubbery pinging from Ramos’s shoe as it vibrated on the floor.

  “Señor Ramos,” Emilia said in a bored voice. “Were you aware that the murder victim found aboard the Pacific Grandeur was a Honduran gang member?”

  “As I said on Monday,” Ramos said. “I know nothing about him.”

  “Were you aware that this Honduran national was engaged in smuggling a relatively rare form of Colombian heroin known as Ora Ciega?”

  “As I said,” Ramos repeated forcefully. “I never saw him before.”

  “How long have you known Señor Bonilla?”

  Ramos looked startled at the unexpected tack.

  “First cruise together?” Emilia asked. “Third? Fourth?”

  “You can check with Noble Pacific Cruise Lines,” Ramos said. “If that’s relevant to your case, which I doubt it is.”

  “Ahh.” Emilia nodded her understanding. She flipped through a few more pages of the file. She made a note in the margin. “Although if you and Señor Bonilla were business partners, that would be a factor.”

  “I’m head of security on the Pacific Grandeur, Detective,” Ramos said testily. “I’m not selling the tickets.”

  Emilia suddenly slammed the file closed. “Frankly, given your position, it’s surprising that you would be unaware that your shipmate Hector Bonilla has been smuggling Ora Ciega aboard the Pacific Grandeur.”

  Ramos stilled his knee. “You have no proof of any such thing,” he said.

  “What are your qualifications for your position, Señor Ramos?” Emilia asked softly. “Did Señor Bonilla hire you for your position? Perhaps he needed another Spanish speaker in a position of authority for these specific cruises?”

  Ramos didn’t answer. The rubber pinging of his shoe was audible.

  Emilia opened the file again with exaggerated effort and found a large glossy photograph of a .22 Ruger automatic handgun. A case file number was printed on the photo. She turned the picture and shoved it in front of Ramos. “Did you ever see this gun in Señor Bonilla’s possession?”

  Ramos’s mouth twitched but he didn’t speak.

  Emilia rapped sharply on the table. “Señor Ramos. I asked you a question. Have you ever seen this weapon in Señor Bonilla’s possession?”

  Ramos looked sick. “Am I under arrest?”

  “Perhaps you are unfamiliar with Mexico’s legal system, Señor Ramos.” Emilia stared at him. “An arrest isn’t necessary to hold a suspect. I’m sure you’d greatly prefer to answer the question.”

  “I’d like to call the American Embassy in Mexico City,” Ramos said. “I’m an American citizen.”

  There was a tap at the door. Emilia gathered up the file and walked out.

  Silvio was in the anteroom. He thrust a printout at her. “Bonilla made two calls Monday morning at about 1:00 am. First was less than a minute. Second was seven minutes. Tech unit tried to trace the number. It was a throwaway cell.”

  “Fits the time of death exactly,” Emilia said. “I can’t believe he actually brought the phone with him.”

  “Like I said. A couple of amateurs.”

  Emilia tucked the printout into the file. “Bonilla obviously has a partner here in Mexico.”

  “Not in this smuggling game alone,” Silvio said.

  “What do you think about Ramos?” Emilia asked.

  “He’s scared,” Silvio said. “Asking for the norteamericanos like a kid who wants to run home to his mother. Doesn’t want to rat on Bonilla, but doesn’t want to stick around either.”

  “The picture of the gun really rattled him,” Emilia said. Using the picture of a weapon from an old case had been Silvio’s idea and it had worked. “He’s in there now thinking we scraped it up from the water around the ship.”

  “Let’s let him stew a bit more,” Silvio said. “Sit there and panic all by himself.”

  “Okay.” Emilia handed Silvio the thick file. “Good cop, bad cop,” she said. “I’ll go get him a cup of coffee.”

  ☼

  “Well,” Bonilla drawled. “Los Dos Chiflados. Aren’t you missing one?”

  If nothing else, Emilia had to admire the man’s nerve. He’d been sitting alone for 90 minutes in a police interrogation room in a foreign country, yet was cracking Three Stooges jokes with the confidence of a seasoned comic.

  “Your coffee,” Emilia said and handed him a paper cup.

  “To your health.” Bonilla took off the lid and blew on the hot beverage.

  “Glad you’re in a good mood, Bonilla,” Silvio dropped the thick file on the table with a thud. “This could take awhile.”

  Bonilla saluted Silvio with the coffee cup. “Sorry you didn’t enjoy your dinner last night,” he said. “Probably don’t get top grade surf and turf very often on a cop’s salary, do you?”

  Silvio’s only reaction was the tiny pulse of a muscle in his jaw. “Let’s review the events of Sunday evening after the Pacific Grandeur docked here in Acapulco.”

  Emilia sat back to watch the show. Silvio was good as he led Bonilla down one line of questioning, then abruptly changed to another, waiting for Bonilla to stumble. But the ship’s purser stuck to his story while peppering his responses with snide comments about low police salaries and poor quality coffee.

  “So you were busy with duties related to the ship’s arrival until 10:00 pm that evening,” Silvio went back over the story again. “And were unaware that an intruder had boarded the ship and been murdered until the following morning.”

  “Again, yes.” Bonilla sipped at his cup.

  “Were you aware that the murder victim found aboard the Pacific Grandeur was a Honduran gang member?”

  Bonilla clicked his tongue. “Gang member. Dangerous occupation.”

  “Were you aware that this Honduran national was engaged in smuggling a relatively rare form of Colombian heroin known as Ora Ciega?”

  “Didn’t know him,” Bonilla said. He put the now-empty paper cup on the table and slouched in his chair. “If he hadn’t decided to find himself dead on my ship, I’d be on the beach enjoying a couple of cold cervezas and a little Mexican chiquita right now.”

  “With money from Ora Ciega,” Silvio said. “You, Ramos, and the Hondurans were bringing Ora Ciega on board. But as happens to so many partnerships in the drug business, you had an altercation.”

  Bonilla pinched his fingertips together to form a talking hand. “Great imagination. Just like television.”

  Emilia had to sit on her own hands before she punched him in the head. She knew that the only thing keeping Silvio from throwing Bonilla around like a wet sock was the fact that the interrogation was being heard and wat
ched. The old rooms were better, she decided. Confessions came much more quickly.

  Silvio took out the cold case file picture of the handgun and turned it to face Bonilla. “Your shipmate Edgar Ramos indicated that this weapon belongs to you.”

  Bonilla shrugged. “He’s mistaken.”

  “How could that be?”

  Emilia admired Silvio’s restraint as Bonilla shrugged. “Low blood sugar. We’re Americans. We need to eat at regular intervals. Not like you Mex. Go for days without eating to cross our border and get to the land of plenty.”

  Silvio took the picture back. “This is the weapon used to kill the Salva Diablo gang member aboard your ship.”

  “How clever of you to find it.” Bonilla leaned over the table, his face close to Silvio’s. “Tell me, Detective Silvio. How much money do you make a month? Two hundred? Three hundred dollars? Got something going on the side? I hear all cops in Mexico do.”

  Emilia had run into murderers with iron guts before. They either were sick enough to rationalize away their crime or they were convinced something—or someone—protected them. Bonilla seemed to be a little of each.

  “Who did you call early Monday morning?” Silvio asked, without moving. “About 1:00 am. Right after the gang member was shot on your ship.”

  Bonilla settled back into his seat. “My girlfriend.”

  “Why so late?”

  “Time difference,” Bonilla said. “She’s in New York.”

  “You called a Mexican cell phone,” Silvio said.

  “Hey.” Bonilla’s condescension showed its first crack. He’d made a mistake and he knew it. “You’ve had my cell phone for two hours now. Probably loaded it with all sorts of fake data.”

  “A call for help?” Emilia took over, her voice loaded with sympathy. “The Salva Diablo was a troublemaker, wasn’t he? Got himself aboard ship and confronted you. Probably had a gun, too, didn’t he?”