Cliff Diver (Detective Emilia Cruz Book 1) (4 page)

Chapter 4

The Suburban had
been dismantled and the money taken out. The body panels seemed to have been
replaced in a hurry. The rear fenders were hung at an awkward angle and the
doors were stuck. The shot-out rear window contributed to the look of an
abandoned wreck. Rico raised the hood and put in the new spark plug.

Emilia looked past
the vehicle to the bay. Kurt Rucker was in his hotel straight below where she
was standing. Maybe having his breakfast, his clothes cleaned and pressed by
the hotel staff. Maybe on the telephone in his office. He’d already forgotten
the terrifying moments when their hands were locked together on the steering
wheel. Forgotten telling her about working on a farm. Forgotten her.

The sound of
crying lifted on the warm salty breeze. Emilia walked back to the Suburban and
nearly had a stroke.

A small boy about
5 years old was huddled on the floor of the back seat, partially concealed by a
dirty blanket. Both of his hands were swathed in bloody bandages.

“Rico!” Emilia
shouted and somehow wrenched open the rear passenger door. The child cringed,
his face contorted in fear and pain.

Emilia eased
herself into the backseat and onto the floor next to him. Bits of glass were
everywhere. The child lifted his hands in their bloodstained bandages as if to
ward her off. Emilia realized with a jolt that his thumbs were missing. “It’s
all right,” she breathed. “I’m going to take you home.”

“
Rayos
.”
Rico leaned over the front seat. “It’s the child from Ixtapa. The kidnapping
from Ixtapa.”

The boy nodded and
his face crumpled. “I want to go home,” he sobbed.

Emilia pulled him
close. She rocked him as he cried, her own body shaking. “‘The small one cannot
wait long,’” she quoted to Rico.

☼

For the next two
weeks Emilia felt as if she was watching events from the other side of a
mirror. The child was from a wealthy family and the media trumpeted the rare
successful return of a kidnap victim, playing and replaying the story that the
police had received a tip from an anonymous informant and followed directions
to leave a car parked by the road. There was no mention of counterfeit money or
the Hudsons or the late Alejandro Ruiz Garcia. For their protection, as was standard
procedure, neither Emilia nor Rico were identified in the press. Lt. Inocente
had accepted the same story the morning they’d brought in the child. He signed
a requisition to tow the Suburban back to the impound yard without comment.

Emilia spoke to Kurt
once. A call to tell him about the kidnapping. She’d stammered through an
account of finding the child, Kurt’s voice making her feel unaccountably
foolish and unsettled, then abruptly ended the conversation.

She didn’t have
much to say, anyway. There was no follow-up to the kidnapping; she and Rico had
been told in no uncertain terms that the case belonged to Ixtapa, not to
Acapulco and that they would not be investigating. The Ruiz murder
investigation had dropped to the bottom of Lt. Inocente’s list. Emilia and Rico
had tried to find out which army sergeant was supposed to have worked the
Palacio Réal
privada
the night Ruiz’s head had been found but they met
with a brick wall. None of the fake money turned up.

The lull in work
let her reopen the black binder she kept in a desk drawer. She’d been compiling
a scrapbook of
las perdidas
—the lost--for several years. The binder held
52 names, women from the area whose lives had been reduced to a grainy photo
and a sketchy biography. Most of their stories were sadly similar; young women
from the poorest
barrios,
prostitutes, low-wage earners with little
education. Some had been reported as missing to the police but more often
Emilia found them in advertisements that their families or a women’s charity
had placed in the newspaper. When she could, Emilia combed news reports and the
official records that were available to her in the hopes of finding out what
had happened to them. Most had no official record or had ever been
fingerprinted. In two years Emilia had resolved only one
perdida
; a
woman who’d been found beaten to death. Her killer was unknown.

Things had settled
down at home, too. Ernesto Cruz had stayed for a day and then disappeared. When
Emilia asked where he’d gone, Sophia replied “To work.” She wasn’t upset and
Emilia assumed the strange episode was over.  

On Tuesday Lt.
Inocente announced a rare morning meeting of all the detectives. They stood in
a knot in the middle of the squadroom, joking in low voices as they waited for
el
teniente
to come out of his office and tell them why he’d called the
meeting. Emilia talked with those few who’d gotten used to having her around.

Lt. Inocente
walked out of his office and the detectives fell silent.
El teniente
held up a clipboard, his usual weapon of choice. “I have a letter here to
read.”

He cleared his
throat and peered at the clipboard. “‘This letter of commendation goes to
Detectives Ricardo Portillo and Emilia Cruz Encinos for the recovery of
Bernardo Estragon Morelos de Gama. The child was rescued by the detectives from
unknown kidnapers and will make a full recovery from his ordeal. Although we
have asked for privacy from the media and well-wishers, the Morelos de Gama
family extends heartfelt gratitude and this reward to these two outstanding
Acapulco detectives.’”

The detectives
applauded. Emilia couldn’t help smiling as Lt. Inocente handed her an envelope.
Rico’s face bloomed into a huge grin as he accepted his own.

There were
congratulations all around and some beers to share before the squadroom settled
down and the rest of the day went on. Rico locked his envelope in his desk
drawer and Emilia did the same; less important items than cold cash frequently
disappeared from the squadroom.

Emilia spent the
rest of the morning wondering how much money was in the envelope. It was
strange to think of getting a reward from someone who’d paid counterfeit money
to ransom their own child. Still, she would buy a new dress, even if she only
wore it to church. Some fancy shoes that would remind her that she was still
female. An appointment at a hair salon with her mother, maybe convince Sophia
to cut some off. Rico winked at her and Emilia realized she’d been daydreaming
in front of her computer.

At noon Lt.
Inocente dropped the keys to Kurt Rucker’s SUV on her desk. “Call him and tell
him to pick it up today. The paperwork’s ready.”
El teniente’s
gaze
included both Emilia and Rico. “That anonymous tip paid off. You should open
the reward.”

He’d said it like
an order. Both Emilia and Rico unlocked their drawers and took out envelopes.
Emilia opened hers and saw five hundred very familiar
Estados Unidos
dollars with small images of a
norteamericano
president.

Her heart beat so
fast that for a moment her vision blurred.

“Congratulations,”
el teniente
said.

“Thank you,” she
said.

Rico’s face set in
a blank smile. Lt. Inocente nodded at both of them and went into his office.

Without changing
expression, Rico stared at Emilia until his meaning was clear. She made a
conscious effort to relax her face muscles and breathe. Rico finally gave a
barely imperceptible nod and replaced his money in the drawer.

Emilia put her
money in her pocket, got out Kurt’s business card and left a message with the
hotel that he should pick up his car at the police station.

He came a few
hours later. Two weeks hadn’t changed him, although this time he was wearing
jeans and a black polo shirt, his arms more tanned and muscular than she
remembered.

“You need to sign
some paperwork,” Emilia said before Kurt even had a chance to say hello. She
stood up with his keys in her hand. “Please follow me.”

She felt Rico’s
eyes on her as she led Kurt out of the squadroom and down the hallway. They
went past the holding cell guards and Emilia smiled and shot the guards with
her thumb and forefinger. At the impound counter she asked the secretary for
the paperwork. They waited, Emilia painfully aware of Kurt beside her. The
secretary finished her cigarette, lounged over to a file cabinet, licked her
fingers and pulled a file out of a drawer. She studied the contents as if she’d
never seen a typed form before. Eventually she replaced the file in the drawer,
licked her fingers again and found another.

His was the fourth
one. The secretary thumbed through it, left it on her desk, and disappeared
through a doorway into an interior office.

“Probably hasn’t
worked here long,” Kurt observed. It was the only thing he’d said since coming.

“Sixteen years,”
Emilia said.

The secretary came
back holding a light blue plastic bucket with a metal handle and a red handgrip,
one of millions sold in
mercados
across Mexico. She thrust it at Kurt
along with the paperwork to sign. “You’re to take this,” she said.

Emilia felt the
message like a physical blow. Kurt signed the paperwork. It was duly stamped
with the authority of the police, the city of Acapulco, the police officers’
union, the state of Guerrero, and the self-importance of the secretary. Finally
everything was in order and Kurt was handed the holy form giving him permission
to take his car off police property. He took the bucket as well.

Emilia pushed open
the door to the impound yard. The late afternoon heat pressed against the rows
of cars. The yard appeared deserted. Kurt stopped walking and turned to Emilia.

Before he could
say anything she handed him the reward.

He put down the
bucket and opened the envelope. Emilia saw surprise cross his face at the sight
of the bills. “Where’d you get this?” he asked.

“From
el
teniente
.” Emilia heard the bitterness in her voice. “Our reward for solving
the kidnapping of that poor child.”

“He called off the
army that night, didn’t he?” Kurt asked. “He’s a dirty cop, Emilia. He might
have been the kidnapper.”

“If he did, he got
paid in counterfeit,” Emilia said. “Just like this reward.”

“You have to
report your lieutenant.” He shoved the money back into the envelope.

“Report him?”
Emilia laughed, a short bark that sounded more like a sob. “Who would I report
him to? The army officers he paid off? The chief of police who chose him for
the job? The union official who gets a take? Which of them would protect me?”

“They can’t all be
dirty,” Kurt said and handed back the envelope.

“I’m the one
holding the fake money,” Emilia snapped and jammed the envelope into the back
pocket of her jeans. “The
chica
detective nobody wanted in the first
place.”

Kurt stared at her
as the truth sank in. “There’s got to be something.”

“It’ll be like it
always is,” Emilia said harshly. “A few clean cops, a few dirty ones. Some get
rich and some get dead and you hope the cartels don’t win in the end.”

Kurt touched her
cheek. “Are you scared?”

Emilia shrugged,
her throat tight.

“Don’t go anywhere
alone with that lieutenant, Emilia,” Kurt said. “He’s playing a dangerous game.
You don’t know who he’s in with.”

“I’ll do my job.”

“Have dinner with
me,” Kurt said. “Come down to the hotel and we’ll sit by the beach. We’ll
figure something out.”

The sun was low in
the sky, sending streaks of silver light across the roofs of the parked cars.
Emilia tried to imagine herself explaining a relationship with this
gringo
man to her mother. To Rico. To her cousins.

“There’s nothing
to figure out,” she said, forcing the words out. “It’s like they always say.
‘Poor Mexico. So far from God, so close to
los Estados Unidos
.’”

There was a
movement at the open door to the shed by the impound yard gate. A uniformed cop
came out and stood where he could see them.

Kurt looked
around. Emilia followed his gaze to his green SUV in the second row of
vehicles. He looked back at her. “I guess I should go.”

Emilia nodded.

Kurt nodded back.
Neither moved to shake hands.

“Goodbye,” Emilia
said.

Kurt turned and
walked away. Emilia watched him go. As he passed between the rows of cars, the
light blue plastic bucket dangled from his fingertips.

She went back
inside and into the women’s public restroom. The latch on the door of the
farthest stall was blurry as she struggled to lock it.

Emilia gulped air
and yanked the envelope out of her pocket. She would rip those
maldita
bills unto bits, flush them down the toilet, and deny she’d ever seen them.

She opened the
envelope and her tears gave way to an unexpected gasp of laughter.

Alongside the
counterfeit money was a fancy laminated coupon for a free drink at the Palacio
Réal’s Pasodoble Bar.

☼

Late that
afternoon Lt. Inocente came into the bathroom again. Like before he didn’t say
a word, just peed into the urinal and watched in the mirror as Emilia used the
toilet paper and hauled up her jeans. She ignored him as she tucked the toilet
paper roll under her arm, marched over to the sink, washed her hands and left
the bathroom with her head held high.

It was at least 15
minutes before Lt. Inocente crossed the squadroom and went into his office
looking as if nothing had happened.

Chapter 5

New assignments
for the detective unit came in as messages from the police dispatcher. They
were recorded on a form that Lt. Inocente always attached to a clipboard and
kept in his office. During the day he’d hand out assignments as he saw fit. The
best cases invariably went to Gomez and Castro or Macias and Sandor. Emilia and
Rico got the fewest and the least complicated.

The day after Kurt
picked up his car Silvio handed out the new assignments instead of Lt.
Inocente.
El teniente’s
office door was closed.

“You two are
free.” Silvio rested his hip against the edge of Emilia’s desk, bumping her
nameplate. The most senior detective was a dense hardbodied man in his early
forties with hooded eyes, a perpetual scowl, and a gray crew cut. A blunt nose
and scar tissue around his eyes betrayed his early youth as a heavyweight
boxer. Emilia had heard that Silvio ran a gambling ring on the side but people
were generally close-mouthed about it; Silvio inspired fear and Emilia wasn’t
totally immune. Silvio’s partner was Fuentes, the newest detective and a
college boy. Silvio’s previous partner had been killed shortly before Emilia
had joined the squad. Wisps of rumors floated around but mostly nobody talked
about what had happened. Not even Rico.

“We’re still on
the Ruiz murder case.” Rico came around his desk to stand by Emilia.

“And probably ten
others.” Silvio pulled a dispatch form off the clipboard. “You know where the
Palacio Réal hotel is, right? Powerboat found drifting off the hotel beach.”

“A boat?” Rico
snatched up the form. “What do we look like, a couple of fucking lifeguards?”

“Hotel chef called
it in. Said there was blood on the side of the boat.” Silvio pushed himself off
Emilia’s desk. “Water Patrol’s been notified. They’ll meet you there.”

He walked over to
Castro and Gomez, consulting the clipboard as he went. Rico glared at Emilia. “
Madre
de Dios
,” he hissed. “If this is a set up so you can--.”

“Shut up,” Emilia
mouthed. She plucked the dispatch form out of Rico’s hand. There it was.
Palacio
Réal Hotel, Punta Diamante.
She didn’t know whether to laugh with happiness
or tell Rico she was sick and he should go without her.

Rico threw on his
leather jacket. Emilia unlocked her desk drawer, took out her shoulder bag and
led the way out of the squadroom.

☼

As Emilia watched,
the Water Patrol boat nosed in next to the sleek maroon speedboat. A Patrol
officer threw a line over the side of the drifting craft and pulled the two
boats together. Another officer clambered over and dropped onto the deck of the
speedboat. Both hulls pitched with the motion. The air was a mix of motor oil
and sea salt. Seagulls screeched overhead as they wheeled over the rolling
water.

The Water Patrol
supervisor was standing next to Emilia and she gave a start when the radio in
his hand crackled to life. The words were clear over the static. “Got a body.
Male. Pretty bloody.”

“I’ll call it in,”
Rico said. “We’ll need the crime scene guys.”

Emilia nodded and
he turned away to make the call.

From their vantage
point on the Palacio Réal’s private pier, along with a half dozen hotel
employees and a few guests, they watched the little drama of the two boats play
out in the relatively shallow water. The hotel’s fleet of boats, as pristine as
the rest of the place, rode gently at anchor in a marina formed by an extension
of the pier on one side. This hotel, Emilia knew, in addition to all the other
amenities, offered private water activities including boating parties, water
skiing lessons, and water safaris and intimate picnics on a private small
island that the hotel owned. As if that wasn’t enough, a huge floating platform
within swimming distance of the beach was big enough for deck chairs and a fire
pit.

A curved stone
path led from the hotel to the beach with a branch leading off to the pier. The
path was bordered by tiki torches that were probably lit at sunset. A few
guests lounged on the white sand already, laughing and flirting. They all
looked like honeymooners to Emilia.

Three hundred
yards behind them, the hotel rose in tiers along the cliff, the various levels
connected by wide stone stairs. Every level was an architectural marvel ablaze
in blooming foliage; bougainvillea and climbing jasmine and espaliered citrus
trees softened the stone and filled the air with fragrance. Expensively modern
minimalist chaise lounges and dining tables were nearly hidden by low stone
walls and giant pots of more blooming plants.

The lowest level
boasted an enormous pool, and several restaurants, one of which jutted out into
the bay and was covered with canvas sails so that it resembled a Spanish
galleon. There were two more pools on the next level up, both of which were
smaller and more secluded. That was the lobby level; from where Emilia stood
she could just make out the grand piano she’d glimpsed from the other side a
few weeks ago. The building flowed upwards for another six stories. From any
location on the cliffside the view of Punta Diamante was breathtaking.

“Crime scene techs
are on the way,” Rico said.

Emilia nodded and
turned to face the ocean again. “Okay.”

“No coroner. Like
usual.” Rico followed her gaze out to the two boats rocking in the waves.
“What’s taking them so long?”

Emilia shrugged.
If she kept staring at the boats she wouldn’t stare at Kurt Rucker. He was on
the pier, too, in another crisp ensemble of white dress shirt and khaki pants.
His shirt cuffs were turned back, just enough for Emilia to see tanned forearms
and an expensive watch. The hotel’s executive chef was with him, a dark-haired
Frenchman named Jacques Anatole.

The circumstances
made it easy to be all business. They’d said hello and then Kurt had explained
quickly that he and Anatole often started the day with a swim. That morning
they’d seen the boat bobbing in the distance and just assumed someone from one
of the neighboring properties was out early. They raced each other around the
swimmer’s platform and as they came abreast of the speedboat they both saw the
blood and realized that it was adrift. Once they were back on shore Anatole had
called the emergency number.

As Rico asked
questions, Emilia had taken notes. As usual when there was a serious crime she
started a timeline. In this case, the boat was discovered about 8:00 am, just
an hour ago.

The officer in the
speedboat gestured to the officers still in the Patrol craft. There was an
apparent difference of opinion. The Patrol supervisor’s radio squawked and he
joined the argument. Rico pulled out his cell phone. Emilia studied her
notebook and didn’t look at Kurt.

The crime scene technicians
arrived and set down their equipment. They joined Emilia and Rico and watched
as the Patrol craft revved its engine and maneuvered ahead of the speedboat.
The line keeping the two boats together straightened and the prow of the boat
lifted. The two-boat procession slowly churned through the water.

The speedboat
finally bumped against the Palacio Réal pier. Patrol officers tied it up next
to the hotel fleet.

The two crime
scene technicians cordoned off the area then hauled on latex gloves. Rico plucked
some out of a box and handed a pair to Emilia.

“One dead. Male.”
the Patrol officer called as he climbed out of the boat. “Bad. Like Santa
Muerte got him.”

The Patrol officer
strode over to Emilia, Rico and the two crime scene technicians. He looked at
Emilia and clicked his teeth as some sort of signal that he expected to see a
woman’s admiration for his uniform and daring boat-hopping maneuver. Water
Patrol was Acapulco’s coast guard, charged with ensuring water safety and the
Patrol officers had no arrest or law enforcement authority. Emilia fingered the
badge dangling from its lanyard around her neck and suppressed a grin at his
confusion.

“Well,” he said
but quickly regained his cockiness. “Water Patrol’s brought in the boat. Over
to you all.”

“Thanks,” Rico
said. “We’ll let you know.” The two men exchanged numbers and the Patrol
officer stalked off. Rico dangled the Patrol card at Emilia. “Make him
jealous,” he said with a jerk of his chin at Kurt.

“Give it a rest,
Rico,” Emilia murmured.

The lead crime
scene technician was the same man who’d examined Ruiz’s head. He climbed into
the maroon boat, hauling himself in his shapeless yellow crime scene suit up
the small ladder and over the side while juggling his toolbox. He set down his
toolbox, took out a camera, and snapped off a dozen pictures of blood smears
near the handrail. The camera still clicking, he moved across the deck and went
into the small cabin.

“Body,” Emilia
heard him call through the open door. From where she was standing on the pier,
she couldn’t see him. The snap of the camera went on for a few minutes. When
the technician came out of the cabin he leaned over the side to talk to those
on the pier. “Okay, that’s it for the pictures. We’ll dust for prints.”

A small crowd of
hotel employees in their distinctive uniforms and guests in their bathing suits
had gathered on the pier behind the police presence. One couple, holding hands
like honeymooners, trailed behind two men in board shorts and starched Palacio
Réal tee shirts carrying a heavy cooler.

Emilia watched as
Kurt spread his arms in an inclusive gesture. “Sorry, folks,” he said with a
friendly smile. The confidence he wore like a second skin projected both calm
and authority. “We’ve had a little excitement here and we need to keep this
area clear. Let’s move back to the beach or the hotel.”

“But we’ve booked
the water safari,” the honeymoon lady squealed. She was wearing a long striped
dress, a ropy necklace and a broad-brimmed hat. Emilia wondered how fast she
could run in that getup.

“Our marina isn’t
available right now,” Kurt said smoothly. The woman made more squealing noises
while her husband huffed. Emilia heard Kurt’s voice rise a little but it never
lost its pleasant we-are-working-together tone. “I understand how upsetting it
is to have your plans turned upside down.”

There was a bout
of unhappy chatter but instead of being drawn in Kurt turned to one of the
hotel employees standing nearby. “Christine, could we change the Lambert’s day
safari into an evening dinner cruise?”

“I’m sure that
would be possible,” Christine answered. She was around Emilia’s age, with
blonde hair a shade darker than Kurt’s and an unidentifiable European accent.
Her printed hotel uniform was well tailored, showing off a slim figure and long
legs. She stood closer to Kurt than necessary.

“If that is
acceptable, Christine can take you up to the Lookout Level for a private
breakfast.” He smiled at the couple.

The honeymooners’
attitude evaporated and they left with Christine. Kurt said something indistinguishable
to the cooler-bearers which made them grin as they hauled it back up the path
to the hotel.

The rest of the
employees and guests were swiftly but easily moved off the pier. Emilia heard
snatches of conversation about “breakfast” and “champagne.”

Kurt walked over
to Emilia. “Jacques and I will be in the hotel if you need anything else from
us.”

Rico pulled on a
latex glove with a snap. His round face was sweaty from sun and stress.  “Acapulco
getting kind of hot for you these days, eh, Rucker?”

“Nice to see you
again, Detective Portillo,” Kurt said. “Detective Cruz.” He nodded to Emilia
and left the pier. Annoyed with herself for standing there like a lump and not
saying anything, Emilia wrestled on the latex gloves Rico had passed to her
even as she surreptitiously watched Kurt walk away. He moved like an athlete,
with a loose, easy stride. Despite the hot sun, his shirt was crisp. There were
no sweat marks under the arms or down his back.

The lead crime
scene technician stowed his camera as his partner finished gathering
fingerprints. Rico climbed over the side of the speedboat first, grunting with
the effort. Emilia followed.

As she balanced on
the shifting deck, Rico pointed out the blood spatters that led from the
gunwale to the cabin door and Emilia nodded in acknowledgment. The techs were
in the cabin and the door was open.

A man’s body was
sprawled face down on the floor of the cabin, near the controls of the boat.
The head was completely covered by a beige plastic bag, the kind with red
printing on it from a popular grocery store. The bag was knotted around the
corpse’s neck and from the way the bag lay it was clear that the head inside
was not the usual rounded shape.

The body wore good
quality jeans and a white knit short sleeved shirt. The shirt fabric had soaked
up so much blood that the collar and shoulders were a mottled rust color. A
heavy black flashlight rolled gently near the head. The scent of fecal matter
mixed with the coppery smell of old blood.

“Where’s all the
blood from?” Emilia asked. “Was he shot?”

“All from
whatever’s under this bag.” The lead technician nudged the misshapen plastic
bag with a gloved finger. “Let’s turn him. See what we got.”

The body was already
stiff and it took all four of them to roll it over as the boat deck heaved
under them. It settled into the new position with a thump that made the boat
rock violently. Emilia grabbed a handrail to stay on her feet.

The front of the
body was almost pristine, albeit damp from seawater. Most of the polo shirt was
still white. The designer jeans were creased down the front of the legs and
buttoned at the waist but not zipped. Clean but rumpled white underwear showed
through the zipper opening. The feet were shod in expensive leather deck shoes
without socks.