you should have told me first.”
Emilia sighed and
sagged onto the edge of the desk. “Sorry.”
Rico put his hand
on the doorknob and spoke with his back to Emilia. “When this is over, I don’t
know if we should be partners anymore.”
Emilia felt her
heart clench. “Don’t do this to me, Rico.”
He opened the door
and walked out.
Emilia sat behind el
teniente’ s desk and tried the drawers, just as Obregon had done. They were
still all locked except the file drawer at the bottom, which held sports
clothes and a pair of running shoes.
“Am I supposed to
help now, or what?” Castro said.
Emilia jerked up
to see Castro in the doorway, lanky in a rock band tee shirt and jeans. He had
a narrow Asian cast to his face and his jet black hair was pulled back in a
ponytail wrapped with a leather thong. Gomez hovered in back of him, gum
popping loudly, similarly dressed with a copycat ponytail, a stained Barcelona
team jersey and a scruffy beard that Emilia was sure he wore just to have more
testosterone on display than his partner.
“Beat it,” Silvio
said. He shoved both of them aside and came into the office. He slammed the
door and leaned against it with folded arms.
“So are you
fucking Obregon?” he asked.
“Sure,” Emilia
said tartly. “Just in case somebody offed el teniente and I wanted the
worst job in the world.”
“You been here two
years, Cruz,” Silvio snarled. “You don’t have the right to be in charge of
shit.”
“I didn’t exactly
apply for the job, Silvio.”
“I’m not taking
orders from you,” he said.
“Let’s work
together for once, Silvio,” Emilia said, trying to sound like Kurt Rucker on
the pier. “You know this is going to be a big deal. We can’t afford to mess it
up.”
“I never wanted a
woman detective in here.” Silvio was a big man and if he wanted to make her
feel trapped he was succeeding. “I’ll do everything I can to fuck you over
until you quit.”
Emilia couldn’t
help but laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
It wasn’t the
answer he’d expected and Silvio was momentarily lost for words.
Someone pounded on
the door. Silvio yanked it open. Castro stood outside. “Am I supposed to do the
office or not?”
Silvio stalked
into the squadroom. Emilia watched him grab up some papers on his desk and
leave. She wondered if he’d come back, if he’d set up the hotline and start the
murder board. Or was he on his way to tell a murderer that some fool chica was in charge of the investigation and he was going to sabotage her, make sure
she never found out anything.
Before she could
really focus on that thought Castro said something and homed in on a small
refrigerator in a corner, all but hidden by chairs on either side of it. He
shoved aside the seating and pulled open the door. Emilia heard the clink of
cans.
“You want a coca ?”
Castro held out a cold can of cola.
It felt strange to
take a dead man’s things but it was an unexpected offering. “Thanks,” Emilia
said. She popped the top. The soda was like heaven, cold and sweet and the
caffeine gave her a much-needed jolt of energy. “We’re going to have to call a
locksmith. All the desk drawers--.”
Castro took a long
drink from his own can, burped, set it down on the corner of the desk and
pulled out a small tool that looked like a combination between a pocketknife
and a screwdriver. In just a few minutes he’d opened all the desk drawers
except the top one. That had a different type of lock impervious to Castro’s
little tool.
“You gotta drill
that lock out,” he said as he pocketed the tool and slurped from his can of
cola. “That’s not a standard lock.
The desk drawers
yielded little of value; gum, a dirty mug, a couple of copies of El
Economista , the usual office supplies. There were some pictures of the Inocente
family, snapshots from a vacation to Disneyworld, and a color copy of their
maid’s identity card. The photo in CeCe Hoya Perez’s
Emilia sighed and
sagged onto the edge of the desk. “Sorry.”
Rico put his hand
on the doorknob and spoke with his back to Emilia. “When this is over, I don’t
know if we should be partners anymore.”
Emilia felt her
heart clench. “Don’t do this to me, Rico.”
He opened the door
and walked out.
Emilia sat behind el
teniente’ s desk and tried the drawers, just as Obregon had done. They were
still all locked except the file drawer at the bottom, which held sports
clothes and a pair of running shoes.
“Am I supposed to
help now, or what?” Castro said.
Emilia jerked up
to see Castro in the doorway, lanky in a rock band tee shirt and jeans. He had
a narrow Asian cast to his face and his jet black hair was pulled back in a
ponytail wrapped with a leather thong. Gomez hovered in back of him, gum
popping loudly, similarly dressed with a copycat ponytail, a stained Barcelona
team jersey and a scruffy beard that Emilia was sure he wore just to have more
testosterone on display than his partner.
“Beat it,” Silvio
said. He shoved both of them aside and came into the office. He slammed the
door and leaned against it with folded arms.
“So are you
fucking Obregon?” he asked.
“Sure,” Emilia
said tartly. “Just in case somebody offed el teniente and I wanted the
worst job in the world.”
“You been here two
years, Cruz,” Silvio snarled. “You don’t have the right to be in charge of
shit.”
“I didn’t exactly
apply for the job, Silvio.”
“I’m not taking
orders from you,” he said.
“Let’s work
together for once, Silvio,” Emilia said, trying to sound like Kurt Rucker on
the pier. “You know this is going to be a big deal. We can’t afford to mess it
up.”
“I never wanted a
woman detective in here.” Silvio was a big man and if he wanted to make her
feel trapped he was succeeding. “I’ll do everything I can to fuck you over
until you quit.”
Emilia couldn’t
help but laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she said.
It wasn’t the
answer he’d expected and Silvio was momentarily lost for words.
Someone pounded on
the door. Silvio yanked it open. Castro stood outside. “Am I supposed to do the
office or not?”
Silvio stalked
into the squadroom. Emilia watched him grab up some papers on his desk and
leave. She wondered if he’d come back, if he’d set up the hotline and start the
murder board. Or was he on his way to tell a murderer that some fool chica was in charge of the investigation and he was going to sabotage her, make sure
she never found out anything.
Before she could
really focus on that thought Castro said something and homed in on a small
refrigerator in a corner, all but hidden by chairs on either side of it. He
shoved aside the seating and pulled open the door. Emilia heard the clink of
cans.
“You want a coca ?”
Castro held out a cold can of cola.
It felt strange to
take a dead man’s things but it was an unexpected offering. “Thanks,” Emilia
said. She popped the top. The soda was like heaven, cold and sweet and the
caffeine gave her a much-needed jolt of energy. “We’re going to have to call a
locksmith. All the desk drawers--.”
Castro took a long
drink from his own can, burped, set it down on the corner of the desk and
pulled out a small tool that looked like a combination between a pocketknife
and a screwdriver. In just a few minutes he’d opened all the desk drawers
except the top one. That had a different type of lock impervious to Castro’s
little tool.
“You gotta drill
that lock out,” he said as he pocketed the tool and slurped from his can of
cola. “That’s not a standard lock.
The desk drawers
yielded little of value; gum, a dirty mug, a couple of copies of El
Economista , the usual office supplies. There were some pictures of the Inocente
family, snapshots from a vacation to Disneyworld, and a color copy of their
maid’s identity card. The photo in CeCe Hoya Perez’s
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