Here’s another shocking moment from my work-in-progress, VIVA ACAPULCO: Detective Emilia Cruz Book 9.
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A dour man named Captain Lopez turned up at the squadroom that morning with orders to take over administrative duties so that Silvio could focus
on the Monica Montoya slaying. When last seen, Silvio was thrusting armloads of paper files at him, which meant Emilia went to the upscale apartment building on the eastern side of the bay by herself.
Everything about the place exuded a preening
sense of wealth and privilege, from the royal palms bordering the circular drive to the glass tables and white linen sofas in the lobby that no one would dare sit on, not with two uniformed concierges ready to leap out from behind their pale wood counter and tackle anyone foolish enough to try.
But they nodded politely when Emilia showed her badge. One uniform made a call to the Montoya apartment on the eighth floor to announce her.
Emilia found the elevator and punched the
button. As the glass capsule oozed up the side of the building and the inner courtyard below got smaller, she was suddenly seized with the feeling that the elevator’s transparent wall wasn’t really there. Lean forward and she’d spill into thin air, arms and legs windmilling in panic, just some estupida who was tricked into falling to her death before fixing all the things wrong with her life.
Cold sweat trickled down her spine as the elevator doors hissed open. Emilia gratefully stumbled into a space torn from the pages of the luxury magazines Kurt kept on the coffee table in his office. Stark white walls, another white linen sofa, and an abstract piece of black stone sculpture mounted on a slender brass
rod.
A middle-aged woman, expensively dressed in pale gray trousers and matching cashmere tunic hovered in the hallway beyond the sculpture. An apartment door was ajar behind her. “Are you from the police?” she asked.
“I’m Detective Cruz,” Emilia replied, wishing she’d worn something nicer than skinny jeans and black tee topped with a khaki cotton bomber jacket to hide her gun. “Are you Señora Vasquez de Montoya? Monica’s mother?”
“Yes.” The woman nervously fingered the chunky gemstone rings decorating both hands. Her hair was skillfully tinted auburn and her makeup highlighted stunning cheekbones and large eyes. “Is this about Monica? Is she all right? She didn’t come home last night.”
It took Emilia a beat to realize the woman had no idea that her daughter was dead. Or maybe denial was talking.
“Did you get a call from the mayor’s office last night?” Emilia asked. “Or did someone come to speak with you?”
“The mayor’s office?”
Señora Vasquez pursed her lips. “Do you mean Monica’s work?”
Emilia felt slightly sick and it had nothing to do with the stomach-churning elevator ride. Last night, Carlota had promised to inform the family that Monica was dead but of course did
nothing of the sort. Probably went back to her glamorous fundraiser and forgot all about her half-sister’s murder. Puta.
“Señora,” Emilia said gently and indicated the open apartment door. “I think it would be better if we talked
inside.”
~
Find the complete Detective Emilia Cruz series here.
