Casa de Plata looked just the same except for the yellow crime scene tape proclaiming PROHIBIDO EL PASO zigzagging across the massive front entrance. Emilia peeled it back on one side and unlocked the door.

The huge echoing foyer was the same as well. Emilia didn’t bother to turn on the chandelier. She wasn’t there to gaze upward.

The crime scene techs had come and gone but she combed the entire building, checking for door locks that looked to have been jimmied open and finding nothing. She even studied the balconies from all angles and concluded that the only way someone could have accessed a balcony from the outside would be to swing Tarzan-style over the razor-topped perimeter wall.

Each of the two ground floor apartments had a French door that opened to a patio running the full width of the rear of the building. In Casa de Plata’s heyday, the doors would have allowed for a beautiful view of gracious living. Now all that remained were paving stones choked with weeds, shards of half a dozen terracotta planters, and an abandoned wrought iron table slowly turning into a heap of rust.

She went back inside and unlocked the door to the apartment where Monica had been killed. She stood in the silent dining room. The crime scene techs had taken the armchair away, presumably for forensic study, but Emilia was more interested in the faint streaks it left on the terrazzo floor.

“You were sitting here,” Emilia muttered as she squatted by the chair. Dust motes swirled gently in the air, illuminated by sunlight filtered through the grimy windows. “Eating all sorts of different tapas. There must have been lots of small plates or takeout boxes.”

Certainly Monica had not been there by herself. No, someone else sat across from the woman, sharing an impromptu but elegant picnic complete with linens and champagne.

Until something spooked her. Monica pushed herself away from the table hard enough to leave skid marks on the floor. Raised her hands to ward off danger. The killer had faced her, with the table between them. Two shots, one through each hand.

She straightened up, looking at the clean tabletop and mute row of chairs on the other side. A tablecloth would have prevented fingerprints and made cleanup easy. No extra bullets that missed the target and hit the wall or chair. No wasted energy. The nerve to shoot a defenseless woman while staring straight at her.

“Her date was either lucky or a pro,” Emilia said, thinking aloud. “He shoots her. Takes her purse and cell phone, then gathers up the tablecloth with all the leftovers and walks out.”

Either way, the killer was someone Monica knew and trusted. Was comfortable eating and drinking with them.

But why here? Why Casa de Plata? Was there a federale angle to this? Lieutenant Campos rose up in her mind’s eye. He was slick and trendy. Not at all the somber federale officer of public imagination.

Help me.

An invisible hand touched Emilia’s cheek. She flinched so hard that her feet went out from under her.

Her hip hit the floor first, then her right shoulder. Emilia twisted to keep her head from cracking like an egg against the terrazzo. She was instantly dazzled by sparks of pain shooting from thigh to neck.

Her phone rang. Breathing hard, Emilia managed to roll onto her stomach and extract it from the back pocket of her jeans.

“Where the hell are you?” Silvio thundered. He didn’t wait for an answer. “Never mind. Meet me downtown. We found Monica Montoya’s car.”