“Inspector, can we take a groupfie with you? Maybe in semi-profile? Your bun looks amazing.”
“Sorry, I’m on duty,” Tuason said and went back to the body, even as Charlene the selfie lady was preparing to take a shot.
“Where is he?” The woman had a cultured voice and moved like someone used to the spotlight. Her toned arms were showcased by a sleeveless shift dress in red that hugged her body in just the right places. It was the body of someone who regarded working out as a religion. She twisted a lace handkerchief in her hands. “Henry Villa. My husband. Where is he?”
The personnel in Station 13 whispered among themselves. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she was some sort of celebrity. There were so many of them in Kyusi, a city which prided itself as being the entertainment capital of the country.
The personnel in Station 13 whispered among themselves. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she was some sort of celebrity. There were so many of them in Kyusi, a city which prided itself as being the entertainment capital of the country.
“We’ll know more after an autopsy,” Tuason said.
Mrs. Villa started crying some more. “But he was such a sweet man.”
Tuason and Rios kept quiet. They knew that victims, even the nasty ones, were usually described more fondly in death. After a few minutes, Mrs. Villa finally consented to an autopsy.
The banana cue vendor delivered the piping hot sweets-on-a-stick early in the afternoon as usual. Station 13 was her first stop. The station was nicknamed Lakeview although there were no bodies of water in sight, because years ago, during Typhoon Ondoy, the surrounding areas were unexpectedly inundated by floodwater. It was spared because it sat on a low hill. Tuason bought an extra banana cue for Joshua Rios, choosing the one with the thickest caramelized sugar coating.
“Anything?” she asked, handing him the banana cue. He looked up from his notes. “You’re right. Victim was involved in a pyramiding scam a couple of years ago. He used to be a hotshot fund manager. After the scandal, he and his wife dropped the ‘Campos’ from their names. As if that would make people forget. Maybe one of his victims tracked him down. He also loves to gamble.”
Tuason bit off a banana and looked at Joshua as she chewed.
“She used to be overweight, you know.”
“Obesity’s not a crime,” Tuason said, waving her banana cue to urge him on.
“She used to be a housewife, then she went on this diet and exercise regime, and lost weight. She started to blog about it, and developed a following. She later self-published a book on her weight loss program, and became popular. And get this—she has now styled herself as a motivational giving talks on marriage. Dispensing tips on how to keep the love alive in a marriage and all that. So, from being a weight- loss guru, she had branched out as a marriage counselor.” He widened his eyes as if to say, “Wow!”
Tuason crinkled her nose. “Remember, it’s always those family values people who turn out to have none.” She aimed her banana cue stick at the trashcan, and tossed it there, where it landed dead center.
“But you see,” Joshua said, “Mrs. Villa was out of town when her husband was killed. She was in Batangas for a talk. That’s why she was able to come here only after lunch.”
Traffic on East Avenue moved with the speed of molasses. Tuason gripped the steering wheel in a stranglehold, as though it would make the traffic move faster. By the stoplight at the intersection of East Avenue and EDSA, a street urchin ran to Tuason’s ten-year-old Sentra and started wiping the driver’s window with a filthy rag. Tuason knocked on the window to make her stop, but the child continued with her zombie-like motions.
Tuason leaned to her left and took something from the door pocket. Joshua stole a sidelong glance at Tuason the neat freak, as if fearing for the child’s fate.
Tuason rolled down the driver’s window and handed a packet of Skyflakes crackers to the child. Surprise flickered on the little girl’s face. In a flash, a group of children descended upon the Sentra. Tuason picked out the oldest-looking child and handed her the rest of the crackers. “Here, take charge of distributing.” The light turned green.
“Don’t tell a soul about this,” Tuason glanced briefly at Joshua, then turned left to EDSA.
He peered at her, as if wondering why she wanted to appear tougher than tough.
Finally, Tuason and Joshua arrived at Henry Villa’s office located in one of the old buildings near the Farmers Market in Cubao. There were only two clerks and a secretary in the small room. It seemed Henry had not yet fully recovered from the pyramiding fiasco. The smell of rotting vegetables permeated the office. The aircon must be as old as the building. The staff did not look like financial geniuses. They gave off the vibe of second-rate conmen-in-training.
“Is it true about Henry…Mr. Villa?” The secretary, Alicia asked. Her make-up could not hide the puffiness of her red-rimmed eyes.
They nodded.
Alicia paused from arranging files in carton boxes and fidgeted with her short skirt. She had shapely legs. When asked if she had noticed anything different, any suspicious calls, she said everything was normal.
“Are those papers from the pyramiding scam?” Tuason asked.
“That’s another company. Henry . . . Mr. Villa is no longer with that company.”
“Yes, but he recruited so many to the pyramiding. And now, he’s at it again.” Tuason waved at the two staff members busy working their phones. “Victims must be mad.”
“No, nothing unusual,” Alicia insisted. Heavy bosoms heaving, she looked down on the box.
“What about his gambling debts?”
Her head snapped up. “I know nothing about debts.”
The back of Tuason’s ears tingled. Some detectives have bullshit meters in their guts, Tuason had hers in her ears. She puffed her cheeks, then exhaled. “We’ll need office records and Mr. Villa’s planner.”
“I’m not sure I should give them to you without a warrant.”
She’s smarter than she looks, thought Tuason. She shifted her eyes to the two other employees. One was talking earnestly on the phone, the other answering Joshua’s questions. She doubted they would be of more help than the secretary.
As they walked out of Henry’s office, Joshua said, “If only we had those tools they have in the States, we could easily look into his finances and gambling debts.”
“Again with those American TV cop shows,” Tuason said.
“Just saying, you know. Anyway, why don’t you watch cop shows?”
“Why should I? We’re up to our necks in crime all day, some nights too.”
“So what TV shows do you watch?”
“I don’t watch TV.”
Before Joshua could say anything, Tuason said, “I think they’re having an affair.” She shook her head “And there’s something about her. She’s hiding something.”
The walls and floors of the hotel casino shone bright, making it seem like a world apart indeed from the dust and grime of Manila. From the gleaming hotel lobby, only the smoke- tinged air hinted at the heavy gambling going on in the premises.
So, this is how the other half gambles, Tuason thought, recalling the seedy gambling den her father used to frequent. She had lost count of the number of times that she and her mother had gone to that place to beg him to come home before he lost what little he earned driving a tricycle.
Tuason and Joshua had replaced their police uniforms with civilian clothes to blend in with the casino’s clientele. Joshua was in a beige polo shirt and denim pants. Tuason wore slacks and a short-sleeved chiffon blouse, but what transformed her look was her hair. She had let it fall in gentle curls, softening her face. For all her knack at keen observation, she seemed unaware that in the right light, she looked alluring.
Chief Inspector Michael Christopher “Mac” Maquera, “Big Mac” to his people, had grudgingly authorized this foray into Manila. But he drew the line at giving them show money for the tables. He said he only let them go as civilian
s so as not to raise any concerns about the casino’s operation and avoid a turf conflict with Manila Police. Joshua offered to front the show money. Big Mac raised his eyebrow, but shrugged as if remembering that Joshua was an army colonel’s son who still lived with his parents, so he must have extra money. Then he went back to his half-eaten burger.
Tuason and Joshua walked around the gaming tables. Joshua looked intently at a man hovering by the blackjack table, who seemed to be waiting on a beefy man with a pile of chips. The hovering man was about Joshua’s age, but with a full head of hair neatly groomed, and a slender body. Their eyes met and there was mutual recognition, as if tumblers in a lock were falling to place.
“Joshua,” the hovering man said, grinning.
“Andy,” Joshua approached him. They slapped each other’s shoulders, then shook hands vigorously. “Long time. When was it, high school graduation? How have you been?”
“Well, so-so. Dropped out after two years of college.”
“Oh, you seem to be doing well,” Joshua said, eyeing Andy’s Lacoste shirt and Omega watch. Then remembering that he was with Tuason, he said, “Oh, my partner,” gesturing to her.
“You’re married?”
“No!” Then Joshua steered them away from the tables. Lowering his voice, he said, “I’m with the police, and this is my partner, Inspector Tuason.”
“You’re not going to raid this joint, are you?” Andy chuckled.
“We’re just here for some info. Do you come here often?”
Andy smiled. It turned out that he was a “runner”, someone who looks after gamblers who they called players, fetching cigarettes, exchanging chips, and similar errands. He was employed by a financier, someone who lends money to players. Most of the older financiers required collaterals like jewelry, cars or land titles. Some of the players were down and out, on a losing streak, others were wealthy people who had not brought enough cash, but just needed an overnight loan. Andy’s employer was his aunt, an old woman whose hair was dyed an unfortunate red.
“The new financiers are cutthroat,” Andy said with a smirk. “They charge lower interest to lure players away from their old financiers, then jack up the rate once the player had switched to them. They don’t require collaterals, but they have muscle, you know. Aside from runners, they have bodyguards.”
“Have you seen this man around here?” Joshua showed him Henry Villa’s picture.
Andy’s face darkened. “Henry. He used to be our player. Now he’s Aldo’s.” He puckered his lips and pointed to an overweight man flanked by two bodyguards. A voluptuous woman sat beside him.
Andy looked at Joshua. “Eh, you noticed her too. Henry and Aldo have the same taste in women. Maybe that’s why Henry and Alicia have been arguing so much lately.” Tuason and Joshua exchanged glances. Andy had not seemed to notice. He continued, “Henry said Alicia brought him bad luck because of her nagging.” He shook his head. “You know how superstitious gamblers are. Sometimes, when they are on a winning streak, they keep using their winning shirt over and over. Unwashed.” He wrinkled his nose.
“You still close to Henry?” Tuason asked.
Andy shrugged. “He still tips me once in a while. I haven’t seen him in days, though. Last time we talked, he told me he wanted to return to my aunt, but you don’t switch away from someone like Aldo.”
Andy’s aunt glared at him from a distance and pointed her lips towards the beefy player.
“See you around, pare,” he tapped Joshua’s shoulder, nodded to Tuason and sauntered back to his player.
Tuason and Joshua continued to discreetly ask around. A number of the men they interviewed were very accommodating, seemingly drawn to Tuason. Gamblers believed that beautiful women brought good luck. They all confirmed the information from Andy. Aldo was seated at a table near the corner of the coffee shop. His pasted-on smile brightened a bit when he saw Tuason and Joshua approaching, perhaps sensing new clients. It melted when they showed him their badges. He took a long drag on his cigarette, then blew it at the detectives. “We’re covered,” he said dismissively.
“We’re here about Henry Villa.” Tuason fought the urge to cough from second hand smoke. There was no way she was giving this man the satisfaction.
A blank look settled on Aldo’s face.
“Come on, we know you’re his financier,” Tuason sounded reasonable even to herself.
“Last I checked, lending a helping hand to someone in need is not against the law.”
“But murder is.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Henry was stabbed to death in Quezon Memorial. We have witnesses who said you were threatening him last Friday night.”
“Okay, okay. So we argued. But he was insisting on new loans, when he refused to pay even just his outstanding interest, so I said no. Then he got upset.” He ground his cigarette on a crystal ashtray automatically proffered by one of the bodyguards.
“That’s not what we heard. Witnesses said you were the one who was pretty upset. And you have a reputation for setting your goons after delinquents.”
“Look, detectives. I have to be firm with my players. Otherwise, they’ll take advantage of me. Those gamblers will sell their children, or their parents for chips, you know. My people,” he motioned to his bodyguards, “they give maybe a black eye here, a bruise there, to keep them in line. But hey, nothing more. I want to get paid. If a player dies, how will I ever get paid? Take Henry. Now you’re saying he’s dead. So who will pay his loans?”
“Where were you last Saturday morning between 8 and 10?” Tuason addressed the two bodyguards.
They looked at Aldo, then in unison said, “Sleeping at home.”
“Almost everybody here does that. Right, Belle?” Aldo squeezed the thigh of the voluptuous woman, then licked his lips.
Tuason and Joshua turned to leave.
“Just a bonus, free of charge, and all that. Why don’t you question that big-boobed woman with the long legs that he brings with him to the casino? They’ve been arguing a lot lately.”
The voluptuous woman beside Aldo excused herself.
Joshua followed her to the bar.
Tuason wondered if Mrs. Villa’s fans knew about her husband’s gambling habit. Or his paramour. How would things like that fall into her “Having it All” tagline? Then she thought, any inspirational speaker worth her fee could easily spin anything to her favor. On the way out of the casino, she saw the profile of a man with acne-ravaged skin. He turned and their eyes locked for a second before the man hurried in. Tuason felt her face becoming hot. She could have sworn that she knew that face from somewhere.
The office of Mrs. Villa, located in Eastwood, was near the new mall and within walking distance of fancy condominium buildings and the Padre Pio Shrine. It was more well appointed than Henry’s sad little set-up. Even the staff looked more alert. And weren’t they just marketing feel-good seminars and self-help books
When Mrs. Villa saw the two detectives, her eyes watered. She dabbed her eyes with a gray handkerchief. She looked every bit the grieving widow in her charcoal suit dress.
“Oh no,” Tuason grumbled under her breath. “Not another crying scene.”
Joshua smiled warmly at Mrs. Villa, giving no indication that he had heard his partner.
“Any new developments, detectives?” She sounded hopeful and fearful at the same time.
“We just need to clarify a few things.” Tuason said. “What can you tell us about the pyramiding scam?”
The widow closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Henry was wrongly accused. It’s the owner who did all those things. Oh, poor Henry.” Her voice was modulated with hints of sorrow and fear. She opened her desk drawer with trembling hands.
“They know where we live.” Her voice cracked. She handed Tuason several envelopes. Tuason hid her surprise by shifting her attention to the envelopes and the pieces of paper inside. They all had more or less the same message: Payback Time for Scammers. Or, Scamm
ers Burn in Hell!.
Tuason studied the envelopes and the postmarks. She doubted if even Zaldy Bernal could lift any usable prints. She turned to Mrs. Villa. “What can you tell us about your husband’s secretary?”
She paused from her sobs, a hard look flitting across her face. “Alicia has been with Henry for years.” More sobs.
“Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?”
She hesitated for a second, then shook her head.
In the silence, Tuason said, “The secretary calls him Henry. Not ‘Sir’, or ‘Boss’, or ‘Mr. Villa’. Don’t you find that strange?”
She shook her head more vigorously. “I trust my husband, detectives. A successful marriage is built on trust. As I said in my book on marriage, husband and wife should be able to trust each other with their lives.”
When the detectives had left, she unlocked a side drawer and took out a recorder. Should she turn this over to them? She had been suspicious about Henry and Alicia, so she had Henry’s phone bugged. One of her ardent followers was a telecoms expert and he had set everything up. Henry and the secretary had exchanged sugary words over the phone and through text messages. Discovering their affair had broken her heart. Literally. She experienced wild palpitations after the discovery, and felt her heart breaking into pieces. But how could she turn this over to the police? She didn’t want to smear Henry’s memory with this cheap affair. She would rather die than besmirch his reputation. He had loved her even when she was as big as a whale.
Besides, Henry had promised her that he’d break up with that bimbo. Fire her even. There was no way she would announce Henry’s infidelity. What would it look like to her audience if her marriage was threatened by a bimbo in a miniskirt? Her credibility as an inspirational speaker would be shattered.
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