17 Stone Angels

by Stuart Archer Cohen

  She was implacable. “Don’t even say it! You can tell us about William Renssaelaer, or you can start getting calls from the boys at Pagina/I2 tomorrow morning.”

  Moya sat paralyzed by her ultimatum, but at last he became angry. “Get out of here! Get out!” He rose from his seat. “This is typical of the police, to come in and accuse the innocent! Give me your card, Comisario! It’s Fortunato, no?” He scribbled it on a pad. “And you, Señorita.”

  She stood up, calm as a sheet of steel. In that moment Fortunato loved her. “I’m Athena. You can remember me simply as the one who ruined you.” She closed her notebook and headed for the elevator.

  Fortunato started after her, but Moya cut him off at the door of his office and planted himself in the corridor to spit one last defense at Athena’s back. “I have nothing to be ashamed of! Nothing!”

  Fortunato looked into the livid face, only a half-meter from his own. A deep confusion was working in the dark eyes, as if part of Pablo Moya was appalled that he would be standing in a hallway hissing lies at a woman’s back. His features melted into a look of profound anguish, which he turned absently to the Comisario.

  “Neither do I, Señor Moya,” Fortunato told him. “Neither do I.”

  “Why William Renssaelaer?” Athena asked when they’d reached the street again. Calle Florida at rush hour was like a river running through two cliffs of concrete and glass. The sound of footfalls on pavement was all around them, festooned with conversations, the calls of the newsmen, beeping cell phones.

  Fortunato kept walking beside her. “Because it was the one name that did not appear in Fabian’s story. It was a stray bullet, but did you see how it hit him? After that he wouldn’t answer any more questions. He had more fear of talking about this Renssaelaer than to be exposed for his pornography venture.”

  “But why would he know Pelegrini’s chief of security?”

  “Thus the question, daughter.” Fortunato’s mind was working furiously as they strode down Florida. There was a relation between Renssaelaer and Pablo Moya, executives of two supposedly opposing factions. But was it connected to Robert Waterbury’s murder? Now this, yes, was an interesting investigation.

  For the first time since the night of the kidnapping, Fortunato felt the world begin to open up to him. He was still free, still flowing along this beautiful stream of life, with its furtive aromas of coffee and cologne drifting across the muffled footsteps. Athena walked beside him, immersed in thought. At last they were working together to solve the Waterbury case. “You played it well, Athena. You gave him a bifé he won’t forget!”

  “I don’t like his type.”

  “So I noted!” He enjoyed her look of pleasure. “I saw you biting your tongue that first afternoon when we passed the Aerolíneas demonstration.”

  She looked at him. “That obvious?”

  He rolled his eyes toward the pink heavens. “Chica! It’s only the left that takes an interest in human rights. Will you really expose his pornography site?”

  She looked contentedly over the crowds of Porteños exiting from their workdays. “Oh, I may find some deserving journalist at Pagina/12 and give them Pablo’s website address.”

  He stopped her and put his finger to his lips, “Shhh!” He cupped his hand to his ear. “I think I hear Berenski laughing.”

  They turned up Calle Lavalle to go to the Café Richmond for a snack. The marquees of a dozen movie theaters hung over the narrow walkway in a blaze of colored light, and Fortunato lost himself in the discussion of the case. On the periphery, his own role in the murder was waiting for him with its dark consequences, but he would settle up with that phantom later. Over sandwiches he agreed with Athena that Fabian had been trying to lead them to Pelegrini. They considered the possibility that he was working for the Federales and that the Federales were being driven by Minister Ovejo and Pelegrini’s other enemies in the government. “Or maybe Fabian’s working for AmiBank on the side.”

  “But why would he expose Maya’s website if he worked for AmiBank?”

  The Comisario raised his hands. “Because he’s a hijo de puta! He feels more clever that way. Fabian is half-criminal, and that’s typical for them. They feel powerful when they can manipulate someone. As to him working for AmiBank …” He was speaking a little too freely, perhaps, but he didn’t care at the moment. “A good inspector that does some favors can get a job in private security for four or five times his police salary.” He shrugged, pulled out a smoke. “It’s the same in your country, no? They work for the government, then they get a fat job with a corporation. Then they’re back in the government, and they get an even fatter job. Look at your present administration. They’re all in arms and petroleum.”

  “Don’t encourage me in that line. I’ve been trying to behave myself.”

  A smile crept out from under his mustache. “And what do we do now? It could be that there’s a relation between Pablo Maya and William Renssaelaer, but we don’t know what it is. The opinion of Teresa Castex isn’t useful. For the sake of argument: why work so hard? Why not stay tranquil, drink a pair of mates and watch the wolves tear Pelegrini to pieces? Even if he didn’t kill Waterbury, he’s guilty of something!”

  She feigned a look of admiration. “You’re so rigorous with your ethics, Miguel!” Serious again. “I have a feeling it wasn’t Boguso.” She looked away as she said it: “I think it was someone in the police.”

  A chill passed through Fortunato. “Why?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. I can’t get rid of the idea. The nine millimeter, and what Teresa Castex said … Sometimes things don’t have any sense, but they are.”

  He took in a long breath and looked past her for a while. “There remains La Francesa,” he ventured at last. “But that’s not so easy. We don’t know her last name or what she looks like.”

  “We have a picture.”

  “How?”

  Athena gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “I got it off the internet.” She passed over a photo of a woman’s face. A pretty woman with short straight hair of a nondescript color, small eyes and nose, her mouth rounded into an ‘o’. The face had an intense erotic expression which, with the rest of the body cropped out, looked strangely painful. Fortunato recognized her from the week he had surveilled Waterbury.

  Athena went on. “I thought I would go around to all the tango schools and try and find out where she is. If she’s trying to stay hidden, people might be more willing to tell a foreign woman than a local comisario. I’ve gotten the impression that the police aren’t universally trusted here.”

  Fortunato smiled. “Look how she shits on the poor Institution! Typical leftist!” He chuckled. “You’re right. If you find her, call me.” He took out a few pieces of money and put them on the table, then stood up. “I, too, will make some inquiries.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Fortunato hadn’t returned to the Hotel San Antonio since the night of the squeeze, and he’d kept the investigation clear of the place. Now the unseasonable autumn heat had turned the air as warm as blood, and he could feel the moistness inside his jacket as he approached the yellowed light that poured out the glass doors of the lobby. He’d stared at this door for hours when they’d been arming the capacha, and it felt strange finally to go inside—like diving into a pool of water after seeing the surface a thousand times. The tawny marble of the reception looked sallow under the light, and Fortunato noted a streak of verdigris metal polish on the brass along the counter.

  He recognized the clerk, a bored young man who had his eyes glued to a football match on a tiny television, as he had the night of Waterbury’s misfortune. He worked the midnight to eight shift, probably earning just enough to keep him in spending money if he lived at home with his parents. The young man looked up at him dully, the hopeless expression of a man marking time in a marble cell. One had to fish sometimes, to examine a face and divine its capacity for corruption or fear. Thus a good policeman. He guessed that this face would
respond to either.

  “Good evening, young one.”

  “Good evening, Señor.”

  “Who is it? River and Independientes?”

  “Sí. Independientes has them four to two.”

  “Puta! I put twenty pesos on River!”

  The young man kept one eye on the screen. “Better to put twenty pesos on the referee. He’s killing them.”

  The Comisario sighed. “There’s no honor in Argentina. Mirá … ” His voice radiated a sense of calm professionalism. A boy like this wouldn’t ask to see identification: he knew it would only get him a piña or at best some long hours at the station. “I had a few questions to ask you about the night the gringo disappeared.”

  The boy’s face took on a look of dread and he glanced quickly towards the door. He turned back and looked warily at Fortunato. “I already told everything I know.”

  In a kindly voice: “Of course, son, but I’m conducting a separate investigation. Don’t worry; it’s all in conformance with the law.” Fortunato dug into his pocket, pulling out a roll of bills and pausing as he watched the clerk’s reaction. “I suppose the police have come by recently?”

  The clerk glanced at the door again, unsure of what was happening but encouraged by the sight of the money. “Yes. Yesterday and the day before.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Federales and those of the Bonaerense.”

  “Do you have their names?”

  The clerk hesitated, perhaps wondering for the first time who he was talking to. Fortunato maintained his look of expectation, and the clerk took several cards from a drawer. Federales: a comisario from Homicide, and a sub-co from the local station. Officers of some rank. There was a certain seriousness to the investigation now. The other card, of the Bonaerense, struck him like a familiar slap. Domingo Fausto, Inspector. Checking their trail. The cruel beefy face flashed across his vision; he put it out of his mind. “And what did you tell them?”

  “The truth. That the Northamerican was out when I came to work and he never returned. That I finished the shift without event.”

  Fortunato nodded his head approvingly, his voice warm and sympathetic. “Bien, muchacho. And no other guests came that night?”

  “There were some, but I don’t remember well. That was six months ago.”

  Fortunato nodded. “The registry, please.”

  The clerk produced a large ledger book with names in it. Most were couples, without the identification numbers or passports required by law. He made an automatic mental note that he could squeeze the owner for that omission, then concentrated on the names again. All common last names, their stays lasting only a few hours. He’d expected that.

  A whistle came from the television as the referee called a foul against River. Fortunato glanced at it with annoyance. “Lower the volume.” He waited for the clerk to comply. “You rent rooms by the hour here?”

  “Some. The girls come over from Reconquista. But it’s tranquil. We never have any problems.”

  “Do you remember anything unusual about the clients that night?”

  “No.”

  The policeman pulled out a photo he’d brought with him. “Do you remember seeing this man?”

  Two black brows moved together. “Yes. Yes. Un tipo “Rock Star.” He came in with a girl around…twelve-thirty, one in the morning. Not long after I arrived.”

  “How did he act?”

  He shrugged. “When they come in here like that, it’s not to introduce themselves and make friends with the guy at the reception. He came, he signed, he went upstairs with the girl and he left two hours later. See …” He pointed at the check-out time in the register, then squinted. “But if I remember well, the woman left first. I wondered what he was doing up there the last hour.”

  So Fabian had been alone in the hotel for at least an hour while Waterbury was taking his last ride. Puta! “And was he carrying anything when he left?”

  “I think he had an athletic bag.”

  The detective nodded, then asked a few more questions about the woman, gathering only that she wasn’t one of the regulars and that nothing about her stood out. The clerk knew nothing else. If Pelegrini’s men had come in to search the room later, they must have done it on a different shift.

  “Fine. You did well, young one. Fortunately, in our department there is money in the budget to reward citizens like yourself.” The Comisario limbered ten hundred-peso notes from the roll, probably two months” salary for the clerk. He handed them over but kept his fingers on them. “But I want you to forget you saw me. The element of surprise is critical to the investigation.”

  The clerk put his hand over the bills and pulled them across the counter. “Don’t worry, Uncle. You don’t exist.”

  Fortunato nodded with the faintest hint of chill. “Good. If you keep your word, I’ll know. And if you don’t,” his face lost all expression, “I’ll know that, too.”

  Once outside, Fortunato staggered through the night. He had suspected that the journals had been taken from Waterbury’s room, but if Fabian had gotten them while the squeeze was happening, he had to have known about the abduction from the start! How? Through Domingo? A sense of shame and anger mixed within Fortunato. All of them plotting behind his back! Like when the colonels and lieutenants plotted behind the generals” backs in those barracks uprisings. And him the stupid gil, playing the commanding officer!

  The rage to kill someone swept across Fortunato and left him with his heart pounding and his fists clenched. The incident in the vacant lot in San Justo had removed the concept of murder from the realm of idle fantasy. He pushed the notion aside and concentrated on the problem. Fabian knew he’d abducted Waterbury and that he could do nothing but wait and hope while others were making a bed for Pelegrini.

  Fine. The situation was developing. One had to pursue it more profoundly now, at a level where things were closer to the blood. He opened the door to his car and looked at his watch. One in the morning. He put in a call to Cacho.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  As he’d expected, the former revolutionary was far too wary to meet him someplace private: that kind of caution had kept him alive when an entire country was hunting him. He recommended a café in the middle of Ramos Mejia, a pizzeria large enough to guarantee some empty space around them in the dead hours of the afternoon the next day, but too central to allow someone to cork him without a dozen witnesses. Fortunato drank a whiskey as he made his proposition, and Cacho refused him before he could even get to the price.

  “I’m not putting myself into this, Fortunato. I already told you that. Look for someone else to pick up Vasquez. Ask Domingo.”

  “I’m doing this apart from Domingo. It’s private.”

  “Even more crazy. Look for someone else.” The thief stood up.

  “Cacho, don’t be so hard. It’s just to talk with him.” He saw the man hesitate. “I’ll give you two green sticks.”

  “Twenty thousand? To talk? You could have him cut for that money, and buy the widow a new car afterwards. What’s happening, Miguel? What does Vasquez know that’s worth twenty thousand?”

  Fortunato shrugged offhandedly. “Maybe he knows why Robert Waterbury was killed.”

  Cacho shook his head of gray-streaked black hair. “I already read about the opereta with Onda. Very nice, Señor, but no thank you. That’s not my business. You want to talk about stolen televisions, call me.”

  “Maybe he can tell us who killed Ricardo Berenski.”

  Fortunato’s words halted Cacho at the edge of the table, and the Comisario could see he’d hit something. “You two are old compañeros, no? Berenski worked in Propaganda for the ERP; that’s well-known. Berenski kept up the struggle, in his manner. That’s why they killed him.”

  “What would a merquero like Vasquez know about that?”

  “Sit down, Cacho. Chat a little more with me. We’re old friends now. I know your crimes, you know mine. There’s little to hide. But of that night, of the gringo
, it’s not like it seems.” The criminal sat down and lit a cigarette. Fortunato looked over his shoulder and went on in a confidential voice. “I fired the last bullet. That’s the truth. But it was Domingo and Vasquez that shot him up first. When I fired, it already was. I did it because …” He hesitated, remembering Waterbury’s agony, the look he’d given him before everything had gone bad. He’d been lying so long he had to work to try to muster the sincerity of the truth. “I did it because he was suffering. Vasquez shot him in the balls, the thigh. Domingo shot him in the chest.” Fortunato felt his voice cracking as he remembered the night. “There was no alternative, hombre. It already was. I killed him, yes, but for mercy. I never wanted to kill him! You know me. I’m not the type to kill an innocent man for a few pesos!”

  He composed himself, continued in a more analytical tone. “I believe Pelegrini ordered the squeeze. There was a matter with the writer and Pelegrini’s wife. But I was told to squeeze him, not kill him. It was Vasquez who started shooting, then Domingo. I think someone else wanted him dead. And now,” he cleared his throat, “it falls to me to solve the crime.”

  The criminal stared at him with a mixture of pity and amazement. He felt comfortable with the old Fortunato, the arranger, the tranquil bureaucrat. This other Fortunato made him nervous. “Estás loco, Comiso.”

  “Mirá, Cacho,” the policeman said hurriedly. “You used to be for the Revolution, those years ago. Even the worst of the subversives had their idealism. A search for some …” the word felt strange and hypocritical to him, “justice.” He shrugged. “Maybe I’m looking for the same thing.”

  “What could you know about the Revolution!” Cacho returned harshly. “It was a thing of the spirit! You were dedicated to killing all that!”

  Fortunato gazed down his drink, his shoulders bowed around his gray head. “It’s not so thus, Cacho.”

  Cacho looked at the crumpled man in front of him. He had seen a thousand little plays tried out by petty criminals and petty cops, and if this were a lie it would be such an obvious ridiculous lie that the Comisario wouldn’t even bother telling it. Something had happened to the Comisario. His wife’s death or the murder had tripped some strange switch that was changing him, cell by cell, giving him a conscience. Or maybe not. Maybe it was just the cheap remorse of those who know they are about to fall.