City of Knives

by William Bayer

  "Hugo Charbonneau's one slimy ex-military priest," Raúl said. "He's also one slimy political operative. Suppose he, or someone else in Viera's camp, made sure the fakery could be detected so they could pin the pictures on Viera's enemies and thus evoke a sympathy reaction. People would see that Viera's enemies were so low they'd stoop to trying to sully the reputation of his pretty and innocent young wife. Not a dirty trick, but a phony dirty-trick, engineered by the very people it was supposedly meant to harm."

  This was vintage Raúl, Marta thought, consistent with his paranoid world-view. In his head everything was part of a multi-dimensional political conspiracy or else a smoke screen concealing something else.

  He had viewed the Casares Case that way, while Marta had seen it as a straight-forward homicide. A spoiled young man, son of a Senator, had forcibly drugged and raped a girl from a poor family, then killed her when she threatened to file charges with the police. To Marta the only complication was the cover-up: the autopsy had been deliberately bungled, cops had been bribed, potential witnesses had been threatened or bought off. She'd believed persistence would unlock the case, and she'd been very persistent, appealing to the sense of justice of the witnesses, finally persuading several to come forward.

  Raúl, on the other hand, had viewed the case in stark political terms. To him the rape-and-murder was simply an example of class struggle, while the cover-up was an example of what he called "vigilante injustice." Approaching the case from these opposite directions, they'd managed to work together. Now Marta wondered if they could work together again, or whether this time Raúl's overheated paranoia would divide them.

  "Is that really what you think this is?" she asked. "A phony dirty trick?"

  Raúl shrugged. "Don't know, but I'll tell you this: according to my sources, Silvia Santini was a high-priced call girl specializing in politicians, and there was a lot more to Granic than met the eye."

  "He was a whore-master and a blackmailer. You should see the elaborate video set-up in his house."

  "He was definitely both. But from what I hear he was also some kind of foreign agent. My source says his house was what they call a 'honey-trap.' He was recording people doing embarrassing sexual things, then offering to exchange the videos for information."

  Not for money but for information: Marta hadn't thought of that. "What kind of information?" she asked.

  "Depends on who he was working for. He had a Yugoslav background. If he was a Croatian agent, he may have been putting together an illegal arms deal. If he was a Brazilian agent, maybe information on narcotics. If he was working for the gringos, he may have been after political intelligence."

  Listening to him, she felt her head begin to reel. "If Granic was an agent, Raúl, I need to know for whom."

  "I have a source who'd probably know. I'm willing to go into debt to her if you promise to keep me updated."

  "Sure, just like before." She smiled at him. "Just out of curiosity, who's this 'her' you're talking about?"

  He grinned. "I shouldn't tell you, Marta, but I will...only because I love you. Her name's Caroline Black. She's a CIA case officer at the U.S. Embassy. Nice lady, though a little inept. Word is she pays too much and gets too little in return. Typical North American, right? With me it's different—she doesn't pay me anything and I give her plenty, so she and I get along. She won't tell me, of course, if Granic was on her payroll...but in that case her silence will say it all."

  Marta shook her head. "How do you do it, Raúl? Does she help you because you're so good-looking? Do make love to her?"

  He laughed. "Marta! Such implications! We're getting into too-deep waters here."

  He showed her out by the front door of the apartment, told her to take the main elevator down and exit past the doorman. After they embraced, she kissed him on his forehead.

  "Be careful, Raúl. I worry about you."

  "And I about you. Life expectancy for an honest cop is six months to a year. So take good care of yourself, Marta...and I'll do the same."

  She went to see Ricardi. The Chief's office was of a size appropriate to his position, but Ricardi was such a big man he seemed to fill it up.

  He sat behind his desk in front of windows overlooking the old Port of Buenos Aires. The water there was red, colored by the red clay bed of the Río de la Plata. She could smell the river through the open windows. To her it was the smell of home.

  Ricardi was a jazz enthusiast. He kept a radio in his office tuned to an all-jazz station, which he played at low volume through the day. Standing before him, she presented her theories including her notion that the faked photos were meant to be exposed as fakes. When she was finished, the Chief sat back in his swivel chair. The sun, bouncing off his shaven head, made it glow like brass.

  "What you've got, Marta, is a lot of smoke but no fire."

  "What I've got is a smoke screen," she said.

  "So what're you going to do about it?"

  "Try and clear away the smoke."

  "How?"

  "I'm going to be provocative."

  "What can I do to help?"

  She handed him copies of Costas's computer ID sketches. "See if anyone in personnel can match these guys up with cops."

  Ricardi squinted at the drawings. "They do look a little like cops. Or goons." He looked closely at her. "I'm under some pressure to assign Granic/Santini to someone else."

  "Pressure from whom? Charbonneau?"

  "I'm not sure yet, but the pressure's there. Whenever there's a homicide, there're always two kinds of pressure: 'solve it' and 'don't solve it.' This is the second kind. I assigned this case to you and I'm not taking it away. But be careful whom you provoke, Marta. There're times to bully and times to ease off."

  Marta was pleased when Rolo assured her Juanita Courcelles was at her fancy woman's health club in Recoleta.

  "Excellent!" she said. "Today we stir the pot."

  As they were driving to the gym, listening to Radio La Colifata, Rolo pointed out activity on the sidewalk. A middle-aged man in a jogging suit, holding an Afghan by a leash, was running from a group of a dozen or so people in pursuit.

  Marta rolled down her window.

  "Torturer! Murderer!" the chasers chanted at the fleeing man.

  "It's an escrache." Rolo was excited. "They're outing the bastard. I've seen his picture in magazines."

  Escraches, shaming confrontations, were rare enough to attract Marta's interest. The year before she'd witnessed one on a bus. A kindly looking old man, who'd turned out to be a former naval officer, was confronted by an elderly lady sitting across the aisle. She stared at him, then suddenly stood up, pointed her finger at him and accused him of murdering her son. He took her abuse by staring straight ahead, even elevating his chin. By the time he got off at the next stop, everyone in the bus had taken up the chant. "Killer! Assassin! Shame! Shame!" Observing him, taking in his arrogance, Marta had felt her stomach turn.

  She flicked off the car radio. "He looks old enough. Which one is he?"

  "The one they used to call 'The Lover,'" Rolo said, "on account of the way he'd whisper sweet nothings to his victims before he'd go to work on them. They say he'd kiss them and caress them, tell them how sorry he was about what he had to do. Then he'd go at them with a blowtorch or pair of pliers. His name's Chamarra or Chamorra, something like that. God, I hope they corner him!"

  Marta hoped so too, though she also hoped no one would get hurt. Sometimes, when a Proceso era military murderer was cornered by a crowd, he'd pull out a pistol and wave it around. A retired torturer in a jogging suit exercising his Afghan—he deserved a public outing, she thought. But what a pity he didn't get what he really deserved, a life sentence in a military prison.

  The muscular T-shirted man at the health club reception desk stood up to block their way.

  "You can't go upstairs," he told Rolo. "This is a Women-Only gym."

  "She's a woman and we're both Federal Police officers, so stand aside," Rolo told him.

&
nbsp; They found Juanita Courcelles in a white ribbed tank top and pair of skimpy gym shorts working out on a resistance apparatus. She was perched on a seat, legs spread, using her forearms to push apart mechanical arms.

  Marta walked right up to her. "Stand up!" she ordered.

  "What is this? What're you doing here?"

  "Handcuff her!" Marta instructed Rolo.

  Women working out on other machines stopped to watch.

  "How dare you!" Juanita yelled, her face twisted with anger.

  "It's a crime to lie to a Federal Police Officer."

  "I want my lawyer!"

  "You can call him from jail. Get a move on!"

  "I can't go out like this."

  "Don't worry," Rolo told her. "They'll issue you a smock when we get downtown."

  It was likely mention of the jail smock that did it, Marta thought, conjuring a picture of what Juanita was in for: a crowded, smelly communal lock-up with prostitutes and addicts, not a nice place for a famous movie star, even if only for a couple hours. Then the photographers who'd be waiting for her outside when her lawyer finally arranged her release, crowding in on her, flashing their strobes in her face. Everyone would want to see her expression, her outrage and her shame, how this famous rich woman, with a husband most other women would kill for, reacted to her ordeal. Even her fondest fans, she knew, would enjoy seeing her like that, finding proof in her distress that life was but a soap opera and even the rich could be made to cry. Yes, it was probably the image of the jail smock, Marta thought, that caused Juanita to change her tune.

  "Could we please go somewhere private and talk?" she asked, her tone suddenly humble.

  "Talk about what?"

  "You say I lied."

  "You did!"

  "Please, let me explain. Please!"

  After feigning reluctance, Marta agreed. There was a little glass-walled office off the gym. She suggested they retire there. Juanita protested. There were tears in her eyes. "But everyone will see."

  "They won't hear. Or would you rather go downtown? We have lovely interrogation rooms."

  Once inside the gym office, Juanita stood meekly, holding her arms tight to her sides.

  "You told me you never saw Granic after you and your husband let him go. In fact, you were seen several times late at night entering and leaving his house. What were you doing there and why did you lie to me about it?"

  "We went to a few parties, that's all."

  "Sex parties?"

  "I guess you could call them that."

  "What's a sex party? What happens there?"

  Juanita constrained her arms even more tightly. "People get together, flirt. Then if they feel like it, they go upstairs and have sex."

  "In bedrooms where there're hidden cameras and microphones?"

  "We didn't know about that."

  "Did you and your husband participate?"

  "He did. I didn't."

  "What did you do?"

  "I just observed."

  "Research for a part?" Juanita looked away. "Were there prostitutes there, gatas who worked for Granic?"

  Juanita shook her head.

  "Who were the other guests?"

  Juanita hesitated. "I don't think I can tell you that."

  "Because you don't want to?"

  "There were strangers. Some wore masks."

  "Rubber horror masks?"

  "Simple domino masks, the kind you'd wear to a masked ball."

  "Who were these people?"

  "We assumed they were well-known."

  "Politicians?"

  "Could've been."

  "You and Juan wore masks?"

  Juanita nodded. "It wouldn't have done our reputations any good to be seen at a party like that."

  "Two people were murdered. Why didn't you tell me this at the house?"

  "It's too embarrassing." She looked away again. "And we didn't know anything about the murders."

  "Did Granic try to blackmail you?"

  "Absolutely not! We were friends!"

  "Your husband said you two didn't think it appropriate to socialize with former help. He was lying when he said that?"

  "Yes."

  "Stupid to lie to me."

  "Very stupid," Juanita agreed.

  Having extracted this much, Marta thought it time to ease up. She motioned Juanita to a chair, then asked Rolo to fetch her a bottle of water. After Rolo left the room, Marta turned more kindly.

  "Don't be stupid again, Juanita. I'm going to give you a second chance. I won't charge you with lying if you tell me everything. I want to hear all about Granic's blackmail schemes. Everything—who, what, when and how."

  From the look of terror on Juanita's face, Marta expected her to spill. Instead the actress began to cry. "I don't know anything. Please believe me neither of us knew anything about that. Later we heard he made videos and was using them to blackmail. There was a man who helped him with this. He was at both the parties we attended. We heard rumors he was Granic's bagman, the guy who handled the taping and the follow-up."

  "What's his name?"

  "People called him 'the Window Dresser'."

  "Window Dresser?"

  "He decorates store windows, like a set dresser on a movie set. He works at some of the better shops, ones in Retiro and on Avenida Santa Fe. He's supposed to be a genius at it. He sets up little scenes with mannequins to attract people in."

  "What kind of little scenes?"

  "I saw one. Can't remember the name of the shop. They sold imported bedding. There was a squeegee and tool belt left by the window, as if a window-cleaner had been working there. Then a trail of clothes, including a pair of funky men's undershorts, leading to a bed. Mixed with his simple workmen's clothes were very expensive women's lingerie. The bedding was rumpled and there were stains on the sheets as if he and the lady of the house had just had a go. There was an ashtray on the side table filled with lipstick stained cigarette butts. The idea was..."

  "Yeah, I get the idea," Marta said.

  Juanita said she'd swear before a judge she didn't know anything else, and that she was sure Juan would do the same. She said they were naive about Granic, that they'd trusted him with their lives and the lives of their children, but as soon as they heard he was a blackmailer they cut off contact. She said that when they heard he'd been killed, they were certain it had to do with blackmail. She said that when Marta announced herself at their gate, they decided to deny knowing anything for fear of involvement in a scandal.

  "We owe you a big apology," she said. "We knew your reputation. We have a great deal of respect for you, Marta. I'm truly sorry we tried to deceive you."

  Marta barely nodded. She didn't feel like accepting Juanita's apology. If Juanita and Juan Sabino were "truly sorry" it was only because she'd caught them telling lies.

  On the way out of the gym, she instructed Rolo to find the Window Dresser.

  "Shouldn't be hard if he exists. Just ask around at fancy bedding stores about a lady/window-washer scene."

  After work, she drove home, parked her car, then stopped at her neighborhood grocery. This was Leon's night to fetch Marina from tango class. Marta would have dinner ready for them when they reached home.

  She'd completed her shopping, was walking toward her building, had just passed the small hotel across the street that catered to foreign tango dancers, when she was approached by a middle-aged man with a kindly face, wearing a grey felt fedora.

  He tipped his hat to her the way gentlemen used to do in Buenos Aires twenty years before. "Inspector Abecasis?" he inquired in a gentle voice.

  She met his eyes. He looked harmless. "Do we know one another?" she asked.

  He smiled. "I'm sorry...we don't."

  He came a little closer, which made her nervous since she was using both her hands to hold her parcels.

  "I have something for you," he said, holding out a folded copy of that morning's edition of El Faro.

  For a moment she thought: This is it. He's got a gun
in there. I'm going to be assassinated.

  The man was so close she could see the dental work in his mouth. Her pistol was in her purse. She had no time to draw it now. She watched as he gently placed the folded newspaper into one of her grocery bags, then stepped back.

  "What's that?" she asked.

  "A newspaper," he said. "When you get home, please take a look inside."

  She shook her head. "Show me what's in there."

  He nodded, extracted the newspaper, then opened it discreetly exposing a thick stack of US hundred dollar bills.

  "What's this for?"

  "To encourage you to dead-end your investigation."

  "Which investigation?"

  "I think you know which one, Inspector," he said, very softly. "All you need do is let it die for lack of leads, as so many cases do these days."

  "Do you know the penalty for attempting to bribe a Federal Police Officer?"

  "Excuse me, Señora!"

  "Ten years," she said. "Please take hold of my grocery bags, so I can get out my handcuffs and arrest you."

  He stared at her as if she were crazy. She stared straight back to show him she was serious. Finally he nodded, folded up his newspaper, placed it back under his arm.

  "Have it your way, Señora," he said, tipping his hat again, then turning and striding rapidly away.

  "Come take a look at Viera," Leon said later that evening, beckoning Marta over to the TV.

  José Viera, Minister of Finance, was being interviewed about the economic collapse. Marta spotted Charbonneau, eyeglasses glinting, sitting behind him and to the side like a classic éminence grise.

  Viera struck Marta as a typical charismatic politician: charming, slick, radiating power, a man with evenly proportioned features, thick iron-grey hair, and a strong profile that would look good on campaign posters.

  The interviewer was aggressive, trying to force Viera to assume blame for the rotten economy.

  Viera smiled. "I've never claimed to be courageous. Still, someone had to take over the Ministry of Finance. Yes, a thankless job, but I've never been afraid of taking on thankless jobs."