by Marc Levy
“Any news from your inspector?”
“None so far.”
“If it’s your colleague who wants you dead, we’ll take care of him, no problem. If it isn’t, and we don’t have any other concrete leads by the start of July, I’ll take you on a trip. We’ll be a long way from New York by the 9th.”
“I wish it were that simple. Supposing we did go, I can’t just give up my work and go into hiding for the rest of my life.”
“When are you off to Argentina?”
“In a few days. I have to admit I like the idea of getting away for a bit.”
“I’m sure Valerie would be delighted to hear that. You’ll have to be careful over there all the same.” They arrived outside Simon’s building. “Here we are. You okay going home on your own in that getup?”
“I’m not on my own. I’m walking Freddy,” Andrew answered, then walked away, pretending he was holding a dog on a leash.
* * *
Andrew was woken from his short night by the telephone ringing. He picked it up in a daze and recognized the inspector’s voice. He was waiting for Andrew in the café on the corner of his street.
Andrew went into Starbucks and found Pilguez sitting in the chair Simon had occupied the day before.
“Have you got bad news for me?” he asked, sitting down.
“I’ve found Mrs. Capetta,” the inspector replied.
“How?”
“I don’t think that really matters, and I can only spare an hour right now if I don’t want to miss my plane.”
“You’re leaving?”
“I can’t stay in New York forever. Anyway, you’re off soon too. San Francisco is less exotic than Buenos Aires, but it’s where I live. My wife’s waiting for me. She misses my ramblings.”
“What did you find out in Chicago?”
“She’s a very beautiful woman, Mrs. Capetta—ebony eyes and a gaze that could knock a man off his feet. Mr. Capetta can’t have tried too hard to track her down, she hasn’t even changed her identity. She and her son live there alone, two streets from the place where she posted that charming letter to you.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. I mean yes. But not about you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I played at being the sweet old grandpa out for some air on a park bench. I told her my grandson was the same age as her kid.”
“You’re a grandfather?”
“No. Natalia and I met too late to have children. But we do have an adorable little substitute nephew—the son of that neurosurgeon friend I told you about and her architect husband. We’re very close. He’s five, and my wife and I tend to spoil him. Right, stop making me tell you my life story, or I really will miss my flight.”
“Why the roleplay if you didn’t question her?”
“Because there are different ways of questioning someone. What did you want me to say to her? ‘Mrs. Capetta, while your kid’s playing in the sandpit, would you please be so kind as to tell me if you’re planning to stab a journalist from The New York Times next month?’ I spent a couple of afternoons in the park chatting with her about this and that, trying to win her over. Would she be capable of committing a murder? To be completely honest, I’ve got no idea. She’s definitely a headstrong woman, and there’s something cold in her gaze. I also thought she seemed extremely intelligent. But I find it hard to believe she’d risk being separated from her boy. Even when you convince yourself you’re committing the perfect crime, you can never entirely dismiss the possibility of getting caught. What got me the most was how she lied when I asked her if she was married. Without missing a beat, she answered that her husband and daughter had died on a trip abroad. If I hadn’t met Mr. Capetta, I’d have bought her story wholesale.
“When I get back to San Francisco, I’m going to continue investigating the people on my list—including your wife and your editor, even if that annoys you—with the help of my contacts in New York. I’ll call you as soon as I have some news. Maybe I can fly out again when you’re back from Buenos Aires. But if I do, I’ll bill you for the plane ticket.”
Pilguez held out a piece of paper to Andrew and stood up.
“Here’s Mrs. Capetta’s address. It’s up to you whether you decide to pass it on to her husband. Take care of yourself, Stilman. Your story’s one of the craziest I’ve heard in my whole career, and I get the impression something bad is brewing.”
* * *
Andrew went to the office and sat down at his computer. A red light on his telephone indicated that a voicemail message was waiting for him. Marisa, the bartender from his hotel in Buenos Aires, had information for him, and wanted him to call her back as soon as possible. Andrew vaguely remembered their conversation, but he’d started to get muddled with dates and events. It wasn’t easy to keep track, living everything twice. He bent to get his notes out of his drawer and froze when he saw the lock. Someone had tried to get into his things. When he’d last closed the padlock he’d left it displaying the first three numbers of his date of birth, as he always did. They’d changed—someone had tried to break into his things. Andrew poked his head over the top of the partition wall. Olson wasn’t at his desk. He flicked through his notebook looking for the page where he’d jotted down the details of his last phone conversation with Marisa and sighed when he found nothing. He dialed the number she’d given him.
Marisa informed him that a friend of her aunt’s was sure she’d recognized an ex-air force pilot corresponding to the description of the man who went by the name of Ortiz under the junta. He’d become the owner of a profitable little tannery that supplied leathers to bag, shoe, saddle, and belt manufacturers all over the country. He was making a delivery to one of his clients in a Buenos Aires suburb when the family friend recognized him.
This woman was a Mother of the Plaza de Mayo too, and had a poster in her living room displaying photos of all the soldiers who had been tried for crimes committed during the Dirty War, then granted amnesty. She’d lived with those photos day and night since her son and her nephew had disappeared in June 1977. Both boys were seventeen at the time. This mother had never agreed to sign the documents confirming her son’s death, and refused to do so until she saw his remains for herself. And yet, like the parents of the other thirty thousand disappeared, she knew she never would. For years and years, she’d gathered with other mothers on the Plaza de Mayo and protested the government by brandishing portraits of their lost children.
When she’d crossed paths with this man as he entered a saddler in Calle 12 de Octubre, her blood ran cold. She clutched her shopping bag to her as hard as she could to conceal her sudden surge of emotion. Then she sat down on a wall to wait for him to come out again. She followed him up the street. Who would have found an old lady carrying a shopping bag suspicious? As he was climbing into his car, she’d memorized the model and license plate. After a series of phone calls, the Mothers of the Plaza de Mayo network had managed to come up with the address of the man she was convinced was formerly called Ortiz and now went by the name of Ortega. He lived not far from his tannery, in Dumesnil, a small town on the outskirts of Córdoba. The vehicle she’d seen in Calle 12 de Octubre in Buenos Aires had been a rental car that he’d returned to the airport before taking his flight.
Andrew offered to send Marisa money so she could fly to Córdoba, buy a digital camera, and follow Ortega. He had to be absolutely certain that Ortega and Ortiz were the same man.
Something like that would require Marisa to take at least three days off work, and her boss wouldn’t allow it. Andrew begged her to find someone trustworthy to travel there in her place; he’d make it up to her, even if it meant paying out of his own pocket. Marisa made just one promise: to call him back if she found a solution.
* * *
Olson arrived at the paper at around noon. He walked straight past Andrew without saying hell
o and sat down in his cubicle.
Andrew’s phone rang. It was Simon, asking him to come and join him as discreetly as possible at the corner of Eighth Avenue and 40th Street.
“Why the urgency?” Andrew asked when he met up with Simon.
“Let’s not stay here. You never know,” Simon replied, leading him to a barber shop.
“Is this why you made me leave the office? To take me to get a shave?”
“Say what you want, but I need a good haircut. I also need to talk to you someplace quiet.”
They went into the barber’s and sat down next to each other on red leatherette chairs in front of a big mirror.
The two Russian barbers, who looked so alike they must have been brothers, came over at once and got to work.
While Simon was getting shampooed, he told Andrew how he’d waited for Olson to leave home, then tailed him.
“How did you get his address? Even I don’t know it.”
“My evil computer genius! I know all your colleague’s numbers—social security, cell, gym membership, credit cards, and all the loyalty programs he’s registered with.”
“You do realize that stealing that kind of data constitutes a violation of the most basic rights and is a criminal offense?”
“Shall we turn ourselves in right now, or do you want to know what I found out this morning?”
At just that moment the barber smeared shaving cream across Andrew’s face and he couldn’t answer Simon’s question.
“First off, your colleague’s a junkie. He exchanged a wad of dollars for a plastic sachet in Chinatown this morning before he’d even had breakfast. I took a couple of photos of the transaction, just in case.”
“You’re out of your mind, Simon!”
“Wait till you hear the rest: you might think differently. He went to NYPD headquarters around ten o’clock—some nerve he has, considering what he was carrying in his pocket. I’ve gotta give it to him, he’s one cool customer—either that or he’s completely crazy. I don’t know why he went there, but he was in there for at least half an hour. Then he went to a hunting supply shop. I saw him talking to the salesman and being shown various hunting knives. Well, not exactly knives, maybe . . . I was keeping my distance, but some strange-looking tools. By the way, I wouldn’t fidget like that if I were you. You’ll end up getting your throat slit with that razor.”
The barber confirmed that Simon was right.
“I can’t tell you if he bought anything; I moved on before he could notice me. He came out shortly afterward, looking more delighted than ever. Of course he might have just gone to the bathroom to powder his nose. Next, your guy went to buy himself a croissant, which he ate walking up Eighth Avenue. After that he went into a jeweler’s. He stayed there for a while, chatting to the owner, then came out and walked all the way back to the paper. I called you as soon as he got there. That’s it. I don’t want to be too optimistic, but it does look like the noose is tightening around Olson.”
The barber asked Andrew if he’d like his sideburns trimmed.
Simon answered for him, requesting he take off at least half an inch on either side.
“Maybe I should ask you to come to Buenos Aires with me,” Andrew said, smiling.
“Don’t tempt me. I’ve got a soft spot for Argentine women, and I could go pack my case right now!”
“It’s a bit soon for that,” Andrew pointed out. “Meanwhile, it’s probably high time I went to grill Olson.”
“Give me a few more days. At the rate I’m going, I’ll know more about him than his own mother before long.”
“I don’t have much time, Simon.”
“Up to you. I’m merely your humble servant. But think about Buenos Aires: we could have a blast there together!”
“What about your garage?”
“My car dealership, you mean. I thought I wasn’t selling anything before early July.”
“You won’t be selling anything in July either if you’re never at work.”
“I didn’t realize I’d invited my mother to the barbershop with me. I’ll let you pay,” Simon added, admiring himself in the mirror. “I look good with short hair, don’t I?”
“Shall we get some lunch?” Andrew asked.
“Let’s go see that knife salesman first. You wanted to grill someone. You can flash that press card of yours at him and find out what Olson was doing there.”
“Sometimes I wonder how old you actually are.”
“Wanna bet the salesman will fall for it?”
“What are we betting?”
“That lunch you were talking about.”
When they arrived, Andrew entered the store first. Simon followed and stationed himself a few yards behind his friend. While Andrew spoke, the salesman kept darting worried glances at Simon out of the corner of his eye.
“Late this morning,” Andrew said, “a journalist with The New York Times visited this store. Can you tell me what he bought?”
“What’s it got to do with you?” the salesman replied.
As Andrew rummaged through his pockets for his business card, Simon walked up to the counter, looking intimidating.
“It’s got everything to do with us. That man is a felon using a false press card. I’m sure you’ll understand that we need to stop him before he does something dangerous, with a weapon from your store, no less.”
The salesman looked Simon up and down, hesitated briefly and sighed.
“He was interested in some very special equipment, the kind only serious hunters use. And there aren’t too many of those in New York.”
“What type of equipment?” Andrew asked.
“Hunting knives, awls, hooks, elevators—that kind of thing.”
“Elevators?” Andrew inquired.
“I’ll show you,” the salesman answered, disappearing into the back of the store.
He returned carrying a wooden-handled tool with a long, flat needle.
“Designed as a surgical instrument. Then trappers started using them to skin their kill. You lift the pelt away without tearing off flesh. Your man wanted to know if owners need to register this type of product, like for firearms and combat knives. I told him the truth: you don’t need a license for an elevator. You find things that are a lot more dangerous at any hardware store. He asked me if I’d sold any recently. I hadn’t, but I promised I’d ask my employee. It’s his day off today.”
“And did this man buy any from you?”
“Six. One of each size. Now, if you’re not buying anything, I have to get back to work. I’ve got to do the books.”
Andrew thanked the salesman. Simon merely nodded his head.
“So which one of us lost the bet?” Simon asked as they walked down the street.
“That guy thought you were some kind of weirdo, and I can’t say I blame him. He only answered our questions to get rid of us as quickly as possible.”
“Cheater!”
“Okay, okay. Lunch is on me.”
16.
The next day, Andrew arrived at the office to a new message from Marisa. He called her back at once.
“I think I have a solution,” she told him. “My boyfriend can follow Ortega’s trail. He’s unemployed, and it would do him good to earn a bit of money.”
“How much?” Andrew asked.
“Five hundred dollars for the week. Plus expenses, of course.”
“That’s quite a sum,” Andrew sighed. “I’m not sure my bosses will accept.”
“Five ten-hour days; that’s ten dollars an hour—same as what cleaners get paid in New York. Just because we’re not American doesn’t mean we should be treated with less respect.”
“I totally agree, Marisa. But newspapers aren’t doing well, budgets are tight, and my employers think this investigation has already cost too much.”
�
�Antonio could leave tomorrow. If he drives to Córdoba, that’ll save the cost of the plane ticket. He’ll sort out his own accommodation—he has family living nearby, at San Roque Lake. All you’ll need to pay for is his wage, gas and food. It’s up to you. But of course, if he finds a job he’ll no longer be available.”
Andrew mulled over Marisa’s terms, smiled and decided to give her the go-ahead. He took down the details she gave him and promised to transfer the money that same day.
“We’ll set off as soon as I receive the money. We’ll call you every evening with an update.”
“You’re going with him?”
“If we’re driving, it won’t cost more for me to tag along,” Marisa replied. “And two of us traveling together will attract less attention. We’ll look like a couple on vacation. San Roque Lake is very beautiful.”
“I thought you said your boss wouldn’t let you take any days off.”
“You may not know this, Mr. Stilman, but my smile can work wonders.”
“I’m not giving you a weeklong vacation at the paper’s expense.”
“How dare you call it a vacation? We’re going to be trailing a war criminal!”
“Maybe I should call on your services next time I ask for a raise, Marisa. I look forward to hearing your first update.”
“Talk to you soon, Mr. Stilman,” she said, then hung up.
Andrew rolled up his sleeves, girding himself to confront Olivia Stern about green-lighting these extra expenses, but on his way to her office he thought better of it. This arrangement with Marisa hadn’t taken place in his previous life, and the outcome remained uncertain. He decided to advance the cost of the trip from his own pocket. If he obtained interesting information as a result, it’d be easier to ask for more money. If he didn’t, he’d avoid being called out as an extravagant employee.
He left the paper and went to the nearest Western Union to wire seven hundred dollars: five hundred for Antonio’s wage plus a two hundred advance for expenses. Then he called Valerie to say he’d be home early.
