The Foreign Girls

by Sergio Olguin

  “He can let me die and lose one of his men, or I can hand myself in and go back to prison.”

  Ten minutes later, Five called him.

  “Tell me where you are. Tomorrow morning first thing I’ll be there.”

  He had to ask the man to explain how to get to the house. It wasn’t an easy place to find.

  Peratta started to feel increasingly dizzy and weak. He must have a temperature. He asked if there was any alcohol. The couple had a bottle of red wine and some hard liquor. He asked the woman to bring the bottle of red wine, opened. He shouldn’t drink it, he knew that, and yet as the wine slipped down his throat he began to feel calmer.

  He wasn’t sure if he had done the right thing asking Doctor Zero for help. It wasn’t necessarily a good sign that Five was on his way to Tucumán. It meant one of two things: either he was coming to kill him, to put an end to his story and avoid compromising Doctor Zero, or Doctor Zero was taking the trouble to help him get better. If the latter, he wouldn’t be able to continue with his revenge plan. His time with Rosenthal would be over and he would have to go back to working for Doctor Zero. And he wasn’t prepared to accept that.

  And what if they were coming to finish him off? If Five was travelling here just to shoot him in the back of the neck? Peratta could hold off these two peasants, terrified as they were by his wounds and his gun, but he would be powerless against a professional like Five. He must remain alert and, at the first sign that Five was there to kill him, get the upper hand.

  The hours until nightfall dragged. He wasn’t hungry, but he didn’t want to grow even weaker. He asked the couple if they had any bread and cheese. He told them to bring him something and to eat themselves, too. When they had finished, Peratta, with a great effort, stood up. He felt the world spinning around him, and tried to regain his composure to avoid showing how bad a state he was in. He made the couple go into the bathroom and followed them with the gun. Luckily for him, the bathroom was as he had imagined it. The window, there for ventilation, was far too small for anyone to escape through. There was a lock on the door. He locked them in and warned that he would be listening out for their every movement. If they didn’t cause him any trouble, then first thing next morning he would leave with his friend and they would be released. They just had to wait.

  He returned to the armchair, took two tranquillizers and finished off the bottle of wine. As though on a kind of roller coaster, he dropped off, then woke up again every few minutes, agitated. He was aware of cockerels crowing at dawn, birdsong, a van going by in the distance. He didn’t hear Five arriving. When he opened his eyes, there he was.

  “Do you think you can make it to San Miguel de Tucumán?” Five asked him.

  Peratta tried to speak. His tongue felt thick inside his mouth. He nodded. “They’re looking for me,” he managed to say with great effort, fighting to breathe. “They know I’m here.”

  “Don’t make trouble for yourself. Tell me, is there anyone else in the house?”

  Peratta pointed at the bathroom door. “Two of them.”

  “Did anyone else see you?”

  He shook his head.

  Five went to the bathroom, opened the door and shot the couple. His silencer muffled the noise. Next he went to Peratta and helped him stand up. Danilo said to him:

  “I thought you were coming to kill me.”

  “We need you for a job.”

  “Is it urgent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Here, in Tucumán. We need to kill Verónica Rosenthal. And this time we can’t fail.”

  9 Forty-two Photos and a Video

  I

  Verónica wasn’t having a good night. Insomnia was her constant companion. She would have had a drink, but once again she had forgotten to buy a bottle of whisky to keep in the room. To make matters worse, her whole body itched. Her arms, stomach, behind her knees. She had suddenly developed a rash and couldn’t stop scratching. Since she couldn’t sleep, Verónica went over the conversation with Mechi and her grandmother a thousand and one times. She needed to find out more about Bibi’s death. Federico was going to make enquiries in the Tucumán courts to find out more about what had happened in the case. Just as it seemed that the itch was abating and she was drifting off to sleep, an image popped into her mind of the man who had entered her apartment. If he was still alive, he would return.

  She got up at 6 a.m. and, without really thinking about what she was doing, put on jogging clothes and went for a run in the town. It was another way to get to know the place. She didn’t make a habit of running in Buenos Aires, but she knew that this would be a useful time to think, clear her mind and show herself she wasn’t scared.

  At that time of day Yacanto del Valle looked like a movie set. The streets were almost empty of people. But there was a flow of trucks taking labourers out to work in the country.

  She ran past the entrance to Nicolás’s estate and was tempted to go in and see him. Then she circled Ramiro’s house and gallery and continued past the police station. As she passed the hotel, she saw two mobile broadcasting units parked outside, one from Tucumán and the other from Buenos Aires. The windows in the houses were still shuttered. This was a quiet town, monotonous, predictable. Jogging through the empty streets, she was a symptom of the disquiet they wanted to drive out. Small towns don’t like strangers, dead or alive.

  Suddenly a dog ran out of a yard, barking and apparently with every intention of biting her. Verónica shouted and ran faster. The dog didn’t follow. She got back to the hotel feeling shaken, tired and breathless. For a few minutes she stood outside, trying to get her breath back.

  Mariano was already behind the reception desk and they chatted briefly. Verónica went to take a shower then to have breakfast. In the dining room were a young couple, a family with two children and her. Federico had still not come down.

  She needed to see Ramiro, so she called to see if he was up. He told her he had to wait for a buyer who had an early appointment at the gallery, but that she was welcome to join him there if she wanted. As she was leaving the hotel, Mariano offered to give her a lift.

  Verónica was struck by a thought: “Mariano, Federico hasn’t by any chance asked you and Luca to look after me, has he?”

  “The Posada Don Humberto offers a complete service to our clients.”

  “OK, because if it was on account of a criminal who was looking for me, from what I hear, he’s out of circulation now.”

  “Whatever you say.” Mariano winked at her.

  Verónica walked to the Galería Arde and, since it wasn’t yet open, rang the bell. Ramiro came out and led her to his office.

  “Would you like a coffee?”

  “I’ve just had breakfast in the hotel, thanks. And I get the impression you don’t know how to use the coffee maker.”

  “You shouldn’t underestimate me. I don’t rely on my assistant for absolutely everything. Anyway, we have a very simple stove-top espresso maker that even an orangutan could use.”

  “Orangutan? I don’t think camels know how to swim either.”

  “Which would be logical, because there’s nowhere in the desert to practise.”

  “Ramiro, I’ve come here to ask a few questions. Can you help me with something that’s come up? Do you know who Gringo Aráoz is?”

  “Of course, a great full back in the Universitario Rugby Club until he retired. An agronomist. He got married about two years ago.”

  “Was he implicated six years ago in a crime involving a young woman?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Are you a friend of his?”

  “We move in the same circles.”

  “Was he at Nicolás’s party?”

  “No … hang on, let me think – actually, I believe he was. He was. Do you think he could have something do with the girls’ deaths?”

  “I really don’t know. Truthfully, I’ve no idea.”

  Ramiro walked back with her to the entrance.
They were outside saying goodbye when Verónica heard a voice she recognized calling her.

  “Verushka!”

  She turned round to see her friend María, a crime correspondent from a television channel based in Buenos Aires. They hadn’t seen each other for more than a year and greeted one another effusively, both surprised to be meeting again here. Verónica introduced Ramiro and noticed how María looked him up and down. They said goodbye to him and went to Amigo’s, the bar on the square, for a chat. On the way there, María asked if she was seeing Ramiro.

  “Not exactly.”

  “You’re lucky I arrived late, because I’d have him off you in ten minutes.”

  “Don’t play the femme fatale – we both know you’re married.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  María had been sent to cover the Tourist Murders, as the crime was being dubbed on TV news banners and in newspaper headlines.

  “So are you here for Nuestro Tiempo too? I saw that slimy creep Álex yesterday and he didn’t mention you.”

  “He’s got the cover story. I happened to be on vacation in the area, but I’ve decided to stay on and see what I can find out.”

  “There are lots of theories, luckily. If not, I don’t know how I’d fill the time. I’m on-air in an hour and I don’t stop until night. So long as the ratings are good, they’ll have me singing all day long.”

  “No rest for the wicked.”

  “I’m not complaining. Poor girls, imagine coming to this shithole only to get raped and murdered.”

  “There are vermin everywhere.”

  “Not just vermin. Evil bastards.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Look, since I started in this line of work I’ve seen more crimes than the dishy Dexter. And you can tell right away if someone’s been murdered in an outburst or an attack of jealousy or to cover something up. Generally, people kill to keep someone or something quiet: witnesses, accusers, cheats. That’s not what’s happening here. These two murders don’t silence anything. It’s more like they’re screaming.”

  “Screaming?”

  “When someone kills in the way the tourists were murdered, they don’t do it to hide a rape. They do it because they want to send a message to a particular audience. That’s why they were treated so viciously. It’s a mise en scène. A piece of mortuary theatre. Or, to put it another way, it’s like a text written on the body: if you can read it correctly, you’ll understand the message. Because someone is trying to say something here.”

  “A mafia-style message.”

  “I’d go much further. These are polysemic deaths. Apologies for using big words, but my years of university have to count for something.”

  “Polysemic is something that has multiple meanings,

  right?”

  “I had a teacher who used to say that metaphors are an explosion of meanings. Think of it this way: these deaths are an explosion of meanings. If you read them literally, you’re only going to see one part.”

  “The parts have to be put together.”

  “I’ll tell you something else: if you can find out who the message is directed to, which audience they wanted to show those bodies, we’ll find out who was responsible.”

  Verónica was surprised by how much María was telling her. She didn’t like to share her theories on stories. She never normally gave up what she had, but on this occasion she wasn’t there as a journalist. So she ventured to say to María:

  “A few years ago there was a similar crime, involving a girl from round here. They killed and raped her. Nobody went to prison. I’m wondering if there might be other similar cases and if anything links them.”

  “That wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Just then María’s phone rang. She looked to see who it was, then stepped outside to speak alone. She returned exultant.

  “A source. Well, DA Decaux. That guy likes cameras more than I like French fries. If you promise not to pass it on to any of the other channels, I’ve got something that may interest you. Use it in the magazine, if you like, because it’ll be old news by the time your piece hits the news stands. This afternoon they’re going to arrest a guy and accuse him of these crimes. Come with me if you like, and you can be there when it happens.”

  II

  “Everything will be tied up today.”

  “Have you spoken to the judge?”

  “DA Decaux signed the order. In a few hours they’ll arrest the culprit.”

  “Only one? This is the work of various people.”

  “Then the suspect will serve up his accomplices.”

  “I’ve seen Nicolás and Ramiro.”

  “Yes, I know. There’s a plane leaving for Buenos Aires tonight. Come back, and bring Verónica with you.”

  “I can’t see Verónica wanting to return.”

  “Talk her into it. There’s nothing more for her to do there.”

  As if the Rosenthals were easily talked into anything. Father and daughter were the most obstinate people you’d care to meet. Federico could try, but Verónica wasn’t going to want to go home until the last of the men responsible was locked up. And that afternoon they were only arresting one.

  What’s more, he knew nothing about what had happened to Peratta. His contact had told him there was no trace of the villain. Had he headed into the backcountry and bled to death? If so, they should have found the body by now. Peratta was clearly operating alone. But when Federico had tracked him down, the guy was throwing away his phone. Somebody had let him know Federico was after him. Why would El Gallo Miranda or Nick do something so stupid? Peratta was nothing more than a lowly hitman. Miranda and Nick wouldn’t want to create problems with anyone. Unless Mateo… It must be him. Mateo was a lawyer, so scruple-free. He was prepared to do anything for a bit of money or an iota of power. Mateo defended a lot of powerful criminals. He knew who would want to know about Peratta. If Federico had been in Buenos Aires he’d have had Mateo singing like a canary within twenty-four hours, but it was difficult from Tucumán. He would wait to see what Verónica did. If she decided to return, then he’d go for Mateo.

  Federico had arranged to meet the district attorney in a cafe in Coronel Berti. When he arrived, Decaux was finishing a telephone conversation. You could tell he was talking to a woman, because he was trying to sound seductive.

  “Case solved, my friend,” he said to Federico. “Today we’ve arrested the main suspect. Justice moves quickly in these parts, eh. You could learn from us in Buenos Aires.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.”

  “I’ve got something for you to pass on to Doctor Rosenthal’s daughter.” Decaux handed him a memory stick.

  “What’s on it?”

  “The photos that were on the Italian girl’s camera. I imagine she’d like a copy. She’s in quite a few of them.”

  Federico took the USB stick and considered it for a moment. The DA read his thoughts.

  “Don’t worry, the police haven’t seen these photos. If they got hold of them, they’d be on the cover of all the papers today, making trouble for young Rosenthal. Only the judge and I have seen them.”

  On the road from Coronel Berti to Yacanto del Valle, Federico wrestled with a moral dilemma. Should he look at the photos on the memory stick or just give it straight to Verónica? There was no security reason for seeing them – he couldn’t use that excuse. It would be simple voyeurism. He arrived at the Posada de Don Humberto and asked Mariano for Verónica.

  “She hasn’t got back yet. Is it true she’s no longer in any danger?”

  “No, it’s not true. We know the guy is wounded, but the gendarmerie still haven’t found him.”

  “Then we need to know where she is. Why don’t you call her?”

  At that moment, Verónica walked through the door. Federico felt disappointed: if she hadn’t appeared, he would have gone to his room to look at the photos. Now he felt obliged to hand over the USB stick straightaway. They went to sit at one of the tables in the dining room.
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  “The DA gave me this for you. It’s the photos Petra had in her camera. You’re in some of them.”

  “Have you seen them?”

  “What? Obviously not. They’re yours. The DA told me what’s in them. Only he and the judge saw them. Is there likely to be any image that could implicate you in the investigation?”

  “Fede, everything implicates me. I brought them here, I took them to a party, and I went off while they were slaughtered. If that’s not being implicated, I assure you no photo can make things worse for me. They’re just vacation snaps. Petra was going to send them to me by email.”

  “I wanted you to know there’s no news of Peratta.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He could have died in the hills, he could be hiding somewhere. In any case, I don’t think he stands much chance of getting to you.”

  Verónica asked him about the Bibi case. Federico had arranged to go to the courts in San Miguel de Tucumán the next day. He said that he still had no information but that he would get hold of some very soon. Then he told her:

  “They’re going to arrest a suspect today.”

  “Yes, I know. I ran into a journalist friend who’s going to be there when they arrest him. I’m going with her.”

  “Your father wants you back in Buenos Aires tonight.”

  “The last time my dad said something like that was when I was sixteen years old and going to a party and he told me not to come home late. Guess how much attention I paid him then.”

  “If you stay, I stay.”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to San Miguel de Tucumán. I may need to stay a couple of days there.”

  “I should go too. To the courts, about the Bibi case.”

  “Then let’s go together.”

  “Your boyfriend will get jealous.”

  Verónica didn’t answer him.

  Federico wrote an email to Doctor Rosenthal’s secretary. He said that he feared the case was going to become more complicated in the next few days. Verónica had got hold of some good information in this regard. And since she was staying to investigate, he would rather accompany her, in case of any complications.