Robson had managed to expunge from his memory everything about the case, until now. These last thirty years he had not lost sleep, not even once, thinking about the crime against that girl. But his memory must have salted the story away in some dark recess of his mind. Now he remembered perfectly what had happened.
The story had reached his paper’s newsroom via the police at Yacanto del Valle. It was one of those crimes that move the public: a young girl was raped, murdered and thrown out of a vehicle on the side of a road in a small town. Robson wrote a short report with the information available at that point and set off for Yacanto the next day. He spoke to the girl’s family, her friends and even a witness who had seen a Ford van dropping off a bundle which later proved to be the body. The witness had taken a licence plate number. All the evidence, the observations of family and friends, and a simple check on the national vehicle register led to the same person: army captain Guillermo Aráoz. Even the chief superintendent at Yacanto, Roberto Gatti, had confirmed to him that Aráoz was deeply involved.
At that time the dictatorship still had a year left to run, but it had entered its final phase and it was no longer impossible to accuse a military man of a common crime. And yet Tucumán was a difficult province; the transition to democracy would not be simple there. When Robson returned to the newsroom with all the material he needed to write the article, his editor stopped him short. He told him that the piece was not going to appear in the newspaper. There was an argument which ultimately Robson lost. He had one card left – that Chief Superintendent Gatti or the investigating judge might themselves move towards arresting Aráoz – but that day never came. And gradually he forgot about it, other cases came along, other murders, robberies and scams. A time came when he no longer remembered it. Until now.
He still saw Gatti because the chief superintendent had been promoted soon afterwards and had to move to San Miguel de Tucumán. They never talked about the case. Gatti had retired a few years before him, but Robson had his home phone number. After Verónica Rosenthal’s visit, he had called him and asked if they could meet for a chat. They had arranged to meet in a bar on Calle San Martín. They hadn’t seen each other for nearly five years.
Gatti was the same as ever, as vigorous and bad-tempered as when he was chief superintendent. Robson didn’t beat around the bush but immediately brought up the case neither of them had investigated, expecting Gatti to have a convenient memory lapse. He was sure the ex-cop would claim not to remember the crime – but that wasn’t what happened.
“The Rinaldi girl. I remember it very well.”
“Captain Aráoz did it.”
“Yes, of course. A nasty piece of work, that Aráoz. He didn’t want me in Yacanto del Valle. That’s why they sent me to San Miguel.”
“I thought they’d rewarded you for keeping your mouth shut.”
“It was a kind of reward, but it was also because Aráoz didn’t want me there. I’d found out too much about the Rinaldi murder and the old soldier couldn’t forgive me.”
“So what was it you’d found out?”
“Bear with me, pal. I already have a touch of Alzheimer’s and I don’t remember everything.”
That wasn’t true. Over the following hour Gatti recounted all the details of his investigation and the conclusions to which he had come.
It seemed Aráoz saw it as his right, his droit de seigneur, to do whatever he wanted with the girls working on his land. Claudia had refused to go with him on more than one occasion, as her family had testified. One afternoon, Claudia was returning to the place where she lived with her parents and siblings, and she met Aráoz on the way. He forced her to get into his pickup. A maid who worked at the Aráoz house – a friend of Rinaldi’s mother – saw how he locked the girl in an old shed they didn’t use any more. She also heard the girl shouting. Aráoz ordered that no one go near the shed. The maid, who lived in quarters connected to the main house, heard Aráoz setting off in his pickup at dawn. Soon afterwards he dumped the body at the side of the road, not realizing that a local man who knew the area had seen him and memorized the licence plate.
“Listen, Gatti, if everything you’ve told me had to be legally corroborated because it’s going to appear in an article, would you be willing to do that?”
“Are you going back to journalism?”
“No, I’m not, but there’s a person who’s interested in revisiting the case.”
“I’m going to look like a piece of crap, but never mind. I’m old now and I’ve been washed up for a while. Yes, I’ll happily repeat all this to whoever you like.”
Back home, Robson wrote the Rosenthal girl a long email with all the information Gatti had supplied him. It was everything she would need. He wasn’t brave enough to confess to her that he could have written that article thirty years ago.
IV
It was already starting to get dark by the time Federico arrived at Nicolás’s house. He had called him before setting off and found him still as jittery as he had been that morning. Federico didn’t tell Verónica where he was going or why. He still wasn’t entirely sure what his next steps would be or how to proceed.
This time, the maid led him to a kind of studio. Nicolás was sitting looking at a laptop screen but stood up when he saw Federico and came forward to shake his hand, then directed him to a chair on the other side of the desk. He returned to his own seat and they sat face to face, with the Apple logo in Federico’s eyeline.
“I can’t stand this any longer,” Nicolás said.
Federico remained silent.
“I’ve got all the TV stations talking about me, my house, my party. They’re treating me as though I were the murderer.”
“That was always a possibility once it became known that the guilty parties worked here.”
“Even that Rosenthal girl’s rag said it was me.”
Federico thought it unnecessary to explain that the magazine didn’t actually belong to Verónica.
“They’re trying to pin those murders on me. On my family. Do you understand?”
“But why would they do that?”
“My dad’s involved with some sensitive material and they wanted to send him a message.”
“Because of the narco police case?”
“They’ve been wanting to get him for a long time. And now, with all this mayhem, they’ve managed to get the governor to withdraw his support and ask for my father’s resignation.”
“Because of the girls’ deaths?”
“What else do you expect the governor to do if the Secretary of Justice’s son is implicated in a double murder?”
Nicolás opened a drawer in his desk, took out a memory stick and passed it to Federico.
“But I’m not going to just sit here and take it. We know very well who gave the order for this shitshow.”
He paused for a few seconds then continued:
“When the police came, they demanded the security cameras. They took the ones from the entrance by the security booth, plus the ones that were inside the house on the landing and another from the back patio.”
“From what I’ve heard, there’s nothing significant on any of the tapes.”
“There are things that are hard to explain.”
“Nicolás, it doesn’t make sense at this stage to keep anything you know secret.”
“I’m aware of that. That’s why I’m giving you the memory stick. There’s a copy there of recordings from other cameras.”
“Which the police didn’t see?”
“They’re not out in the open. They’re not security cameras. They’re – how can I put this? – concealed.”
“You mean they’re for spying?”
“Something like that. They’re all over the house. The ones of interest here are in the men’s changing room and in my room. I’ve saved the relevant frames on the memory stick.”
Nicolás turned the screen of his laptop to face Federico and opened up the video player. Images appeared from a changing room. T
he resolution was much higher than with a security camera.
“The first images are from the night of the party. There are a few frames before and after that prove the recording is from that day. I haven’t copied them for you because I’m not interested in giving you legal proof. This is something else.”
The footage also had sound, although loud music obscured everything. On the screen two men appeared, recognizable from photos Federico had seen: they were the brothers Vázquez. They didn’t speak to each other but seemed to be waiting for something. Presently a third man, Reyes, appeared, greeted them and stayed in the frame. Then a few minutes later a fourth man arrived, a young guy Federico didn’t recognize. Nicolás paused the video.
“Nahuel Elizalde. Ramiro’s younger brother.”
“So…?”
“What follows is a conversation with Nahuel. A day before the party.”
The screen no longer showed the changing rooms, but a bedroom. The scene could be from a decadent theatre play: a lavish room; a man sitting in his underwear on the edge of a bed, holding his head in an apparent gesture of worry or pain. On the other side of it, a man came out of the bathroom wearing nothing but boxer shorts. The seated man was Nicolás. The standing one, Nahuel. Unlike the previous video, this one had perfect sound. Putting on his jeans and white T-shirt, Nahuel said:
“You have to see that your dad’s fucking all of us over, not only my cousin in prison. I don’t give a fuck about the Posadas. There’s a lot of money at stake here and other people who need to be handled. This is a total clusterfuck.”
“You know there’s nothing I can do.”
“Either you stop him, or we stop him.”
“Don’t threaten me.”
“Your dad is getting to be a pain.”
Nicolás stopped the video.
“So Nahuel was the one who organized everything?” Federico asked, and Nicolás laughed.
“Nahuel? No, Nahuel couldn’t organize a dolls’ tea party. As a friend of mine says, he’s all brawn and no brain.”
“Ramiro Elizalde?”
“Ramiro’s had it in for me for years. He thinks I perverted his brother. He actually used that word to me once: perverted. And he likes conspiracy theories, orchestrating manoeuvres that make him feel like a Machiavelli or a political genius. He’s just some dickhead who thinks he’s important because he can name three artists off the top of his head.”
“When Nahuel said they were going to do something about your father, they didn’t know anything about the existence of the tourists at that stage.”
“I imagine the original plan was to pick one of the girls at the party. The Europeans were probably chosen at the last moment. They must have thought that would get more coverage in the papers and on television. There’s another video that shows how Ramiro separated the tourists from Rosenthal’s daughter.”
Nicolás clicked Play and there was Verónica, wearing a short white dress, kissing Ramiro in the same room where Nicolás and Nahuel had been before. The same music as in the first video could be heard but seemed to be coming from further away. They kissed, she tried to steer him towards the bed. He resisted and suggested going to his house. She hesitated because she didn’t want to leave the girls alone at the party, but finally agreed.
“They wrecked my life,” said Nicolás in the same pitiable tone he had used when talking to Nahuel in the other video. “They’ve ruined me for ever.”
Federico nodded, but he wasn’t listening any more.
V
Federico came out of Nicolás’s house reeling like a drunkard, his mind befuddled, his step uncertain, overcome by a sensation of not being entirely sure where he was, nor where he had to go or what he had to do. He got into his car and sat for a few minutes, gripping the steering wheel without starting the engine. As he finally drove away, he decided not to go to the hotel. Instead he parked near the square and started to walk. It was already dark and there weren’t many people in the street. He had the memory stick in his coat pocket and kept feeling it to be sure it was still there.
Seeing Verónica so beautiful, so dressed up, so into another man, had left him devastated. He mustn’t be weak. He must focus on what was important. The memory stick was Nicolás’s last chance both to extricate himself from the maelstrom of accusations and to save his father – although that would be difficult. The videos weren’t for him but for Aarón. Even the one with Verónica. It was almost a mafioso message: I have more videos of your daughter. Either you help me, or I’ll make them public.
Federico walked to the square and leaned against a tree. He called Aarón and told him he had the videos. He explained what was in the first two, but decided to say nothing about the video with Verónica in it.
“What idiots they are,” said Aarón, clearly furious. “Posadas senior and Menéndez Berti senior should have been able to reach an agreement without all this nonsense.”
“Aarón, the nonsense includes the rape and murder of two women.”
“Yes, of course. They’re completely useless. If I weren’t friends with their fathers, I’d see to it they rot in jail.”
Federico made a mental note of Aarón’s decision: the Elizalde brothers weren’t going to prison. Aarón was still talking.
“On top of everything, Judge Amalfi is obsessed with screwing over Menéndez Berti and locking up his son. But with the evidence we have in these videos, he’s going to have to back off if he doesn’t want the Elizaldes to go down.”
“He won’t want that.”
“Of course not, Amalfi isn’t an idiot. I’m worried about the DA. He’s one of those types who like to build their careers on media exposure. I don’t like people like that.”
Federico walked over to an empty bench and sat down. He felt weary.
“This is what we’re going to do, Federico. The murder of the young women can’t go unpunished. We’ve got rapists and murderers here and they must go to prison. Justice must find the three fugitives. The name of Menéndez Berti must be cleared.”
“Menéndez Berti senior.”
“The idiot son who keeps having parties.”
“Would you like me to speak to the judge, and to the DA?”
“No, I’ll do that first thing tomorrow. What I want from you is to ensure that nobody, but nobody, gets hold of those videos. There must be nothing that incriminates the Elizaldes, understood?”
“Yes, Aarón.”
“When I say ‘nobody’, I mean Verónica. She doesn’t even need to know these videos exist. Bring them to the office and we’ll keep them safe.”
It wouldn’t be the first time Aarón had stored compromising evidence. His safe was like a Pandora’s box: many people feared it and the success of Rosenthal and Associates was partly built on it. Aarón knew when to bring his paperwork out of the dark vault. It was a collection of aces, giving him a winning hand in courtroom poker.
“Come back to Buenos Aires tomorrow. Bring the memory stick and take a few days off. Try to persuade Verónica to come back too. There’s nothing more to investigate now.”
And before hanging up, Aarón said for the third time:
“Verónica mustn’t find out about any of this.”
Federico didn’t return to his car but walked instead to the hotel. He had to think hard what to do. But however much he tried to get his ideas straight, he couldn’t get away from the fact that he stood between Verónica and Aarón. There was no solution that didn’t involve betraying one of them. Conflict of interests, he thought.
Verónica was in the hotel restaurant. It was already dinner time and she was waiting for him.
“Where have you been? Mariano and Luca want us to eat with them.”
He invented an excuse about the firm (after all, what he had been doing for the last few hours did have something to do with Rosenthal and Associates). It was lucky they were with Mariano and Luca; that way the conversation could be steered in a less awkward direction. At any rate, Verónica seemed very happy, because
she had received a long email from Robson. She was thinking of writing an article about Aráoz senior and his part in a case that had been long forgotten and would now never be brought to justice. It wouldn’t be the same, but at least she could ensure nobody forgot who was guilty of the death of a young woman murdered in the early 1980s.
“See?” Verónica said to Federico. “There are some things the law does badly that journalism can do well.”
“I’m not your daddy, don’t start on that with me,” he answered, mentally kicking himself for being the one to bring up Aarón and his fights with his daughter.
Luca went back and forth between dining room and kitchen. He himself had prepared the dishes they chose from the menu: pâté with cognac, braised lamb and chocolate meringue profiteroles – not exactly a light meal. They spent a long time at the table afterwards, their conversation accompanied by plenty of wine.
Back in their room, Verónica collapsed onto the bed while Federico had a shower. When he came out, she was asleep. Federico tried to make no noise. He turned out the light and got into bed. A moment later she got up and went to the bathroom then asked him very quietly, on her return, if he was asleep. Federico was awake but said nothing. Soon afterwards he heard Verónica’s steady breathing.
He had to make a decision and act on it. He wasn’t going to go home the next day, as he had promised Aarón. He would stay on until he could be sure Verónica was safe from Peratta. He wouldn’t tell Verónica about the memory stick. The Elizaldes could breathe easy.
The Foreign Girls Page 29
