V
Verónica called Patricia and described the material she had. She didn’t even have to explain that she wasn’t going to write the piece. Patricia told her that she had no available writers, but that she could get a freelance writer on it. She was going to suggest it to Rodolfo Corso. Shortly afterwards, she rang back to confirm that Corso had said yes, that he would arrive by bus the next day and that Verónica should wait to give him her notes and contacts.
“I told him to put ‘reportage’ on the invoice, rather than ‘investigative report’. That way they’ll pay him better.”
Verónica copied the videos from the memory stick onto her laptop and watched Nahuel plotting with the other criminals. She was surprised to see him with Nicolás.
Federico was right. Her life would no longer be in danger if she returned to Buenos Aires. Moreover, when the story broke, she would no longer be the only person investigating the case. She called Federico.
“Fede, Rodolfo Corso is arriving tomorrow afternoon. I’m going to meet him and hand over all my material. If you like, we can leave for San Miguel de Tucumán in the evening and then go from there to Buenos Aires.”
Verónica would only give the videos to María once Corso had touched base with all the contacts. It wouldn’t be right if the television reporters knew more than he did.
For a couple of hours she continued working on the article that was going to appear jointly under her and Juan Robson’s names. Then her phone rang. It was Ramiro.
She hesitated before answering. Should she curse him, tell him he was a shit, that she knew he had masterminded the crimes, that he had wanted to kill her? If she did all that, she would only succeed in frightening him off. On the fifth ring she answered, trying to make her voice sound as normal as possible.
“I heard they caught the men responsible.”
“That’s right.”
“Are you OK?”
“Just about.”
“Listen, Verónica, we’ve seemed to end up at loggerheads the last few times we’ve met. I don’t want something that started so well to end on a sour note.”
“No, of course not.”
“I’d like to invite you to lunch tomorrow at Club Náutico. Just the two of us. Can I come and pick you up at eleven o’clock?”
“That sounds great.”
“Just one thing, though: don’t swear at any of the members.”
After the call, Verónica felt a strange sensation. Neither anger, nor fear, nor doubt. She felt cheerfully surprised. Even if she had planned it herself, she couldn’t have organized this any better. It was exactly what she needed.
She wouldn’t say anything to Federico. She couldn’t tell him. Because she already had a plan, and he wasn’t part of it.
VI
It had turned out easier than expected. Ramiro called Doctor Zero and told him that the next day the hitman would need to be at Club Náutico before midday. He explained that they would go sailing first. When they got back, he would find an excuse to stay behind in the boathouse while she walked on along a path to the restaurant. That would be the ideal moment for the professional to do his job.
He stressed that this was the last opportunity. That this time they must not fail.
17 The Killing of Verónica Rosenthal
I
If somebody had asked Verónica Rosenthal that morning how long she had been in Yacanto del Valle, she wouldn’t have had a ready answer. She remembered all the things that had happened and the places she had been to, but her temporal awareness had compressed everything into one long day: from the moment Ramiro had waited for her beside the road until now, as she prepared for their final meeting, time had contracted and it seemed as though only a few hours had passed. Certain days she recalled only through a kind of haze, containing the unreal shapes of a dream. And, as in dreams, familiar faces appeared out of context: her father walking through Yacanto del Valle, her friend María drinking coffee in the town bar, Robson with his infinite brown envelopes, Federico’s naked body underneath her. All those things couldn’t really have happened. She must have fallen asleep beside the road that first day and be waking up now, a few hours later. But no: she really was waiting for Ramiro. And only he seemed real to her, solid. She saw now exactly what had happened. There were no doubts. She knew who had done what. And so she waited for Ramiro, thinking of nothing apart from their meeting, her mind working at an unusual speed. She could foresee every situation, every movement that might happen in the hours ahead. Her brain ran through the scenes over and over again, clarifying them with each pass, putting every sentence in its place. She was waiting for Ramiro. And Ramiro came to pick her up, to take her to Club Náutico.
Federico wasn’t with her. Perhaps he was in the hotel bar. If so – and if she happened to run into him – she would be obliged to invent an excuse that was bound to seem as implausible to him as it was unacceptable.
Mariano had been waiting for her on the landing. He had taken her arm with an unusual firmness and asked her what she was doing.
“I’m going to meet Ramiro.”
“Verónica, you’re about to do something disastrous. You’re putting yourself in danger. He’s Nahuel’s brother.”
Verónica released her arm.
“I don’t need advice. We’re grown-ups, right?”
“Don’t do this.”
Mariano didn’t understand anything, couldn’t understand. Nobody, apart from her, could feel what she felt at that moment.
She reached the reception area. There was Ramiro in chinos, a brown polo shirt with pink trim, and boat shoes. He kissed her on the cheek and they walked together to the pickup.
II
They didn’t talk much in the car. The radio was tuned to an FM station playing syrupy music. As soon as they left Yacanto, the signal died and Ramiro tried to tune into another station. But they couldn’t get any programme for long and they ended up listening to a show about aromatherapy and runes. Their conversation was mostly confined to observations about the plight of a local radio presenter.
A brilliant sun picked out the colours of the landscape, the trees, the limpid pond. They parked in the shade and got out, stretching their legs and breathing in the scent of nature. It was a perfect day for a country jaunt or a boat trip. A light autumnal breeze took the edge off the sun’s heat.
Verónica’s phone rang. Federico’s name appeared on the screen. She didn’t answer, switching the ringtone to vibrate. Seconds later the screen registered another missed call from Federico.
On weekdays the club was almost empty, with just a few members moving lazily around the facilities. Some sunbathed on the bar terrace, while others supervised repairs to their boats. The rowers who trained in the morning had already finished their session and the second group wouldn’t arrive until dusk. It was still a long time until lunch.
They strolled through the grounds to the boathouse. Ramiro wanted to go out on the lake before lunch, and that seemed like a good idea to Verónica.
One of the boys who worked there took the boat to the lake. Ramiro got on first then gave his hand to help Verónica. She registered his warm skin, soft, a little damp, like the pelt of a trained seal. Instinctively she wiped her hand on the linen trousers she was wearing. He asked her if she would like to take the helm. Verónica settled into the driver’s seat, started the engine and narrowly avoided the last of the rowers arriving at the shoreline. She glanced at her phone: five missed calls from Federico.
“I practically hit a rower,” she said, as the boat moved away from the jetty. “Your brother’s into rowing, isn’t he?”
“That’s right,” said Ramiro, standing beside her, his eyes closed and his face tilted towards the sun.
“To think it could have been him. How awful if I’d hit him.”
Ramiro didn’t answer, silently basking in the sun while she struggled to control the boat. He seemed relaxed, calm, even happy.
“Hey, did your brother manage to arrange that abo
rtion?” Veronica asked him after a few minutes.
“Which abortion?”
“The last time we came to the club you told me he’d asked you for some money so his girlfriend could get an abortion.”
Ramiro seemed to search his memory before answering. “True, I did say that.” He opened his eyes and looked at her. “Actually, I lied. He asked me for money, but not for that. He needed to help some friends.”
From where they were, the shore was a line in the distance. There was no noise apart from the boat’s engine. They could see no other vessel around them. Verónica made a little circle and turned off the engine. Now the only sound was of waves lapping against the side of the boat.
She had a text message from Federico that read Where are you? Please reply.
“I wouldn’t call them friends,” said Verónica, stepping out of the driver’s seat to sit at the back of the boat. Ramiro, standing against the sun, was almost a shadow.
“Call them whatever you like. Friends, lackeys, accomplices.”
Verónica stretched her legs. She looked at her toes in their sandals and thought that it had been a very long time since she’d painted her toenails. She should do it again.
“Did Nahuel come up with the idea of raping and killing them, or was it your idea?”
Ramiro looked at her with amusement. He produced a brief, guttural laugh. “I always said you were crazy.”
“Nahuel doesn’t have the head for this kind of thing, does he? It was you.”
“Tourists from Buenos Aires or from abroad were bound to get more attention than a couple of girls from round here.”
“And you didn’t worry that Nicolás might report you and you could end up in jail?”
“In jail? On account of Nicolás and his old cocksucker dad? No.”
“The foreign girls were a guarantee of success.”
“Nahuel wanted them to take you. I saved you.”
“I should be thanking you then.”
“I thought it would be good to have a journalist to put pressure on the rest of the media. I imagined you crying on all the TV shows. I didn’t think you were going to go sticking your nose in everywhere once you were back in Yacanto.”
“You thought wrongly.”
“You should have cried more, stayed at home, made love to me. Today we’d be planning our wedding party.”
To make love. That expression had always seemed ridiculous to her, but on Ramiro’s lips it disgusted her.
“Do you remember Roxana Lombardo?”
“Who’s she?”
“She’s a girl you were seeing six years ago, when El Gringo Aráoz killed Bibiana Ponce. Roxana was her best friend and used to make love to you.”
“Ah, the little dark-skinned one. I remember.”
“Roxana’s going to testify against El Gringo. And we have a recording of calls your friend made to Bibiana before he killed her. He’s going to wind up in jail.”
“El Gringo is an idiot, but I doubt he’ll go to prison.”
“And we have video of your brother with his three chums. There’s even a video of the same room you took me to. Nicolás is in it with Nahuel, and your brother announces what he’s going to do. I didn’t know your brother was a hustler.”
Ramiro sketched a cold smile loaded with violence. His brother’s homosexuality must be a touchy subject. How long now until he tried to hit her? Verónica tried to appear relaxed, but all her senses were alert.
Answer me. I’m looking for you. Pick up your phone.
“I bet the fact your brother was making love to Nicolás fed your desire to destroy the son of the Minister of Justice, didn’t it? You wanted revenge on a faggot like Nicolás for perverting your brother. Such a handsome boy. Seemed like a waste.”
“Are you a psychologist too now?”
“You planned everything, and you sent Nahuel to be present during the rape. I’m still not sure whether you did that as a punishment or because you wanted to re-educate him sexually.”
“I should have let them rape and murder you, too.”
“You met Federico, right? Do you know what he’s going to do? He’s going to offer Nahuel’s three friends a chance to testify to your or your brother’s participation in the crime, in exchange for better treatment. Obviously he can’t offer them a lighter sentence, because that doesn’t exist here. But there are ways to ensure that their prison conditions are improved and their families supported. I don’t know what you can offer them, but he’ll go one better.”
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to have shown my face to those three? They don’t even know I exist. The most they can do is make trouble for my brother, but not me.”
“If you were that smart, you’d have realized a long time ago that your brother was a pansy.”
“You know what makes me happy?” Ramiro asked her as he stood up. He was a shadow with no face, a silhouette without features. “It makes me happy knowing that soon you won’t be able to fuck me around any more. Anyway, it’s time we went back.”
All the time they were speaking, her body had been tense. Waiting for Ramiro’s reaction, for him to lose his temper, lunge at her, hit her. But he had stayed calm, controlling his hatred with the restraint of a man who knows something the other person doesn’t. Ramiro had all the composure of a man used to going through life without ever having to face the consequences of his actions. How involved had he been in Bibiana’s death? Had there been other women murdered like Frida and Petra? Other rapes? How many women had he humiliated the way he’d humiliated Roxana? Ramiro kept his composure because he felt untouchable, above the law. No, he wasn’t going to attack her on this boat. A wave of fury swept from her unvarnished toenails and up through her entire body. Then Verónica acted. She did what she had known she was going to do since the night before. With the agility of a threatened feline, she stood up and threw herself at him. The surprise knocked Ramiro off balance as he prepared to intercept Verónica’s blows. But she wasn’t planning to hit him – that wasn’t why she had lunged at him. As though pressing forward in a rugby scrum, she pushed him a few feet and made him lose his balance. Stumbling, he tried to grab something, but with her remaining strength, Verónica pushed a little more and Ramiro fell into the water.
The accompanying noise broke the peaceful silence of the lake. Water splashed Verónica, who was kneeling, her hands on the edge of the boat. One of Ramiro’s shoes had got caught on the side. It was the only thing of his left on board. Verónica went to the driver’s seat, started up the engine and drove forward a few feet.
“What are you doing, bitch?” Ramiro shouted at her from the water.
Verónica turned the boat round and steered it towards Ramiro, who was still splashing about, more calmly now he could see she was coming back. But when it reached him, the boat continued onwards, again distancing itself a few feet in the opposite direction.
“Help me get in!” he shouted at her.
Verónica reversed a little, enough to bring her very close to Ramiro’s position.
“You’re not getting in,” she told him.
“What do you mean, you whore?”
“You’re a fucking low life. You deserve everything bad.”
Ramiro watched her, still moving his arms. “Come on, Verónica, this isn’t funny.”
Ramiro swam towards the boat; Verónica drove it a few feet further on.
“Are you crazy?”
“You’re a murderer, like your brother, like the other three. You’re all bastards.”
“If you don’t let me get in, I’m going to drown.”
“You don’t deserve to live.”
“OK, we fucked up.” Ramiro’s voice was sounding panicky. He stretched his body out on the lake’s surface as though trying to lift more of it out of the water.
“No, you didn’t fuck up. You killed two women. You fucking scumbags, you low-life pieces of shit.”
“You’ve won. Let me get in and I’ll give myself up. I’ll go to the judge a
nd take full responsibility.”
“Piece of shit.”
Ramiro made an effort to close the gap between himself and the boat. Verónica waited for him and, as he touched the side of the boat, she drove forward again, keeping the same distance between them.
“I can’t hold on any longer. Let me get in!”
“You deserve to be impaled, to have your dick and your balls cut off and stuffed in your mouth.”
“Come on, please, my arms are dropping off.”
Verónica looked around: a speedboat or some other vessel had left the boathouse but was travelling in the opposite direction. They were a spot in the distance, a boat that had stopped to enjoy the stillness of the lake and the glorious sunshine. Slowly Verónica circled Ramiro, like a shark that knows its prey cannot escape. Ramiro tried to follow her with his eyes.
“Verónica,” he said in a broken voice, “you’re not a murderer.”
“They were two beautiful, sweet, good, intelligent girls. Two girls who would still be alive if it weren’t for scum like you.”
“You’re right! I can’t last much longer. Please…”
Verónica steered the boat a bit closer and turned off the engine. This wasn’t like shooting him or running him over – not even poisoning someone would be like this. In those cases, the act of killing lasted a second: the time it took to shoot, to drive a car over someone’s body, for poison to start taking its course. But this way she could change her mind. There was time. There he was, begging her. She could reach out and help him to climb in. She could simply throw him a life jacket.
“Please,” Ramiro sobbed.
“Murderer, fucking piece of shit.”
“I can’t feel my legs,” he said, terrified.
“You’re going to die because you’re a nasty piece of work.”
The Foreign Girls Page 33
