by Rodolfo Peña
Victor Delgado was dead, two senators were dead, and three foreign agents, too—yet the world, the country, the city, or the system was neither the wiser nor the better for his having “solved” the case. Political power struggles would continue to grind people up, the drug trade would continue to produce dozens of deaths a month, and little people caught between the factions fighting for power and money would continue to get hurt and killed.
He looked down at his empty, battered desk. It was ready for the next guy to come and sit here and receive the phone calls that would take him out to see the dead, and the crimes, and the mayhem of a society spinning out of control. And he or she would be just as powerless as he was to do anything about it.
“Twenty-five years,” he said aloud. “What a colossal waste of time.”
Lombardo walked out of the Investigations Department for the last time.
Lombardo went home and had lunch while watching an old movie in which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers were gliding smoothly over a dance floor to Irving Berlin’s music.
Lombardo liked old movies; he thought they were the only thing worth watching on television. He fell asleep to the strains of “Cheek to Cheek” and dreamt he was in a theater watching the movie and that people were complaining that it was in black and white and not in color so he had to stand up and tell them to shut up and let him watch the movie, but a car horn kept blaring: blat! blat! blat!
He woke up—the intermittent sound was the alarm clock he had set to go off at 3:30 p.m.
He washed his face and brushed his teeth quickly, then brushed his hair down as best he could. He threw off this wrinkled long-sleeved shirt and tie and put on a polo shirt. As he walked out of the house and to the avenue to look for a taxi, he felt almost naked without a suit on—and without a gun. It had been a long time since he had been without them on a weekday.
As he walked up to the door of the house he looked at his watch; it was precisely 4 p.m. He felt strangely uneasy, like a teenager going to pick up a date for the first time. He was angry with himself for feeling like that and even angrier that he had not worn his coat and tie and hat. It would have made things look more formal, not like a social visit.
“I’m a moron,” he said, despairing at the lack of understanding for the feelings and ideas he was experiencing.
He rang the doorbell and since the door was not opened right away, he thought of walking away and calling later. “Perhaps I missed you or maybe you were having a nap,” he would say. But before he could turn away the door opened.
Lombardo was so astonished by what he saw that he blinked and said nothing for a few seconds. There was Mrs. Delgado, in a light yellow, sleeveless dress, with one strap over her left shoulder and the other hanging down over her right arm; a large, yellow pin held her hair into a knot, leaving her light brown shoulders and neck visible. She was the most beautiful woman Lombardo had ever seen.
“I’m sorry I took so long to answer the door,” she said. “I was in the back washing some things.” She wiped her hands with a small towel before she extended one to greet him.
“I’m sorry, I, uh, could come back if you’re busy,” he said apologetically.
“No, no, please come in, Captain.”
They sat down in the small living room. She sat in an easy chair and busied herself folding the towel neatly; Lombardo sat on the small sofa opposite. He wished he could smoke. For some reason, he felt nervous.
“You said you had some news about my husband’s case,” she said when she saw he would not start the conversation.
“Yes, yes, I do.” He leaned back to try to appear a bit more comfortable and said, “I found the three men who, uh, who were responsible for your husband’s, uh, tragic…”
“Have you arrested them, Captain?”
“No, I’m afraid that that is impossible; you see, all three are now dead.”
She sat quietly looking at him without a trace of emotion before she said, “How did they die?”
“You might have heard in the news about three foreigners, two Americans and one Canadian, who tried to, uh, well, they did not stop when signaled to do so at a roadblock the Army had set up somewhere in the border between Jalisco and Zacatecas. According to reports, they fired at the soldiers and the soldiers fired back, killing all three men.”
“That’s horrible,” she said looking down, “and very strange.”
“I would add convenient,” Lombardo commented.
“Why do you say that, Captain?”
“Because they belonged, or at least they were hired, by a law enforcement organization in the United States. It would have been very embarrassing to them if I had arrested these men and charges had been brought against them.”
“So, you think they were killed for that?”
“Well, according to the Army report, there were drugs in the car, which might have been the reason they tried to run the roadblock.”
“Do you believe that?”
“No, I don’t. But I have no way of proving otherwise.”
She looked at him steadily with a gaze that seemed to say she wanted to hear the truth of her next question: “Why did they kill my husband? Do you know?”
“Yes, I do.” He wished more than ever that he could smoke. “I think it was an accident.”
“How was it an accident?” she said with a trace of annoyance in her voice.
“You see, Victor was helping a group of people, politicians and businessmen who wanted the government to legalize drugs. He wasn’t doing anything wrong or illegal; he was just keeping their information safe, you see.” He was trying to find words that made the stupidity of her husband’s horrible death as understandable as possible.
“The people that opposed the legalization of drugs wanted to steal that information.”
“Why? What did they want with it?
“I don’t really know all the facts; perhaps they wanted to know the names of all the people who were in the legalization group or perhaps they wanted to use it to expose some of the more influential members through the media. As I said, I can only speculate on what they planned to do with it.”
“So, why did they harm Victor?”
“I don’t need to tell you, Mrs. Delgado, that Victor was very conscientious about his job. When he found out that the information was in danger, so to speak, he safeguarded it by encrypting it—making it impossible for anyone to read without having a certain code.
“Is that what was in the paper I gave you?”
“Yes, that was part of it. Because, you see, this encryption scheme needs two ‘keys,’ as the computer people call them. One is to encrypt the information and the other is to decrypt it; that is, to make it readable again. You had the key to encrypt it, and Victor had the other key, the one to decrypt, which he meant to give to the Dean of the University, but, he, uh, never got the chance to do so.”
“So, these men were trying to get this key from Victor?”
“Yes, that’s why they abducted him.” He decided not to give her the ugly details of his death, so he just said, “They were questioning him when he died—probably his heart gave out.”
For the first time since he had met her, he saw her display emotions. She picked up the folded towel and covered her face. Her shoulders heaved, gently marking her silent sobs.
Lombardo wished he could take her in his arms and console her. He looked for his cigarettes and found he had left them in his coat pocket.
He felt guilty that he had used the excuse of bringing her news about her husband’s case to see her again. All he had done was cause her more pain. Nervously wringing his hands he said, “I’m very sorry for having told you all of this, Mrs. Delgado. Perhaps I should not have…”
“No,” she said regaining her quiet composure, “in fact, I thank you for coming here to tell me. So many people in this country go without knowing what happened to their loved ones with all of these crimes that happen every day. It is horrible not knowing. You see, they gave him to us
in a sealed coffin so we could not even say good-bye properly.”
“I understand,” said Lombardo. He decided to soften the facts even further by saying, “If it is any comfort, Mrs. Delgado, the doctor who performed the autopsy told me that he had not suffered. He probably had a heart condition he was not aware of and his heart, as I said, just gave out.”
She looked past Lombardo to the window, as if trying to remember something and said, “He was a very gentle man. The last thing one could imagine about him was that he would be involved in any sort of violent act. He was always trying to help others. He was that kind of a man.” She had regained her soft voice when she added, “When I went to the University to retrieve his personal things, everyone had nothing but good words, kind words to say about him.”
Lombardo was relieved that she had given him the opportunity to change subjects. “Yes, as everyone I have met, too.” Lombardo remembered the fact that the Director of the Computer Center had promised to help her out financially. “By the way, Mrs. Delgado, has the University arranged to have his insurance and other benefits paid to you?”
“Yes, they have, Captain. It seems that once again he has come to my rescue. I don’t know what I would have done if Victor had not helped me when I lost my job. My family, my friends, everyone seemed to have turned away. But not Victor. He was more of a man than a lot of others...” She did not finish the sentence but Lombardo understood what she had left unsaid. Then she added, “Now it seems that once more he is looking out for me.”
“That brings up something I would like to ask you, Mrs. Delgado. We found Victor’s car by the, uh, by the Presa de la Boca. It’s been impounded as evidence but I am sure they would release it now. Would you like me to help you recover it?”
“Yes, I would appreciate it, Captain. I don’t want it, but perhaps I can sell it. We will need the money now…” she said trailing off.
Lombardo tried to put it as delicately as he could when he asked, “Are you going to be all right, Mrs. Delgado? I mean, will you be able…”
“Yes, yes,” she said, “the University has provided a small stipend and they offered a scholarship for the boy when he comes of age. There is also a small amount from his insurance policy. I’m sure that will suffice until I can get a job.”
“Do you own or do you rent your house?” he asked.
“We, uh, the house is rented. I will have to move out—look for something less expensive; with the kind of job I can expect to get I wouldn’t be able to stay here.”
Again he struggled to find words that would not seem offensive to her. She had probably been offered ‘help’ enough times to be wary of ‘the kindness of strangers.’ “Mrs. Delgado, please don’t misunderstand what I am going to say, but, you see, I have been, uh, requested, or allowed, if you will, to retire early. The last day of the month will be the last day I work in the Investigations Department.”
“I am glad for you, Captain, because that is very dangerous work.”
“Yes, but my point is, you see, that I plan to go away for a while.” He made up the lie as he went along. “I have always wanted to travel, and never had the chance, so, I am thinking of going to, uh, France and other places.
The thing is, I have a house. It is mine and I would hate to leave it alone, you know how houses seem to deteriorate when left alone, but I don’t want to rent it either. I don’t need the money and then having to collect the rent or seeing to problems that the renters encounter would just be a nuisance.
What I am saying is, you are welcome to have the house, free of rent for as long as you want. It is not a big house, but I am sure you would be as comfortable as you are here.”
She said nothing so he added, “And, there are no conditions or other, that is, I am not expecting anything in return.”
She looked at him steadily and she seemed to understand his meaning.
“Thank you very much, Captain. I will consider your offer very, very seriously. With the boy growing up I am going to need all the help I can get. The jobs they offer a woman in this city, that is, what I can get, since I don’t have my degree, are very…”
“I understand, Señora,” he said and she looked up, as if startled at the very formal way he had addressed her.
“What is your first name, Captain Lombardo?”
“Guillermo,” he answered; it was his turn to be surprised.
“My name is Laura,” she said. “It’s five o’clock. I will have to wake up my son in another half-hour. Would you like a cup of coffee before you have to go, Guillermo?”
When Lombardo left her house a couple of hours later, he was elated. It was a full five minutes before he could tell the taxi driver where he wanted to go. He sat in the taxi staring ahead and wondering, speculating what it all meant. She had asked for his first name. He could not believe it.
“Señor,” said the driver, “if you don’t tell me where you want to go you will have to get out of the taxi.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was just thinking of something. Please take me to the Aeroméxico office, downtown.” As the taxi started off, he thought, “I guess I’ll just have to go to France now.”
Epilogue: The More Things Change…
After having received from Aeroméxico a quote on a return trip to Europe—arriving in Paris and returning through Madrid—Lombardo checked his bank account and guessed he could stay in France and Spain two or three months without worry, if he was a bit frugal in his spending.
He wanted to give Laura (how happy he was to be able to finally call her by her first name) enough time to settle her business and move into his house.
He made plans to go to France within a month, which is the time she said she needed to arrange her affairs and give her landlord notice. He had asked her to visit the house at her convenience and decide what furniture she wanted removed from the house and what she found useful and wanted to keep.
After she had seen the house and taken stock of what was in it, much to Lombardo’s delight, she said she preferred to sell most of her furniture rather than have to pay for storage. She said she would use most of the things in his house—after all they were practically new since he was hardly ever there but for a few hours a day.
The only thing that had to change was the studio where he painted. She needed that as a bedroom for the boy. Lombardo said that was not a problem. She had told him she would not remove a single thing from his other studio so he could store things there until he got back.
“By the way,” she wondered, “do you plan to stay in Europe or come back? What are your plans?”
“I really haven’t decided,” he said truthfully. “In France, I have a friend, a man who consulted with the Investigations Department on the use of modern technology in gathering evidence and things like that. We became good friends during the time he was here. He is French but speaks very good English and Spanish. He has invited me to stay with him in a house he has in the country.”
“Yes, but what about when you come back, if you decide to come back?” she insisted.
“Look, you needn’t worry,” he assured her. “If and when I do come back, I really don’t plan to live here. I’ve never liked this city and now that I can, I’d rather move someplace else, someplace smaller, quieter.
This house, modest as it is, is too large for me. I really need something simpler, smaller that fits my needs better.”
“Well,” she said, “if you come back and you haven’t decided where you are going to go next, please feel free to stay with us for as long as you need. This is, after all, your house.”
Lombardo’s simple heart, which had not felt emotions for anything or anybody for a long time, was very grateful for her offer.
Laura’s arrangements and Lombardo’s preparations for the trip made the time pass quickly. On his way to the airport, he stopped by Laura’s house to say good-bye and let her know she was free to move in anytime she wanted. He was speechless when she kissed his cheek as she said good-bye.
Lom
bardo had never been very good at sleeping on planes, but this time, the thirteen-hour flight was made more bearable by long bouts of dreamless, peaceful sleep.
He stayed in Paris for a week, getting reacquainted with a city he had first visited so long ago when he was so in love with an Indian dancer. He had followed her there while on leave from the Army and had almost gone AWOL when she asked him to stay with her.
After a week in Paris, he left for Brittany where his friend lived. The house was about 30 kilometers from Morlaix, deep in the woods and part of a small community with only 12 houses.
The woods and countryside were beautiful, peaceful, and only occasionally disturbed by the rumbling tractors of the farmers.
