Skeleton justice mm-2

by Michael Baden

  Manny's fingers continued to fly across the keyboard. "True. You can certainly make it psuedo-anonymous. But what if you saw no reason to cover your tracks?" She stopped typing and leaned back. "When I wanted to sell some of my porcelain shoes, I didn't set up my own eBay account to do it. I contacted one of the dealers that I'd bought from and consigned them for sale through him. He got a cut of the sale price, but it was less hassle for me; plus, I got a better price because he was a reputable eBay dealer. So it's quite possible that whoever originally owned Nixon's mug sold it through a dealer that sells on eBay. Let's contact the most highly ranked dealers in presidential collectibles, describe the mug, and see if any of them handled the transaction."

  Jake shrugged. "Seems like a stretch. But give it a shot." He glanced at his watch. "I've gotta run. I have an appointment with Annabelle Fiore."

  Jake sat on Annabelle Fiore's sofa and stared at the great singer's chest. Her mighty bosom rose from her pale green sweater like twin volcanic peaks emerging from the Pacific. What man, even a cultured, politically correct, genuinely feminist man, could keep his eyes focused exclusively above Annabelle's neck? Jake was no saint. He couldn't help the thought that popped into his head: Wow, would I love to do an autopsy of those lungs!

  Not that he wished the opera star dead-far from it. She must have been pushing fifty, but she had a lot of good performances left in her. He admitted he'd love to discover some scientific explanation for the fact that opera singers all had huge mammary glands. There was no anatomical reason for it, Jake was sure. A singer needed exceptional lung capacity, certainly, but what resided inside the chest cavity should have no correlation to what rested on top of it. Annabelle's mammary glands definitely were well developed. But what did her bronchi look like? That's what Jake really wanted to set his eyes on. But today he had a different agenda.

  "Thank you for agreeing to see me, Ms. Fiore," Jake said. "I know you must be very busy."

  Annabelle threw her hands up. "No, no! The pleasure is all mine! I am so grateful you are working hard to capture this terrible man. I tell you, I haven't slept a wink since the attack." She shook her head forlornly. "The stress, it is taking a toll on my voice."

  Jake murmured sympathetically. In truth, Annabelle had looked well rested, the picture of health, when she'd opened the door to him. Now, however, she slumped back in her seat and let her eyelids droop to half-mast. Jake was glad he had come. Annabelle had offered to answer his questions on the phone, but he'd been eager to assess her physical response to everything he asked. Annabelle was an actress, but he could see she was also the kind of woman who wore every emotion on her sleeve. If she was frightened, or unnerved, or evasive because of his questions, he would know it instantly by watching her face and gestures.

  "Ms. Fiore-"

  "Annabelle, please."

  "Annabelle. Let's go over again the night of the attack." Jake leaned forward in the overstuffed peacock blue chair. She had already told Vito Pasquarelli when he'd spoken to her in the hospital that she could not recall her attacker's face. But sometimes memory revives after the initial shock passes. "When you opened the door, what was your initial impression of the person standing there?"

  "You see, I didn't even look through the peephole because I was expecting my friends. I just threw open the door." She flung her arm out to the side, narrowly missing a delicate lamp on the end table. "And in a split second, this maniac was in my home."

  "There was one person at the door, not two," Jake confirmed.

  "Yes. Now that you mention it, I remember a moment when I thought, Well, David must still be parking the car."

  Jake's eyebrows arched. "You thought David was parking the car and the person on your doorstep was his wife? A woman?"

  Annabelle propped her chin in her hand. "I'm not sure that it was a woman. I just remember being aware that the person standing there was too small to be David. He's a big fellow, six three, two hundred and fifty pounds.

  "I have this thought only like that"-Annabelle snapped her fingers-"before the person is putting a rag over my face and I am dizzy and falling down." She shuddered as she relived the moment, then fell silent.

  Jake waited.

  Annabelle looked up and wagged her finger. "I remember seeing the needle before I passed out. Yes, I remember thinking, This must be that Vampire they talk about in the newspaper. And I said to myself, Why me, dear God, why me?"

  "That's just it, Annabelle," Jake said. "I want to determine why you were targeted."

  Her strong, dark brows drew down. "But surely it was random, no? I thought the newspapers have said there is no connection between the people he attacked. Certainly I don't know any of the others."

  "No, I don't think you all know one another. But I do think there's a connection." Jake watched Annabelle closely. "Tell me: Have you ever visited Argentina?"

  She blinked three times, quickly. "I have performed there, yes. Teatro Colon, the opera house in Buenos Aires, is quite fine."

  "And do you know anyone there? Have friends who are Argentine?"

  Annabelle cleared her throat. "Uh, friends, no. No friends there."

  Jake studied her. He could tell she was uncomfortable. Maybe not lying, but holding something back. "Did you meet anyone… memorable… during your visit there?"

  Annabelle tossed her hair away from her face. "There was-Oh, really, I don't see how this could be relevant. What's the significance of Argentina, anyway?"

  "Three pieces of evidence in this case are linked to Argentina. I'm looking for more."

  Annabelle's eyes widened. She turned away from Jake as she spoke. "This is a little embarrassing. I'm sure it's not important, but just in case…"

  "I'd appreciate your candor, Annabelle. I won't share the information publicly if I can avoid it."

  Annabelle took a deep breath. "A few years ago, I found myself in a bit of a jam financially. When I was performing in Argentina, a man approached me and said his boss, General Rafael Cintron, would pay me ten thousand U.S. dollars to sing at his birthday party. Now, this is something I would never do! I am a star! I don't sing for my supper. So I say no, and he raises the price to fifteen thousand dollars." Annabelle threw her hands up in the air. "I would never do such a thing in Europe, or here in New York, but an Italian diva performing arias for a private party in Argentina… well, it's generally off the paparazzi radar. No one outside of native Argentineans pay much attention to me there. I figure no one will find out. And I really needed the money."

  "So you sang. What happened?"

  Annabelle grimaced. "Horrible, boorish evening! The general, he sits there with a big grin on his face, like I am stripping, not singing 'Un Bel Di.' And the others at the party"-she mimicked talking with her hands-"yak, yak, yak, the whole time I'm singing. Disgraceful!"

  Jake made an effort to look suitably appalled. "Thank you for telling me this, Annabelle. You've been very helpful."

  "Really? Surely this general is not the Vampire? He was old and fat."

  "No, he's not the Vampire. I think Cintron may be someone the Vampire despises even more than you do."

  "How did it go?" Manny eyed Kenneth, who was balancing his own eye-popping sequined and velveteen man bag on his left arm against Mycroft's initialed white Goyard carrier on his right.

  "Great! That new vet is adorable. What gorgeous brown eyes."

  "You're looking for the scientific type now?"

  "Just thought I might ask him to the club to hear me-Kenneth Medianos Boyd-performing as Princess K. Calypso."

  "Forget it. He's married."

  Kenneth adjusted his pose, put his hands on his hips, and gave his hips a wiggle. "Like that matters? Think Jim McGreevey and Rock Hudson." Kenneth's eyebrows were knowingly raised. "I even heard a delicious rumor the other day that Cary Grant was bi."

  Manny declined to make eye contact, for fear of setting Kenneth off on one of his favorite discourses-that every man on the planet was in the closet, just waiting for the right gu
y to open his door. "I'm not going there with you. How is Mycroft? Is his wound healed?"

  "Oh, yeah-he's fine. Aren't you, punkin?" Kenneth bent over and released Mycroft from his carrier. The little dog bounded across the office and leaped into Manny's lap. "The doctor seemed disappointed that you didn't bring him to his appointment. I told you, the wife's irrelevant."

  "He must think I'm a terrible mother." Manny stroked Mycroft's curly head and scratched behind his ears. "I totally forgot the first appointment, and I would've missed this one, too, if I hadn't been able to send you." Manny looked at the pile of file folders on her desk. "I'm just swamped. I can't leave my desk until I finish answering these three hundred burdensome interrogatories that asshole law firm sent over on the Greenfield case. Just like a large law firm. They get paid thousands of dollars by the letter. Try to bury justice in paperwork."

  "I'm sure Dr. Costello understands. He asked how you were doing, said to tell you not to work too hard." Kenneth picked up a stack of paper. "Is this complaint on the Conceicao employment discrimination case ready to go?"

  "Yes," Manny said. "But you're going to have to scan the appendix into a portable file format so that we can electronically file the matter with the clerk of the federal court."

  "You wanna check out the sale at that new shoe boutique on Madison?" Kenneth asked.

  "Casa Bene del Sole? That's cruel! Don't tempt me when you know I can't possibly go."

  Kenneth reached over and popped up the to-do list Manny had minimized on her computer toolbar. "Oh, come on. What if I take care of a few more things on this list?"

  "I appreciate it, Kenneth, but I don't think-"

  Kenneth interrupted her with a thrust of his right hand, looking for all the world like Diana Ross doing "Stop! In the Name of Love." "Delegation is the soul of good management. What about this number four-talk to InTerVex? I'm great at talking."

  "Well, maybe you could do that," Manny admitted. "It's the pharmaceutical company where one of the Vampire's victims, Raymond Fortes, worked."

  Kenneth wrinkled his nose. "The rat-bite guy?"

  "Yes. Jake and I want to know if Dr. Fortes had any connection with Argentina. Apparently, he was a lonely workaholic, so his business seems the best place to start looking."

  "No problem. I can do that." Kenneth headed out to his desk.

  "But, Kenneth, remember, don't just come right out and ask-"

  Kenneth pivoted, the ends of his metallic silver scarf fluttering, his Vamp fingernails adorned by crystal faux diamonds flashing. "Come on, Manny-give me a little credit. No one's better than me at being subtle."

  Manny went back to answering interrogatory 221: "Describe how the alleged actions of the defendant in failing to treat the prostate interfered with the future income stream of the plaintiff." Some days Manny felt that she wanted to represent a stream of urologists, just so they could all pee together on the justice system.

  She jumped, startled from her concentration by Kenneth tapping his size-twelve Manolos. "Grab your bag. We're going to Casa Bene del Sole. Have to hurry to get there before it closes."

  "Already? Did you-"

  "Dr. Raymond Fortes graduated from the Universidad Nacional de Cordoba, Argentina's second-oldest medical school. He worked as a doctor in Cordoba for fifteen years before moving to New York in 1990 to work for InTerVex. He's a naturalized citizen."

  "Great work, Kenneth. I don't suppose you found out what kind of drugs Dr. Fortes was developing at InTerVex?"

  Kenneth tossed his scarf over his shoulder. "Of course I did. Fertility drugs. Fortes was an OB-GYN in Argentina at the Hospital Universitario de Maternidad y Neonatologia."

  "Google him," Jake commanded.

  Manny and Jake sat hunched over Jake's office computer. Two half-eaten calzones leached tomato sauce onto the papers strewn across his desk. Manny, lightning fast on the keyboard, was at the controls.

  "Twenty-four thousand hits on General Rafael Cintron," Manny reported. "It would be nice to have some idea of what it is about him that's of interest to us."

  "Start reading," Jake said through a mouthful of meatballs and dough. "We'll know it when we see it."

  Manny doubled-clicked. "Here's his official biography. You read. My eyes are burning."

  Jake scanned the screen. "He's sixty-three years old. Been in the army since he was eighteen. Worked his way up through the ranks. Seems to have successfully weathered several regime changes. That says a lot about him."

  "If you're looking for something controversial, we need to go to some of the news reports about him," Manny advised. She scrolled through the top entries brought up by the search engine. "These four are all in Spanish. I'll use Google to translate them.

  "'General Announces Plans for New Training Procedures,'" Manny read. "Snore. Here, this looks more promising."

  "'Grandmothers Protest General's Link to Dirty War.'" Jake read the headline aloud, then moved over to give Manny a chance to read the rest of the article silently with him.

  "Sounds like these grandmothers claim General Cintron was implicated in the disappearances of their adult children during the military dictatorship of the late seventies, early eighties," Jake said. "Los Desaparecidos-the disappeared ones-that's what they call the victims. The grandmothers are still protesting, all these years later."

  "But Argentina is a democracy now," Manny said. "What's Cintron still doing in their army?"

  "I'm no expert on Argentine history, but I think there's been a lot of controversy over amnesty for those who participated in the junta. They weren't all arrested and imprisoned. A lot of them are still actively part of Argentine society. I guess Cintron must be one of those clever survivors who plays on whatever team is at bat."

  "I was still only a babe in arms when all this was going on," Manny said, "but doesn't this tie in with our Nixon lecture? Wouldn't Nixon have been a supporter of that regime?"

  Jake sighed. Reminders of Manny's youth always depressed him. "Yes, my little peep, you must have been paying attention in college history class. The junta was rabidly anti-Communist, which automatically made them allies of Nixon and Kissinger. Nixon was out of office by then, of course, but this was the period when he was casting himself as elder statesman and foreign policy guru. Hence the lecture at the Scanlon Center on the necessity of supporting a regime that he knew committed atrocities against its own people."

  Manny bit off a chunk of calzone and chewed thoughtfully. "I don't get it, Jake. Why would the Vampire be killing people in New York because of something that happened in Argentina decades ago?"

  Jake shook his head. "I'm not sure. But a possible link between Cintron and Nixon seems to lead in that direction. And then there's the instances of torture: Hogaarth, Fortes, and Deanie Slade. Torture was one of the hallmarks of the Dirty War. People who opposed the regime would suddenly disappear. Most were held in secret government prisons, tortured for information on their comrades, and then killed."

  Manny rubbed her temples, leaving a small smear of tomato sauce. "You're making me more confused. We know Dr. Fortes was Argentinean; we suspect that Ms. Hogaarth was, too. Why were they tortured before their deaths-because they were once part of the military junta, or because they once opposed it?"

  Gently, Jake wiped the tomato sauce off Manny's face. "Don't demand so many answers. We're just laying out the facts."

  "Well, what do you make of this fact? Deanie Slade was tortured, and she's New Jersey through and through. No connection to Argentina there."

  "It's another data point."

  "This isn't an academic exercise, Jake!" Manny balled up the remains of her dinner and stalked across the room to throw it in the trash. "In all this calm analysis of data points, let's not lose sight of the fact that Travis Heaton is under the control of people who not only kill but torture. We need to find him, fast."

  "Drama has its uses in the courtroom, Manny, but investigations succeed on the steady accumulation of evidence. The process can be maddeningly slow,
but no one's invented an alternative."

  Jake patted the chair beside him. "There's more data to be dug. Are you in, or out?"

  Manny returned and dropped into the chair. "Of course I'm in. I'm sorry I snapped at you, but I'm just so damn worried about Travis. And it infuriates me that the Sandovals are allowed to hide behind diplomatic immunity. They must know what's going on here, but somehow it's against their personal best interest to cooperate with the investigation."

  "Let's see if we can turn up any link between Ambassador San-doval and the Dirty War," Jake said, turning back to the computer. He could feel Manny's barely suppressed impatience as he typed. He wondered, not for the first time, how she'd ever managed to sit through Civil Procedure and Contracts in law school.

  "Here's Sandoval's official UN biography. It doesn't mention that he ever served in the military. He's only fifty-one years old. He probably would have been in college and law school during the Dirty War years."

  "So maybe he and his wife were part of the opposition," Manny suggested. "Wasn't it mostly young people-students-who were disappeared by the government?" She leaned forward, gesturing, as her mind raced ahead of her ability to form sentences. "Paco seemed frightened by the letter I found in his room. Maybe someone from his parents' past has come back to haunt them. Maybe they're manipulating Paco to get what they want." Manny flung her pen onto the desk. "Damn, I wish I still had that document!"

  Jake said nothing, only pursed his lips and kept scrolling through information brought up by the search engine.

  "I know what's going through your head." Manny knocked her knuckles against the wild tangle of Jake's hair. "You think I should focus on this research instead of obsessing about what's out of reach. But I tell you, if we could just find out what the Sandovals are hiding, we wouldn't need to be piecing together all these scraps of information."

  Jake paused, his hands suspended above the keyboard. "This is the best way to find out, Manny. We're not breaking into their home again."