"Think you'd recognize the guy who called out to you?"
When Raúl nodded, Marta excused herself, went down to her car, retrieved the videotape still photo of Pedraza's bodyguard, brought it back and showed it to Raúl.
"Yeah, that's him," Raúl said.
"This guy tried to bribe me. I know where to find him. I also know who beat you up. It wasn't a guy, it was a woman."
"Who?"
"Liliana Méndez. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."
"I want my Kawasaki back."
She kissed him on his forehead. "I'll try to get it back for you. Your job now is to mend."
In the corridor, she spoke briefly with the parents. She recognized Raúl in his mother's eyes, and his characteristic smile on his father's lips. Both were grief stricken and mystified that such violence had been visited upon their son.
"We warned him about his articles, that often he went too far," Hugo Vargas said.
"He said you can never go too far telling the truth," Tanya Vargas added. "Now they've broken his hands so he won't be able to write."
"He'll write!" Marta assured them. "He's the best investigative journalist in Argentina. He's also my friend. I promise you the people who did this will be brought to justice."
From the weak way they smiled, she understood that although justice would be welcome, what disturbed them most was that the danger their son had chosen to court had finally caught up with him.
The following afternoon, Marta sat deep inside a café in Colegiales diagonally across the street from Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza's residence. Since Pedraza's bodyguard knew Marta from his attempt to bribe her, she couldn't let herself to be seen. But Rolo, unknown to the bodyguard, sat in plain sight at a sidewalk table, closely watching the house.
Pedraza's chauffeur-driven car turned up at seven p.m. Pedraza got out, conferred briefly with his bodyguard, then entered the residence. While this was going on, Rolo and Marta walked swiftly to their car. When Pedraza's car took off, they followed.
"Looks like the driver's taking the bodyguard home," Rolo said.
That morning, when Marta had told him what had happened to Raúl, Rolo had wanted them to go straight at Liliana. But Marta had decided to take a more roundabout route.
"This is a huge opportunity," she said. "We can prove Pedraza's bodyguard tried to bribe me and last night lured Raúl into an ambush. The best way to get Liliana is to break the bodyguard down. Persuade him to flip, and we'll own her. Then, if we can flip her, we may find out who's pulling the strings."
Pedraza's car paused in front of a row of tall apartment building on Larrea.
"He's getting out," Marta said. "I'll follow him on foot. Park, then hurry back."
"Be careful, Marta. Bodyguards are armed."
She followed him down the block, reached him just as he was bending to unlock an apartment house door. She stuck the barrel of her Sig hard against his right kidney, ordered him to open the door, then roughly shoved him inside. Since there was no one in the lobby, she rammed him face-against-the-wall beside the elevator, cuffed his hands behind his back, patted him down, found a .38 Browning in a shoulder holster and a .22 Beretta in a holster around his ankle. She pushed him into the elevator, grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head down to hers.
"Marta Abecasis—remember me?"
"Yes, Señora."
"Señora Inspector to you. Which floor?"
"Ten."
"The penthouse—how chic!" she said.
Once upstairs she had him kneel, cuffed him from the back to a radiator in his kitchen, then phoned Rolo. By the time he appeared, she had her captive's name, Andrés Quintana, and an impression, based on a quick walk through his apartment, that matched his soft-spoken gallant manner.
The apartment was nicely furnished and well kept, with a small terrace crowded with carefully tended plants. Beside the bed was a bookcase filled with classics works by Borges, Cortázar, Fuentes, García Márquez, Hemingway, Camus and Graham Greene. The books were in worn condition with many passages underlined. Everything she saw spoke of an educated man with a sensibility she wouldn't expect in a bodyguard to a fascist.
"I've got two causes to arrest you," she told him, squatting in front of him so she could peer into his eyes. "Attempting to bribe me and setting up a vicious assault on a journalist. Either one will get you a prison sentence. Both together the years will mount."
He met her stare, but didn't blink.
"Perhaps you think that if your boss's pal, Viera, wins the presidency, you'll receive a pardon. It's more likely something unfortunate will happen to you in prison to insure you don't start feeling sorry for yourself and implicate your betters. Think about that, Andrés, and about where your loyalty should be—to yourself or to guys, who, if they achieve power, will certainly not reciprocate."
Leaving him to think about that, she and Rolo conducted a thorough search. They turned up four more handguns, several sharpshooter trophies, and various military medals and citations, including one signed by General Videla, President of Argentina during the Proceso. Andrés, it turned out, was a veteran army officer who'd held the rank of captain.
"Check him for a croc tattoo," she instructed Rolo, then continued searching through his papers.
"I had him strip to the waist—no tattoo," Rolo reported. "He's polite, speaks softly, like a what-do-they-call-it? 'gentleman of the old school.'"
This matched her impression of Andrés when he approached her outside her neighborhood grocery. The contents of his closet spoke further of gentlemanliness: conservative suits, pairs of well-polished British-made shoes and a trio of blocked fedora-style hats.
She picked up his framed officer's commission, walked back into the kitchen, squatted again beside him, showed it to him, then raised her eyebrows.
He shrank back as if embarrassed to be kneeling half-naked in her presence.
"Why's an elegant well-read gentleman such as yourself doing toady work for a nut like Pedraza? Are you anti-Semitic too?"
"Certainly not, Señora Inspector!" He appeared appalled that she would think so.
"So why do you work for him?"
"A man must have a job."
"Yeah, we've heard that before," she said. She stared at him. He lowered his eyes.
Perhaps there's a spark of decency in there....
"We spotted you when Pedraza got out at 142 Avenida Alvear the other day. Know who he visits there?"
"I believe it's his mistress, Señora Inspector."
She smiled. "By 'mistress' you mean a lady of a certain standing who happens to be his lover?" Andrés nodded. "What if I told you the woman he sees there is a dominatrix who specializes in sadomasochistic psychodrama? In your boss's case, so-called interrogation resistance training. That means she tortures him like your army buddies used to do to people during the Proceso. The difference is that while your pals caused their victims real suffering, the pain she inflicts on Pedraza gives him a hard-on!"
As she spoke, Andrés recoiled. When she was finished he looked away.
"Don't believe me? Want me to play the tape?"
"Please no, Señora Inspector. I'd rather not hear it...if you don't mind."
"You didn't know about your employer's special tastes?"
Andrés shook his head.
"But you do know about other things. Here's the deal, Andrés—you tell us everything, become a government witness, testify before a judge, and things will go easy for you. But if you hold out...." Marta shrugged. "I'm Jewish and Raúl Vargas is my friend, so in addition to my official reasons for arresting you, I have good personal reasons to want to see you in prison."
She told Rolo to give him back his shirt, seat him in a kitchen chair, cuff his hands behind him, then leave him alone. She didn't expect it would be easy to turn him. Fear of retaliation and a justified skepticism about police-offered deals often made it hard to transform an accomplice into a snitch. But there was something about Andrés that gave her hope. Perhaps it was the
lovingly tended plants on his terrace, the orderliness of his closets and drawers, the well-worn literary classics in his bookcase. Or perhaps just the deep sorrow that showed in his face when he saw she believed he might be anti-Semitic.
The confession came so quickly and easily it seemed to Marta it had been rehearsed in anticipation of a proper confessor happening along.
Yes, Andrés admitted, he'd lured Raúl to the site of the beating. But Dr. Pedraza, he insisted, had nothing to do with that.
"So who ordered it?"
"A man named Ubaldo Méndez. He and his daughter, Liliana, were furious about Vargas's article. They wanted to teach the kid a lesson."
"So you set up a skinny kid to be beaten by a champion police boxer?"
Andrés lowered his eyes. "I feel bad about that, Señora Inspector. But I couldn't refuse."
"Why not?"
"Ubaldo Méndez is an enforcer for one of my boss's associates."
"Whose name is?"
"Father Hugo Charbonneau."
"Go on," she said.
"Méndez and his daughter are tough. If I'd refused they'd have turned on me. Then Charbonneau might have said something to Pedraza, and I'd be out on the street...or worse."
"You're saying they'd kill you?" Rolo asked.
Andrés nodded. "I know a few things. Those people play for keeps."
"What's Charbonneau's relation to Pedraza?" Marta asked.
There was a moment of silence. Then Andrés began to spill.
Marta had been correct: Viera was Pedraza's man. Charbonneau was the link between them. Pedraza had placed him with Viera as strategist and adviser to help Viera gain the presidency. Pedraza believed Charbonneau could transform Viera into a charismatic leader like Perón, who, if properly handled during the election campaign, could form a mystical bond with the Argentine masses.
Dr. Pedraza, Andrés explained, kept his distance from politics, never soiling his hands with anything violent. His friends in the crocs handled all such matters.
"Like the Granic and Santini killings?" Marta asked.
"That's what I heard," Andrés said. "I've no direct knowledge. Dr. Pedraza meets regularly with a small group. They call themselves the Immaculates. Father Charbonneau is one. There're six or seven others. When they decide something's to be done, they tell the crocs and the crocs take care of it."
"Earlier you boasted you knew a few things. Tell us something you know that Pedraza and Charbonneau wouldn't want you to tell us."
Andrés smiled. "You caused a big uproar with those lesbian photos."
"They turned out to be bogus."
Andrés nodded. "No one knew that at first. When Father Charbonneau told Dr. Pedraza about them, Dr. Pedraza turned furious. He said if the photos got out they'd ruin everything we were working toward. He told Charbonneau to tell Viera to take care of the matter. From what I gather, Viera was so shaken he went home and beat the hell out of his wife. Then when it turned out none of it was true, that she'd never had sex with the hooker, he felt terrible and begged Señora Viera's forgiveness. But it was too late. She demanded a divorce. Charbonneau went to talk to her, then Dr. Pedraza authorized a big payment to keep her quiet and stay with Viera at least through the next election. It's things like that they wouldn't want me to speak about."
Interesting, Marta thought. Raúl could have a lot of fun with that. Shoshana and her friends would like it too. But, she knew, right-wing political gossip didn't help her investigation.
"I want to know who killed Granic," she said.
Andrés shrugged. "I told you I don't know. It was probably people in the crocs. Maybe the clowns."
"Clowns!" Rolo rolled his eyes.
"Who the hell are the clowns?" Marta asked.
"Toughs-for-hire, former cops controlled by Ubaldo Méndez. They specialize in kidnappings and intimidating witnesses. They're called the clowns on account of their technique. A pair of them dressed up like clowns turns up at your door holding a bunch of balloons. When you open the door they push you inside, then tell you in a very serious way that you never witnessed anything. The contrast between the stern warning and the painted-on smiles and funny red-ball noses freaks people out."
"Is Ubaldo Méndez a croc? Is Liliana?"
"I don't know. I was never part of that. I was just an ordinary army captain."
"You're afraid of the Méndezes, aren't you?"
Andrés showed her a grim smile. "I'd be crazy not to be." He peered at her. "I remember our encounter outside the grocery very well, Señora. You surprised me. I barely slept that night."
"Because I wouldn't take your money?"
He nodded. "I'd heard of you. I guess everyone has. La Incorrupta and all. I figured that was just publicity, that underneath you were crooked like all cops are. So there you were, a thick roll of hundred dollar bills in your hands, and you not only refused to take the money, you didn't try to bargain with me for more. Instead you asked me to hold your groceries so your hands would be free to cuff me. I couldn't believe my ears. I've been haunted by that ever since."
Andrés paused. "It's because of that I've told you things. Not because you threatened me with a long prison sentence. Of course I don't want to go to prison. I think you're right—something would probably happen to me there. But I'm talking because of what I felt about you that evening, that you really were La Incorrupta, that it was possible than an incorrupta could actually exist, and if an incorrupta, then perhaps also an incorrupto...or several such people...or even a police force consisting of many. And that idea shook up everything I believed about the reality of this country. So, yes, I will tell you what I know about the Méndezes, which isn't very much. In return, I'll need to be protected, because on account of what I've already told you, my life will now be worthless on the street."
Andrés had spoken truthfully; he didn't know much about the Méndezes, just the usual unsubstantiated tales of Ubaldo's corruption and Liliana's brutality.
"Word on her is she gets a visceral thrill out of beating people up," he said.
"Did you see her beat up Raúl Vargas?"
Andrés shook his head. "I didn't stick around for the beating. Not my taste. But I did get a whiff of her before I left—that awful cologne she uses. That made me turn. I saw her with her girlfriend leaning against a car. The girlfriend was giggling as she laced on Liliana's gloves."
"Who's the girlfriend?"
"Bianca Portela. She likes to wear leather garments. Wouldn't surprise me if she took Vargas' jacket after they were through with him."
"Who took his motorcycle?"
"I've no idea. It's probably in Paraguay by now...or dismantled and ready to be sold for parts."
"Beating up Vargas was bad, but unfortunately not bad enough. I need something on her that will scare the hell out of her, something that'll make her talk."
Andrés nodded. "There's a story about her that I know is true. Last year a cop in her command, Miguel Giménez, had a run-in with her. He served under me in the army. He's middle-aged, retired now, kind of a mediocre type. Anyway, he only had a year to go before retirement, then he broke some petty regulation. A minor matter, but if blown up it could have cost him his pension. Liliana called him in. She could file formal charges, she told him, which would mean he'd have to face a disciplinary panel. Or he could accept discipline directly from her, a fine and a beating. His choice, she told him." Andrés shook his head.
"He decided to put himself at her mercy. She fined him half his salary for his final year on the force. The beating put him in bed a couple of days with fractured ribs. The whole thing was grotesque. She ordered him to come over on a Sunday to her girlfriend's place. When he got there, he found her in sports bra and boxing shorts. She told him strip to his shorts, then led him up to the building roof where she has an open-air boxing ring. Her girlfriend, Bianca, was waiting for them, lounging in an over-size hammock. Liliana threw a pair of boxing gloves at him, told him they'd box six three-minute rounds. Bianca would ring a bel
l each time a round was over. She urged Miguel to try and hit her, or at least to try and cover up. Whichever way he played it, she told him, he could expect to get hit pretty hard."
Marta shook her head. Liliana was worse even than she'd imagined. She'd intended to use the poor old guy as a punching bag whether he dared fight with her or not.
"What happened?" she asked.
"She worked him over for all six rounds while Bianca lounged gleefully in the hammock smoking cigarettes. Liliana taunted him with playful open-handed swats at first, then started hitting him with jabs, shadowboxing in between. Then more jabs, harder and faster. Then stick-and-move! Then jabs in flurries mixed with bolo punches. The last two rounds she socked him hard.
"It wasn't the pain that got to him so much. He'd been a soldier and a cop so he'd been knocked around a time or two. It was the humiliation, the way she used him, and the stuff she said to him while she was doing it. Talking trash, calling him 'pussy' and 'bitch,' looking over at her girlfriend every so often, the two of them exchanging smirks. Meantime Bianca's spurring her on, saying stuff like 'Hey, Lil! Why you going so easy on the pig?'"
"I never heard anything like that," Rolo said. "She sounds like a fucking psycho."
"Maybe...I don't know. But she's definitely a sadist."
"You say you know this Miguel Giménez?" Marta asked.
"I've known him twenty years."
"Will he confirm the story?"
"He'll confirm it if I come with you. He's on pension now so he's got nothing to lose."
It could be enough, Marta thought. Liliana would know that if it came out that she'd extorted money from a subordinate, it would be the end of her police career. Properly confronted, she'd be forced to bargain. And, Marta knew, once bargaining began, skillful handling could make her crack.
She turned to Andrés.
"You still haven't come clean about the Granic and Santini murders. So I'm asking you—did you witness Pedraza giving such an order to Charbonneau, Ubaldo Méndez or anybody else?"
Andrés met her eyes. "I wish I could say I did. I can tell you Dr. Pedraza was very disturbed when he learned an Israeli agent was trying to use blackmail to penetrate his circle. But as for ordering a killing, I never heard him do that. If he gave such an order, he's too smart to do it in front of witnesses."
City of Knives Page 27
