She returned to the bedroom. Bianca, gagged, was lying face-down, wrists cuffed to her ankles.
"I'm going go to get her," Marta whispered to Rolo. "You stay down here as backup."
Rolo protested. "I thought I was going to take her down."
"That was before we knew they were on the roof. This may hurt your pride, Rolo, but in a hand-to-hand fight you'd probably lose. She doesn't know you, but she knows me, and she knows I know how to shoot."
Mounting the stairs, pistol extended, she was fully aware of her fear. She was confident in her marksmanship, but had only shot at targets, never at living people.
Once on the roof, she couldn't make out much, just chimneys and the little roof structure from which she emerged. But then, creeping around its side, she saw the stanchions of the boxing ring, and, behind it, the back of a double-wide hammock.
She was cautiously circling the boxing ring, when Liliana's voice, soft, almost tender, wafted to her from out of the dark.
"Hey, what took you so long, babe?"
Damn! She's awake!
Marta side-stepped to the edge of the building, all the while moving closer to the hammock.
"Playing sneaky, babe?"
"It's Marta Abecasis, Liliana. Hands on your head. You're under arrest."
"What the fuck!"
Blankets flew as Liliana sprang at her naked from the hammock, emitting a blast of her cologne.
Marta took two steps back. "Hands on your head!"
"Ha!" Liliana moved toward her, menacing.
Marta took another step back. "Stop there or I'll shoot!"
Liliana stood still, then grinned at her. "Uh uh, bitch, you wouldn't dare!"
"Don't try me, Liliana!"
"You're a lowly homicide inspector. I'm a precinct commander. Know what I'm going to do to you, bitch? I'm going to throw your pathetic little butt off the roof!"
As Liliana rushed at her, Marta fired.
Liliana screamed and fell. Face twisted by pain, she tried to pull herself up. Failing that, she turned furious.
"Fuck! You shot out my kneecap. I'll fucking kill you for that!"
Again she tried to rise, then fell heavily face-first to the roof. She lay still a moment, then rolled on to her back howling out her pain.
In the ambulance on the way to the emergency room at Alemán, Marta, perched on a seat beside the gurney, put it to Liliana as calmly as she could.
"You beat up Raúl Vargas like the coward you are while your buddies held him up. I've no doubt we'll find his blood on your boxing gloves. You and Bianca also stole his motorcycle. Both your prints will be all over it. Your police career's finished, and now that your kneecap's shattered, your boxing career's probably finished too. The only question is how much prison time you're going to do."
"Kiss my ass!"
"You also extorted money from a subordinate, Miguel Giménez, in exchange for not charging him with an infraction. There's still time to mitigate all those things. You'll have to pay Raúl damages, of course, but he probably won't bring criminal charges if you give him a couple of good stories. You'll also have to refund Miguel's money, resign from the force and assist my investigation. If you do all that...then, maybe, your problems will go away."
Liliana stared at her with hatred. Most of her pain had subsided. The paramedic, who'd inserted an IV while they will still on the roof, was using it to administer morphine as the ambulance sped through the streets.
"What about Bianca?"
Marta thought she detected a tear or two forming in Liliana's eyes.
"Judge Lantini will probably offer her immunity to testify against you. If she loves you, she'll probably refuse. But if you do what I say and give truthful testimony, I may be able to spare her the choice. Judge Lantini will want to know everything, including your involvement with the Granic case."
Liliana shook her head. "I don't know anything about that. Just that someone told me to mess up the scene."
"Who?"
"It was a voice on the phone."
"And you obeyed without knowing who it was? Don't make me laugh!"
"Fuck you, bitch! Mess with me and you're dead!"
Marta smiled: Liliana was so predictable: First she tears up, then she curses and threatens.
"Okay, play it hard-ass," Marta said. "Just remember, I can do that too."
She resumed their dialogue in the ER while they waited for the surgical team to assemble.
"It's either you or your father," Marta told her. "The first one who talks is the one who's going to get my help."
"Betray my dad!" Liliana screamed. "Are you fucking crazy?"
"He'll betray you when he finds out that's the only thing that'll keep him out of prison."
"Never!"
"Fine! I'll find other witnesses, then both of you'll go down." Marta shrugged. "It's all the same to me."
When Liliana bit her lip, Marta went out to the hall to phone Ricardi. When she returned, Liliana refused to look at her. Then, predictably, she tried to bargain.
She had information about police corruption. If Judge Lantini put her in witness protection, she'd implicate key people in the federal police hierarchy.
"That would certainly be a service to the nation," Marta agreed. "But first you have to help me solve Granic. I think I know who gave the original order for the killings, and also the chain of command. Now I need proof. Help me and I'll help you."
"I'm not squealing on Dad! If that's what you want, fuck yourself! Ricardi too!"
"What about your dad's boss?"
"Who's that?"
"Don't play dumb!"
A nurse entered to say the surgeon had arrived. He was already in the scrub room preparing to operate.
"We'll talk after they fix your knee," Marta said, patting Liliana lightly on the hand. "I'll be there when you wake up. Meantime, I'll talk to Raúl, see what he's willing to do. I'll also have a talk with Bianca, see if she's ready to deal."
"Fuck yourself!"
Marta gave her a look of pity. "Good luck, Liliana. Save your strength for the operation."
The surgery, she was told, would take approximately four hours, sufficient time, she thought, to put everything in place. Since Ricardi hadn't yet arrived, she went upstairs to visit Raúl.
She found him sitting up in his hospital bed, cheerfully dictating a story to an attractive girl introduced as an intern-journalist at El Faro.
"I may not be able to type," Raúl said, holding up his bandaged hands, "but I can still write one hell of a story!"
"I've got your Kawasaki," Marta told him. "In perfect condition. Not a scratch on it."
"Thank you, Marta!" Raúl was so excited by the news, she feared he'd leap out of bed to embrace her.
"My ribs are sore as hell," he told her, "but otherwise I'm on the mend. Tomorrow they take the tube out of my chest. Day after tomorrow, they send me home."
When Marta told him Liliana Méndez was in surgery, he asked her what had happened.
"Unfortunately I had to shoot her," Marta said.
"You! You're something!" Raúl's eyes danced. "And what a story—girl-cop shoots girl-cop, La Incorrupta shoots La Corrupta! I get the exclusive, right?"
She assured him he'd have first crack at the story after she finished questioning Liliana. Meanwhile, she added, she had an even hotter story, one he could use right away.
"Remember those faked-up lesbian photos of Graciela Viera and Silvia Santini, the ones you thought might have been doctored up by Viera's people as a phony dirty trick? Well, seems Viera was so freaked out when he saw them, he went home and beat the crap out of his wife."
"Dynamite!" Raúl turned to the intern. "Get ahold of the lady. We need to interview her."
Marta found Ricardi when she came back down, pacing before the door of the operating room. She led him to the hospital cafeteria, where they helped themselves to coffee, then sat down at an isolated table.
While Ricardi sipped and munched on a pastry, Marta again
outlined her theory of the homicides and the chain of events that followed.
"I think Charbonneau and the rest of them were damn annoyed when you put me in charge of the case," she told him. "They were even more disturbed when I turned up at Charbonneau's office with photos of Silvia making love with Viera's wife. That phony blackmail material, faked up by the Israelis, was intended to point me in the right direction. When it looked like I was connecting things up, Charbonneau and company sent a guy to bribe me, and, when that didn't work, sent Galluci and Pereyra to abduct and intimidate me. It was only by a fluke that I discovered that the guy with the bribe money was Pedraza's personal bodyguard. I pressured him into giving me enough to place Liliana Méndez under arrest. When she resisted and threatened to throw me off her roof, I shot out her kneecap."
Ricardi gazed at her, admiration in his eyes. "That's it?" he asked in his most ironic whisper.
"Yeah, pretty much," Marta agreed.
"You're outlining a major political conspiracy. Something that big requires big proof, otherwise no one'll believe it." He gazed at her. "You have something in mind?"
Marta nodded. "When Liliana comes out of surgery, I'm going to try and turn her on her father, and then turn him on the kill-team. Once everyone in the chain is squealing on everyone else, my hope is one of them will finger Charbonneau. As for Pedraza...he may be too well insulated. But maybe Charbonneau can also be turned."
"Forgive me for saying this, Marta—you're sounding a little grandiose."
"I know it won't be easy...but I've got a few ideas."
She told Ricardi her plan.
"You call Ubaldo Méndez, lure him here by telling him his daughter's been shot and is in surgery. When he turns up, we arrange things so Liliana sees him with you. Hopefully she'll assume that her dad's selling her out and he'll assume that she's squawking on him. We won't let them communicate, just give them a quick look at one another, then let them draw their own conclusions. My hope is that they're both so devious and corrupt, self-interest will override the family bond."
Ricardi smiled. "Persuade a father and daughter to turn on one another because each thinks the other's already turned—interesting, but kind of a long shot."
"The only way to find out if it works is to try it, right?"
Ricardi laughed. "Absolutely!"
When Liliana woke up, Marta was waiting on a stool beside her bed. It was late-morning. A nurse hovered in the corner. The sky was overcast and the windows of the room were streaked by a tender early morning rain.
"The operation went well," Marta told Liliana after she came fully awake. "They say you'll probably have a limp, but with rehabilitation you may be able to walk without a cane."
Liliana blinked several times, then gazed scornfully at Marta. "Is that supposed to make me feel good? What kind of maniac are you to shoot a fellow officer?"
She's still angry. Good!
"You're a big girl," Marta told her. "Start acting like one. Because right now you're in very big trouble."
"Fuck you!"
Marta smiled at the insult. "I've spoken to Raúl. He isn't interested in compensation, but he insists on a written apology and that you become his informant for a series on police corruption. That means naming names and being quoted by name." Marta paused. "It if were me you'd beaten up, I wouldn't be so generous."
Liliana turned away.
"Miguel Giménez also wants a written apology, plus double the amount of money you extracted from him. As for Bianca, we're not interested in her. If you cooperate, she's off the hook."
Liliana stared straight ahead.
"Here's the deal," Marta continued. "You talk to me, and, if I'm satisfied, you swear out your statement before Judge Lantini. If you tell the truth, you get immunity. If you lie, you go to the lock-up and then to trial." Marta stood up. "Think about it. This offer expires in one hour."
She started toward the door.
"I'm not fucking ratting out my dad!"
Marta turned back to the bed. Liliana looked small now, as if shriveled by her anger and her fear.
"I admire your loyalty, Liliana. I really do. But unfortunately your dad's in a room down the hall, talking to Ricardi right now."
When she returned to the recovery room ten minutes later, she found Liliana sitting up, staring moodily at the wall.
"I just checked on your father. He's a smart guy. I hope you are too."
"I want to see him!"
Marta nodded. "He and Ricardi'll come to the door, but there'll be no conversation between you. Later, when we're finished with business, he can come in for a proper visit."
When Liliana nodded, Marta went back down the hall to fetch Ricardi and Ubaldo. She'd met Ubaldo for the first time an hour before, and had found him less than impressive. He certainly didn't look like a criminal mastermind who ran a kidnapping racket and controlled a group of enforcers called the Clowns. Shorter than his daughter, he wore a tight half-smile and had a crafty way of squinting that reminded Marta of the way cops used to look in the days when a police uniform was a government-issued license to brutalize and steal.
In fact, Ubaldo had so far admitted nothing, but Ricardi, Marta thought, had prepped him well. Though he grinned and squinted at Marta, she saw panic in his eyes, the trapped-animal look of a man who knew he was cornered. It was Marta's hope that after catching a glimpse of that, Liliana would understand what she had to do.
The encounter in the doorway lasted only seconds. Daughter gazed at father with querying eyes; father gazed back, then evaded daughter's stare. Just when it seemed Ubaldo might open his mouth, Ricardi pulled him away.
Marta quickly shut the door, turned to Liliana, glanced at her watch.
"Better start talking. And just so we're clear your stories had better match up."
Liliana closed her eyes. Marta studied her, satisfied she'd presented her with a reasonable choice. This was, she knew, the pivotal moment. Liliana would talk, riddles would be solved and Marta's theory would prove out, or Liliana would keep her silence, murkiness would prevail and Marta's theory of the case would remain a theory.
"Well?"
"Fuck, you, bitch!" Liliana screamed. "You'll never flip me! Never!"
Chapter Eighteen
CITY OF KNIVES
There were numerous articles about Carlos Peña's suicide. Tomás Hudson read them all. In a city where, in a time of high stress and deep economic despair, acts of suicide had become commonplace, this suicide by a leader of the psychoanalytic community was deemed a matter for national reflection.
WHAT DOES THIS TERRIBLE EVENT TELL US ABOUT OURSELVES? ran a headline on the front page of El Faro.
Heaps of flowers were left at the place where Carlos hit the street. Nearly one hundred bouquets were delivered to the reception desk at the Institute. Colleagues, Tomás noted, moved about as if in a daze. As for himself, he was so haunted by his final meeting with Carlos, he could think about little else. He played it out in his mind again and again. What was the clue, the inciting event? At what point in his monologue did the pace of Carlos' breathing begin to shift?
He had some ideas about that, but quickly rejected them. The signs pointed in a direction he didn't want to go.
He was asked to speak at the memorial. He declined. "We were too close," he told Victoria Fabiani. "I don't have the words for this—I'm just too devastated."
Now he felt, shamefully, that he'd shirked his responsibility to his friend. But what could he say, beyond the usual platitudes?
The memorial was held at the Institute auditorium. The crowd overflowed the hall, forcing late-comers to assemble on the stairs. Family members, colleagues, students, current and former patients—Carlos had not only been hugely admired, he'd been loved by the many whose lives he'd touched.
A fierce storm struck in the middle of the first speech. Thunder broke and rain pelted the auditorium windows, forcing the speaker to become shrill as he struggled to be heard.
Other speakers also fought the st
orm while expressing their confusion: What could have driven this exemplar to such a self-destructive act? If Carlos had become unstable, why hadn't anyone noticed? How could a man so instrumental in restoring mental health to others, have fallen so grievously ill himself?
Theories were put forward:
"He took upon himself all the burdens of our profession."
"Is there something wrong in this cursed country that undermines the best of us, something sick and even evil that eats away at our souls?"
"If a man such as Carlos Peña can be driven to such an extreme, who among us is truly safe?"
As the speakers droned on, fighting the rain, Tomás listened intently with his analyst's ear, hoping to pick up some clue in the subtext. Yet as closely as he listened, he heard nothing new.
The hard rain stopped just as the final speaker finished. There was just a light drizzle outside as Tomás stepped out of the building. Making his way along the wet sidewalk, stepping over puddles, he spotted Ana Moreno in a tan belted raincoat walking a hundred feet ahead.
He caught up with her, touched her arm. When she turned, he was struck by the sad beauty in her eyes.
He asked her to join him for coffee. "Unless, of course, you have a patient...."
She shook her head. "I cancelled all my appointments today."
"So did I," Tomás said, lightly touching her cheek to brush away some droplets of rain, or perhaps, he thought, some tears.
He took her arm, led her several blocks to a non-descript coffee shop, explaining that he wanted to discuss a confidential matter, and thus did not want to sit in a café where they might run into colleagues or be overheard.
The place he chose, over-lit and plastic, was, he felt, a properly bland venue for the bomb he was about to drop.
Ana gave him his opening as soon as they sat down.
"I was surprised you didn't speak. I know others were too."
He nodded. He wanted to touch her hair. Instead he told her why he'd chosen to stay silent, describing his last meeting with Carlos, that terrible haunting last session, his only indication that something had gone terribly wrong. And even before he finished telling her the reason for that meeting, the "Tony Problem" as he now called it, she interrupted.
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