17 Stone Angels (34 page)

She noted something perfunctory and slightly sardonic about the agent's attitude. She struggled to keep the defensiveness out of her voice. “The police interpretation was that he thought Pelegrini could help him if he kept his mouth shut.”

He gave a skeptical look. “Do you think they beat the second confession out of him?”

“I was present at the first one, and in that case I'd say definitely not. There is a piece of evidence that supports the Pelegrini connection, and that was that the coroner found Carlo Pelegrini's wife's phone number in the victim's pocket.”

“Is that in the
expediente
?”

“Yes.”

Castro nodded and made a note on his yellow paper.

The agent's impatient manner had begun to make her nervous. She told a condensed version of Fabian's story. Castro inquired about Fabian's name and wrote it in his notebook, then asked a few follow-up questions. He didn't seem particularly interested in the answers. At last he put his pen down.

“Let me tell you where we're at on this, Doctor Fowler. We've been interested in the Waterbury case for some time, but local law enforcement has been uncooperative, to say the least. We've asked four times for a copy of the
expediente
and every time they've found a new excuse for not handing it over. This morning we finally got a copy.”

“Interesting timing. Do you think Pelegrini is really involved?” she asked.

“I wouldn't be surprised if Carlo Pelegrini is behind it. Between you and I, we've linked the Pelegrini enterprises with money laundering and some other activities that affect the security of the United States. In my mind, he's overdue.”

“And what would be his motive?”

“Well, your friends in the police department seem to think that Waterbury was fooling around with Pelegrini's wife. That might have been motive enough. Or maybe she gave Waterbury information that could hurt Pelegrini, as you said. Tried to play him off against her husband. That'll get a person dead. At any rate,” he said briskly, “you've done an excellent job in re-energizing this investigation.”

“Thank you.”

“An
incredible
job,” Small added.

Castro looked her in the eye with a business-like frankness. “At this point, we'd like you to return to the States and brief the victim's family on what you've found out. We'll go forward from here.”

He'd said it so plainly that it took her a few seconds to fully understand. Wilbert Small shifted in his seat. “You mean. . .I'm done?”

“You're done. We've already talked to the Buenos Aires police and let them know that we'll be handling the investigation directly from here forward.”

“You've done a first rate job,” Small said warmly. “Now we need your skills in other arenas.”

She was still confused by the bluntness of it. “I have to say, this is all a
bit sudden. I mean, I came down here to resolve this case, Agent Castro, and I wouldn't say it's quite resolved yet.”

Castro answered blandly. “This case could take months to resolve. Maybe longer. Tracing it back to Pelegrini is going to take a full-fledged investigation and a lot of training and expertise.”

“But . . .” She found herself trapped in his viewpoint. It
could
take months. She
had
no real expertise.

“The other factor,” Small broke in, “is that your other job is starting in less than a month. You need to go back to Washington and go through the formalities, get briefed on everything. You probably need to square things away with the university, don't you?”

“I understand that, Bert, but . . .” She stopped speaking and sat there absently for a moment. An ugly thought was taking shape in her mind. Maybe it was the agent's perfunctory interview, or the FBI's sudden interest in the case now that Pelegrini had been accused. Berenski's words came back to her.
He's like Morelo, of the SuperClassic: The gringos paid him enough that he would start calling the foul
. Now the FBI was calling the foul, eager to go after a man who had committed the double offense of being an enemy of justice and an enemy of certain American corporate interests. For reasons still unclear to her she'd flushed out admissions that might eventually lead to the truth about Robert Waterbury's murder. Her job was to walk away with her accolades and her pats on the back while the FBI tied everything into a tight little package and hung it around Pelegrini's neck. That's the way the system worked: you write the report, you take the promotion, you leave the responsibility with someone higher up the chain. And one day you found out you were Miguel Fortunato.

She closed her eyes for a moment and then turned to the agent. “I'm sorry,” she said in a low, steady voice, “but this is just not acceptable.”

“What's not acceptable?”

“I'm not done here. I'm not leaving yet.”

There was a confused silence. “No, Miss Fowler,” Castro answered. “You are done here. And you
are
leaving.”

She looked from one closed face to the other. Small sat uncomfortably, offering no help, while Castro seemed irritated and impatient. “What is this, Agent Castro? For two weeks you won't return my phone calls, and suddenly Pelegrini's name pops up and you're all over it! What's the deal here?” He
eyed her coldly. “This isn't about Waterbury's murder at all, is it?” she continued. “It's about getting Pelegrini. Who are you working for here, Mr Castro? RapidMail? Did they come in and brief you, hint around that there might be some consulting fees in it for you down the line if you're extra diligent? Maybe a little security contract after you retire?”

Now he was visibly angry. “Who do you think—?”

“Oh, I'm sorry! I shouldn't question your integrity. RapidMail probably just worked this all out in Washington and handed the orders down from there.” She swiveled around. “How about it, Bert? Did AmiBank grease the wheels back home? Is that why we're all sitting here?”

Agent Castro's voice was leaden with contempt. “Why don't you just take your conspiracy theories back to your friends at the university, Miss Fowler. This is the real world. You're finished here.” He looked over at Small and the two of them came to their feet.

She felt everything slipping away from her and there was nothing she could do about it. “Okay! Let's all stand up! Fine!” She rose. “I know all about RapidMail and Grupo AmiBank and even William Renssaelaer, who used to work out of this very embassy and is working for Pelegrini now! I know all your filthy little corporate games. Ricardo Berenski told me everything!”

This caught the FBI man by surprise, and for the first time she saw a trace of uncertainty in his features. “When did you talk to Ricardo Berenski?” he asked quickly.

“That's none of your business! You can read about it in the fucking
New York Times
!”

The mention of the newspaper seemed to calm Agent Castro, as if she'd overplayed her hand. He fixed her with a faint smirk and said quietly, “Dream on.”

The embassy worked fast at
rolling up the welcome mat. When she returned to the hotel she was asked politely to re-register using her own credit card, and with that gesture she knew that she had no reason to expect more assignments from the State Department. She imagined that by now Wilbert Small had telephoned Fortunato to strip her of whatever meager official standing she'd had. She tried not to think about the job offer she'd just thrown away; that train of thought led straight to hell. Instead, she remembered Berenski
and Carmen Amado, people who didn't give up, and Naomi Waterbury, who had given up everything. Folding now wasn't an option.

She stared at the ceiling and squeezed her temples. She would need to corroborate Fabian's story, to pull out his fictional cast and find out what was real. Starting with Teresa Castex. A woman who wouldn't be eager to meet with an investigator, and could muster a wall of lawyers and bodyguards in a matter of minutes.

The idea came to her suddenly, and though it seemed absurd at first, as she began to work out the mechanics it started to feel completely appropriate. She took a deep breath and placed two international phone calls, one to New York, and the other to Los Angeles. “Suzanne! This is Athena. I need a favor.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-ONE

A
thena only had to leave one message with Teresa Castex before she received a return call on her new cellular line. It was a voice of luxurious petulance, lathering her ear with honey. “I'm enchanted to receive your call! I'm so glad you found me! The truth is that I've wanted to talk about Robert for some time, but here it's so difficult to find someone who understands these matters. Is this your first time in Buenos Aires?
Fantastico
!”

She suggested they meet at the Café Tortoni, a beautiful old confitería in the center where the literary elite had once convened. The Tortoni had changed little since the 1890s: its gilded walls were giddily dressed with mirrors and red velvet, while crisp waiters in white jackets moved efficiently between the marble tables. Period photos and yellowed newspaper clippings told of readings by Borges and Victoria Ocampo seventy years earlier, while other doors led to private salons and a spacious expanse of billiard tables. German and Japanese tourists read guidebooks over cups of coffee.

Fabian had described Teresa Castex de Pelegrini with superficial accuracy, but she still turned out to be an entirely different Teresa Castex than the one Athena had imagined. Far from being Fabian's brittle woman wrenched by an unrequited love, Teresa Castex's beauty had weathered rather attractively, and it crossed her mind that perhaps the unrequited part of the relationship was Fabian's invention. Slim, around fifty, with artful dark-blond hair and
the proud carriage of a model, she was no Inca mummy. She spoke in English to a woman she knew as Suzanne Winterthur, of Avondale Publishers.

“I was desolated by Robert's death, Susana, desolated! We were collaborating on a fantastic new work, as you know, and just as we approached the heart of the story that terrible event happened. Fortunately, we had already talked about the ending, so I can be of great help to your project. You may not know it, but I have been a writer since before this sad affair with Robert.”

She fished two small books out of her soft leather bag and put them on the table. Each was leather-bound and embossed with gold leaf, obviously self-published. Athena opened one of the volumes to the middle and felt herself blushing after reading the first few lines. The poem appeared to be the thoughts of a woman in the midst of a frantic orgy. Another involved a woman waiting in a limousine for her lover.
Me masturbo con tu imagen
. . . Athena nodded appreciatively and opened the other book. This one was more tame: a book of poems with titles like “The Boy on the St Germain des Prés,” or “The Florentine Handbag.” They seemed to be existential ruminations on various shopping expeditions Teresa had made.

She swallowed to clear her throat. “Your style is really . . . unusual. Are the North American rights still available for these?” Athena asked.

“Oh!” She waved her hand, unable to contain her pleasure. “Later we can discuss such things. I give you these as a gift. But let's talk more of this Waterbury project. What do you need from me?”

“Two things: some biographical information and some idea of how the novel was to finish.” Here Athena let a look of embarrassment come to her. “I'm ashamed to say it, Teresa, but publishing is still a business and we have to listen to the marketing department. They want to use the background of the author's death to sell the novella.”

This seemed distasteful even to the wife of Carlo Pelegrini. “They want to use his assassination to sell the book?”

She shook her head somberly. “It's a corrupt business, Teresa. But at least this will get your efforts out to a wider audience. The marketing department sees this as some sort of “artist on the way down” story. You know, with the drugs and all that. There's always something very compelling about an artist who destroys himself just as he's creating his greatest work. Look what it did for Van Gogh! They've even had an offer for the movie rights.
Of course his wife was furious, because she said he never used drugs . . .'She shrugged. “That's why I was hoping you might know something about his last days here.”

Now Teresa Castex became wary, took out a cigarette to hide behind. “Of that death . . .'She let it trail off, shaking her head. “It's a bit confused.” Something passed across her face. “He wasn't killed for drugs.” She halted on that fat invitation and glanced around the room, then leaned forward. “The police killed him.”

The claim made Athena flutter inside. That hypothesis had surfaced early on and if she'd never completely believed it, she'd never completely dispelled it either.

“The police?”

“I tell you this in confidence, because few know it. But that is the truth, it was the police.”

For the first time since they'd met, Athena felt Teresa Castex was being genuine. “But why would the police kill him?”

She needed little urging. “This will not make a very pretty addition to his legend, but if you would like to know, I will tell you. You see, Robert became involved with a woman here. A French prostitute of the lowest order. She claimed she was a tango dancer, and acted like a woman of twenty-five, but I am sure she was closer to forty. She must have come from the slums of Paris to make her fortune here in Argentina, where she would be exotic. I saw through that, of course, but Robert, he always had a more romantic view of the world. He wanted to see her like a character that appears often in tango, of the Frenchwoman adrift in Buenos Aires. So he fell in with this romanticized view of her, and became involved in her affairs.”