17 Stone Angels (37 page)

Fortunato was finding it hard to read the man. His words had an undertow of deep emotion, but at the same time something about the testimony struck a false note. He tried to inject some sympathy into his voice. “There's evidence that even the murderers did not foresee killing him. It seems to have been an intimidation that went badly.”

“All the same,” Moya began, but he couldn't seem to finish his sentence. A mixture of grief and embarrassment took the form of a cloudy smile on his silent face.

Fortunato glanced over at Athena. She was staring intently at Pablo Moya, as if she too had detected the ambiguities of his explanation. It was time to fish a little. The Comisario cleared his throat and shifted in his chair. “Señor Moya,” he said in his soft, calm voice, “do you know a Mr William Renssaelaer?”

Moya gave the slightest flinch backwards. “No. No, I don't know the name.”

The old Comisario noted the opening, and used an ancient ruse. “That's interesting. Can you think of a reason someone would tell me that they saw you with William Renssaelaer?”

Now the banker began to fidget nervously with a gold pen. “Where? At a party?” He waited for an answer but Fortunato remained silent. “Because I might chat with anyone at a party, without ever learning their name.” He tried to sound relaxed and helpful but the smile kept flitting through at inappropriate moments. “The truth is that in my position one is invited to many social events and meets many people. So, could I have been seen talking to someone who associates with Carlo Pelegrini? Of course! I might be talking to anyone!”

It was a blunder worthy of a television detective show, and Fortunato moved in on it. “Now you say that William Renssaelaer is an associate of Carlo Pelegrini? But you just told us you didn't recognize the name!”

The banker's boyish face began to fall into disarray. “I was speaking hypothetically! To say that one meets the entire range of society!”

Athena addressed him for the first time, using her most elegant voice. “Particularly when one operates an internet pornography site, as you do, Señor Moya.”

The banker stopped talking and rocked backwards in his chair as his mouth came soundlessly open. He crossed his fingers over his stomach, uncrossed them. “Well. . .I have investments in high technology ventures through a limited partnership, but I'm not up to date on the particulars.”

“You're lying, Pablo. You're the owner of an internet porno site and you've even watched them film some of the scenes. It's strange, no? One can launder money and sell out the country and one's status will go up. But operate a pornography site or consort with prostitutes and everyone looks down on you. Especially one's wife and daughter.”

“Are you accusing me—! Where did you get this nonsense?”

“Robert Waterbury told me.”

Now Pablo's confusion overcame him. “Robert? When?”

“When he was alive, of course. You see, Pablo, I also was a friend of Robert's. So I have a personal interest in this.” She inclined herself towards him and her eyes narrowed to match her low, nearly whispered voice. “I'm going to the bottom of this matter, and if I have to pull you down with me, that's fine. It's fine! Now tell us about your relationship with William Renssaelaer, or I swear to you your website will be only the beginning.”

Fortunato was surprised by her sudden attack, and by its success. Pablo had become a jittery replica of the suave
caballero
who had welcomed them into his office.

“My personal business . . .” he began.

She was implacable. “Don't even say it! You can tell us about William Renssaelaer, or you can start getting calls from the boys at
Pagina/I2
tomorrow morning.”

Moya sat paralyzed by her ultimatum, but at last he became angry. “Get out of here! Get out!” He rose from his seat. “This is typical of the police, to come in and accuse the innocent! Give me your card, Comisario! It's Fortunato, no?” He scribbled it on a pad. “And you, Señorita.”

She stood up, calm as a sheet of steel. In that moment Fortunato loved her. “I'm Athena. You can remember me simply as the one who ruined you.” She closed her notebook and headed for the elevator.

Fortunato started after her, but Moya cut him off at the door of his
office and planted himself in the corridor to spit one last defense at Athena's back. “I have nothing to be ashamed of! Nothing!”

Fortunato looked into the livid face, only a half-meter from his own. A deep confusion was working in the dark eyes, as if part of Pablo Moya was appalled that he would be standing in a hallway hissing lies at a woman's back. His features melted into a look of profound anguish, which he turned absently to the Comisario.

“Neither do I, Señor Moya,” Fortunato told him. “Neither do I.”

“Why William Renssaelaer?” Athena asked
when they'd reached the street again. Calle Florida at rush hour was like a river running through two cliffs of concrete and glass. The sound of footfalls on pavement was all around them, festooned with conversations, the calls of the newsmen, beeping cell phones.

Fortunato kept walking beside her. “Because it was the one name that did not appear in Fabian's story. It was a stray bullet, but did you see how it hit him? After that he wouldn't answer any more questions. He had more fear of talking about this Renssaelaer than to be exposed for his pornography venture.”

“But why would he know Pelegrini's chief of security?”

“Thus the question, daughter.” Fortunato's mind was working furiously as they strode down Florida. There was a relation between Renssaelaer and Pablo Moya, executives of two supposedly opposing factions. But was it connected to Robert Waterbury's murder? Now this, yes, was an interesting investigation.

For the first time since the night of the kidnapping, Fortunato felt the world begin to open up to him. He was still free, still flowing along this beautiful stream of life, with its furtive aromas of coffee and cologne drifting across the muffled footsteps. Athena walked beside him, immersed in thought. At last they were working together to solve the Waterbury case. “You played it well, Athena. You gave him a
bifé
he won't forget!”

“I don't like his type.”

“So I noted!” He enjoyed her look of pleasure. “I saw you biting your tongue that first afternoon when we passed the Aerolíneas demonstration.”

She looked at him. “That obvious?”

He rolled his eyes toward the pink heavens. “
Chica
! It's only the left that takes an interest in human rights. Will you really expose his pornography site?”

She looked contentedly over the crowds of Porteños exiting from their workdays. “Oh, I may find some deserving journalist at
Pagina/12
and give them Pablo's website address.”

He stopped her and put his finger to his lips, “Shhh!” He cupped his hand to his ear. “I think I hear Berenski laughing.”

They turned up Calle Lavalle to go to the Café Richmond for a snack. The marquees of a dozen movie theaters hung over the narrow walkway in a blaze of colored light, and Fortunato lost himself in the discussion of the case. On the periphery, his own role in the murder was waiting for him with its dark consequences, but he would settle up with that phantom later. Over sandwiches he agreed with Athena that Fabian had been trying to lead them to Pelegrini. They considered the possibility that he was working for the Federales and that the Federales were being driven by Minister Ovejo and Pelegrini's other enemies in the government. “Or maybe Fabian's working for AmiBank on the side.”

“But why would he expose Maya's website if he worked for AmiBank?”

The Comisario raised his hands. “Because he's a
hijo de puta
! He feels more clever that way. Fabian is half-criminal, and that's typical for them. They feel powerful when they can manipulate someone. As to him working for AmiBank . . .” He was speaking a little too freely, perhaps, but he didn't care at the moment. “A good inspector that does some favors can get a job in private security for four or five times his police salary.” He shrugged, pulled out a smoke. “It's the same in your country, no? They work for the government, then they get a fat job with a corporation. Then they're back in the government, and they get an even fatter job. Look at your present administration. They're all in arms and petroleum.”

“Don't encourage me in that line. I've been trying to behave myself.”

A smile crept out from under his mustache. “And what do we do now? It could be that there's a relation between Pablo Maya and William Renssaelaer, but we don't know what it is. The opinion of Teresa Castex isn't useful. For the sake of argument: why work so hard? Why not stay tranquil, drink a pair of
mates
and watch the wolves tear Pelegrini to pieces? Even if he didn't kill Waterbury, he's guilty of
something
!”

She feigned a look of admiration. “You're so rigorous with your ethics, Miguel!” Serious again. “I have a feeling it wasn't Boguso.” She looked away as she said it: “I think it was someone in the police.”

A chill passed through Fortunato. “Why?”

She shook her head. “I don't know. I can't get rid of the idea. The nine millimeter, and what Teresa Castex said . . . Sometimes things don't have any sense, but they
are
.”

He took in a long breath and looked past her for a while. “There remains
La Francesa
,” he ventured at last. “But that's not so easy. We don't know her last name or what she looks like.”

“We have a picture.”

“How?”

Athena gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “I got it off the internet.” She passed over a photo of a woman's face. A pretty woman with short straight hair of a nondescript color, small eyes and nose, her mouth rounded into an ‘o'. The face had an intense erotic expression which, with the rest of the body cropped out, looked strangely painful. Fortunato recognized her from the week he had surveilled Waterbury.

Athena went on. “I thought I would go around to all the tango schools and try and find out where she is. If she's trying to stay hidden, people might be more willing to tell a foreign woman than a local comisario. I've gotten the impression that the police aren't universally trusted here.”

Fortunato smiled. “Look how she shits on the poor Institution! Typical leftist!” He chuckled. “You're right. If you find her, call me.” He took out a few pieces of money and put them on the table, then stood up. “I, too, will make some inquiries.”

CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR

F
ortunato hadn't returned to the Hotel San Antonio since the night of the squeeze, and he'd kept the investigation clear of the place. Now the unseasonable autumn heat had turned the air as warm as blood, and he could feel the moistness inside his jacket as he approached the yellowed light that poured out the glass doors of the lobby. He'd stared at this door for hours when they'd been arming the
capacha
, and it felt strange finally to go inside—like diving into a pool of water after seeing the surface a thousand times. The tawny marble of the reception looked sallow under the light, and Fortunato noted a streak of verdigris metal polish on the brass along the counter.

He recognized the clerk, a bored young man who had his eyes glued to a football match on a tiny television, as he had the night of Waterbury's misfortune. He worked the midnight to eight shift, probably earning just enough to keep him in spending money if he lived at home with his parents. The young man looked up at him dully, the hopeless expression of a man marking time in a marble cell. One had to fish sometimes, to examine a face and divine its capacity for corruption or fear. Thus a good policeman. He guessed that this face would respond to either.

“Good evening, young one.”

“Good evening, Señor.”

“Who is it? River and Independientes?”

“Sí. Independientes has them four to two.”

“
Puta
! I put twenty pesos on River!”

The young man kept one eye on the screen. “Better to put twenty pesos on the referee. He's killing them.”

The Comisario sighed. “There's no honor in Argentina.
Mirá
. . . ” His voice radiated a sense of calm professionalism. A boy like this wouldn't ask to see identification: he knew it would only get him a
piña
or at best some long hours at the station. “I had a few questions to ask you about the night the gringo disappeared.”

The boy's face took on a look of dread and he glanced quickly towards the door. He turned back and looked warily at Fortunato. “I already told everything I know.”

In a kindly voice: “Of course, son, but I'm conducting a separate investigation. Don't worry; it's all in conformance with the law.” Fortunato dug into his pocket, pulling out a roll of bills and pausing as he watched the clerk's reaction. “I suppose the police have come by recently?”

The clerk glanced at the door again, unsure of what was happening but encouraged by the sight of the money. “Yes. Yesterday and the day before.”