The Black Minutes (28 page)

Nevertheless, the King of the Martians made it clear that Rangel was his choice and he is allowed one wish: Ask for whatever you want.
Whatever?
That’s right: whatever you request will be provided.

Suddenly, the king of the Martians looked just like Chabuelo, a television personality, and Rangel thought he was on a game show. And Rangel asked himself,
What should I ask for, an all-expense-paid trip to Hawaii? A new car, a washing machine, a record player?
He was aware that it was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, but the professional part of his subconscious took over before he could stop it:
The murderer, ask who the murderer is
.

Your time is up, the Martian said. Let’s see what’s behind curtain number one, the prize the contestant did not select. Wow! The audience grumbled. A millionaire’s mansion, with a huge car out front and three servants: a blonde, a redhead, and a brunette, all ready and at your service. Rangel heard applause, a round of applause, and the game show host continued. Let’s go to the second curtain, what’s behind the second curtain? Jimi Hendrix’s guitar, the guitar that Jimi Hendrix played, and next to it . . . the secret to immortality! Mr. Vicente Rangel González just turned down the secret to eternal life. But don’t lose hope, there’s still one more chance to redeem yourself. What do we have behind curtain number three, please? The last servant removed the curtain and the announcer said: A monkey. A spooky monkey.

Inside, under a powerful spotlight, a baboon was sitting on a stool. Oh, my God, what an ugly monkey! The baboon was dark gray and he had a terrible look on his face, almost human. When it realized that Rangel was looking at him, the primate reprimanded him: What do you want, dude?

Frightened, Rangel apologized:
I don’t know what’s going on, I’m here for the contest
. The baboon seemed to get upset: What
contest? What a stupid nephew!
Uncle Miguel? Is that you?
Yeah, it’s me.
And what are you doing here?
Working, I’m still a detective, but now I’m an undercover agent, I investigate dreams, and you, what do you do now, nephew?
I’m tracking two murders, a guy who kills young girls
. A little girl murderer . . . that’s unbelievable! And do you have any evidence?
A little, but it hasn’t helped any
. That’s too bad, Uncle Miguel said, too bad. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose.
Listen, Uncle Miguel, what if you help me?
Nooo, I’m really sorry but I can’t, why should I drop my work just to help with yours? Besides, if I don’t charge, I don’t work.
But before, you would always help me
. Yeah, but now you’re all grown up, and there’s nothing in it for me.
Uncle, the years have made you really egotistical, you only think about money
. Do you or don’t you want to solve the case?
Yes
. Well then, shut up and watch.

The baboon climbed down from the stool and walked over to a door in the back. For starters, you need to get out of this building. Don’t dawdle. Before Rangel could react, he ordered: look, there’s the guy you’ve been looking for, and he pointed to the other side of a window. A scary-looking man carrying a French poodle was outside. He was wearing a wide leather duty belt, loaded with sharp tools, and when he saw a young girl pass by, he offered her the French poodle. No, he thought, don’t take it, but it was too late. Rangel wanted to stop him from attacking her, but the door was locked with a key, and when he looked out the window again, they were no longer there. He asked himself where they could have gone to, and the next thing he saw was an enormous curtain, a yellow curtain, ruffling in the wind. He couldn’t explain why he was so afraid. But the wind lifted the curtain and he saw the girl’s feet, submerged in a puddle of blood....

He woke up, stamping his feet violently, and for a minute he confused the curtain in his dream for the real curtain.
Ooof
—he
opened his eyes—
at least I’m in my own house
. There was a ceiling fan, and everything was fine, except that he didn’t have any ceiling fans.

“Oh, shit, where am I?” he said out loud.

“We’re in the Motel Costa Brava,” a voice answered. “What happened to you? As soon as you got here, you started snoring,” the girl with the braids complained.

As the image of the room came into focus, the detective concluded with growing amazement: The French poodle!
The fuzz
, he thought,
we have to analyze the fuzz
.

When he called Dr. Ridaura, she thought he was kidding. “Are you sure?”

Rangel explained that he was serious and said that running the test was urgent.

The old woman didn’t like the idea of getting up so early in the morning, but because she was dealing with him, she replied very kindly. “Call me in half an hour.”

Before the time was up, the specialist called headquarters.

“It was complicated, but it was worth it. You’re half right. I have your results here, but first, tell me how it occurred to you to do this.”

“Another time,” he apologized, “we have to hurry.”

“OK, I have to admit that I forgot the principle of Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter’: when you want to hide something, leave it in plain sight. There they were, but since they provoked my allergies, I overlooked them. Do you remember how I was sneezing at the crime scene?”

“What are they?”

“I’m getting to that. I don’t understand how it didn’t occur to me, but anyway, I checked the material that we recovered from under the nails and indeed I found two samples of animal origin.”

“White in color?” Rangel inquired.

Dr. Ridaura was stunned. “You already knew? Well, yes, a grayish white. And you want to know something? They are also under the nails of Karla Cevallos. You were right so far. But you were wrong about one thing: They’re not dog hairs. It’s sheep wool. A very young white lamb.”

“Are you sure?”

“Either I’m sure or Ridaura’s not my name. That guy attracts the girls with a little lamb.”

“Thank you so much, Doctor. And listen, don’t mention this to anyone. It’s very important.”

“OK. Congratulations, Rangel. I’m going to be following this to see what happens.”

He confirmed that no one had heard him, but his nervousness was unjustified. The Professor and the Bedouin had gone to sleep in their respective cars at 4:30, and El Chicote was snoring on the first floor.

He went down to get some coffee. When he heard him moving around, El Chicote half woke up.

“Are you going to want some more? I’ll make it right now.”

“You’re really on top of things,
cabrón
.”

“It’ll be ready in a second. If you want to, go back to sleep,” he suggested. “If something comes up, I’ll wake you.”

Sure, thought Rangel, even though you can’t even handle your own business. As he waited for the coffee, he heard the new edition of
El Mercurio
arrive and went outside to get it. Let’s see what’s new, he thought. The first page grabbed his attention:
SIERRA DE OCAMPO ON FIRE. DROUGHT CAUSES CONCERN IN PORT
. But it was two other headlines that bothered him:
NO TRACE OF THE JACKAL
and
WORK OF JOURNALISTS OBSTRUCTED
. Holy shit, it was La Chilanga. There was a photo of the chief on the cover, promising an intense manhunt and an arrest. On one side, the weather
report contradicted him with a certain ill will:
Only light winds and isolated rainfall in the region
. And the satellite image did in fact show a persistent cloudiness parked over the metro area. Farther down, Johnny Guerrero’s column said:
NEW POLICE ERRORS: SECRET SERVICE STILL HAS NO LEADS ON SADISTIC MURDERER
. He said to himself: Let’s see what this idiot wrote about, and to his surprise, Johnny told the story of El Profeta. Goddamn,
cabrón
, this shit is serious. The columnist told everything about Taboada’s failure in exacting detail, but he was careful not to identify the agents. “According to our sources, a good detective who has been working on the case is about to quit due to internal pressures.” Rangel realized he was turning pale. Shit, he thought, now they really are going to fuck with me; fucking dumb-ass reporter, this is gonna make my life impossible. They’re gonna think I’m ratting them out. Goddamnit, somebody’s got me in their sights. He didn’t want to think about what El Travolta would do. Holy shit, he said to himself, if I’m in the office, I’m gonna be in trouble.

A rooster crowed somewhere in the neighborhood, and Rangel considered working with Agustín Barbosa. What am I gonna do with my life? He didn’t have a lot of options; he hadn’t even finished college. At his worst moments, he imagined himself dealing with the humiliation of going to ask for work from the Williams family. No fucking chance of that. Besides, the Federal Highway Patrol was the only thing left after the Secret Service, and there weren’t many positions in the city. Whatever, he thought, I’m gonna end up in a fucking checkpoint, just like the Wizard. He thought over Barbosa’s offer and concluded that his coworkers would never let him work for the opposition. They’d make his life impossible. He decided that if he was fired, he wouldn’t apply to the Federal Police. The pay was so bad he’d have to end up corrupt.

It had been a crazy night and he couldn’t take it anymore. The sun would come up in a few minutes and he had a pounding headache. For a minute, he thought about going back home, but there was no time, so he cleared off his desk and tried to get some sleep.

Vicente thought about his childhood and his brief professional career in music. The year he learned to play bass. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, Clapton. His first gigs, touring with Rigo Tovar. But as always happened when he remembered his life in the band, he ended up thinking about his first girlfriend and his friend’s betrayal. At that moment, the needle of his memory, accustomed to protecting him from his past, skipped on the LP album of his life, and the next thing he saw was the place where he was right then. He was a police officer pursuing a murderer. He didn’t like his job but he couldn’t leave it: he didn’t know how to do anything else.

That’s what he was thinking about that day, Wednesday the nineteenth of March, at six in the morning, when Chief García came in dressed in a suit and tie. Rangel barely had time to stand up.

“Is there anything new?”

Vicente presented his findings. As he spoke, the chief watched him and nodded.

“It’s about time. Have you distributed this information?”

“Not yet.”

“I’d like you to personally advise the other officers. This is very good information. I can’t have it wasted in the papers.”

He thought the chief would reprimand him, but he did not seem to be upset. It was obvious he hadn’t read
El Mercurio
.

“And Taboada?”

“He hasn’t come in.” He was the only officer on watch, Rangel explained; the others were sleeping in their cars. He didn’t want to talk badly about his colleagues, but he had to tell the chief the truth.

Chief García shook his head with disgust and thought about the situation. “Rangel, I need your help: bring a notebook so you can take notes. We leave in ten minutes.”

“Yes, sir. Where are we going?”

“To a meeting. You drive.” And he threw him the keys to his personal patrol car.

Vicente opened up the bottom drawer of his desk and took out a jar of gel, a razor, toothpaste, and dug around until he found his Odorono deodorant. Five minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, his hair combed and with an acceptable shave.

He started the chief’s car—it was always a pleasure to drive that patrol car—and pulled up at the entrance. The chief was waiting for him.

“Where are we headed, sir?”

“To the palace.”

He was referring to City Hall. They were going to see the Mayor Torres Sabinas.

Passing through Parque Hidalgo, he saw the fog was starting to clear. The birds were screeching in the cypress trees and a large orange cloud was moving closer to the city. For a moment, the fog seemed to dissipate.

At the stoplight in front of the cathedral, they had to wait for a garbage truck to move. As they were waiting, the old man commented, “Churruca called me again. He wants this case resolved in two days.”

Poor guy, he thought. The chance of García’s staying in his job was worse than ever, and, in a gesture of friendship, he made an offer. “Sir, would you like me to help interrogate Jack Williams?”

The old man responded by looking at him. Everything he wanted to say was understood in that one look. “Don’t pressure me, Rangel, don’t pressure me.”

As soon as they turned onto the Avenida del Puerto, Rangel saw that the doorman was waiting to open the gate. There were already six cars there.

Rangel parked next to Torres Sabinas’s minivan, and they walked up the wide staircase. On the second floor, they ran into six bodyguards, who moved to one side to allow them to pass; one of them was the gringo security guard who had questioned him at John Williams’s mansion. Shit, what is he doing here?

The chief walked on one side of the guards, who greeted him with their customary phrase, “At your command, Chief.” As was the norm, he responded to their greeting with a slight head movement.

In the main assembly room, a handful of people were arranged around a rectangular table. Seeing them arrive, Licenciado Daniel Torres Sabinas went to welcome them.