They left his car parked illegally on Cordoba and headed along Florida. The street had been closed off to automobiles and converted into a giant sidewalk, filled now with pedestrians breezing past café windows and pausing at kiosks to peruse magazine covers stamped with the face of the embattled Carlo Pelegrini. He walked along it now with Athena, toward the Grupo AmiBank building. Better to show up without an appointment, surprise him.
They turned into the sumptuous wood-paneled lobby, past a somber-looking custodian with a 9mm pistol: probably his service pistol, Fortunato thought. The Comisario flashed his badge at the two men at the desk, said with unassailable matter-of-factness, “Good afternoon, muchachos, I’m Comisario Fortunato, of Investigaciones, San Justo. I’m here to speak with Pablo Moya, on the tenth floor. This is my colleague Athena Fowler, an assessor for the United States Department of State. I’ll announce myself.” He walked on without waiting for them to call, Athena following. By luck the elevator was waiting for them and they stepped in without looking back. Thirty seconds later they exited into the plush white carpet of the tenth floor. Fortunato still had his badge out. He knew they’d already announced him. “I’m Comisario Fortunato of the Department of investigations, Provincial Police of Buenos Aires. This is my colleague La Doctora Athena Fowler, working on behalf of the FBI of the United States. With Señor Moya, please.”
“Señor Moya is in a meeting now . . .”
Fortunato put on his police face, tilting his chin up and speaking with a voice of total command. “Now he has a more important meeting. What is your name?”
The woman quavered a bit. “Maria Foch.”
“Señorita Foch. Connect me with Señor Moya, immediately. This is a police matter.” She put him on the line and Fortunato became instantly cordial. “Señor Moya, forgive the disturbance. I’m Comisario Fortunato, of the division of Investigaciones in La Matanza. I happened to be in the neighborhood so I took the opportunity to make a little visit. I’m with a colleague from the United States who is attached to the FBI and we would like to chat with you for a few minutes . . . I know you are busy. If you prefer, I can call the judge and arrange something more formal at the comisaria, but I thought this would be more . . . ” Fortunato listened. “Perfecto! In a minute, then.” He glanced at Athena, tossed his head with the faintest trace of smugness on his kind face. The door buzzed and they walked through it.
“Comisario Fortunato! It’s a pleasure!” Señor Moya had already come from behind his desk and strode across the room towards Fortunato with his hand extended.
The Comisario took the warm wide hand and then presented Athena to him. Moya’s eye lingered with a special warmth that emitted a gentlemanly seductiveness, and Fortunato speculated that Moya, with his long lashes and square build, was accustomed to smoothing his way through life with a friendly smile. Some faces, he thought, were constructed according to a destiny that their owner went on discovering little by little. Like Moya’s, created to decorate money, or his own face, that everyone found so sympathetic, ideal for imparting tragic news and concealing other people’s fraud.
They sat down and Fortunato started in on the usual questions—much as the FBI had done with him the day before—with a cordial conversation about Moya’s work and his family. The banker answered expertly: formal, but always as if on the verge of weaving some friendship, so that Fortunato kept feeling the urge to break down and see things the way Moya portrayed them. Life, the banker’s tone implied, was an important affair, to be managed among hombres but not taken too seriously. He had something boyish and exuberant about him that hung beneath his polished exterior, almost naughty. Fortunato could see why he’d made it to the tenth floor. As they talked, the Comisario couldn’t help noticing the soft sheen of Moya’s charcoal suit and his mesmerizing silk tie of olive and gold that shone and shifted as he moved.
The “regulars” dispensed with, Fortunato started in earnest. “Señor Moya; do you know why we are here?”
Moya became slightly more grave. “I imagine it is about Robert Waterbury.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the others were already here, a comisario. . .Perez, I think, and a sub-comisario . . .” He searched the air for an answer, then dismissed it. “It escapes me. But I had the impression this was a Federal investigation, not a Provincial one.”
Fortunato ignored the little sting. “The murder took place in San Justo, so it is my jurisdiction. The Federales have taken an interest in it because of the theme of organización ilicita.” Grimacing, “But those are semantic questions, Señor Moya. What interests us all is to find the people responsible for the crime.”
“Me more than anyone. Robert was a good friend.” He opened his hands and Fortunato saw a nostalgia descend on him, along with a genuine grief. “Very cultured, very kind. An excellent writer.” Pablo looked down at his desk for a moment, disturbed. “He didn’t deserve that end.”
Fortunato’s mind was invaded by the image of Waterbury covered with blood. He swallowed. “No one deserves it. Can you tell us more about your relation with the victim?”
The banker regained his balance. “Bien. We were friends, with all that implies. We met some ten years ago when the bank sent Robert here to work on the privatization of Aerolíneas, and when he returned, he asked for my help in meeting some people in Buenos Aires for his book. He was researching a novel.”
“Who did you introduce him to?”
Pablo thought about it, then seemed to reconsider. “You know, Comisario Fortunato,” he said politely, “I answered all of these questions two days ago for the Federales. I suggest that you could save time by simply reading my declaration.”
“I always prefer to hear them directly.”
The executive concealed any annoyance he felt, uncrossed his legs to dispel his irritation and leaned back. “He wanted to meet people of money, to see how they lived, how they thought. I tried to help him.” He gave them a few names which Athena copied into her book. “But these were informal meetings, without any motive besides socializing.”
Fortunato nodded. “And tell me, Señor Moya, do you know of a man named Carlo Pelegrini?”
“Of course! The businessman who paid bribes to get control of the Post Office. He’s in the newspapers every day. Now he’s associated with this Berenski murder, no?”
“Thus say the newspapers,” Fortunato shrugged. “Tell me about the relationship between Carlo Pelegrini and Robert Waterbury.”
Pablo looked towards the liquor cart as if considering whether to offer them a drink. “I don’t know much about that. I think he became friends with the wife, Teresa Castex. He got in with her and . . . I don’t know. It became strange. Robert was a writer of some reputation, as you know, and she was paying him to help her write a book. Something of that type; a bit rare. I told him not to put himself in with her.”
“Why did you tell him that?”
“Because Pelegrini is heavy and she is his wife. One doesn’t need to be a mathematician to solve that equation.” He cocked his head thoughtfully towards Athena. “I’ve sometimes thought that perhaps Pelegrini had him killed because of the wife.”
Fortunato rubbed the stubble of his chin. A variation of Fabian’s theme, but keeping his own name conveniently out of the forefront. “And what was the relationship between Grupo AmiBank and Carlo Pelegrini at this time?”
“The same as now: nothing.”
“You weren’t rivals for control of the Post Office?”
“Bien, I suppose that an adversarial relationship is still a relationship.”
“And did Señor Waterbury ever mention any anxiety about Carlo Pelegrini to you?”
The banker lowered his eyelashes for a moment. “We arrive at that theme.” He looked up. “The Federales also asked. Robert came to me and told me that he was writing a book with Pelegrini’s wife. The details to me seemed half-rare.” He waggled his hand dubiously. “Moreover, this was a sensitive time for Pelegrini. Berenski had just begun to expose his bribes in the Post Office case. If he saw Robert coming to the AmiBank office . . .’ He shook his head, and his voice rose into a furtive protestation of innocence, though no accusation had been made. “I warned him that Pelegrini might misinterpret his visits here, that it could be complicated.” He rested his elbows on the desk and rubbed his forehead as if to erase some memory. “I suppose it was my fault for not acting with more force to stop the situation. But how could I know that he would kill him?”
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.”