Fortunato 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.”
“Which ones?”
“Federales and those of the Bonaerense.”
“Do you have their names?”
The clerk hesitated, perhaps wondering for the first time who he was talking to. Fortunato maintained his look of expectation, and the clerk took several cards from a drawer. Federales: a comisario from Homicide, and a sub-co from the local station. Officers of some rank. There was a certain seriousness to the investigation now. The other card, of the Bonaerense, struck him like a familiar slap. Domingo Fausto, Inspector. Checking their trail. The cruel beefy face flashed across his vision; he put it out of his mind. “And what did you tell them?”
“The truth. That the Northamerican was out when I came to work and he never returned. That I finished the shift without event.”
Fortunato nodded his head approvingly, his voice warm and sympathetic. “Bien, muchacho. And no other guests came that night?”
“There were some, but I don’t remember well. That was six months ago.”
Fortunato nodded. “The registry, please.”
The clerk produced a large ledger book with names in it. Most were couples, without the identification numbers or passports required by law. He made an automatic mental note that he could squeeze the owner for that omission, then concentrated on the names again. All common last names, their stays lasting only a few hours. He’d expected that.
A whistle came from the television as the referee called a foul against River. Fortunato glanced at it with annoyance. “Lower the volume.” He waited for the clerk to comply. “You rent rooms by the hour here?”
“Some. The girls come over from Reconquista. But it’s tranquil. We never have any problems.”
“Do you remember anything unusual about the clients that night?”
“No.”
The policeman pulled out a photo he’d brought with him. “Do you remember seeing this man?”
Two black brows moved together. “Yes. Yes. Un tipo “Rock Star.” He came in with a girl around. . .twelve-thirty, one in the morning. Not long after I arrived.”
“How did he act?”
He shrugged. “When they come in here like that, it’s not to introduce themselves and make friends with the guy at the reception. He came, he signed, he went upstairs with the girl and he left two hours later. See . . .” He pointed at the check-out time in the register, then squinted. “But if I remember well, the woman left first. I wondered what he was doing up there the last hour.”
So Fabian had been alone in the hotel for at least an hour while Waterbury was taking his last ride. Puta! “And was he carrying anything when he left?”
“I think he had an athletic bag.”
The detective nodded, then asked a few more questions about the woman, gathering only that she wasn’t one of the regulars and that nothing about her stood out. The clerk knew nothing else. If Pelegrini’s men had come in to search the room later, they must have done it on a different shift.
“Fine. You did well, young one. Fortunately, in our department there is money in the budget to reward citizens like yourself.” The Comisario limbered ten hundred-peso notes from the roll, probably two months” salary for the clerk. He handed them over but kept his fingers on them. “But I want you to forget you saw me. The element of surprise is critical to the investigation.”
The clerk put his hand over the bills and pulled them across the counter. “Don’t worry, Uncle. You don’t exist.”
Fortunato nodded with the faintest hint of chill. “Good. If you keep your word, I’ll know. And if you don’t,” his face lost all expression, “I’ll know that, too.”
Once outside, Fortunato staggered through the night. He had suspected that the journals had been taken from Waterbury’s room, but if Fabian had gotten them while the squeeze was happening, he had to have known about the abduction from the start! How? Through Domingo? A sense of shame and anger mixed within Fortunato. All of them plotting behind his back! Like when the colonels and lieutenants plotted behind the generals” backs in those barracks uprisings. And him the stupid gil, playing the commanding officer!
The rage to kill someone swept across Fortunato and left him with his heart pounding and his fists clenched. The incident in the vacant lot in San Justo had removed the concept of murder from the realm of idle fantasy. He pushed the notion aside and concentrated on the problem. Fabian knew he’d abducted Waterbury and that he could do nothing but wait and hope while others were making a bed for Pelegrini.
Fine. The situation was developing. One had to pursue it more profoundly now, at a level where things were closer to the blood. He opened the door to his car and looked at his watch. One in the morning. He put in a call to Cacho.