PASEO
"If you go ahead with this, Marta, you'll be fishing in very deep waters," Elena Lantini said.
Marta nodded. Judge Lantini was what people in the criminal justice system called "a serious person." She was in her late fifties, tall and thin with a long thin nose and shoulder length silver hair. She didn't smile much, and she rarely stepped out of role. Best of all from Marta's point-of-view, she was fearless. As far as Marta was concerned the title "La Incorrupta" could as easily be applied to Elena as to herself.
"I've heard things about Charbonneau," the Judge continued. Her office was paneled in dark wood. Law books weighed down the shelves behind her desk. "He was an acolyte of a crazy French immigrant named Mahieu, prominent during the Perón days. Mahieu was a fascist who preached racial theory to a small circle of followers. Charbonneau was the youngest of half a dozen nationalist priests who hung on his every word. Far as I know, he's never spouted Mahieu's poison, but now that he's a political operative, one has to ask what he brings to José Viera's table."
Marta couldn't tell whether Elena was leaning toward acceding to her request, or backing off from it. From the time they'd worked together on the Casares Case, Marta felt the Judge liked her, but was careful not to fraternize.
"When you say 'obstruction of justice,' Marta, are you saying you think there's a conspiracy?"
Marta nodded. "I don't know who sent me those photographs, but Charbonneau's reaction convinced me he was lying. To my mind, in the context of a homicide investigation, that's obstruction."
"Suppose I go along? Then what?" This was the question Marta had been waiting for. She'd prepared her answer the night before. "I'll continue investigating the two homicides. That's my principal case. Meantime, I'll try and use this secondary investigation to force Charbonneau and Viera to tell me the truth or ensnare themselves in additional lies. I believe the crocs tortured and killed Santini and Granic because they were involved in a blackmail scheme. I also believe Charbonneau and Viera are up to their ears with the crocs. I don't know who was being blackmailed, but I view an obstruction investigation as a tool to help me solve the homicides."
Judge Lantini sat back. "All right, consider yourself assigned to investigate possible obstruction. I'll send over papers later today. Copies too to Charbonneau and Minister Viera. There's no way I can keep this secret. But I don't want to read about it in El Faro. If there're leaks, I don't want them coming from you."
"Understood. Thank you."
Marta rose. Lantini followed her to the door.
"Be careful, Marta," Judge Lantini said, placing her arm over Marta's shoulder, the first gesture of affection the Judge had ever shown her. "Casares was small fry compared to Viera. It's almost certain he's going for the Presidency. He's slick and Charbonneau's tough. Don't expect them to roll over."
She met Rolo outside Countess Natasha's building on Avenida Alvear, perhaps the best residential street in Buenos Aires. Unlike so much of the city, everything here was well-maintained, clean, glittering, redolent of wealth and power.
"The Countess is expecting us," Rolo said. "Says she knows you."
Marta studied the apartment house. It had the look of a deluxe building in Paris, the front door resembling the door to a vault. Marta was certain she didn't know anyone who could afford to live at such an address.
The doorman was snobbish until he heard whom they wanted to see. Then he waved them politely toward the elevator.
"I have a hunch the Countess is a big tipper," Rolo said.
A beefy, heavily made-up maid in curly blonde wig, black uniform and frilly apron opened the apartment door.
"The Countess is expecting you," the maid said in a deep masculine voice.
"What's your name?" Rolo asked.
"Countess calls me Milly."
"But you're a man."
Milly looked away. "This way, please," she said, leading them to the door of the salon.
The decor, just as described by Ernesto Ponce, was entirely black and white: white walls, black leather-upholstered furniture, black and white photographs on the walls. A young, attractive, dark-haired woman, wearing a black pants suit and stiletto heel shoes, was sitting in a throne-like chair by the window. Her lipstick and shoes were scarlet, the only colored items in the room. She didn't rise to greet them.
"I'm Countess Natasha," the woman said, smiling at Marta. "You probably remember me as Teresa Levi."
Marta stared at her. There'd been a Teresa Levi in her high school, two classes behind. Marta didn't remember much about her.
"I wouldn't have recognized you," Marta said.
"Good! I wouldn't want you to. Or anyone else from school. But I remember you well. You were a heroine of mine. I've been following your career. 'La Incorrupta.' Very nice! Who'd have thought you'd end up a cop? And who'd have thought a nice Jewish girl like me would ascend into the ranks of the nobility? We should congratulate each other, Marta, don't you think?" The Countess glanced severely at the maid, still hovering in the doorway. "Milly, open a split of champagne, serve it, then leave us to talk in private."
"Very good, Countess," Milly said.
"Milly has a rather low voice," Rolo said, after the maid retired. "Is she—?"
"Yes, Milly's male, acting today as my personal sissy maid. I'd appreciate it if you'd respect her fantasy. It means a lot to her. She's also paying me a great deal to fulfill it."
"That's fine," Marta said, annoyed by Teresa's manner. "But Rolo and I didn't come here to participate in someone's fantasy. Also, let's cut the 'Countess' crap. Should I call you Teresa or would you prefer Ms. Levi?"
"Teresa, of course."
"We're here about the Ivo Granic murder."
"Your cousin told me. He also told me the Window Dresser sent you. To set the record straight, yes, I did know Ivo. And as far as I'm concerned Ernesto Ponce's a lying piece-of-shit."
"Fine. Now that you've got that out of your system, what can you tell us about Granic's blackmail operation?"
"Not much. I liked the guy. I attended his parties. He tried several times to implicate me in his schemes. I always refused. I run a highly confidential business. My clients are loyal to me and I to them. I've never betrayed them and I never shall. So cooperating with Ivo was out of the question."
"You told him that?"
Teresa nodded. "That's when he tried to pressure me. He said 'You owe it to your people to help me out.' When I refused again, he threatened to spread it around about my background. He said he didn't think my clients would appreciate the fact they were enslaved to a Jewess. I told him most of them knew and they liked serving me with that in mind since in their heads it added to the humiliation they sought."
Milly entered the room with three crystal champagne flutes and an open split on a tray. Marta waited until she left and shut the double doors before continuing.
"What exactly did Granic ask you to do?"
"I don't feel I have to tell you that, Marta. But for the sake of our friendship, I will."
Marta nodded, though she found Teresa's reference to friendship pretty funny. She doubted they'd exchanged ten words back in school. But if Teresa wanted to play it that way, fine...so long as she told what she knew.
"Ivo wanted me to engage in a covertly videoed scene with a well-known political personality," Teresa said, "a scene which, if revealed, could discredit the gentleman with his followers."
"What sort of scene?"
"Sadomasochistic."
"You knew this man?"
"Yes."
"Yet you refused?"
"I did. So I imagine Ivo found someone else. He had this girl, Silvia—not a dominatrix, but for the right amount of money she'd pretend to be. I read in the papers she was killed. They found her up the street by the cemetery wall. If I'd gone along with Ivo, I might have ended up there too."
Though excited by this information, Marta didn't let on. If she could get Teresa to reveal the name of the 'well-known political personality,' that could help her understand why Granic and Santini had been killed.
"Who was the mark?" she asked.
Teresa laughed. "You expect me to tell you that?"
"I do," Marta said gravely.
"Well, I won't. Not ever. As I told you, my clients are loyal to me and I to them."
"This is a homicide investigation, Teresa. We can force you to cooperate."
"Don't act tough with me, Marta. I won't tell you even if you put me in jail. I'd be putting myself out of business...and a lot worse." She paused. "Look what happened to Ivo and Silvia. If I talk, I'll rightly expect the same."
"We can put you in protective custody," Rolo said.
"Are you kidding?
"What's the problem?"
"The problem, Marta, is my life! Who'd have thought a girl like me, from a Yiddish-speaking family, would end up living in an apartment like this? No matter what you think, I'm not a prostitute. I don't have sex for money. I work with clients the way a psychoanalyst does. It's a service business and I give deluxe service. Take Milly. She's vice-president of a bank. She comes here twice a month to participate in a psycho-drama. I help her by relieving her tensions, assisting her to balance her life by providing respite in the form of powerlessness. Frankly, she gets a lot more from me than she would from one of those pretentious shrinks peddling their mumbo-jumbo in Villa Freud."
"What's your point?"
"I'm not giving this up. I worked very hard to get where I am. There's no other educated woman in Buenos Aires who offers this type of service at this level. By that I mean total discretion, tremendous style, sensitivity and expertise. So forgive me if I refuse to cooperate. And forgive me too if I prefer not to die a violent death. And thank you very much for the offer of protective custody, but knowing what I know about the Federal Police, I consider that absolutely worthless. Even if you could protect me, what then? Set me up with a new identity in some God forsaken town in Patagonia? No thanks!" Teresa glanced at her watch, then stood. "I've a slave due here in half an hour. I must dress, make myself up, mentally prepare to devastate his ego."
At the door, Marta turned to her.
"Why the black and white decor?"
"My decorator's idea. It stylizes the apartment, turns it into a theater-of-cruelty."
"And the red shoes?"
Teresa smiled. "Lipstick color. All the better to focus their eyes." She turned to Milly. "Right slut?"
"Yes, Ma'am!"
"And all the better to show them what they're expected to kiss."
"What a bitch!" Rolo said, as they descended in the elevator. "Let's go back and arrest her. I bet I could get her to talk."
"Maybe, maybe not," Marta said. "Anyhow, there's a better way. Next time she goes out, have the building superintendent let you in, then bug her apartment. Meanwhile I'll ask Ricardi for a surveillance team to video everyone coming in and out of the building. Sooner or later we'll get enough leverage to make her talk. Then if she still refuses, I'll make the ultimate threat."
"Which is?"
"What she fears most: that I'll spread it around that she spilled to us even though she didn't."
That afternoon, she picked up Marina at school, drove her to tango class in San Telmo, then watched for a few minutes as the class began. Pleased by the way Manuel was partnering her, Marta blew them a kiss and left. Leon would come by in an hour, pick the cousins up and bring them home.
She was in the process of unlocking her car when a man wearing sunglasses and a fedora approached her from the street.
"Marta Abecasis?"
She turned to him, noticed a scar on his cheek. "Yes?"
Suddenly he grabbed her car key out of her hand, opened the car door, roughly shoved her inside, then got in beside her taking the driver's seat. He reached across her, opened the passenger door, letting in a second man, this one with a mustache, also wearing sunglasses and a hat.
All this took seconds, after which she found herself pinned between them, unable to move her arms. While the man on her left started the car, the man on her right tossed her purse into the back seat, then held a gleaming knife to her belly.
"Stay calm and look straight ahead," he ordered. She noticed a heavy gold ring on one of his fingers.
"We're going to make a little paseo," the driver announced.
When she turned to look at the driver, the mustachioed man grabbed her by her hair.
"I told you, look straight ahead. Follow orders. Next time I'll use the knife."
"Where're you taking me?"
"Shut up!"
He roughly placed a pair of wraparound sunglasses on her. The lenses, painted black, cut off her vision.
"You're making a big mistake," she said. "I'm an Inspector in the Federal Police."
The men laughed.
"You think we don't know that?" the driver said.
Five minutes later, when the car sped up, she understood they were on the freeway.
"Listen up, Jew-bitch," the man with the knife said, holding it now against the side of her throat. "We're going to have some fun with you. My friend here's got a big dick. He's going to rape you front and rear, then I'm going to do the same. And guess what? Mine's even bigger!"
"Don't you wish!" the driver said.
"So what'd you think about that, slut?"
She didn't respond. To do so would be to acknowledge that the denigrating words applied.
Stay cool and don't become their accomplice, she told herself, hoping this abduction was just another more violent form of threat from the same source responsible for the middle-of-the-night hang-ups and Nazi-era music.
"Believe me, you won't like it," Knifeman assured her, reaching inside her jacket, grasping hold of her right breast, finding her nipple, squeezing it hard.
She winced. It was a horrible violation. It infuriated her and it hurt. Yet she took it, absorbed the pain, knowing that with her arms pinned down and her pistol out of reach, there was no way she could resist.
"We're going to attach electrodes to your cunt, then turn on the juice," the driver said. "Then guess what?"
When she stayed silent, Knifeman squeezed her nipple again, so hard this time she felt she might faint.
"Answer him, bitch!" Knifeman yelled.
Stabs of pain coursed through her body. Trembling, she shook her head.
Knifeman let go. "You'll scream, that's what. Your body'll tremble and shake. We've had a lot of fun over the years torturing Jews. You'll dance for us. Dance dirty too."
"We'll be...Lords of the Dance," the driver said, amused.
For an hour they drove her around the city, insulting and demeaning her. They stayed on the freeways. Whenever she tried to catch a glimpse of one of them around the sides of the painted glasses, Knifeman would go back to work on one of her nipples.
"Don't flinch! Take it, cunt!" he ordered.
She moaned.
"That's more like it," the driver said to Knifeman. "I bet she's wet down there. I hear these Jew-bitches like it rough."
"Maybe she wouldn't like it so much if we did it to her little girl," Knifeman said. "Marina's her name, right? Sweet looking piece of ass. Yeah, I don't think you'd like it if we wired up her cunt lips. I think then you'd do most anything we wanted, wouldn't you, slut?"
"Yes, I'd do anything," Marta admitted, finally breaking her silence, terrified at their mention of Marina's name. "Tell me what you want and I'll do it," she pled. She almost meant it too.
"Think we're stupid? Think we'd believe anything you say before we go to work on her? We'll only believe you after we hurt her. That's what we call 'technique.'"
"What do you want from me?" she yelled.
"Ha! That's for you to figure out."
"I don't..."
Knifeman grabbed her hair again, yanked back her head. "Shut up and listen! Here's how it's going down. First we're going to hurt you. Like this," he said, reaching for her left nipple this time, twisting it so hard she cried out. "Know why? Because we like the sounds you make when we do that. We like the way your face gets all twisted up. Your daughter will be there. She'll cry when she hears you scream."
" 'Oh, mommy! mommy! please do what the bad men say!'"
"Nice falsetto!" Knifeman said, complimenting the driver. "Then it'll be little Marina's turn," he continued. "We'll hurt her in front of you. 'Stop hurting her. I'll do anything,' you'll beg. And that's when, maybe, we'll be convinced. Because by then, believe us, you will do anything! By the time we're done you'll both be groveling, licking the bottoms of our boots."
There was no way to respond to such abuse except to act frightened, terrorized—which she didn't need to fake. Knowing they wanted to see her terror, she no longer tried to hide it. Yet she did her best to preserve her dignity by holding her head up, knowing this too was what they would expect of her.
There were gaps at the edges of the glasses, through which, when she shifted her eyes to the side, she could see within a narrow range. So even as she played along, she kept shifting her eyes in the hope of catching glimpses of their faces. The only feasible times for doing this were when Knifeman twisted her nipples. Then she would writhe in pain, twisting her head just a bit to catch a glimpse of the driver.
They were other clues: their manner, accents, the crude way they spoke. She was sure they weren't crocs. They had none of the discipline she'd expect in military men. She was certain they were cops or ex-cops, not from the Federal District but most likely from Buenos Aires Province, where, she knew, many cops were thugs. Also, in the first moments of her abduction, she noticed a vertical scar on the driver's cheek and a mustache on Knifeman. The locksmith's wife, describing the men who'd asked about her, spoke of a scar on one and a mustache on the other. She was sure these were the same guys.
But if they let her go (and she was certain now that they would, that if they intended to kill her they wouldn't waste so much time and effort terrorizing her) how would she be able to find them? It was vital that she not let them abandon her until she uncovered more clues to their identities.
"Can I say something?" she asked.
"Go ahead."
"I'm scared. I don't scare easily, which means you're doing a good job. But unless you tell me what I'm supposed to do, I won't be able to do it."
"That's bullshit!" the driver shouted.
"You think we're idiots?" Knifeman screamed in her ear.
He went for her right nipple again. She thrust out her chest. She wanted him to twist it. It would give her another chance to glance at the driver. So she stayed silent.
Go ahead, hurt me. Go ahead!
When he did, she twisted her head to the left as far as she could, then raised her eyes just a fraction. This time she was lucky. She caught a quick glimpse of the driver full-profile—the shape of his nose, the contour of his lips and a clear view of his scar. After committing his features to memory, she allowed herself to scream.
"All right! I get it now. I'm supposed to figure it out for myself. All right! Please stop! Stop! Please!"
"Now that sounded real, didn't it?" Knifeman asked.
"Sounded real to me," the driver said. "Let's check her purse. I hear she carries a big gun."
She could feel Knifeman's body twist against hers as he turned to the back seat. Then she heard him going through her purse, tossing the contents over his shoulder.
"Here's her cell phone." He placed it on the car floor, then stamped on it. She heard it crunch beneath his boot—perhaps a street cop's regulation boot, she thought.
"So much for those annoying late night calls, right? And look—here's her gun. Fancy! A Sig no less."
She heard him extract the magazine, clear the chamber, expertly extract the bullets, wind down his window.
"Bye-bye bullets," he said. "I just tossed them out. Too bad you don't carry a revolver. If you did, I'd play Russian Roulette with you. Hey, what's that on your wrist? Nice watch!" He roughly detached it. "Gift from hubby?"
She nodded. He laughed. "Well, bye-bye to that." Again she felt him twist against her as he put it in his pocket. "I sure wouldn't want to be hubby when he comes to see you and little Marina at the hospital. You two are going to be so messed up it'll break his ever-loving heart."
The driver swerved the car, made a couple of quick sharp turns, then pulled to a stop. Hearing the roar of traffic above, Marta realized they were now parked under a portion of the freeway, probably a cluster of the pylons.
"This is where our paseo ends," the driver said, cutting the engine. "Before we leave, we want you to take a minute to reflect on what we could've done to you."
"We could've killed you," Knifeman said.
"We could've dumped you in a garbage heap, then covered you with a ton or so of trash," the driver added.
"We could have stripped you naked, written FEDERAL POLICE OFFICER on your body with markers, then dumped you at one of the homeless encampments around here where there're guys who'd like nothing better than to gang-rape a cop."
"We could've cut off your hands. You wouldn't be doing much competition shooting then."
"We could've done anything we wanted to you, and no one would know it was us who did it. Listen up, slut! You were approached before, given the message nicely, offered a lot of money too. You didn't respond in a respectful manner. This time the message is the same, but the delivery hasn't been so nice. Next time, if there is a next time, the delivery will be even harsher. Along the lines we mentioned...or a lot worse. Hear what we're saying, bitch?"
She nodded.
"Good! I'll say this for you—you took more than most guys could. A tip of the hat, professional respect and all—not that we really give a shit. In the end nothing matters except the message. We've sent it. We hope you received it, for your sake and Marina's."
"We're going to leave you now. We're going to take your gun and keys. The gun we'll keep. You'll find the keys in the garbage bin ahead. Count to a thousand out loud before you take off the glasses. We'll be watching you. Take them off earlier, we'll come back, use the knife on you, then fuck your ass till you bleed."
"Stay cool, obey orders, count nice and loud and slow."
She heard the car doors open, heard the men get out.
"One more thing," Knifeman said. She could tell by his voice he was leaning in through the open window. "We know everything about Marina— where she goes to school, where she plays soccer, where she takes tango class, everything. Now thank us for being so nice to you."
Marta stared straight ahead.
Knifeman reached in, patted her cheek, then rested his palm first on her left and then on her right breast. "They'll probably be tender for a couple of days. But no permanent harm, least not this time. Lucky you're not a guy, or I'd have gone to work on your balls. Well, that does it for today."
He used his forefinger to give her right nipple a final flick. Then they were gone.
Hands shaking, body twitching, driving home fast as she could, she thought: Yes, they made me scream. Yes, they made me afraid. But for all they did, they didn't break me. Now it's important I show them that.
She knew what she had to do first: Send Marina out of the country. Put her and Leon on the night hydrofoil for Uruguay. Marina could stay at her mother's place in Montevideo until the case was finished. Marina wouldn't like that. Marta would try and explain it to her. But how do you tell an eleven year old that she and her mother have been sexually threatened?
There's only one way. Tell her straight. She's smart, brave. She can handle it. But if I tell her a phony story, she'll see right through it. Then she'll have nightmares.
As for the animals who'd abducted her, they belonged in cages. The people who'd sent them deserved far worse.
How could anyone think threats would stop a person like me? Make me scream? Sure! But intimidate me? Only an idiot would think that.
But there was still a question that haunted her:
They already tortured and killed Granic and Santini. Killing means nothing to them. So why not kill me if I'm such a threat? What is it about me that they're afraid of?
There was only one answer she could think of: her reputation. Make a martyr of a heroine and the public outcry would not be stilled. Governments had been brought down by less.
For now I'm safe, but I must be very careful. There's only one way they can get around the aura of La Incorrupta—discredit me, make me appear corrupt. If they're smart, they'll try that next.