XI. SPIDER'S WEB
Marta and Rolo found Reinaldo Costas' photo studio closed, with a neat sign on the door stating the closure was permanent. When they unearthed the building manager, he told them Cyber-Fotografía had shut down three days before. Mr. Costas, he told them, had been killed in a hit-and-run accident in front of his house. His employees had removed his equipment and the business was now defunct.
"They were good people," the manager said. "They didn't sneak out like some do when a business fails. Costas' assistant even paid an extra month's rent to settle the lease."
The unnamed assistant had not left a contact number. All the manager had was Costas' home address.
On their way out of the arcade, Marta shook her head.
"Everyone denies having anything to do with the fake photographs. Costas was too easy to locate and his computer sketches were too generic. We need to find out a lot more about this Señor Costas and his convenient hit-and-run death."
She stopped off at the Homicide Bureau to report to Ricardi. She knew she was in trouble as soon as she caught his eye.
"Get in here and shut the goddamn door," he growled.
She obeyed. She'd heard him speak this way to others, but this was the first time she'd been on the receiving end. Alone with him, she waited for an explanation. "Who are these guys, Galluci and Pereyra?" he demanded. "What the hell's going on?"
She described her abduction and subsequent arrest of the men. Before she could ask Ricardi how he knew their names, he demanded to know why she hadn't reported all this to him the night before.
"They destroyed my cell phone. I had to send my husband and daughter out of the country. Then I had to move into a hotel."
"They're still at the safe house?"
She nodded.
He pulled a piece of paper off his desk. "Here's a writ from Judge Schell demanding you bring them to his office."
"I'm working with Judge Lantini. What's Schell got to do with it?"
"The Pereyra family hired Lizardo. He's a cops' lawyer and Schell's the one he went to."
Marta knew all about Judge Schell; he was notoriously lenient toward cops.
"Fine! We'll cart them over to Schell," she said. "Maybe he can get their stories straight."
"You don't get it, Marta! Schell will let them go. You admit you can't positively ID them and now your photography expert's dead." Ricardi turned to the window, gazed out at the port.
"And that, I'm afraid, is not the half of it," he added.
Marta felt her stomach roll over as he delivered the other half.
"Charbonneau told the Federal Police Chief you accused Minister Viera of commissioning fake photos of his wife. Then, he claims, you demanded a bribe."
"That's a lie! Viera told Charbonneau to cooperate with my investigation. Charbonneau told me he'd submit to a judicial interrogation."
"Well...seems he changed his mind. He's threatening to bring you up on charges. He hasn't made it official yet. He's just let it be known that unless Judge Lantini drops this obstruction investigation, he's going to make a lot of trouble."
"That's extortion!"
"Maybe. But the fact is you burst into his office, tried to bluff him, and now you don't have your photo-expert to back you up. What you've got is a stinking mess." He shook his head. "I've been advised to take you off the case."
"Advised or ordered?"
"What difference does it make?"
"If you were ordered, that's more obstruction."
"Make of it what you will, Marta."
She could see he was serious. She'd let him down, embarrassed him with his superiors.
"I've a pretty good reputation from my work on Casares," she reminded him.
"That was then. This is now."
She spread her arms. "You're right. I shouldn't have confronted Charbonneau. I should have locked in Costas first. But I was abducted, Galluci squeezed my nipples, threatened to torture Marina in front of me. I got mad, acted on emotion. That was a mistake."
"You should have called me, told me what happened."
She nodded. "I know. You'd have calmed me down."
When she sensed he was beginning to soften, she played on his hatred of Liliana Méndez, reminding him how Liliana had deliberately screwed up the Santini crime scene, and how that dovetailed with Galluci's claim that it was Liliana who'd hired him and Pereyra to scare her off.
"Liliana's involved in this, I'm certain of it. I'm pretty sure I can persuade Judge Lantini to drop the obstruction investigation, but please don't take me off the homicides."
"You have to persuade her to drop the obstruction case," Ricardi told her. "If you don't you'll be busy full-time defending yourself."
"So you agree?"
Ricardi thought about it. Then he nodded. "Go ahead, work the homicides. If they lead you to certain officials and politicians fine. But forget those doctored photographs. Whoever sent them to you, set you up. Also forget the guys who abducted you. Once everyone understands the obstruction investigation's finished, I'm sure you won't be bothered again."
Marta wasn't so sure. There were still the crocs. She knew she couldn't yet risk bringing Leon and Marina back to Buenos Aires. As for Galluci and Pereyra, father and daughter Méndez, and Charbonneau and Viera, she had a notion of how to deal with them—weave them into just the sort of conspiratorial tale that would make Raúl Vargas drool.
"Sorry I embarrassed you, Chief."
Ricardi nodded. "You were threatened. I understand."
"Thanks for keeping me on the homicides."
Ricardi grinned. "Who the hell else have I got to put on them? You're still my best detective. But no more going off on your own. From now on you're to report to me every day."
"Change of plans," she told Rolo. "Go back to the safe house, grab Galluci and Pereyra and haul them over to Judge Schell's office at the Palace of Justice. While you're at it, flush Galluci's lamb's balls down the toilet.
Meantime I'll be checking on our Teresa Levi surveillance. We'll deal with the Costas situation later."
"What's going on?"
She explained what had happened and why Galluci and Pereyra weren't important anymore.
"Without ID confirmation from Costas, whatever I say will be worthless. Schell'll let them go and that'll be that. Just be sure to blindfold them before you put them in the car. Ricardi's the only one besides us who knows the location of the safe house. Let's keep it that way."
She found the police surveillance van, disguised as a Water Department repair vehicle, parked across the street from Teresa Levi's building. From the eager greeting she received from the technician, she understood he had something to show.
"Interesting action in the subject apartment," he said. "I matched the audio from your bugs with my video surveillance of entrances and exits. It's a quiet dignified building. But what takes place up in that apartment isn't dignified at all."
There had been five sadomasochistic scenes in the two days since Rolo installed the bugs. The one that intrigued the technician most was between Teresa and a handsome young man with a head of unruly black curls, whom he'd recognized from posters plastered all over town.
"He's Roger Queneau, the French cellist who's been giving concerts at the Teatro Coliseo," the technician told her. "He acts pretty arrogant when he gets out of his cab, but once he gets upstairs he turns into a wimp."
Marta listened to the tape:
Teresa:
Get on your knees, slave! Lick the dirt off my tango shoes!
Client:
Yes, Madame!
Teresa:
(sound of slap) Not 'Madame,' fool! 'Countess'!
Client:
Yes, Countess!
Teresa ridiculed the famous cellist as he obeyed her commands, telling him how many men she'd danced with the previous night while wearing that particular pair of shoes.
Teresa:
Real men! Not a slimy slave like you.
Men who know how to hold a woman, make her feel desire....
The following three sessions were equally bizarre, yet Marta found herself admiring Teresa's creativity.
It was the last session, which had taken place the previous afternoon, that caught her attention—not on account of the tall, somewhat stooped, middle-aged client who arrived by chauffeur-driven car, but because she thought she recognized the man who sat beside the chauffeur in the traditional personal bodyguard position.
"Run the tape back to where the bodyguard gets out," she instructed. "Freeze it when he turns toward the camera."
She studied the freeze-frame. The bodyguard was the soft-spoken man in the grey fedora who'd approached her in front of her local grocery, the one who'd handed her a folded copy of El Faro stuffed with money.
This is getting interesting....
She listened attentively to the audiotape of the scene that followed. In terms of sadomasochistic practice, it was much like the others, but it had a special twist that fit with her theory of the case.
This time the client played the role of a "captive" who endured a harsh "interrogation" at Teresa's hands—an interrogation that seemed to mimic the notoriously brutal military interrogations endured by enemies of the Proceso.
In this scene the client addressed Teresa as "Colonel," while she referred to him by a series of degrading names ranging from "guttersnipe" to "pig-dog."
Teresa:
Last time you held out on me. This time I'm going to break you!
From the tape Marta couldn't tell what kinds of tortures Teresa inflicted, but based on the moans and yelps that followed, the "torture" was either very painful or the client was a talented performer.
In the end, it seemed, the "captive" won, as the "Colonel" failed once again to make him talk. After the session, Teresa and her client discussed it like a pair of equals talking over a friendly drink:
Teresa:
(complimentary) Your interrogation-resistance was excellent today.
Client:
Thank you. I'm getting a lot out of these sessions.
I like the way we go further every time we meet.
Teresa:
(speaking lightly) One day, you know, I'll truly break you.
I'm joking, of course. You know you're always safe with me.
Client:
(gallantly) That's what I like about our sessions, Countess, that we understand one another so well.
After a second viewing, Marta asked the technician to print out freeze-frames of the bodyguard and the client, whom she also had a feeling she'd seen before.
Marta was just stepping out of the surveillance vehicle when Rolo called.
"I'm at the Palace of Justice. Judge Schell wants you over here now. Galluci and Pereyra are claiming that everything they told us was said under duress."
"Of course!"
"Are you coming?"
"I don't have a choice. I'll meet you afterwards at the safe house. The surveillance guy picked up something interesting. When I get there, we'll go through the Kessler file again."
With his expression of rectitude and his grey arching eyebrows, Guillermo Schell looked the part of stern investigative judge. He was as confrontational as Judge Elena Lantini, Marta thought, but lacked Lantini's innate dignity.
The judge wasted no time; his first question went to the core of the goons' grievances.
"Galluci claims you threatened him with castration."
"Did he tell you about the testicles he keeps in a jar of formaldehyde?"
Schell glanced at his stenographer, a prim middle-aged woman in a high-necked dress.
"You're under oath here, Inspector. What are you saying?"
"Galluci's obsessed with castration. It's his stock and trade. He's the guy a cuckold hires to smash his wife's lover's balls. Of course we didn't threaten him with that. We did, however, threaten both men with prison... as is our right."
"You claim they abducted and threatened you. They deny it. You admit you never saw the faces of your abductors, just a mustache, a scar and a ring. Millions of Argentine men have mustaches. Hundreds of thousands have scars on their cheeks. God knows how many wear gold rings. What makes you certain these are the same men?"
"Their voices, the fact that Galluci was wearing an engraved watch my husband gave me, and that he was packing my gun."
"But you didn't hear their voices or know he had your watch or gun before you arrested them?"
"We made the arrests based on a tip from a confidential informant."
"What's the name of your informant?"
"You know I won't tell you that. And I don't have to—you know that too."
"Well argued, Inspector. You're wise to stick to the legal niceties. But understand that without a corroborating witness, I can't hold these men now that they've retracted their confessions."
When Marta shrugged, Judge Schell made it clear he didn't like her gesture.
"You shrug, but this is a serious matter: a Federal Police officer accusing two former provincial policemen of abducting and threatening her. There's also the matter of Pereyra's arrest. He says you smacked him around in front of his wife and kids."
"Did he tell you he spat at me first? Did Galluci tell you what he threatened to do to my daughter? As for their charges, please weigh my reputation against the reputation of men who were fired from the Buenos Aires province police for blatant acts of brutality."
"What you or they may or may not have done in the past has no bearing on these charges and countercharges."
She shrugged again. "Fine, release them. I don't give a damn." And, in fact, she realized, she really didn't. "Plus," she added, "I can see you've already made up your mind."
"I have, Inspector. And for the record I note your insolence here, insolence that barely skirts judicial contempt."
She was so relieved to be out of his office, she paused in Plaza Lavalle to inhale the fresh autumn air.
A quiet demonstration was in progress on the far side of the square, a weekly event called Memoria Activa, organized by the Jewish community of Buenos Aires and those who stood with them in solidarity.
These Monday assemblies always turned silent at precisely 9:53 a.m., the exact time that the car bomb exploded that destroyed the Jewish Cultural Center AMIA.
Though it was early noon, the demonstrators were still standing in silence. They had been assembling here Mondays for many years awaiting the rendering of justice. She watched them a while, studied their expressions as they faced the ornate facade of the Palace of Justice. Their faces showed a complex combination of determination, irony, expectancy and resignation. Yet for all that, it was clear from the way they stood that they were prepared to assemble for however long that rendering might take.
"Here he is! Look!"
Marta had had a hunch she'd seen Teresa's "captive" client before. Now here he was in a group newspaper photo, along with Ignacio Kessler and others in the Crocodiles leadership, published at the time of Kessler's trial.
She showed Rolo the freeze-frame printed from the surveillance tape, then touched the same man's face on the group photograph.
"It's the same guy, standing just behind Kessler and his cronies. The caption gives his name."
Rolo picked up the clipping, squinted at the caption. "Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza." He scanned the article. "Says here he's the crocs' spiritual leader... whatever the hell that means."
"It means theorist, ideologue, apologist. I've heard of this guy. He's some kind of loony academic, the type who never personally does anything illegal, only supplies an ideology to justify illegal acts. They wanted to call him as a defense witness at Kessler's trial, but the military judges wouldn't allow it. They said it didn't matter what Kessler and his cronies believed, all that mattered was what they'd done."
She sat back.
"Let's look at what we've got: Ivo Granic, an Israeli agent, is killed because he tried to blackmail someone very powerful. Teresa Levi tells us Granic approached her to participate in a blackmail video with a certain unnamed powerful client. Turns out Pedraza, one of Teresa's clients, is very close to the crocs. And his personal bodyguard is the same soft-spoken guy who tried to bribe me."
"It all comes together."
Marta nodded. "Time to pay another visit to Teresa Levi, get her to tie up the package."
Teresa was furious. "You bugged me! How could you? If Pedraza finds out, he'll have me killed."
"He need never find out," Marta assured her. "And he won't if you start telling us the truth."
Teresa glared at her. As before, she sat on her throne in her black and white salon, the only color in the room the red of her lipstick and her red high-heeled shoes. Everything was the same as before...except that this time Milly wasn't around and Teresa had given up her cool demeanor.
"So this is how you operate?" she hissed at Marta. "Blackmail your old friends."
"We were never friends," Marta corrected her. "Back at school you were just another face in the hall."
"I looked up to you!"
"I doubt that. Anyway, it's irrelevant. When I came to you a few days ago, a police officer investigating two homicides, you admitted you had information, refused to divulge it, and told us you'd sooner go to jail. That was obstruction, for which, in fact, the penalty is prison. I'm here now to offer you a second chance. I strongly suggest you take it."
It took her a while to calm Teresa down, convince her it was in her interest now to tell everything she knew. When, finally, Teresa began to talk, it was with so much pent-up energy Marta didn't interrupt.
Teresa never told Granic details of her sessions with Osvaldo Pedraza, she said, though Granic certainly knew the sort of services she provided. Pedraza was a loyal client with whom she'd forged an intimate bond. She knew that if she were ever to reveal details of their relationship, his friends in the crocs would kill her without regret.
"Also, I admit, I enjoyed our sessions." She grinned. "There's something extremely pleasureful about tying down and torturing a man like that, even if just in play. Especially since he's one who approves of those awful military torture-interrogations from the time of the Proceso. He claims he comes to me for interrogation-resistance training." She snickered. "I know this kind of masochist well. Pedraza is a textbook case. He wants to pretend to face up to extreme forms of pain and theatrical dehumanization, simply because he finds it arousing."
Teresa sat back, lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew out a plume of smoke.
"I've thought a lot about this, Marta—tried my best to come to terms with it. I'm in a service business, but even a service-provider has her needs.
The fantasies I enable Pedraza to realize here are a kind of mockery of what he and his military buddies did to others. But in the process of 'training' him, I get to mock him too. So in addition to whatever pleasure we both receive, we both also learn from our sessions. In his play-suffering, he learns what it feels like to be dehumanized, while I, inflicting that play-suffering, gain insight into the sadism which I think is basic to human nature."
Marta found herself growing impatient.
"Justify it however you like, Teresa. I'm not interested in your insights. I want to know how Granic came to you, exactly what he wanted, and then what happened when you refused."
"Ivo's the one who introduced me to Pedraza. It was at one of his parties. At the time I didn't know who Pedraza was. Like a lot of the guests, the upper half of his face was masked.
"Anyhow, after the party, Pedraza asked Ivo about me and Ivo gave him my number. He called and a few days later started coming here for sessions. He's always been a perfect gentleman, always courteous and correct. After session we unwind with some light conversation and a drink. Of course Ivo knew the sort of sessions I did, and he knew Pedraza was seeing me. So one day he came to me. He wanted to install a tiny camera in my dungeon room to videotape one of our scenes, then hold the tape over Pedraza's head. He believed Pedraza would do almost anything not to be exposed as a masochist who paid a Jewish girl for domination."
"Because that would hold him up to ridicule?"
"Worse. It would undermine his authority with his neo-Nazi buddies. According to Ivo, Pedraza would do anything to keep that part of his life secret. Once Ivo had him in his power, he planned to run him as an agent. With Pedraza he'd be able to penetrate the highest levels of extreme right-wing circles. Ivo was very ambitious, Pedraza was a very big mark, and I was supposed to risk my life to help recruit him."
Indeed, Marta thought, Ivo Granic was ambitious, perhaps even grandiose. She had no trouble imagining his glee at the prospect of recruiting a notorious anti-Semite as an agent.
"You refused?" Marta asked.
"Like I told you, I have a very nice life here. I wasn't interested in putting it at risk."
"So after you refused he dropped the plan?"
Teresa shrugged. "I have no idea what he did."
Marta studied her. There was something about the emphatic way Teresa stared back that told her she knew more than she was saying.
"You've left something out, Teresa—something important."
Teresa shrugged again.
"You'd better tell us right now, you being so vulnerable to rumors and all."
Teresa looked away. Marta didn't have to spell it out. The merest hint to Pedraza, and Teresa would be as good as dead.
"Ivo was also after someone else."
"Who?"
"I don't know. He said it was a man who had the potential to do tremendous harm."
"What else did he say about him?"
"Nothing. He just kept saying: 'This thing is big, Teresa. A crazy like Pedraza can be marginalized. I need him to help me nail someone else, someone very dangerous who could reach the highest pinnacle of power."
Viera! Marta felt a thrill as she made the connection. She turned slightly away from Teresa to conceal her excitement, then, turning back, continued her questioning.
"That didn't persuade you?"
"Absolutely not! I don't give a shit about politics. I'd made up my mind I wasn't going to be used. I told him so again. He didn't take it well. He tried every way he could to convince me."
Instinct told her she was now close to the truth. To get to it, she knew, she'd have to bear down hard.
"He was pressuring you?"
"Too much! Calling me every day. He'd even show up here without calling first. I didn't want any of my clients to see him. I schedule my appointments far apart. But then suddenly he'd show up. He was making me crazy!"
"You could have told your doorman not to let him in."
"I was afraid to. I didn't want a scene."
"You were really frightened of him?"
"Of course!"
"I understand. He was a Mossad agent. They're known to be ruthless. Also he knew things about you, intimate details. He could put you out of business."
"He threatened to. One time he said he'd spread it around I was working for the Israelis."
"To extort material from you he could use to blackmail Pedraza?"
"Yes! It was awful!"
"Did you describe this harassment to Pedraza?"
"I may have implied something. But I never told him Ivo wanted to tape our sessions."
"What did you tell him?"
"Like I said, he and I would often gossip after a session. He knows I'm Jewish. It doesn't bother him. In fact, I think he rather likes it. He also knew Ivo was a blackmailer. We'd laugh together about his sex parties and the suckers who paid him not to tell their wives about their infidelities."
"But Pedraza didn't know Ivo was an Israeli agent?"
"I'm sure he didn't."
"And you didn't tell him?"
"Do you think I'm nuts?"
"So what did you tell him about Ivo?"
Teresa hung her head.
"I think I know, Teresa. You told him Ivo was looking to blackmail someone high up in right-wing politics."
"Look, I didn't know anything about that man. He wasn't a client of mine, so why should I have given a damn about him?"
Marta nodded. She understood. It was coming clear to her now. Granic was pressuring Teresa to help him blackmail Pedraza, in order to force Pedraza to provide damaging information on Viera. To stop the pressure, Teresa casually mentioned to Pedraza that Granic was after someone seeking high national office.
"It wasn't just this politician you didn't give a damn about," Marta said. "It was Ivo, wasn't it? He was pressuring you. His pressure was relentless. You had to get him off your back. So you relayed a little gossip...and by doing that you signed his death warrant. You knew exactly what you were doing, and now Ivo's dead, Pedraza still comes to you for sessions, you still have your precious lifestyle and your lovely little business. And for all that you don't feel the slightest guilt. It was just a little throwaway bit of gossip after all."
Even before Marta finished speaking, Teresa had begun to weep.
She was exhausted by the time she met with Raúl Vargas just before midnight at an all-night gas station in Barracas.
As usual he looked fresh and eager, while she felt bedraggled having been up most of the previous night trying to squeeze information out of men who'd hurt and threatened her, then chewed out by Ricardi, then accused of soliciting a bribe, then chastened by Judge Schell for threatening her scummy abductors.
As she put it to Raúl: "This has been a horrible twenty-four hours."
But as soon as she said it she realized in fact it had been her best day in a long while, for, though she lacked any proof, she was certain that now she finally understood why Granic and Santini had been killed.
She had no intention of passing along her theory to Raúl. She was meeting with him for an entirely different purpose. Turning to him now, she proposed an arrangement she'd spent the early part of the evening figuring out.
She would tell him a story, perhaps a little incoherent in places, and admittedly with a few loose ends, to which he would listen without interruption. When she was finished, she would answer a limited number of questions by either nodding, shaking her head, or shrugging if she didn't know the answer. Then she'd leave. Nothing she said could be attributed to her. If he decided to publish her story, he would attribute it to "an authoritative source who spoke only after receiving a promise of anonymity."
"One thing I can promise you," she said. "This story is the kind you like. Where you find it speculative, it'll be up to you to fill in the holes."
Raúl smiled. "Sounds good. Anything else?"
"A couple of things. What can you tell me about Dr. Osvaldo Pedraza?"
Raúl grinned. He liked to show off his knowledge.
"He sees himself as a sort of right-wing Che, an heroic ideologue who promotes a political theory he calls 'a post-democratic matrix' for Latin American nations, in which normal political institutions such as the Presidencies, Congresses and Constitutional Courts are bypassed by a 'mystical bond' between a charismatic leader and the masses, with the military and police acting as 'the social cement.' It's a twenty-first century neo-fascist vision, much like Mussolini's in the 1920s and Perón's in the 40s, with a hefty measure of Hitler's anti-Semitism thrown in. Like Che, he's strongly anti-gringo. He ridicules what he calls 'their ridiculous so-called liberal democracy' and refers to the American ruling elite as 'the Jewish mafia.' Like Perón, he's an ultra-nationalist. He wants Argentina to develop nuclear weapons. Basically he's looking to exploit the corruption here by finding a politician who can fulfill his image of 'messianic leader'."
"Quite a mouthful! He sounds like a nut. What about his personal life?"
"Shadowy. He's secretive and the people around him are very discreet. Word is he's unhappily married, but I've no hard information." Raúl looked searchingly into her eyes. "Why so interested?"
Out of friendship, she decided to throw him a bone. "I think Granic was trying to get something on him," she said, "and that's why he was killed."
"That fits in at least one way: if Pedraza needed dirty work done, he'd call on the crocs." He peered at her again. "Can you tell me more?"
She shook her head. "That's another part of our arrangement. Your questions can only be about my story, not about other aspects of my investigation."
"Hey! Not fair!"
"Of course it's fair! Anyway, that's the deal. Take it or leave it."
"Damnit, Marta! Sometimes you're just too tough!"
She smiled. "My partner says I remind him of a cat."
"How about a hunter gunning for very big game."
"I like that. Just don't call me a policewoman with a Joan of Arc complex."
"Did someone say that about you?"
"Enough! Get out your notebook. I'm ready to talk."
The story she wove was about a pair of corrupt former cops known henceforth as "The Goons," who were hired, according to one, by an active high ranking federal "Police Officer," and by the other, by that officer's "Father," a former provincial police official now retired. These Goons abducted a certain police "Inspector" working on an important homicide case, threatened the Inspector and the Inspector's family, then, when arrested, denied everything and counter-charged that the Inspector had threatened and abused them. Which was absurd on its face, considering the Goons' prior histories and the Inspector's sterling reputation.
In any event, a certain investigative magistrate, known for his leniency toward corrupt cops, chose to accept the Goons' denials and let them loose. Which would just be another chapter in a saga of intra-police disputes, except for one striking fact: it turned out that the Father was working as chief of security for an organization supporting a "Politician" who was an as-yet-unannounced presidential candidate. And the "Confidential Associate" of this Politician has now accused this same abducted and abused Inspector of soliciting a bribe.
Which leaves one, she said, with a cast of seven characters of varying degrees of power and influence: at the top the "Politician" and the "Confidential Associate;" in the middle the "Father" and the "Police Officer;" and at the bottom the two "Goons" who performed the abduction and made the threats — all six trying to knock out the "Inspector."
When Marta was finished, Raúl spent a couple of minutes writing up his notes. Then he turned to her.
"I have four questions. First, the Goons—did they physically touch or violate the Inspector?"
Marta nodded.
"Viciously?"
She nodded again.
"Second, what made the Goons think the Inspector wouldn't recognize them?"
Marta shrugged.
"The Inspector was blindfolded?"
She nodded.
"But still the Inspector recognized them?"
She nodded again.
"How?"
She shrugged.
"An informant?"
She nodded.
"Right! Third, in regard to the Politician—might he be the same one whose spouse was shown in flagrante delicto with another woman in a doctored set of deliciously salacious photographs?"
She nodded.
"Last, is the Confidential Associate what we might euphemistically call 'a man of the cloth'?"
She nodded again.
"Hell of a story, Marta. Real spider's web."
"I agree."
"But here's the big question: Who exactly is The Spider?"
"Well," she said, "I have some ideas about that. But, still off the record, that's yet to be determined."
"Right! Got it!" Raúl closed his notebook. "Hop on my motorcycle. I'll give you a lift back to your hotel."