Murder in Buenos Aires (6/9)

Another Day, Another Death

“Euurgh?” León mumbled into the phone. Glancing at his alarm clock he saw it was six o’clock in the morning. He had an excruciating hangover.

“Marconi?” said a woman’s voice. Crisp, bright, grating. As his brain cells started to cohere, he thought it sounded familiar. It gave him a feeling of indigestion.

“This is León Marconi. Who is this?”

“It’s Detective Inspector Maria Mendoza. You may remember me?”

“Yes, of course. Maria. You took over the Lola Graf investigation.”

“Yes, yes. I thought you’d be interested to know—there has been a solution.”

He sat bolt upright, immediately sober.

“Yes?”

“Yes,” there was a note of triumph in her voice. “Martín Gaviscon committed suicide last night. He left a note of confession.”

“Me estás cargando? What the..”

“No, no, it’s true!” She sounded delighted. “I’ve just come away from the scene.“

He held a hand to his temple, frowning and struggling to process the news.

“Are you there?” she asked.

He didn’t reply, lost in thought.

“Well, that’s all I wanted to say,” she said, her tone stiff and cool. “I just thought I’d let you know.”

“No, no, wait Maria!” he said, regrouping with an effort, deliberately using her first name. “This is great news. Listen, if you can spare half an hour I’d like to buy you a beer and, uh, maybe we can chat about the case?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m free tonight,” she said, much more brightly. “I’d be happy to discuss the case. I’ve learned some things that I think may be useful for you…when your suspension ends. ”

He gritted his teeth at the dig.

“Right, congratulations,” he grimaced. “How about we meet at eight o’clock at Roberto’s?”

“Bueno, I look forward to it,” she purred and rang off.

Maria Mendoza…He remembered her now. She’d been in some of his classes at the Police Academy. He remembered thinking her attractive: tall, dancer’s body with a horsey face. Then he’d found out she was an insufferable teacher’s pet, eager to please and dumb as a post. One of those cops who, despite a universe of evidence to the contrary, saw the world strictly in two tones: black-and-white, good-and-bad, absolute right-and-absolute wrong. He remembered now, she’d had some odd desire to compete with him, often pointing out some error he made or drawing attention to her superior ability. It was as if she sensed his dislike and was drawn to it. Like cats that are especially intrigued by people who narrow their eyes and look away.

Well, one date with Maria the Menace wouldn’t kill him. He’d have a chance to find out what had happened.

***

“Dejate de joder!” León expostulated, spilling his coffee. “Oh for chrissakes.”

It was ten o’clock in the morning. León was sitting at a corner bar in Hurlingham holding a newspaper and staring at a headline as if was a giant spider. A woman sitting nearby glanced over at him disapprovingly before continuing to sip her cup of tea. A waitress walked slowly over with a cloth and mopped up the coffee.

“Another, señor?”

“Sí, por favor.”

Frowning, he addressed himself to the offending article, the main story on the first page of the business section:

US billionaire to invest 1 Billion in Local Business

Frank Giordano, the eighth-richest man in the world, sent shock waves through the city yesterday announcing his intention to invest a huge amount of money in Argentine venture capital. The American billionaire has recently been in the news thanks to an encounter with one of our native policeman, Detective Inspector León Marconi. Despite his visible bruises, Giordano seemed in good spirits and spoke in glowing tones about the country’s potential for growth.

The announcement was made at a banquet in the Casa Rosada, which was attended by the President of the Republic, several ministers and dignitaries as well as dozens of Argentine entrepreneurs. Among those awarded investment packages were Ecofarm (CEO Sandra Lopez), BATeleart (CEO Rhett Soames), CABA football club, Rhea Airways (CEO Bob Mendez) and (CEO Xavier Kline).

“Qué tal?” came a familiar voice, full of smiles. León lifted his head to see a plump woman in a sweatsuit of vivid parrot-green. She bent to plant a kiss on his cheek and inspected him critically.

“What’s happened?” She sat down.

Wordlessly, he passed the paper over to her. She put on the pair of reading glasses that hung around her neck and took a minute to pore over the test. She put the paper on the table and let out a whistle.

“Exactly,” León said. “But there’s more. Martín Gaviscon died last night. They’re closing the Graf investigation. He wrote a confession. I’ll find out more tonight.”

“But Gaviscon--”

He held up a hand and and she stopped herself mid-sentence.

“I know, I know,” León scowled. “None of it makes sense. Believe me. And now the higher ups have washed their hands of it it’s up to us to untangle this knot.”

Christina exhaled heftily.

“Well!”

“So, did you find Pedro?”

“Yes. She’s Monica now, in the middle of transitioning. She confirmed that she’d suffered repeated abuse, from the age of ten to thirteen. She’d kept it a secret until last year, when she told a friend at the school; the friend had revealed that a similar thing had happened to him. They compared notes and realized the procedure was always the same. The receptionist, a little person named Gigi, would come and tell the child there was an important visitor whose orders had to be followed. Gigi would lead him to a room on the third floor of the school, which was away from the dormitories and offices. The man who would initially give the child a gift or sweets or something of the kind before assaulting him and then stressing the importance of secrecy. Together Pedro (as he was then) and his friend went to Gustavo Ocampo to tell him about it—he was one of the teachers they trusted. Ocampo promised he would look into it. Soon afterwards, he and the principal Father Justus were noticeably at loggerheads. Ocampo quit the school and left the priesthood a couple of months ago.”

“And last week, he died. After a visit from Gigi,” León said grimly. “Did Monica recognize any of her abusers?”

“Yes. She confirmed that one of them was Martín Gaviscon, just as the book said. She was unaware of it until about 18 months ago, when she saw his face on a billboard advertising men’s cologne. The others she didn’t know. She told me she tries not to think about it. Wants to get on with her life.”

“I guess the question becomes now,” he mused, “Who is Gigi working for? Father Justus, or someone higher up? Three people are dead already. We’re running out of time.”

“I told Monica that she should go on a holiday if possible. She told me she refuses to live in fear. But I’m worried about her León.”

He nodded.

“With three corpses in the cooler, it’s a reasonable worry.”

“One of the guests at that party mustbe involved,” Christina said with conviction. “Sandra Lopez, Diego Sosa, Juliet Harris, Frank Giordano or Kristin Ocampo. Only they could have killed Lola.”

“Unless it really was Martín…” León said.

“But why would he have torn out all the other pages in the book in that case?” Christina asked. “I don’t believe it was him at all.”

“Nor do I,” said León. “But unfortunately, mere belief is not going to get us anywhere. What we need is proof, and fast.”