Murder in Buenos Aires (7/9)

Sinister Assignations

Juliet Harris finished her speech with a slight bow of her head, a signal that prompted a wave of enthusiastic applause. The audience--mostly young women--had listened hungrily to her unusual autobiography. She told them how her parents had fled Eritrea in 2000 to seek a safer life in Argentna, only to be killed in a accident that left her an orphan at the age of four. She dramatized the moment a British couple had fallen in love with her, moving heaven and earth to adopt her and to welcome her into their home. They laughed at stories demonstrating her early interest in science—the time she’d insisted on imitating her mixing orange juice and milk in a test tube, then time she’d burned all her eyebrows off in a failed experiment. She modestly explained that thanks to the privilege of having good teachers and loving, supportive parents (who also happened to be wealthy) she’d been able to attend Oxford in her teens. And that in turn had led to her being chosen as an ambassador for Cielo, one of the most recognizable cosmetics brands in the world.

As the sound of applause washed over her, she felt something halfway between exultation and terror. On the one hand, the admiration gave her a thrilling sensation of power, even invincibility. On the other hand, there was something overwhelming about it. She felt suddenly that she was caught up in something much bigger than she could control. And, too, at the back of her mind, even at this moment, was the thing she wished she could forget, the memory of what she’d seen and its significance.

Scanning the crowd, she suddenly caught sight of that familiar face. The third row from the front. The mouth was smiling but the eyes were not. The eyes were intent, watchful. Had she somehow unwittingly revealed what she knew? Impossible. She hadn’t breathed a word to anyone. She didn’t even like to think about.

Juliet smiled and waved, then turned and briskly walked off the stage, making a bee-line to the safety of her dressing room. There was only temporary safety there, though. As soon as she sat down she heard the ‘ping’ of her phone registering an incoming message.

Full of dread, hugging her torso, she walked over to the table and read the words on the screen.

“Great show babe! See you tonight at the Children’s Park XX”

***

As a rule, Christina preferred to wear sequined tracksuits and pastel high-top sneakers but she was an accomplished actress (years of drama classes and community theater) and liked to dress up. With creative make-up, wig and wardrobe choices she could impersonate nearly anyone. In the course of her sleuthing adventures she’d carried off several different roles with considerable aplomb: a rag-collector, a high-class dominatrix, a school teacher, an accountant from São Paolo and a German real-estate agent.

Christina enjoyed assuming roles. She had come to realize early on that people were easily influenced by misleading props and mannerisms. Today she had a microphone, a homemade press-tag and such a busty confidence that no one would have suspected she was not (as it said on her business card) a senior journalist from She-E-O, a famous US-based media service for entrepreneurs.

Sandra Lopez smiled warmly, the picture of health and youth, swathed in natural fibers. A cup of rose-hip tea sat steaming in front of her. They were sitting in an airy kitchen furnished with a beautiful light wood., Big windows looking out onto a garden filled with trees, bright flowers and lush greenery.

They kissed each other once on the cheek and Sandra gestured to Christina to sit down.

“Thank you for meeting me at such short notice,” said Christina. “But I was holidaying down here (my office is in New York) and thought since you’d just received this historic investment that it would be a wonderful opportunity for our readers to get to know you better. I think I read somewhere that it is the largest amount awarded to a female CEO in this country. And you’re still so young!”

Sandra laughed, pleased.

“Thank you,” she said. “You know, yes this is a win for women--not just me but every woman in business. But more than that, it’s a win for the earth. I see it as a huge step forward that someone like Frank, who has all this fame and all these resources, has the foresight to see that investment in earth-friendly solutions is really the only way forward. It gives me hope. And that’s what Kueyen is about: hope for the future.”

Christina pretended to make a note.

“Can you tell me a little about your path? A few years ago you were making a name for yourself modelling for top global fashion brands. Then, with an incredibly promising career ahead of you, you decided to drop it and instead to put all your energy into compassionate cosmetics. What happened? Was it a natural progression, or a ‘eureka!’ moment?

“You know,” said Sandra thoughtfully, cradling her warm mug in beautifully manicured hands. “It was a little bit of both. From an early age, I was aware (thanks to my hippie parents) that the earth is a precious thing, that life is something we need to protect. And there was one day when I had to wear this metallic silver foundation for several hours for a ‘futuristic’ photo shoot. I had a really bad allergic reaction to it. I actually ended up in the Emergency Room in a hospital in Milan. That started me thinking about the stuff I was putting on my skin—the ingredients, the production process. I researched it intensely. My friend Juliet Harris studied chemistry at Oxford so I would ask her questions. It was really eye-opening. In the end I thought, “Surely there’s a better way? Does the beauty industry really have to be this harsh and exploitative and literally toxic?” So, really, the idea for Kueyen came quickly, over the course of a couple of months. But it’s taken three years to see the fruit of our labour.”

“When you say ‘our’, who is part of the Kueyen team?”

“Oh, so many people. There are my parents, my partner Diego – they supported me from day one. My good friend Juliet Harris helped enormously with research. I have a staff of about twenty. And another wonderful woman, our guiding light, was Ayiqueo. She was my reference for all things Mapuche. She’s eighty-five and—oh my goodness, what a treasure. She holds the memory of her people, their customs, their stories, their beliefs.”

“How marvellous!” Christina enthused.

She continued to ask questions, all the while surreptitiously absorbing her surroundings. She noted Sandra looked relaxed and in her element, utterly at ease. It was almost impossible to imagine her as a stone-cold killer. On the other hand, Christina considered, Lola Graf had been dead for less than a week and there was nothing to suggest that Sandra minded in the least.

On the table was a bunch of flowers—yellow roses. A note was attached. “We did it Sandy! XXOO”

On the fridge were photographs of children, friends, relatives. Christina noticed that one of the faces had a X drawn over it with a black marker pen. Lola's face.

“I’d like to get some photographs of you in your home setting if I could,” Christina said. “Just here in the kitchen. Perhaps you could stand there, between the fridge and the oven? Perfect! Lovely!”

***

Although León wore a politely interested expression, he felt as if he were dying inside. The woman across the table from him was tall and good-looking with cascades of long chestnut-colored hair. She had clearly spent a lot of time getting ready for the occasion; her make-up was flawless and her outfit flattered her figure. In fact, she was drawing appreciative glances from other men in the bar.

If it had been anyone else, it would have been an enjoyable date. But the fact was he deeply resented having to spend time and money on Maria Mendoza. He disliked the woman, not only because she was gloating about being his replacement (possibly permanently). Not only because her voice was like the sound of faulty brakes. Not only because her breath smelled strongly of garlic. His dislike was something visceral and primitive that he could not fully account for using logic.

At police college she’d been intent on getting ahead as quickly as possible. She’d ignored her fellow cadets and sucked up to her instructors, to the point where even they had the decency to be embarrassed about it. Since she’d joined the homicide division two months ago, she’d been assiduously trying to soften Rodriguez up. To everyone else it was clearly a bid to getting a promotion. To Rodriguez, though, these attentions from an attractive young woman were evidence of the masculine charm he’d always known he’d exuded. As far as León knew she’d not gone so far as to sleep with the most repellent man in the Southern Cone, one who had the face of a pug and the personality black mold, but she’d played up to his romantic gambits like a trooper.

León could imagine the scenes in Rodriguez’s office immediately after his boss had suspended him.  The awkward compliments, the fulsome gratitude, the faintly expressed shared condemnation of Marconi’s ‘irregular’ methods, the warm glow of a man who had conferred a special favour, her self-satisfied smile… León grimaced involuntarily.

“Are you OK?” Maria asked with a tender note in her voice that only succeeded in irritating him.

He coughed into a napkin.

“Excuse me. Piece of onion went down the wrong way. You were saying, the Gaviscon case was transparent from the start?”

“Yes,” she nodded vigorously. “Oh, I don’t blame you for missing it. Sometimes it’s easier to see these things as an outsider, you know? As soon as I read the case notes I could see that there was something odd about his being at the party. And he was clearly a drug addict.”

León looked at her coldly and considered pointing out that Sandra Lopez and Gaviscon had gone to school together, making it perfectly natural for him to be attending her engagement party.

“How so? What were the signs? I wouldn’t have taken him for one.”

“Oh, well,” she waved a hand, “It stands to reason if he’s a model. Easier to lose weight and all.”

“So, you were investigating him particularly?”

“We were collecting evidence on everyone, of course,” she said evasively, vigorously cutting into her chimichurri steak. “But I was keeping my eye on him. He must have felt the pressure. A weak type.”

“I’m still not clear on some things. You said he left a suicide note? Was it handwritten?”

“Typed. But printed on his own printer. So, you know, there can’t be much doubt.” She shrugged. “People don’t forge suicide notes except on TV shows.”

“I see. And he admitted to killing Lola?”

“Well, technically,” she smiled at him, “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this. After all, you’re not very popular. I am actually breaking the rules by even meeting you. You’re quite the bad boy.” She waggled her fork at him and smiled in what she clearly imagined was a seductive way.

“OK.”

He chewed his salad for a full minute, mimicking a contented cow, though his stomach was churning.

“So I guess the next step is to investigate Santo Domingo?” he said, after washing the lettuce down with beer.

“Santo Domingo?”

She bit her lip, annoyed to be caught off-guard.

“S.D.—Santo Domingo. It was written in the black notebook we found in his wardrobe.”

“Ah, but that book wasn’t relevant to the case.”

León was baffled.

“Then what was his stated motive for murdering Lola, according to the note?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t murder,” she said with a note of triumph. “It was an accident. Manslaughter. He’d put opiates in his cocktail and Lola accidently drank from his glass.”

León thoughtfully drew an ‘x’ in the condensation on his beer bottle.

“You believed that?” he said at last, his incredulity sincere.

“It seems reasonable to me,” she frowned. “The coroner reported extremely high levels of opiates in his bloodstream. It suggested a high tolerance.”

“So Lola’s death was just an unfortunate accident?”

“It happens,” she looked at him closely, daring him to argue.

“Sure. Well,” he finished his beer in one gulp. “It’s been a pleasure. Good luck Maria.” He stood up to leave.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Why did you mention Santo Domingo? What are you getting at?”

“You don’t want to go there,” León said. “The case is neatly wrapped up. Congratulations.”

“Cut it out León. What’s this all about?”

“Like I said, you don’t want to go near this. Simply put, Santo Domingo is at the center of a major sex-abuse ring. Father Ocampo, the priest who was on the verge of acting as a whistleblower, died a week ago. Lola, who was on the verge of publicly naming names, is also now dead. Martín Gaviscon’s was in her book but all the other names had been torn out. He's dead too. Suspicious, no? Might be worth looking into.”

Maria looked unhappy. The evening wasn’t going the way she’d planned.

“Do you have proof for any of this? Or is it just conjecture.”

León produced a small piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Maria.

“Monica Picaflor, Mirage Gallery. Who’s this?” She asked.

“This is the person you should talk to. Used to be called Pedro.”

“What?”

“Bye Maria, maybe I’ll see you around.”

He pecked her on the cheek and left, pleasantly aware that her eyes were trained on in his back.

***

Juliet Harris arrived at the Children’s Park just after sunset. A century ago it had been a fairground, now it was another municipal park: lots of grass, a few playground structures. There was still a faint orange glow in the sky and the tall palm trees that lined the paths made blue silhouettes. The River Plate looked sluggish, giving off a muted aluminum gleam.

It was a hot weekend day and the park was still pretty crowded. Around her were families sprawled on the grass having picnics on blankets. Couples held hands or kissed on park benches. A few people were jogging or rollerblading. Children ran frantically, joyfully around the grounds, laughing and yelling. Some of them had flashing lights on their shoes or in their hula-hoops and the effect was like seeing unusually colorful fireflies.

Juliet chose a bench near the Monumento del Fin de Milenio, which looked like two giant mushrooms with square caps. The strangeness of the sculpture almost made her laugh out loud. Nerves. She sent a text message to give her location and sat on the edge of the seat, unable to relax. It was good that there were a lot of people around. A kind of security.

Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her. She stood up, smiling, trying to seem normal. Suddenly she was enfolded in an tight embrace and pulled down to the bench. Her body was overcome, her lips were covered with a breath-taking kiss and her neck was being pressed tightly, lethally. She could neither move nor speak. A flash of white-hot urgency seared her eyes and she realized this was her last chance to be here, to be alive on earth. In a moment of inspiration she realized she was still holding her car key in her right hand. She jabbed it as hard as she could into a soft part of that suffocating mass, which jerked away in pain. Taking advantage of a split second of opportunity, Juliet slipped out from underneath the weight, scrambled up, tried to scream but couldn’t. Instead, she started running for her life, into the night.