17 Stone Angels (2 page)

“How's it going, Blacky?” Fortunato leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, then sprinkled a few greetings around the table and moved on toward the back. The Chief was waiting for him in the rear alcove with a big smile. “Miguel!”

As Fortunato got closer he made out the two men sitting with the Chief and felt his throat tighten. He swallowed and continued on, exchanging a distracted slap on the shoulder with a couple of Inspectors sitting near the pool table.

The Chief was wearing a clean navy suit and beige silk tie and he stood up to exchange kisses with Fortunato. The other two stayed seated. Fortunato heard the clicking of the Chief's lips in his ear as they kissed, smelled his cologne and the aldehyde overtones of his hair pomade. The familiar sensations and the crisply trimmed white hair and blue eyes reassured him a bit, like the presence of an elder brother. Seven years older than Fortunato, Bianco had taken him on as an
Ayudante
fresh from the Academy in 1968
and had brought him from comisaria to comisaria as he'd climbed the ranks. Now Bianco was said to be a possible successor to the chief of the entire
Bonaerense
, and Fortunato had become his man in Investigaciones in San Justo. The Chief scraped a rickety chair over to the table for him and motioned toward it with his hand. Fortunato noted the overfriendly air of someone selling faulty merchandise.

Bianco indicated his companions without offering an introduction. “These are two friends. They came to explain to you the problem with the American so everything is clear.”

Fortunato looked at them. They had that leaden unsmiling quality of people accustomed to making unilateral decisions about other people's lives. One was tall, about forty-five, with close-clipped blond hair, wearing a blue suit over a polo shirt. He had unsettling hazel eyes. The other was younger,
morrocho
, black-haired and dark-skinned in a navy jogging suit. Fortunato spotted the slight hump of a shoulder holster under his left arm. Both looked fit and self-contained, the kind of operatives who lifted weights and went to the shooting range. Heavy men. Ex-military. He knew the type from the days of the dictatorship.

He smiled at them. “
Bien, muchachos
. What's up with the Northamerican? We put that case to sleep two months ago.”

The two men looked at each other and the Chief started in with a warm serious tone, like that of a concerned relative. “Unfortunately, Miguel, as I told you over the telephone, the case seems to have aroused some interest in the exterior. We've been feeling some pressure from the North Americans to open it up again, shuffle some papers, that sort of thing.”

Fortunato steadied his voice to keep out any hint of complaint.

“You told me he was nobody.”

“He was nobody. But Mr. Nobody had a wife and child. It seems his woman has been crying to some senator about her poor dead husband, and finally the senator started making noises, too. It's cheap publicity for him.” He took a sip of his beer, then added ironically: “You know, Miguelito, “human rights” are very much in fashion these days.”

Fortunato took in the information without commenting. He'd gotten lost in the first part of the explanation, that Waterbury had a wife and child. It was one of the few facts he knew about the man because Waterbury had told him that himself, in the early part of the kidnapping when he'd been
trying to impose some fiction of normalcy on the situation. Fortunato felt Waterbury's dead weight come down on him again, then focused in on what Bianco was saying. “The gringos are negotiating some new privatizations and the Minister of Economy has to show that he's cooperating.”

“I understand. Why do you choose me to deal with the gringos?”

“For that face!” the Chief said. “Who wouldn't believe that face!” No one laughed at the joke so the Chief went on. “Well, Miguel. It happened in your district. You're a high-ranking investigator of homicides with more than three decades of service in the Institution. You have complete credibility.”

The blond one interrupted. “You're the one who fucked up, Fortunato! You were supposed to squeeze him, not kill him.”

The Chief winced and tried to calm things down. “
Che!
” he told the blond. “The Northamerican acted badly. Everyone knows that. It was his own fault. Comisario Fortunato is one of the best officers in the Force. I trust him completely.” He turned back to Fortunato. “It's a formality. All you need to do is air out the files, tour the crime scene and buy her a steak before she goes home.”

“Her? Who are they sending?”

The Chief glanced at the blond man and they both smiled. Even the dark man seemed to lighten his expression a little. The blond one answered the question. “La Doctora Fowler, from Georgetown University. Activist in human rights issues and an expert on the history and culture of Peru.”

“Peru?”

The other three looked at each other and broke into laughter. “So you can see,” the Chief continued, “it's not such a big deal. The gringos don't want to touch it but they've got this senator swelling their balls.”

A number by Pugliese came on the radio and the Chief raised his hand to the opening bars. “That's how I like it! Dry tango, without adornment!”

The heavy men stood, and Fortunato inclined his head to look up at them. He felt weak as the blond one stared silently down at him, then the two left without a handshake. Fortunato watched them file past the card players into the brilliant doorway.

“Who sent the monkeys?” he asked.

The Chief sighed. “It's a bit complicated, Miguel.”

“Who do they belong to? Carlo Pelegrini?”

The name startled Bianco. “Why do you say that?”

Fortunato looked at him sharply. “You sent me into the shit with that operation. Are they Pelegrini's or not?”

Bianco looked away across the dark interior, shook his head. “It's complicated.”

The assignment had been to pick up a man named Robert Waterbury outside his hotel on the Calle Paraguay and give him a scare. He hadn't known who Waterbury was or who they were squeezing him for, only that it involved some notebooks that Waterbury was using to blackmail someone. Waterbury didn't carry a gun and wasn't violent, so it looked like an easy job: they would grab him, cuff him, put a gun to his head and drive him out to a field. Maybe give him a few stiff ones to get his attention. Then they would empty his pockets, dump him in the mud, and leave him to find his own way home. All without explanation; part of the psychology was to let him use his imagination.

Fortunato shook his head. “I only took that job because of you. And you stuck me with Domingo and his nose-stuffer. How was I supposed to work with a car full of retards with their noses full of
merca?
How?”

The Chief opened up for a moment. “I didn't want Domingo. They suggested him.”

He thought of Domingo, with his boyish black hair and his phony servility. Behind that fleshy smile was the ever-present desire to put a bullet in someone's back.

“Who suggested him?”

The Chief looked past him toward the old men playing cards. “Look, Miguelito: don't ask me more because I can't tell you.” Then, commandingly, “But don't go throwing around the name of Pelegrini.” He seemed to regret his sudden harshness, tossed his head dismissively. “It's not for so much, Miguelito. The judge is Duarte. If we have to arrange something we can count on him. You should look over the
expediente
again and familiarize yourself with the case.”

The irony of Fortunato familiarizing himself with a crime that he had committed seemed to escape the Chief, but maybe he was right. There was the crime, which was the reality, and there was The Case, which was all the fossilizations of that reality. Two very different things, especially in Buenos Aires.

“What about the Northamerican? This Waterbury. What else do I need to know about him?”

“Not much. It seems he was some sort of journalist, but not very successful. He had money problems, and that's why he came down here. He must have had some kind of scheme.” The Chief's eyes shifted sideways, then back to Fortunato. “You can ask the rest from the gringa when she gets here. It will make you look more sincere.” The Chief took another peanut from the little dish in front of them. “It's not such a big deal, Miguel. Put on your idiot face for a week and it will all solve itself.” He brightened. “Look, Soriano's singing at El Viejo Almacen next weekend. Take her to hear some authentic Buenos Aires tango, show her a few steps. She'll forget all about this idiocy.”

“She's coming next week?”

“
Si
, señor. And be nice to her,” the Chief said. “It's her first time to Argentina.”

CHAPTER
TWO

F
ortunato went to meet her at the
Aeropuerto Ezeiza
with a little placard that said “Dra. Fowler,” and a driver in an impeccable blue uniform. At the last minute he'd brought along Inspector Fabian Diaz to bulk up the delegation.

Fortunato had explained to Fabian that this new investigation was political and would be pursued at a pace he described as “
tranquilo
.” In reality, Fabian took all his investigations at that pace. Loosely attached to one of the five “
patotas
”—plainclothes investigative groups that Fortunato directed—Fabian worked gambling and vice and used that as license to dress in clothes Fortunato considered too flamboyant for a serious policeman. He spent most of his days on obscure “
operativos
” to the race track and the football stadiums, putting in only a few hours at the station and writing up scanty reports that always contained the words “continuing investigation in process.” It didn't matter; he collected the appropriate tolls from the pimps and illegal lotteries, and in his remaining time he arrested enough criminals to keep his record presentable. About thirty, he had dark blond curls and a fashion-model face. At the station they called him Romeo. Fortunately, he'd dressed relatively sedately today in a black and white check sports jacket and a black polo shirt. They scanned the arrivals for the gringa.

Fortunato caught a woman's face out of the crowd and felt a mixture of hope and dread that she would be the one. Her wheat-blonde hair swept back from features that wavered between beauty and a disconcerting irregularity, with eyes perhaps too far apart or too penetrating and a mouth that could be construed as either delicate or cruelly thin. A sphinx face. A face like expensive perfume. When Fortunato saw her break from the throng and move toward him, he felt something come floating free in his chest.

She looked startlingly younger than he'd expected: perhaps in her twenties or early thirties, and slim, with sure, athletic steps made easy by flat shoes. She'd dressed in a tan skirt with a matching jacket, and a white blouse slightly rumpled from the flight. A gold chain gleamed at her neck and her fingers moved up to touch it nervously as she felt the three men watching her. She looked business-like and competent, but he noticed that she held her portfolio in a strange way, in front of her thigh, rather than to the side.

“Doctora Fowler.” He offered his hand, resisting the normal impulse to kiss her.

“Señor Fortunato? It's a great pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Doctora,” he said softly. “Welcome to Buenos Aires. This is Inspector Fabian Diaz.” Fabian nodded gravely, on his best behavior. “And Officer Pilar.”

As she moved to shake hands with Fabian, Fortunato realized that she had been using her portfolio to cover a large red stain on her thigh. It looked like tomato juice. “Doctora Fowler,” he said, “they dirtied you on the flight!”

She peered down at the stain, then blushed. “The passenger beside me spilled his drink.” She tossed her shoulders girlishly. “With luck the hotel has a laundry service.”

An awkward moment passed as the three men stared at her, then Fortunato said, “Of course they will. Let me help you with your luggage.” The driver seemed to get hold of himself and lunged for the bag before they headed across the cavernous lobby of the Arrivals terminal. The touts and taxi drivers recognized them as police and gave them a wide berth. Ezeiza was well-known for its taxi mafia, which gave arriving passengers the choice of being fleeced by the
taxistas
themselves or by the overpriced tickets sold in their phony kiosk. A fat business controlled by the
Federales
.

La Doctora was craning her head as if she'd never seen an airport before, gazing intently at the newsstands and the advertisements. Outside he could
sense she was breathing in the rich and humid air of Buenos Aires, scented with exhaust fumes and subtropical foliage. Even among the vast pavements of Ezeiza, one could still smell the damp black earth of the pampas. He opened the car door for her, then slid in on the other side. Fabian sat in front. “To the Sheraton, no?”

“Please.”

The driver flashed his badge at the man in the parking booth and was waved past.

“Is this your first time in Buenos Aires, Doctora Fowler?”

“Athena,” she said. “Call me Athena.”

“The goddess of Wisdom, no?”

She smiled. “And the goddess of War.”