City of Knives Read online

  CITY OF KNIVES

  By William Bayer

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  Copyright © 2013 by William Bayer

  LICENSE NOTES

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Meet the Author

  WILLIAM BAYER is the author of numerous crime novels published in ebook and audiobook form by Crossroad Press. His books have won the Best Novel Edgar Award, the Lambda Prize, and the French prize, Prix Mystere de Critique. He lives in the California wine country with his wife, food writer Paula Wolfert.

  Novels:

  Blind Side

  Punish Me With Kisses

  The Dream of the Broken Horses

  Visions of Isabelle

  The Janek Series:

  Switch

  Wallflower

  Mirror Maze

  The Foreign Detective Series:

  Tangier

  Pattern Crimes

  The Kay Farrow Series:

  The Magician’s Tale

  Trick of Light

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  For Paula...who believed

  Chapter One

  A CORPSE IN RECOLETA

  As Marta drove she could smell the streets, the asphalt and iron smell of Buenos Aires, the dank smell of the city on a hot rainy late summer night.

  It was one o'clock in the morning, traffic was light, something she didn't expect. This should be the height of the night rush hour, the busiest time at the late-night bars and nightclubs. But being a day person she had little knowledge of that.

  She drove fast along streets slick from the early evening shower, passed block after block of shabby apartment houses, raced through puddles that reflected street lamps and the facades of buildings, distorting them like funhouse mirrors. Everyone seemed to be driving fast. Headlight beams of approaching cars widened then broke on her windshield. Shiny black plastic trash bags were piled by the curbs. Through the open car window she could hear garbage trucks chewing their way through the back streets.

  Entering Recoleta she noticed a difference, the smell sweeter here, sweetened by the aromas of night-blooming plants, and, on the corners, beside the closed flower stands, discarded bundles of decaying flowers. She drove past chic little restaurants still serving late-night customers, antique stores where beautiful objects glittered behind grilled windows. She passed handsome apartment buildings that people said resembled buildings in Paris, and the deluxe Alvear Palace Hotel which catered to movie stars, pop singers, oil sheiks and the King and Queen of Spain.

  The outdoor tables at La Biela were empty. The huge Gomera tree that arched overhead was still dripping rain. As she passed, she spotted a few people inside, probably sipping what was said to be the most expensive cup of coffee in Buenos Aires.

  The white wall of Recoleta Cemetery came into view. Then she saw a cluster of police motorcycles, patrol cars, homicide bureau and medical examiner's vans parked at odd angles along the little park between the cemetery and the cafés and restaurants on Junin.

  She pulled up to the barricade. Getting out she heard the growl of the generator that powered the harsh crime-scene lights. A patrolman, about to gesture her away, saw the badge clipped to her jacket and waved her through.

  Entering the restricted zone, heading toward the lights set up on stands near the cemetery wall, she spotted the shaven head of Héctor Ricardi. The Homicide Chief was speaking into his cell phone. Marta approached, stood near him until he noticed her and nodded.

  "Fucking idiots!" Ricardi hissed into his phone. From the contempt in his voice, she guessed he was speaking to the night duty commander at Federal Police Headquarters. "They cut the ropes off the victim before we got here. Does that make them idiots, or what?"

  Ricardi was a big man, perhaps double Marta's weight, with a manner people called commanding. For all that, Marta had never heard him shout. Most of the time he spoke in a taut gruff whisper.

  "What do I want you to do?" he asked his caller. "Discipline the assholes. Demote them. Assign them to shit duty." He caught Marta's eye, shook his head. "Thank you. Yes, of course I'll keep you informed."

  Ricardi snapped his phone shut, turned to Marta. "Wide awake now?" he asked.

  "I was having a dream when you called. It's vague, but I think I was swimming with a flock of swans."

  "Sounds nice. Things aren't so nice around here."

  Marta peered ahead. "There must be thirty cops standing around."

  Ricardi nodded. "They just finished screwing up our crime-scene. Like they were called here especially to do that. Then, when they were just about done, their dyke commander got the bright idea she should inform us she had a body."

  Marta knew the precinct commander slightly, a strapping woman named Liliana Méndez, daughter of a retired police officer from Buenos Aires province, father and daughter reputed to be equally mean and corrupt. Méndez was a boxer, Federal Police female heavyweight champ. Marta has seen her working out at the gym, hitting the heavy bag, sparring with male colleagues, laying into them hard. Marta, who weighed just 110 lbs., didn't box. She was a marksman who could shoot consistently good patterns right-handed, left-handed, two-handed. Whichever hand she used in competitions, her groupings were nearly always the best.

  "Who's the victim?"

  Ricardi grunted. "Beautiful young woman. Don't have her name yet. The way she was left here is bizarre." He motioned Marta forward. "Come, take a look."

  As they walked toward the cemetery wall, Marta caught sight of Liliana Méndez, hands on her hips, barking out orders. Liliana grinned when she recognized Marta, started toward them. They intersected by a puddle beneath the police lights.

  "I hear you got complaints," Liliana said to Ricardi.

  "This is a major fuck-up. Don't you supervise your people?"

  "We don't see many bodies this side of the cemetery wall. If they'd called me in early I wouldn't have let anyone touch her."

  "Why didn't they call you in early?"

  "Couldn't find me. I was staying over at my girlfriend's." She moved closer, aggressive. "You don't have a problem with that, do you, Ricardi?"

  "I don't give a shit about your personal life, Méndez. When precinct cops turn up a homicide, they're to secure the area and call us."

  "So this time we didn't do it right. Bring me up on charges. I don't give a shit."

  "Why don't you?" Marta asked.

  Liliana stared at her like she was a speck of dirt. Marta was used to that. Her work on the Casares case had brought her fame, and also the disdain of regular cops. They hated her for the very reason the press had dubbed her La Incorrupta. By brushing aside threats, refusing bribes, then single-handedly bringing in a Senator's son for date-rape and murder, she'd shown that the criminal justice system didn't always have to be corrupt.

  "I'll tell you why," Liliana said. She reeked of cheap perfume, something like violets, Marta thought, but artificial and cloying. "Because of who your victim was, that's why. One of my guys recognized her. Silvia something, call girl. Works the fancy hotels. Risky trade. Anyhow...does anybody care?"

  "I'm sure her
mother cares," Marta said.

  Liliana guffawed, then walked away. Her scent lingered where she'd stood. Like an unpleasant fog, Marta thought.

  "Staying over at her girlfriend's," Ricardi hissed. "They knew how to reach her. She's got a phone."

  Marta moved forward to look at the victim, lying face-up on a yellow police poncho. An assistant medical examiner Marta knew was on his knees examining the body with a flashlight.

  "Hi, Jorge," Marta said.

  The assistant looked up. "Hi, Inspector. Nice to see you."

  Marta studied the girl. She was young, small, and, as Ricardi had said, beautiful, with pale porcelain-like skin and delicately modeled features. She was also, Marta noted, expensively dressed, her hair well coifed, her nails professionally manicured.

  "What's the story?" Marta asked.

  Jorge turned to her again. "They found her seated against the cemetery wall. Her hands were tied behind her back attached to a noose around her neck. The precinct cops cut off the ropes and laid her out." Jorge rolled his eyes. "Said they were worried she was strangling herself. But she was dead a while before she was placed here. Looks like she was tortured too. There're little stab wounds all over her — thighs, stomach, breasts. Something else. The front page of a newspaper was stuffed into her mouth. I took it out, showed it to the chief." Jorge pointed to a plastic evidence bag, then turned to Ricardi. "I'm ready to take her now if that's okay with you."

  Ricardi nodded, picked up the evidence bag. "I'll keep this for now," he said.

  They stood back while two more assistants lifted the body, placed it in a polyurethane body bag, zipped the bag shut, then carried it off.

  "There's nothing more to do here," Ricardi said. "Let's get some coffee and talk."

  He led her to a mall on Vincente Lopez where there was an all-night food court on the mezzanine. Most of the tables were uncleared, covered with crumpled napkins and leftover pizza crusts on paper plates. They finally found a clean table near the window with a good view of the crime scene below. Marta could see the roofs of the mausoleums over the top of the cemetery wall.

  She knew this necropolis well. Most porteños did. It was the most famous cemetery in the city. All the so-called great families owned mausoleums here, miniature architectural wonders built to house their deceased. Lean white-faced feral cats ruled the alleyways, cats with the shrewd eyes of tango dancers stalking partners. Marta's mother used to bring her here. She said she found it "restful" to walk among the tombs. Marta remembered seeing women weeping before the Duarte family vault, still shedding tears over the early death of their self-styled "saint," Eva Perón, buried among the rich of the Barrio Norte whom she had despised and who had loathed her even more. There was an inscription beneath Evita's name: "I shall return and be millions." There were many in Argentina who still believed she would.

  "You know why I called you?" Ricardi said.

  "Actually, Chief, I don't. This looks like a sex crime. Not my specialty."

  "It's bigger than that."

  "How do you know? Because Liliana had her boys mess up the scene?"

  "That...and the newspaper." Ricardi laid the evidence bag on the table. "Front page of El Faro. Why that paper? It's a message. Someone killed her so she wouldn't squawk."

  Ricardi had a point. El Faro was a left-wing independent newspaper with the best investigative staff in Argentina, the one that exposed official lies and lying officials, the one people turned to first when they had a gripe. During Marta's investigation of Casares, Raúl Vargas, its sharpest investigative reporter, had befriended her, traded information with her, saluted her in print when she refused to be bought off, celebrated her when she stood up to Senator Casares, lionized her when she nailed his son. El Faro had turned her into a national heroine.

  "The scene's screwed up. There's no evidence to work with."

  Ricardi shrugged. "You're not an evidence type, Marta. You're a prober. Plus you're not working on anything important now. You can find out who this girl was, who she knew, why someone went to so much trouble to place her in a public place with a page from a paper specializing in exposés stuffed into her mouth. Why'd they torture her? What were they after? If it was just a sex murder, why make a spectacle out of it?" Ricardi sat back, smiled. "You can uncover all that. No one will mess with you. You're too well-known."

  He was trying hard to sell her, and she wondered why. She looked out the window again. The precinct cops were dismantling the lights, cleaning up.

  "You've got a hunch?"

  "Liliana went all out to screw up the scene. Why'd she do that? This has a political smell to it."

  He was staring at her. Marta met his eyes. She liked Ricardi, was pleased she had his confidence, appreciated the fact that he didn't simply assign her the case. That told her she had his respect, and maybe something else, that he might know more than he was saying, had more than a policeman's hunch this call girl torture-homicide would turn out to be a lot bigger than it seemed.

  "Casares was straight forward," she reminded him. "All I had to do was break through the fear. This one's feels opaque. If I'm going to work it I'll need help."

  "Of course. Who do you want?"

  "No one in Homicide. Our guys are good, but if this turns out to be political, I won't be able to trust any of them."

  "Who then?"

  "My cousin, Rolo Tejada. He works narcotics. If you can get him detailed to me, I'll take it on."

  Ricardi studied her. She knew what he was thinking: the narcotics division was notoriously corrupt, perhaps more than any division in the Federal Police.

  "Your cousin?"

  "My mother's sister's boy."

  "So he's not from the Jewish side?"

  Marta smiled. "Would that make a difference?"

  Ricardi shook his head. "To me it doesn't make a shit's worth of difference. But I won't put two Jews on the same case. Not because a pair of you wouldn't do a decent job, but because of how it'd look if tentacles start reaching into higher-than-expected places. Then for sure the Jewish issue'll come up. There'll be talk of a conspiracy. Christ! I shouldn't have to explain this to you!"

  "Christ! You don't have to!" Marta said, making Ricardi laugh. "Just so you know, Rolo's a good Catholic boy, he knows the streets, he doesn't take bribes, he's a fine investigator, and, best of all, totally loyal to me."

  "Then you got him," Ricardi said.

  It was nearly three a.m. when she reached home, just blocks from the huge National Congress building. She loved her neighborhood, its mix of architecture, broken-down houses, some occupied by squatters, beside once-elegant buildings from the 1920s when Buenos Aires was rich, the destination of choice for European immigrants. There was a special quality to the Congreso barrio, its medley of arches, gates, broken balustrades, second and third floor balconies cluttered with pots of carefully tended plants. Behind many of the houses there were little overgrown gardens. It was a dusty neighborhood, a neighborhood that showed lots of use with a quality she found haunting.

  She found a parking space, walked to her building catching a whiff of the Río de la Plata on the way, the slightly sour smell of the river that often pervaded the city at night.

  She climbed the old worn stairs, let herself into her apartment, went straight to Marina's bedroom door, entered quietly, then stared down in wonder at her beautiful daughter basking in an eleven-year-old's contented sleep.

  She bent to kiss Marina's forehead, then made her way to her own bedroom where she found Leon asleep in approximately the same position as when she'd left. He was a big burly man with wild dark hair and large brown eyes so soft and loving she would sometimes, in the midst of work, pull out his photo, stare into his eyes and tear up at the sight of them.

  She stowed her pistol, peeled off her clothes, took a quick shower, then got into bed nestling against him. He turned slightly, placed his hand on her flank as if to assure himself she was home. She smiled, shut her eyes, then tried to recover the dream she'd been having w
hen she'd been awakened hours before by Ricardi's call, the dream in which she was swimming with swans.

  In the morning she and Leon made love tenderly and quietly so as not to disturb Marina. Afterwards he left her side to make coffee, prepare breakfast for Marina, make sure she was properly dressed for school. Then he brought her into the bedroom so Marta could kiss her goodbye.

  "Have a great day, darling," she told Marina. She loved her daughter's large eyes, the innocence in them, and the halo of light brown curls that framed her head the way Leon's was framed by his dark unruly locks.

  When Leon leaned down for his kiss, she whispered, "Thank you. You're my champion."

  "And you're mine," he whispered back, tenderly touching her cheek.

  Leon would drop Marina at school on the way to work. He was half of a contractor-carpenter team specializing in apartment renovations. Most of his work was performed in the Barrio Norte, home to the city's upper-middle class. He and his partner had a small crew, paid them fairly, made a decent profit on their jobs. Between his business and Marta's salary, they were sufficiently well-off to own a second-hand Toyota pickup truck (his), a five year old Ford (hers) and to send Marina to tango class, her current passion.

  After Leon and Marina left for the day, Marta phoned her cousin, Rolo, to tell him he would be assigned to work with her on a homicide investigation.

  "Go to the morgue," she instructed him, "take Polaroids of the victim, start showing them around Recoleta. We need her full name, address and anything else you can dig up."

  She tried to go back to sleep. Failing that, she got up, ate, then headed over to the morgue herself.

  Lately Leon had been urging her to quit the police and enter politics. "We're at the start of a new century. People are desperate now to vote for someone honest. You're just what they're looking for. The country's a disaster."