City of Knives Page 4

  Just as she was crossing Plaza de Mayo, the rain broke hard. There was a medium-sized demonstration in progress: telephone workers holding up banners, an unintelligible speech issuing from a sound truck, several dozen cops standing on guard behind what were possibly the most frequently employed set of barricades in South America.

  A lot of history had been made on this square. Just months before thousands of angry men and women had assembled here to beat pots and pans through the night. The following night, when horse-mounted police attempted to clear the Plaza of rioters, six people were killed, two shot, four trampled to death. The day after that the government had fallen. But this afternoon, when the rain hit, everyone, cops included, broke for cover.

  Marta, running toward the Finance Ministry, nearly collided with a pair of demonstrators seeking shelter beneath a bedraggled palm. Lightning flashed as she hurried toward the door. There was a plaque beside it referring to the aircraft strafing that had brought down the first Perón regime: "The scars on this marble were the harvest of confrontation and intolerance. Their imprint will help the nation achieve a great future."

  Just as she entered the portal, a clap of thunder seemed to sweep her inside. For a moment the lights in the lobby dimmed. When they brightened again, she found herself, hair and jacket soaked, standing before a high desk. A male receptionist stared down at her with scorn.

  "It is not permitted to use this Ministry as a shelter, Señora."

  Marta flashed her badge. "Kindly inform Señor Charbonneau's office that Inspector Abecasis of the Federal Police is here for her interview."

  Several minutes later a young woman in a smart-looking suit approached to escort Marta upstairs. This was her first visit to the Ministry. She'd always imagined it as a dull grey place where thousands of equally dull grey bureaucrats stared at endless rows of figures scrolling down computer screens.

  Hugo Charbonneau's hair was grey, cut very short like a soldier's, but there was nothing dull about him, Marta thought. He had, she thought, perhaps the sharpest pair of ice-blue eyes she'd ever seen. He sat behind his desk peering at her through a set of thin gold wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked to be in his mid fifties with something hard about him, an aura that spoke of intense self-discipline. She thought: He looks like one smart, slick and very tough middle-aged priest.

  "Speak up, Inspector." He cracked his knuckles, then rapped both forefingers simultaneously on his desk. "We're busy here. You asked to see me on an urgent basis. Kindly get to the point."

  Okay, you asked for it.

  "A murdered woman was found five nights ago against the Recoleta Cemetery wall. She was what they call a gata, an expensive call girl. We found her pimp killed that same night in his house. Both victims had been tortured first by someone using Proceso-era interrogation technique. There was a surveillance system in the house, cameras and microphones set up in bedrooms so whatever occurred there could be recorded. Yesterday I received a set of photographs from an anonymous source of two women making love in one of those bedrooms. I can identify one of the women as the murder victim. Perhaps you can identify the other."

  Even when she passed the envelope across the desk, Charbonneau continued to stare at her.

  "What makes you think I'd know this person?"

  "Why don't you take a look and see?"

  "Is this some sort of trap, Inspector?"

  "This is a homicide investigation. I expect you to cooperate."

  Charbonneau looked down at the envelope. "Perhaps I should call in our legal adviser."

  "You can do that, and then we can all drive over to the Palace of Justice and conduct this interview before a judge."

  Charbonneau showed her a very tight smile. "I've heard of you, Inspector. I suppose some people are scared of you."

  "Oh, I'm really a sweetheart," Marta said.

  This time, when Charbonneau smiled, he showed a little more lip. "Yeah, a real police softy, I'm sure." He glanced again at the envelope, picked it up. "Let's see what you've got."

  He pulled out the photos, looked at them, chuckled and tossed them onto his desk.

  "I don't know how anyone could identify the second woman as it's not possible to see her face."

  "Did you notice the entwined initials tattooed on her shoulder blade?"

  Charbonneau picked up the photos again, squinted at them. "Looks like a 'G' and a 'J'."

  "Now please look at this." She passed him the uncropped copy of the beach snapshot. "Recognize the woman here?"

  Charbonneau sat back abruptly. "Of course!" Just then another thunder clap caused the lights in the office to dim.

  "And the tattoo on her shoulder blade—isn't it the same?"

  Charbonneau, fully alert now, was staring at Marta, eyes filled with anger.

  "This is an outrage!"

  Marta nodded. "I agree. It is an outrage. Two people were tortured and murdered. One of them was a blackmailer. I've just shown you blackmail material involving the wife of a high government official. What conclusions can we draw from that?"

  "You speak to me of 'conclusions!' You've shown me trash!" He was now so furious, it seemed to Marta, that his aura of intense self-discipline was about to crack. "These photos, which purport to show...."

  Through the window Marta saw a lightning bolt tear the sky. Charbonneau, she noted, didn't quiver. He was too enraged.

  "These are fakes! I don't know who sent them to you, but whoever did is attempting to use the police. Also trying to mock the Minister by vilifying his wife with a scandal that never took place. And that, Inspector, is intolerable!"

  "If these pictures are fakes, I completely agree. Which is why I brought them to you. Only one other person, a photo analyst, has seen them. And only a copy of the snapshot with the faces cropped out. If she determines they're fakes, no one else will see them. On the other hand...."

  "Be very careful, Inspector, before you make any 'on the other hand' threats."

  "I'm simply pointing out—"

  "I know what you're pointing out. Listen carefully. As they say in the Law, everyone has his or her 'secret garden' his/her personal peccadilloes, private sexual life, and all that. Unless a man or woman opens the gates to his/her garden, his/her privacy must be respected. The personal activities of the Minister's spouse are nobody's business but her own. Still, knowing her as I do, I can assure you these pictures were altered. So the question is why? Why would someone try to use such shabby material to involve an innocent person in a murder case? Your guess is as good as mine. But, you see, even when these pictures are proven to be fakes, there'll still be a residue, the taint of a high official's spouse seeking satisfaction outside the marriage. And it's that residue that can be most damaging. The obvious question is: Who would gain from spreading such vicious rumors? If I were you, I'd look to Minister Viera's political enemies for the answer to that." He sat back, once again the grim tightly controlled priest. "And now, Inspector, this interview is over."

  Ricardi laughed. "But, Marta, Hugo Charbonneau is a priest," he hissed.

  "Or was. He had to give up his military priest's posting when he took the job with Viera."

  Marta had been summoned to Ricardi's office to explain her visit to the Finance Ministry. Word had come down from the Chief of the Federal Police that perhaps Ricardi should rein in his star detective. Marta wasn't surprised; she'd expected Charbonneau to complain. But when she showed the Chief the Silvia Santini photographs, Ricardi agreed she'd handled the matter properly.

  "If you'd taken these directly to Señora Viera or to the Minister they'd have a legitimate complaint. Going to his confidential assistant was the proper course. But..." Ricardi shook his head, "there's still a problem."

  "What?"

  "Have you seen this?" He passed her an open copy of that morning's edition of El Faro. He'd circled a blind item in the political gossip column on the second page:

  Rumors about a curious set of photographs are making the rounds in political circles. The photos purport
to show the wife of a potential presidential candidate in compromising poses with a second woman. Probably no one would take notice except for the connection of the unnamed second woman to a recent unsolved homicide....

  Marta knew this leak couldn't have come from Irma since the photo-analyst had only seen the cropped beach photograph of the Vieras. Which told her that her anonymous admirer had also sent the photos to El Faro.

  "Charbonneau said we were being used, that these pictures were forged by Viera's enemies."

  "A political 'dirty trick'—yeah, possible, though whoever did it would have to have had access to Granic's surveillance videos. Better find out for sure whether these photos were doctored."

  "I just got word the analysis is finished. I was heading to forensics when you called." She paused. "Did you look at the material Jorge sent over from the Medical Examiner's Office?"

  Ricardi nodded. "You were right, your victims were tortured by someone using Proceso era technique."

  "Proceso era Army technique, right? And now you tell me Charbonneau was a military priest. I find that interesting."

  Ricardi nodded. "As I've always told you, Marta, when you have a hunch, follow up."

  She went directly to the photo analysis room. As soon as she entered, Irma Mariani closed the door, pulled the blinds, set up a screen and turned on a pair of side by side projectors.

  "I made slides of your pictures. Take a look at this birthmark." Using a laser pointer, Irma pointed out an area several inches below the tattoo. "Now look at the same area on the copy snapshot." She projected the image from the swimsuit photograph. "You don't see the birthmark on this one."

  Marta agreed.

  "One explanation is that the woman on the beach was wearing sunscreen and the sun was shining very brightly. Or, since this is a copy, the birthmark simply didn't register. But now look at the tattoo." She used the pointer again. "In this bedroom shot it's in the same position. But in this one..." She showed a different slide from the series. "...it's angled somewhat differently. In the third and fourth pictures, the tattoos match up again. But here, in the fifth, again the tattoo's not in the same place."

  "What does all this mean?" Marta asked. She had counted on the photos being legitimate. It was clear now that they weren't.

  "It means a cyber-photographic specialist, using a software program, inserted the tattoos. In general he did a good job. But because of the way the bodies were writhing when the pictures were taken, it was difficult in every case to insert the tattoo exactly right. He'd have done better if he'd just sent you the three that matched up. For me the lack of the birthmark in the snapshot confirms the bedroom series pictures were altered."

  Irma gazed at her. "I can see you're disappointed. But there's a good lead to who did this work, a company monogram imbedded in the printing paper." Irma handed her a blow-up of the initials. "I believe if you show this to people in the business, you'll quickly find the person who manipulated these images."

  It wasn't disappointment that Marta felt as she walked back to her office. It was anger.

  Someone's using me! I'm being played!

  Chapter Two

  WELCOME TO BUENOS AIRES

  Beth Browder arrived in Buenos Aires on a sultry, overcast morning in late March after a twelve hour flight from L.A. She was exhausted, having barely slept on the plane, yet thrilled to have finally reached the city of her dreams.

  Taxiing into town from the airport, taking in the enormity of the city, she asked herself what she hoped to find here. Total immersion in Argentine tango, of course; lots of tango adventures; as many "tango highs" as possible; and also some insights she could incorporate into an academic paper she wanted to write about the compelling power of this extraordinary Argentine dance.

  Her taxi let her off in front of the Residencia Europa, a small hotel in the Congreso District recommended by her California tango instructor. "They cater to foreign tango enthusiasts. They'll help you get started, direct you to the best clubs," her instructor advised. And, in fact, even as she was checking in, the desk man offered to do just that.

  "There's another American girl staying here, a serious milonguera. I'll be happy to introduce you."

  "Thanks," Beth told him. "But first I need to get some sleep."

  The desk man, nodding sympathetically, handed over the key to her room. "Have a good rest, Señora. And welcome to Buenos Aires!"

  Up in her room, Beth took a quick shower, pulled the drapes, and crawled into bed. As she drifted toward sleep, she dreamily recalled the tango adventure that had drawn her, her encounter with a stranger the previous November in San Francisco, with whom she'd danced ecstatically and then spent an ecstatic night...

  The dance hall, in funky North Beach, was up a steep flight from the street. There were dark blue walls, a black ceiling supporting a revolving red lamp and numerous strategically placed mirrors. Complimenting the murky atmosphere was a superb sound system and a young DJ who knew his tangos, alternating classic songs with new recordings by contemporary Argentine artists.

  Beth, who'd been coming here for two years, knew most of the regulars. She loved these Sunday night milongas where lovers of Argentine tango assembled from throughout the Bay Area to meet and dance. Five days out of seven she taught at San Francisco State. Sunday nights here, she thought, were the best part of her week.

  She noticed the stranger a good while before he noticed her...or so she thought. Immediately he stood out from the crowd. He was tall, black-haired, extraordinarily handsome, and, best of all from her point of view, a fabulous dancer. For nearly an hour he'd been dancing with various partners, all young and attractive. He danced so well, he made them look better than they were.

  As soon as she saw him she knew she wanted to dance with him. She also knew that the only way she could lure him to ask her to dance was to dance better than any other woman in the room.

  At one point, needing a rest, she found an empty chair by the wall. Men were busy criss-crossing the floor seeking out partners for the next set. She looked down to avoid their eyes. When she looked up again, she saw the stranger heading straight for her.

  Or could he be heading for someone else?

  That was the one unfortunate thing about these Sunday night milongas: the intrigue sometimes turned cruel. She was thirty-three, attractive, a terrific tango partner, but here in North Beach narcissism reigned, and youth was prized far more than skill.

  The stranger came right up to her. The music was just starting.

  "Shall we?" he asked.

  Beth smiled, nodded. "Sure...."

  Then, when he embraced her, held her for the first time in his arms, she felt the beginning of that special state which drew her here every Sunday night, a rapture she thought of as Tango Magic...and they had not yet even begun to dance.

  She closed her eyes, let the music take over. And then it happened. Her new partner led a walk and then a series of ochos, giving her the space she needed. She started dancing very well then, perhaps even at competition level, feeling the music, expressing it with her body, transcending the steps, becoming one with her new partner and the song.

  She wasn't sure how many tandas they danced. She remembered that at least twice they stopped, went to the bar where he ordered drinks, then, the second time, went up to the dark balcony above the floor where they sipped, and watched the dancing below. It was here that he kissed her.

  "You're a terrific dancer," he told her. "You know it too."

  She showed him a demure half-smile.

  He kissed her again. "I spotted you early on. I wanted to partner you, but not right away. First I wanted to show off. Then, when you started showing off...I figured you were doing it for me."

  Her smile was her confession.

  "I'm so glad I came tonight," he said. "I heard about this place. Wherever I go I try to find a good milonga. Most are just so-so. Not much of a scene in L.A. But New York's good. Miami too."

  "Yeah, I've danced in New York," she said.
"My dream is to dance in Paris."

  "It's good there. Amsterdam's good too. But the best—"

  "I know, the best is Buenos Aires."

  He grinned. "Nothing like it in the world. Five thousand dancers, all serious, out at the clubs every night. If you're a committed milonguera, you'll love it."

  "Oh, I'm definitely committed," she said, laughing. "My idea of bliss would be to take a year off and bum my way around the world, tango shoes in my backpack."

  "Spoken like a true tango bum," he said.

  They danced for another hour, then she asked him home. She rarely did that, picked up a guy in North Beach then offered herself. Usually when she started an affair, it was with someone she'd been dating for a while. But tonight was different, tonight was magical, and, anyway, this wasn't going to be "an affair."

  This handsome stranger, who danced so incredibly well and who had transported her to tango heaven, was, he'd told her, leaving town early in the morning. So it would be a one-night stand.

  It had been years since she'd indulged in one of those. Tonight she wanted to. He was young, beautiful, he'd transported her, and if dancing with a stranger was to engage in an adventure, she saw no reason why the adventure couldn't be continued.

  Too many times she'd meet a good partner, engage in a six minute love affair on the floor, leave the floor smiling, then go home alone in tears.

  Tonight would be different. The adventure would be continued. Too many tango songs were about "lo que pudo ser y que no fue" ("what might have been but never was.") Hopefully, tomorrow morning, she thought, there'll be no regrets.

  She lived on Russian Hill, less than a mile from North Beach. They walked arm-and-arm up steep Greenwich Street in the cool November night air. He took off his jacket, placed it over her shoulders. He wore a close-fitting black shirt, black western style belt with tooled silver clasp, tight black trousers. He was over six feet tall, lean like an athlete. His thick black hair, neatly combed back in the dance hall, was now blowing in the breeze. As they walked, she plucked out her barrette causing her own hair to fall free. He ran his hands through it.