The Manuscript I the Secret (17 page)

“Wait here. If I don’t come down in ten minutes, you can go and come back in about three hours.”

Nelson nodded. It was the only plan I could think of. It would have looked really bad for me to give my bodyguard a call while I was with Irene.

And there I was again, waiting for her to open the door. I am not in the habit of showing up to places unannounced, but those days it seemed like I was upending all my paradigms. Just when I started to think she might already have company, the door opened. She looked lovely. Her brown hair fell loosely about her, and she was wearing the silk robe that always drove me crazy—the combination was too sensual to make any inquiries beyond the physical.

“Are you alone?” I asked, fervently hoping that the answer was yes.

“Yes.”

That was all I needed to hear. I forgot entirely about what I had planned on asking, and I kissed her like a man on death row. Her unique smell invaded my senses. Before, I just thought it was the scent of flowers, but back then I was an immature fool, an idiot. I realized now her fragrance was the essence of female. Hitherto I had not adequately appreciated the delicacies that women like Irene had to offer. It was so much more than easy sex. And when I thought about “back then,” I meant just a few weeks prior.

Recent events had sharpened my senses. I looked at everything through a different prism now, one that allowed me to study several angles at once. Irene was a woman to savor but not the type that could satisfy. That night it was like I made love to her for the first time, and though it may sound harsh—perhaps obscene or even sacrilegious—I understood why a man like Francesco Martucci could love a woman so much. Or a man like Claudio Contini-Massera. There is a kind of woman for every man; evidently they had the same preferences. And for me, Irene was
the
woman.

But I had gone there with a purpose, and, being a human being at the core, after savoring the deliciou
s
plat de résistance
, I finally turned back into a primate, hopefully of the hominid variety.

“When are you going to tell me about how you got that scar?” I asked, stretched out beside her as I stroked her buttock.

“It’s not worth remembering.”
“Why not?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You don’t want to tell me?”
Irene pulled away a bit and pulled the sheet up over her chest. But I was not going to give up.

“I know a few things about you. But I want to hear them from your own mouth.”

“I can’t.”

“Then I’ll have to assume you’re part of a conspiracy. I need answers. Uncle Claudio survived two murder attempts. I presume you already knew that. The last time I came here, a man tried to follow me. My life is in danger, and you’re refusing to cooperate with me. What am I supposed to think?”

“I would never do anything to hurt you, love. Rest assured of that.”
“I can’t believe you. Why can’t you answer my questions?”
“I had nothing to do with the attacks on your uncle. And I haven’t gotten anybody to follow you. Why would I?”
“You tell me. Just tell me the truth. There’s a lot at stake. If you truly feel anything for me, just tell me.”

Irene sat up. The sheet over her chest became a shield. Her face transformed from its youthful vigor to a look that really showed her age. I waited, and she began to speak.

“I imagine you know I worked as a prostitute. That was a long time ago, Dante. A very long time. In Medellín you do what they want or they kill you, and I had been recruited by one of the most powerful men: Pablo Escobar. But it wasn’t just a typical prostitution gig. It was a luxurious house where they treated us like queens, except for the fact that we had to sleep with Pablo Escobar’s friends whenever they wanted us to. Politicians, diplomats, military leaders, clergymen.... Little girls picked up on the streets, if they were pretty enough, ended up at the Mansión Rosada, the Pink Mansion. I had lost my mother. I was thirteen years old and had nowhere to go. One of his men found me wandering around, and from that point on I started working for them. I have always looked younger than I am. You have no idea how many perverts are out there. There are men who can’t fuck a female unless it’s a little girl. And they don’t care how much it costs. Some paid to have us for an entire week, and I’m not going to go into what all they made us do. Everything went into Pablo Escobar’s bank account.

”As I got older, I was moved to the ‘special division,’ a huge luxury home near his famous Hacienda Nápoles, near the Magdalena River. That’s where I met Pablo Escobar, the ‘drug lord.’ I was with him a couple times. I remember him as being a pretty nice guy—as nice, of course, as one can be within the parameters of the world he ran. In those days he was really involved with his lover, Virginia Vallejo, so we girls were just playthings on the side for him.

”One day a group of Italians came for a visit, looking to have a good time. I was chosen by a really good-looking guy. I spent two days with him, and we had a lot of time to talk. He took an interest in my life and wanted to get me out of that place. Not to come live with him, because he assured me he was in love and wasn’t looking for any kind of commitment. But he had taken pity on my situation, and he wanted to help me.

”When the boss found out, they locked me up, and I was at the mercy of his thugs. I wanted to die, Dante. I hadn’t done anything, but I made the mistake of wanting to get out of there.”

“What was the Italian’s name?” I asked with my heart in my mouth.

Irene lowered her eyes.

“Claudio Contini-Massera. The best man I have ever known. He stood up to the most powerful drug lord. I don’t know how he did it, but the last time he spoke with Pablo Escobar, I was there; Pablo had called for me, and I could see there was fear in his eyes. Your uncle said, ‘I hope you think it over; it’s nothing personal,’ with his soft, relaxed voice, like he was having a chat with a good buddy. Pablo Escobar shrugged his shoulders and stretched his arms like there was nothing more to be done. ‘She’s yours. I’ll tell them to get her ready.’ And that’s what they did. Pablo left, and two of his thugs took me to the punishment room. One of them sliced deep with a knife from my waist to my butt cheek while the other held me down. I guess I screamed because Claudio burst into the room. When he saw me, he wrapped my naked, bloody body in a sheet and walked out of there with me, and nobody stopped him.

”The scar was a lot worse, but thanks to your uncle I had access to a really skilled surgeon, though there will always be a mark. I came to the States. I worked in a beauty salon and later was able to buy it, thanks to some money your uncle lent me and which I repaid. Your uncle actually owns the business I have now. I was the front man. Actually, the business would be yours now. You see, I don’t have any dark secrets to hide. I would never have done anything to hurt him, and much less you. Claudio’s death left me in somewhat of a business limbo because all the official documents are in my name, and I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to know that I was...in love with your uncle.”

“How did you meet Jorge Rodríguez?”

“We grew up in the same neighborhood. He had family, though, and they sent him to school. He turned out to be a good student. When I was recruited by Escobar’s people, Jorge tried his best to rescue me, but what could he do? He was as young as I was. One day he came to see me and said he was going to the university and that one day he’d come back for me. But things didn’t work out that way. When I came to New York, I got in touch with his family in Colombia and was able to track him down. A few years later we met up here. He was already married, and I had my life on the right track. Your uncle met him and agreed that Jorge should be in charge of the financial part of the florist business, which by that time had become a very successful endeavor.”

“My uncle knew Jorge Rodríguez?” My shock knew no limits. That put everything in a different light.

“Of course. He would never have trusted him with so much without having met him. Claudio even invited us to Rome. We went several times, but Jorge went more regularly. On one of the visits we went to the offices of the Business, we saw his beautiful home outside of Rome, Villa Contini, and we also met a priest he seemed particularly fond of.”

“What was his name?”
“Francesco. I can’t remember his last name. Your uncle always said, ‘Francesco...Francesco...,’ and his Italian accent cracked me up.”

“Did you ever see him again? I mean the priest.”

“No. That was the only time I saw him. Later I toured all around Europe on vacation and went back to Rome, but not to see your uncle. He was always traveling.”

“Can you give me Jorge Rodríguez’s address?”

“Sure.”

She opened a drawer in the nightstand and took out a little book. She wrote something down and handed me the piece of paper.

“Thanks. Do you know if Rodríguez had any further contact with the priest Francesco?”

“I have no idea. But why would they have?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. I suppose it was my uncle’s idea for me to meet you,” I inquired.

“You have to admit he was always very paternal toward you, Dante. The only recommendation he made was that I should look you up.”

“I suppose you were a sort of spy. But why am I even bothering to ask if I already know the answer...”

“I always spoke well of you, Dante. I had no need to lie.”

“It seems my Uncle Claudio got the wrong idea about me.”

“He didn’t get it from me. And truly, Dante, I’ve always considered you to be a wonderful person. I’ve grown to really love you, though I know I’m not the woman for you.”
“What are you talking about?!”

“You’re part of a different world, Dante. And a different generation.”

I didn’t respond. It would have been pointless, an empty argument. Not even I knew what kind of woman was for me. But I did not want to be in love with a woman chosen by my father. And who obviously loved him. I know I look like him; perhaps that was all that mattered to Irene, an image that evoked pleasant memories. In that moment I knew I could not love her. But I made love to her one last time, and the fragrance of carnations is forever imbedded in my mind.

When I got downstairs I saw Nelson waiting for me. I checked my watch: three hours and fifteen minutes had passed since he had dropped me off. It was incredible what all could happen in such a short time period.

“I’ve got Jorge Rodríguez’s address. I think I should be the one to visit his widow. Do you agree?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’d introduce yourself as a friend of a friend. I’d introduce myself as an FBI agent. I can be more persuasive.”

“But what if you intimidate her instead of persuade her?”

“You can come with me if you want, to smooth things over. Though I don’t recommend it.”

“I think that would be best. Let’s go tomorrow. It’s getting late today.”

That night I tossed and turned a long time before falling asleep. The revelations to which I had been subjected by Irene were churning in my head. The love and respect I had felt for Uncle Claudio had deepened into profound admiration. It felt like I was pulling back layer after layer of life and finding his footprint everywhere. The inexplicable power he held seemed ever increasing, and I feared I had not yet come to the end of it. What was a man like him doing mixed up with a drug lord? If he were actually involved; maybe random circumstances had him wind up at Escobar’s lair? A party for Italian businessmen... but Irene had been clear: she saw the fear in Pablo Escobar’s eyes. There must have been a reason. On the other hand, Uncle Claudio seemed to prefer the company of sinister personalities: Mengele, Merreck, Escobar, Caperotti himself, who reeked of the mafia. Birds of a feather...

I did not have a chance to talk with Nicholas until around dawn the next morning when my poor, sleep-deprived body managed to get out of bed and I dragged myself to the bathroom. When I came out, I saw him sitting in an arm chair, all dressed and cleaned up like he was going somewhere.

“You were with Irene,” he stated without asking.

“Yes, I was with Irene.”

“How is she?”

The question struck me as odd, but then I realized he truly wanted to know. He was acting like a reporter anxious for details.

“Extraordinary. Sadly, I won’t be seeing her again; well, maybe as a friend, but that’s all.”

“I thought you had always been friends. Did you ask her about the scar on her butt?”

“How the hell do you know about that?”

“I read about it in the manuscript, remember? There are lots of little details that occasionally flash through my memory. That one in particular stands out.”

“Yeah, I did ask her.”

“You don’t have to tell me about it if you don’t want to. It seems like in the blink of an eye I went from friend to suspicious character for you,” he said, referencing our conversation from the day before.

“I’m sorry, Nicholas; that’s not what I meant.... You’re right. I’m a bit paranoid right now. I don’t have any reason not to trust you.”

“Our agreement was that I could write your story.”

“I know, I know... All this is just so...scabrous. I’ll tell you what I discovered from Irene. The rest, don’t even think about it. It’s my right to keep it private.”

“It was that good?” he asked with a smart-aleck smile that drove me up the wall.

“Better than anything you’ve ever had your whole life. I’m sure of it,” I jabbed back. Then I told him everything Irene had told me. His facial expressions changed by the second. The man was as transparent as a pane glass window.

“So now we’ll go see Rodríguez’s widow.”

“I’m going with Nelson.”

“Seriously? That’s a terrible idea. There’s nothing scarier than seeing somebody like Nelson show up at your front door. The first time I saw him I thought I was going to pee in my pants. For real.”

I laughed. Nicholas had confirmed my hunch.

“I don’t see what’s funny. Nelson may be highly trained, but his presence is terrifying,” Nicholas stressed. “I suggest that we go, you and me,” he pointed with his index finger, “and that Nelson wait outside. He’ll be more useful there. Maybe we’ll be followed, or who knows. Anything could happen. We’ll visit the widow as representatives of Claudio Contini-Massera, because Rodríguez was an important part of his business endeavors, yadda yadda yadda. Maybe she’ll relax a little and say something, some loose string that will lead us to the whole ball of yarn.”

I had to admit it was a pretty good idea. And it is precisely what we did. Nelson was a bit hesitant at first, but Nicholas’ proven powers of persuasion won out, and he agreed to wait and watch in case the man who had followed me a few days ago got back on the job.

Rodríguez’s wife turned out to be rather young. It was clear from her mannerisms and the way she spoke that she was from South America, though she was at ease using English. The children, a boy and a girl, clung to her legs and refused to leave her side. Their timidity seemed out of place in this New Jersey version of the stereotypical American suburb. Finally, the widow excused herself with the children and returned a few minutes later, alone.

“Forgive us for calling on you in such an untimely way, Mrs. Rodríguez, but we are heading back to Italy tonight,” it was Nicholas’ favorite line. “When we learned from Ms. Irene Montoya about the death of your husband, we wanted to come by and offer our condolences.”

“Thank you.... I gather you work with Jorge,” she said, looking at Nicholas.

“No, actually, your husband managed some business affairs of Mr. Claudio Contini-Massera,” Nicholas said, glancing my way.

“Oh, Don Claudio! Jorge talked about him all the time...”

“I’m his nephew, Dante,” I interjected. “My uncle passed away two weeks ago, and I’m in the process of taking charge of his affairs.”

“I see.... Thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

“We were wondering if you had any of your husband’s files. We need some information about a few of the shares of our property he was handling at the time of his death.”

“How odd. Just two days ago a man came by saying he represented the interests of the deceased Mr. Contini, and he spent a long time going over Jorge’s computer.”

The news knocked us sideways.

“And you allowed him to see your husband’s computer?”

“I didn’t think it would do any harm. But now that I see you two, especially you, you’re the spitting image of your uncle!”

“Did you know him?”

“No, sir, but I have a picture of him with my husband. Please, come.”

We followed her to a small office. A huge wooden bookshelf lined with books took up an entire wall. There was a desk with a computer, and then the opposite wall was covered with photographs. Mrs. Rodríguez pointed out several, and we saw Irene, Uncle Claudio, Martucci, and Jorge Rodríguez.

“May I?’ Nicholas asked, sitting at the desk in front of the computer.

“Of course.”

“It doesn’t work,” he said after a short while. He opened the case of the tower and saw that the hard drive had been removed. “It looks like the person who came by removed the hard drive.”

“I don’t understand anything about computers and don’t even know how to use it. The man said he was taking the information he needed, and that seemed fine with me. I thought he was representing the deceased Mr. Contini, like I said. He left me this card.”

It was one that Uncle Claudio had used in the past. I got up my courage and said, “Mrs. Rodríguez, we know that your husband was run over, but there were indications that it was a murder.”

For the first time I saw fear in her eyes.

“There’s no way. It was an accident. The driver fled, but...”

Nicholas shot me a stern glance, and I got his message. I held myself back from further questions.

“I’m afraid, Mrs. Rodríguez, that the FBI will come around to learn more about your husband’s death. As you might suppose, we couldn’t just leave things like this. It’s crucial to clear up the matter of his passing, especially since he was a trusted friend of Mr. Contini.”

“I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know what more they can find out...”

“Thank you very much for your cooperation, Mrs. Rodríguez. And once again, let me express my condolences for your loss.”

Nicholas had an interesting way of saying goodbye to people. We went out to find Nelson and passed the baton to him. We all went to a nearby café from which we could watch the Rodríguez house.

“In a little while I’ll make a visit. If I go right now, she won’t believe I’m from the FBI. It would be too much of a coincidence for me to show up right after you two left. You should have let me go in the first place,” Nelson said with no attempt to disguise his ill humor.

We had not been waiting long when a taxi stopped in front of the door and a man got out. He was inside the house for fifteen minutes. He came back out, and the car drove right past us. Nelson wrote down the license plate number, and I studied the passenger. He looked Latino; perhaps he was one of the widow’s relatives.

“Maybe it’s her brother. They look a lot alike,” Nicholas commented.

Nelson called a friend, gave him the taxi’s plate numbers, and within twenty minutes had the name of the driver, the company he worked for, and his address.

Needing to kill some time, Nelson devoured a gigantic sandwich and downed a quart of orange juice. Checking his watch, he saw that forty more minutes had gone by.

“I’ll be back.”
With a parting glance, he set out in the direction of the Rodríguez house. Nicholas and I looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders. Soon we were staring at Nelson’s huge back as he made his measured way to his destination.

“What do you think?” Nicholas asked without taking his eyes off Nelson.

“I don’t think it went too badly. At least we know somebody is interested in what was on Jorge Rodríguez’s computer. Did you catch her insistence on persuading us that her husband’s death was an accident?”
“Yep. She is definitely hiding something.”

Ten minutes later, Nelson returned.

“Her husband probably isn’t dead,” was the first thing he said. “And he might even have been the one to remove the hard drive from the computer.”

“When?” Nicholas asked.

“Before faking his death, obviously,” Nelson retorted. I could not help laughing when I saw Nicholas’ face.

“Here’s the deal: Rodríguez’s widow is not planning on staying in the country. She says she’s planning on going back to Colombia. When I said it seemed odd to me that she would want to go back to such an unstable place, she explained that she would sell some things here and use that money to invest in a business of some sort to make a living down there, which, again, seems rather odd to me since her husband’s death does not exactly leave her in financial straits. When I reiterated that her husband was a U.S. citizen and that at the request of Dante Contini-Massera the government of the United States could act in cooperation with Interpol in any country in the world to investigate if her husband’s death was the result of criminal action, she got very nervous. It seemed she wasn’t prepared for that. In summary, from the conversation as a whole, I learned that Jorge Rodríguez has something to hide. It seems that he was hired by some party interested in using Rodríguez to get access to you, Mr. Contini. I asked her if she had ever heard the name Francesco Martucci, and I think that was the first true answer she gave me: ‘No, never.’”

“He probably used a different name,” Nicholas suggested.

“That’s what I thought as well. So her phone line will be monitored.”

“How will you do that?”

“Not me; that would be impossible, but there are ways to get it done. So don’t worry, Mr. Contini. I still have some good friends in different departments of the FBI, and I need to get on that right away, because who knows how soon she’ll fly the coop.”

After dropping us back by the house, Nelson went to take care of his mission. And I decided it was finally time to return Martucci’s call.