Brandenburg (5 page)

Hernandez reached into the back pocket of his corduroy pants and pulled out a wire-bound notepad, searched in his pockets for something to write with. “You mind if I take some notes?”

Sanchez shook his head. “Of course not. Only, my men from the forensic department haven’t finished yet.”

Hernandez nodded. “How long will they be?”

“They’re almost done.”

“You got a pen I could borrow?”

“You still borrowing pens? Reporters are supposed to carry pens.”

“I keep losing them. Holes in my pockets,” said Hernandez, shrugging a smile.

Sanchez handed a pen to Hernandez. “It was the same ten years ago, in the courts. How many pens you owe me now? Holes in your head, amigo.” Sanchez went to turn. “Come inside. When the men finish, you can take a look around.” There was enthusiasm in his voice now as he ground out his cigarette with the heel of his shoe. “You ought to see the place. This old guy had money to burn.”

“Tell me . . . ,” said Hernandez, and followed Sanchez inside.

•   •   •

Hernandez looked around the house in amazement, but pretending more surprise than he felt, because this was how he imagined a rich man like Tsarkin might live.

The crystal chandelier in the hallway, the sweeping staircase, the dining room with the silver candlesticks and the hand-carved chairs of solid oak, the kitchen that was bigger than his whole apartment. There was a Jacuzzi with gold-plated taps, and a tennis court on the back lawn.

The servants’ quarters were near the outdoor swimming pool. Four servants, Sanchez told him, and three gardeners. They had all left for the afternoon, after Sanchez’s men had questioned them.

Sanchez kept the study on the ground floor until last. The forensic men were finishing as they came into the hallway from the kitchen. Sanchez caught one of the men by the arm and took him aside to talk in private. When they had finished, Sanchez crossed back to where Hernandez stood, examining an oil painting of a sleek jaguar in a jungle setting. The painting was unsigned, but not bad.
A good amateur,
Sanchez thought.

“Well?” Hernandez asked.

“Suicide,” said Sanchez. “No question. One less problem for me to worry about. We have a little time before they remove the body. You want to see Tsarkin?”

Hernandez nodded, and Sanchez led the way.

The door into the study was open, the room large, like all the others.
The first thing Hernandez noticed was the painting in a gilded frame swung back on hinges to reveal a safe in the wall, its gray metal door ajar. Books lined the shelves along three walls. Hernandez looked around the room but couldn’t see the body. His eyes went back to the safe just as Sanchez pointed toward the window.

“He’s over there, behind the desk.”

Hernandez crossed to the big polished desk and looked over, saw the trousered legs of the man first, then the pools of blood on the gray carpet. The man’s head was covered with a bloodied white handkerchief. Hernandez suppressed the nausea he felt in the pit of his stomach and knelt down for a closer look.

“It’s not pleasant. He shot himself through the mouth,” Sanchez said.

Hernandez saw that the handkerchief was soaked through in sticky blood. As he pulled back the material, he felt the congealing blood come unstuck from the dead man’s face. He nearly vomited.

The face itself was almost unrecognizable above the lips, the shattered jaw set in a final, contorted grimace, as if the dead man had feared the last moment before the gun had exploded and the bullet penetrated the roof of the mouth, shattering the cranium. The old man’s wrinkled claw of a hand was raised and crooked, as if he were waving a grotesque good-bye.

Hernandez let the bloodied handkerchief fall back into place and stood, seeing the gun then, big and frightening on the gray carpet a yard away.

Sanchez looked across at him. “You okay?”

Hernandez swallowed. “Sure.”

“It must have been quick. No pain. Not the worst way to go, amigo.”

Hernandez nodded.

“How much do you know about him?” Sanchez asked, walking over to sit in a comfortable leather chair beside the coffee table.

“Not much. No family. Retired businessman. Owned a number of businesses, import-export mainly. German, emigrated after the war.
Made very little impact in this country, despite his wealth. Except for that, you’d hardly know he was here.”

“You know about as much as I do about this man, Rudi,” Sanchez observed. “He was a cipher. No religion, no charities, no notable vices. He just made money. Interesting.”

“Do you know how old he was?” Rudi asked, notebook open, pad ready.

“Late eighties, maybe more? I’m not sure exactly just yet.” Sanchez drew on his cigarette, coughed out smoke. “He had a long life. Hope I’m as lucky.”

Hernandez said, “You mentioned he might have been ill?”

Sanchez flicked ash into a crystal ashtray. “One of the servants said he was in and out of the hospital for the past six months. Also, he had an appointment at a private hospital this morning. He was pretty sick. Cancer, the servant said. He’d lost weight. He didn’t look too good.” Sanchez glanced over at the corpse. “He looks a lot worse now. I’m having one of my men contact the hospital he attended. The San Ignatio.”

Hernandez glanced at the body again, felt the sickness return. He moved a couple of paces toward the open wall safe. “Anything in there?”

“Nothing.” Sanchez gestured to the fireplace with his cigarette. “But lots of ashes in the grate. Looks like he burned a lot of papers.”

Hernandez stepped toward the fireplace. It had been his one hope, finding something, anything, but the old man must have been prepared, been sure before death to burn everything.

“Not a sliver of paper left. Nothing but ashes.” Sanchez stared absentmindedly at the grate. “I wonder what the old man had to hide?”

“I wonder?” echoed Hernandez.

Sanchez looked up, stared at him for a moment before looking away again. “Anyway, it’s all over now. And it’s a wrap.” He looked away, pushed himself slowly up from the chair with effort. He took the handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his brow. “You want a
beer? The refrigerator is full. Imported beers, too. German, Dutch, you name it. The old man isn’t going to drink them now. Me, I could do with one.”

“A beer sounds good.”

Sanchez moved away. “I’ll be back in five minutes.”

Hernandez nodded. The detective turned and went out the door.

•   •   •

Hernandez stood there in the middle of the study, trying to think. His eyes went from the bloodied body to the wall safe, then to the fire grate. Why? Why had the old man killed himself? Because of his cancer? Or because of the people Rodriguez had told him about? Or maybe they had killed the old man, too, made it look like suicide.

He crossed to the big, blackened fireplace and stood in front of it, stared down. He took a tong quietly from the stand of utensils beside the fireplace and raked the ashes. It was just as Sanchez had said. Not a sliver of paper. Only soot and ashes. What had they been, these papers?

He replaced the tong and moved toward the open safe in the wall, careful to tread softly, listening at the same time for Sanchez’s return. He peered into the safe; it was empty, as Sanchez had said. He crossed quietly to behind the desk, tried not to look down at the body near his feet.

Blood covered the desk’s blotting pad and polished surface. Hernandez felt queasy again. There were two drawers on the left side of the desk. He tried the top one first. It was unlocked and slid out quietly, the smell of the apple wood rising up to meet his nostrils. Inside were a pair of scissors, a letter opener, and some plain white sheets of bond paper.

He flicked through the sheets of paper. All blank. He slid the drawer shut and tried the next. More blank paper, some rubber bands, a box of staples. He closed the drawer and looked down at the drying blood that seemed to be everywhere, at the rigid corpse, at the one hand raised in the air as if waving good-bye.
So long, Señor Tsarkin.

The old man had been careful. Very careful. Perhaps elsewhere he kept some information. Something that would point a way, open a door for Hernandez so that he might know what was happening. Gaining access to the house or study again would be difficult, perhaps impossible. This was his one opportunity. He stepped back toward the rows of shelves lining the walls.

Books on Paraguayan history, a biography of Lopez, gardening books, heavy tomes on import-export regulations. Hernandez plucked one from the shelf. It was in Spanish, its pages virgin, unread. He replaced the book and riffled through some more.

The same. No thumb marks, the smell of paper strong. The old guy hadn’t been a reader.

As he replaced the last book, the telephone rang.

Hernandez froze at the shrill noise disturbing the quiet of the study. It rang a couple of times, Hernandez listening to hear if Sanchez was returning, but nothing, no sound apart from the telephone. He crossed to the desk quickly and lifted the receiver.

“Sí.”

“Señor Tsarkin, please.” The man’s voice on the line sounded prissy. Hernandez thought he heard music playing faintly in the background, Ravel’s
Bolero
. He glanced down at the body of the old man on the floor, thinking for a moment. If it was a relative, it wasn’t his business to break the news.

“What is it?” Hernandez asked more loudly.

“Señor Tsarkin! I did not recognize your voice.”

Hernandez was about to interrupt, but the man spoke first. “This is the reservations manager at the Excelsior Hotel. I am telephoning to confirm that everything is in order. The executive suite you requested for Friday evening is Suite 120. I am at your service and hope everything will prove satisfactory for your guests.”

Hernandez said it automatically, feeling his pulse quicken: “Yes, I’m sure it will.” He turned his head sharply toward the study door, thought he heard footsteps in the distance. Sanchez returning?

“There is a slight problem, however, señor,” the man went on, his
voice now more stilted, formal. “We have some regular guests flying into Asunción late tomorrow night. They require several suites, and we are heavily booked. You said you would require the suite only from seven until nine o’clock. If it is possible, I would like to confirm this so that our expected guests may be accommodated.” There was a pause. “Could you confirm this, señor?”

“Yes. Until nine.” Hernandez swallowed, hearing his heartbeat quicken, hearing the footsteps outside become louder.

“Excellent!” said the man. “Thank you, señor. Buenas tardes.”

“Buenas tardes.”

Hernandez replaced the receiver and looked down at the body of Nicolas Tsarkin. Maybe not so
buenas
. When he looked up again, Sanchez was standing in the doorway, two cans of beer in his hands.

“Who was that?” Sanchez asked as he came into the room.

“No one,” Hernandez said with a dismissive shrug. “A wrong number.”

“You’re telling me the truth?”

“Sure, why wouldn’t I?”

Sanchez looked at him for a moment, then offered a can of beer, watching as Hernandez cracked open the chilled can.

Hernandez took a sip of the ice-cold German beer, the brand unknown to him. He looked over at Sanchez. “Good beer.”

Sanchez said with an intensely skeptical look, “You should have let me take that call.”

“It’s no big deal, Vellares.” Hernandez smiled.

“Let me be the judge of that.” The detective raised the can to his lips and swallowed. “Are you finished here?”

“I guess so.”

“Drink your beer, then we’ll see what we can do with that car of yours. If I were a proper cop I’d have slapped you in prison for driving a car like that.”

Hernandez smiled. He finished the beer in one long swallow, then tucked his notebook into his trouser pocket and slipped the pen in after it.

Sanchez said, “The pen’s mine, amigo.”

Hernandez winked and handed it back. “Gracias.”

Sanchez put down the empty can and nodded toward the door. “Come, let’s get out of here. Dead bodies give me the creeps.”

Hernandez took one last look at the old man’s corpse. Then he turned and followed Sanchez outside.

•   •   •

Hernandez drove back to the city through the dusty, hot streets and parked his car in the office lot of
La Tarde,
the old engine running smoothly now. He promised himself he would get it fixed just as soon as he had time.

He climbed the stairs to the newsroom and greeted his colleagues before going to his desk and switching on his computer. It took him only fifteen minutes to write up a filler on the old man’s suicide, the bare facts, the name, the address, and the background information, remembering it all, no need for the notebook on the desk in front of him.

It was almost four in the afternoon when he filed his copy with the news editor, time for him to finish work. He flicked open his notebook, saw again what he had written there once he had left Tsarkin’s house:
Friday, 7:00 to 9:00 p.m., Suite 120. Excelsior Hotel
.

Two days away. The question was, what was happening? Why had Tsarkin booked a suite for only two hours? A meeting? It had to be a meeting.

If that was it, then what he needed was a plan, a plan to get in there, listen to what was being said. He tidied his desk, then went down to the lot and drove to the Excelsior Hotel on the Calle Chile.

The hotel lobby was busy. A plush palace of Oriental carpets and dark wood, the best hotel in the city. Hernandez took the elevator to the first floor and found the suite with no problem, noting the nearby room numbers and the layout before going back down to the lobby and out to the parking area and the old red Buick, parked twenty yards from the hotel’s fire-exit doors. Hernandez took note of the doors.

The day was still hot, and he kept the windows down on the way to his apartment, smoking as he drove, trying to work something out in his head, trying to come up with a plan. The key to it all was Tsarkin. Only now Tsarkin was dead.

When he stepped into his apartment twenty minutes later, he heard the gentle whirr of the air-conditioning unit by the window. He had forgotten to turn it off that morning. The room was cool, pleasant, and his body was very hot.