Exposure (24 page)

Torres nodded. He thought, but didn’t say, that it was the kind of case that would go cold. Another dead street kid. But for some reason his boss had a hornet in his shorts about this one. Which meant trouble.

Nemiso said, “I believe Otello and his wife live at the marina complex. Ever wanted to see how the other half lives, Martín?”

D
IEGO WAS WIRED.
It was all he could do to contain himself. He kept going over everything. It was like watching the ball bouncing along the roulette wheel, knowing that it would settle where you wanted it to, all the bets were in, it would drop where you knew it would drop. Thrilling, actually. Unbearably thrilling. But it was in slow motion.

“Patience,” he told himself daily.

“Patience,” he told the ever-patient Emilia.

DIEGO
is dressing for the Beckers event when his phone rings. It is 10:21 a.m.

DIEGO:
Hi, Capitano.

OTELLO:
Listen, Diego. We have a problem.

DIEGO:
It’s not Dezi, is it?

OTELLO:
No. The police are here.

DIEGO:
The police? What do they want?

OTELLO:
They want me to go downtown with them. Now, if you can believe that.

DIEGO:
I don’t understand.

OTELLO:
Me neither. They’re also taking my computer away. I don’t even know if they can do that. Can they do that?

DIEGO:
Uh . . .

OTELLO:
Wait. Hang on.

[
It seems that
OTELLO
has turned away from the phone to talk to somebody.
DIEGO
waits, in an agony of exultation.
]

OTELLO:
Diego? Listen, that lawyer we used to sort out that business with Michael. Perlman, was it? You got her number?

DIEGO:
I can find it, yeah. But —

OTELLO:
Call her. Now. Tell her to get down to . . . Wait a minute.

[
Again
DIEGO
strains to hear what the poor fool is saying to someone else.
]

OTELLO:
Yeah. The Central Criminal Bureau — Special Investigations Unit. Ask — no, don’t ask —
insist
on speaking to a Captain Nemiso.

DIEGO
[
indulging himself
]: How do you spell that? No, never mind. Capitano, what the hell is all this about? Haven’t you explained that you and Dezi have to —

OTELLO:
Diego, I gotta go. Get Perlman, okay? Right now. I’ll call you back soon as I can.

Diego slides open the glass doors to the balcony that runs the length of his apartment. The sky is an unsullied blue. He inhales, deeply, the light breeze. When his nerves have settled, he goes to his CD rack and selects a recording of waltzes by Richard Strauss. He cranks up the volume and, when the lush and jaunty music swells, goes out onto the balcony and dances. He is wearing a shirt the color of the sky, a silvery tie, and black socks. Trouserless, gazing with rapt attention into the eyes of his invisible partner, he dances.

When the waltz is over, he goes back inside, stabs the music off, and calls Consuela Perlman’s office. He gets her secretary and leaves a message. Then he puts on his second-best suit.

10:56 a.m. The offices of
El Sol.
Mateo Campos is grubbing through the pages of a celebrity magazine called
Rich
when his phone rings.

“Yeah.”

Eleven seconds later he says, “Yeah?”

Then he says, “I don’ suppose you wanna give me your name? I didn’ think so. This is bullshit, right?”

But the line has gone dead. Campos thumbs the recall buttons.

10:57 a.m. A phone booth in the lobby of TFN, the city center train terminal. Diego is pleased when the phone rings, but ignores it. He has a small notebook in his hand. When the ringing stops, he puts another fifty-cent coin in the slot and dials a second number.

Mano Valdano of
El Correo
reacts to the call in pretty much the same manner as Mateo Campos. However, because the caller’s voice was sober and articulate despite its coarse northern accent, Valdano summons a junior reporter and a photographer and sends them over to the CCB. Just in case.

10:59 a.m. Mateo Campos uses the little finger of his right hand to dig for earwax, which is something he does only when he is thinking, so there’s usually plenty in there. Then he gets up and ambles over to the desk of his colleague Estevan Ponte. He leans down closer to Ponte than Ponte would like.

“Listen, Stevie — I just got a call from someone saying that the cops have hauled Otello down to Central.”

“What?”

“Yeah.”

“What for?”

“The guy didn’t say. But he did say they took sonny boy’s computer away as well.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. You got any way of checkin’ this out? Nine chances out of ten it’s some idiot making a prank call, but I don’ wanna sit here wipin’ egg offa my face if it turns out to be true.”

“Okay. Give me five minutes.”

Ponte is an amiable and cultured man whose specialty is lurid coverage of murders and kidnappings. He has nurtured social and financial relationships with a number of police officers and civilian police employees. He takes his cell phone out into the corridor and calls an admin supervisor at the CCB.

11:03 a.m. Diego is walking back to his car when his phone rings. He checks the caller ID. Desmerelda again. He doesn’t answer this time, either.

11:04 a.m.
El Sol.
Ponte walks as casually as he can manage to Campos’s desk. Taps Campos on the shoulder.

“It’s true. Come outside.”

Back in the corridor, Ponte says, “Yeah. They brought Otello in just over twenty minutes ago.”

“Christ on a bike.”

“My contact doesn’t know what’s going on, but she says he was logged in by Captain Nemiso. Know the name?”

Campos shakes his head. “Should I?”

“He’s a serious dude. Heads the Special Investigations Unit. So we’re not talking traffic offenses here.”

“What about the computer thing?”

“That’s true too, apparently. And the two usual reasons for confiscating computers are financial naughtiness or —”

“Kiddie porn. Oh, dear God, do we dare hope?”

“Hope, Mateo, is something you do sitting on your backside. I’ve already called up the cameras. Let’s get over there.”

11:10 a.m. The train terminal parking lot.
DIEGO’S
Maserati.

DIEGO:
Dezi, I’m so sorry. I’ve been making calls. Have you heard from him?

DESMERELDA:
No. Where are you?

DIEGO:
On my way over to you. Is that right? Is that what you want me to do? Is Michael there yet?

DESMERELDA:
Yes. The police are asking
him
questions now. Diego —

DIEGO:
Dezi, what on earth is going on? I feel completely in the dark here.

DESMERELDA:
Did you call that lawyer, what’s-her-name?

DIEGO:
Yes. Dezi,
please.
Tell me what this is all about.

DESMERELDA:
I’ve got just about as much idea as you have.

DIEGO:
So what actually happened?

DESMERELDA:
What happened is, three cops came here this morning and started asking about this girl. One of the kids we used in the
Paff!
shoot. Bianca something or other. Turns out she was murdered the same night. The same night as the shoot.

DIEGO:
What?

DESMERELDA:
Yeah. Awful. I can’t believe it. She’s on the
posters,
Diego. She’s in the spread in
Moda.
She’s everywhere.

DIEGO:
Oh, my God.

DESMERELDA:
Yeah. Unbelievable, isn’t it?

DIEGO:
I mean, how come nobody told us about this?

DESMERELDA:
I dunno. I guess, well, I dunno. Nobody made the connection. I dunno.

DIEGO:
Okay. So listen, Dezi, why did they take Capitano downtown?

DESMERELDA:
I don’t
know.
It’s crazy. One of the cops, this woman, went to the study wanting to look at our computers, look at the pictures of this girl on the
Paff!
disks, you know? Then she comes back and suddenly everything goes weird. I mean, do you think he . . . Oh, God, Diego. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to think. I mean, they took his laptop
away
. . . .

[
DIEGO
sorts through his CDs while he listens to her fighting back tears. David Bowie? Bartók?
]

DESMERELDA:
Sorry. I —

DIEGO
[
soothingly
]: It’s okay. Look, Dezi. This is some kind of misunderstanding. Or setup. I’m sure it’ll be sorted out in no time. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes or so. Right now, let’s try and focus on the Beckers thing.

DESMERELDA:
Oh, God, I don’t know if I can face it. I must look terrible.

DIEGO:
I’m sure you don’t. That’s quite impossible.

11:27 a.m. The young reporter from
El Correo
and his photographer are escorted, without undue politeness, from the CCB building. They are rearranging themselves at the foot of the steps up to the building when Consuela Perlman and a colleague emerge from their chauffeur-driven car. Inside the building, Perlman marches up to the duty officer’s desk, presents her card, and demands to speak to Nemiso.

11:28 a.m. A large SUV pulls up, illegally, in front of the CCB building. It disgorges Mateo Campos, Estevan Ponte, a photographer, and a two-man video and sound team.

Campos and Ponte bustle up the steps. Their photographer knows the
Correo
photographer.

“What you doin’ here, man?”

“Ah, you know. Routine stuff.”

“Bullshit. Otello?”

“Yeah.”

“Damn!”

Campos and Ponte, full of false indignation, are ejected from the building and descend the steps.

Campos lights a cigarette and looks the kid from
El Correo
up and down. “Your parents know you’re down at the police station?” he asks.

The kid has the sense to get his phone out and call the
Correo
office for reinforcements.

Passersby who have nothing better to do — but who have a nose for anything out of the ordinary — start to gather. Because cameras mean that something is happening, and if you’re in the right place, you might have a chance to be in a background shot on the TV news and wave.

11:34 a.m. Inside the CCB building.

Torres takes the stairs down to the lobby. At the head of the last flight he surveys the comings and goings and identifies Consuela Perlman and the sharply dressed man with her. They are a dark and sober little island in a sea of purposeful motion. He descends toward them unhurriedly.

“Señora Perlman? Sergeant Torres of the Special Investigations Unit.”

She does not introduce her colleague. She says, “I believe you have a client of mine, Otello, in custody.”

“No, señora. Señor Otello is not in custody. He is here voluntarily to help us with our inquiries relating to a murder investigation.”

She blinks, like someone who cannot believe a fly has had the audacity to land on her lunch. She looks him up and down: the haircut, the mustache, the brown leather jacket, the jeans, the Italian shoes.

“Don’t you dare play games with me, Sergeant,” she says. “My client has not killed anybody, and you know it. So if he is being questioned, I’d better be there. Unless you want to be sued until your eyes bleed. Shall we go up?”

12:04 p.m. The third floor of Beckers department store.

No one expects the illustrious couple to appear exactly on time, so there is eager anticipation, and a certain amount of jostling for camera positions, but no real anxiety. The
Paff!
team members smile at everybody as they check details for the last time. Dario and Harumi are being interviewed by the fashion editor of
La Nación.
Four young boys and three young girls — a rainbow of Otello shirts — warm up their freestyle ball routines. A couple of other kids — sons of Beckers’s marketing director, as it happens — stand, self-conscious in their
Paff!
baggy sweats and baseball caps, clutching brand-new skateboards. Sales staff, and several security men and women disguised as sales staff, patrol among the mannequins and clothes racks.