Exposure (25 page)

The podium that Desmerelda and Otello will stand on is bathed in light.

12:27 p.m. Desmerelda’s car. Michael Cass is driving. Diego is in the back with Desmerelda. Her phone rings.

“Where
are
you? What? But why? Don’t you know what time . . . Yes,
yes
! We’re almost there. Oh, God, Otello. You’ve
got
to come. What? I can’t hear you. Please.
Please.
This is a
disaster
! I can’t . . .”

Then she lets out a little scream. Otello has ended the conversation with a harsh obscenity and the line has gone dead. She turns to Diego with tears in her eyes.

“What, Dezi? What did he say?”

“Two blocks to Beckers,” Michael Cass says, glancing at her over his shoulder. “You okay?”

“No! Stop the car. Stop the damn car, Michael.”

Otello’s expletive is not, in fact, directed at his wife. It is merely an expression of shock. He and his lawyers have been ambushed as they leave the CCB building. From out of nowhere, a number of people with cameras and microphones are in his face, shouting questions at him. Some of the questions contain the word
computer.
He stumbles back, almost falling. Consuela Perlman also swears, surprisingly vividly. Her colleague reacts swiftest; using his briefcase rather like a gladiator’s shield, he repels the attackers while Otello and Perlman retreat up the steps and back through the heavy glass doors.

12:31 p.m. Beckers.

By now, there is considerable agitation and impatience. Once again, the store’s managing director sends a minion down to the main atrium, through which a carpeted pathway to the escalators is fenced off from the throng by chrome posts and rope railings.

Then, at twenty minutes to one, the head of security, stationed at the top of the escalators, touches the phone plugged into his ear and raises his thumb in the direction of the MD, mouthing silently, “They’re here.”

The stills photographers jostle like players positioning themselves for a corner kick. The freestyling kids go into action, balancing their soccer balls on their foreheads and insteps. The hot TV lights come on. The soothing Muzak switches to the bass-driven pulse of Desmerelda’s three-year-old number-one hit “If Looks Could Kill.”

And she rises up into it all. Into the applause. She’s wearing an outfit designed and made for her by Dario and Harumi. (“We will reinvent maternity wear,” Harumi had promised.) The
Paff!
signature colors are worked into a pearl-white dress and long jacket that make no attempt to disguise the pleasingly bell-shaped protuberance that juts in front of her. It’s an outfit that boasts of her condition; it’s an outfit that would make anyone die to be pregnant. Cass looms behind her, resplendent in a loose charcoal-gray suit and pale yellow shirt, heading an escort of Beckers staff. Flash light plays on her face.

“What’s up with her?” a photographer murmurs, keeping his finger on the drive button.

“I dunno. She looks wiped out. Where’s Otello?”

Where’s Otello? Where’s Otello?
Where the hell is Otello?

Desmerelda stalls; she does not know where to go.
Camera flash flash.
A woman in a suit shakes her hand and speaks.
Camera flash.
Then it’s Harumi. Her lean arms around her.

“Dezi? What’s wrong? Where is Otello?”

A man on a sort of stage is speaking her name. He looks down at her, holding out his hand. She thinks,
I can do this,
and steps up. Hands help her. As always, no one, no face, is visible outside the vibrating sphere of light. She hears her own multi-tracked voice singing, “Don’t look at me that way, unless you mean it, mean it.” There are microphones close to her face. A line of kids wearing
Paff!
appears, level with her knees, dancing to the music. One of them looks up at her, grinning. A pretty dark-skinned girl with wild hair.

The music fades; other voices become audible. She holds on to the mic stand. Oh, God, she needs to pee. No, she doesn’t.
Camera flash.

“Hi, everybody. Thank you for being here today. This is so
cool,
isn’t it? Listen, I can’t talk for long, for obvious reasons.” She puts her hands on her hips, pulling the pearly jacket back, displaying the famous protrusion. There is applause, a few faint whoops.

“I just wanna say that for Otello and me, this is a great day.”

She should not have said that. She doesn’t know why she said that.

“The culmination of —”

A voice, two, or maybe three voices from beyond the glare: “Where
is
Otello, Dezi?”

“Where’s the man, Dezi?”

He’s at a police station. They’re asking him questions. There’s a dead girl. There must be porn or something on the computer he says he never uses. Everything is breaking loose.

She says, “We’re proud . . .
Paff!
is . . .”

“Dezi!”

“Dezi!”

Camera flash
flash flash
.

Why is the stage tipping? She clings to the mic stand with both hands. She’s losing her balance; her body is too heavy for her legs. She’s going to fall. She mustn’t. God, this is going to look awful. Where’s Michael?

Michael!

P
HOTOGRAPHS OF
D
ESMERELDA’S
tearful swoon into the arms of Michael Cass feature prominently in the evening papers, and there is extended coverage on the television news. The fact that the drama is inexplicable does not prevent reporters from explaining it. Experts are wheeled in to testify that women in the later stages of pregnancy are prone to attacks of uncontrollable emotion. The word
stress
is used repeatedly. Concern for the baby is piously expressed. Otello’s absence from the promotional event attracts comment.
WHERE WAS OTELLO WHEN DEZI NEEDED HIM?
asks
La Estrella,
typically.

A good question. Now he is where he thinks he’s needed: in the well-appointed waiting room in the private wing of Santa Theresa Hospital. Pacing up and down with his phone in his hand waiting for Diego to call him back. Michael Cass sits staring at a nice reproduction of Van Gogh’s
Starry Night,
or whatever it’s called.

The senior nursing sister comes through the blond wood doors and says that Desmerelda is comfortable. That there is no danger of miscarriage.

“I want to see her.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, señor. She is sleeping. We have given her a light sedative.”

Cass detects the discomfort in the woman’s voice. Dezi has told her she doesn’t want to see her husband, he thinks. He glances at Otello: has he had the same thought?

It seems not, because he says, “Can she come home?”

“We would rather she stayed here overnight. The doctors would like to examine her again in the morning. Then if all is well, she should be able to leave.”

Otello stares at the nurse. He looks baffled, hurt, diminished. His left hand closes into a fist, opens, clenches again.

Cass gets up and puts his arm around Otello’s shoulders. Gently he says, “Better she stays here,
compadre.
Why take risks, huh? C’mon, let’s get you home. It’s been a rough day.”

Otello falls asleep in the back of the car. At the marina, shouts and bangs and camera flashes wake him.

“Michael? What’s going on? What are these people doing here?”

“Feeding,” Cass says, and powers the car through the gates.

The following morning, both
El Sol
and
El Correo
have
EXCLUSIVE
banners across their front pages.
El Sol
’s front page is divided in half vertically. On one side the distraught Desmerelda; on the other, Otello leaving the headquarters of the Central Criminal Bureau in the company of his “elegant female lawyer.” Beneath the pictures is the headline
WE KNOW WHY DEZI WEPT
.
El Correo
is slightly more restrained, even though it has very similar photographs on its front page. Both papers make much of the taking away of computers. They sail very close to the legal wind, mentioning recent child pornography cases.

By midday, the marina complex is besieged. The company in charge of its security (already trying to deal with inquiries from the Special Investigations Unit) drafts in extra staff, including two more dog handlers. The wealthy inhabitants are greatly inconvenienced. They do not like being photographed in their cars as they come and go. They are the kind of people who do not want the common herd to know where they live.

The jostling journalists do not really know why they have gathered. They are like whale hunters in fog; there’s a ripely rancid smell in the air, but they do not know where it’s coming from. The only bright spot in their day comes when Michael Cass brings Desmerelda home in the Hummer. They jump in the air, trying to get pictures of her shrinking into the backseat of the huge machine.

Next day, the gates of Hades open wide. Somehow the Bianca connection makes the front pages of both
El Sol
and
El Correo.
Reporters from all over the country hasten to catch flights to the capital.

Nemiso, on his way to work, bought multiple copies of the newspapers, and as he walked down the corridor to his office, he pushed doors open and threw them in, saying, “Which one of you whores leaked this for the price of a couple of drinks?” His startled juniors studied the photos of a simpering, beautiful child under headlines declaring that this was the
DEAD GIRL
at the center of the
SHOCK OTELLO INVESTIGATION
.

Nemiso’s phone was ringing when he closed his door, and he ignored it. He went to the window and gazed unseeingly down at the parking lot until he had steadied himself.

His team had been marking time for thirty-six hours, and he was immensely frustrated. Interviews with just about everybody connected with the
Paff!
label had failed to explain how Bianca Diaz made the transition from a hovel in the Triangle to the pages of fashion magazines. The children who had modeled the clothes were “amateurs.” They were “just kids off the street.” No one seemed to know how they’d found their way to a basketball court in the eastern suburbs. The name that kept coming up was Marco Duarte, David Bilbao’s assistant. But Duarte — along with Bilbao and, no doubt, a twittering circus of hairdressers, makeup artists, and bulimic models — was on location “somewhere in Arizona.” Where their telephones didn’t work, apparently. Nemiso’s calls and e-mails to the state police headquarters in Phoenix had met with little interest and had resulted in no cooperation. So he and his team would have to cool their heels until Bilbao and his coterie returned from the United States in — Nemiso checked his watch — a little under thirty hours. In the meantime, the Otello business was degenerating into the dangerous farce that he, Nemiso, should have predicted. And perhaps might have avoided.

He exhaled a deep breath and went to his desk. There were several e-mails; the second was from the office of the minister of internal security and had a red exclamation mark alongside it. Nemiso would need a strong coffee before he opened it. He stuck his head through the doorway into the squad room and summoned Maria Navarro.

By sunset, the siege of the marina complex has become very lively indeed. Already the occupants of two apartments that have a good view of Otello’s penthouse have found it convenient to take unscheduled holidays. Rival newspapers have offered them quite ridiculous sums of money to rent their homes, so why not? (Soon other residents will succumb to similar offers. As will owners of boats moored in the marina. Balconies and decks will be manned by unsuitable people toting cameras and binoculars. On their return, the owners will find that their fridges have been looted, their carpets ruined by cigarette ash, their rooms and cabins filled with takeout food litter. But never mind. The insurance will cover it.)

Faustino had been detained at work by an editorial “summit meeting” about the Otello-Bianca Affair. He had not been alone in arguing that no such thing existed. The fact that Mateo Campos and
El Sol
claimed that it did more or less proved that it didn’t. Nonetheless, he had come under considerable pressure from Carmen d’Andrade to use his “personal connection” with Otello and Desmerelda to secure
La Nación
an inside story. To get Carmen off his back, he’d agreed to try, while having not the least intention of doing so. Before the meeting, in a hasty and furtive conference in her office, he and Nola had agreed to say nothing about their personal knowledge of Bianca, in order to protect Bush and Felicia. They both knew that it would be a difficult and dangerous secret to keep. If their colleagues — if Carmen — found out . . . well, there’d be hell to pay, and then some. And Faustino couldn’t be certain that nobody else working in the
Nación
building knew that the wild-haired kid who hustled errands right outside was the brother of the “slain child model” at the center of “the Otello mystery.” What about Rubén, for instance?

More pressing, more sickening, was the question that Faustino needed and feared the answer to: did the boy himself know yet? If he did, or when he did, would he keep quiet?

And what in God’s name was wrong with the elevators tonight? He jabbed his thumb against the down button again.

One thing was certain. Bush would have to stay away from
La Nación.
For everybody’s sake. At least until this Otello nonsense had blown over.

The elevator pinged its arrival, and by the time it had descended to the lobby, Faustino had made up his mind. He’d go over to the Triangle tonight. Talk to the boy, persuade him — pay him, if necessary — to stay there, lie low. He checked his watch. Ten past seven. The kid should be back there by now.

He wasn’t. He was sitting halfway down the patio steps in lamplight.

“Bush?”

The boy turned his head and looked up at him. He was holding a copy of
El Sol
that he’d gotten from somewhere. The kiosk, maybe, or a trash can. His sister’s picture, and Otello’s, on the front page. Bush’s face was full of mute yet dreadful questions, and Faustino’s heart stumbled.

“Wha’s this mean, Maestro?”

“Nothing,” Faustino said.

Bush stared at him. He held the paper up. “It’s Bianca,” he said. “How come they got pictures of her?”

Voices descended from above and behind them. Faustino grabbed the paper from the boy and took his arm. “Come with me, Bush. Come on.”

Faustino half led, half dragged the boy to the ramp into the parking garage.

“It’s Bianca,” the boy repeated. “I don’ unnerstan’.”

Faustino unlocked the car and opened the passenger door. “Get in.”

Bush gaped at him.

“Christ, Bush. Get in. I’m taking you home.”

It was all being recorded by the CCTV cameras. Paul Faustino bundling a boy into his car. Leaning across him, apparently fumbling with the seat belt.

He parked on the street where the car could be seen from the yard through the doorway of the ruined house. The door of the shed scraped open as he and Bush approached it; he could not see Felicia’s face but heard her murmur, “Bush?”

“Yeah,” Faustino said quietly. “And me, Felicia. Paul. Let us in, please.”

She had not lit a candle. It was intensely dark inside.

“Wha’s happenin’? Bush, wha’s up?”

“Bianca,” the boy said, and then some other words that were muffled. The two kids might have embraced; Faustino couldn’t tell.

“Listen,” he said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes, okay?”

He headed blindly for the back door of the bar, then thought better of it and went out onto the street. Voices, laughter, and elderly rock music spilled out of La Prensa’s open door. There were ten or so customers inside, none of them the kind of person Faustino would have cared to get into an argument with. They looked him up and down as he entered, then went back to their drinks and conversations. Fidel stared at him, paused in the act of pouring rum into a couple of shot glasses. On a shelf behind the counter there was a TV set with the sound off. To Faustino’s horror, it showed Bianca’s face. As he watched, the camera pulled back to reveal that it was a photo in a magazine held by a reporter. Faustino glanced around the room. As far as he could tell, no one was paying any attention to the
Eight O’Clock News.

Fidel said, “Evening, señor. You’ll be wanting the restroom, huh? It’s out the back.”

“Right,” Faustino said.

“Come, I’ll show you. Nina? You wanna look after the bar a second?”

Out in the dark, they spoke in low voices.

“Jesus, Fidel.”

“Yeah.”

“You saw the papers?”

“A guy came in lunchtime with that
El Sol
rag. I damn near had a heart attack when I saw the front page. I can’t get my head around this Otello thing.”

“Don’t bother trying. Look who’s running the story.”

“Yeah. But he had her picture on his computer, is that right?”

Faustino shrugged. “So they say. I dunno. But right now I’m more concerned with Bush and Felicia. I brought him back just now. He’s in shock, I guess. I tried to explain things to him, but I don’t think he took it in.”

“For some reason that don’t surprise me.”

“No. But what worries me most is that he’ll get identified. Tracked down by
El Sol
or some other dog pack. I tried to tell him he needs to stay off the street. Lie low for a while. I don’t know if he got the message. Look, Fidel, could you and Nina . . .”

Fidel had turned his head away. “That your car outside?”

“Uh . . . yes.”

“Nice. I wouldn’t leave it there too long, if I was you.”

Faustino ground his cigarette out with his foot. He felt sorrowful rather than angry. “Okay, Fidel. Okay.”

“Listen, man,” Fidel said, relenting. “I appreciate your concern. You’re trying to help. But you’re out of your depth. You see all this as a
problem.
”

“Well, isn’t it, for Chrissake?”

“No. A problem is a thing that can be solved. A thing with a solution. There are no solutions for kids like Bush. For them, solutions are undreamed-of luxuries.”

“I don’t understand what that means.”

“No. Of course you don’t. Okay. I told you this before, but I’ll tell you again. Nina and me, we gave shelter to three kids. Now we got two. One down, two to go. This was never a place of safety. Shelter, maybe, but not safety. Kids like these, they’re
never
safe. That’s not a
problem,
man; it’s the goddamn
reality.
And there’s no solution to reality.”