RAMÓN CABRERA, MUNICIPAL POLICE. The boy looked at him dumbfounded, and the rancher insisted that he get in the next available cab.
After the car had turned the corner, he noticed the portrait of the blonde fluttering on the ground: it must have fallen out when the boy paid. Cabrera picked it up and put it in his wallet, without knowing what for.
He thought he’d never see the boy again, and again he was wrong.
2
For Agent Cabrera the case began on Monday, January 15. That day Chief Taboada had a meeting with the best member of his force, Agent Chávez. According to the secretary, they argued, and it seemed Chávez raised his voice. Halfway through the meeting, the chief peered out through the thick blinds that separated his office from the main room, looked over the officers who were present, and picked out the only subordinate who, in his opinion, could still be trusted. That is to say, Ramón “Macetón” Cabrera.
Cabrera was chatting with the social service girls when he was told the boss was ordering him to report. At the moment he entered the chief’s office, Agent Chávez was leaving and jostled him with his shoulder. Fortunately, Cabrera was a peaceable sort, so he didn’t strike back as he reported to his boss.
“Drop whatever you’re doing and look into the deceased on Calle Palma for me.”
He was referring to the journalist who’d been found dead the morning before. Sunday afternoon, some hours after the body was reported, Agent Chávez had managed to detain El Chincualillo in a lightning operation, with enough evidence to lock him up for fifteen years. To Chávez’s mind, the guilty party had acted alone and the motive was robbery. But Chief Taboada wasn’t satisfied.
“I’m missing information: find out what the journalist was doing over his last few days. Where he was, who he saw, what they said to him. If he was writing something, I want to read it. I need to know what was he up to.”
Cabrera knew El Chincualillo was a dealer for the Paracuán cartel, and so his chief’s request raised a problem of professional ethics. “Why doesn’t Chávez do it?”
“I’d rather you took charge.”
Cabrera hesitated. “I have a lot of work.”
“Let the new guys help you.”
Cabrera said no, that wouldn’t be necessary, he could do it himself. He couldn’t abide the new guys.
“One more thing,” the chief added. “Go see the deceased’s father, Don Rubén Blanco, and stand in for me at the funeral. It’s essential for you to report to him, and for him to know you’re going on my behalf, and for you to keep on the lookout until everything’s over. It’s at the Gulf Funeral Parlor, but hurry up; they’ll be burying him at twelve. Don’t you have a suit coat?”
“Not here.”
“Have them lend you one. Don’t show up like that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes: discretion. Don’t let anybody know what you’re up to.”
Cabrera went back to his desk and asked the social service girls to hunt up the autopsy report. The girls, who didn’t have that much work to do, squabbled over who would take it to him. Who brought it was Rosa Isela, a girl in her twenties with emerald-green eyes, who leaned on the desk and, after handing over the report, didn’t take her eyes off him. Cabrera smiled, flattered, until she remarked that he reminded her of her father. When she observed the detective’s discomfort, the girl became all smiles.
“I brought you a present.” It was a ruled notebook.
“What’s this for?”
“So you can get rid of the other one.”
She meant the notebook he was using at the time. Cabrera’s notebook was so full by now that he sometimes wrote over pages he had already filled at least twice before, a real palimpsest, as it’s called in legalese. And it’s true that he had had a lot of work the last few days.
“Gracias, amiga. Could you get me some coffee?”
Isela fulfilled his darkest desires and left the beverage on his desk. It should be noted that he brought his own coffee to brew at work, since he found the headquarters pot disgusting. Ten minutes later Camarena, one of the new guys, came in to chat with the social service girls. Camarena was a tall, cheerful young guy, successful with the ladies. That day he was flaunting at least three lipstick marks around his mouth: one of them could be Rosa Isela’s. Camarena made himself some decaf and went to his desk. Cabrera wondered how anybody with half a brain