Cover Page
Copyright Page
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Epilogue
About the Author
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Original Title: Tienes que contarlo
copyright © 2012 by José Sanclemente
Translation: You Have to Tell
copyright © 2012 by Elie Kerrigan
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6409-6
Barcelona Digital Editions, S.L.
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This 2012 edition distributed by Open Road Integrated Media
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In order to be a reporter, one first of all needs to be a good person; bad people cannot be good journalists. Only a good person strives to understand others, their intentions, their faith, their interests, their difficulties, their tragedies.
—RYSZARD KAPUSCINSKI
He who controls the present, controls the past. He who controls the past, controls the future.
—GEORGE ORWELL, Nineteen Eighty-Four
Barcelona, September 14, 2011
Carlos Marín felt disgusted and nauseous in the private investigator’s office. He had the sensation of sinking into a noxious swamp. He’d known the risks involved when he hired Luis Fernández to follow his wife but had still been shocked when the PI, proud to present a job well done, had shown him the photographs.
He slipped the report and the photos into his briefcase and, after paying the fee, ignored Fernández’s outstretched hand and left without saying a word. Usually priding himself on keeping everything under control and carefully planned, Carlos now felt like a complete wreck as he dragged his feet sullenly down Barcelona’s Floridablanca Street. Images of Mónica naked in the arms of a stranger spun in his mind like a never-ending carousel.
He decided he wouldn’t, however, say a word to his wife. He told himself over and over that he couldn’t let the incident affect his marriage: he had to convince himself that it was merely a meaningless affair. The best thing to do would be to talk to his wife’s lover and discuss the matter point-blank; if these were just brief encounters for him too, purely sexual, perhaps Carlos could solve the problem with money and make the man quietly disappear. Yes, it was a good way of dealing with this unpleasant business. He remembered that Fernández had told him that they’d lost track of the man, but that, even though his face appeared blurred in the photo and difficult to distinguish, the PI could still try, for another modest sum, to locate him.
“We’ve done a good job, Mr. Marín,” Fernández had remarked, “but I must admit that you put us on the right track. You have very good intuition.”
He couldn’t face a divorce; not with so much at stake. He was about to sell his company to an American corporation and Mónica was doing an excellent job handling the contact with the president of General Advertising, which would allow Carlos to raise the sale price way above his greatest expectations. In fact, that evening they were having the American businessman and his wife to dinner at their home to close the deal. He had to calm down and come to some agreement with his wife’s lover. He was used to dealing with delicate matters, but none that affected his privacy.
“I’m a good negotiator,” he said out loud in the middle of the street. Several passersby turned to observe him. Suddenly he was seized by doubt: What if Mónica’s relationship with the man was much more intimate than he assumed? What if she was in love with him? Then it dawned on him: Mónica’s weekend trips to Paris and London to present advertising campaigns to clients must have been made in the company of her lover. Good God, how could I have been so naive? he wondered.
He had to relax. In business school he’d been taught never to make rash decisions and that nothing is what it seems, even when there is conclusive evidence. Everything is susceptible to change; sometimes what is most obvious can be turned inside out like a sock. What matters is the strategy one adopts, and not straying from the course if the path chosen is clear. But in business school he hadn’t studied this particular problem. He would apply the “case method” to this matter of his.
Let’s consider the situation, he said to himself. I can’t leave behind loose ends or leave anything to improvisation or chance. He sat at a table on a cafe terrace and ordered a Glenrothes whiskey on the rocks, which he often drank in his office when important decisions had to be made. Admit it, he reflected, this is affecting you more than it should. You’re not going to say anything to Mónica—the sale would go down the drain. The first step is to destroy the photos and the conclusive evidence so that you’re not tempted to use them at some point. You’ll go home, act naturally, and help her with dinner. You’ll take her some orchids, which she loves. You’ll find her lover, pay him to disappear from her life, and that’s it. That’s the strategy and you mustn’t stray from it.
Reflecting in this way, as if being advised by a third party, made Carlos Marín feel safe; he even imagined voices other than his own. He felt as if his decisions were being backed up by imaginary counselors.
A sudden jolt sent the whiskey spilling down his shirt.
“Forgive me, sir, I tripped on the chair,” a man said in poor Spanish, attempting to help Carlos clean up the whiskey running down his shirt. Marín noticed that the man had a large pinkish scar that ran across a good portion of his forehead.
“Leave it, it’s okay … ,” he grumbled.
The man left in a hurry. It was then Carlos realized that his briefcase was missing: he’d been robbed.
A cold sweat ran down his spine. His sense of composure dissipated and he lost his temper. Shit, that son of a bitch took my briefcase with the photos and the sales contract that has to be signed this evening. God damn it, you’re dead—to hell with your strategy, he told himself. Take a deep breath. He ordered another whiskey and tried to calm down. Relax; you mustn’t let a random event disrupt your planned course of action. You still have time. You’ll go back to the office and print another copy of the document. The man who robbed you is a nobody; he won’t know what to do with the photos. They have no value to him whatsoever. He’s a stranger. Let’s see, think: we must stick to the plan. Nothing has changed. You can give the photos up for lost and Fernández can always make copies …
He went by the office and printed a new copy of the document that had been stolen and stopped at the florist, where he bought the most dazzling orchid he could find. He took a taxi and headed home. In half an hour, the president of the American company and his wife would arrive; he could still give Mónica a hand with dinner.
He reached home sweaty and somewhat shaken, but tried to maintain his composure.
“Hello darling,” he said in a smooth voice before kissing his wife on the cheek. “If you don’t mind I’m going to take a quick shower and change my shirt. I’ll be right back to give you a hand.”
“Oh, there’s no need,” Mónica said, with a charming smile. “It’s all prepared and ready. Take a shower while I fix a couple of martinis just the way you like them. The orchid is beautiful.”
Half an hour later they were seated on the sofa, holding their drinks.
“Let’s drink to our future from this evening onward,” Mónica said raising her martini.
“Cheers!” they said in unison, clinking their glasses.
“Oh, by the way, I almost forgot, honey,” Mónica remarked, “you’re hopeless, you left your briefcase behind in your last meeting; or so says the concierge, who brought it up a while ago. How kind of him, don’t you think? I left it over there,” she said, pointing to the coffee table in the living room.
Carlos’s jaw dropped: the briefcase lay open with PI Fernández’s envelope containing the photos sticking out of it.
“Yes … of course … I don’t know … I thought I’d left it behind at the office … in the rush … ,” he mumbled.
After a slight pause in which she sipped her martini, his wife added, “Darling, that envelope in the briefcase …”
The doorbell interrupted them; the guests had arrived. Mónica got up to open the door and Carlos had the feeling that he was no longer in control of the situation. While the voices of the newly arrived couple floated down the corridor, he tried to make use of the few seconds he had to take stock of the situation. No doubt she’d seen the envelope’s contents, but had reacted quite calmly, even with unusual kindness, which confused him. He was sure that she wasn’t going to sabotage the sale; she knew that half of the sixty million euros would be hers.
He figured that once dinner was over and they were alone again, she’d use the strategy of being the first to attack. Come on, Carlos, you know; you’ve studied a thousand cases at business school where this type of reaction is used as a tactic, he told himself in a dignified voice, bordering on arrogance, which reinforced his self-esteem. She’ll say, “How could you do such a thing? Turning to a private investigator is the most despicable thing one can expect from someone you’re supposed to trust. And on top of that I’ve just finished making you a millionaire. You’re spineless … don’t you realize that it’s a setup?” The famous “denying the evidence” strategy. Good for Mónica and her training at the London Business School. And she’ll be right; unwillingly she’ll steer this … what should we call it … insignificant incident, in the right direction. After all, reality is nothing but a lie. Doesn’t everyone build his or her own reality according to convenience? And, for both your sake and Mónica’s, it’s best to give closure to the issue. Although you’re being extremely generous because, as soon as the American signs the contract and you ask your wife for a divorce, you’ll be able to squeeze her for good chunk of change in exchange for not flaunting her affair to family members and her influential friends. This is what’s known as “exploitation at the end of battle.” It’s an option that you can keep open, but don’t rush … you’ve got her cornered.
He stood up and greeted his guests. The president of General Advertising, Jeff Halton, was tall and skinny, with white hair and a friendly face, and spoke flawless Spanish that he had learned in Buenos Aires, where he had worked for some time. Carlos guessed he was in his sixties, ten years older than himself. His wife, Betty, was very attractive. Quite a bit younger than her husband, her eyes were almond shaped and she reminded Carlos of an actress whose name he couldn’t recall.
They sat at the table and poured themselves a glass of Vega Sicilia Único wine, which, after letting it sit in his mouth for a couple of seconds, the American praised. The unknown actress preferred a glass of plain water. The cold appetizers were laid out on the table. Mónica had known that some tasty slices of Jabugo ham would be the perfect starters to the roasted turkey that had been cooking in the oven for several hours.
“Well,” Halton said. “It’s a real pleasure being here with you and I trust we can return the invitation very soon in New York.”
“The pleasure is all ours,” Carlos said. “We’re delighted that you’ve accepted the invitation to dine at our place and, why not mention it, to do business with you. This company, which I started almost twenty years ago, will no doubt be in good hands and continue to expand with your acquisition. I’ve always believed that you Americans were the kings of advertising, and the synergies that will take place …”
Mónica interrupted him.
“Darling, are you already talking business? Our guests will want to relax; there’s plenty of time to discuss these matters. He’s beyond repair.” She smiled as if amused, looking at Halton and his wife while stroking her husband’s hair. “He lives for his business … I can’t change him at this stage of the game.”
“Don’t worry, Mónica, I’ve got the same problem,” said Halton. “The frantic pace we have in New York makes us get straight to the point … and we’re here to close the deal, after all. Isn’t that right, Mr. Marín?”
“Yes, of course, but Mónica’s right. Forgive my eagerness. There’s plenty of time to discuss the matter over coffee.”
“Oh, I’m afraid we won’t stay that long. My wife is exhausted. It’s been a long and difficult flight; we encountered turbulence and she was hardly able to get any rest. Right, darling?”
Halton’s wife nodded, but to Carlos it seemed as if she hadn’t understood what her husband had said.
“Very well, as you wish. I believe, from what Mónica’s told me, that we all agree on the terms of the contract, is that right?”
“Of course, Mr. Marín. Your wife has done an excellent pitch for the company. Our shareholders are delighted; they believe the price is fair.”
“Wonderful. I’ve brought the private purchase agreement, just as we agreed. All that’s left to do is to countersign it in front of a notary tomorrow,” Carlos said, almost hastily.
“Yes, I’ve already gone over the contract and it’s all correct. There’s only one small detail that has to be added, which our board of directors in New York has insisted on.”
“A detail? What is it?” Carlos sensed that the detail would be an inconvenience. Damn loose ends always become insurmountable clauses. What the hell did the refined and well-mannered American want?
“Well, Mr. Marín, you two are a model couple; what we call in the United States a power couple. You’re both essential to the feasibility and growth of the company we are about to purchase. Without you, the company is worthless, according to my shareholders. That’s why we’re going to ask you to remain with us, after the purchase, for at least three years. With adequate contractual conditions, of course …”
“Continue? How … ?” Carlos choked on a piece of ham.
“Oh, it’s very simple, you needn’t worry. A normal procedure. Tomorrow we’ll pay half of the sixty million in front of the notary, and we’ll pay the rest in three years, once you’ve fulfilled your time commitment to General Advertising Spain. That’s the agreement I came to with your wife. Isn’t that so, Mrs. Marín?”
“Yes, that’s correct,” Mónica hastened to confirm. “That’s what was agreed. Remember, darling, we discussed it?”
Carlos was certain that Mónica had never mentioned anything about this. He felt betrayed, but preferred to pretend as if he were aware of what his wife had negotiated.
“It implies a complex exception in our company; our regulations prevent a married couple from working for the same employer. You know how we Americans are … therefore we could only have one of you stay with our management team for the next thirty-six months. In any event, it’s something you two must decide.”
“You mean to say it’s her or me? But you must have a preference, right? I, as you know, am in charge of long-term strategy and Mónica deals with the clients. Nevertheless, I’m the one who closes the deals with our advertisers, and I’m informed of everything that …”
Carlos chose not to finish his sentence; the more he spoke, the more he felt as though he were sinking into a mud pit that covered him up to his ears. He was ruling himself out before his wife and that was not in his interest under any circumstance. He mustn’t act too hastily.
You won’t be able to stand three more years with Mónica in the company, and living together at home even less, he thought to himself. She’s being unfaithful and she hid the terms of the transaction from you; the reality of the situation is hard to deny. You, on the other hand, have the photos, and this American, and even his wife, would be stunned if they saw them. But, are you going to show them? You’re off-balance, and now is not the time. It would be best to close the deal today and have Mónica stay with the company … after all, the president wants her, can’t you see that he favors her? Most importantly, don’t rock the boat while this lanky guy has the upper hand and is in the driver’s seat. Why would you want to get your fingers burned? Let things cool down … don’t you remember the case of “false patience?” If you act as though you’re happy to go along with everything, you can buy yourself more time to think.
“Naturally,” Halton said, “as I mentioned, you are both extremely valuable to us, but it’s true that in terms of clients that your wife handles, do you say ‘handles’ … ?”
Mónica nodded.
“Good, well in that area it’s very important to have a smooth transition in the medium term. However, after the purchase, the strategy will be relegated to our US bureau’s discretion. This company is going to become much bigger and will require a specific kind of management. With all due respect, Mr. Marín, this is not to say that you can’t fit into it … but your wife speaks flawless English and manages the main advertising accounts magnificently. As you might have guessed, we’ve consulted with your most important clients before deciding to buy …”
“We’ll go with whatever you decide, love,” Mónica declared, and put her hand over his on the table. Carlos interpreted this gesture as a new attempt by his wife to soften their guests, giving the appearance of a united front.
What a bitch, he thought. It’s already been decided. You’re nothing but a pawn in her hands. This time they’ve cut off all escape routes; sign tonight and then you’ll settle things with her in private. Use the “kick forward” technique, but aim straight for the goal, in case there’s a chance to score …
The turkey was brought in, balanced in two hands by the waiter they’d hired for the occasion. Mónica had made the gesture of cooking it herself, instead of ordering one at Semon’s as she usually did, knowing this would please the American couple. She carved it and gave each guest a generous serving. Carlos didn’t touch his food. Betty opened her mouth for the first time to delicately place a tiny piece of leg meat in it and said quietly in English that it tasted delicious.
“Good,” Carlos said in a thin voice, “I think the decision has been made. You folks are going to pay a lot of money for our company and I think it’s only natural that in this new phase you want to rely on Mónica. I, I mean we, think we must facilitate your entry into our country and make sure you feel comfortable with the investment. Don’t you agree, honey?”
“Of course, darling … if that’s your opinion, I’m with you one hundred percent.”
“You’re a model couple, I kept telling Betty on the plane. Not only are you a power couple for business, but your successes are grounded—do you say ‘grounded?’—in the love that you profess for one another. Do you say ‘profess?’”
Carlos would have flung the turkey gravy that his wife was serving into the American’s face, but instead said, “Yes, we say ‘grounded’ and ‘professed.’ And it’s true that our love has brought us this far and has helped us to avoid many pitfalls …”
Just then he was interrupted by the ringing of his cell phone. He began to turn it off, but the American encouraged him to take the call.
“Take it, don’t worry. At this hour it could be something important.”
Carlos looked at the phone’s screen: it was Luis Fernández, the PI. He got up from the table and moved a few feet away to answer without being overheard.
“Yes, hello?”
“Mr. Marín, it’s Luis Fernández. Sorry to bother you if you’re having dinner, but it’s urgent …”
“Yes, I’m having dinner, but what the hell is so urgent that it can’t wait?”
“Let’s pray it’s a false alarm, but I must ask you: have the photos that I gave you this afternoon been lost or stolen?”
“Yes, the truth is that someone stole them while I was distracted at a pavement cafe; but, rest assured, they’ve turned up. They’ve been returned and are safe at home. Why do you ask?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Marín, that you’ll have to double check. A stranger called me a few minutes ago claiming to have the ‘material’ … I think it could be blackmail. Are you completely sure you have the photos in your possession? Please make sure.”
“I can’t right now,” Carlos said, lowering his voice. “My wife and some guests are here. The briefcase and envelope are here, but I can’t open them without being seen … I’ll call you later, when they’re gone. Good night.”
“Okay, but something smells fishy. The guy who called me knew way too much … I don’t want to alarm you; do call me as soon as you can. Good night.”
Carlos returned to the table, crestfallen and upset.
“Is everything okay, love?”
“Yes, all’s well. It’s … nothing important … the mechanic, who is so diligent, has already finished fixing the car, you see …” He turned to the Americans. “At this time of night! And then they say we Spaniards don’t work. He wanted to know if he should bring it over now, but we agreed that I’d pick it up tomorrow.”
“It really is a heck of a service,” Halton said. “Well, if it’s all right with you we could take a look at the document and sign it. We’ve agreed to meet at the notary’s office tomorrow morning at ten, and we’ve already deposited the first half of the payment into his safe-deposit box. I’ve taken the liberty of bringing along three copies, with the same information that I e-mailed to your wife. Do you say ‘mail’ or do you also call it ‘e-mail?’ In any case, all that’s missing is to add your wife’s name on this line, since she will be the one who remains with us for the next three years, until July 2014.”
Carlos’s vision clouded over. He was incapable of quietly reading the contract’s numerous pages. Fernández’s phone call had unsettled him. If the private investigator had reasons to worry, what on earth was in the envelope that he was able to see from the table, sticking out from the briefcase?
Don’t lose your cool; no doubt it’s just a misunderstanding. Look at the bitch, how she’s rushing to sign the contract. She thinks she’s going to get away with it … you’re both done for, but she’s worse off: you’ve got her with the photos. You’ll straighten out the business with the PI later. Calm down and read the contract. You can skim through it without missing the essential information. Let’s see, yes, here is the part about the sixty million euros … two payments, the second in three year’s time, blah, blah, blah, legal jargon, non-compete agreement … the same one you wrote. It slipped through. You’re good, the best … you’ve beaten the American law firm! Excellent! Sign, and tomorrow you’ll pick up the money.
They signed the contract. Halton kept a copy and handed them the remaining two. They shook hands and after taking a sip of wine, the American said, “Well, if you’ll excuse us, we’ll be on our way. My poor Betty has to recover from the trip and, even though I’m used to it, I must admit that I’m exhausted and still have to go over the brief for the press conference after the signing.”
“Press conference?” Carlos looked at Mónica.
“Yes, love, remember that we’ve arranged to speak to the journalists tomorrow, as agreed with General Advertising’s communications department … as soon as the New York office opens and signs off on the final draft, at around six in the evening our time. You have your own brief in your briefcase … you should take a look at it before going to bed. Besides, Belarmino Suárez hasn’t stopped calling all day: he wants to interview us after the press conference for the Sunday edition of El Universal. I told him that we would most likely have dinner together, you know he likes good restaurants …”
Again, Carlos was disturbed.
You need to think, he told himself. The current is dragging you along, but the important thing is that it doesn’t take you off course. The main thing is to sign and collect the money; you’ll take care of the rest. You know how to deal with these situations. You’re prepared for any surprise Mónica tries to spring on you. You’ll have plenty of time for revenge. Remember the case method: “Don’t think about revenge. Success is the most elegant revenge.”
They bid their guests good night and dismissed the waiter who had attended to them over dinner. When they were left alone, Carlos served himself a whiskey on the rocks and gulped it down.
While Mónica went to the kitchen, he went straight to his briefcase. It was open and he noticed that although someone had rummaged through it, nothing was missing. He opened the white envelope, which was unmarked—not even the PI’s office letterhead was printed on it, most likely for discretion; he hadn’t even noticed when Luis Fernández had handed it over to him. He was startled when he confirmed that it was empty: the photos had disappeared.
There was no champagne that evening. Marín went straight to bed. His wife gave him a kiss on the cheek.
“Good night, honey. It’s been an exhausting day, but tomorrow everything will be over. Sleep well.”
Carlos Marín was unable to fall asleep. He couldn’t stop thinking of Fernández’s call and decided that first thing in the morning he would contact him before going to the notary to sign the contract.
The telephone at the newspaper’s business desk was ringing incessantly. None of the journalists who were working near that part of the office, which seemed to be empty, made a move to pick it up; they were busy typing at their computers. Daniel Soler, who as the managing editor was responsible for the paper’s late edition, stomped toward the phone. With a look of annoyance, he picked up the receiver and, as though exercising an automatic reflex, slammed it down again, putting a stop to the persistent ringing.
“Does anyone know where those bastards from the business section are?” he yelled at no one in particular.
“I think they’ve gone to press. I heard they were going to have a drink with Krugman,” said Manuel Trapero, the society editor, without looking up from his screen.
“This is bullshit.” Soler pounded his fist on the desk. “It’s ten o’clock at night and those idiots are already drinking … and now a news brief has to be added to this section, damn it. Someone find me Krugman, now! I want him here in ten minutes.” Krugman was the nickname given to Belarmino Suárez, El Universal’s business editor. He was given the nickname because he claimed to know as much about economics as the Nobel Prize winner and was only interested in issues related to American society. Belarmino had spent more than six years as a correspondent during George Bush’s presidency; first in Washington, then in New York. He still kept a green, padded chair, embossed with the initials of the White House, which had been given to him by the US Department of State as a parting gift when he left his post. He showcased this chair next to his desk, and it was the only piece of furniture that seemed out of place in the paper’s modern office. Krugman had a bad reputation in the profession because those with certain financial and business interests were said to be paying his salary. According to his colleagues, his Sunday articles were so “weighty” because they always came hand in hand with a bulky envelope stuffed full of cash, which he picked up from the latest man or woman of the hour, who then appeared splashed across the pages of El Universal—painted in a more than generous light—in the section known as the “Upper Echelons.” At sixty, he was the oldest person working for the newspaper and the only one who dressed in a suit and tie. He looked like an English gentleman, with a full head of white hair, skin that was nicely bronzed from a tanning booth, and well-groomed, manicured hands. He could be an imposing character, except to the majority of journalists who had him pegged and knew that all of this was nothing but a facade.
Leire, the crime reporter, who was always willing to help and keen to gain recognition without knowing for sure why she bothered—seeing as new and temporary employees were soon replaced by other temps or even by interns—decided to dial Krugman’s number on her cell phone. Leire’s contact list was quite impressive. In the six months since she’d started working at the newspaper as a temp, not only did she have all of her colleagues’ numbers, but also those working for competing papers, whom she consulted before writing about any given issue, even at the risk they might steal the scoop.
The interns or temps didn’t usually have a nickname, since they didn’t stay at El Universal long enough to get labeled. If the editor in chief, who was the king of nicknames, had given one to Leire—a pretty thirty-two-year-old with blond hair, a lovely smile, generous breasts, and a propensity for extremely short miniskirts—he would never think to utter it in her presence. He knew if he did, he would come up against the young journalist’s strong character; she wouldn’t take kindly to the chauvinistic label he had in mind.
The truth was that the “seasoned” journalists on staff didn’t know how to take advantage of Leire’s intelligence or the enthusiasm that she brought to the job.
Like the day she found out through her police contacts that there was going to be a dawn raid on alleged Al Qaeda collaborators in Barcelona’s Verneda neighborhood. She’d been the first to arrive on the scene, riding in one of the police cars. She’d also been the only one to take photographs of the detainees, and, using her iPad, had posted them alongside the article on the newspaper’s web site. But because the information came from a novice and needed to be checked, the paper’s web site editor rejected their publication. A few hours later, without having slept, she went straight to the newspaper’s editor in chief and handed him her resignation. The chief looked her up and down in disbelief, and said, with a tinge of sarcasm, that she had a lot of guts for a “mere rookie” and that no one else at the newspaper had the “goddamn balls” to leave his or her job over such a trivial matter. He gave orders that everything that Leire investigated go directly through him and demoted the web site editor, banishing him to the basement in the Documentation and Archives section. And so, Leire became the first novice to deal directly with Goliath, El Universal’s editor in chief, whose real name was David Gavela, an obese man who in his youth was said to have been a boxer.
Leire couldn’t reach Krugman and left a message on his cell phone. She assumed he was at Milano’s, on his second gin and tonic with no cell phone coverage, so she went to Soler and told him that if he needed any help, he could count on her. She was meeting friends for dinner in half an hour, but would send them a text message to say she would be running late.
Soler hesitated, but, given the publication’s dismal outlook—devastated by the latest job cuts—and as close as he was to going to press, he gave her the news brief to publish.
“It has to do with the sale of Marín & Partners, the advertising company, to an American corporation, General Advertising. We’re talking about a sixty-million-euro deal for a Spanish-owned company, and it happens to be the agency that buys the most advertising space in our paper … so, as you well know, it has to stand out. Put it on the right-hand page, get rid of the fucking stock exchange analysis or whatever you feel like … oh, and don’t get too creative, understood? Just use the brief as is, flesh it out a little, add some background information, and that’s it. Let’s go, I want it in layout in half an hour.”
Leire was terrified of numbers. The brief was barely a page long, but she knew journalists and numbers didn’t mix: reporters could end up adding or subtracting zeros to a number, distorting the information until it bordered on ridiculous. She remembered how once, after heavy rains and flooding, the size of an enormous swamp had, in cubic feet, become equivalent to that of a household pool according to the newspaper … or how the amount of burglaries per day in Barcelona could somehow jump by 200 percent. So she paid special attention to the figures in the Marín & Partners press release. The transaction had been signed in front of a notary that morning, although the press release hadn’t been sent until nine o’clock in the evening. According to the release by the public relations agency, Cuesta & Associates, half of the sixty million had been paid in cash; the rest would be paid at the end of a three-year period and Mónica Lago, wife of the company’s founder, Carlos Marín, would continue being the company’s vice president until then. In the past year, the company had grossed twenty-five million euros, with a profit margin of three million.
To Leire, buying a company at twenty times more than its previous year’s profits seemed to be a considerable sum. She thought it was best to double-check the figures on the Spanish news agency EFE’s web site and on Reuter’s. Yes, they were correct. Well, they would know, she thought. After all, these Americans just paid 300 million dollars for Mrs. Huffington’s blog as if it were nothing.
She copied the press release and added a couple of biographical lines on the Marín couple. He had studied economics at Harvard, had a master’s from IE Business School, and was president of the Advertising Agencies and Advertising Purchasing Groups Association. His wife had worked for the competition as an advertising creative director and, in a much talked-about move, went to work for Marín & Partners, taking with her all of the main accounts from her old company and forcing it to shut down. She ended up marrying her new boss and subsequently sharing ownership of the company. One hell of a career, Leire thought, curious to know what Mónica looked like.
She clicked on Google Images and a photo appeared of a smiling woman with blond hair, who seemed no older than forty. She wore dark red lipstick and her nose looked like it had been under the knife; it sat perfectly between her almost electric blue eyes—either that or she’d had some help from Photoshop. She was very attractive. And now a multimillionaire, Leire mused. She noticed the woman’s unevenly arched eyebrows, the right one raised slightly higher, perhaps because her bangs fell toward the left side of her face. The slight sharpness of her chin gave her an air of strength and determination, which contrasted with the faint dimples that accented her cheeks—the result of a thinness that looked like it had been worked at—making her seem like a woman who was cordial and approachable.
Leire couldn’t help analyzing people’s physiognomy ever since taking a criminology course in which an Argentinian morphopsychologist, with whom she’d had a brief flirtation, tried to convince her that a person’s face can reveal everything about his or her attitude, behavior, unexpected tendencies, and even health and longevity. Naturally, this man, who in her opinion was a second-rate psychologist, told her that she would live a long life and would find a boyfriend that he described as remarkably similar to himself. She laughed at the memory, but couldn’t stop looking at Mónica’s photo with a certain “professional” curiosity.
She typed the last paragraph of her article and saved it in the paper’s editorial system using a numbered code for Soler to pick it up. He was working on the entertainment section, cursing and trying to gain online access to U2’s concert, which was taking place at that very moment, so that he could go to press using any means possible.
“Let’s see, the bottom of the cover photo is of Bono in the middle of the stage above the public’s heads. I want that one and no other. I don’t give a shit if it’s a landscape image; crop it and that’s that. The caption: U2: The audience goes wild over ‘With or Without You,’ which they played last.”
“But the concert doesn’t finish till midnight and it’s only eleven … how can we put that … ? That’s very risky,” argued Álvaro Cifuentes, the entertainment editor who was nicknamed Scream because his long and gaunt face resembled the mask in the horror movie series.
“Look, do we or do we not have the program that lists what Bono is going to sing? We have it,” Soler answered his own question. “Do we or do we not know the last song he played last week in Madrid, and the previous week in Paris? We know. And what do I always say when it’s eleven o’clock at night and the fucking rotary press is craving paper? That now more than ever two plus two equals four and that there’s no time for philosophizing. Let’s get a move on!”
Leire went toward him slowly but decidedly. She knew he was in the fateful hours of his greatest stress, and whispered, “Well, here you go. Use code 0033 to enter the item about the business sale on the system. I’m on my way out, they’ve been waiting for me for more than an hour … see you tomorrow. Good night.”
Soler barely acknowledged her; not even looking up, he waved his hand as if to tell her to leave while he stood bent over the entertainment section. Bono’s photo gradually shrunk as he adjusted it to fit the space reserved on the front page.
Leire put on a light jacket over her white blouse and denim miniskirt. The light drizzle that had fallen earlier had somewhat refreshed the air on the street on the warm September day. Her cell phone rang: it was Julián Ortega, a detective from homicide.
“Hello, Julián, what a surprise! To what do I owe this honor?” Almost a year had passed since she’d last seen him, but she still had his number.
“Hi Leire, how are you? I’d like to see you,” the detective said in a grave voice that made Leire apprehensive.
“What’s the matter Julián? Is everything okay?”
“No … well, yes … I mean I’d like to discuss something with you, and I thought that perhaps we could have a drink now …” Julián hesitated.
“Right now? What’s so pressing, Julián?”
“Well, I have a murder case on my hands. The forensic team is gathering evidence. But I need to clear my head. Can we see each other?” he insisted.
Leire had mixed feelings. She really wanted to see him again, but tried not to show it.
“Damn, the thing is that I’m meeting friends. They’re waiting for me … who’s the stiff?”
“Actually, I called you because you must know him. It’s a journalist from your newspaper, one Belarmino Suárez. We won’t announce it to the press till tomorrow.”
Leire’s breath stopped, she couldn’t speak. Finally, she was able to blurt out, “Krugman? Do you mean to say Krugman has been murdered?”
“Who’s Krugman?”
“It’s Belarmino’s nickname. But that’s awful! I was just doing a feature for his section and …” Once again, she was rendered speechless.
“Are you working in the business section now?” Detective Ortega was surprised.
“No, but you know how it is, for some time now we’ve all had to do a little bit of everything. What you’re telling me is terrible.”
Leire stopped at the revolving doors she was about to exit and glanced back at the newsroom; she could see Soler gesticulating and pulling at his hair in front of the sports writers. She was sure that, once again, the newspaper would hit the newsstands after its deadline: she had the scoop, but couldn’t publish it. She turned away and walked out onto the street with her phone balanced between her shoulder and ear.
“All right, let’s meet in fifteen minutes at Milano’s, but you have to give me all the details, okay? I’ll cancel my dinner and see you there.”
“Okay, but there aren’t many details yet. Besides, the judge is sure to issue a gag order. I won’t be able to tell you a great deal … I must insist on you not leaking anything to the newspaper, understood?”
“Yes, yes, don’t worry. See you at Milano’s, all right? Ciao.”
She hung up and sent a text message to Paola, her roommate, who was with a couple of friends. They must have already started eating. “Don’t wait for me, we’ve got some problems going to press, L xox.” Her friends were used to her standing them up and justifying herself through texting. I’ll call them tomorrow, she always thought. Then she wouldn’t end up calling; she simply forgot.
* * *
Leire and Detective Ortega had been more than just friends. They’d known each other since she’d started off as an intern in radio and at a regional community television station where she presented a news program in the basement of an old liquor warehouse in the coastal town of Premià de Mar. Her support team consisted of her computer and her colleague Luis, a jack-of-all-trades technician who was also in charge of maintenance and cleaning. In addition to improvising sets and handling the Cromalin color proofs, he operated two semi-automatic cameras in order to have different takes of the interviewees. These guests would sit on a set of Ikea chairs that were so uncomfortable that Leire had to put a couple of cushions on them that her grandmother had made.
“Darling,” the old woman would tell her, “it’s about time you introduced me to a serious boyfriend. I don’t want to leave this world without seeing you married, and properly so. Come on, darling, do it for your grandmother.” And Leire would laugh and say, “But what if it turns out that I’m a lesbian and I like women? You’ll have to accept it, granny.” The old lady would have none of it. “Come on, child, don’t talk nonsense. Such a pretty, well-educated girl, and one who appears on television, should have no shortage of suitors.”
Her grandmother always tuned into “Leire’s station,” as she called Maresme’s Channel One, which only broadcast to a city of barely 5,000 inhabitants.
Leire had come to Detective Julián Ortega’s attention while he was busy channel surfing one day. At the time he lived in Premià de Mar and liked watching the spirited girl who looked straight at the camera and at the interviewees with composure and seriousness, flaunting her independence and revealing a sharp critical insight while she fired questions as though they were taunts at the local townspeople, all of whom were of very little interest—town councilors, neighborhood association members, and local merchants.
He was surprised that one day, very early in the morning when he was about to jump in the shower, Leire called his cell phone out of the blue and said bluntly, “Good morning, Detective Ortega, I’m Leire Castelló, from Premià Town Hall’s Channel One, and I’m calling to see if I could interview you this evening. It will only take half an hour, but we would have to meet an hour beforehand …”
“Hold on, hold on, how did you get my number?”
“Well, that’s a professional matter, but don’t worry. Your phone number is safe with me.”
Julián Ortega was amazed at the girl’s forwardness and nerve and managed to mumble, “Okay, all right, I’ll think about it.”
“There’s nothing to think about,” Leire replied. “We’re going to talk about public safety issues in general terms, about the crime rate in the region, and also about the job of a policeman …”
“What if we have a coffee around seven o’clock … you can tell me all about it and then we’ll decide if it warrants an interview,” the detective suggested.
“Done. I’ll wait for you at Cafe Miramar, next to the studio. At seven o’clock.”
That day Leire fell in love with Julián. As soon as she saw him, she felt something special that she’d never felt for anyone. Julián Ortega must have been thirty-five at the time and Leire had just turned thirty. He was handsome, but not like the typical pretty boys that accosted her every now and then at the dance clubs Sutton and Luz de Gas, which Leire frequented almost every weekend. There was something about his personality that she couldn’t put her finger on; he made her feel secure while at the same time keeping her interested. And he smelled good—very good. She had come to the conclusion that the first characteristic a man needed to make her want to have a deeper relationship with him was to smell nice. It was essential that he be clean, but also that his cologne didn’t make her dizzy. She couldn’t stand a certain sweetish chemical component that some expensive cologne contained, which prolonged the intensity of its scent.
Detective Ortega had a strong but lean build, olive skin, and was not too tall—about five foot nine, Leire guessed. He had black hair—slightly curly and somewhat childlike—a small chin, dark eyes, and lips that were neither too thin nor too thick. His hands, delicate and well-groomed, captivated her from the very moment they shook hands in the cafe.
As soon as they began to talk, they knew there would be no interview. Their conversation immediately took another course, and they told each other about their lives. Leire looked at her watch and called Luis, the technician, and told him to broadcast a prerecorded interview. She said she had a headache, and that the interview they’d conducted with the owner of a flower shop a couple of days earlier would do, that she wouldn’t come by the studio but would see him the next day.
Julián had gotten divorced three years earlier, he’d told her, and had been living for the past few months with a girl in a townhouse apartment. This put Leire on the defense, and she lied to him, saying she lived with her boyfriend in an apartment in Barcelona’s Born neighborhood.