read the paper this morning I figured you were just a really good con artist. I saw those horrifying images on TV after the tornado’s passage, but I still wasn’t ready to change my mind. I talked to my friend at the 6th Precinct less than an hour ago. He made a few inquiries on my behalf, and confirmed there’d been an accident this afternoon involving an ambulance and one of our colleagues in the mounted police. You couldn’t have guessed all of that.”
“No, I couldn’t.”
“We have to meet again, Mr. Stilman.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“A lot sooner. Hop in the elevator. I’m right here in the lobby waiting for you.”
* * *
Andrew took Pilguez to the Marriott bar. The inspector ordered a Scotch, and Andrew unthinkingly asked for a Fernet and Coke.
“Who could want you dead?” Pilguez asked. “Why does that question make you smile?”
“I’ve started making a list. I didn’t think it would be such a long one.”
“We can go in alphabetical order, if that makes it easier for you,” Pilguez said, taking out a small notebook.
“I first thought of Freddy Olson, a colleague. We can’t stand each other—though I made up with him yesterday, as a precaution.”
“Resentment can linger for a long time. What’s he got against you?”
“Professional envy. I’ve swiped quite a few stories from under his nose these past few months.”
“If we all bumped off a colleague each time he stepped on our toes, Wall Street would be littered with corpses. Then again, nothing’s impossible. What else?”
“I was sent three death threats.”
“You’re a funny guy, Stilman. You said that as if you were talking about flyers.”
“Journalists get threats once in a while.”
Andrew summed up the findings of the investigation he’d gone to China for.
“Have you kept the letters?”
“I gave them to security.”
“Get them back. I want to read them tomorrow.”
“They’re anonymous.”
“Nothing’s totally anonymous these days. We could find fingerprints.”
“Mine, certainly, and the security agents.’”
“Our forensics people are good at separating the wheat from the chaff. Have you kept the envelopes?”
“I think so. Why?”
“The postmark could give us a lead. Letters of this kind are usually written in anger, and anger makes you careless. Whoever wrote it could have simply dropped their letter in a mailbox near where they live. It’ll take a long time, but we’ll have to look for all the parents who adopted children from that orphanage, and find their addresses.”
“That idea wouldn’t have occurred to me.”
“You’re not a police officer. So—an office colleague, and three threatening letters. You said it was a long list. Who else is on it?”
“I’m currently working on an equally sensitive investigation into the atrocities committed by various soldiers during the Argentine dictatorship.”
“Are you investigating anyone in particular?”
“The protagonist of my article is a former air force major who’s suspected of having participated in death flights. The courts have cleared him of all charges, but I’m using his story as the leitmotif of my piece.”
“Have you met this guy?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t able to get him to talk. I’m hoping to get a confession out of him on my forthcoming trip.”
“If I believe these absurd claims of yours, you already made this trip in the past, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I thought you couldn’t change the course of events?”
“That’s what I’d been telling myself, up until yesterday. But the fact that you’re here and that we’re having this conversation, which never happened in my previous life, makes me think I could be wrong.”
Pilguez clinked the ice cubes in his glass.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Stilman. You’ve shown a certain flair for telling the future, but I’m not quite ready to swallow this story of yours hook, line and sinker. Why don’t we agree on a
“No, I couldn’t.”
“We have to meet again, Mr. Stilman.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“A lot sooner. Hop in the elevator. I’m right here in the lobby waiting for you.”
* * *
Andrew took Pilguez to the Marriott bar. The inspector ordered a Scotch, and Andrew unthinkingly asked for a Fernet and Coke.
“Who could want you dead?” Pilguez asked. “Why does that question make you smile?”
“I’ve started making a list. I didn’t think it would be such a long one.”
“We can go in alphabetical order, if that makes it easier for you,” Pilguez said, taking out a small notebook.
“I first thought of Freddy Olson, a colleague. We can’t stand each other—though I made up with him yesterday, as a precaution.”
“Resentment can linger for a long time. What’s he got against you?”
“Professional envy. I’ve swiped quite a few stories from under his nose these past few months.”
“If we all bumped off a colleague each time he stepped on our toes, Wall Street would be littered with corpses. Then again, nothing’s impossible. What else?”
“I was sent three death threats.”
“You’re a funny guy, Stilman. You said that as if you were talking about flyers.”
“Journalists get threats once in a while.”
Andrew summed up the findings of the investigation he’d gone to China for.
“Have you kept the letters?”
“I gave them to security.”
“Get them back. I want to read them tomorrow.”
“They’re anonymous.”
“Nothing’s totally anonymous these days. We could find fingerprints.”
“Mine, certainly, and the security agents.’”
“Our forensics people are good at separating the wheat from the chaff. Have you kept the envelopes?”
“I think so. Why?”
“The postmark could give us a lead. Letters of this kind are usually written in anger, and anger makes you careless. Whoever wrote it could have simply dropped their letter in a mailbox near where they live. It’ll take a long time, but we’ll have to look for all the parents who adopted children from that orphanage, and find their addresses.”
“That idea wouldn’t have occurred to me.”
“You’re not a police officer. So—an office colleague, and three threatening letters. You said it was a long list. Who else is on it?”
“I’m currently working on an equally sensitive investigation into the atrocities committed by various soldiers during the Argentine dictatorship.”
“Are you investigating anyone in particular?”
“The protagonist of my article is a former air force major who’s suspected of having participated in death flights. The courts have cleared him of all charges, but I’m using his story as the leitmotif of my piece.”
“Have you met this guy?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t able to get him to talk. I’m hoping to get a confession out of him on my forthcoming trip.”
“If I believe these absurd claims of yours, you already made this trip in the past, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I thought you couldn’t change the course of events?”
“That’s what I’d been telling myself, up until yesterday. But the fact that you’re here and that we’re having this conversation, which never happened in my previous life, makes me think I could be wrong.”
Pilguez clinked the ice cubes in his glass.
“Let’s get one thing straight, Stilman. You’ve shown a certain flair for telling the future, but I’m not quite ready to swallow this story of yours hook, line and sinker. Why don’t we agree on a
Similar Books
