Mapuche by Caryl Ferey

Author:Caryl Ferey [Ferey, Caryl]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Police Procedural
ISBN: 9788866323037
Google: Qf-0T1xX9aQC
Amazon: 8866323039
Barnesnoble: 8866323039
Publisher: E/O
Published: 2013-01-02T05:00:00+00:00

*

The seaside resort of El Tigre had emptied out at the end of the summer. The rowing clubs were still busy, and a few morons were still making their jet skis howl among the rotting lemons that were floating on the surface of the water. Rubén was driving down the main artery, holding a sandwich he’d bought on the fly in one of the shops on the embarcadero. Gianni Del Piro lived at the end of the avenue, in a detached house that clashed with the sumptuous residences around it, which had been built a century earlier.

A compact car was parked in the carport. Rubén threw the rest of the sandwich to the dog that was going through the neighbor’s garbage cans and rang at the front door. The pilot’s wife promptly opened the door. Her name was Anabel, a plump bleached blonde with a crude red smile who, to judge by her vast heart-shaped décolleté, still refused to accept the fact that she had turned fifty.

“Hello!’ she chirped to the dandy standing on her porch.

Rubén, all smiles, passed himself off as an old army pal who had been assigned to round up the squadron to celebrate the retirement of a mutual friend. Charmed by the attention, Anabel explained that Gianni had left the preceding week for Neuquén to participate in training course in “advanced acrobatics” and that he would be back on Sunday, but that she could still call him to let him know about the reunion.

“If you want me to, of course!” the coquette added.

“I’d like to surprise him,” Rubén replied cagily.

“As you wish!”

Rubén briefly sounded out the woman who was fanning herself on the threshold. She’d had a facelift, and even though she was flirting with him, her innocent air was convincing. He left Anabel to her Botox and returned to his car, which was parked a little farther down the street. Leaning on the hood, he called the flying clubs in Neuquén.

One of them offered training courses given by experienced pilots, but according to the fellow he talked to on the phone, the next course in acrobatics didn’t begin until the following month.

Then he called Anita.

She hadn’t read Muñoz’s autopsy report regarding the death of María Victoria Campallo, but according to the information she’d gleaned, the theory that it was a homicide remained in doubt: an accident, a suicide, a murder—Captain Roncero’s team, to which Luque had assigned the case, was not excluding any line of investigation.

“The autopsy report is wrong,” Rubén replied, “you know that as well as I do.”

“Right. That makes two of us against the rest of the world. María was buried not long ago and no one will allow us to exhume the body to get a second opinion. Unless we can prove that the Campallo family is not genetically related to its stolen children. Where are you with that?”

“I’ve got the name of a guy, Gianni Del Piro, a former military pilot who works in a little flying club in El Tigre.

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