Read Online The Black Minutes by Martín Solares - Free Book Online Page A

boar.
    While the chief was on the phone, Cabrera took a seat in one of the two chairs in front of his desk. The Bedouin hit the back of the seat twice and whispered, “You better wait for his permission,
cabrón
. Who knows what you did?”
    Cabrera replied, “No mames, buey.” And he didn’t stand up. Even though the thick blinds blocked all the light out of the office, the chief kept on his dark aviator glasses. When he hung up, he looked at the detective and asked him point-blank, “You confiscated a gun that belonged to Mr. Obregón?”
    The kid’s pistol. . . . He’d forgotten about that.
    “Yes, it’s in my desk. It’s Mr. Obregón’s?”
    The chief didn’t answer.
    “Come on, Macetón, who do you think you are?”
    “It was a mistake: the friggin’ brat. The kid was threatening a civilian with the gun, without identifying himself.” If the kid could lie so could he.

    Chief Taboada shook his head. “Do me a favor and give it back right away. And one more thing: Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He threw a copy of
El Mercurio
at him.
    There wasn’t much news in the port, and the really important stuff happened in the crime-beat section. That’s where the results of all the scheming and rivalries showed up. After every power struggle, the ones who were convicted or murdered ended up on those three pages. The secret history of the port was in there, and if there was somebody who knew how to read it, it was the chief.
    Johnny Guerrero’s new column was on page three. Damn! Goddamn that Johnny and his stupid gossip. Just like the afternoon before, it wasn’t really an article, it was an editorial. The journalist commented once again on Bernardo Blanco’s death, writing that the officer in charge of the investigation was following a solid lead to track down the killer.
    The chief looked at Cabrera without blinking or moving, using one of the oldest tricks of the police force: Whenever you want a suspect to talk, stay quiet. A couple of minutes of silence from a cop applies more pressure than a couple of good questions. Generally, people feel uncomfortable and start talking on their own, just like Cabrera did.
    “The journalist is making up—”
    The chief interrupted his explanation. “What have you found out?”
    Cabrera explained there wasn’t much to go on. Before his death, Bernardo Blanco met with Padre Fritz Tshanz.
    “What did they talk about?”
    “I don’t know yet. Padre Fritz was very evasive. You know how he is.”

    “What about the diskette?”
    “There was nothing on it.”
    “Are you sure?”
    “I’m sure, Chief.”
    Taboada exhaled, grunted, and stared at him. He didn’t like his answer. “I think your time has come, Officer. Hand over the case to the new guys. Talk to Camarena and fill him in on your investigation.”
    He had never been humiliated like this before. The worst thing, the absolute worst thing, that can happen to an agent is to be replaced when he’s on the verge of solving a case. And to be replaced by Camarena! It wasn’t fair!
    “I want three days off,” he said.
    The chief looked at him angrily. “Who do you think you are?”
    “Nobody. It’s just that I haven’t had a day off in two months, and I need a break.”
    It was true: for the last two months, he had practically been living at police headquarters. His failing marriage was the proof.
    “OK, I’ll give them to you, but watch out.” The chief made himself clear. “You have nothing to do with this case.”
    “Thanks, Chief.”
    The Bedouin looked at him disdainfully, and on his way out he bumped him with his shoulder.
    He went to eat at his wife’s apartment, and miraculously he found her organizing his papers from work. To be cautious, he didn’t tell her about his days off; she would have insisted on using them to go visit her sister, and Cabrera didn’t feel like being a chauffeur. He tried to take her clothes off, but she slapped his hand. “Respect my space; I’m