The Black Minutes

15

At night, in the middle of a heavy downpour, Cabrera called Padre Fritz at the bishop’s offices.
“Why didn’t you tell me Jack Williams was the main suspect?” He sounded annoyed.
“Because it wasn’t relevant,” the priest explained. “Mr. Williams has been trying to clear his reputation for twenty years, and I wasn’t going to give any more life to those stories.”
“How are you so sure it wasn’t him?”
“Because I know him. I was friends with his father.”
That changed his perspective completely. What side was the Jesuit on? He didn’t know what to think anymore.
Cabrera called the archive director, Rodrigo Montoya, at his home and asked if he was able to locate the informant.
“He’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at eleven by the lighthouse at the beach,” and he specified the exact place to meet him. “His name is Jorge Romero, and he worked in the Secret Service.”
“His name sounds familiar. How will I recognize him?”
“Don’t worry, he’ll recognize you; he has eyes everywhere. On the other hand, you could never identify him. He’s very good at disguising himself.”
“And why would he be in diguise?”
“There are a lot of people here who don’t like him, starting with the chief of the judicial police. I already told you this was going to be complicated.”
“And how will he recognize me?”
“It won’t be hard. One more thing: If you have some extra pesos, give him some cash. He doesn’t have much money.”
“I don’t have much either.”
“Two hundred pesos would do.”
He called headquarters to check in and found he had six messages from Mr. Obregon’s son: Give me back my gun, assf*ck. Damnit, he said to himself, I’d completely forgotten; I should take it in right now, I don’t want any trouble with Obregón. But he was completely exhausted and he figured a few more hours wouldn’t make a difference . . . and he was wrong again. Since he’d argued with his wife, Cabrera went back to his own apartment, which needed serious cleaning. When he collapsed into bed, he made an attempt to read Rodrigo Montoya’s testimony but it was impossible: too many things had happened in one day already. He stood up for a glass of water and saw the sunset: dusk had begun and darkness descended over the city. Near the refinery, the horizon turned the same color as the gas burn-off stacks; the clouds were lit up with that reddish, anxious color he hated so much. He needed rest. What a day off! he said to himself, and fell asleep.