The fourth volume in my South American mystery novel series, The Matador Murders, has just been published on Amazon. Roger and Suzanne are back in Montevideo after being summoned by a late night phone call. The book features lots of action, a good whodunit storyline, guest appearances from several old friends and an old enemy from The Ambivalent Corpse and The Surreal Killer, and occasional opportunities for sightseeing and eating regional specialty foods.
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The Matador Murders, is set in Montevideo, Uruguay and Santiago, Chile. With apologies to reality, the Montevideo of this novel is much like the lawless Chicago of the prohibition years with the body count surpassing The Surreal Killer. That’s part of the fun of writing fiction----an author can turn one of the most law-abiding and civilized big cities in the world into the wild, wild west of the 19th century American frontier with the stroke of a pen (that’s a metaphor; it's more the click of a keyboard these days). The book features characters from Books #2 and #3 for a significant role (Martin Gonzalez, an Uruguayan policeman) and a major role (Eduardo Gomez, a Paraguayan policeman), respectively. Pat Bertram interviewed Eduardo on her blog last February, where he shared his impressions of life as a minor character in a series. He wanted a bigger part in a subsequent book. Well, his wish was my command and it happens here. I suspect he won't really be happy until he has his own book to star in.
Chapter 1. Adios to a crooked cop
Early that day, Jose Gonzalez, in his usual role as a detective on the Montevideo police force, had a loud and highly acrimonious argument with his partner. Martin Gonzalez, the partner, was proud of two things. The first was that he and Jose were not related despite the common surname. The other was that he was the ranking half of the partnership and could say whatever was on his mind with no real fear of the consequences. Martin was in fact a Detective Lieutenant and the officer with the second highest ranking in the detective division after his Captain, fortuitously not named Gonzalez. Probably half of the detectives on the Intendencia de Montevideo Police Force heard the argument, even if none of them were able to hear enough of the words to know what the argument was all about. The loud voices penetrated through the closed door of the small office shared by the two Detectives named Gonzalez, and it was obvious that they disagreed strongly about something.
On the other side of the door Martin was saying to Jose, loudly and forcefully, “You are a lousy liar and a corrupt cop, a dirty crook and a disgrace to the police force!”
“You can’t prove that,” was the loud reply. “If you could, we wouldn’t be having this argument.”
“You know, and I know, that you’re crooked. That’s enough for me. Get out of here, and stay out of my sight till I’m able to get you reassigned and get myself a new partner.”
Jose opened the door and left the room. With the door open, everyone heard Martin’s last words to Jose and more than a dozen reported them, more or less verbatim, to the Captain after they learned of Jose’s death.
In one form or another, they all reported that Martin Gonzalez said, “You’ve stolen your last peso from the public you’re supposed to serve. I’m going to see that you never do it again!”
Meanwhile, Jose left the police station, walked a few blocks to a convenient bus stop, and hopped on an untraceable bus to ride to the street where his next meeting was scheduled. Jose, whose second deadly sin after greed was vanity, admired himself as he sat on the bus. The suit was well tailored for his slight frame, the shoes were made from real Argentine leather rather than the cheap imitation junk from Brazil, and his hat made a fashion statement more than it just covered his head. The bus came to his stop and he pushed the button to alert the driver and stepped off the stairs from the now open back door. He walked another careful couple of blocks after ensuring nobody was following him by bus or car, and entered an apartment house almost exactly 15 minutes late for his appointment. If anything, he was early by Uruguayan social custom, but he knew that Carlos would already be at the apartment waiting for him with his payoff for services rendered. In this particular case the service rendered was to lose the contents of a police file, which would throw a major monkey wrench into the trial of an important local drug dealer.
Jose got off of the elevator and rang the correct doorbell.
Carlos Cavernas opened the apartment door and gestured Jose Gonalez to enter. Jose was slim, medium height, very well dressed---what would have been called dapper a few generations ago---with a fussily trimmed mustache, dark brown hair, and brown eyes. He was quite obviously Spanish in origin. Carlos was much heavier, squat and built like a fire hydrant, clean-shaven, and sloppily dressed in brown corduroy trousers and a gray seaman's cable sweater. He followed Jose into the apartment, shut the door, and led his colleague into the adjacent living room, stooping to pick up a white envelope from a coffee table in front of a long brown sofa. He passed the envelope to Jose, who looked inside, riffled the thick stack of cash to estimate the amount, and put the envelope into the breast pocket of his expensive woolen sport jacket.
"It's not enough any more for all of the stuff you're asking me to do," Jose told Carlos. "I need a big raise, say about 50%!"
Carlos pulled out a small pistol, which he pointed at Jose with the first hint of a genuine smile on his face since he had opened the apartment door. "That's the wrong answer. My orders were to give you the money and thank you if you just took it, but to officially terminate the relationship if you tried to get cute and ask for more. I've been looking forward to your decision. I hate cops. I hate dirty cops even more."
He shot twice. A third and fourth eye sprouted on Jose's head as he fell to the floor, obviously dead. Carlos bent over the body and removed the envelope with the cash, which went into one of his trouser pockets.
"Thank you very much, Senor Gonzales. I think that is the first time you have ever given me anything. I am pleased that your first gift to me is such a generous one. Now I will take a few more smaller gifts and say adios."
The detective's pistol, badge, and wristwatch disappeared into another pocket and Carlos was ready to go. He checked the scene to make sure nothing important had been left behind and walked to the front door. Doorknobs were wiped clean of fingerprints, as were any other surfaces he might have touched. After an elaborate ritual with locks and keys, he walked down the stairs and out of the building onto the street completely unobserved. He walked to his car, parked unobtrusively several blocks away, and drove off.