Honor Bound (Honor Bound 1)

“You are?” the Capitán asked, not at all friendly, when Habanzo finished.

“Mi jefe, el Coronel Martín,” Habanzo introduced him.

“¿Credenciales?”

Christ! They are in my jacket pocket.

“Capitán,” Martín said. “You have two choices. You may accept the word of el Comandante Habanzo, whose credentials I presume you have seen, that I am who I say I am…”

“Credenciales, por favor.”

“…or we will all stand here while I telephone my office and have an agent dispatched to my home to pick up my credentials. While we are waiting, I will telephone my friend el Coronel Savia-Gonzalez, wake him from a sound sleep, and tell him that one of his capitáns is interfering with Internal Security.”

“With respect, mi Coronel,” the Capitán said. “We have three murders here. Murder is the responsibility of my office.”

“What we have here, according to el Comandante Habanzo, is three bodies. If my investigation indicates that there were in fact three murders, and that these murders have no connection with Internal Security, then I will happily turn over the investigation to the Policía Federal.”

He locked eyes with the Capitán, who after a moment backed down.

“Sí, mi Coronel.”

“Where is the American?” Martín asked.

“In there, mi Coronel,” Habanzo said, pointing to a closed door, before which stood a uniformed Policía Federal. “It is the library.”

“Has he been interrogated?”

“No, mi Coronel. He refuses to answer any questions.”

“I have placed him under arrest,” the Capitán said.

“No, you haven’t,” Martín said. “Be good enough, Capitán, to accompany el Comandante and me on a preliminary survey of the crime scene.”

“There are two,” Habanzo said. “The kitchen, and the apartment on the upper floor.”

“We will begin with the kitchen,” Martín said. “Where is it?”

“Through that door, mi Coronel.”

Martín’s stomach nearly turned when he saw the body sitting at the kitchen table. There was already the sickly sweet smell of blood, and flies.

“Get a towel, or a sheet or something, and cover the body.”

“Photographs have not been taken,” the Capitán protested.

“If I decide photographs are in order, the sheet can be removed,” Martín said, and went to the doors leading outside from the kitchen to examine them for marks of forcible entry. There were none.

Which means nothing. People will remove dead bolts and chains to open doors to complete strangers.

He turned from the door to the basement.

“Habanzo, have you examined the door from the street to the garage, and the front door, for signs of forcible entry?”

“I have,” the Capitán answered for him. “Or rather, one of the Homicide Bureau investigators has,” he corrected himself. “There were none.”

“Thank you,” Martín said. “How do we reach the—you said ‘upper-floor apartment’?”

“There is a stairway and an elevator, mi Coronel,” Habanzo said.