Havana Blue Read Online Free PDF

less fragile when, from the driver’s seat, he looked towards the entrance to headquarters and saw the deadpan expression on Lieutenant Mario Conde’s face; perhaps he’d not impressed him with a manoeuvre that was wilder than anything Gene Hackman does in French Connection . Although he was so young and people said in a few
years he’d be the best detective at headquarters, Sergeant Manuel Palacios displayed rampant immaturity when he got his hands on a woman or a driving wheel. The Count’s phobia at what was for him an overly complex activity, your hands steering, your eyes following what was in front and behind, simultaneously accelerating, changing gear or using the footbrake, allowed Manolo to be the perpetual driver whenever the Boss insisted on assigning them to the same case. The Count had always thought such vehicular cohabitation – he saved on a driver – was the reason the major coupled them so often. At headquarters some reckoned the Count was the best detective on the payroll and that Sergeant Palacios would soon overtake him, but few grasped the affinity that had sprung up between the dreadfully penny-pinching lieutenant and an almost emaciated, baby-faced sergeant who must certainly have cheated his way into the Police Academy. Only the Boss realized they might hit it off. In the end that was what happened.
    The Count walked over to the car: cigarette between lips, jacket unbuttoned, bags under eyes hidden behind dark glasses. He seemed preoccupied as he opened the car door and climbed into the passenger seat.
    â€œGood, finally, off to the wife’s house?” asked Manolo, raring to go.
    The Count stayed silent for a few minutes. He put his glasses into his jacket pocket. Extracted the photo of Rafael Morín from the file and placed it on his lap.
    â€œWhat do you read in that face?” he asked.
    â€œThat face? You’re the one into psychology, why don’t you tell me?”
    â€œIn the meantime, what’s your take on all this?”
    â€œI’m not sure yet, Conde, it makes no sense. I mean,”
he checked himself and looked at the lieutenant, “it’s real fucking odd.”
    â€œYou tell me,” replied the Count, egging him on.
    â€œWell, for the moment there’s no sign of an accident and no evidence he’s fled the country, at least according to the latest reports I’ve just read, although I’d not bet on it. I don’t think he’s been kidnapped. That wouldn’t make any sense either.”
    â€œForget about any sense and go on.”
    â€œWell, a kidnapping doesn’t make any sense because I can’t see what anyone could ask him for, and I don’t figure he’s run off with a woman or anything of that sort, because he’d know there’d be one hell of a fuss and he doesn’t seem that kind of guy. He’d lose his position, right? I’ve got one solution with two possible angles: he’s been killed by accident or because people wanted to steal something, or because he was mistaken for somebody else, or else was killed because he was involved in some fucking scam. And the only other possibility is quite ridiculous: he’s hiding for some reason, but if that’s the case, I can’t understand why he didn’t think up something to delay his wife filing a statement. A trip to the provinces or whatever . . . But the guy stinks like a dead dog on the highway. In the meantime we’ve no choice but to look everywhere: his home, work, barrio, anywhere, to find something to explain all this.”
    â€œFuck the bastard,” exclaimed the Count, staring at the road opening up before him. “Let’s go to his place. Off you go to Santa Catalina via Rancho Boyeros.”
    Manolo drove them on. The streets were still deserted under the bright sun that beat down and invited thoughts of an early afternoon break. A few dirty clouds lurked high on the horizon. The