Murder In Lima

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Book excerpt

Chapter 1

19 July 2014

Kurt Hammer staggered out of a black and white chess-patterned taxi in the Miraflores area of Lima, Peru.

He went around the car to the driver’s side, before remembering that he had already paid, and continued crossing the street, ignoring the traffic signal in front of him. From the driver’s seat of his taxi, Juan Pablo looked on with eyes like saucers.

Oh my God, he will be hit, Juan thought before opening the door and running out to grab hold of his foreign client's arm. Compared to the gangly Norwegian, whose head was almost two meters above the ground, Juan Pablo looked more like a child than a taxi driver.

 “Hey, man, where do you live?” Juan Pablo spoke as calmly as he could and in English. The words exited his mouth with a slight Quechuan accent.

Kurt pointed to a red building across street. At the bottom it said “Ibero Librerias” on a blue background. Between two rows of big windows, in the middle of the building, were the words “Pariwana Backpackers” in white lettering.

Juan Pablo put his arm around his tall, foreign client, who suspiciously resembled some American actor. Who was it … Jeff Bridges! He had the same thin frame, blue eyes, slightly sunken face, and sharp chin covered in a beard. His hair was dark blond, greasy, and touched his shoulders. This Norwegian's nose was crooked from several fights over the years——a fact Juan Pablo didn't find curious in the least, considering how the man drank. He hoped that someone inside would take care of his client so the taxi driver could go back to work. The odd couple was almost run over twice by a green bus and a blue Range Rover as they attempted to cross the street.

Finally, they came to a black door, which was located under a black sign with yellow letters that read “Pariwana.” Juan discovered a red button on his left-hand side and pushed it. After one minute the door opened.

Juan sighed heavily when he pushed the door open and noticed a stairway.

20 July 2014

Kurt Hammer woke up at 11:31 a.m. the next day. His head felt like a water balloon about to burst. What happened yesterday? he thought.

Kurt had no clue, but when he realized that he'd eventually fallen asleep in his own bed, a satisfied little smile spread across his lips. Slowly but surely, he opened his eyes and then looked around the room. It was covered with red wallpaper and sparsely furnished. Except for the double bed fashioned from dark wood and two nightstands, it contained nothing but a closet. When he turned his head, he almost lost his breath. Lying beside him in the bed was a Peruvian woman in her late twenties. She had long, jet-black hair, which touched her shoulders, as well as bangs. Her big lips were still painted red from the night before. Kurt noticed, too, that she had a fairly long scar over her right eye.

Kurt lightly touched her naked shoulder.

She opened her eyes slowly. Then she turned around and looked up at Kurt. Under a couple of thick but manicured brows were almond shaped eyes with pupils like coffee beans.

“Madre de dios,” she cried. Mother of God!

She jumped out of bed, dragging the bedsheet she used to cover her breasts.

“What happened yesterday?” she asked.

“I had hoped that you could give me the answer to that,” Kurt replied.

“Are you used to waking up with strange women by your side?”

“Hmm. It's been a while, but it's happened. Who are you?" Kurt smiled carefully.

“I'm Sara Sofia Ulo. I went out with friends last night, and … Madre de dios! They must be wondering where I went. Do you have a telephone I can borrow?”

"Don't you have your own?"

"I lent it to my friend last night before I blacked out."

"I see …" Kurt reached over to the nightstand, grabbed his iPhone 5s, and handed it to her.

"Thanks," she said and sat down on the edge of the bed with her back to him.

After a couple of minutes, she concluded that her friend wouldn't pick up the telephone.

"Fuck it, I'll send her a message," she said.

Finally, she handed the cell phone to Kurt and started to dress.

Sara Sofia put on a short black skirt, long black leather boots, and a red corset.

"Thanks for a nice night, which I cannot remember anything of." As she was about to close door behind her, she turned and said, "Next time, you better remember that in this country the men always open the door for the ladies.” She winked.

Well, that was awkward. I'll never drink again, Kurt thought after she'd left.

He crawled out of the bed, but when he tried getting up, it felt like the room was located in a ship trapped in a hurricane. After spending five minutes finding his balance, he grabbed his black toiletry bag and carried it to the bathroom across the hallway.

There he was met by the hostel's overeager activity leader. The little Colombian barely came up to Kurt’s shoulders and looked at him with wide-open eyes, which seemed like two big coffee beans in the nonplussed face.

"Kurt! Where were you yesterday? I heard that they had to carry you into the room," he said.

"No worries. I was just a little drunk and decided to go home early," said Kurt.

"You ought to shave. And take a painkiller … or five. Your eyes are bloodshot. Good thing no one looked for you," said the activity leader.

Kurt was too tired to search for the possible sarcasm in his voice. He, instead, turned his back so he could face the mirrors above a row of wash basins. He hated being told what he should or shouldn't do. The little prick was still right about one thing, though: his beard, and hair for that matter, could use a trim. His ordinarily shoulder-length, dark blond hair was a rat's nest, and his beard was overly long and bushy.

Kurt decided to take drastic measures. During the next fifteen minutes, he trimmed his hair to a couple of millimeters and shaped his bushy beard into a handsome sailor's beard. Then he quickly downed a couple of aspirin.

A couple of hours later, Kurt Hammer stood on the first floor of the big clothing store, Ripley, at Dean Valdivia 577, looking around. All of a sudden, he heard a male voice behind him talking in Norwegian.

"Aren't you … Kurt Hammer?" said the man.

The man standing before Kurt looked to be in his forties, with short, dark hair and square glasses framing a round face. His eyes were blue with thin brows arched over blue eyes. His dark Armani suit was immaculate, but he was missing the little finger on his right hand.

Trying to place the man, Kurt raised one brow. After a half minute he had to concede. "Who are you?" asked Kurt.

The man stretched out his hand with a smile. "Hugo Friis. I read about you in VG and Aftenbladet last year, you see. My employer subscribes to them. You must be a celebrity in Norway now," he said.

Kurt smiled carefully. "That may be so, but people mostly keep quiet around me. Accident at work?" Kurt pointed at Hugo's right hand.

"Oh, yeah. I used to work as a fisherman outside Harstad, where I come from. What are you doing here?" asked Hugo.

"I needed a vacation. A colleague and friend recommended I travel far away, and my therapist said it would be a good test for me to travel to a place with cheap alcohol. But that's a long story … and what are you doing here? Or more importantly … who are you working for?"

Hugo Friis smiled playfully. "An old acquaintance. Funnily enough, he's hosting a dinner for friends tonight. I think he would appreciate if you showed up," he said.

"Ahh …" Kurt was reluctant to answer.

"Trust me, you won't regret it! Have you heard about Huaca Pucllana?" asked Hugo.

"No …" said Kurt.

"It is a big excavation project in Miraflores, where Lima Incas built pyramids. Come at 8:00 precisely," said Hugo.

The man took out a brochure from the pocket of his suit. It pictured something built with primitive bricks, which resembled a cliff. In the right corner it said "Huaca Pucllana" in white lettering, followed by "the temple of the worshippers of the sea" in yellow lettering.

"Who is this acquaintance, then?" asked Kurt.

"You'll know if you show up! And…" Hugo scrutinized him from top to bottom. Kurt was wearing a canary-yellow suit, a light brown fedora, and red sailor’s slippers "… see if you can find a suitable dinner suit, for God's sake," he said.

With that, the man turned and disappeared to a different section of the clothing store.

What a rude thing to say, Kurt thought and walked back to look for Hawaiian shirts and sunglasses, despite the fact that Lima hardly ever saw any sun. The months of January to April saw an average temperature of twenty-two degrees Celsius, something which suited Kurt well.

* * *

At 7:30, Kurt changed into sandals and a Hawaiian shirt. He lay on the Pariwana hostel's roof with earbuds in and a Marlboro gold hanging out of his mouth while reading Fallen Angels by Gunnar Staalesen. All of a sudden, he was shocked to life by someone touching his shoulder. The little Colombian he'd met earlier stood by his side.

"Kurt, Kurt, Kurt," said the man.

"What is it, Jose?" said Kurt.

"There's a man for you in the reception. He says he's there to pick you up."

"Huh? I haven't ordered a taxi," said Kurt.

"I think you should come take a look," said the man.

"Okay," said Kurt.

Kurt reluctantly stood up, noticing that it was almost dark outside and praised Gunnar Staalesen for occupying him for most of the day. A big gang with huge knapsacks on their backs stood, as per usual, in the white reception area on the second floor; they were in the process of checking in. Behind them stood a small man in a black uniform with a driver's hat on his head.

"Kurt Hammer?" he asked when Kurt came into the reception via the broad staircase which led to the roof.

"That's me," answered Kurt.

Kurt noticed the several surprised stares when he spoke to the little man.

"I have been instructed to drive you to Huaca Pucllava," said the man.

"How did you know where I lived?" asked Kurt.

The man smiled. "My boss knows perfectly well who you are," answered the man.

"Ahh, and who is he?" asked Kurt.

"Join me and you'll see," said the man.

Kurt had started to tire of the secrecy around this employer but followed when the little the man started moving towards another staircase which led down to the street level.

The largest car Kurt had ever seen was parked by the street: a black Mercedes Maybach Pullman, which was about six meters long. Kurt started to understand that the list of people he knew who could arrange this kind of dinner just grew significantly shorter. Still, he had no idea who it could be. The little man opened the rearmost door and signaled that Kurt should get inside.

The car had upholstered seats, and an open bottle of Pahlmeyer Napa Valley Chardonnay waited for him between the two rearmost seats. Kurt immediately started sweating. I deserve half a glass, he thought. Right afterward, the image of Felicia's icy blue eyes filled his mind, along with the smell of Chanel No. 5 mixed with the guilt and shock he'd felt when he woke up that morning. "What a fucking idiot you are, Hammer," he said to himself, opened the window, and poured the contents of the bottle out across the asphalt like a seventy-dollar rain shower. Under Lima’s constantly foggy sky, the cars filled the roadway, and Kurt wondered for how long they would be driving. They arrived fifteen minutes later.