Vargas put his office phone on speaker, enabling Torres to listen in. Then he switched on the recording device for the upcoming call. It was midday in San Francisco and Richard Franklin was sitting at his desk going through the latest polls, which showed his son’s position looking almost unstoppable. Since the live TV debate, three of his opponents had ended their campaigns, leaving a senator from Wisconsin as his only rival for the Republican nomination. However, the latest numbers showed she was twelve points behind Franklin, and even more encouraging were the overnight head-to-head polls that looked at a straight shoot-out between Franklin and the incumbent of the White House. For the first time, his son held a three-point lead over the Democratic president. Richard made a mental note to step up the national TV advertising budget, as it was clearly delivering.

Vargas dialled the number that had been retrieved from Paz’s mobile and, almost six and a half thousand miles away, the red phone on Franklin’s desk burst into life. He grabbed the receiver, hoping to hear some good news.

“Have you found it?”

The voice that greeted Vargas and Torres was educated and self-assured, but more than anything it was threatening. The chief inspector hesitated for a moment before replying. “You’re referring to Box 1321?”

Franklin felt his entire body stiffen as a giant alarm bell invaded his brain. “Who is this?”

Again, Vargas took his time before answering. “This is Chief Inspector Vargas from the Buenos Aires City Police Department. Who am I speaking with?”

Franklin couldn’t contain his inner rage. He slammed down the receiver and wildly yanked the phone cord from its floor connection. He glared at the red phone as if it were a disloyal traitor before launching it across the office where it smashed into pieces as it hit the wall.

Vargas turned off the recording device and replaced the phone.

Torres was the first to speak. “What did you make of that, chief?”

Vargas’s face revealed a slight hint of a smile. “I think it’s fair to say we rattled someone’s cage.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

17 January 2012

San Francisco

It had been just over an hour since the car-crash phone call and Franklin had left the office for a cooling-off drive. The remnants of his red phone were now stashed in a black plastic bag in the boot of the Rolls. His white-hot temper had galvanised into a cold, clinical fury. He’d driven out to Potrero Hill, a quiet neighbourhood on the outskirts of the city, and pulled onto a small side street that ran alongside McKinley Square, one of the landmark parks in the area.