by Pablo Poveda
“Pharmaceutical industry.” I replied. “I know his start-up deals with...”
“Another English term...” the policeman complained.
“Arsenic trioxide is used with antineoplastics,” the doctor explained, “interest in this compound is back since it’s been found effective in patients with leukemia, but it’s just a coincidence.”
“Well, we have a few of those,” the policeman said convinced. “What do you think of all this, Caballero?”
I was wondering the same thing. In my head there was only the image of Patricia after hearing the news that I was about to break to her —to her and to Ortiz—. I could finally get their trust back. Regarding the case, I didn’t know what to think; although it was clear to me that Antonio Maciá was involved in the whole thing. However, something inside of me was shaking. I had the feeling all this was going to touch someone close to me.
“This is all speculation,” I said with doubt. “There’s only one way to find out and that is by searching Ms. Llopis’ office. We might find some answers there.”
7
THE MORNING HAD GONE by in a blink of an eye, the same one that almost made me fall asleep in Detective Botella’s Ford Sierra. We went back to the city and he dropped me off at my place. Botella insisted I should contact him as soon as I found out anything about the second subject. It was midday and my legs were failing me due to lack of sleep.
When I walked through the door, I felt Patricia’s perfume in my nose. She always used a sweet fresh cologne that reminded me of an eternal summer. The house smelled like mincemeat with fried onion and I could hear a song by Burning blasting from the radio.
I slipped into the kitchen and saw Patricia in a comfortable black dress with her brown hair tied in a ponytail. She always looked so pretty, even when she didn’t feel like seeing me. She was standing, with her hips forward, revealing her belly button, as if she was demanding something. She focused on the sauce as she grabbed the pan.
“It smells good...” I said, trying to calm the storm, and went closer to kiss her on the cheek. The kiss, cold and undeserved, sounded like a broken plate. “I missed you last night. You could have left a note.”
“I fell asleep at Elena’s,” she replied and glanced at me with a smile, “Too much wine, you know...”
I opened the fridge and grabbed a can of Mahou. Then I took a long swig; the first sip of a cold beer is the best one of all.
“Are you still mad?” I asked, leaning on the doorframe.
She looked at me with her head tilted. “No, Gabriel, I’m not mad. It’s just...”
“I swear I told Ortiz, but you know how he is...”
“Yes, I know,” she replied with disappointment, “and I also know what you are like... Well, it’s fine. I’m over it. All that dean crap is over now.”
“Not really,” I said. Her shoulders became tense. “I mean yes, but in a bad way.”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand when you start with your riddles...”
“It seems, it looks like it was murder.”
Her pupils dilated, which I took as a sign of alert towards our relationship, not to what had happened.
“A murder.”
“Yes.”
“Wow,” she said, swallowing her bile, “things are tense around her... Are you eating with me?”
“Listen, Patricia” I said, caressing her wrists, and took a deep breath. “I think this is going to be the biggest news in town, really. Someone has tried to get rid of the dean. The district attorney’s office has closed the case, but the detective from Homicide wants me to help him with it...”
“The detective?”
All my reasoning was going down the drain. The spaceship was losing pressure.
“Patricia, please.” I insisted. “This can get me and you out of here. I could write a book, who knows... but I’m sure it’ll be huge for my career and better for us.”
“But what are you talking about, Gabriel?” She asked angrily. “You need to sleep and have a normal life.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“No,” she said in a bad mood, “I totally get it. I also understand you haven’t been home for the last two weeks, not even to change your clothes, that your boss has you tied to your chair and that, whenever I call you, you are always out with that university friend of yours. I understand that we have been struggling for the last three months and you keep trying to change the world with your writing.”
“I get paid to tell the truth, Patricia.” I replied and took another sip of beer. “We all need journalism. That’s the real problem. A misinformed society will make the same mistakes over and over.”
“Sure, Gabriel, whatever you say, but I’m not going make the same mistakes over and over,” she said, “I’m sick of all this.”
The smell of fried onion wasn’t the cause of Patricia’s tears. She was exhausted, tired of me, of her, of us. The spaceship was losing ground and we were headed for a cliff.
I caressed her neck and invited her to lay on my chest. The sobbing dragged her down a deep sadness. Burning kept singing about a fatal woman, always in trouble, and as I listened to the chorus, I realized that in my song I was the protagonist, not Patricia.
“It’s okay. It’s okay,” I told her, “I promise I’ll change the situation, really.”
When the music stopped, she raised her face and looked me in the eyes with her smeared makeup.
“I want you to promise me something,” she said, her eyes piercing my face.
“Whatever you want, love...”
“Promise me you won’t get involved in the whole university thing, please,” she begged. “I know it’s not fair to ask this of you, but it’s not fair to live like this either, Gabriel.”
Her words pierced my chest like a dagger, ripping my heart apart in asymmetric pieces. I sighed with all my soul. Patricia was still there, in front of me, with her hands on my face, holding my cheeks tightly. She didn’t believe me; she didn’t care about my profession and what I did. Patricia worked as an accountant in an office. For her, information was just a pastime she could talk about in social events to look smart. Despite everything, we loved each other so much, it just took some time to accept her idiosyncrasies.
“Alright, you win,” I said, and gave her a kiss on her forehead and we hugged.
She kissed me on the lips and dragged me to the bedroom. I could feel the heat rising from Patricia’s body again, her delicate pale skin and her German bun shaped breasts. We made love with passion like we hadn’t done for weeks. It was the first time I had lied to her in such a cold and cunning way. No matter what I said, I knew I was going to pay a high price for that story.
8
THE SUN WENT DOWN ON the coast hugging the Meliá hotel in Postiguet beach. Hidalgo walked down the promenade towards Cafe Noray, a minimalist bar by the pier in the port. It was a cubicle with walls made of glass and aluminum and an aseptic appearance. On top, there was a white and blue flag waving reluctantly in the sea breeze.
Hidalgo checked his cell phone and saw no missed calls. Then, he headed for the area where the tables were displayed and sat in front of the yachts docked at the nautical club. He was wearing a white shirt and a pair of cream-colored slacks. With his sleeves rolled up and hidden behind his dark sunglasses, he raised his arm to call the waiter, who noticed him.
“Good evening, sir. What can I get for you?” a boy holding a metal tray said in a southern accent.
“Has anybody come asking about me?” Hidalgo asked.
The boy remained deep in thought for a moment. “How would I know?” he replied honestly. “I don’t know who you are.”
“Never mind,” said Hidalgo, “a beer, please.”
Minutes later, the waiter came back with a beer on his tray. “Here you are.”
“Thank you,” said Hidalgo and took a sip looking impatiently at his phone on the table. Before placing the glass on the metal surface, a human figure appeared behind him.
“Sorry to be late,” said a male voice. It was Antonio Maciá, with his hair back, jeans, round sunglasses and an orange polo-shirt. “It’s impossible to park around here.”
“Anybody could see us here,” said Hidalgo nervously, “Wasn’t there any other place in the whole city?”
“Relax, Hidalgo, will you?” he replied with calm. “We cannot be arrested for having a beer under the wonderful Mediterranean sun. I love this city, you know?”
Hidalgo ordered red vermouth with a slice of orange, two ice cubes and an olive. The waiter didn’t take long.
“What are you going to do now?” Hidalgo asked. Being there made him uncomfortable.
“Some pickles, please,” ordered Maciá to the waiter, ignoring Hidalgo’s questions. Then, he paused and addressed him: “My commitment as Monica’s campaign sponsor is over. I have nothing to do with this anymore. On the other hand, you are the natural replacement, Hidalgo. It all turned out pretty well for you, didn’t it?”
“So you intend to forget about the university, is that it?” Hidalgo asked. “I’m happy to have you out, you know, but I assumed your interest was merely professional. It seems it wasn’t.”
“Appearances are deceptive, right Antonio?” he replied. “I also expected to see you at the funeral, but I didn’t... A disappointment. You didn’t want to say goodbye to Monica?”
“I was busy.”
“Right...” Maciá said with a smile. “You are not a good loser, buddy... even when you win.”
“Look, smart ass,” Hidalgo answered, pointing at him with his finger. Maciá remained relaxed, enjoying his drink, a leg crossed and leaning back. “I never liked you. From the moment I saw you, prowling around the offices, I knew you were trouble and I was right, burdening everybody... I don’t know your plans, but I won’t let you take another step.”
“Are we talking about work or about Monica?” he asked defiantly.
Hidalgo was about to lose control, but the presence of the rest of the people kept him calm. “If it wasn’t for everything that is happening, I’d kick your ass right now.”
“But you won’t,” Maciá replied, getting closer and feeling superior, “because it wouldn’t be good for you. Leave it, Hidalgo, you’re not the vindictive kind of man. Come on, don’t be so proud... In fact, I think it’d be good for you if we got along. I can shut some mouths in the teaching staff...”
“Get along with you?” he said. “I’d quit before doing that.”
“Then enjoy your days as a dean because shit is about to rain from the sky.”
“Fuck you!” Hidalgo exclaimed. The waiters and the rest of the customers at their tables looked with surprise.
Antonio Hidalgo left a few coins on the table, stood up and walked away. Some curious folks watched the scene, whispering and muttering.
“Mind your business,” Maciá said as he ordered another vermouth.
The sun merged with the sea and the reflection of the moon appeared. The darkness sheltered the night, an evening none of them would forget in some time.
9
DETECTIVE BOTELLA HAD left a message for me on my voicemail: Dr. Casavieja had the key to Monica Llopis’ office. How did he get it? Sometimes the presence of a detective and being part of the investigation is enough for the staff to be on your side.
After resting for a few days and going back to my ordinary life, I left Patricia taking a nap and went out. Ortiz had let me off work earlier. We didn’t talk too much about what had happened and there were only short press releases and a few unimportant opening events. The arrival of two new interns to the office would keep him busy for a while. I knew those days would be few. I hadn’t told my boss anything, although he knew I was working on something big. Whatever it was, he believed me, not completely but enough to let me work alone.
I got in the red second hand SEAT Ibiza GTI I had bought a few years ago, tuned in to Radio 3 and sped down the motorway towards the Faculty of Science. When I got there, Detective Botella and Dr. Casavieja were waiting for me. I walked through the entrance and saw them leaning on a glass panel where professors used to pin memos.
“Good morning,” I said, looking out of the corner of my eye. “We’re not going to get in trouble, right Detective?”
“The only thing that can happen is that this guy loses his job,” he joked, pointing at the biologist.” I’m kidding. Ramiro is friends with the clerk.”
“We are like a little family,” the doctor said with kind of a smile. “If something happened to Llopis, we want to find out.”
“Oh, Caballero...” said the policeman, “this is also...”
“Yes, I know,” I interrupted, “off the record. Don’t worry, detective. Do we know anything about the tests?”
“Not yet. I’ll let you know as soon as I have them.”
We walked, following Dr. Casavieja’s steps that took us to a second floor full of small offices. Each door had a porthole like the cabin of a ship. The rooms were empty. None of the professors were marking exams there.
“Good times...” I muttered as I headed towards the end of the corridor. “I remember seeing everything from such places.”
“Such as?” Botella asked with curiosity.
“Do you have children, detective?”
“Yes,” he replied, “a nineteen-year-old daughter. She’s studying law.”
“Oh, Botella. You cannot imagine what students will do to pass a test...” the professor said.
“I’d rather not know,” he replied tense. “Where’s this damned office?”
“Here,” indicated Casavieja, inserting the key into the last door on the right. “This is Monica Llopis’ office. Be careful, you don’t want to leave any trace in case they reopen the investigation, right?”
The door opened inside. The office consisted of two chairs, a modest desk with a framed family picture, a computer and a paper calendar. There was also a full water dispenser.
On the right of the swivel chair, there was a small shelf with colorful folders and text books about biology, economics, and law. Since there wasn’t much room, we divided the tasks: Casavieja watched in case someone came from the corridor while Botella and I looked around. The doctor stood in front of the door, glancing at us every once in a while with sweat on his forehead. He looked scared. The situation made us all quite tense.
Botella grabbed the calendar and looked at the days before the incident.
“Nothing interesting,” he said, opening one of the last drawers of the desk. “Is there a way to turn the computer on?”
“Try pressing the start button,” I replied. He didn’t say anything and didn’t thank me either.
The system started with a clean desktop, no documents. We searched in the main folders, but we only found formal documents and letters Ms. Llopis had printed out.
“Open the mail”, the detective ordered. “I’m sure we’ll find something useful there”.
But there was no luck. Monica had not only deleted her inbox folder; she had also left no trace of the sent folder. She was a scheming woman who knew what she was doing at every moment. Although the email account she used was associated with the faculty, it all seemed too perfect, too formal, ordinary. The truth was that, after a while, no professor kept things tidy nor followed the rules. After an adaptation period, every employee used the courier service to mail some stupid thing at some point or contact someone. The comfort, the false security was what caused this.
“This is a waste of time,” the detective said, “with no evidence, we won’t get anywhere, especially into her apartment.”
“There’s gotta be something, detective,” I replied, “something that we’re missing.”
“I’m afraid the clock is ticking, Caballero.”
“I think someone’s coming,” said the doctor at the other side of the door.
“Shit!” I exclaimed and banged the table. The keyboard moved a few inches and a small piece of paper appeared from underneath it.
; “Come on. Hurry up! Someone’s in the elevator...” said the doctor. “If they see us, it’ll look suspicious.”
“What’s that, Caballero?” the detective asked, ignoring his friend.
We both looked from above: a white and gold notecard. There was a date written on it, two days before Monica Llopis’ death. It was a business card from Nou Manolin Restaurant.
“Mr. Caravieja?” said a female voice from the distance. “What are you doing here? Are you alright?”
“Hmmm... yes! I think I forgot something...” the doctor said as an excuse.
I pushed the door closed and it gave out a soft click.
“What was that?” the woman asked again, walking towards the office.
“Um... I don’t know,” Casavieja replied nervously.
I hinted Botella to get down, so we both kneeled in a blind spot by the entrance. That woman of gentle tone was dragging something along with her. Thanks to the pungent smell, I knew what it was. It was the cleaning lady and she was about to enter and catch us. She turned the door knob.
“Hey! It’s open!” she exclaimed with surprise and laughed. Casavieja, getting more nervous by the second, laughed with her. “You know, after what happened, they want me to leave this spotless, but just thinking about it gives me the chills...”
“I understand.”
“Anyway, we should leave the dead alone, don’t you think?” the woman said. “Where were you going? If I’m not mistaken, your office was on the other wing, right?”
“Yes. I was about to leave...” said the doctor wishing to disappear.
Botella and I looked at each other. We were screwed. The guy was a real schmuck, unable to get rid of the cleaning lady, ruining our investigation.
“Oh!” I exclaimed, “I remember why I was here now.”
“Do you? Tell me while I start...” the woman said, pushing the trolley with cleaning supplies. Botella and I were leaning against the wall and we could see the front wheels.