by Pablo Poveda
“I was looking for you,” Casavieja explained with a fatherly tone. “Someone made a mess in the mensroom, if you know what I mean...”
“Jesus Christ!” the woman said. “Some men act like animals when they’re not at home.”
“I’m so sorry, ma’am...” he said and guided her, “please, follow me so I can show you...”
“Yes, okay,” said the woman, “I don’t think anybody is going to occupy this office today, anyways...”
The voices and the steps faded away. I made an effort to hold my laughter when I saw the concerned expression on Detective Botella’s face, as if he was a teenager up to mischief.
“That was close, huh detective,” I whispered.
“Let’s get out of here, Caballero,” he said, still tense. “Let’s get out of here right now.”
10
WE WENT BACK TO THE Alicante city center like two arrows shot towards the bullseye. We will soon eliminate all doubts. If Monica Llopis had been there with someone during the forty-eight hours before her death, its likely someone has seen them. We parked next to Mercado Central, a small market that had been there since 1921 and still had the freshness of the fishermen, butchers and greengrocers of the region. We met in front of a kiosk at the beginning of the boulevard heading to the coast.
Friday afternoon faded, giving way to a night full of partying, student tourists and short dresses, typical of May’s heat. The golden sun hid behind the buildings and a bright moon made way between the sky and Santa Barbara Castle on top of the mountain. Every time I glanced up and saw the fortress, I imagined the number of men who had tried to reach it, no matter their race, country or religion. Not always were the old days any better. If I had lived during those times, I would probably have been one of those who fell behind.
Alicante was a pure city with the soul of a capital and a proud heart; a city that didn’t fear the big ones like Valencia or Madrid, despite its limited offering. The good weather, the palm tree gardens, the beautiful women walking unabashedly, made that place a dream. It was our life style and we knew how to prove it. Anyone looking for fish would find it easily on these streets.
The humidity in the air stuck to the skin. The detective reached me as I was finishing my cigarette.
“Damned heat, damned Friday,” he complained. “This city is turning into a dump with cars, people... There’s no way one can work like this.”
“Speaking of work, you...” I began to say.
“Mind your own business, boy,” he replied, stretching his moustache, and we started walking down the street. “I’ve brought some pictures of the ceremony where Ms. Llopis is with the rest of the guests.”
“Let’s say we’re dealing with a murder,” I said as we walked by John Mulligan’s Irish bar, where there was always a line of youngsters no matter what time it was, “Do you think the killer would be there?”
“Of course...” he said, then kept silent and glanced at a blond girl in a silver sequined skirt. “Look at that one... How old could she be? Seventeen? Eighteen? We talk about crisis and all that crap, but you put that one next to my wife and it makes you think...”
“Please, detective,” I said in an attempt to focus on the case. Detective Botella seemed to be suffering one of those marriage crisis typical of his age. However, age was just a number and crises seemed to be caused by the longing for novelty, freshness, the human need to taste the forbidden, to be reborn and feel young, to convince oneself that death was still far away.
“Yes, Gabriel...” he replied with his rough voice. “If it was a crime of passion, the killer usually enjoys watching the victim die. It seems that turns them on... I guess.”
I saved a few mental notes of what the detective said. I’d have to examine all those present. Before anticipating a verdict, we’d have to check what the employees of the restaurant were going to say, in case they wanted to collaborate.
We arrived at the Museu de Fogueres gates, wandering through Bailen St. and Quevedo St. towards Castanos St. and Nou Manolin Restaurant. Despite being seven in the evening, the bars in the Spanish eastern side had invented a trend that would later be known as afternooning, in other words, any excuse was good enough to carry on partying in the afternoon. People no longer needed to wait for the evening, they could get hammered at 3 p.m and end up at a night club after the kids left school. The older ones couldn’t wait to feel the anxiety of the hangover. They crowded the terrace bars, the restaurants and the night clubs downtown. When we got to Castanos St., groups of well dressed boys and girls, some higher than others, enjoyed themselves at the tables among the noisy sunset.
Detective Botella seemed surprised by what he was seeing; the way my generation had fun.
“When I was younger it was different,” he remarked, glancing at the bars, “Are we going to leave the country in these kids’ hands?”
We went in the restaurant, a famous place known for having the best drinks in town. I observed the waiters come and go, working behind a wooden bar with stools, bricked walls and hams hanging from the ceiling. A beer tap calmed the thirst of those who ate, leaning on the bar among noisy conversations, mostly rich people. One of the waiters came out of nowhere carrying a tray full of roasted prawns from Denia’s Bay. The employee showed it to the customers for them to give their approval and devour them later. In front of us, a group of women in their thirties looked at us out of the corner of their eyes, behind their glasses full of white wine. I raised my eyes and headed to the bottom of the bar. There were couples going up the stairs to the second floor. I assumed the main dining room was there. Nou Manolin wasn’t just a leisure site, it was also a meeting place for businessmen. An apparent clue, but one that only seemed to confuse the detective.
“What can I get for you?” one of the waiters asked from behind the bar.
“A beer, please” I replied.
“Caballero, please...” Detective Botella said, “Don’t get him anything. We want to speak with the person in charge.”
“Who’s asking?” the employee asked.
Botella didn’t take long to get his badge out. “Detective Botella. Homicide.”
The group of women stopped talking and a few curious people turned around at the sound of those words. A thick bold man appeared, dressed in a white shirt and jeans. He kindly invited us to the end of the bar where there was a tray of salad, fresh tuna and red prawns behind a glass screen.
“Well, I’m listening, Mr...” the man said. He looked exhausted due to his work schedule.
“Botella” he clarified, “This is my assistant, Mr. Caballero. We are here to talk about a little incident and I need to ask you a few questions.”
“Sure. Whatever you need. What’s it about?
Botella took several pictures of the investiture out of his pocket. The man, with his arms folded, looked over the images.
“Are any of these familiar to you?” he asked.
I paid attention to his eyes to see where he focused his attention. He recognized Ms. Llopis, which hinted it wasn’t the first time she had eaten there. Then, he observed one of the pictures and hesitated.
“No, I don’t know anybody” he replied with disdain. “I’m sorry. Anything else?”
“Besides Ms. Llopis, who else have you seen?” I asked.
“I already told you. I know nobody,” he said offended. “That woman is known by the public. She’s all over the news lately.”
“Come on, don´t give me that, please...” the detective insisted.
“I’m very sorry, detective, but we must look after our customers’ privacy,” the man explained as if he had been accused of something, “This is a place where politicians, businessmen and other celebrities come, not just because of the food but because of the privacy we offer. You understand, right?”
Botella searched for my eyes. “Look... let’s see if you understand me” he explained with his deep voice, looking down with an evil expression, “We are investigating this woman’s murder and everything
suggests that she was here before she died, with someone whose identity we ignore. So, let’s see if it’s clear enough; you can help us, tell us who you saw on the picture and not see our faces again, or you can try to be a hero, go back to your kitchen and I promise you on Saturday we will show up with a fucking warrant, and there goes your Saturday! What’s it gonna be?”
The guy was sweating so much his forehead looked polished with glitter. Then he swallowed so hard we could hear his Adam’s apple crack. Botella showed him the photos once again and the man spotted the faces quickly, but it seemed the puzzle had just been outlined when the man pointed his index finger and said:
“This man. They had dinner together.”
“Caballero?” the detective asked. Both looked at me confused. “Anything to say?”
The manager pointed at Antonio Hidalgo’s face in one of the pictures, where he appeared behind Monica Llopis and the other guests.
“Are you sure it was him?” I asked with my voice shaking. A lump was forming in my throat.
“As sure as what my mom’s name is,” he confirmed.
Antonio Hidalgo, what have you done?
One.
Two.
We were losing pressure.
“Caballero” the detective asked, tapping my arm. “Are you okay?”
“No” I replied, “we’re screwed, sir.”
11
WITH A CIGARETTE IN his lips, Detective Botella talked on the phone a few meters away, at Nou Manolin’s door. I couldn’t believe Hidalgo was involved in such a big mess. No, it wasn’t his style. His thing were skirts, alcohol problems, lack of sleep, even lack of respect towards others just to get a reaction out of them, but never this. I threw the cigarette and smashed it with a stamp of my foot when Botella approached me among a crowd that grew bigger by the second.
“Where’s your friend, Caballero?” the policeman asked under the orange shadows of the street lights.
“I don’t know, detective” I answered, “Let me speak with him first.”
“Yes, sure” he said, “Go, call him and ask where he is.”
“I meant talking to him in private” I clarified. “You know what he’s like when the police are around.”
Botella stepped forward. “Listen, kiddo” he said with his sandpaper voice, “The last thing I want is for you to help out your little friend. Don’t sabotage yourself at this point, Caballero.”
“Fuck, no” I replied, backing off. “I simply doubt Hidalgo did something like that. What the hell! He’d never do something like that. I’m sure there’s an explanation to it, Botella. You have to trust me.”
“The phone, Caballero” he commanded, ignoring what I had just said.
I pulled out my phone, searched for Hidalgo’s number and pressed the green button. Botella made a gesture with his fingers for me to hand him the phone and so I did.
“Crap” the officer said “No answer... He might be getting hammered somewhere?”
I prayed everything I knew for Hidalgo to have forgotten his phone at home, have it in silence mode or God knows what excuse was good enough that he didn’t get to talk to Botella.
“No answer?”
“Here. Who knows where he is...” He said, handing me the phone back. Then he looked at his watch. “Shit, it’s almost half past nine. My wife must be making dinner and quite angry...”
I thought of Patricia.
“We should leave it for today” I said, “A break would do us some good.”
“Luckily for you, your friend didn’t answer and I’ve promised my wife to go to the movies tonight.”
“It must be that, detective.”
“Caballero?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t cross me or I’ll ruin your life,” he warned me. Detective Botella would have gotten along with Ortiz. “So don’t get yourself in trouble, don’t tell your friend to run away because I’ll find him and it’ll be worse. You have to help me with this case, and if it was him who poisoned Llopis, he must pay for it.”
“I don’t doubt it, detective.”
“I’ll call you on Monday, as soon as I hear about the tests results,” he said, “meanwhile, don’t drink too much and keep your mouth shut. Not a word to your boss.”
“I won’t” I replied as I began to walk. “Have a good weekend, detective.
ONCE I HAD LEFT BOTELLA, I went to the car and drove to my place. I had to think about everything that had happened. Too much information, too many facts.
Hidalgo had put the icing on the cake with his last minute intervention. Why would he hide his relationship with Llopis? There was nothing to be ashamed of, quite the opposite. The fact that both of them ran for the elections started to become suspicious after all.
On the other hand, I still didn’t know what to think about Antonio Maciá. It was obvious that son of a bitch was putting his foot in the door with Ms. Llopis. Why would he leave the scene so quickly?
Unfortunately, up until that moment, all we had was speculation; arsenic samples and DNA from two unknown people in Llopis body, a pharmaceutical company specialized in oncology and Llopis and Hidalgo having dinner at Nou Manolin. I couldn’t make head or tails of this story. It could have been anybody, even the cleaning lady.
I parked near the bullring and went up on foot. I bought a few cans of beer and some sausages, forgetting that Patricia would be waiting for me with a furrowed brow. When I got home, the door was open.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked. Patricia looked fantastic, dressed in slim black jeans, moccasins and a white shirt with Uma Thurman on it.
“We had a date.”
How strange. I didn’t recall talking about a date.
“Here I am” I said, “A beer before leaving?”
“And those sausages?” she inquired in disbelief.
“To take ‘em to work, I have no food there...”
“Go to hell, Gabriel!” she yelled and slammed the door closed.
I went to the kitchen, left the bag and opened a can of beer. I took a long quaff. I needed it.
“What’s wrong now?” I asked while Patricia continued to curse at me.
“No! You tell me what’s wrong now!”
I let out a soft laugh at how absurd everything sounded, but Patricia didn’t find it funny.
“Patri, listen to me” I said, raising my hands to her face, “You cannot imagine what I’ve found out... well, what we’ve found out, Botella and I...”
“Have you been with that detective?” She asked full of rage. The dragon was about to burn me with its flame.
“It’s about Hidalgo and that woman who died a few days ago. What we’ve discovered is no joke...”
“Shit, Gabriel. What did I say?”
“But, listen to me! For God’s sake!” I exclaimed after being interrupted for the ninth time. “This is serious, I told you.”
“No!” she shouted and punched the door. “You told me you’d leave it! See? You always do the same thing!”
“But can’t you understand?” I asked.
“No, you don’t understand!” she yelled from her lungs. “You-don’t-want-to-get-it! Shit!”
Patricia’s eyes were about to burst in tears, but she held back the tears and lit a cigarette.
“Now you smoke?” I said with surprise.
“Look, Gabriel. I’m sick and tired” she said with a wavering voice. Her pulse was shaking. “I can’t do this anymore. I gave you a chance and you fucked it up in less than forty-eight hours. You have a problem, seriously.”
“Patricia, please, understand this is serious.”
“Yes, of course” she said, trembling. “Today is this story and tomorrow will be another one... I have a boyfriend I only see in the picture I have in my wallet. I have a boyfriend to whom I only speak on the phone... This isn’t healthy, Gabriel. You know it and I know it. Everybody says it.”
“Your family is toxic. You’re easily manipulated, Patri...”
“Fuck you, ok
?” she replied. She never spoke like that. The bomb was about to explode. “I’ve made a decision, I’ve made a decision already... I’m finishing this cigarette and getting out of here, like that. It’s over.”
“Come on, don’t be ridiculous...”
“You’re right” she replied, “I don’t want to finish the cigarette.”
Patricia smashed the cigarette against the ashtray and stormed out of the room. I followed her, watching her movements. She grabbed a suitcase, packed a bunch of clothes, her laptop and her CDs. Then, she slammed the suitcase shut, grabbed the handle and left.
“Patricia, wait!” I yelled, but she vanished down the stairs.
Spanish women, with their firm and impetuous character, so different from other countries, they’re true to their word without hesitation. Patricia had left the apartment, not forever, but at least for a long time. Where to? I had no idea, but I knew she was going to be okay. The relationship had exploded like a bomb at Pearl Harbor. When I closed the apartment door, all that was left were pieces of my heart scattered on the floor, a knife stained with the blood of horrible words, exclamation marks pasted to walls and painful inconsolable tears. Patricia had left and taken her CDs, but a person is never alone if there’s Coltrane’s sax. I opened the Blue Train box and played it.
Patricia would have my answer published in a few hours. I was going to prove to her and to everybody that I wasn’t some naive reporter; a loser from some obscure journal.
The notes flew in my apartment. Beer washed down my throat. I opened one can after another. Coltrane didn’t stop throwing notes in the air. Absent in my thoughts, I came to the conclusion that I had to use bait to catch our suspected murderer. I had enough evidence to have the case reopened and score one against the competition, Ortiz and the world. I only had to tie the loose ends, use the following day’s edition and publish something without my boss’s supervision.
I glanced at the clock. It was ten in the evening on a Friday. Ortiz would be at home watching a Spanish movie on Channel 2.