The Night Watchman

by Richard Zimler

  I’d been thinking that the front-door key might have been copied by the murderer, and though Senhora Grimault swore to me she’d never lent it out, she could not promise the same for the family.

  ‘The kitchen looks spotless,’ I pointed out. ‘Did you find it that way?’

  ‘Yes, when I arrived, there were no plates to wash – not even from breakfast. Dr Coutinho must have eaten out last night and not yet had his morning cereal.’

  I found one Adagio strawberry yogurt in the refrigerator, along with some cheese and milk, and two lemons.

  ‘Dr Coutinho could live on cheese and sweets,’ Senhora Grimault volunteered.

  ‘When did you first spot him this morning?’ I asked.

  ‘The moment I stepped into the living room.’ She closed her eyes and reached out a hand – slowly, straining with the effort, as though approaching a flame. ‘I touched his shoulder,’ she whispered. ‘I thought that he might still be alive, but . . .’ She lowered her arm to the table with a morose finality. ‘And then I called 112.’

  ‘Did you leave the house at any time after coming in?’

  ‘No. I sat in the foyer.’

  ‘But there’s no chair in the foyer,’ I pointed out.

  ‘I sat on the ground. I was feeling dizzy, and my first thought was to get outside for some air, but I didn’t get that far.’

  She was close to tears again, and I pressed her to take a few sips of coffee. When she was ready to talk again, I asked, ‘When did you decide to water the plant in the foyer?’

  She showed me an astonished look.

  ‘You left your watering can there,’ I explained.

  ‘My goodness, I completely forgot!’ In a slow, deliberate voice – reviewing her morning as it appeared in her memory – she said, ‘After I called 112, I thought that if I went through my usual routine I might calm myself down. I mean, if I could pretend that nothing had happened for a few minutes. But after I got the watering can, I broke down again.’ She let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Inspector, this seems like a dream . . . like something absolutely impossible.’

  ‘Given what happened, that might be a good thing,’ I observed, but she shook her head as though she would have preferred to be stronger. To my next question, she told me that Coutinho bought nearly all his neckties at the Hermès shop on the Avenue George V in Paris. She told me he would never have shopped at Zara.

  ‘Now I’m going to ask you something indelicate,’ I warned her. ‘Were you aware of any extramarital affairs that he may have been having?’

  She drew in her head, hen-like, and said tautly, ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’

  ‘Other lives may be at risk,’ I emphasized. At the time, I didn’t believe that, but I wanted to apply a bit of pressure.

  When I nodded insistently, Senhora Grimault confessed in a reticent voice that on maybe a dozen occasions she’d noticed creases on Susana’s side of the bed when Dr Coutinho was supposed to be on his own. Once, she’d also discovered a towel stained with an unfamiliar shade of lipstick. ‘And no, I don’t have any idea who the woman was,’ she rushed to add. Continuing to sense the direction of my thoughts, she told me, ‘Dr Coutinho and Susana are good people – respectful to each other. I can’t believe someone would want to hurt him. He was kind and generous. And so good at nearly everything he did – so talented.’

  ‘Talented?’ I asked.

  ‘Take a look at the watercolours in his library. And the one in Sandi’s room.’

  ‘The ones of the little girl?’

  The pleasure of astonishing me lit her eyes. ‘They were done when Sandi was little,’ Senhora Grimault continued, ‘but he still took out his brushes on occasion.’ She executed two quick strokes in the air and gave a little laugh. ‘He painted like Zorro!’

  ‘He seemed to have been particularly interested in Asian cultures.’

  ‘More than interested, Inspector. Just after he got his engineering degree, he worked in Tokyo for two years. He could speak Japanese!’ The old lady’s eyes opened wide, as if to take in the grand dimension of all the adventures he must have had. Undone by her delight, she began to tear up badly. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered.

  Luci spoke for the first time. ‘You’re doing great,’ she said, and she gave the senhora’s hand a firm squeeze.

  After some more kind words from Luci, Senhora Grimault went on to tell us that Coutinho had had two cell phones. I tried both numbers but automatic messages indicated they weren’t in use. I asked Luci to find out if any calls had been made from them over the last twenty-four hours. ‘And while you’re at it, get me a list of all the calls the victim made and received over the last two weeks,’ I added.

  I’d saved the most important detail for last: ‘This morning, senhora, did you have to turn the key several times in the lock or did it just click open?’

  She considered that. ‘I had to turn it several times. I remember, because twisting it around gave me the idea that no one was at home. Now I realize that Dr Coutinho must have locked himself in for some reason.’

  ‘No, the killer re-locked the door on leaving,’ I told her. ‘Which was a mistake.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because now we can be certain he had the key.’

  ‘Not necessarily, sir,’ Luci rushed to say. ‘He could have taken it off Dr Coutinho.’

  I reached into my pocket to retrieve the Alfa Romeo keychain. I shook it in the air. ‘He could have, but didn’t. These were still in Coutinho’s trousers.’

  Chapter 4

  After seeing Senhora Grimault to the door and warning her not to discuss the case with anyone, I studied the paintings in the living room. Coutinho had bought only figurative work. My favourite was a Carlos Botelho drawing of pastel houses – in pink, yellow and blue – tumbling towards the Tagus River.

  When I returned to the kitchen, Luci was rinsing her cake plate at the sink. She told me she’d just learned that no calls had been made from either of the victim’s cell phones since the time of his murder.

  ‘By now, the killer has probably destroyed their SIM cards,’ I said.

  ‘To prevent us from following his trail?’

  ‘Yes. But I also have the feeling he called Coutinho at some point and didn’t want us to find out about it.’

  ‘You think the victim knew his killer?’

  ‘Luci, there’s too much hatred here for it to be a botched burglary or random attack. And that Japanese message he probably made Coutinho write . . . It’s possible that some trouble he got into all those years ago in Japan has caught up with him.’

  We found David Zydowicz seated on a chair he’d pulled up next to the body, shining his flashlight on Coutinho’s fingernails.

  ‘Signs of only a very brief struggle,’ he told me. ‘Our man here was shot, then kicked above the ribs while on his hands and knees, and finally tied up.’ Switching off his light, he told Luci, ‘Get out your notepad, young lady, and I’ll tell you your bedtime story.’

  David observed Luci’s swift gestures with affectionate eyes, as if she were a little kid performing a card trick for her granddad. And as if there were only two kingdoms: the old and the young. When she was ready, he removed his glasses as though to summon forth a deeper part of himself and began to speak in the voice of authority that first won me to him. ‘The victim was hit with just one bullet in his gut, but I don’t believe it punctured his stomach lining or any other major organ, though I’ll only know for sure when I do the autopsy. In any case, he’d have taken at least half an hour to bleed out. Though as you know, Henrique, he didn’t.’

  ‘No, for better or for worse, he didn’t get that chance.’ To Luci’s puzzled glance, I added, ‘His lips have a bluish tint – not enough oxygen.’

  David took off one of his gloves and grabbed a candy from his pocket. While he undid the yellow wrapper, I told him, ‘Whoever did this enjoyed seeing his victim suffer.’

  ‘I can’t speak to his emotions, Henrique – that’s mor
e your field. But it’s true that Coutinho would have been in a lot of pain.’

  It felt like my chest and head were being crushed. That’s how my brother – at the age of six – had described what being suffocated felt like.

  ‘And he’s been dead eighteen to twenty-four hours?’ I asked.

  ‘Closer to twenty-four.’ David put his glasses back on.

  ‘Okay, here’s how I see it,’ I began. ‘After his shower, Coutinho came downstairs to investigate noises he’d heard.’ I stepped over to the wall of paintings and formed a gun with my hand. ‘The killer surprised him from here.’ I pointed towards the bottom of the staircase and squeezed off a shot. ‘Our victim fell to his knees and started crawling. The killer kicked him and stepped on his back in order to subdue him, and to compel him to extend his arms behind his back and put his wrists together. He tied them, then jammed an old sock in his mouth and gagged him.’

  As David nodded his agreement, Fonseca came down the staircase with a cheeky smile on his face. ‘Madame X was a brunette,’ he announced happily. ‘And she had long hair.’

  ‘How long?’ I asked.

  He held his hands about two feet apart.

  ‘Good to know,’ I said, ‘but I bet she’ll cut most of it off as soon as she finds out Coutinho is dead. And maybe dye it too.’

  ‘Why’s that?’ Luci asked.

  ‘Women who have affairs with married men generally prefer keeping their identity a secret. And the last thing she’ll want is to have her name associated with a murder.’

  ‘But if she was hiding here when Coutinho was killed,’ David said, ‘she might feel compelled to come forward and say what she saw and heard.’

  ‘Except that if she was here, then she’s scared to death right now.’

  Fonseca scoffed. ‘You guys are so fucking naive! With a rich old guy like this, she was probably in on his murder! And if she was, you can forget about finding her in Lisbon. She’s gone, gone, gone!’

  I got out my phone and called Senhora Grimault, who confirmed that Susana Coutinho was a natural blonde – and that Sandra was as well. To try to locate the homemade silencer and the victim’s discarded cell phones, I had Luci fetch a plastic garbage bag from the kitchen into which she could empty all the trash receptacles in the neighbourhood. A few seconds later, she came back into the room with Bruno Vaz, our lab tech with the Communist tape loop in his head. A determined and powerful sixty-year-old, with a shaved head, goldfish-big brown eyes and the swirling hand gestures of a charismatic orchestra director, Vaz had a unique style that made you expect marvels and maybe even a little sorcery now and again. And he was indeed great at his work. Unfortunately, all my efforts to win his friendship had been in vain; to go along with his visceral contempt for all things American, he seemed to hold me personally responsible for everything from the right-wing coup in Chile to the use of English as the world’s lingua franca. It didn’t help our relationship any that he’d been arrested by Portugal’s secret police in 1970 for his Communist Party affiliation and tortured at Caxias Prison. Before the great wash of his feelings about me solidified into stern dislike, he’d confessed to me – his eyes lighting up with recaptured meaning – that his imprisonment made the whole rest of his life seem insignificant. It had clearly been his Golden Age. Life in Portugal in 2012 – with its failed banks, deserted shopping malls and idiotic TV soap operas – must have seemed pathetic by comparison.

  Vaz told me he’d turned up a host of fingerprints on the refrigerator and cabinets.

  ‘Any more dinosaur tracks?’ I asked.

  ‘No. Our man must have either taken off his sneakers or wiped them clean.’

  ‘The pattern on the sole looked like Converse to me.’

  ‘Yeah, or knockoffs. As soon as I’ve identified the model, I’ll let you know.’

  When he asked me if he could collect the victim’s shirt and tie, I turned to David and he gave me the go-ahead. Using the cheery tone that had become my shield against Vaz’s hostility, I told him, ‘They’re all yours. And his pants are in his bedroom.’

  ‘Look, Monroe,’ he snarled, ‘I’ve been dealing with evidence since long before you arrived in Portugal. So if you don’t trust me, then just tell me to my face.’

  ‘I don’t get it,’ I said, stunned. ‘What did I do now?’

  ‘He means you shouldn’t have asked my approval, Henrique,’ David told me wearily.

  Did Vaz dislike David for being Brazilian and Jewish? Perhaps all his political ideals had morphed into a mistrust of foreigners. Maybe that’s all they’d ever been.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said, allowing myself an angry frown because it was on David’s behalf. I searched then for some searing warning that would alter everything between Vaz and me, once and for all – I suddenly couldn’t imagine spending another ten years dodging his insults – but came up with nothing. ‘You know, Vaz, solving crimes may be the only thing you and I are really any good at,’ I said instead, relying on the truth. ‘So I suggest we get on with our work before the evidence loses its patience with us.’

  Vaz squinted at me, and from experience I knew he was taking aim, so I rushed to add, ‘Your job at the moment is simply to tell me what size sneakers he was wearing.’

  ‘Forty-three, most likely,’ he said grudgingly, ‘though forty-four is still a possibility, depending on the model.’

  To David, I said, ‘Either of those sizes would be pretty large for a Portuguese man.’

  ‘Yeah, except that young people today are bigger than their parents – better nutrition.’

  ‘Listen, Monroe,’ Vaz said, as if my conversation with David were wasting his time, ‘what do you say I go through the victim’s car before taking his clothes? Any objections?’

  He seemed as anxious as I was to put some distance between us. Or was he trying to provoke me further with his frustrated tone? ‘Do whatever you think best,’ I told him.

  ‘I’ll give him a hand and take a few photos,’ Fonseca told me. His wink meant he sensed that his colleague might need some calming down.

  It only occurred to me when Fonseca turned away from me that Coutinho’s fabulous wealth must have set Vaz off.

  After the two Forensics specialists had left for the private garage where the victim parked his car, I told Luci that – while she was out hunting for the killer’s silencer – she should also see if she could turn up any men’s sneakers or a pair of gloves. At the sound of the front door closing behind her, I shivered with relief.

  ‘Pretty young women make you nervous?’ David asked.

  ‘Yeah. And fans of Che Guevara. At least, today – that suspect who killed himself shook me up pretty badly. But listen, David, I’d like you to talk something out with me.’

  He sat down and joined his hands together in his lap, childlike eagerness in his eyes; he was relieved to be back at work – and to be anywhere at all.

  ‘The killer must have spotted his shoeprint on the shirt,’ I began, ‘but he didn’t make any effort to wipe it off or smudge it. He knew he could toss away his sneakers in some garbage across town and that we probably wouldn’t find them. But do you think that he might have also been worried that Coutinho would fight back if he tried to take off his shirt?’

  ‘Dying people can sometimes find extraordinary reserves of strength. Still, if the killer had just waited a few minutes, he could have taken the shirt without any struggle.’

  ‘Except that he probably didn’t want to risk hanging around. Also, it could have proved harder than he thought to watch a man choke to death.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘And one last thing. If the girlfriend wasn’t involved, she might have been hiding in the bedroom the whole time that Coutinho was fighting to stay alive. In that case, after the killer left, she must have slipped out through the front door. And probably re-locked it. Which would mean that the killer didn’t have to have the key, like I’d first thought.’

  ‘You’ll have to find her to know for sure,’ David observe
d.

  ‘She might even have caught a glimpse of who killed her boyfriend,’ I suggested.

  ‘Or at least heard the man’s voice.’ David glanced down at the body, and I sensed he was thinking about his own near escape from death. At length, he said, ‘Which would also mean she might have been able to save the poor slob’s life – if she’d called 112.’

  ‘She’d have been scared shitless with the killer still in the house.’

  ‘But what about afterwards?’ His troubled expression told me he wasn’t willing to let her off the hook so easily.

  He stood up and reached again for his aching back. ‘She’ll be desperate to keep her love affair a secret.’ He placed his hand against my chest and gave a little push, as though to make me stand firm. ‘Which means, my boy, that she’s going to do everything she can to prevent you from finding her.’

  Coutinho’s dining area was on the ground floor. In the middle of the room was a rectangular mahogany table, large enough to seat twenty. At each end stood a massive, waist-high silver candlestick with sinuous arms and ornamented at the base with scrolled acanthus leaves. Were they from the same church as the kitchen tiles? I was beginning to think that Coutinho had bought an entire Portuguese village.

  The door at the back led to the garden, where a thirty-foot-high feathery palm stood guard over a circular wooden deck. In the centre of the scruffy lawn to the side of the deck was a small fishpond, and at the water’s edge stood a proud-looking bronze heron with a minnow raised high in its beak. Behind the lawn, summer had transformed the ancient bougainvillea climbing over the entire length of the back wall into a cascade of ruby petals. Around the base of its gnarled trunk spread a thick jumble of agapanthus spraying their effusive blue pompoms into the air.