Recourse to their usual informers bore no fruit. Many had suddenly disappeared, as if scattered by some supernatural menace; the few that remained claimed total ignorance, and when pressed acted like little girls on the day of their first communion.
Before the day was over, a rumor made its way around the station that some cops were thinking of starting an extraofficial hunt for the killer. That was exactly what Espinosa didn’t want. It would trip up the investigations and could easily turn into a witch hunt. Police paranoia was like a viper: it couldn’t be stirred up without a violent and uncontrollable reaction. That’s why he’d preferred to work with a small group, easier to control and less prone to spectacular bravado. Besides, he was sure that the investigation would depend on little details, not big confrontations. If everybody was on the lookout for a cop killer, it would get so bad that after a few days no one would be able to get near an officer without having a gun pointed at their chest. Espinosa had witnessed similar reactions when the drug lords had threatened to invade police stations to take back their prisoners. At least in that case, the enemy was easily identifiable. The threat now was more terrifying because the enemy was all too familiar, lived in the same house. He was very close by, yet practically invisible.
That night, at home, he ate the leftovers of the night before: a full loaf of Italian bread, pâté, salmon, some cheese, and half a bottle of wine. He took everything into the living room and thought about his night with Irene.
8
With his team busy investigating the double lives of the murdered cops, Welber wasn’t around to fend off the reporters, and Espinosa felt particularly exposed to calls like the one he got from the Department of State Security.
“… and, sir, as for these police murders … I’ll leave the press to you, since you’re the only one who knows anything. When I learn more, I’ll be in touch.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’ll take care of them.”
“You know how to deal with those people. You manage to get them out of there without the scoop of the year.”
“It’s not because I’m so efficient; it’s because I’m so lazy. I don’t like to talk.”
“Very good. Right on. I’ll have to use that tactic.”
Espinosa felt especially uncomfortable that he couldn’t name a suspect. It was a struggle between criminal competence and police incompetence. The press was right to be pushy, and cops had every reason to be scared. Yet he didn’t see the situation as completely chaotic. It was clear that the person was not killing people at random. The victims had a set profile: second-rate cops who rarely stayed in the same station for long, were relatively unknown, and had never stood out in any way in their profession. The three victims had had double lives, two addresses, two women, and a modest lifestyle, even if their possessions weren’t completely modest. So it wasn’t just anybody who was being killed. It was the people who, within that pattern, were probably involved in some dangerous business. Since he didn’t know what the business was, and since so many cops were involved in shady dealings, there was plenty of reason for other cops to feel threatened. He was sure of one thing: the deaths were not being caused by a supernatural force or by an unknown virus. It was most likely that one person was behind all of them: a hired gun. Espinosa didn’t know how many people he’d been hired to kill.
He’d arranged to meet with the group at the end of the morning. Welber was the first to drop by his office to confirm the meeting and find out where it would be held; Artur and Ramiro followed. They decided to meet at the Italian place Espinosa liked, which was a convenient distance from the station. Espinosa was still unsure about the decision to meet outside the office. The idea was to avoid eavesdroppers. But though the measure protected the group from nosy colleagues, it also increased the perception that they were a privileged group.
By twelve-thirty everyone had arrived. They decided to exchange information before eating. Espinosa wasn’t expecting big news.
“Ramiro can start, and then Welber and Artur,” Espinosa began.
“I still don’t know anything about the woman yesterday,” Inspector Ramiro began, “except that I’m sure that my interview provoked her murder. It’s more than just a coincidence that I talked to her one day and she died the next. We have to protect the other two as quickly as possible. About the three cops, no big news. I spoke with their mistresses this time. Neither the wives nor the mistresses knew much about their business affairs, and they had no idea that the three were working together. It’s possible that they once asked where the money was coming from; they probably got a good enough answer to make them lay off the subject. They all agreed that none of the men were on drugs, they weren’t drinkers or gamblers, they didn’t have any debts, as far as the women knew, and they weren’t very outgoing socially. They were good boys. Except they must have forgotten to do their homework.”
“Welber, Artur …”
“We didn’t get much either. Professionally, the three did their jobs, worked on the street. They weren’t popular among their colleagues, but they weren’t unpopular either. They just avoided people. There’s one interesting little quirk in their daily routines: all of them had cell phones, besides the phones in the station, but they often used pay phones in the area. None of their colleagues knew what they did after hours. Another interesting little detail is that none of the cars in their garages were registered in their own names. They seem to have switched cars often.”
“It’s impossible that they could have kept something so profitable going for so many years without any of their colleagues knowing about it,” Espinosa said. “Keep looking. Until we know what business is behind these murders, we won’t be able to connect any of the dots. The woman’s death is something else to worry about. As soon as we leave here, find the other two and convince them to lie low for a while. I’m afraid that after the mistresses, they’ll go after the wives.”
The intense summer light was cut by the curtains on the windows, but in spite of the pleasant location and the promise of a tasty meal, Artur tapped his fingers compulsively on the table, while Ramiro tinkered with the toothpicks.
Until the risotto arrived.
After the meal, Ramiro went to Celeste’s apartment, on Botafogo Beach. Of the three, she was the most outgoing, and the one with the most comfortable lifestyle. He’d met with her two days before and had been impressed by the good sense she’d shown not only about Nestor but about the police in general. Pretty, young, with a good body, she’d done some cabaret dancing before meeting Nestor, who’d convinced her to leave the theater and help him with his business. He’d said that her intelligence was wasted on an activity that required only her body. While ringing the doorbell, Ramiro thought about her pleasant voice. When, after repeated rings, nobody answered, he went downstairs to look for the doorman.
“I know who you mean, but I’m not sure when I last saw Dona Celeste.”
“Have you been here since this morning?”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And you don’t remember having seen her?”
“I don’t remember, sir.”
“Think about it. She’s a pretty woman, hard to miss.”
“That’s true, but I don’t remember, sir.”
Ramiro thought the doorman’s effort to remember the woman was a little exaggerated: it seemed he was trying more to forget than to remember.
“Has anybody come looking for her in the last few days?”
“Do you mean a man?”
“Man, woman, tortoise, anybody, Jesus! Shall we continue chatting here or go down to the station?”
“No, sir, it’s fine here, I just don’t remember.”
“What time do you get off?”
“Six o’clock, Doctor.”
“I’m not a fucking doctor, I’m Inspector Ramiro from the Twelfth Precinct. At six o’clock I’ll come back for a talk, and if you haven’t remembered anything by then we’ll go down to the station to see if we can refresh your memory.”<
br />
“All I remember is seeing her carrying a suitcase.”
“See? You’re remembering. The cure is working.”
“What … ?”
“Was she entering or leaving the building?”
“I think she was leaving.”
“And when was this?”
“I think it was yesterday…. Yes, yesterday. At the end of the afternoon. I was getting ready to leave.”
“Now there’s only one more thing before you get back your memory. Before she left with the suitcase, did anybody come in asking for her?”
“That I don’t know, Doctor. I can’t always see who’s in the elevator. People can come in with a resident.”
“If you remember anything else, here’s my number.”
When he left the building, Ramiro was surprised by the contrast between the darkness of the interior and the bright light outside. For a few seconds he looked out at the sailboat-filled Bay of Botafogo with the Sugar Loaf behind it. The beauty of the panorama didn’t impress him. What interested him was the view of a few millionaire yachtsmen anchored near the Yacht Club. He turned his back to the view and walked down the Rua São Clemente toward the subway.
The Glória station was four stops after Botafogo. Enough time for Ramiro to think about the questions he was going to pose to Aparecida, the third mistress. He’d never done that before. He usually just let the questions come to him as he was conducting the interview. But in the subway, without a landscape to contemplate through the window, without a friend to talk to, he imagined the meeting he was about to have.
The building was bigger than Celeste’s and the doorman just as uncooperative.
A half hour after he arrived, that’s how Ramiro put it to Espinosa, Welber, and Artur.
“It was the end of the afternoon when I got to her apartment. I rang her doorbell one, twice, three times, and got no answer. If she was asleep, with her door closed and the air-conditioning on, she wouldn’t have heard the bell. I went down and asked the doorman. He said he couldn’t be sure about the comings and goings of all the inhabitants, that she was probably home, that she’d left that morning to go to the supermarket, but that she’d come back right afterward and he hadn’t seen her leave since then. I went back up and rang again, until I decided to try to open the door. It took no effort: it wasn’t locked; all I had to do was turn the knob and it opened. I remembered from my first visit that the door opened directly into the living room and that the hallway to the bedrooms was just to the left. I still thought she was home, especially after what the doorman had said. I slowly opened the door and stuck my head in the direction of the hallway, to try to see if I could hear anything. That was my big mistake. I woke up I don’t know how long afterward, with the doorbell ringing in my ear and a terrible headache. I was lying there on the ground and the door was closed. The bell wouldn’t stop ringing. I opened the door and met the doorman, who was yelling, asking what I was doing there, who I was, saying he was going to call the police; that’s when I realized what had happened. I left him screaming there and went stumbling around the apartment. She was in the bathroom, inside the shower, naked and wet, with a hole in the middle of her chest. The shower was still running. I called you. I didn’t let anybody in. The only thing I did besides turning off the shower was grab a plastic bag in the kitchen and fill it with ice.”
They were in the living room and the forensic people still hadn’t arrived. Ramiro held his ice bag to his head. Espinosa had the doorman come in.
“Good evening. I’m Officer Espinosa from the Twelfth Precinct. I know you’re no longer on duty, but we need to ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who was with her in the apartment?”
“Nobody…. I mean, I didn’t see anybody.”
“But you’re the doorman?”
“I am, but I can’t know everything that goes on.”
“Who did you see come into the building this afternoon, besides residents?”
“I only remember him,” he said, pointing to Ramiro.
“Besides me!”
“I don’t remember anyone, I already told you; I only remember this gentleman.”
“What’s your name?”
“Waldir, with a W.”
“Waldir, what happened here was murder. Someone came in, attacked Inspector Ramiro, and killed Dona Aparecida. If we have to, we’ll take you down to the station to testify. It’ll be very unpleasant, and it will take a lot more time. So stop pretending not to know anything and answer the questions.”
“All right.”
“Who came to see Dona Aparecida recently?”
“The only man who visits Dona Aparecida is her boyfriend, Mr. Silveira. He’s the one who rented the apartment for her. He’s a very distinguished man.”
“And gives good tips.”
“That’s not why—”
“Fine, Waldir. Go on.”
“Sometimes he gives a gratuity. I help Dona Aparecida whenever she needs it.”
“And besides him, who else?”
“Nobody. Sometimes one of the women who lives here, but nobody from outside. Sometimes a girl from her office, but not often.”
“And this afternoon you didn’t see anybody unknown go up to her floor?”
“No, sir. Sometimes I have to leave for a couple of minutes to go to the bathroom, and I can’t see if someone comes in with a resident.”
“Fine, Waldir. In any case, you’ll have to repeat what you’ve told me down at the station. If on the way you remember anything, you can add it to your testimony. Welber, take down his full name, address, and the reception area’s phone number.” Then, turning back to the doorman, Espinosa said, “Now go home and try to remember anything, any unknown man, who might have come in this afternoon. And remember we’re dealing with a murder, not something trivial. Any detail, even an insignificant one, could help us find out who killed Dona Aparecida.”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s your head?” he asked Ramiro.
“On the rocks.”
“Did you manage to remember anything? Any detail? If the guy was tall or short, white or black?”
“Chief, I only realized that something had happened when I heard the doorbell clanging like a fire alarm in my head. The guy must have been hiding behind the door. He hit me twice. I must have gone out with the first one. I know it was two because I have bruises in two different places. After knocking me out, he must have gone down the stairs. That’s what I think. I didn’t see a thing.”
“And the third?”
“What third?”
“Weren’t there three women?”
“Oh, yes. Her name is Celeste, Nestor’s girlfriend. Before I came here, I stopped by her apartment. The doorman said she’d left with a suitcase.”
“When was that?”
“Yesterday.”
“We should check it out. If she was fleeing to protect herself, it will be hard to track her down.”
Espinosa waited for the forensic people to arrive before reporting the death to the morgue and the Forensic Institute. He didn’t want anybody else walking around in the apartment.
“Chief,” Ramiro went on, “we were the ones who clued the murderer in to these women; we were the ones who caused their deaths. If I hadn’t been going around talking to the girls, they’d still be alive.”
“We didn’t provoke anything. Don’t let that ice freeze your brain. You should go home and get some rest.”
By the time Welber and Artur left, Freire had already gone over the apartment and left with his collection of plastic envelopes.
The trips Welber and Artur made to Celeste’s apartment over the next few days turned up nothing. She hadn’t come home.
PART 2
1
She had several dresses spread out over the chair and hanging on her wardrobe’s doorknobs. She hadn’t yet chosen between white and black, a low-cut dress or a very low-cut dress. Her husband didn’t seem to have an
opinion; he was more worried about the party thrown in honor of an old friend from Harvard graduate school who was joining the government’s economic team. He himself, two years before, had been celebrated at an identical party. Serena thought about how exactly the same all these parties were. Two or three big shots from the government and a bunch of young economists, all convinced that they were the next savior of the fatherland. The moments leading up to the parties, however, were a source of deep pleasure, allowing her to daydream and think. If she entered the party in a transparent dress with nothing underneath, it wouldn’t be as exciting for the men there, especially the younger ones, as the announcement of a new economic measure. The women would all have very light skin, very blond hair, and very blue eyes. Anglo-Saxon quality.
She turned around to reconsider the dresses and decided to open the window to see how warm it was outside. The apartment, on the tenth floor of a corner building on the Avenida Atlântica, in Leme, had a living room facing the sea and bedrooms facing a small side street.
The smell of the sea drew her eyes toward the beach. The foam on the waves, lit against the darkness of the night, sparkled almost phosphorescently. She had been looking for a while and was going to close the window when she noticed the commotion in the apartment across the street, less than twenty meters away. A woman was gesticulating and pacing across the room, entering and leaving the visible area framed by the window. She was talking to another person, someone who looked like a man in a cap. Serena couldn’t make out what the woman might be saying.
Suddenly, what looked like a purse flew out the window. She saw the strap in the air as the object fell to the ground in the semidarkness of the space between two buildings. She tried in vain to locate it, then turned back to the apartment across the way. She looked back at the sidewalk, waiting for the woman to go down to get the purse, which appeared to be next to the curb, in an area shaded by a tree. She was still trying to discern the purse when a bigger object flew through her visual field, falling to the sidewalk with an impact and a noise that were unmistakable even to someone who had never seen anybody leap off a high building. Serena, horrified, stared at the woman’s body on the sidewalk, arms and legs in positions that reminded her of a broken doll. People on the street averted their faces; Serena thought she saw someone take the purse and leave the scene. Almost without moving, her eyes returned to the window across the way. The lights were still on, but nobody was there.
A Window in Copacabana Page 5