A Window in Copacabana

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  “And what if they knew the names of the people who got money and decided to talk, for revenge?”

  “Do you think Celeste knows the name of the people who were on the take?”

  “It’s possible, Chief.”

  During the rest of the afternoon, Espinosa thought about Ramiro’s speculations. On his way home, at the end of the day, he was still pondering them. If the detective was right, the series of cop killings might have reached its end, since the murderer had started focusing on the women. The reasonable supposition would be that the murderer had taken care of the cops first, before turning to the mistresses. The men were the main target, not the women. If this was true, the killer still had to eliminate Celeste.

  The light on the answering machine was blinking in the dark living room. He turned on a lamp, opened the windows to let out the hot afternoon air, and pressed the button to listen to the messages. The first was from the bank, telling him that his car insurance was about to expire and informing him that a simple phone call would be enough to renew it automatically. The second was from Irene, asking if the clothes had worked for the woman. The third was from Celeste: “Espinosa, the presents you sent me will be perfect in my new house. Talk to you later. ngela.”

  He ran down the stairs, trying to remember where the closest pay phone was. He crossed the street in the direction of the square and found not one but two phones. He dialed Celeste’s hotel.

  “Hotel Santa Clara, good evening.”

  “I’d like to speak with ngela Cardoso, please. I don’t know the room number.”

  “She left the hotel this afternoon, sir.”

  “How? She just left? Alone or with someone else?”

  “The hotel doesn’t give out that kind of information.”

  “I’m Chief Espinosa from the Twelfth Precinct, and I need to know.”

  “She left by herself, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He went back to his apartment and listened to the message again in the hope of discovering some hidden insinuation, but there was nothing. It wasn’t the text of the message that was opaque, but the reason why she would abandon a seemingly safe hiding place.

  PART 3

  1

  He left his house later than usual. He wanted to stop by the used-book store Welber had told him about, but he figured it wouldn’t be open until nine. It was en route to the station, but Espinosa rarely passed that way. As Welber had said, it was about halfway down the block. He wasn’t planning on going in. He preferred to circle around it gradually, allowing himself time to get used to the idea. For a long time, he’d dreamed about the day he could quit the police force and open a bookstore. That was his secret reason for hanging on to all the books he’d inherited from his grandmother. They were kept in boxes piled floor to ceiling in his unused maid’s room. Together with his own collection, they were his initial capital. Actual capital he could get with his police pension. It wasn’t quite a plan; it was more of an idea. He’d fantasized about owning a bookstore since he was a law student hanging out in the bookstores around the Largo São Francisco, downtown. Now, according to Welber, this fantasy had been invaded by real people who had materialized a few steps from the station. A used-book store in Copacabana, halfway between his house and the station, was something he couldn’t have ever imagined.

  At the corner, he was already scouting it out. It didn’t take him long to spot the little shelves outside with the sale books. He slowed down and gazed at the window. He glanced inside and continued on to the station. It was Thursday. Maybe Saturday afternoon …

  2

  Officer Espinosa had given her not only his number at work but his number at home. Serena didn’t know if that was a sign of his professional competence or if it was meant to suggest that he was open to more personal communication. This latter possibility was hinted at by the handwritten addendum of the number at the bottom of the standard police card. She’d looked at it dozens of times, as if expecting some hidden truth to emerge from the handwriting. She even dreamed about the officer, but that shed little light on her situation. She believed more in intuition than in facts; during their meeting, she could tell that he was interested in her. She’d seen how hard it was for him to keep his eyes off her chest. Now, stretched out in bed, she looked at the card one more time before getting up for breakfast.

  Guilherme had left for work early. Things to take care of before the trip, he’d said. And she had no doubt that he was indeed taking care of professional matters; it hadn’t ever occurred to her that he could be involved with some other woman. There was no woman, herself included, that could give him more pleasure than exercising political power. For someone like him, Washington was infinitely more alluring than even the hottest sexual encounter. So as long as her husband was in the administration, she knew that she had nothing to fear from other women, unless a fetching lady Cabinet secretary appeared on the scene.

  She remained in bed a little longer, imagining the officer’s private life. Not married. That she was sure of. She could always spot a married man, whether he wore a ring or not. Marriage was like a vaccination: it immunized and left a mark. He didn’t look like he’d just lost a wife; he didn’t have the friskiness of men who’ve recently gotten their freedom and are ready to take on any woman. Nor did he have the melancholy of those men who had lost their taste for sex. He certainly wasn’t asexual: that was clear enough from the way he’d been looking at her. Maybe he was most given to occasional, quick, risk-free relationships.

  Over breakfast, she thought about her husband’s trip. He traveled so much that she didn’t even really notice it anymore. But this trip seemed like a happy coincidence. She didn’t need her husband to be in Washington to do what she wanted, but with him out of the way her time was much freer. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him; their lives were comfortable, and anything dull or uninteresting could easily be overcome with a bit of imagination and daring.

  She’d met the cop on Monday. Now it was Thursday. It was time to get back in touch. There were two numbers printed on the card: one general, for the station; and a direct line. She used the direct line.

  “Dona Serena, what a pleasure to hear your voice.”

  “Same to you, Officer. I don’t want to meddle with your work, but I can’t get the death of that girl out of my head …”

  For Espinosa, Serena was an unknown quantity. In her first appearance, downtown, she’d seemed seductive and unapproachable. She’d looked as if she’d just met a lover. In her second incarnation, she’d been friendly and helpful. Now, on the phone, she still seemed friendly but was a little more enigmatic. As charming as she was, though, Espinosa was focused on protecting Celeste. The girl had gotten the clothes—he understood that from the message she’d left on the answering machine—but something had scared her into abandoning her hiding place. He didn’t think it was likely that the murderer had made it through all the hotels in the Zona Sul so quickly, discovering a woman when he didn’t even seem to know what she looked like. Or Celeste was more clever than he’d thought and was continuously on the move, changing her name and appearance. The house she’d referred to on the message was clearly a new hiding place. Now he had to see if she’d get in touch to tell him where she was.

  At the end of the morning, Welber came into the office to report on his visit to Celeste’s apartment.

  “Chief, it doesn’t look like they’ve taken any pictures.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “There are pictures in all the frames, and there’s no sign that anyone has broken in.”

  “Who was there last?”

  “I think it was Ramiro.”

  “Did you ask the doormen?”

  “I did. They said nobody else had been there.”

  The individual updates were still delivered in the chief’s office. Only the group meetings were held outside the station, though everyone was beginning to doubt how useful that measure was. Official meetings were meant to be held on the premises
; little meetings outside the station gave other policemen the impression that they were being excluded from some important discussion—which, in fact, they were. On Friday morning, Welber told the boss what he’d learned.

  “Sir, it’s almost impossible to report everyone who’s on the take. They just think it’s part of their pay. They look at bribes like a legitimate bonus that can double their salary, or more. The problem isn’t identifying everyone who’s on the take. Everyone knows, because so many people are involved, after all. The problem is getting anyone to talk, especially because they know we’re investigating. You yourself know who’s corrupt. But so what? What are you going to do? Fire everyone?”

  “We’re not investigating corruption. That’s something for the attorney general’s office. We’re looking into who killed three cops and their lovers and why they were killed.”

  “Exactly. According to Ramiro, the guys were killed because they were dipping into the money that was supposed to be distributed. It was almost like they’d stolen their colleagues’ salaries.”

  “But their colleagues are precisely the people who want to find out who the killer is. Remember what Nestor said to me on the street.”

  “Until they found out why the murders happened. As soon as that happened, nobody was interested in investigating anything. I think that as soon as they heard that there was no serial killer bumping off cops, as soon as they found out it was a punishment, they calmed down. They didn’t want to keep investigating. They didn’t want anything to come between them and their tips.”

  “Did you learn anything about Celeste’s whereabouts?”

  “She vanished completely. We checked the morgue, the hospitals, the airports, and we spent a long time at the bus station—at this time of the year almost five thousand people a day go through there, and it’s almost impossible to find anyone. Either she’s managed to get out of town and is already far away, or she’s found a good hiding place and isn’t coming out.”

  “Let’s go to the bar on the corner and get some coffee.”

  “We have coffee …”

  “The coffee at that place is special.”

  On the street, the chief gripped Welber’s arm to keep him from walking too fast; the bar was very close.

  “Welber, I want you to hand your stuff over to Artur, and I want Ramiro to carry on with what he’s doing. For the next few days, you are going to follow someone wherever they go. It has to be a pro job. Wear different clothes, try to come up with some disguise, and—most of all—be very careful. The days will be exhausting, there will be no fixed schedule, and you won’t be able to count on backup. Above all else, nobody—nobody—can know what you’re doing.”

  “Fine. Who am I supposed to follow?”

  “Me.”

  “Huh?”

  “You have to see if anyone’s following me. If I try to figure it out myself, the guy’s going to notice. It has to be a third person. Whoever’s following me is going to be focusing on me. They won’t imagine that they themselves are being followed. I don’t know who’s following me or if I’m even actually being followed. It could be a man or a woman. If you manage to identify anyone, stop trailing me immediately and switch over to the other person. At that point you’ll have to be extra careful.”

  “When do I start?”

  “Today, when I go home. Hold on to this. It’s a prepaid cell phone, and there’s no way to trace it. I’ve got another one with me. Take down the number and get in touch with me that way. When I’m at the station, there’s no need for you to do anything. If I have to leave, I’ll find a way to let you know. Same when I go home at the end of the day. I usually leave my house at the same time. I’ll let you come up with a more detailed strategy. Pay close attention to one thing: if I can see you, my stalker can see you too. You’ll have to be invisible for both of us.”

  3

  Espinosa didn’t notice anyone when he left that night or when he went home, neither Welber nor anybody else who may have been on his tail. While he was getting ready for bed, he heard a noise that was neither the phone nor the alarm clock. The cell phone! He couldn’t remember where he’d put it. On the living room table.

  “Hello.”

  “Chief?”

  “Sorry, Welber, I’m still not used to this thing. And sorry that I didn’t tell you I was going out …”

  “No problem, sir. Nobody except me was following you today. It was tough to watch you eat that pasta and wine.”

  “Welber, you’ve done great. I could have sworn that nobody was following me.”

  “Afterward you can get me my medal. What we need to figure out now is this: I’m doing this by myself, so I need to sleep when you’re asleep. There’s nobody to take my place at night.”

  “Right. When I go home at night, call and tell me that you’re going home. I’d suggest that you stay in that little hotel here for the next couple of days. It’ll make things easier.”

  “That’s where I’m calling from, sir.”

  Since it was impossible to take care all of his pending domestic tasks that Saturday morning, he started off with the most important things first: coffee and newspapers. The phone rang around noon. Irene.

  “Hey, honey, I was just calling to see if there was any news of the girl.”

  “She vanished.”

  “Vanished? But didn’t you know where she was?”

  “I did, but for some reason she abandoned her hiding place and disappeared.”

  “You think the murderer …”

  “No. She called me to thank me for the clothes and said she was moving, but she didn’t say why.”

  “Does that get in the way of our little dinner plans?”

  “I’d love to see you, but I don’t think it’s such a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “If I’m being followed, I don’t want them to see us together. They might want to use you.”

  “Are you being followed?”

  “I think so, and I don’t have any good way to protect you.”

  “From who?”

  “The guy who’s stalking the girl.”

  “And what could he do to me?”

  “Make a trade.”

  “Huh?”

  “He wants Celeste. He could get you and try to trade her for you.”

  “You mean kidnap me?”

  “Right.”

  “So as long as this thing lasts, we won’t be able to see each other?”

  “It’s not going to last long.”

  “You didn’t answer me.”

  “I don’t want to expose you.”

  “Espinosa, we’re not going to fuck in the middle of the street.”

  “That’s hardly necessary. All they need to know is that I like you.”

  “And do you?”

  “I like you.”

  “Jesus, it only takes a half dozen murders and a kidnapping to get you to say that!”

  “You already knew that.”

  “Yeah, but you’re supposed to say it!”

  “All right. I like you.”

  “I like you too.”

  “And now? Can we spend the night together?”

  “Call me before you leave and come in a cab. I’ll wait for you at the entrance to the building. If you don’t see me, don’t get out, and go straight home.”

  “Jawohl, mein Kommandant.”

  “Huh?”

  “My German classes. See you.”

  Irene’s phone call had come just as he was getting ready to deal with the toaster. It wasn’t serious. The machine was still toasting one side of each slice, and both slots were still working. It would have been worse if he could toast only one piece at a time, one side at a time. He didn’t think it was unreasonable to put off fixing it until the following Saturday.

  He had lunch close to home, without paying too much attention to what he was eating, and then headed over to the bookstore. This time, he had steeled himself for a good look. When he got there, he found a sign posted insid
e the door: “Open at 2:00 P.M.” His watch read one-twenty. He looked at the sale books in the window, tried to make out the inside of the dark store, and went back home.

  When Irene called later that evening to let him know that she was on her way, the sky was cloudless and the night was starry. He waited five minutes before going down. He didn’t want to stand inside the door, because she wouldn’t see him; he propped open the door and went outside, standing under the tiny awning that sheltered a little colonial-style lamp. The light from the building lit him from behind, and the lamp lit him from above. For someone who felt that he was being followed and watched, he thought that the only thing missing was a sign around his neck with his name written in fluorescent ink. But he didn’t think it would take Irene more than fifteen minutes. He was already feeling stupid about having agreed to see her when a taxi turned the corner and stopped in front of the building. Before opening the door to let her out, Espinosa looked around to make sure nobody had managed to sneak into the building.

  After a few minutes, when the two were safely inside his apartment, the phone rang.

  “Chief, after watching you stand like a stuffed dummy for fifteen minutes, and after seeing Dona Irene arrive, I thought I could go to sleep.”

  “If I’d known that you were there, I wouldn’t have worried so much. Of course you can go to sleep. Good night.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  “Who was that?” Irene asked while she was arranging the things she’d brought on the table.

  “Welber, my temporary guardian angel.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “Not really, but I’m being watched. They’re not interested in me, but in the woman you loaned the clothes to. I think they’re following me to get to her.”

  “And can they?”