Forged bottles. Swindling. Maybe even blackmail. Carla felt a rush of excitement, forgetting her earlier weariness of the whole matter. “Lots of people could want him dead,” she said.
“That is for us to worry about. You have done your part. You have been of great help. Now you can go back to your interior decorating and your lessons in Portuguese.”
“Wait!” Carla’s enthusiasm wavered. “I still have a shadow, don’t I? I mean, O Lobo is still running around loose.”
“You will have a shadow until we solve this case,” the detective told her, “but there is no need to involve yourself. We will close the case soon. Go back to your life.”
He extended his hand. “Obrigado.”
Just run along and play, now. I don’t think so. Carla smiled her business smile, one she often practiced before meeting with a new client. She rose, too, and took his hand.
“I appreciate that, Detective Fernandes. I’m glad I could help.”
The first thing she planned to do was track down Paulo and find out for sure why Pereira and his butler thought he knew where the duke’s bottle was. Given how close-mouthed Fernandes was, he wasn’t going to say anything more to anyone, not even to reporters. Look how non-informative the article in yesterday’s paper had been: Costa’s death, the broken glass case, the fact that a customer had discovered the body—everything else under wraps.
Detetive Fernandes glanced at her feet. “My wife likes shoes like that. They are very pretty. But, as I tell her…” He waved a forefinger. “…they are not much use if you have to run fast.”
With that, he picked up his briefcase and walked away.
Chapter Thirteen - A Rude Surprise
Carla had always liked stilettos because they gave her height and brought her closer to eye level with clients, something she felt lent her more authority. Besides, Owen found them sexy. Now she eyed the black and turquoise straps ruefully. She supposed if she had to, she could take her shoes off and run. But how far would she get on bare feet, running along the square, sharp-edged cobbles paving so many of these streets?
Thanks for the spoiler, Fernandes!
A movement caught her eye from a far table—a man with his back to her, wearing a beige hoodie, which first struck her as strange, since the day had warmed up. Then it made sense—the undercover agent following her. He didn’t want her to see his face. After Fernandes’s parting remark, she was glad to know Mr. Shadow had her back, even if she wasn’t supposed to see him.
Pretending she didn’t, she gathered her purse and the bag with her other shoes, then hesitated. The events of the morning had left her feeling disheveled. What she needed was a cool wet paper towel against her face, a quick comb through her hair, and a fresh dab of lipstick. She went inside and made her way past crowded, glass-topped tables and the long gray metal bar, then turned down the dim hallway where the bathrooms were, taking a deliberate pleasure in the click-click of her new heels—so there, Mr. Detetive Fernandes—as she went inside the door marked “Mulheres.”
When she came out again, she was suddenly thrust against the wall. A coarse hand clamped over her mouth. She found herself staring into the amber eyes of the man in the sweatshirt, his hood down now, revealing familiar slicked-back hair, the scarred eyebrow, the scarred lip. She tried to struggle, but for someone so slightly built, O Lobo was strong. His hand tightened on her mouth, his thumb gouging the muscle in her cheek so hard she winced in pain. He had maneuvered her so that the leg she stood on, the one bearing her weight, was pressed between his legs. There was no hope of trying to knee his groin. He gave a low laugh as if reading her mind. His other hand was at her throat, thumb and fingers squeezing on either side like a frightening caress.
“Do not make noise,” he said in a low growl. “I squeeze hard, I can kill you.” The pressure on either side of her throat increased. “It will look like you faint, and I am gone before you are found. You understand?” He took the other hand from her mouth and put it around her waist. With a smile, he said softly, “We look like lovers if someone comes.”
“What do you want?” Carla whispered, mindful of his thumb and fingers still pressing on her throat.
“I see you talking to Paulo. I see you talking to the girl. To Senhor Walsh. And now that man in suit. What you are telling them?”
“They came to me,” Carla managed to get out. “I just reported the bottle you stole. Monday afternoon. The police took me to the station.”
“No, senhora. You were at the museum today with Paulo and the girl. You were with her yesterday at the Jardim de Santa Bárbara.”
Carla felt her skin go icy. He had been watching? Where had he been each time? Why hadn’t she seen him? Why hadn’t her shadow?
“I warn you,” he said. “Leave this alone, or I kill you. I know where you live. Beautiful garden in back.” He gave a soft snort. “I know every way to enter a building.”
Beyond O Lobo’s shoulder, in the dim light of the hallway, Carla saw a tall outline, a shoulder; above that, the brim of a hat—someone hesitating, embarrassed perhaps to have stumbled onto someone’s romantic moment on his way to the bathroom.
O Lobo said softly, “Promise to leave this alone, or I kill you right here. I just press harder, like this, eh? What you think, eh?”
The pressure increased. It was suddenly harder to breathe. Carla’s mind raced wildly. He could kill her even if she did promise. Maybe he liked killing. Fernandes had said O Lobo was wanted in Porto for other things than theft. The man watching would think O Lobo’s girlfriend fainted. While they sent for help, before finding out she was dead, he’d get away.
She couldn’t knee him, but her left leg was free.
“What I think is that the man behind you won’t believe we’re lovers.”
“Eh?”
For a split second the pressure at her throat relaxed. Carla guessed O Lobo was uncertain about whether to look over his shoulder. In that short instant, she lifted her free foot and stamped as hard as she could on his instep, giving him a hard shove and letting out a scream. With a howl of pain, O Lobo released her and toppled into the arms of the tall man who had closed the gap quickly.
What happened next was dreamlike. The man grabbed O Lobo’s arms from behind in a movement so swift it must be professional, shoving him against the wall, yanking his wrists back and snapping handcuffs on his wrists in a smooth, continuous motion, while Carla leaned against the wall, taking in great gulps of air, watching. He was the bearlike man who had been looking at the liquidation sale in the shop window. In the way that fear makes the strangest details stand out, Carla noticed he’d managed to keep the straw hat on his head while subduing O Lobo, although now it tilted crookedly.
One hand holding O Lobo’s cuffed wrists, he nodded to Carla and lifted the hat briefly with his free hand. “At your service.”
O Lobo made a lunge forward, and the man released him so that O Lobo's weight sent him crashing to the floor, shouting and filling the air with curses. While he writhed on the floor, the stranger took a cell phone from his pocket, punched in numbers, and held it to his ear. As he spoke, Carla could only catch fragments, “…polícia . . . dois carros . . . Fernandes. . .” His call finished, he reached down and pulled O Lobo by the forearm to his feet, propped him against the wall, and quickly stepped aside as the man kicked at him and missed, nearly falling down again. After that, O Lobo leaned against the wall, staring sullenly into space.
Carla’s screams had brought onlookers to the edge of the hallway. The bartender waved them back to their tables. Two matronly women at the forefront muttered to each other, sending furtive glances toward Carla, then her rescuer, then O Lobo, their hands gesticulating. Behind them, an elderly woman leaned on her cane, eyebrows lifted in disbelief. The undercover agent called something to them, and slowly they withdrew to the eating area.
O Lobo sent Carla a baleful glance. “Cabra!” he snarled.
The agent took his arm again in what was clearly an iron grip and sh
ook it roughly. “Silêncio!” he warned.
To Carla, he said, “The police they come soon.”
For what felt an eternity to Carla, the three waited in a silence broken only by the rise and fall of voices in the café. Carla’s glance drifted to O Lobo’s feet. One of his clean, white trainers that looked brand new had a dark mark where she had stamped. There was probably an angry bruise underneath, an idea that filled her with as much satisfaction as the two-note blares of police sirens now floating to her ears.
She took her new sandal off and examined the heel. Nothing had broken, she was glad to see, but her own heel felt sore. Small price to pay for being alive. She picked up the bag with her other shoes that she had dropped, along with her handbag. As soon as she got home she planned to go to bed and sleep forever, blot out this day.
Two of the officers who finally strode in turned out to be Chefe da Polícia Esteves and Agente Cunha. A third officer with light brown hair and a boyish face was accompanied by Fernandes. After greeting Carla politely in English, they listened attentively to the undercover agent’s account in Portuguese of what had happened, looking from him to Carla with expressions of mingled amusement and respect.
As they all moved through the café to the entrance, Esteves and Cunha on either side of O Lobo, Carla tried to ignore curious stares from café tables. Outside, her shadow—she probably never would learn his name—exchanged glances with Fernandes, inclined his head, then walked away. Esteves and Cunha led O Lobo to one of two police cars.
Fernandes said, “Senhora Bass, this is Agente Alcides.” He indicated the younger policeman. “He can take you home.”
“How did my shadow know O Lobo was in the café?” Carla asked. She shuddered to remember she had been so sure O Lobo in his hooded sweatshirt was her shadow.
“It seems he saw O Lobo sit down at a table outside just after I left,” Fernandes told her. “He planned to call Esteves, but then you went inside and he saw O Lobo follow you.” The detective nodded toward her feet, his mouth twitching ever so faintly. “I will tell my wife of your shoe maneuver.”
Shoe maneuver. Carla tried to smile. He has a sense of humor after all.
“Although,” he added gravely, “that only bought you time. If our man had not been here, perhaps you would not be so lucky.”
If only he hadn’t said that! Adrenaline shot through Carla, reviving the moment of O Lobo’s hand over her mouth, the way he pushed her against the wall, the feel of his other hand on her throat, the malevolence in his voice, the cold fear she might die.
“Alcides can drive you home,” Fernandes repeated, a look of concern on his face. “Or would you prefer I call your husband?”
“No, don’t do that,” Carla mumbled. Her voice sounded from far away. Her mind felt foggy. “He has meetings. It’ll be hard for him to leave. I can tell him tonight what happened. Right now, I’d . . . I’d rather have a quiet walk alone.” No conversation. Just quietude. She put her hand to her lips, as if to hold back the sour flavor in her mouth. O Lobo had seen her at the Jardim de Santa Bárbara, the museum; he knew her street, her building, the garden. But the police have him. I'm safe.
“I also will come this evening to talk with your husband,” Fernandes said. “You have helped us catch a very bad man.”
“He knew Walsh’s name,” Carla thought to say, coming out of her fog.
Fernandes looked unsurprised.
She rubbed the back of her neck where muscles had tightened, then let her fingers and thumb drift to her throat. Those were her carotid arteries O Lobo had been pressing. Weren’t those the arteries that caused strokes when they were blocked? Even if he didn’t press hard enough to kill her, she might have had a stroke. She felt cold again in spite of the early afternoon warmth.
“Senhora Bass?” The detective’s voice roused her. She realized her hand was still resting against her throat. “You’ve had a shock,” he said, gently. “Let Alcides take you home.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s a good idea after all.”
Fernandes opened the passenger door, and Carla stepped inside. “Go home and rest,” he urged. “You’ve earned it.”
Chapter Fourteen – A Change in Plans
On the short ride home, a call came in on the dispatch radio. Alcides had a brief conversation in Portuguese, then lapsed into a silence Carla found soothing. Normally she would be tempted to ask polite questions—Do you have a family? Have you been with the police force many years? But now she appreciated the lack of talk. She stared numbly out the window. Her left cheek throbbed from O Lobo’s gouging thumb. She probably had a bruise. And now her heel was throbbing, like an echo.
Alcides parked at the curb and came around to open her door, then walked her the few steps to her apartment. “I hope you take good rest, senhora,” he said. He shuffled awkwardly, as if at a loss for what else to add. Maybe he’d used up his English vocabulary.
Carla held her hand out. “Thank you,” she told him, adding, “Obrigada.” She took her key from her purse and unlocked the door, willing her hand not to shake, then turned to wave at him as he pulled from the curb. Across the way, the barber, his hair a magnificent white mane matching his mustache, stood in his doorway, hands behind him, idly glancing up and down the street. Probably waiting for customers. He flashed her a curious smile, and she included him in her wave with some misgivings, wondering if being brought home in a police car would make her the subject of gossip with his clients.
She paused inside the small vestibule. Through the glass door onto the garden, branches of the Judas tree glowed with clusters of deep pink blossoms. The garden was so peaceful. She should make a sandwich and take it outside to eat. She could take her e-reader and sit in one of the wicker lounge chairs, reading and relaxing.
Halfway up the stairs, she pursed her lips. On the other hand . . .
Paulo didn’t know O Lobo was in custody. Her curiosity revived, along with a new burst of energy. If he knew, would he go to the police and tell all? Should she tell him? She had gotten Maria to go to the station. And Fernandes had said a few minutes ago she’d helped catch a very bad man. If she got Paulo to turn himself in, even Fernandes would have to admit she wasn’t a likely suspect anymore. Wouldn’t he?
There was also George Walsh’s threat to consider. Maybe the butler didn’t have a history of violence, but there was a first time for everything. Look how freaked out Paulo had been at the sight of him. If she were in Paulo’s shoes, she’d take her chances with the law. Meanwhile, O Lobo was on his way to jail. Her shadow’s job with her was finished. Today, anyway. If she went to Paulo’s apartment, Fernandes didn’t have to know. And if she ran into that goony butler again, she could tell him she passed on his message.
True, she’d last seen Paulo sprinting along Rua da Cruz de Pedra, but that was before her chat with Walsh, her coffee with Fernandes, her tangle with O Lobo, her police escort home. Paulo could be home by now, in his yellow apartment, hiding out from the world. Unless he thought that O Lobo was staking out the apartment.
Who’s going to tell him if I don’t?
She retraced her steps, set the bag with her shoes on the bottom stair, opened the outside door, and peered out. No sign of policemen. The barber had gone inside his shop. She hesitated.
It’s only a visit to let Paulo know. She set off slowly for Rua Jorge Araullo, limping to keep the weight light on her bruised heel.
Paulo’s building and the shop next to it were as shabby as Carla remembered. She tried the buzzer for the outer door. If there’s no answer, I’ll let it go. At least I’ll have tried.
The intercom crackled. Paulo’s voice said, “Quem é?’
“Senhora Bass,” she said. No answer. “Carla. Maria’s friend,” she added, when the pause lengthened.
The door handle finally buzzed, and Carla went into the dingy lobby. Now that she was alone, climbing the dimly-lit stairs, hearing her steps echo along the hallway and wincing from her bruised heel, she started to
regret that an undercover agent wasn’t following her. In her brief half-day of being tailed, she’d become used to the idea of invisible protection.
O Lobo is not looking for me, she reminded herself.
She knocked on Paulo’s door.
He opened it slightly, and his unshaven face glared out. “What you want?”
“I brought you some good news, if you’ll let me in.”
Grudgingly, he opened the door wider.
Limping into the room, she glimpsed the sleeping area past the U-shaped counter. His bed was littered with clothes and an open duffel bag. The ashtray on the floor was full as before. Thank you, Owen, for being just a four-a-day guy. “Going somewhere?” she asked.
Paulo folded his arms. “What is the good news?”
“If you are, you’re sure going to look guilty of whatever someone thinks you did.”
“Why do you come here?”
“Look, Paulo, I know O Lobo has something on you and you’re afraid of him, but he’s been picked up by the police.”
“How do you know this?”
You wouldn’t dream how, buddy. To keep it simple, Carla said, “I was in the café where it happened. I saw him handcuffed and led away.”
Several emotions chased themselves across Paulo’s face, settling into relief, quickly replaced by desolation.
“You don’t have to worry about him, anymore,” Carla assured him.
He gave a bitter laugh. “Não. You are wrong, senhora.” He palmed his forehead, and closed his eyes, as if to make some image go away.
“The police think O Lobo’s connected with Senhor Costa’s death,” Carla said. “And they think that Costa’s death is tied to the duke’s bottle, the one I showed you on my camera, remember? Personally, I think O Lobo killed Costa, but you know something about that bottle, and you’d be smart to give the police any information you have.” When Paulo shook his head, she added, “Otherwise, O Lobo will probably say you killed him.”
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