“Samuel’s a classic suspect, like it or not. And the problem is, I don’t think that about Samuel from what you’ve told me, but because Fornells, who’s old and therefore wise, also thinks he is. All I’ve done is look at the findings from the investigation that point in that direction, along with a couple other things. I’ll tell you, just so you know, that he doesn’t have a decent alibi. And another thing: just forty hours before your father’s murder they were seen in public, arguing. And it got a little loud, with fists slamming down on the table to boot. When asked about it, Samuel admitted they had had a difference of opinion on a professional matter they were both involved in. I know Fornells is considering it, officially speaking, although he’s ruling it out in private. He knows Samuel as well as you, if not better, and thinks he couldn’t hurt a fly. So for now, as far as Samuel’s concerned, the investigation is about finding evidence that clears him rather than the other way around.”
“What can I do now?”
“Wait. Fornells has already done everything he can, and remember, he has a lot more resources than I do. But let me finish looking into Samuel and the others through a couple of trusted informants. Once you’ve talked to Fornells and you get the report from Financial Crimes, we’ll have new information to work with.”
Enrique began an utterance that never left his mouth. Carlos, in control of the situation, spurred him on.
“You’ve already talked to Fornells,” he deduced easily.
“Yeah, I’ve just come from the station.”
“And you didn’t like what he told you. Not only that, you think I won’t like it either.”
Enrique nodded. “He has the Financial Crimes report. There is a money-laundering ring using these new shops as a front, but they’re ruling out any possible connection with Artur’s death.”
“Yeah,” Carlos said. “We should’ve expected that. That leaves us few options.” His voice suddenly caught, sounding more like that of a heavy drinker. “The idea of the mafia taking your father out just seemed too dirty. People who launder money would never get blood on their hands. The possibility of a chance holdup by a random small-time criminal isn’t likely, either. If anyone had wanted to hit the shop, we’d probably already know through the neighborhood informants. And if we rule out these three options, all we have left to go on is what we’ve already investigated.”
“You still think they’re suspects.”
“Rather than suspects, let’s say they’re possibly but improbably guilty.”
“You said they had good alibis. How can we catch them?”
“Investigating them more than we already have might scare them, and they could even go to the police. We don’t want that—or rather, you don’t.”
“So then?”
“So then we’ll have to set a trap for them. Lay out some nice bait they can’t resist, something that brings them right into our hands.”
“What bait?”
“Come on! A guy with your imagination can’t figure it out? I’m going to start thinking you have ghostwriters working for you!” Carlos said in mock indignation.
Enrique’s eyes flashed as soon as he understood Carlos’s intentions.
“It’s risky.”
“All traps are. But you use them when there’s no other way.”
“How would you do it?”
“Well, I seem to remember they made you an offer to buy Artur’s shop. Have you come to a decision?”
“No, to tell you the truth I haven’t. Puigventós, the president of the Antiquarians’ Association, told me that if I wanted to liquidate the shop and its contents the best thing would be to set up an auction. The money’s better and it could be arranged directly for the people in the antiques community, without the general public finding out. He said it was an effective, quiet way to keep it ‘all in the family.’”
“That may be just the thing to set up the trap.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Listen, they don’t necessarily know that you suspect them. That works to our advantage. Call them to a meeting at Artur’s shop. That won’t be hard to do. There you tell them you appreciate their offers, but, on this Puigventós’s advice, you’ve decided to hold an auction, and you need their help to set the starting prices for the pieces in the shop and the warehouse. Or better still, offer them a personal gift while turning down their offer. That makes it more plausible. Oh, don’t forget, Samuel needs to be there. He also made an offer, so it could be suspicious to the guilty party, or parties, if he’s not there.”
“But I—”
“Hang on, let me finish! The shop has a study, right?”
“Yes.”
“The manuscript needs to be lying out on top of the table, in plain sight, surrounded by a bunch of notes in your handwriting. Make it clear you’ve been working on it.”
“That won’t be hard.”
“I imagine it won’t,” Carlos added severely. “Leave it out where they can all see it. It has to be the centerpiece of a nonexistent liturgy. But it shouldn’t be obvious what it’s really there for. If the killer’s there, he’ll have no choice but to try and take it as soon as possible. He got rid of Artur because he was on the way to unraveling the mystery, and as soon as he sees your work, he’ll know that you are too.”
“Sounds dangerous.”
“It is. You know more or less how they killed your father, but you haven’t read the medical examiner’s report. I have. The killer acted in cold blood, and the brutality of the attack is a sign of total premeditation. Now you’ll be in his way. You might be in danger. But you also have another option. Go to the police and show Fornells the letter Artur sent you before he died. With that in his hand, Fornells can take over this case and save us a lot of trouble.”
“No.”
“You’re taking a big risk. But then, you’re a big boy.”
“I’ll play the game. I’ll get the bait ready as soon as possible.”
Once the door to the offices had closed, Carlos picked up the phone and dialed. After several calls, a woman’s voice, gentle yet firm, finally answered.
“Ana?”
“Yeah, Carlos, what’s up?”
“Contact Pedro and have him take over your tail. I’ll need you for another job. Just hang tight until I call you.”
“Okay, boss. See you later.”
“Bye.”
He idly typed on his computer keyboard, and was not surprised to read on the screen the phrase he had unconsciously written as he talked with his employee: “There’s no such thing as coincidence.”
* * *
Enrique left the office adrift on a sea of doubt. Though he had not completely removed them from the list of suspects, Carlos had doubts about the participation of Enric and Guillem in the murder, as did Fornells about the alleged money launderers. Samuel? Absolutely absurd. A desperate stickup man? No, it couldn’t be. The manuscript had to be the key. He was absolutely sure that they had killed him for it. Guillem had a good alibi, but Enric’s depended on a third party. That person could be protecting him. That had to be it.
He headed to Vallvidrera. He had weighed the possibility of boring back into a mountain of old documents in the archbishopric’s archive, in which he was sure he would find what he needed to solve the mystery. However, convinced of his inability to find a solution that he thought would be simple but now seemed impossible, he decided to return to the relative tranquility of home. A tranquility that was relative because Artur’s memory was always lying in wait, ready to leap out of any corner by surprise, under the innocent guise of the simple yet unyielding aspects of daily life.
It took him a while to get home. Once he had made it through the traffic jam in Plaça Sarrià, he drove to Vallvidrera Highway relatively easily. It took no more than five minutes to reach his house. He parked the car in front of the door, picked up the satchel containing the manuscript and notes that for days had been his inseparable companions, and was moving to open the door when a woman’s voice t
ook him completely by surprise.
“I thought you’d never come.”
That voice? Could it be true? Enrique felt the inevitable combination of joy and irrational anger that always found him whenever he took in Bety’s lustrous beauty.
“What are you doing here?” he blurted, completely thrown.
“Quite a warm welcome—though, to tell you the truth, I expected as much.” Her voice gave off that distant, hurtful chilliness. “I imagine you’ll at least invite me in.”
“Yeah, of course.” Enrique’s response was not much kinder. As always, he hadn’t wanted to answer that way. As always, he had.
He opened the door. Bety was using both hands to carry a heavy travel bag that Enrique tried to take for her. She refused his help. They entered the house without a word between them. Enrique was perplexed. He had tried to keep her out of it all, aware of how meddlesome his ex was and the danger surrounding the whole affair. Apparently, his efforts had been in vain.
As usual, her rousing presence immediately captured Enrique’s imagination, and he couldn’t avoid not-too-distant memories of the times they had shared a bed in the next room, when Enrique came to Barcelona to visit his adoptive father. Bety moved with purpose to open the bedroom door and, with a final extra effort, dropped the bag on the bed. The squeaky retort of the mattress springs made it clear that no one had used it since they last had. Enrique waited patiently for her to finish emptying the bag and come talk to him.
Bety took her time sorting the contents of her bag. Her visit had been a surprise, but Enrique’s icy welcome … Annoyed, she lost the desire to tell Enrique that she was in Barcelona to help him. His silence had worried her sick, and she didn’t deserve such a rude greeting. Enrique eventually understood—after the fact, as usual—that his reaction to seeing Bety had been less than polite. He stood in the doorway and made an attempt to resolve the situation.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”
“Don’t make it any worse. You said it, and you don’t say things you don’t feel or think,” answered Bety with false serenity.
“Don’t be angry with me, Bety. You know how I am.”
“Yes, unfortunately I do. Even if I discovered it too late.”
“Come on, let’s go sit out on the terrace.”
She didn’t bother to answer, but simply followed him outside. They sat in two comfortable, bamboo deck chairs.
“Why did you come?”
“I was worried about you.” Enrique thought he detected a slight wavering in her rigidity. “For six days you’ve been avoiding me. I can’t reach you at home or on your cell phone, and I thought you might need someone … someone to be by your side.”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you. But everything just feels so strange to me, being here without Artur. I don’t know. It’s like I want to isolate myself from the rest of the world.”
“That’s the same thing: you didn’t want to talk to me.” The conviction behind her words was so complete that nothing, and no one, could alter it. “Listen, at our last faculty meeting they set up the exam schedule, so until it’s time to grade them, I’m free. The assistant professors can manage everything until then. That gives me a ten-day break. I decided to come see you because I don’t think you’re acting normally. I’m very worried about you.”
“You have no reason to be.” Enrique smiled to put her at ease. “Everything’s fine. You know I like my solitude, and there’s no better time to be alone than when a loved one dies and leaves us.”
“Liar,” Bety blurted mercilessly. “You can try that line elsewhere. You might fool somebody else, but not me. Not by this stage.”
“It bothers me—really bothers me—that you think I’m lying.” Enrique answered too emphatically.
A smile slowly grew across Bety’s lips until it became an uncontrollable laugh, so contagious that Enrique ended up smiling, despite a concerted effort not to. Seeing the contortions of Enrique’s face as he tried to restrain his untamable laughter, Bety’s peals became more intense, until they were probably audible within a hundred-yard radius. Enrique’s anger slowly faded under the balm of Bety’s mirth. It took them several minutes to regain their breath and composure, still beset by jags of sudden euphoria that came out as nervous giggles and short bursts of laughter, the final throes of an unexpected explosion of joy.
“I don’t think it was that funny,” said Enrique, once he had recovered.
“I do! Not lying? As if we didn’t know each other.”
“You’re right,” conceded Enrique. “We lived together too long for us to think we could fool each other. The truth is, that’s just what I was trying to do. But now—”
“Now you need to tell me why you didn’t want to talk to me.”
Enrique looked into Bety’s face, so expectant, so intense, so lucid. A feeling of admiration came over him: with her usual shrewdness, she had detected that something was amiss, and her only clue—a couple of messages left on her voice mail—had made her drop everything to come help him. Nearly four hundred miles, and who knew how long she had been waiting in front of the house. He couldn’t help it.
Over the next two hours, Enrique told her everything that had happened since the nefarious night of Artur’s death. He had decided to tell her in a collected, relaxed narrative, omitting no detail. Bety listened to him as she had before, suddenly immersed in a well-structured, though dark, tale, with a loved one’s death at its core. Enrique noted her mood changing as the story progressed: uneasiness, rage, disbelief, shock, fear. She had never hidden her emotions before, and was not about to now.
When he finished, Bety took a deep breath, clear evidence of the impact that the tension in Enrique’s story had had on her. She hadn’t interrupted him once. Enrique watched her closely; he wanted an opinion, a response.
“I’d like to see the letter and the manuscript,” she said.
In no time, Enrique had placed the leather satchel on the terrace table and taken out Artur’s letter and the antique manuscript. Bety read the letter’s postscript closely. She then slowly leafed through the manuscript, owing more to her curiosity at holding the cause of a murder in her hands than any historical interest.
“He died for this?” she asked, seeking confirmation.
“Yes. They killed him so he wouldn’t find whatever that book is hiding.”
“Whatever the book is hiding, and whatever you don’t want the police or any other expert to find—at least not until you do.”
She had hit the bull’s-eye. That was the clincher, what Carlos had not said out loud out of pure courtesy, a consideration of little importance to Bety.
“That’s right,” he admitted, and in doing so, felt somewhat relieved.
Bety didn’t say a word or make a single move—not even a simple raising of the eyebrows or movement of her lips. But Enrique knew right then that she didn’t share his point of view.
“I have a reason for doing it,” he argued. “In addition to the killer, I want to find what Artur gave his life for.”
“Carlos told you it was dangerous to use bait.”
Enrique thought he heard more in her words—a veiled plea.
“There’s no danger if we’re careful.”
“I wish I could help you.”
“You already have. You’re here.”
Their eyes met; the old complicity between them had dwindled but not disappeared completely. The passion and the love had tapered to the point of vanishing, but something remained that kept their bond unbreakable: admiration and respect. Enrique extended his hand toward hers, knowing she would not reject it. They sat together a good while, fingers interlocked, with the city at their feet.
6
When he awoke the next day, Enrique found a big breakfast laid out on the dining room table. Bety, an early riser accustomed to the university’s strict timetable, could never sleep past eight o’clock. She had risen with clocklike precision, partly out of habit, partly because sh
e was one of those people with an intrinsic familiarity with time, with no distinction made between working days and holidays. She was not in the house, but the still-hot milk indicated that she could not have been gone long. For the first time in a week, Enrique ate breakfast in an excellent mood. Bety’s presence in the house was reason enough to adjust his deteriorated humor and soothe his jangled nerves. The inevitable memory of better times brought with it a gentle yearning. The night before they had slept in separate rooms; for the first time, they had shared the house without sleeping in the same bed. Enrique had been tempted more than once to knock on her bedroom door. In fact, he had even stood several minutes outside her room, his knuckles poised in front of the wood, lost in doubt, debating whether to finally break with the past or prolong the agony of a separation that seemed final but could have been avoided. He didn’t find the courage to knock, more out of the fear of rejection than any other theoretical consideration. Bety was unwavering in her decisions, logical in her actions, and infinitely responsible. But the night before, Enrique believed he picked up something else in her behavior that could have been an invitation to take that kind of action. Yet he dared not try. Fear of failure—or perhaps success—became an insurmountable barrier, and now he would never know what could have been.
He was finishing breakfast when Bety came in from outside wearing a light tracksuit, damp with sweat. Every day, she ran half an hour before she did anything else, and traveling did not justify an exception. She waved at Enrique and then dipped into the bathroom. As Enrique cleared the table, Bety treated herself to a quick shower. Once finished, she came into the dining room wrapped in an oversized towel, her wet hair hanging down around her shoulders.
“Good morning!” she cried in a bright mood.
“Let’s hope it is.”
“Get ready soon as you can. We have a lot of work to do.”
Enrique hated working in the morning, and she knew it. His schedule had been another kink in their cohabitation. Bety taught mornings, but Enrique did not feel inspired until after a late lunch, when she was just getting home and wanting to go out for a walk, meet friends, or go see a movie. She could never understand how creativity could be so adhered to a set timetable, and so never comprehended Enrique’s insistence on working in the afternoon. “If you can create, if you have that God-given gift, I can’t believe that gift is only available at certain hours of the day. Write in the morning, so we can spend the afternoon together,” she would tell him. Enrique answered that working in the morning would affect his quality and volume, and that it was impossible for him. This, like so many other subjects, did nothing to favor their life as a couple.
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