Book Read Free

The Silence of the Rain

Page 5

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

“As long as it’s just five minutes. I’m having lunch with my father. Is it something important?”

  “I promise it’ll only be five minutes.”

  “All right. I’ll be here.”

  “Thanks, I’ll be there soon.”

  The previous night’s rain had washed the air clean, and it was a beautiful spring day by the time he arrived at Bia’s apartment. She was dressed and ready to go out; her face bore no trace of the week’s events.

  “Good morning, Inspector. Don’t you ever get any rest?” She said this with a friendly tone; her smile seemed genuine.

  “Well, I do, but sometimes I wish I didn’t.”

  He continued: “If I’d gone to Rose’s apartment on Thursday night instead of going home and waiting to question her the next day, she might not have disappeared.”

  “How can you think that, Inspector? How were you supposed to know she’d disappear or that she had important information?”

  “Dona Bia, my job is to have such suspicions. But I made the mistake of resting. Anyway, I don’t want to use up my five minutes talking about things we already know.”

  “I have more than five minutes now, Inspector. My father said he’d come pick me up. We can talk until he gets here.”

  “I just need to know one thing,” said Espinosa. “Who was the man who left you a note on Thursday night at eight?”

  The atmosphere chilled immediately; warmth gave way to defensiveness. She stiffened, and her smile vanished.

  “Is that important?” she asked coldly.

  “It might be. I don’t know yet.” Then: “Was it the man you were with in the Bar Luiz on Tuesday?”

  “It was.”

  “I’m sorry, but I need to know his name and, if possible, his address and phone number.”

  “His name is Júlio Campos de Azevedo. He teaches at the architecture school. We were both at an art conference at the university, and he gave me a ride back. He very nicely invited me for a drink. It was the first time we’d gone out together. I don’t know where he lives; I only have his phone number.”

  All this was delivered in a flat monotone.

  “May I see the note?” asked Espinosa.

  “I’m not sure where it is. I’ll have to look.”

  “I can wait.”

  She found the note and handed it to Espinosa. He read it several times and remarked:

  “For someone who’s only been out with you once, ma’am, he expresses himself very intimately, don’t you think?”

  “He’s just being nice, Inspector. Not everyone’s a policeman.”

  He noted the name and number and left, certain that he’d blown it. Until then, he’d played the courteous, understanding policeman. He didn’t know if he’d managed to conceal his attraction to her. From now on, though, she’d probably see him as a busybody cop trying to invade her privacy. The way she’d said good-bye left little room for doubt.

  He found a pay phone and called the number she’d given him. Júlio’s recorded voice told him that he wasn’t home, but gave instructions—”if you’d like to send a fax …”—and repeated the message in English and French. International business or a way of impressing clients? He immediately called the station and asked them to trace the address. The reply surprised him: they were practically neighbors. Júlio lived a few blocks away, on Rua Santa Clara, in a two-story house that served as both home and office. A visit to the house and a quick chat with a neighbor of Júlio’s confirmed this.

  He spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with his books at home, or at least trying to make it look as if he’d tried. After an hour, he realized he was just shifting piles. Rearranging the chaos.

  Scenes begin to insinuate themselves into his mind, always involving Bia and a man, presumably Júlio. Espinosa had never met him, so he was a very vague figure, only acquiring more character—closely resembling Espinosa himself—in the more amorous scenes. He grew hazy again when the couple was plotting Ricardo Carvalho’s death or luring Rose into a trap. The scenes gradually gave way to isolated images. Toward the evening, he’d almost convinced himself that it was highly unlikely that two young, good-looking (he was sure Júlio was good-looking too), successful, cultured people would carry out a murder, possibly two, running the risk of spending the rest of their lives in prison. After all, there wasn’t any indication that this was what had actually happened; the whole thing was just a figment of his imagination.

  It was now night and the room was dark. He’d lived alone for a long time. He turned on the light, went into the kitchen to check out the fridge, and decided instead to go out for a pizza.

  13

  Júlio thought about every moment since his meeting in the Bar Luiz with Bia and concluded that something had changed. Ricardo Carvalho’s death had opened a new distance between them. She didn’t return his calls or acknowledge the note he’d left with the doorman—nothing suggested the more interested woman he’d talked to at the bar. On the other hand, he understood that a husband’s death was cause enough to shake any woman and make her shrink back temporarily.

  He was confused and scared. Bia wasn’t just any woman: her mere presence could push him to the edge. He felt like she was asking him to do much more than he possibly could—without ever actually demanding or requiring anything at all. He didn’t know what to do next; he didn’t even know if he should take the initiative or wait for her to get in touch with him. Then there was Alba, body sculpted by aerobics and head sculpted by TV soap operas. A sweet thing, who only wanted to be happy forever—which, Júlio thought, meant getting married and having kids. Júlio was thirty-eight, had been married twice and had two kids, and didn’t have any intention of going down that road again. He’d never been very daring. Until now, his life had been marked by prudence, rarely exceeding the circumscribed limits he’d set for himself. The combination of teaching college and professional practice gave him the stability he needed for what he thought was a life without ugly surprises.

  Since it was Sunday, he let himself stay in bed until noon. Without Alba, he could turn himself over to thoughts of Bia without feeling bad about it. He drank a strong coffee, got dressed (he didn’t like to sit scruffily at home, even by himself), and was starting to sort out the materials he’d need for his class when the doorbell rang. Annoyed, he imagined it might be Alba. He didn’t feel like seeing her. Still, he tried to smile when he opened the door.

  “Professor Júlio de Azevedo?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Good afternoon, Professor. I’m Inspector Espinosa, from the First Precinct.”

  Júlio was so surprised that the whole sentence didn’t quite click; he only registered the words “Inspector” and “Precinct” as he squinted at the badge Espinosa was holding up.

  “Excuse me,” he asked. “Inspector …?”

  “Espinosa.”

  “From the police?”

  “Yes,” said Espinosa, without repeating the precinct number. “Can we go inside? I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

  “Please, come in.”

  “I’m sorry I came without calling first, but we’re practically neighbors and I thought I’d stop by to see if you were home.”

  “Of course,” said Júlio, as if having a police officer stop by on a Sunday afternoon were the most natural thing in the world. “Would you like some coffee, officer? I just made some.”

  “Sure. With only a little sugar, please.”

  (Kindness or a way of getting over the scare? wondered Espinosa as he looked around him.) The two rooms were separated only by an arch. The first room was smaller, but comfortable and decorated in good taste. The second looked like an office. From his seat, he could see a drawing board and a table with a computer and a printer. Júlio came back bearing a tray with two espresso cups and two glasses of water, which he put on the little coffee table.

  “What brings you here, Officer?” he asked, clearly already over the shock.

  “A meeting, a note, a death, and a d
isappearance,” Espinosa replied, as if he were giving the minutes of a co-op meeting.

  “What?” said Júlio, smiling. “Could you be a little more specific?”

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” said Espinosa. “You know Bia Vasconcelos?”

  “I do, we’re friends, but what does she have to do with this?”

  “How long have you known her?” Espinosa continued, ignoring the question.

  “For exactly a year. We met last September during a conference at the university. We ran into each other at a couple of gallery shows, and I saw her again a week ago, when we were both on the panel at this year’s conference.”

  “That’s it?” asked Espinosa.

  “Yes. What are you trying to suggest?”

  “You didn’t meet last Tuesday downtown at the Bar Luiz?”

  “We didn’t meet at the Bar Luiz,” Júlio replied. “We left the conference together, I offered her a ride because she didn’t have a car, and I suggested we have a beer to relax after three hours of speeches and debates.”

  “And when did you leave?”

  “Around six.”

  “An hour before Bia Vasconcelos’s husband was murdered.”

  “What does one have to do with the other?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out, Professor. What did you do after the meeting?”

  “I went to the Papelaria União, on Rua do Ouvidor, to buy drawing materials.”

  “What did you buy?”

  “Some tracing paper and ink.”

  “Do you have the receipt?”

  “Of course not, I don’t keep receipts for everything I buy.”

  “And on Thursday, early in the evening, where were you?”

  “In Ipanema, at a friend’s gym. Then I went to Jardim Botânico to leave a note for Bia. I heard that day about the death of her husband.”

  “And did you hear anything about the disappearance of the secretary?”

  “What secretary?”

  “Rose, Ricardo Carvalho’s secretary, vanished on Thursday, around seven-thirty, on her way to Bia Vasconcelos’s apartment.”

  “I’m hearing about it now, Officer.”

  “You don’t think it’s strange that you were in the same place at the same time as both of these unfortunate occurrences?”

  “From what I can tell, both the crime and the disappearance took place in very busy areas, where there were thousands of people around. I was only one of them.”

  “Surely,” Espinosa went on. “But you were the only one, as far as I know, who was in both places. You could have heard from Dona Bia that on Tuesdays her husband left work around six-thirty. The Papelaria União is practically next door to Planalto Minerações; you could have followed Ricardo Carvalho into the parking lot.”

  “Very clever, Officer. And what did I do with the secretary? Did I kill her too?”

  “I’m not saying you killed anybody. I’m just pointing out coincidences and imagining scenes. Not even hypotheses, just fantasies.”

  “And what’s your fantasy about the secretary?”

  “In her case, you would have had to have the help of someone who knew she was going to Dona Bia’s apartment on that day and at that hour.”

  “Your fantasies, as interesting as they are, Officer, don’t take into consideration an important question: why would I kill two people I didn’t know and whose deaths wouldn’t help me in any way?”

  “The contents of the note you left for Dona Bia suggests an intimate relationship.”

  “But only suggests,” Júlio replied. “In fact, there isn’t any intimacy at all between us. I’ll say again that the only time we’ve ever been alone together was at the Bar Luiz on Tuesday afternoon. I agree that the note had a certain tone, but that’s just how I express myself. Besides, Officer, I can’t believe that in this day and age you think that just because a man is interested in a married woman it follows that he goes out and starts killing husbands and secretaries.”

  “You’re right. Lots of businesses would have to close their doors,” said Espinosa, smiling. “But, like I said, they’re just fantasies.”

  And getting up to go:

  “Just one more thing, Professor. After you left the note with the doorman, what did you do?”

  “I went home and then went out with the girl I mentioned before.”

  “The one from the gym?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How could I get in touch with her?” Espinosa asked. “Just off the record, nothing that would worry her.”

  “I must have a card from the gym somewhere,” Júlio said, heading toward the other room. In less than half a minute he was back, with a card between his fingers.

  “Here you go, Officer. Her name is Alba Antunes.”

  “Thank you, sir, you’ve been very kind. And thank you for the coffee—it was delicious.”

  Júlio walked the inspector to the door and watched him as he walked toward the street. He was perplexed and scared. Ideas came and went in a blur. It was as if he were in some bizarre fairy tale. Who was that guy? A cop, surely, but what did he truly mean by that visit? Did he really suspect something or was he merely playing a cynical game to try to extract some information? Was he a corrupt policeman trying to lay the groundwork for future blackmail? Or a maniac who enjoyed abusing his authority? It seemed clear enough that it hadn’t been an official visit or an interrogation. But despite the policeman’s pleasant tone and his declaration that he was just spinning fantasies, there was an obvious threat. What Júlio couldn’t tell was whether it was a legitimate threat or just a game of intimidation. Either way, he was scared.

  14

  When he got to the gym, at around nine in the morning, several groups had already paid tribute to beauty. The receptionist, who didn’t appear to need to work out at all, looked at Espinosa as if he were something out of an album of old family photographs. After a quick once-over, she decided he wasn’t a candidate for the activities offered by the Ipanema Health Center. He didn’t look like a tax inspector—he didn’t have a briefcase. For the same reason, he didn’t look like a salesman. He could be the husband or boyfriend of one of the students, despite his age.

  Thrown off guard by the receptionist’s inspection, Espinosa took the initiative.

  “Hello. I’d like to speak with Ms. Alba Antunes.”

  “Who can I tell her is here?” stuttered the secretary, looking surprised that Espinosa could speak.

  “My name is Espinosa.”

  “And what company are you from?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re not here from any company?” insisted the girl.

  “In a way, yes,” Espinosa replied, smiling, “but I’m here about a private matter.”

  “Just a minute, please, I’m going to see if she’s in a class,” she said, starting to punch a series of buttons on the telephone.

  A glass wall separated the reception area from a big room filled with equipment. There were StairMasters, stationary bikes, weight benches, and an endless number of other gadgets, all occupied by sweating young people of both sexes. If it hadn’t been for the abundance of mirrors, the intense illumination, and the music that pumped out of the second floor, it could have been the torture chamber of a medieval castle. While he was waiting, Espinosa glanced from the weight room to the secretary’s shirt, cut so low on all sides that it resembled a bib. The girl finally got lucky with one of the buttons.

  “Albinha, there’s someone here to see you.” After several seconds of listening, she said: “Mr. Espinhosa.”

  “Espinosa.”

  “Mr. Espinosa,” she repeated. “He says it’s personal.”

  “Tell her Júlio gave me her address,” he interrupted.

  She repeated it, moved her gum around in her mouth a few times, stuck her finger through a hole in her shirt and, after a couple of “uh-huh”s, hung up.

  “You can take the stairs on the other side of the weight room. Third floor.”

&
nbsp; Espinosa walked across the weight room like a priest walking through a nudist colony. Even though he was used to walking up three flights of stairs in the building where he lived, the two flights at the gym left him slightly out of breath. He didn’t know if it was from the display of muscled youth around him or from the secretary’s shirt.

  Alba’s office was an aquarium of glass in the back of the third floor. It was furnished with a big table with a half dozen chairs around it, two metal filing cabinets, and a kind of built-in closet that occupied one of the side walls. The back wall was plastered with posters of the Olympics. The only feminine touch was the vase of flowers in the middle of the table. Alba was sitting down, filling out forms. She smiled and extended her hand.

  “You’re a friend of Júlio’s?” she asked, still smiling and inviting him to sit down in front of her.

  “Not exactly. We met yesterday afternoon and talked for a while at his house.” He paused. “I’m Inspector Espinosa, of the First Precinct.”

  “Police?” asked Alba, wrinkling her nose. “Police inspector? Did something happen to Júlio?”

  “No, don’t worry.”

  “I know!” she said. “It’s about the husband of that chick Júlio’s been going out with.”

  “Has he gone out with her?” Espinosa pounced, but Alba had already gotten over her surprise and was back on the defensive.

  “Are you investigating the death of the businessman?”

  “I am.”

  “And do you by chance suspect Júlio?”

  “Do you think I should?”

  “Officer, if that’s why you’ve stopped by, I think you’re on the wrong track. I don’t know anything about his relationship with the executive’s wife. But anyway, Júlio would never kill anyone—he can’t even fight with me, no way he could kill a man. As far as I understand, someone can kill someone else by accident, or because of an uncontrollable impulse, or after premeditation. From what I read in the papers, it wasn’t an accident. Júlio doesn’t have uncontrollable impulses—he errs on the side of too much control in everything he does. And premeditation? Out of the question. He doesn’t have the nerve. So if Júlio’s a suspect, Officer, you better keep looking.”

 

‹ Prev