Espinosa felt like clapping. Not only did the girl have a good figure, she also had a good head.
“Dona Alba, I didn’t say Professor Júlio was a suspect. Actually, right now I’m not looking for suspects, just trying to clear up some coincidences.”
His serious, slow tone calmed Alba down.
“The professor told me that on Thursday he was with you until six o’clock and that at nine you went to a Japanese restaurant.”
“Chinese.”
“Sure, Chinese. I don’t care about the restaurant’s nationality, I’m just looking at the times and a few subjective details. For example. How was the professor feeling when you left at six and when you saw him again at nine?”
“We didn’t split at six, but at six-thirty. I don’t think I left him in a very good mood. I fought a lot with him.”
“May I ask why?”
“ ‘Cause he hadn’t shown up for a week. I think he was hanging around that Bia Vasconcelos.”
“You think or you’re sure?”
“I think. He told me he was only with her on Tuesday, during a meeting at the school.”
“Did he mention having been with her in a bar downtown after the conference?”
“No, but that’s just like him. Júlio is a seducer, and it’s just as natural for him to seduce as it is for a dog to wag his tail. They both do it for the same reason: attention, a little bit of affection. He’s not a conqueror, he’s just nice and attentive and sweet, and women love that.”
“And even though you fought, you went out to eat together just a few hours later?”
“Júlio knows I blow up. I get really mad, but then it passes and I don’t hold a grudge; when he called and asked me out for dinner I was already over it.”
“And how was he?”
“Fine, calm, like always.”
“Thank you very much,” said Espinosa, getting up, “you have been a great help. In case you remember anything that could be important, here’s my card.” And as he was leaving: “Your gym is very nice.”
“Júlio designed it,” she said with a smile.
On the way out, he said good-bye to the secretary—one more chance to remember what she looked like.
One thing Espinosa had to give Júlio: good taste in women. Even though they were different, Bia and Alba had three things in common: beauty, brains, and independence. While he was driving, he compared the two women. Bia’s looks were more aristocratic and her sensuality expressed in small details; Alba’s were more wild and her sensuality, like the rest of her, explosive. Culturally, Bia’s superiority was unchallenged, but emotionally, Alba seemed richer. Bia was surely more interesting; Alba, in spite of her extreme personality, was more straightforward yet still had a relaxing presence. Without realizing it, Espinosa was tallying up the same characteristics Júlio had on Thursday when he was leaving Ipanema and heading for Jardim Botânico.
He didn’t consider Júlio and Bia suspects. Even though he believed that the capacity for killing existed in everyone, in criminals and in saints (maybe even more so in the latter), Espinosa also believed that powerful forces worked to prevent this capacity from materializing into action. There were simply too many obstacles for Bia and Júlio. Both of them were young, good-looking, professionally successful, with no financial problems, emotionally stable, with unblemished pasts and promising futures. It was enough to prevent anyone without an apparent motive from committing a premeditated (at least, so it seemed) murder. Even though he knew that placid housewives could commit hideous crimes, Espinosa couldn’t quite accept the hypothesis that either of these two people, or both, had committed the crime.
He tried to imagine Bia leaving the Bar Luiz, making the taxi stop two blocks away, “casually” running into her husband, kissing him warmly, and walking arm in arm to the parking garage, only to kill him once they got in the car. It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t see Bia as a cool, calculating assassin. And above all: why would she do it? After all, if Ricardo Carvalho wasn’t the ideal husband, at least he let her do whatever she wanted. He was so self-centered that he wouldn’t even have noticed if she was having an affair. He gave her money and freedom. All she had to do in return was show up and look pretty at the occasional social event.
The same reasoning applied to Júlio. He didn’t have any relationship with the dead man; he didn’t even know him. His relationship with Bia was far too fresh to inspire such a sweeping, passionate gesture, and one whose final outcome was so uncertain. According to both of them, the only thing that they had shared was a beer. He was inclined to believe what Alba had said: Júlio didn’t have the daring or the rashness—or the motive—to commit the crime.
It was time to explore other avenues, so he decided to start with the dead man’s firm, Planalto Minerações.
15
He left the car at the station lot and walked to Rua do Ouvidor. He didn’t like Planalto Minerações, he didn’t like the executives of Planalto Minerações, he didn’t like what Planalto Minerações did, but, all the same, there he was. He didn’t have to show his badge—the receptionist recognized him as soon as he walked in.
She didn’t look surprised when he asked to talk to the president. He sat down as if he had a long-scheduled meeting. The receptionist pressed a key on her phone, announced his name in a low voice, answered a few questions, and turned to Espinosa:
“Dr. Daniel will see you. Just a minute, please.”
Like all the rooms, the reception area was done in black, gray, and white. The only colors came from the flowers in the vases and the clothes people wore. The CEO’s secretary came to get him herself. She wasn’t tall or blond or pretty. She looked more like a mother superior than a secretary, she didn’t have a determinate age or gender.
“Hello. Be so good as to follow me.”
It wasn’t an invitation—it was an order.
After passing through a hall and two rooms, they came to the CEO’s office. Except for the size, it didn’t look much different from Cláudio Lucena’s office: the same absence of colors, the same kind of furniture, the same sterility. There wasn’t a single excessive object, not even gracing the big glass-topped table, behind which Daniel Weil was seated. He got up to greet Espinosa.
“Hello, Officer. I hope you’ve come with some news that will help clear this up.” He spoke as if he were opening a directors’ meeting.
“I’m afraid, Dr. Weil, that nothing has been cleared up yet. I’ve come to ask for your help.”
Espinosa understood it was a game: this man hadn’t gotten to be the CEO of a multinational corporation merely because of his puffed-up speechifying. But he also knew the old man was susceptible to that kind of adulation.
“How can I help you?”
“By talking to me about Dr. Ricardo: what kind of work he did, how he got along with the other directors, and anything that you think might throw some light on the crime.”
Daniel Weil spoke for an hour and ten minutes, an oration fit for a parliament. He talked about his rise in the business, his big international deals, his benevolence toward needy communities, his vaccination campaigns in Africa and in war-torn Asian lands, how he provided new technology to people working little pick-and-shovel mines in the Northeast, and the dedication of the company’s workers, from the most humble all the way up through Ricardo Carvalho and Cláudio Lucena. Not a single reference to the disappearance of Rose.
Espinosa left reeling. He’d need some time to let the old man’s smoke screen blow away. Not only had the figures of Ricardo and Lucena gotten fuzzier, but he could no longer distinguish between Planalto and the Rotary Club. The skill with which the old man obfuscated was impressive. After the interview concluded, Espinosa had asked if he could talk once more to Dr. Cláudio Lucena. The old man had agreed, a little put out, clearly of the opinion that after his speech there would be little else left to say. But he arranged a visit with Lucena nonetheless.
Lucena, although he was smooth and smart, had a weak point: narci
ssism. Well fed, he could furnish something useful, even when talking to a police officer. Espinosa still found the man’s soft, droning voice annoying, but he emerged from his long conversation with a few interesting tidbits.
Planalto Minerações was a subsidiary of a multinational with offices in Brussels, Amsterdam, London, and Rio de Janeiro. Its business was locating and extracting gold in the Third World. It had ample capital and modern technology. Since it wasn’t concerned with buying land, only exploiting the subsoil, it made deals with property owners great and small, which often meant familial and political conflict. This was where Ricardo Carvalho had proven such an implacable negotiator. It became clear that this was now Lucena’s job. The rest of the conversation was purely rhetorical. Not a single question about Rose. If the workers of that company were dedicated to their bosses, the reverse didn’t seem to be true. As they were saying their good-byes, Espinosa asked:
“Could I talk to your secretary for a couple of minutes?”
“Of course, Officer. I’ll make sure you have all the time you need.”
Dona Carmem was tall and thin, with pronounced bones, and her skin was naturally dark; she was neither pretty nor ugly, with attentive black eyes and a professional smile. Like Rose, she’d been chosen as the result of a competitive process. She’d been working at Planalto Minerações for four years and knew more about Cláudio Lucena than he did himself. She was well paid; in return, she was expected to be competent, dedicated, and discreet. They met in the empty executive conference room. She waited for Espinosa to take the initiative.
“Dona Carmem, we’re not only dealing with a murder but with the disappearance of your colleague. I need your help in both cases.”
“I don’t know how I can help you, Officer.”
“First of all, by telling me about Rose.”
“I can tell you about her as a coworker, but I don’t know much about her personal life. We’ve worked together ever since I came to Planalto Minerações four years ago, but we never really became personal friends.”
“Has Rose been with the company longer than you?”
“Yes. When I was hired she’d already been here almost a year.”
“Was she selected the same way you were?”
“Yes. But the final decision was made by Dr. Ricardo, who was going to be her boss.”
“Is that how it was with you?”
“That’s how it is with all the executive secretaries. The company makes a selection, but the final decision is made by the person you’re going to work with. That seems reasonable, since it’s a very close, very time-consuming relationship.”
“Did you two talk a lot? Did you talk about your problems?”
“Naturally. Our offices are next to each other and, except on special occasions, we keep the door between them open. When the directors are busy with a project or closing a deal, we hardly have time to see each other, but when things calm down, we have time to talk.”
“Was she any different on the day or days before Ricardo Carvalho’s death?”
“No, except on Thursday afternoon, when she called Dona Bia.”
“Did you overhear what she said?”
“No. I just heard her call and say Dr. Ricardo’s wife’s name; after that she closed the door that separates our offices.”
“Do you remember what time she left on the day Dr. Ricardo died?”
“They left almost at the same time. She must have taken the next elevator.”
“Did she seem different that day?”
“No. I didn’t see her much that day. I remember when she left because she came into my office to return some eyedrops she’d borrowed. She already had her purse when she said good-bye. Dr. Ricardo and Dr. Lucena had just left.”
“You said that the relationship between a secretary and her boss is very close and very time-consuming. How close was Rose’s relationship with Dr. Ricardo?”
Before the secretary could reply, he added:
“I know it’s a delicate question, but your answer could be decisive in helping us find out what happened to your colleague.”
“Officer, it’s a close relationship, but not an intimate relationship. I plan Dr. Lucena’s trips, type his contracts and memos. I know about his doctors’ appointments, I send flowers to his wife on certain dates, I know how he’s feeling even before he says hello in the morning … but I don’t sleep with him. I think the same could be said for Rose, although we never talked about it.”
“Thank you, Dona Carmem. In case you remember anything that could be important, please give me a call.”
Before Espinosa could get up to leave, Carmem put her hand on his arm and asked:
“Officer, do you think Rose is all right?”
For the first time, someone at Planalto Minerações had shown real interest in what had happened to the secretary.
16
After offering Espinosa a drink, Dona Maura ran her finger along the rim of her glass while she told him her story. Her eyes were red from tears new and old; she had the tired voice of someone who’d said everything there was to be said in life. Espinosa had respectfully avoided the plastic-wrapped sofas, destined for more illustrious visits he imagined would never come. The living room was scrupulously clean. The frames above the sideboard were arranged at strict angles to one another, a geometric arrangement with aesthetic pretensions. In a silver frame, standing out from the rest due to its size and central position, was a photograph of Capitán Euclides in uniform. He had been killed by an exploding grenade during military exercises in camp, Espinosa had been told.
When her hands weren’t fiddling with her glass, Dona Maura smoothed out her ash-colored print dress or pulled the skirt by the hem, making sure it adequately covered her knees, even though they were covered by the top of the table. The years of voluntary seclusion in the Tijuca apartment had contributed to her general pallor and her premature aging.
She had been as sad as it was possible to be. Or so she thought, until Rose disappeared last week. When her husband died, her daughter was only nine, and since then Dona Maura had only lived for her. The visits of her husband’s old friends had with time become more infrequent and finally ceased completely; for a few years now, she hadn’t entertained anybody. All her hopes were placed in the tall, thin man with the tired voice sitting in front of her.
No, she hadn’t noticed anything special about her daughter, just that she was a little worried after Dr. Ricardo’s death, which she thought was natural enough. She hadn’t said anything that could provide a clue to her disappearance, and she hadn’t mentioned the visit she was going to pay Bia Vasconcelos last Thursday. Rose had always been extremely discreet and didn’t talk much about what went on at Planalto Minerações.
She’d had boyfriends, like any girl, and had been thinking about marrying one of them, an army lieutenant, but memories of the endless moves she’d made when her father was alive didn’t help her already unenthusiastic love. For the last two years she’d had fewer and fewer boyfriends. Phone calls were rare, and there were practically no male visitors. She seemed to grow increasingly dedicated to the company, even though her mother thought that in places like that men were the only ones who moved up—women could spend their whole lives as secretaries.
In the beginning, Rose talked about Ricardo Carvalho. Dona Maura even noticed a certain enthusiasm, but a couple of years ago, Rose suddenly clammed up. Her mother feared there’d been some falling-out between the director and Rose. For days she wondered how to ask the question, not wanting to meddle in her work, and fearing a response that would confirm her suspicions. At dinner, she danced around the subject before asking. The answer was immediate and accompanied by a wide smile.
“Don’t be silly, Mom. I get along wonderfully with Dr. Ricardo.”
And she never brought it up again. A new worry, though, took its place in Dona Maura’s busy mind. What did “get along wonderfully” mean? Housekeeping and soap operas let her put off the answer for an indeter
minable time.
Not once during the conversation with Espinosa did she ask any question or make any comment suggesting that her daughter was dead. She didn’t have to; it was clear in the visible fright she displayed every time the phone rang. However innocent the call, it required all of her strength to answer. At one point in the conversation, she offered Espinosa coffee. Out of kindness and because she needed a break. Speaking, even more than thinking, was clearly deeply painful.
Espinosa looked around the room. All the wood was polished. Inside the cabinet, whose front didn’t betray a single fingerprint, was the wedding china and crystal, arranged with the same geometric rigor as everything else in the room. It occurred to him that she hadn’t invited him to sit on the sofa not because she didn’t think he was important enough but because she thought the table was more personal. There, mother and daughter ate breakfast and dinner; there, they talked more than anywhere else in the house. Because he was somehow linked to her daughter, Espinosa was now an intimate. They drank the coffee silently, eyes wandering around the room or fixed on the cups.
“Does your daughter keep a diary?” Espinosa said, careful to keep the verb in the present.
“Not as far as I know,” said the lady, surprised by the question.
“You understand, Dona Maura, that we need to get our hands on everything that can provide information about what’s happened to Rose, including diaries, letters, notes, phone calls, et cetera. I know that you respect your daughter’s privacy, but in these circumstances I’ve got to examine her room. If you would come with me, you could be of great help.”
“Do you think she ran off because she thought she’d be killed too?” the woman asked with teary eyes.
“What makes you think she ran off? Was she being threatened?”
“No, it’s not that, it’s just that she never left without telling me…. Do you think she was kidnapped?” She continued her line of questioning, as if she didn’t want to wait for or hear an answer.
The Silence of the Rain Page 6