The Silence of the Rain

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  He’d always lived by daring, never by planning. And now here he was, stretched out in bed, planning a stupid, miserly future, fearful of being robbed. It wasn’t what he’d had in mind for the rest of his days. The key word was “daring.” What difference did it make if he were stuck in prison or in that shitty little room in an ugly neighborhood? What most intrigued him was not that the guy had killed himself—lots of people did that for lots of different reasons; what he didn’t get was the cash and the note. Why kill yourself and then leave twenty thousand dollars for the police to run off with the gun? The first answer, obvious to Max, was that he didn’t want it to look like suicide. And if he wanted it to look like murder, he’d probably want someone else to be blamed for it. But no one kills themselves just to blame someone else. It doesn’t make sense. One thing was for sure: the guy really did want to kill himself. He’d done everything so calmly and deliberately. He’d even smoked a cigarette first. It looked like he was listening to music, waiting for his girlfriend. Maybe the guy was Catholic—he knew the Church thought anyone who killed themselves died in a state of sin. But the guy wasn’t going to fucking fool God.

  Suddenly, Max jumped out of bed and stood up, looking at the wall. Of course, damn it! The insurance! The guy had a shitload of life insurance that wouldn’t be good if he killed himself! He started to pace around the room—two steps toward the bathroom, two steps toward the door. In one of his trips toward the bathroom he kept going, sat down on the toilet seat, and removed the plastic sack from the tank. He took the card and the picture and replaced the cash. He needed to see if he was right. It was two in the afternoon. For an hour he practiced what to say and do. He got dressed, threw the card and the photo into his bag, bought two phone cards in a kiosk, and went looking for a pay phone sheltered from the noise of the street. He dialed and cleared his throat. When he heard a voice on the other end pick up, his heart started beating faster.

  “Hello.”

  “I would like to speak with Mrs. Ricardo Fonseca de Carvalho, please.”

  “Speaking.”

  “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m calling from the insurance company. I’d like to speak with you about your husband’s life-insurance policy.”

  Silence on the other end. Three or four seconds that, for Max, seemed like hours.

  Finally: “I’m very sorry, I’m just not ready to talk about that yet … besides, I don’t know anything about my husband’s life insurance. You should get in touch with his secretary at Planalto Minerações. She takes care of all of his papers.”

  “Of course. Could you give me her name, please, ma’am?”

  “Rose.”

  “Thank you.”

  When he hung up, it felt to Max as if his whole plan had just collapsed. That’s why he didn’t like to plan anything—something always got fucked up, and nothing ever happened the way it was supposed to. He decided to have a coffee at the bar while he thought about what to do next. Maybe it was better that way. The widow could have taken issue with his proposal and he wouldn’t have had any way to twist her arm—maybe she didn’t care about the insurance money; maybe she’d call the cops. He decided to call the secretary—it was better to deal with her than with the widow. He went back to the phone booth and called Planalto Minerações. The receptionist transferred him to the extension.

  “Hello.”

  “Rose?”

  “Yes, who’s that?”

  “It doesn’t matter, honey. Just listen carefully. Your ex-boss wasn’t murdered—he killed himself. He set the thing up so it looked like he was murdered. That means he must have had a huge life-insurance policy he didn’t want to lose. It so happens that I can prove that it wasn’t a murder, he—”

  “Who is this?” Rose interrupted. “You’re totally insane.”

  “Don’t interrupt, just hear me out,” Max went on. “I’ve got a letter he wrote by hand. If you’re a good secretary, you’ll know that his briefcase is brown leather with the initials R.F.C. in gold letters on the front. If you still don’t believe me, I can give you the number of his ID card and his driver’s license. Oh, and his wife is really pretty, if the picture in his wallet is of his wife.”

  Rose heard everything, petrified. There was no doubt this guy had Ricardo’s things. She didn’t know what to do—if she hung up, she could lose the contact. She was still completely confused when Max started talking again.

  “Listen up. I not only have the handwritten letter—and you can see if it’s real or not, because I was in the garage when he killed himself—but I’ve also got the gun.”

  Rose couldn’t manage a single word.

  “So listen closely. If he has an insurance policy, it must be for a lot of money. I could make it worthless—all I’ve got to do is send a copy of the letter to the insurance company, which would be too bad, because then no one would get anything. So I’m proposing that we divide it up by three, if you manage to talk the widow into it. It’s four o’clock. I’ll give you an hour to dig out the policies. You must know where they are. You can see how much they’re worth and think it over. I’ll call back at five on the dot.”

  He hung up.

  He knew that the next hour would be decisive. Not only in determining if he was right about the insurance but also regarding the secretary’s values. Maybe she needed a little nudge, a little pressure, a threat; maybe she just wanted to be sure he was telling the truth. He walked around for close to an hour, thinking about the possible ways she could respond. At five, he called back.

  “Rose?”

  “Y … yes.”

  “Well? Did you find it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! I knew you wouldn’t let me down. So how much is it?”

  “Almost a million dollars.”

  Max almost collapsed. He completely lost it. He cleared his throat, coughed, and repeated, voice cracking:

  “A million dollars?”

  He couldn’t imagine how much money a million dollars was. It was beyond the realm of the thinkable.

  “About,” the girl responded crisply, almost professionally. “Depending on the value of the dollar on the day it’s redeemed.”

  She went on:

  “How am I supposed to know you’re telling the truth? How can you guarantee that you didn’t kill Ricardo Carvalho and are just playing around now?” The secretary’s voice had changed markedly.

  “Honey, because if I’d killed your boss I wouldn’t be taking the risk that you’d turn me in.”

  “But you stole his things.”

  “A misdemeanor, baby.”

  “Don’t call me ‘baby.’“

  “All right, honey. Now listen up. We should make a date and I’ll show you the letter—you must know his handwriting better than anyone. And I’ll tell you how I found it—I’m sure you’ll believe me. Anyway, it’d be impossible not to believe me. Before we meet, though, this is what you need to do—”

  “I didn’t say I was going to do anything.”

  “I know, honey, calm down and listen. We don’t know if the widow is going to be cool with our proposition—”

  “Your proposition,” said Rose sharply. “I’m not doing any proposition and I think you’re nuts.”

  “Fine, but let me finish. Like I was saying, she could be loaded and not think a million dollars is a big deal, or she could have really strict principles and hate the idea—the same could go for you. Tell her I’m threatening you, that if she doesn’t accept the proposal I’ll send the letter to the police, and I’ll send it to certain people, people who are going to want to pull this deal off themselves—people who aren’t very nice. It’s a choice: either the three of us make some good money or nobody gets anything. Call her and make a date for tonight around seven. I’m sure you’ll be able to talk her into it. After you leave her house, meet me in the Largo da Carioca subway station. Bring some flowers, so I can recognize you. I’ll bring the letter.”

  He hung up before she could say a word.

  He w
as using the same technique he used during robberies: don’t give the victim time to think. Secretaries were obedient, disciplined people—she would obey. Rose had had two chances to hang up on him and hadn’t—proof that she was interested. Besides, a chance at three hundred thousand dollars doesn’t come up twice in the life of a secretary.

  As for the widow, she didn’t look like a fool: the husband was dead, so why should she refuse his offer? She really didn’t have the right to a penny, and here he was, offering her three hundred thousand dollars.

  3

  Rose waited a few minutes before reaching a decision. She was sure the caller was the man she’d glimpsed in the parking garage. The question wasn’t who he was but what to do about him.

  Ricardo’s personal documents were in a separate file, which she herself had organized. Inside the life-insurance-company envelope there was another one containing the actual policy. The payout was about a million dollars and the beneficiary was Bia Vasconcelos. A million dollars was a lot of money for anyone, but Rose thought the widow could give it a pass. She had a good job and was the only daughter of a rich man: sooner or later she’d have her million.

  Which wasn’t her own case. It was embarrassing to be a secretary. Her mother had been right when she’d said that only men move up in business—women were secretaries until they died. And as for an inheritance from Ricardo, she thought she had more right to it than Bia Vasconcelos, who didn’t even use her husband’s name.

  The second phone call removed all her doubts about the unknown caller. It wasn’t the scheme of a murderer—it was the scheme of an opportunist. An unscrupulous opportunist, to be sure. No one who spies on a suicide and then takes advantage of it to rob the dead person is worthy of respect. She started wondering what he was like. Middle-aged, occasional criminal, impulsive, not much in the way of critical-thinking skills. He couldn’t be completely brainless, because he’d figured out the insurance thing. He didn’t seem dangerous, but she shouldn’t make it easier for him.

  The proposition was the first thing. Clever, the idea of threatening Bia Vasconcelos with sending the letter to the police. The really good idea was something else, but he hadn’t come up with it. He had suggested that he would send the letter to the insurance company out of revenge, in the event Bia didn’t comply. He hadn’t thought of negotiating directly with the company.

  She knew enough about Bia Vasconcelos to know that she’d never let herself be blackmailed. She was too proud—she’d rather let the insurance money go. There would be no dealing with her. It hadn’t even occurred to the police that Ricardo hadn’t been murdered, and the insurance company would have to fork over a million dollars to the widow. If the letter didn’t leave any room for doubt, it would be a perfect negotiating tool: the letter in exchange for five hundred thousand dollars. For the company, it was better to pay half a million than a million, and Rose had enough experience in the business world to know they’d do it. But there were two problems. First, she didn’t have the letter. Second, once the proposal was made to the insurance company, they’d try to prove it was a suicide in order not to have to pay anything to anyone.

  She’d have to meet the guy who called and convince him to hand over the letter. That problem, depending on who he was, could most likely be solved. The second was more complicated. Obviously, the cops hadn’t checked out the crime scene very well. There was so much murder evidence that they hadn’t considered suicide—and, given their assumption that he’d been shot by someone else, hadn’t looked for powder residue on the dead man’s hand. If she tried to negotiate with the insurance company, they could have the body exhumed for another, less routine forensic exam.

  These were questions Rose couldn’t answer now. The best thing was to get her hands on the letter and delay exhumation as long as possible. Meanwhile, she’d have to find a way to get the guy off the case. She spent the next forty-five minutes cooking up an emergency plan; she could put the finishing touches on later.

  The first step was to call Bia Vasconcelos in an anguished voice, making a date … and then not showing up. After that she’d have to go home, talk to her mom, pick up some things, find a hotel near downtown, and show up at the Largo da Carioca subway station at nine. Not forgetting the bouquet. That detail summed up, for her, the kind of guy she was dealing with.

  It wasn’t hard to sell the story to her mother. She was sincerely worked up, and it helped that a lot of the story was true.

  “Please, Mom, listen and try not to interrupt me. I know that a while back you thought I was sleeping with Ricardo—now I can tell you that you were right. It started on a trip to the Northeast. Afterward we got together regularly, on the days when he claimed he had to leave the office early to go play tennis. He would wait for me in his car, in the Menezes Cortes parking garage, and then we’d go off to a hotel. This Tuesday I left the office a minute after him. Right when I got to the top of the stairs on the second floor, when I was still in the doorway, I saw a man firing at Ricardo. He saw me, but I ran down the stairs. I was scared and didn’t know what to do—I couldn’t say why I was there—so I got in the subway and came home. The man must have followed me and found out our address—he called to say he’d kill me if I said anything to the cops—and now he insists on meeting. I don’t know what he wants. Maybe he wants to kill me. I’m going to disappear for a while. Maybe he’ll lay off or get arrested. You can’t tell anyone that I was here today or tell anyone this story. My life depends on your keeping the secret. It’s better for you not to know where I am—don’t worry, I’ll be safe. As soon as things calm down, I’ll be in touch.”

  The old lady wanted to ask questions but couldn’t utter a single word. She couldn’t make sense of anything she’d just heard. She couldn’t speak. She stood mute in the middle of the living room, staring at the china cabinet. Rose took advantage of her momentary paralysis to go to her room and get a few things—just a few, so they wouldn’t be noticeable if anyone searched the room. She was about to leave when she remembered her diaries from the past two years. She put them in a little suitcase with the other things. Then she gave her mother a few pointers on what to say if anyone asked, promised she’d be well and safe, and took a taxi to Flamengo.

  The Hotel Novo Mundo was accustomed to receiving businesswomen traveling alone. She checked in as a professor from the Federal University of Espirito Santo. She left her suitcase in the room, made sure her clothes would do for the meeting, and had them call another taxi. At nine she was in front of the ticket window in the Largo da Carioca station with a ridiculous bouquet of flowers in her hand.

  A few minutes later, a little kid handed her a piece of paper: “Buy a ticket, go to the platform, get on the first train, stay there a few seconds, and then jump out as soon as departure is announced.” She did what the note ordered and got out at the precise moment when the car’s doors were closing, still carrying the bouquet. The guy was exactly as she’d pictured—a little better looking, maybe.

  4

  Max walked up to her with a smile on his face. The girl was much as he’d pictured her: obedient, shy, and scared—but he hadn’t expected her to be so pretty.

  “Sorry about making you get in and out of the train, but I needed to make sure you were by yourself.”

  “And who’d you think I’d be with?”

  “Who knows? You could have talked with the police,” Max said a little awkwardly. “But it’s fine: what’s important is that you showed. Let’s go somewhere we can talk.” Taking the flowers from her, he steered her toward the exit; he dropped the bouquet on the turnstile as they were leaving.

  “Let’s go to Cinelândia—we can have a beer there while we talk.”

  During the walk—neither of them spoke—Rose noticed he was tense, but she suspected it had more to do with his inability to start a conversation than with the situation they’d found themselves in. She finally broke the ice.

  “I still don’t know your name.”

  “Max,” he said. “
Short for Maximiliano.”

  He was wearing jeans and a jean jacket and a T-shirt with the words I LOVE RIO—with red hearts in place of both of the o’s. Rose was wearing the most discreet dress she owned and minimal makeup. No jewelry, and hair up in a bun. Max was charmed by her discretion and tidiness. They got to the restaurant and sat down at a table outside. He ordered a beer and she got a Coke with ice and lemon.

  “So,” he began. “Did you talk to the widow?”

  “I did, but it wasn’t easy. At first she was furious—she wanted to call her father, her friends, the cops, but I finally managed to calm her down. But even then she wouldn’t believe the story of the suicide. She said that you’re crazy, that you killed and robbed her husband and are just trying to take advantage of her.”

  “And what do you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’m confused. It’s hard to believe that Dr. Ricardo killed himself.”

  “Well, it was the most obvious and most intentional suicide I’ve ever seen.”

  “Dona Bia said you made that up so you wouldn’t get accused of murder.”

  “Honey, nobody saw anything. No one could ever connect your boss’s death to me. I didn’t need to protect myself from anything. Why would I raise any suspicions about myself if I wasn’t totally clean?”

  “I believe you,” Rose said shyly. “That’s why I’m here.”

  And she went on:

  “It’s just hard to believe that Dr. Ricardo would kill himself.”