“I’m not sure about the year or the make, but it was metallic gray—that I did notice.”
We walked awhile in silence. This, despite her usual chattiness; I was thinking about the pistol I had under my left arm, practically useless because Alba was holding my right arm. I’d already made sure no one was following us. There was no reason to worry, except for the silver-gray car that had left the same time we did. I moved Alba to the other side to free up my right arm and gave her my left. She was quick—she realized what it meant and asked if I wanted to go back and get the car. I calmed her by telling her that there was no problem, we could keep walking. We’d gone a block and the tension had been considerably alleviated when I noticed the silver car turning the corner one block ahead of us; it was headed our way. I told Alba to stand behind a tree and not to move, while I walked down the middle of the street to intercept the car. It was already halfway down the block when the driver saw me. He accelerated and stuck his arm out; I only had time to jump back and grab my gun. He fired one shot. His aim wasn’t very good: he was firing with his left hand, the car was moving, and the street was dark. When he passed us I already had my gun out and shot three times: one of the shots shattered the rear window. None of them seemed to have hit the driver.
Alba was glued to the tree, terrified. People came out of the buildings to see if we needed any help.
“No, thanks. Everything is fine. Give me a minute to dig this bullet out of the tree. No, no one was hurt—the only casualty was the tree, but nothing serious.”
While some people tried to help out, others stood around and pontificated on how violent Rio had become.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said. “We’d better go get the car.”
Alba let me lead her without a word.
We retraced our steps, retrieved my car from in front of the gym, and went to her apartment. The trip was made in near silence; I spoke only once, to ask how she was feeling. I accompanied her to the apartment, and as soon as we got there, she asked me to check every room. I called the station to log in a quick report of what had happened, providing a description of the car and the license number. I couldn’t give any details of the attacker. The only thing I saw clearly was the barrel of the gun pointed straight toward me.
“Can I get you a whiskey, vodka, or beer?” Alba asked, breaking her silence. “I’m having a whiskey. Double.”
“Thanks. I’ll have the same, but it doesn’t need to be a double.”
“Espinosa, the son of a bitch wanted to kill us.”
“I’m not so sure. If he’d wanted to, he already would have.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Nobody goes to all that trouble just to shoot a tree. I think it was more staging than a real attempt. Of course he could have killed us, just like he could have been killed, but I think it was a calculated risk.”
“If all he wanted to do was scare us, we can call him right now and tell him I’m scared shitless. He doesn’t need to do anything else.”
She said this with a loud voice while she was looking for ice in the kitchen. She served two drinks of the same size and sat next to me on the sofa. She got up to turn on the stereo. To my surprise, she put on the Peer Gynt Suite, by Grieg. She came back and sat down next to me again, propped up on the arm of the sofa, with her feet, in socks, on top of the cushions.
“Espinosa, who do you think that guy is? Who did he want to kill? You? Me? Both of us? And why? What did I do to make someone want to kill me?”
“I can’t answer any of those questions. The only thing I know is that it’s got something to do with the murder of Bia Vasconcelos’s husband and the secretary’s mother.”
“What secretary’s mother? Shit, they killed the secretary’s mother too? What’s going on?”
“The mother of Rose, Ricardo Carvalho’s secretary. Rose disappeared the day after the murder and the mother was found at home the following Saturday, also murdered.”
No reason to mention the severed fingers.
“And you think the attack today has something to do with those murders?”
“I’ve got to; otherwise I’d have to admit that they’re random events, which is contradicted by the fact that you two were stalked a few days ago. Maybe they thought I was Júlio, since the other times you were with him. When they saw me more clearly, I was walking toward the middle of the street, reaching into my coat—obviously getting out my gun—and the driver got scared and shot first. It could be that wasn’t what he originally meant to do. I’m very sorry. But this whole thing still isn’t very clear to me.”
“You could have been killed,” she said, as if only then did she realize the danger I’d been in.
“I don’t think he’ll try again. It’s much easier to kill someone than people think—especially if you’re not worried about the consequences. He already got what he wanted, at least from you. I’m just not sure if he thought I was Júlio. It’s not likely that you were targeted. I suspect he wanted to get to Júlio and only in the last second, when he saw me getting out my gun, did he realize that he’d gotten it wrong. The only thing he could do then was shoot; if he didn’t, I would have shot him.”
“I’m still just as surprised. Why would anyone want to shoot at Júlio?”
“Good question. Maybe he knows the answer.”
It was ten till nine. Less than half an hour ago someone had tried to kill us. The whiskey helped take the edge off, but it couldn’t erase the memory of what had just transpired. We hadn’t eaten, and I didn’t want to keep drinking on an empty stomach; I didn’t know how much tolerance Alba had, but my own was minimal, and I didn’t know where that would lead.
“You don’t eat dinner?” I suggested more than inquired.
“I’m not hungry, but if you want I’ve got some things in the fridge, or we could order a pizza. I just don’t want to go outside.”
We decided to order a pizza, which I ended up eating almost entirely by myself, substituting beer for the whiskey. At ten-thirty, with the conversation taking a decidedly personal turn, I thought it was time for me to go.
“You’re going to leave me all by myself?”
“The danger’s past. He won’t try anything else, at least today, and something tells me you’re safer without me or Júlio around. Anyway, keep the phone nearby, and if you get suspicious, or someone threatens you, call me immediately.”
“Okay, but I’d feel calmer if you were here.”
Not me, I thought as she finished the sentence. I got out of there fast, before I changed my mind. It was still Monday, and something told me that the week would be long and eventful.
I didn’t go straight home. First I stopped by Júlio’s house. It was more than obvious that I wouldn’t find a silver car there with a broken rear window and, perhaps, a bullet hole in the upholstery. I didn’t know exactly what led me to sneak around his house at eleven at night. His car, which wasn’t gray or silver, was parked in front of his house, and the hood was cold. There was a light on in the front room that served as his office. In spite of the noise from the neighbor’s TV, I could hear music on inside the house. I drove off, feeling like a complete idiot.
The three flights of stairs left me lightly panting. On the answering machine, two messages: Aurélio, asking me to confirm our lunch the next day, and Bia, asking me to call her if I didn’t get home too late. I didn’t know when “too late” was. I assumed that eleven-fifteen at night wasn’t yet the early morning. I took off my blazer, removed the holster, opened a beer, and called her. She answered on the first ring.
“Sorry to call so late, but I wasn’t sure what you meant by ‘not too late.’ “
“Thank you for calling, Inspector. It’s fine, I never go to sleep before one.”
“Has something happened?”
“I don’t know, I’m not sure—it’s more of a feeling.”
“Go on, please.”
“I think I’m being followed—that is, I’m sure I’m being followed, but
nothing else has happened.”
“How are you being followed?”
“In a car. No more than one person.”
“A silver-gray car?”
“How did you know that?” And, after a few seconds: “Are the police following me?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know what color the car is?”
“Because I fired three shots at it.”
“Huh?”
“I fired three shots at it tonight.”
“What’s going on? How could you fire at the car when you’re just finding out now that it’s following me? And why? Not because it was following me.”
I figured Bia must be completely shocked and thought she deserved some clarification. I told her everything that had happened, without telling her the name of the girl I was with, unsure how much she knew about Júlio and Alba.
“Are you all right? You weren’t wounded?”
“I’m fine. Neither I nor, apparently, our stalker was hit.”
“Fortunately.”
“Can you describe what the person looks like who’s following you?”
“Unfortunately not. I noticed the car—always the same one—but I couldn’t make out the driver.”
“I don’t think they’re planning to harm you, but in any case if you notice you’re being followed again, see if you can manage to call me. Do you have a cell phone?”
“I do.”
“Don’t leave home without it. If you’re being followed, call me from the car, preferably without the stalker noticing. And remember, they won’t be in a silver-gray car next time.”
I was sure that the car would be found the next day, abandoned.
I was already starting to admire the efficiency of the stalker. Whoever it was had made it more than obvious that they were following, but no one had ever managed to see their face. And I was also convinced that, when they shot at me, it wasn’t to hit but to distract.
I put off talking to Aurélio until the next morning. I wanted to shower and go to sleep. I managed to do the first, but the second wasn’t so easy.
3
Everyone at the station had already heard about the shooting. The car had been abandoned in a street in Botafogo. It was stolen. Two of the three bullets had hit it. There were no bloodstains. I had only hit metal and glass. So much the better. Welber came over to ask if everything was okay, if I had seen the gunman, wondering how he knew I’d be at that place at that time.
“I didn’t see who fired—just an arm holding the gun.”
“And how did he know that you’d be there?”
“He didn’t. It was dark and he mixed me up with Júlio Azevedo. He’s been following the couple for days. Last night Bia called saying she’s being followed too, and she described the same car.”
“What does he want?”
“I suspect he’s trying to scare people. After my reaction, he’ll probably come up with a new strategy. Any news of Max?”
“None. The sister seems really worried. He’s never left before with all his things. He had a suitcase under the bed that’s no longer there.”
“Welber, nobody disappears without a trace. What we have to find are the traces Max and Rose left. Go back to the house in Méier and comb every inch of that room. In the meantime, I’m going to Rose’s apartment.”
I called Aurélio. He wasn’t there. I called back and left a message rescheduling our lunch for the next day. I got a Big Mac and a milkshake to go and headed toward Tijuca.
The apartment still bore signs of what had happened. It would never again be as clean as it was when Dona Maura was alive. I started with the photographs. Surely the lady had a box of them, or even an album. It wasn’t hard to find the box—it was in the wardrobe, a shoebox tied up with string. There were hundreds of color and black-and-white pictures. The older color ones were faded, but the black-and-white ones were in pretty good shape. I spent two hours looking through them, trying to identify people and places. Almost every one of the pictures was from the time when the husband was still alive. In the ones with Rose, she was still little. Just like Dona Maura’s life, they ended with his death. They revealed nothing about where Rose might be.
After eating lunch, I dedicated the rest of the afternoon to Rose’s room. Wardrobe, dresser, shelves, suitcases, purses, boxes, notebooks, books—I didn’t skip anything. Every book was removed and examined: they could have some paper, photograph, love letter, dried flower—anything that might provide a clue. The only thing I found was nothing. There was nothing to indicate that she worked at Planalto Minerações and was Ricardo Carvalho’s secretary. It couldn’t be by accident. No one can erase every trace of their professional life (and perhaps love life) unless the erasure is intentional. And, in this case, she’d done it very skillfully. The only hole was the two missing daybooks. It was unlikely that they were at Planalto Minerações.
The apartment had two bathrooms, one for the mother and one for her. Her toiletries were all there, including her toothbrush. Perfumes, creams, combs, brushes, pads: nothing was missing, which confirmed the report that Rose had vanished after leaving Planalto Minerações, around six o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon of Ricardo Carvalho’s murder.
The only problem with that scenario was that it was too cut-and-dried. If things had happened that way, why would someone have to torture and kill her mother? She wouldn’t have anything to reveal. If she’d been tortured, it was because the torturer believed that she knew something.
It was dark when I left the apartment. The doorman avoided speaking to me, poor people’s natural defense against the police. I went straight home. The answering machine indicated I’d missed several calls. The first two were from Aurélio, one saying he’d gotten my first message and the second confirming the rescheduling to Wednesday, same time, same place. The third message was from Welber, urgently asking me to call; something was happening with Bia Vasconcelos. The following messages were from Bia: “Inspector, it’s Bia Vasconcelos. I’m being followed again and I think by the same guy. It’s not the same car, now it’s a little black truck, I don’t know what kind. I’m on Avenida Atlántica heading toward Ipanema.” Next call: “Inspector, it’s me again, I called the station but no one knew what I was talking about. I’m still on my cell phone, traffic is slow and he’s slightly touching my bumper. It’s not easy to call without his noticing. He’s very close. I’m talking without putting the phone against my ear so he won’t see. I already tried to get up on the curb but he’s still on my tail. I’m going to go to the first gas station I see.” Then: “I’m going into a gas station on the corner of Ipanema Beach and the Jardim de Alá. He came in behind me. He can see me talking…. I’m going …” Next message: “Inspector, I’m at a friend’s house in Ipanema. Please, call as soon as possible.” She left the number and address. I called the number. The phone was picked up on the first ring.
“Where are you speaking from?” I asked the feminine voice that answered.
“Who do you want to talk to?” she asked nervously.
“I’m Inspector Espinosa, I’d like to speak with Dona Bia Vasconcelos.”
Bia came on the line immediately.
“Inspector, thank God, come get me, please. I dumped the car at the gas station and fled.”
“And the stalker?”
“I don’t know, I lost him. I got a cab, we turned onto Rua Visconde de Pirajá, and I didn’t see him after that. I think he got mixed up when I left the car at the gas station.”
“Very good. Stay where you are—I’m on my way over. I should be there in ten minutes. Until then, don’t answer the intercom, don’t open the door for anyone. When I get there, I’ll ring three times. Who’s there with you?”
“Just my friend and the maid.”
“Tell her not to leave. Nobody leaves till I get there.”
“Fine. Please come soon.”
It took me fifteen minutes to get from Copacabana to Ipanema, even with light traffic. I found Bia and her frie
nd very tense. I didn’t see the maid. After the introductions, I asked her to tell me everything in detail, including whether she would be able to recognize her stalker.
Bia told me what there was to tell. She thought she wouldn’t be able to identify the person—he was wearing glasses and a hat or cap. She hadn’t thought to remember the license number; she was too scared and nervous. When she went into the gas station, he came in too. At that moment, she saw a taxi that had just filled up; her car was blocking the stalker’s. She quickly opened the door and got in the cab. After making sure she wasn’t being followed, she remembered the friend who lived nearby. While she was telling the story, Bia looked at the friend for confirmation, as if the friend had been there, and the friend nodded her head as if she’d in fact participated.
“Fine. The first thing is to go get your car. Wait here while I go. Can I have the keys?”
“I left them in the car. Keys, papers, phone, everything.”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be right back.”
The manager of the station had parked the car. After identifying myself and making sure everything was all right, I asked the attendant who’d waited on Bia when she ran off if he’d seen a big black car, like a pickup truck, that had arrived the same time she had. The kid didn’t remember—it was a busy time and he didn’t notice every car, and besides, he was dealing with the car whose owner had disappeared. I thanked them for taking care of the car and went back to Bia’s friend’s apartment, which was only a few blocks from the gas station. There was no suspicious truck.
I went up to the apartment, where the women were waiting. The maid had joined them.
“There’s nothing more to worry about—at least for today.”
The phrase, meant to calm, came out like a threat.
“What do you mean ‘for today’?” asked Bia’s friend. “Do you think he’s going to be back tomorrow?”
“I don’t know about tomorrow, but he’ll probably be back.”
“But what does he want?” Bia asked.
“I don’t know yet—he’s not trying to hurt you physically, that’s for sure. I think he’s just trying to prove that he can show up anywhere at any time.”
The Silence of the Rain Page 13