The Silence of the Rain

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  Around five that afternoon, a police technician with various apparatuses and gauges showed up wanting to know where the building’s phone box was located. After several trips up and down the stairs, he reported that the phone was clean: “If anyone’s listening, it’s not on the phone.” When he left, I didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more worried. What was he insinuating? That they could have planted microphones in my apartment? But that was for spies, not criminals.

  There was no reason to hang around at home waiting for a phone call that might or might not come—and if it came, the son of a bitch would know how and where to find me. I went to the hospital to see how Welber was doing. According to the doctor on duty, he would probably be released from the ICU after a couple of days. He was in stable condition; the major risk now was infection. We’d have to wait and see for the next forty-eight hours.

  On the way back home, I stopped by a supermarket to restock my frozen dinners and beer. I bought bread, cheese, and ham as possible variations on lasagna and noodles. If I’d had a dog, he certainly would have been surprised to see me coming home with all those new packages.

  The chief had freed me up from routine duty on the condition that I keep him completely up-to-date on the progress of the case. The next morning, I’d go to the station—I wanted to find out what parts of the case people knew about. I wasn’t aware of what time I went to bed, but when I was awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call, I had a book on my chest (I hadn’t managed to finish a single page). The scare made me think of Welber immediately: had he died? I answered groggily, forcing myself to wake up completely, which in fact happened when I registered the voice at the other end of the line.

  “Inspector Espinosa, it’s Rose. I have to give you a message from the man who’s holding me. You have what he wants and he has me. He’s proposing a trade. I’ll call back to work out how and when.” And she hung up.

  Very good. Let’s work out how and when. Only one detail complicated things: I didn’t have any idea what to trade for Rose.

  PART III

  He Would Prefer Not To

  1

  Rose had no doubt she’d be executed as soon as the kidnapper got his hands on the letter. Insisting the letter was hidden at the Hotel Novo Mundo had seemed her only hope of avoiding torture and staying alive. Now her life insurance was Espinosa or, rather, the kidnapper’s conviction that Espinosa had the letter. But she hadn’t had the chance to mention the letter to him. In the restaurant, while she was testing his trustworthiness, she hadn’t said anything. When she’d finally decided to tell him, the guy had appeared, taken out the inspector, pushed her into the car, tied her hands, gagged her with tape, and forced her to crouch on the floor of the car while he drove away.

  They’d been in an empty apartment for two days. The first instructions had been drastic.

  “I’m going to take the tape off your mouth, but I want to make it clear that if you try to shout or ask for help I’ll slash your throat.”

  The way he spoke didn’t leave any doubt that he would. It didn’t occur to her to try to test him.

  The building had many apartments on each floor. Through the bathroom window, through the air shaft, she could hear the sounds of different kitchens, countless radios, and human voices, a mixture that merged into an indistinct noise. From the front window, she could hear the intense traffic on the street. Every time the man left, he put the tape back on her mouth, made her sit on the toilet, and tied her hands behind the tank. The first time, he’d made her take off her pants and underwear before sitting down.

  “That’s in case you feel like doing something.”

  An hour later he came back with shopping bags full of food, sodas, soap, and toilet paper. He instructed her to get dressed again, allowing her to wash herself. In the living room she had to lie down silently on a cushion. He sat on another cushion, eating French fries, drinking soda, and reading a book that looked like science fiction. He didn’t allow any conversation and at no time tried to touch her. In a corner of the room, on the floor, sat a traveling bag with changes of clothes, arms, and ammunition.

  She had the impression that the kidnapper didn’t care that she was a woman. He looked at her as an object, an instrument of doubtful utility and a burden he’d be happy to get rid of as soon as possible. In fact, he didn’t seem to much care that she was a human being. He’d treat her the same way if she were an animal. The only advantage she had was that she could talk—it let her communicate more easily. His orders were always delivered in a low voice entirely devoid of emotion. Even in the most intense moments, like the shooting in the hotel, he hadn’t seemed nervous: he was as cold and functional as a robot. She didn’t know how he could tell so instantly that there were people inside the hotel room. It could only have been by the smell, or some noise she hadn’t heard. While gripping her neck with one of his hands, he had backed up shooting. Whoever was inside the room couldn’t get out; whoever tried was shot. Everything happened very quickly; in a minute they were on a side street. They walked about thirty meters, to the car parked near Flamengo Beach. No one followed them.

  From what she could see from the floor of the car, she thought they were in Copacabana, probably at the beginning of Rua Barata Ribeiro. They entered the building through the garage and took the service elevator. The only thing she saw was the hall. They were on the eighth floor. The only time they left was in the middle of the night, to call Espinosa. First the man wrote the text that she would read into the pay phone. In the street, he didn’t seem worried; they walked with his arm around her neck. In the elevator, he’d uttered a single sentence:

  “Remember, any bullshit and I’ll kill you like a roach.”

  He didn’t say anything else until they reached the pay phone. What worried her most was the possibility that, during the call, Espinosa would let on that he didn’t have what the guy wanted.

  Back in the apartment, he put the cushions together, tied her right arm to his left, and made her lie down next to him.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I don’t roll over in my sleep.” Lying on his back, he slept until dawn without moving.

  The apartment had been painted recently and there was a new showerhead in the bathroom. The place looked as if it was ready to be rented or sold. There was only one light bulb in the ceiling, uncovered, which lit up the kitchen and the bathroom when the door was open. In any case, the man wouldn’t let her close the door. But he wasn’t looking at her when she went to the bathroom. His desire was focused on something else.

  2

  His life hadn’t often been put in danger since he’d joined the force. Most of his days were spent writing reports and dealing with the bureaucracy. The degree to which a policeman was exposed to danger depended more on the policeman’s style, on his fantasies and his excitability; Espinosa’s style leaned more toward hunting good books than hunting criminals. But whenever he had to go into action or carry out an investigation, his efficiency surprised his colleagues. The difference was that once he was done he reverted immediately to his usual reserve, back to being a stranger. He was well aware what he was like; it didn’t matter where he was. Maybe that was why he’d never left the police force: he wouldn’t have felt any more at home in another profession. He wasn’t a stranger just to his colleagues but to everything—he inhabited a different space and time. That, rather than the shootout the previous night, was what really threatened his life. This and the fact that he’d never been corrupted made him different. People tended to isolate anyone who was different. So he tried to befriend younger officers, fresh out of the police academy, who hadn’t yet been corrupted. Welber was one of those, but he was at death’s door in the ICU.

  Espinosa had been transferred to the Praça Mauá as a kind of punitive quarantine. They hoped he’d learn to be like everyone else. If he didn’t change, he’d stay in purgatory; keeping quiet, they made it clear, was the only way to avoid being sent to hell.

  Friday morning. Be
fore he left home, he called the insurance company, which informed him that Aurélio had gone to Resende but might be back that morning. He was alone. That wasn’t anything new; what was new was that he couldn’t enjoy his solitude.

  He had to act fast. He hadn’t heard anything from the hospital since the night before, but he decided to stop back by the hotel before going to the hospital. The manager came with him, saying that he’d given express orders that no one was to touch the door. Just as he’d said, the door was still sealed. Espinosa thanked him and asked that he be allowed to examine the room by himself. He closed the door, took off his coat, opened the curtains and blinds. He stood a minute gazing at Flamengo Beach and the Sugarloaf behind it, lost, not looking at anything in particular, his thoughts turned to the interior of the room. The scene of Welber going through the doorway and getting hit was more real in his mind than the scene before his eyes.

  He sat at the edge of the bed and tried not to control his thoughts, just letting them float. When he’d examined the room yesterday, he had been looking for something (he wasn’t sure what) that he’d assumed would be hidden. But it could be something staring him in the face, something whose meaning or importance he didn’t comprehend. It could be something big, like a suitcase, or small, like a key. One of the probable answers was a key. The key to an apartment, a safe-deposit box, a locker … the search could be infinite. A key could be hidden in any joint of the furniture, any crack or chink or slot. Rose would have needed only five square centimeters to hide it: every inch of the walls, the ceiling, the floor could conceal it.

  But if instead of a key it was some kind of numeric code, it could be written down on any millimeter of every surface, including books, notebooks, agendas. Or it could be recorded somewhere, even in someone’s memory. He could stay in that room for the rest of his days and there would still be an unexamined hiding place for a hypothetical thing. More than an hour passed. He got up, closed the curtains and the blinds, put his jacket on, and left.

  Welber had been released from the ICU that morning but still couldn’t have visitors. The doctor on duty allowed Espinosa to talk to him for five minutes. It was a three-bed room, but only two of the beds were taken. The blinds were down and didn’t let in much light. The beds were separated by a partition. The other occupant was asleep or drugged. Welber had at least three tubes hooked up to his body, and several machines blinked numbers behind him. But as soon as Espinosa came in, he looked up with incredibly alert eyes.

  “How’s it going, buddy? I brought some fruit and flowers for you. Careful not to mix them up.”

  Welber’s mouth was covered with an oxygen mask, which forced him to lift up one side of the mask to talk.

  “Thanks, partner,” he said with a raspy voice. “I think you’ll have to call in someone to replace me.”

  And, before Espinosa could say anything, Welber gripped the sleeve of his coat, pulling the inspector toward the oxygen mask and saying quietly:

  “Espinosa, I saw the guy for a fraction of a second, but I’m sure he looked familiar. I saw him behind the flash of his gun, and the hall wasn’t very well lit, but what little I saw looked familiar.”

  “Someone from the police? Someone from Planalto Minerações?” Espinosa asked.

  “I don’t know, just something familiar.”

  The nurse came in with a tray of plastic cups filled with pills.

  “I’m so sorry, sir, but he can’t speak; he has to keep the mask on the whole time. I’ll have to ask you to leave because it’s time for his medication.”

  As Espinosa was leaving the room, another nurse came in, wheeling a cart full of surgical instruments, gauze, cotton, and jars of various sizes, and wearing an expression even more stony than the first nurse’s.

  He left thinking about what Welber had said. He also had the feeling he was dealing with someone he knew or at least someone who sometimes foresaw his own acts, such as in the incident with Rose. Where had the attacker sprung from? The last he could remember, he was alone with Rose. But she couldn’t have been the aggressor. It was true that he had turned his back to her when he went to open the other door. All she had to have done was call and say she’d been kidnapped. Why had she talked, and not the kidnapper? Because there wasn’t a kidnapper, of course. What Welber had seen was Rose herself. But it wasn’t possible that someone would torture and kill their own mother. Why would she? To eliminate herself as a suspect? Human beings had already shown themselves to be capable of much worse, but that was an inconceivable aberration. The truth, though, was that she had whatever they were looking for. How had she gotten it? Could the phrase “Lucena discovered New York!” have indicated the beginning of a conspiracy between Rose and Carvalho?

  Maybe Carmem could clear some things up. The receptionist at Planalto Minerações was no longer as interested or excited to see him as she had been the first few times, but was still pleasant.

  “Dona Carmem is in Dr. Lucena’s office, but she should be out soon. Wouldn’t you like to have a seat, Inspector?”

  After forty minutes, Espinosa asked the receptionist again:

  “Miss, is Dona Carmem going to be spending the whole day with Dr. Lucena?”

  “No, Inspector, it’s already lunchtime; she should be coming out soon.” She dialed an extension and said:

  “Ready, what did I tell you? She’s free now.”

  They talked in the room they had used before. Her sandwich looked identical to last week’s; it was the same diet soda.

  “You always eat the same thing for lunch?” He tried to start off on an informal note.

  “This isn’t a lunch, Inspector, it’s a ration. So, Inspector, the Hotel Novo Mundo suggestion didn’t turn anything up?”

  “To the contrary, Dona Carmem, it was very useful—so useful that I need your help again.”

  “Of course. I’m glad I could help.”

  “Dona Carmem, who did you discuss our conversation with?”

  “Nobody.”

  “Not even Dr. Lucena? After all, he is your boss.”

  “I only told him that you’d been here and that we’d talked during my lunch hour.”

  “He didn’t ask what we’d discussed?”

  “Not really. He just asked if you were still investigating the death of Ricardo Carvalho. I told him that this time you had come about Rose.”

  “And did you say anything else?”

  “Nothing, really. I just said that you’d looked interested when I mentioned the fact that Rose had stayed in the Hotel Novo Mundo when she moved to Rio.”

  “And you didn’t talk about this with anyone else?”

  “No. Nobody.”

  “Thank you, Dona Carmem. Could I make a phone call before leaving you alone?”

  “The receptionist will put your call through.”

  No news at the station. The Anti-Kidnapping Division still had nothing to report. He had a message from Aurélio saying he’d be eating lunch at one in the usual place. The clock in the elevator lobby said five past one.

  While he was standing in the lobby, he imagined Carmem going into Cláudio Lucena’s office and telling him in detail what they’d talked about. After all, she was Lucena’s secretary, not his.

  It took only three minutes to get to the restaurant. Aurélio welcomed him with a big smile.

  “I thought my message would miss you.”

  And turning to the waiter who was passing by:

  “Waiter, the same for the inspector.”

  “Well? I heard from the station what happened at the hotel. How’s Welber? Is it serious?”

  “They had to remove his spleen—it got hit—but he’s a young kid, strong. He’ll be okay.”

  “So, Espinosa, what’s going on?”

  “I’m not sure; I can’t quite piece the facts together.” He went on: “What does a rich businessman have to do with an old pensioner in the Zona Norte and a low-class pickpocket? Nothing; those three wouldn’t bump into each other even accidentally.”

>   The waiter brought the sandwich and the beer. Espinosa took his first sip without even noticing what he was doing. He didn’t seem aware that he was in a packed downtown bar with people shouting all around him; he saw only the imposing figure of Aurélio as he kept talking.

  “It’s obvious that Rose is the thread that connects all these people and the three deaths. From the first account Bia Vasconcelos gave, Rose disappeared on her way home. This after a call in which she claimed to have something important to report about the death of Ricardo Carvalho. Days after her disappearance, her mother is found tortured and killed without managing to reveal where her daughter was—because she didn’t know. Everything indicates that Max was killed and that his body was mutilated and burned for the same reason. Until Rose called and met me, nobody knew where she was. The person who gave me the clue and who unconsciously knew where she could be was Carmem, her colleague and Cláudio Lucena’s secretary. It’s interesting that Lucena’s name appears in the daybook in the phrase “Lucena discovered New York.” Pretty obvious she’s not referring to Lucena’s enthusiasm for the city. Coincidence? I don’t know. As you can see, my friend, a mythical darkness is falling.”

  Before Aurélio could say anything, the waiter approached them.

  “Which of you is Inspector Espinosa? There’s a call for you. They said it’s urgent.”

  Espinosa came back from the phone taking money out of his wallet and throwing it onto the table.

  “Sorry, buddy. Today’s still not the day for our lunch. We’ll talk later.”

  He left half his beer and sandwich.

  3

  Espinosa didn’t have to look for long to tell that it wasn’t Rose’s body. The height was wrong, and the state of decay indicated that the person had been dead for more than three days.

  “We knew you were looking for a woman, and since this body was found near that other one …”