It was boring, tedious work and by midnight Goodnight took a taxi back to Lisbon and his hotel, wondering if this wasn't just a waste of time. Perhaps he would be better off hiring a local investigation firm to handle the actual search for him. But he knew he wasn't about to let go. He hadn't come this far to sit in a hotel room waiting for a telephone call.
Goodnight lay in bed staring at the dark and recalled a javelina hunt he and the vaqueros had been on in Sonora when he was 17 years old. They had wandered the same patch of desert on horseback over and over, crisscrossing their own trail until Goodnight had been ready to scream. “Patience,” Ramon said quietly. He was the one who had been stabbed the year before when Jesus was killed. “Patience is the heart of the hunter.”
He'd been right. They found the javelina a short time later.
This was, Goodnight felt certain, the end of the chase.
~
The next morning Goodnight took the taxi to the commuter train station. His guidebook said the line ended in Cascais so he figured he couldn't miss his stop. And best of all the train ran right against the coast.
The trip to Cascais took 25 minutes. The small map of the town in his guidebook said that the restaurant district started just beside the train station. Gypsy women in the black dress of widows were selling clothes from on top of blankets and, incongruously, a busy MacDonald’s was just across the rotary. As he worked the course way his photographs drew nothing at each of the restaurants he visited and he reminded himself to work them again that night.
The concourse itself had once been a slowly winding narrow street now paved with small stones set in an intricate pattern of lines resembling waves. Wares were displayed on blankets along each wall: men's dress ties, tape recordings, African art, jewelry, Portuguese sweaters. A man with a Jesus-like beard and an acne scarred woman sang a gentle Brazilian samba, their guitar case open to receive coins.
By lunch time Goodnight had crossed the Estrada Marginal, the main street, and entered the small praca just beyond studded with bright umbrellas set about the small tables, the customers bundled in sweaters and leather jackets. As near as Goodnight could determine Europeans preferred to eat any meal outside whenever possible.
By late that night Goodnight was very tired. Having worked the perimeter of the praca without success he walked up the stairs of the Beefeater and it seemed to him had entered an English pub. A woman in her early 30's with a warm smile and slight overbite asked if she could help him. Her name tag said, “Nikki.” There were perhaps 10 other patrons.
“I'll have a beer.”
“Which one?” She smiled and pointed to the four taps.
“You pick.” She pulled him a glass of Carlings. He fanned his well-fingered photographs onto the bar and explained why he was there.
“Yeah,” she said with an accent he couldn't place. “I heard about you. We were talking about this case just last night. Let's take a look.” She stopped on the sixth photo and tapped it with her finger. “That's Linda Fendon.”
Goodnight was sipping his beer. He quickly put it down and patted his mustache with a paper napkin. “What's her name?”
“Linda. Fendon, I'm pretty sure. She arrived in Cascais early last summer, I believe. She comes in most Saturday nights.”
Goodnight picked up the photograph she was indicating. It showed a blond, with shorter hair than Leah Swensen, no glasses, and a woman perhaps 15 pounds thinner. “You're certain?”
“Sure. That could be a photograph of her. How did you do these? With a computer?”
“That's right. Does she have a cat?”
“You mean Scottie? Sure. I gave her the name of the vet up the street. He speaks English.” She picked up the photographs. “Those are awfully good for a computer, aren't they?”
“I don't suppose you know where she's staying, would you?”
Nikki grimaced. “I don't know. She's got a car so it could be anywhere. I can ask around.”
“I'd rather you didn't. If she hears I'm here she'll be gone before I can speak with her.”
“I suppose. You could come in Saturday. Like I said, most Saturdays she's here.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Goodnight was depressed over an early breakfast. He'd asked Nikki to say nothing about him but he knew bars. He had considered working the patrons at the Beefeater's himself but almost anyone could then call Leah Swensen and alert her. Shaking the brush at this point might cause Leah Swensen to bolt into the open, but it was just as likely to drive her further into hiding.
Over the telephone Conchita told him she was better, that she missed him and wanted to know when he was coming home. “Soon,” he told her. In the lobby he checked for messages and was handed a white envelope with his name scrawled in a feminine hand across the front. “This came for you while you were having breakfast,” the young woman said.
“Who brought it?”
“A courier, I think. Maybe a taxi driver.”
Inside was a short note. “I live at 54 Latino Coelho, Cascais. Please come alone to see me at 10:00 this morning. I can explain everything. Leah.”
Goodnight had searched for his share of fugitives before, chased one all the way into Mexico then smuggled him back across the border tied up in the trunk of his car. This was the first time one had ever sent him a signed invitation. It was just before 9:00. If he took a taxi he would arrive early for the appointment.
En route Goodnight briefly considered informing the police, even asking one to accompany him, but Leah Swensen was wanted for no crime in Portugal. There was not even a warrant for her arrest in the United States. Goodnight was here to prove she was alive. Once that was accomplished many things would likely happen but none of them until he had actually seen her.
Once in Cascais the driver asked directions twice to get him to his address then let him off beside a fountain in a small cobblestoned square. He pointed to a door and nodded his head. In blue lettering on white tile was the number “54.” The building was typically Portuguese in look, the heavy door painted a matching blue with a large metal knocker in the shape of a hand. It was not quite 10:00 when he tried it, noticing the door was already half an inch open. No one answered. He tried again.
Pushing the door open he called out. “Hello!! Buenos dias!!” No answer. Listening closely he could hear the tick tock of a clock. The living room was to his left and he found the first body there. She was a young woman, not much over 20, wearing the black dress and white smock of a maid. Her skull had been crushed and she had been dead at least an hour, perhaps two or three.
Goodnight moved cautiously down the hallway. There was an empty parlor, a vacant dining room, an empty sitting room. He saw her feet beside the bed in the master bedroom. Leah Swensen's face was set in a grimace, her blond hair resting in a pool of blood. It had not been an easy death. Her hands were gnarled under. She was wearing a silk morning robe and slippers. Her makeup had been applied.
Even accounting for the death mask Leah Swensen looked harder than he had expected. The odor of perfume and defecation let loose at death was strong. He stepped to the French doors and opened them into the enclosed garden before examining the residence in detail. Someone had gone through the drawers of her desk but otherwise the place appeared undisturbed.
A cat he recognized from his photograph appeared and rubbed against his leg. “Hello, Scottie,” he said. The cat went to its former mistress and licked her hand, then returned to Goodnight's leg. Goodnight picked up the telephone and wondered how he was going to ask for the police.
The man who said he was the chief of police wore a trim blue uniform and had one of those little automatic pistols Goodnight noticed on all the Portuguese police. He had introduced himself as Pedro da Silva. He was short and officious with some English, enough to make himself understood, or just enough to get someone in trouble if you weren't careful.
They didn't do much about sealing the crime scene. Nearly a dozen officers, a surprising number of them female, entered the r
esidence, took a walk through then exited. It made no sense to Goodnight.
A handsome young man taller than the others kept a close eye on him. Finally da Silva came out from examining the bodies. “You say you found them?” he asked in a thick accent.
“Yes. Like I told you earlier, one of the women is who I came to Portugal to locate.” Goodnight had already shown da Silva his identification and explained why he was in Portugal.
“Perhaps you came here to kill her, hey?” Da Silva squinted his eyes at Goodnight.
“Then I called the police right after. Anyway, those two have been dead for close to three hours. I was having breakfast in Lisbon at the time of the murders. I'm sure my waiter will remember me.”
“You are an expert in such matters and can tell how long someone is dead? We will have an autopsy and our doctor will tell me what I need to know.” He spoke to the several officers behind him and they at once seized Goodnight's arms. “You are under arrest, senhor. Please give my men no trouble.”
~
Sometime in mid-afternoon a guard came to Goodnight's cell and in surprisingly good English asked if he wanted the food served to prisoners or would he like to pay to have someone send out for a meal. Goodnight said he'd take carry out and an hour later was handed a bottle of wine, with cork screw, a loaf of bread, a round of white cheese, a breast of grilled chicken, some green olives and an apple. The guard took a pocket knife from his pocket and handed it over nodding at the cheese.
“No need,” Goodnight said reaching into his own pocket. “I've got mine right here.” He was left alone with his fare wondering at the peculiar way these people ran a jail.
He bought a hot meal for dinner then slept fitfully on his narrow cot. A drunk was dragged in late that night and serenaded him in Portuguese for half an hour before finally passing out. There was no breakfast though he was given a coffee, but around noon his guard came. “Come with me.”
Da Silva looked tired and his uniform appeared to have been slept in. His small desk nearly filed his small office. An ashtray overflowed and the air held as much smoke as oxygen. Beside him stood Mark Anderson from the embassy. “Good day, Mr. Goodnight,” he said.
“Nice to see you. Am I going to need a lawyer?”
“I think not, sir,” da Silva said from his chair. He lit another cigarette, held it casually in his lips then pulled Goodnight's wallet and personal effects from his desk and slid them over. As Goodnight pocketed his belongings da Silva said, “This is the murder weapon.” He lay a fire poker wrapped in plastic on the desk. Dark blood with hair twisted in it covered the tip. The three men stared at it in silence. Anderson sniffed his nose.
“Any luck with fingerprints?” Goodnight asked at last.
Da Silva shook his head. “There was nothing that is of help.” He placed the poker out of sight, then reached into a drawer. “Would you look at these please?” He handed him a passport and three drivers licenses.
The passport was in the name of Linda Fendon. One license was in that name with one each in the name of Lana Dahl and Kate Morgan. She was a blond in the passport photograph and matching license, though heavier than she had been when he saw her body, and a brunette, with and without glasses, in the other two drivers licenses.
“Do you recognize these persons?” da Silva demanded. Anderson looked quite bored and glanced at his wristwatch.
“I'd say they are all Leah Swensen, the woman I came here to find.”
“Quite right,” Anderson said as if that settled the matter.
“As you say,” da Silva allowed. “This morning by facsimile we received a copy of fingerprints for Leah Swensen. She was at one time a notary public and your investigators there had them in their file. The fingerprints are the same as on one of the bodies we found. Our doctor confirms the women were killed about 7:30 in the morning yesterday, about the time you were having breakfast at your hotel.” He looked at Goodnight for recognition of his professionalism.
“Good job.”
Da Silva nodded then continued. “This is a terrible business, senhor. This is not America. We do not have killings here like you do there. The girl was Teresa Ferreira, very nice family. Went to school with my daughter. This is a terrible business. Please sir, who killed them? It was not Portuguese, I can assure you. This business came from America.”
“I've spent the last 24 hours trying to figure just who did this and I can honestly say I have no idea. I could not have been more shocked to have found those bodies.”
Da Silva drew himself up and stamped out his half smoked cigarette. “You will give us no help then?”
“I wish I could. But I don't know who killed them, or why.”
“Perhaps some more time with us...”
Anderson spoke in Portuguese and da Silva blushed.
“I am assured you are a man of honor and would assist if you knew anything.” He glanced up at Anderson. “You are free to go.” Da Silva remained in his chair as Anderson moved to open the door. “When you learn who did this terrible business,” da Silva said, “you will call and inform me?” He handed Goodnight his card with a slight flourish. “The girl's family may find some peace in knowing.”
“Of course.”
“I suggest, Senhor Goodnight, that you leave Portugal before anymore pretty women are killed.”
Outside Anderson said he had car and would take Goodnight to his hotel. “Then I'll drive you to the airport. You have a reservation on Air France at four this afternoon.” He saw the look Goodnight was giving. “Trust me in this. It's best you leave at once.”
“What about the body?”
“The police in Arizona have asked that it be returned for positive identification and post mortem. My car is this way.”
TWENTY-SIX
Morrison was standing beside Kosack as Goodnight left the airplane just after 3:00 in the morning. A handful of others were waiting for passengers, looking just as bedraggled and tired. “Let's talk over here,” she said, pulling Goodnight to a quiet corner of the waiting area.
“I wasn't expecting a greeting party. We were delayed in Paris more than four hours.”
“We're primarily here for the body,” Kosack said, “but thought we'd have a word with you.”
“I don't have any more than when I talked to you while I waited at the airport in Lisbon. No inspiration came to me on the flight.”
Morrison glanced at Kosack who nodded almost imperceptibily. “Paula Dinelli was murdered about seven hours ago as she was leaving work. The lone occupant of a late model car shot her with a handgun in a drive-by shooting, just like the attempt on your life. This time the killer was a better shot.”
“A man or a woman?”
“The only witness couldn't say. He was having trouble with the seal of his wine bottle at the time.”
“Here,” Kosack said, handing Goodnight his holstered revolver. “I picked this up at your house on the way over.”
Goodnight undid his belt and slipped the familiar weapon into place. “I was feeling naked in Europe without it. Thank you, Tom. What next?”
“We're taking the body straight to the medical examiner for autopsy and we'll wait on the results of Dinelli's while we're there. I suggest you and Conchita stay somewhere else until we get this straightened out,” Morrison said.
“Is there any chance Leah Swensen was murdered by a local, for a reason having nothing to do with our situation?” Kosack asked.
Goodnight shook his head. “I don't see it. The police there are convinced it's tied to here.”
“How about Emilio Lopez? Is there a possibility that is connected?”
“That was personal.”
“O.K. That's that. Do you need a lift?” Kosack asked.
“No. My car's in long term parking.”
“Where will you be staying?”
“Home, I guess. I don't know if Conchita should be moved or not.” He noticed the look he was getting. “I'll be careful. You two don't look as if you could stand any more bo
dies. I don't mean to pick a scab but when will Jack Swensen be getting out? It looks like he's a rich man.”
Kosack answered. “You know how it is. First we have to positively identify the body. We'll want a statement from you about discovering it. If this had happened in the states we'd wait for a police report but dealing like we are with a foreign country and a language problem I suspect we'll waive that. Then the state will file a motion and there'll be a hearing. I don't know. Three, four days I should think. What's this about being a rich man?”
“Leah Swensen really is dead this time, and he was the beneficiary. Since he didn't kill her, he collects. That's a can of worms though. A lot of the money's already been paid to that so called sister.”
“We'll let you insurance types work that out.” Kosack looked at Morrison who nodded her head.
“We should go, huh?” Morrison said moving towards the concourse. “I'll be over here.”
“Look, Ranger,” Kosack said. “I've been a bit of a jerk here and I want to start over if I can.”
“My pleasure. Thanks for the gun. And good luck finding your killer.”
“Let's get the body, Tom,” Morrison said. “Call us at the ME if you think of anything.”
~
Conchita greeted him at the door, proud she was able to walk on her own. Her cousin, Lupe, stood just behind her, grinning. “Are you certain this is O.K.?”
“Sure. I called the doctor, and Lupe held my arm the first day until I was sure I could get around without falling.” She introduced him to her cousin in Spanish and he thanked her for taking care of her cousin. She blushed.
“I think Lupe was glad to come. She says her husband will appreciate all the work she does around the house and the children will miss her very much and be grateful when she comes home. We have been laughing so much my side hurts. Tell us what happened. So she was killed?”
“Yes. Just before I arrived.” Goodnight removed his hat, jacket and gun then took a seat. “The way it was set up was as if someone wanted me to find the body.”
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