His familiarity with the neighborhood was like the intimate knowledge older people have of their childhood gardens. It was with this feeling of intimacy that he left his house on Monday morning and headed for the station. He took the route least likely to distract him inadvertently; he had to attend to a few matters relating to what he had started calling the “Vieira case.” The first was taking the deposition of the dead woman’s friend. He entrusted a young detective on his team with bringing her to the station. Then he called Vieira to tell him that he had found the restaurant where he and Magali had eaten on Friday night. Vieira took the news as a confirmation. The fragments of his memory suggested that place; what he hadn’t been able to determine was whether the fragments referred to that night or some other time. “Thanks, Espinosa, but unfortunately that information doesn’t do much for my memory, which is still a complete blank.” When Espinosa told him that no one knew anything about the wallet, he replied that he had reported the loss of the credit cards and would cancel the checks as soon as the banks opened.
It was almost eleven in the morning when Flor arrived, accompanied by the detective. She didn’t look like a typical prostitute. She wasn’t made-up, and her clothes—jeans, untucked shirt, and tennis shoes—were discreet. But it was obvious she wasn’t a nun or a college student by the easy way she walked into the police station and answered their questions. Right away, she hastened to point out that she was Officer Vieira’s girlfriend.
“What?” asked Espinosa. “Wasn’t Magali Vieira’s girlfriend? And weren’t you her friend?”
“Exactly. He inherited me.” Seeing Espinosa’s surprise, she added: “Nothing like that. When Magali was alive, there was nothing between us. Magali always told me that if anything ever happened to her, I was supposed to take care of her man, Vieira.”
“Why did she say that? Did she think anything was going to happen to her?”
“No, it was just an idea.”
“What do you mean ‘it was just an idea’?”
“It was just an idea. You know that in our line of work things can happen. We never know who our customer is: he can look like a monster and be as delicate as a flower or he can look like a kid and be capable of anything. We’re always a little scared, which is why we look for protection in men like Vieira.”
“I know, but men like Vieira don’t just stand there and watch you when you’re with a client.”
“Of course not, but people hear about it and don’t dare get violent.”
“Let’s get back to Magali’s idea, that someone was going to kill her.”
“I never said she thought someone was going to kill her. I just said that she had the idea that something could happen to her.”
“Flor, don’t try to play all innocent with me. It’s not going to work. If Magali told you to take care of her man in case something happened to her, it could only be in case she died or disappeared. Otherwise she could take care of him herself. So that’s exactly what I want to know. Did she ever mention any specific threat? Did anyone say they were going to kill her?”
“She never named names, but she thought it could happen.”
“And why would it happen to her specifically and not to anyone else?”
“Because she was thinking about herself.”
“And you think that the simple fact that she was worried about herself could have made her murder come about?”
“They say that frightened people draw out the evil in others. It’s like when you walk near a dog: he could be sweet and harmless, but if you walk by him trembling he’s going to bite.”
“Any idea who this client was who killed her because she was scared?”
“No. I know she had a few regulars, but I didn’t know any of them, and a regular wouldn’t do something like this. I think it was probably someone who went for the first time, couldn’t get it up, and decided to avenge himself on her. The most dangerous thing in the world is a man like that: they either turn into crybabies or they want to kill everything in sight.”
“And you? How were your relations with Magali?”
“We were sisters. I mean, not really, but it was like we were.”
“And even real sisters fight every once in a while.”
“We never fought; we got along perfectly.”
“So perfectly that you ended up with her man.”
“What does that have to do with it? She asked me herself.”
“That’s what you’re saying.”
“What are you trying to say?”
“I’m not trying to say anything; you’re the one saying it all.”
“I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to understand: that’s the way of the world. Or maybe you don’t want to understand, which amounts to the same thing.”
Flor was clearly beginning to feel uncomfortable and wary. She clammed up. Espinosa didn’t think it would help matters to prod her any further; better simply to let her think about what had been said, and especially about what hadn’t been said. He let her go, telling her not to leave the city, and sat thinking about why Vieira hadn’t mentioned that Flor had become his lover so quickly. Unless it was all in her imagination, or a shield for the interrogation.
He hadn’t expected the vigil in front of the building to be so agonizing. He couldn’t distract himself by looking at the latest car models or imported tennis shoes or the pictures on T-shirts; any slip could coincide with the man’s exit. Around ten at night, the man left the building and walked unwaveringly in one direction; a more experienced observer would have realized that before he’d gone out he must have spent some time choosing his target, going over the route, thinking about how to proceed. The boy, however, was worried about action, not preparations. As soon as the man’s feet touched the sidewalk, he shot out of his shelter on the sidewalk across the street and started walking parallel to him until he managed to cross the street and place himself at a safe distance. They walked toward Leme, and since the man didn’t appear to be looking for a taxi or a bus, the boy inferred that they wouldn’t have far to go. He had to take two steps for every one the man took, and occasionally he had to run in order to keep up. They went through the Praça Serzedelo Correia; the man didn’t change his pace or stray from his path; he never looked back. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have deemed the boy worthy of notice. One block after the Copacabana Palace, the man slowed down, narrowing the distance between them. When they reached the Praça do Lido, the boy guessed where he was heading: to the sleazy little dives around the square.
The man went first into a gay club. The boy had to wait outside and guess what was going on. The little street beside the square was closed to traffic; the boy sat on the curb and waited.
He was paying so much attention to the door of the club that he didn’t even notice the two boys sitting next to him. He knew them both from the shelter, where they got a bed and food when things got complicated on the streets. There was no dialogue, just some hand slapping and a few mutterings. At first the boy was annoyed by the interruption, but then he decided it could work in his favor; three boys sitting on the curb wouldn’t attract the man’s curiosity. After a few minutes, they made some comments about the death of a transvestite who had been a protector and occasional mother to them. They asked him what he was trying to figure out sitting there on the pavement; they had seen him arrive, sit on the curb, and stare across the street. He responded that he was following a man who had stolen a policeman’s I.D. The two got up and left. He maintained his solitary vigil. Almost an hour went by, and he began to doubt that the man was still in there; maybe he’d left when he was talking with the other kids, or maybe the people in the bar had figured out what he was really up to. Another half hour. He could have sworn the man hadn’t come out of the club, and there was only that one door. Staring at the same point for so long, his mind started playing tricks on him: had the man really gone in that door? He remembered others who had come out, any one of w
hom could have been his man. He was about to give up when the door opened and he saw him leave the building, walk toward a light, take something out of his pocket, examine it at length, put it back into his pocket, and start walking toward the Avenida Atlântica. The boy had no doubts: the man’s operation had been a success. He thought that the man would be content with one victory that evening, but then he saw him cross the square and go into another club. He re-emerged in less than five minutes. Either he’d recognized a cop or had seen someone who could identify him. This time he left the area a little faster, once again walking toward the Avenida Atlantica. He went up to two men who were then approached by a third who was obviously selling drugs, but the group broke up before anything happened. From there he went home. He got back to his building at one in the morning. The boy felt that he’d had a full day.
It was time to take care of himself. The afternoon watch, on top of the chase and vigil at night, hadn’t left him any time to find something to eat, and he was hungry. Restaurants closed early on Sundays, but he would try a couple, not far from there, where the doorman knew him and would rummage up something. At the first restaurant he was badly received by the security guard, but at the second the attendant recognized him and interceded with the waiters on his behalf. While he ate a few strips of meat with bread, he reflected that the man hadn’t gotten money in that little dive. He hadn’t looked at whatever he’d left the club with like someone counting money. Though he had only been watching from a distance, the boy could have bet that what he had taken out of his pocket were little bags of powder.
Before going to sleep, he decided that in order to continue his mission he would need to take a few precautions. The next day he would find Clodoaldo, who knew the cops in the area and could tell him who was trustworthy. If the man was dealing with drugs and money with the clients of those bars, things could get out of hand. In that case he would need to be able to count on some kind of official protection.
While he was talking to the bank manager about canceling his checks, Vieira tried to imagine what had happened to his wallet and, consequently, to his credit cards and checkbook. It was almost Christmas; even an honest housewife could have interpreted the find as a gift from heaven to underwrite the holidays. She could refresh her husband’s and kids’ wardrobe and maybe even buy a color television. He started getting annoyed and threw angry looks at the women clutching their deposit slips and checkbooks and waiting in line for the cashiers. He thought about Flor. It wasn’t really a conquest; after all, he had done absolutely nothing to make her fall into his arms, or into his lap. He complained to the manager about the cost of canceling each missing check; it was almost worth risking letting someone use them. From an aesthetic point of view, he had traded up—Flor was prettier and more sensual than Magali—but from a personal viewpoint he had unequivocally come up short. It takes a long time for people to understand each other, he thought; he would have to wait for that comprehension to grow between him and Flor. It was like waiting for a new sapling to spring up where a tree has fallen. His trust in Magali had been boundless. Not that he didn’t trust Flor—there hadn’t even been time for that. It was just that she had come along so suddenly, out of the blue, without the slightest warning, announced only by the death of her friend. They’d have to get to know each other. All he knew about her he had learned during the first dinner, after they’d left Magali’s building. It wasn’t much, but she did have many charms.
He left the bank and decided to stop by the station. He wanted to help, even though he knew he was in a delicate position: not only was he a suspect, he was the only suspect. He reformulated the statement: he was a suspect only because there wasn’t anyone else. At least that’s how he saw it. More than anything he wanted to talk to Espinosa. It was too far to walk; he preferred to take the bus. Since he’d retired two years ago, his time had been his own, but he still wasn’t used to it, and during the day he was ashamed to look at people. At night it was different; he didn’t need to pretend to be doing anything after hours. On the packed bus, seated next to the window, he could quietly enjoy the urban landscape; everyone would think he was on his way to work.
Espinosa received him politely but unenthusiastically. He informed him that Magali’s body would probably be released at the end of the day; he had spoken with the man who’d conducted the autopsy, but there was nothing to add to what they already knew: the only marks on the body were around the wrists and ankles, which indicated that there had been no struggle and that she hadn’t been bound forcibly. There was no sign of recent sexual intercourse; she had a modest amount of alcohol in her bloodstream and had probably been exposed to the Mace from the container found at the scene. She had most likely been tied up while still unconscious and had the plastic bag tied around her head before she came to. She woke up to die of suffocation.
Vieira didn’t know what to say. On the one hand, he was devastated by Magali’s death, but on the other he was in the position of being the sole suspect. It would be contradictory to kill her and feel sad about losing her. Logic dictated that if his sorrow was real, he couldn’t be the killer. But that logic didn’t apply to him; the point would be moot if he had killed Magali and then blacked out. His embarrassment mounted as Espinosa informed him that his car had not yet been freed up; forensic examiners were still going over it. The examination of the automobile and its possible role as a piece of evidence in the investigation were concrete signs that he was officially implicated in Magali’s death. Espinosa’s next question eliminated any doubts as to who was the cop and who was the suspect.
“You didn’t tell me you were dating Flor.”
“Damn, Espinosa, what’re you talking about? How could I have told you that?”
“She said you were when she was here at the station.”
“I don’t know what she said. I only know that I only saw that girl a couple of times before she called me.”
“And that’s when you started going out?”
“What the fuck, Espinosa? We’re not teenagers. We don’t talk about ‘going out.’ Anyway, we’re not going out. The only thing that happened is that we went to dinner last night.”
“And you want me to be satisfied with that? Let me help you go over the facts: a girl is found dead in her own apartment, naked, tied to the bed, with a plastic bag tied around her neck. This girl is your girlfriend and went to dinner with you the night she was killed. On the bedside table, along with your car keys, is a can of Mace, the top of which was found on the floor of your car. As if that weren’t enough, the girl’s feet were tied with the belt you were wearing on the night of the crime—and that you can’t recall how you lost. And as a finishing touch, you show up, the day after the murder, on a date with the dead girl’s only friend. Damn it, Vieira, the only reason I’m not arresting you is because I don’t think you’re stupid enough to accumulate so much evidence against your self. The only thing missing is the dead girl’s will naming you as the only beneficiary of the small fortune she accumulated in the business.”
Vieira looked at Espinosa in silence. There was a lot he wanted to say. He wanted to explain himself; he wanted to say that Flor had dropped into his lap without his lifting a finger; he wanted to say how much he’d cared about Magali. But he didn’t say a word because he knew Espinosa was right. He knew from his own experience that the more excuses he tried to make, the guiltier he would look. He also knew from experience that at that moment silence was golden. He limited himself to a single sentence:
“If we manage to find whoever got their hands on my wallet, we might be able to figure out what happened after Magali and I left the restaurant.”
Espinosa accepted the first-person plural, once he had made clear who was in charge of the investigation.
He was interested in what had happened after dinner. According to the parking attendant, the two had left the restaurant with Magali behind the wheel. She could have left Vieira at his place and taken the car back to her own apartment, finding the mu
rderer there, which would, in fact, justify the car’s location in front of her building and the keys on her bedside table. The murderer could have been waiting for her inside or could have arrived just afterward. If things had happened that way, two things would still be left unexplained: how Magali had managed to get Vieira, completely drunk, probably half-asleep, up to his apartment without anyone else’s help; and, second, how Vieira’s belt had found its way into her apartment. That is, if you believed he was drunk. The exit from the restaurant, complete with obscenities and stumbling, could have been a farce, which would imply a cold sense of premeditation seemingly at odds with Vieira’s personality.
The conversation took place in what they called the visitors’ room, on the second floor of the station. The staircase leading to the second floor ended in a spacious kind of reception room, complete with two sofas and two easy chairs, all in need of new springs but unstained and clean enough that people with light-colored clothing could sit down fearlessly. It wasn’t the most appropriate place for a private conversation—the room was en route to every office on the floor—but Vieira seemed less worried about privacy than about Espinosa’s decision as to the direction the investigation would take.
They said their farewells with a mixture of politeness and mistrust, Espinosa promising to keep Vieira up-to-date, which Vieira heard as a cordial recommendation to keep his distance. The rest of the day passed unremarkably. Espinosa’s attention was on the autopsy report and the results from the car; he thought about how uncharacteristically thorough it all was for an investigation into the death of a prostitute. The afternoon was consumed by memos and reports.
Espinosa chose to walk back home along the Avenida Copacabana. The sheer number of people on the street at six-thirty reminded him of an Oriental metropolis. He went into the Galeria Menescal with the intention of buying some kibbeh to reinforce the spaghetti Bolognese he planned to defrost for dinner. As he neared the Arab’s place it occurred to him that he was being followed. While he was waiting for the meatballs, he looked around but couldn’t pick anyone out. He decided to try again a few feet ahead, at the traffic light on Barata Ribeiro, where there weren’t as many people. He stopped in front of one store window, then another, taking advantage of the reflection to glance across at the other side of the street, but there was nothing. He put it down to the touch of paranoia present in every policeman.
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