“Yes, of course. I’m sorry; I mixed up your voice with someone else’s.”
“Do you want to talk about Magali?” Her voice was smooth and secure.
“Yes.”
“She was my friend.”
“I know. That’s why I wanted to speak with you. Can you meet me tomorrow at noon in the lobby of your building?”
Contrary to the usual rules of procedure, Espinosa preferred to hold his first meetings away from the station, except in the case of interrogations and official depositions. Anyone summoned to the station, no matter how little they had to do with a case, always adopted a defensive posture. Outside of the police ambience, even when they knew they were talking to a policeman, people tended to say things they wouldn’t say inside the station. The tactic was best suited to situations like this.
He got to the Avenida Atlântica at exactly ten o’clock. He hadn’t set a specific time, but he thought that this way he’d have enough time before meeting Magali’s friend. The only available parking place in the three blocks closest to his destination had a sign indicating that it was reserved for the diplomatic representative of a central European country that had recently been divided in two. He took it and waved to the attendant, whom he’d given a good tip, telling him he wouldn’t be far. He spotted a few kids on the sidewalk across the street, by the sand, but he didn’t see Clodoaldo. Crossing the two lanes, he approached the group. Of the four kids, one recognized him, the same one he himself remembered from the previous week. Clodoaldo hadn’t arrived yet. Sometimes he got there later, but he always showed up. Espinosa left to look for a bakery; he remembered the big bag of rolls that Clodoaldo had brought the last time.
At eleven-thirty, the sun had heated the roof of his car so much that he couldn’t even rest his hand on it. Espinosa had tried, with no positive results, to get the kids to talk about the death of their colleague. They could talk about day-to-day survival, but when they suspected that the conversation was coming around to themes they found threatening, they clammed up or simply ran toward a car parked at the stoplight to ask the driver for some spare change. He told them he’d come back in the afternoon and left to meet Vanessa, hoping that his meeting with her would be more fruitful.
Vanessa, unlike the angular Flor, was curvy. Not fat, but completely made up of delicate, smooth curves. Her face wasn’t particularly beautiful, but her mouth and eyes were extremely alluring. She looked good and healthy. She was twenty-five, at most. This was Espinosa’s general impression as he met her in the lobby of the building.
The first exchange was to introduce themselves. When Espinosa mentioned Magali, Vanessa only said, “She was like my big sister.” The sentence sounded familiar.
“Have you already eaten?” Espinosa asked.
“Not yet. I don’t usually eat much for lunch, maybe just a salad.”
“Then I’ll take you out for a sandwich or, if you want, a salad at Cervantes, across the street.”
The speed with which she looked in the direction of the restaurant, no more than fifty meters from where they were standing, indicated that she must be a regular there.
“I like that place.” And they crossed the Rua Barata Ribeiro toward the door of the restaurant.
Until they had sat down and ordered they behaved ceremoniously.
“Vanessa, I don’t know if—”
“Maria Regina’s my real name. Vanessa’s the name I work under.”
“And which do you prefer?”
“Depends if you’re a client or a friend.”
“Can I call you Regina?”
“That’s what my friends call me.”
“I don’t know if you know how your friend was killed.”
“I know the details … unless there’s something you didn’t let people know. I know she was found naked, bound to the bed, with a plastic bag tied over her head, and that she died of suffocation.”
“There’s the detail of the Mace.”
“I know about that too. The fact that the murderer put her to sleep in order to kill her doesn’t make it any less horrible to me; in fact, it makes the crime all the more awful.”
“Do you have any idea who might have done it?”
“No. Nobody I know would have done it. You’d have to be very sick. I’m sure the bastard sat there jacking off while she thrashed around. In my opinion, it had to be some unknown client.”
“The doorman didn’t see her come back and also didn’t see anyone unknown leaving in the morning.”
“The night doorman is a great guy, but he spends more time in his room than in the lobby. Anybody who has a key can come in without him noticing.”
“Anybody who has a key.”
“He could have come in with her. To go out, you don’t need a key; the door opens from inside.”
“So that’s what you think? That the murder was carried out by someone she didn’t know?”
“At least that’s what I’d like to think. I’m not religious, I believe in people. I couldn’t stand to think that a friend or an acquaintance could do something like that.”
“When were you with her last?”
“The night before. We went down in the same elevator.
She was going to dinner with Vieira.”
“Did she look all right?”
“Fine. She loved Friday nights, when she went out to eat with him.”
“Do you know Vieira well?”
“I can’t say I know him well, but I’ve known him for a long time, since they started going out.”
“And what do you think of him?”
“In spite of his oafish appearance, I think he’s one the nicest souls I’ve ever come across.”
“Did you ever go out with them?”
“Only a few times.”
“And your friend Flor?”
“She’s not my friend. She was Magali’s friend, if she was ever really anyone’s friend.”
“You don’t like her?”
“I don’t like her and I don’t dislike her. She’s strange. Nothing ever seems to get through to her, really. Where I’m from we call a person like that a taioba leaf: you dunk it in the water and it comes out dry.”
“Where are you from?”
“I’m from Minas.”
“Just one more question: where were you on the night of the crime?”
“I was in my apartment asleep, alone. You’ve got a lot of self-confidence if you think you can ask a question like that and we’ll just continue this conversation.”
“We can’t?”
“When you want to talk again, you can leave another note with the doorman.” She got up and left. No hurry. No indignant face.
Espinosa finished his sandwich, thinking that the last question could have been put off or avoided but also thinking that to provoke such an immediate retreat the question must have gone deep into the soul of Regina or Vanessa (maybe they weren’t the same). The meeting, and perhaps the friendship, had lasted maybe twenty minutes. And there were still so many things he had wanted to ask. He left the restaurant praying that his car hadn’t been towed, hoping he would have more luck with Clodoaldo than with Vanessa.
The car was in the same spot; there was no ticket on the windshield. It took him less than ten minutes to reach Clodoaldo’s meeting place, but he didn’t even need to turn off the engine; the attendant came up and made a sign with his hand that Clodoaldo still hadn’t shown up. The kids were nowhere in sight. He didn’t think it was necessary to leave a message. Perhaps today wasn’t his lucky day. He went back to the station.
In the evening, instead of going home, he decided to venture out once more to the place where Clodoaldo met the street children. He drove around the nearby blocks and the section of road next to the beach but didn’t see them. Maybe they had arranged a new meeting place, but that didn’t coincide with what Clodoaldo had said the day before. The lack of children could mean that Clodoaldo hadn’t shown, which was unusual. He went around the block and turned onto the Aven
ida Copacabana.
With the approach of Christmas, the stores were open at night, which meant that traffic in the neighborhood had increased considerably, especially on the big shopping streets. People and cars mixed in a slow, continuous movement. While he was waiting for the light to change, people carrying packages crossed the street in front of him. He thought about buying Kika a present. There hadn’t been many Christmases for him with his wife and son; those he had spent with his parents were far enough away that memory and imagination, events and desires had become confused. He remembered more clearly the Christmases he had spent with his grandmother, in the years they’d lived together. She’d made an effort so the day wouldn’t be sad. After her death, except for the few years of his marriage, he had never again celebrated Christmas. He lacked faith, and people.
He drove slowly down the Avenida Copacabana until he reached the Peixoto district. Even in the calm of the square he felt an extra buzz. Above the entrance to his building there was a little pine wreath from which three shiny, colored balls hung: the annual manifestation of the building manager’s Christmas spirit. He thought of the methodical December withdrawal of a box from the top of someone’s closet, untying the string around it, and removing the wreath from inside the box ready to ornament the building.
He opened the door of the apartment as if the ornament were hanging off it. Inside, only the heat of December. There were two messages on the answering machine, both of which could be erased without depriving his life of the slightest significance.
Several images fought for primacy in Espinosa’s brain at that instant: that of Kika, who even when pushed aside by other impressions had a way of making her way back to the forefront; that of the boy, who with the passing of time had become less clearly defined (Espinosa noticed that even with concentrated effort his image was becoming more and more blurry); that of Clodoaldo, strong and clear but not persistent; and that of a new figure on the scene: Vanessa. These were not the exclusive, or even the primary, inhabitants of Espinosa’s world, but they were the ones who now occupied the stage.
In the shower, he was still trying to figure out why Clodoaldo hadn’t come to the scheduled meeting. Street teachers didn’t work in offices or have fixed addresses, but that was exactly why they were always so rigorously punctual to their itinerant appointments. They themselves were the office, and their presence created the address. What he thought was strange was that Clodoaldo’s absence coincided with the boy’s discovery. He tried to convince himself that the two events were unrelated.
When he’d talked with Kika the night before, they had vaguely agreed to meet; now it was after eight and nothing had yet been confirmed. Since she had initiated the last few calls, Espinosa decided it was his turn. He left a message on her voice mail, opened a beer, and was getting settled in his chair when the phone rang. It was Kika. She hadn’t gotten the message yet. She was calling to confirm their date.
But at nine-thirty, the designated time, Espinosa was parking the car on the Avenida Atlântica for a very different rendezvous. When he was still at home, the telephone had rung again. He had hesitated between answering and letting the machine pick it up; Kika was waiting for him. He answered it. A recorded message announced a collect call, and then came a weak, hesitant voice that Espinosa recognized immediately.
“Officer?”
“Yes.”
“Clodoaldo gave me your number …”
“Are you all right?”
“I think … I’m fine.”
“Where are you?”
“On the beach …”
“In the same spot as last time?”
“No. I’m in Leme. In the sand. Next to the rock…. Clodoaldo gave me your number.”
“Fine. Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”
He didn’t pay attention to the noises in the background; the boy could have been calling from one of the public phones installed in the sand, or from the little square in front of Leme Fort; he hadn’t even asked if he was alone. After leaving a message for Kika, he headed out the door. On the way, going as fast as traffic would permit, he cursed himself for not asking more questions. The car spent more time stopped than moving; he thought about abandoning it and traveling the rest of the way on foot, but he couldn’t just dump the car in the middle of the street. It took him more than twenty minutes to get to Leme. The parking places along the beach were occupied by couples; he deposited the car in the first available spot, next to a bus stop, leaving it unlocked. The boy had said “next to the rock.” He headed toward the big stone hill that marked the beginning of Copacabana Beach, sweeping his eyes along the areas of sand illuminated by streetlamps. He had to get close to the stone hill to distinguish the small, fearful figure of the boy seated in the sand. In fact, it was impossible to identify anyone at such a distance at night, but by the figure’s size and location it seemed like a good fit. When he was a little more than twenty meters away, he stepped off the sidewalk onto the sand and waved to the boy. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. The child’s immobility—his head resting on his chest—seemed strange. When he reached him, he didn’t need to touch the vulnerable, fragile body to see that the boy was dead, the back of his head covered with blood. Espinosa was doubly astonished: not only was the boy dead, but he had been killed by a blow to the skull.
The lights on the beach made the scene look artificial, like a film set; the colors, enhanced by the streetlamps, were exaggerated, in contrast to the dark rock; the strong light made the sand seem even whiter, which made the breaking waves look swimming-pool green and the sky and the sea past the breakers look formless and dark. The boy’s hands were in his lap, as if the murderer had arranged them there.
Espinosa remained next to the body, leaning against the rock, as stiff as the boy. Someone seeing them from afar would have imagined that a father and son were chatting; they wouldn’t have been able to tell that one of them could no longer speak.
When the first policemen arrived, they found Espinosa seated on the sand next to the boy, as if he were looking at the night sky; the boy’s head dangled over his chest. The forensic examiners were called, but there was nothing more to be discovered at the scene. For Espinosa there was no doubt that the boy had been killed in the position in which he was found. The murderer—without question an adult—had grabbed the front of his head with one hand and beaten it against the rock, probably more than once.
There was no blood on the sand, and the boy’s clothes indicated that there had been no struggle, which in any case would have been noticed by the passersby on the sidewalk; and the beating of a child would certainly have attracted the attention of the lovers seated on the benches along the beach. But not the rapid movement of a head whacked against a rock.
The back of the boy’s head had been crushed. The aggressor and the victim must have been seated close to each other, and one moment of trust or distraction would have been enough to have his head jerked back.
Only when the numbers of police cars grew did the pedestrians focus their attention on the body next to the rock. No one had seen anything suspicious, and no one had noticed anyone with the boy.
Espinosa stayed at the scene until the body was removed. Then he examined the surroundings, speaking to the occupants of the cars, interrupting necking couples, interrogating vendors, cleaning ladies, passersby, and curiosity seekers; signaling to the night fishermen with their long poles stuck in the sand; talking again to the night watchman at the fort (a different one this time); and, in an ultimate useless gesture, looking up at the buildings along the Avenida Atlantica, expecting to see some resident signaling to him because he had witnessed from his balcony, with powerful binoculars, a street child being murdered.
It was after one in the morning when Espinosa got in his car and went back home. That wasn’t what he wanted to be doing. He wanted to find the other street kids in the hopes of getting some fragment of information from them; more than anything he wanted to find Clodoaldo, whose disappe
arance seemed as enigmatic as the boy’s death; and he still wanted to stop by the shelter—maybe they’d have something to say. But he knew that what he needed to do just then was go home and go to sleep.
He went home, but he couldn’t sleep. There were too many questions and no answers. More than anything, he felt immensely confused by what was happening. Three people had died, a fourth had been viciously assaulted, and another had disappeared, without any apparent relation between the events and without an apparent motive for any of the individual attacks. A cloud of absolute mystery hung over Magali’s death; Vieira wasn’t really a suspect. The murderer of the sleeping boy could be chalked up, with difficulty, to the man with the wallet; yet why would he kill, and so brutally, a street child? Because he’d mixed him up with the other boy who was following him? Why was the other boy so important? And to top it all off, the death of that other boy, a person completely without importance in society, the target of such a cruel attack? These were a few of the questions that were tormenting Espinosa when the first light of dawn crept through the Venetian blinds.
PART 4
Vieira was recovering surprisingly well. With his temporary dentures and Flor’s care, there were few signs left of the assault he had suffered a week before.
“Fuck it, Espinosa, how is that after thirty years of being a cop something like this happens to me?”
“Do you still feel any pain?”
“Not in my body, only in my soul.”
“You can take care of that. You’ve got an excellent nurse.” Espinosa wondered how much truth there was in that observation.
Espinosa knew that Vieira had a hard time reining in his natural tendency toward frankness and indiscretion; his former colleague’s newfound conversational restraint struck him as curious. Something was getting under his skin, something that had nothing to do with the attack.
It was ten-thirty in the morning. Vieira was alone; he had just finished showering and dressing when he’d opened the door to Espinosa. After the initial greetings, the old man sat waiting. Even while speaking, he was waiting for what Espinosa had to say; he knew people well enough to be able to distinguish a professional visit from a social call.
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