They drank their coffee in silence. Her cerebral activity was far below the level she would call “life.” It was even below what she would describe as “animal life,” miles away from “human life.” She was somewhere between a passive vegetable and a chameleon warming itself in the sun. Maldonado patiently awaited a signal from her that her day had begun. Kika finished her first cup of coffee, refilled both their cups without a word, and extended her legs under the table, forcing Maldonado to withdraw his. It was quiet not because they weren’t talking but because at that hour they just didn’t have any words. She rubbed her face several times with her hands, looking up at the ceiling; she stretched her arms in front of and above her head; she stared at the detective, leaving him with no doubt that she was really looking right through him. Then she opened her eyes normally, focusing them on objects that actually existed. At that moment, for her, the day began. Maldonado was spellbound.
“There’s no reason for me to remain inside the apartment. You girls won’t be able to move around. Why don’t I stay on the sidewalk, near the doorway, so that I can watch anybody going into the building. If I need anything I’ll ring the bell.”
“Whatever you think is best. If you want to stay inside here, it’s no problem.”
While he was on the sidewalk guarding the entrance, every single man headed in the direction of the doorway seemed to match the description Espinosa had provided. Maldonado could protect the girls only if he managed to protect himself. The man who had attacked Espinosa was competent enough to know how to spot a plainclothes policeman and take him out. So he had to be careful not to be taken by surprise; if he were neutralized, Kika would be easy prey.
With only three days to go until Christmas, so many people were walking down the Rua do Catete that it was almost impossible to move. Maldonado therefore had to pay extra attention, and he knew that the crowds would complicate any quick intervention. The mere idea of a shootout in that multitude sent a chill down his spine. If in fact the man was smooth enough to find him immediately, there was no reason to hide anything; instead of standing on the sidewalk in front of the building, he could sit on the bottom steps of the staircase. He’d be an easier target, but he could also react without endangering other people. His decision to sit on the staircase was made easier because it had started to rain: on the sidewalk, he’d be soaked in a matter of minutes.
The ground floor of the house was occupied by a stationer’s shop; the door giving onto the staircase and the upper floors was on the left side of the building, and the staircase was entirely separated from the store by a wall. The only way anyone could reach the upper floors without taking these stairs was through the store and up the back of the building, which was extremely difficult, though not impossible. Maldonado alerted the owner and the clerk to the possibility. If anyone tried anything like that, they would come next door to warn him.
Around lunchtime, Kika came down with a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper and a can of diet soda.
“I hope you like cold sandwiches and diet guaraná.”
The stairs were wide enough that they could sit next to each other. Kika also had a sandwich. She was wearing a T-shirt similar to the one she’d been wearing earlier, except that this one was completely stained by ink of every possible color, along with similarly speckled shorts and sandals. Maldonado worried that she was exposed, but he was also fascinated by the figure seated at his side.
Espinosa woke with a start, an idea shooting through his brain so fast that it almost burst out of his skull. The man who’d broken into his apartment and tied him up was a cop or was working for the police. The absence of unnecessary aggression, the coldness and efficiency with which he’d acted, the daring involved in invading and subjugating a police officer, not to mention the theft of the guns—one of which was a police-issue .38—everything added up and pointed to the police itself. He was unworried about being identified because there was no risk of being called to account. But then Espinosa decided that the idea was absurd. There was no motive for attacking him. He didn’t belong to any clique that could make him a target of another. Or maybe that itself was the reason. In the force, people who didn’t belong to any clique, who weren’t mixed up with any of them, were independent, which was much more dangerous than belonging to the worst of the groups. But he’d been in the police force for more than fifteen years: why would they only start worrying about him now? Because of his relation to Vieira?
He got up. He slowly returned to reality. He remembered Kika, the man with the gun in his hand, Maldonado, and that it was time for him to replace the younger cop. He hadn’t slept much more than four hours, which, together with the short naps at Kika’s apartment, was about enough for him. While he was putting shaving cream on his face he plugged in the coffeemaker in the kitchen, then went back to the bathroom to finish shaving. He didn’t understand why he was in such a rush; if he got back to the Rua do Catete by around two, that would be perfectly reasonable, and Maldonado could have lunch at a normal time. But he was in a rush. Maybe because of the hurried rhythm of the last few days, or maybe because he didn’t want to leave Kika under Maldonado’s care for too long.
On his way to Catete, he thought about what he was doing. Nobody back at the station knew that he was protecting Kika; if something went wrong, it would be entirely his responsibility. He stopped the car two blocks from Kika’s building, on a side street off the Rua do Catete, and proceeded the rest of the way on foot, as if he himself were the stalker trying to make his way into the building. As soon as he could see the facade of the building, he started to look for Maldonado—who should have been near the entrance. The street was wet from the rain that had fallen a couple of hours earlier, but there were still a lot of pedestrians on the sidewalk. The door was now clearly visible, and as he approached, Espinosa sought the detective in vain. He was preparing to ring the doorbell when he heard a voice in his ear.
“Looking for someone, Officer?”
Espinosa had to admit that the kid was more efficient than he supposed. And he had to abandon some of the fantasies he’d been feeding for the past few days, which he did with the utmost happiness.
“Maldonado, I confess: you got me. Seems it’s been getting easier and easier to do that these past few weeks. How are things going?”
“No sign of the man. The girls are calm. Right now Kika’s home, painting, and the med student is asleep. The third one went to work. The only possible access is through the front door; the neighboring buildings have no communication with ours. Someone really nimble could try to climb up the back wall, but they’d have to go through the store on the ground floor, and I already talked to the owner and the other guy working there.”
“Very good, Maldonado. I’ll stay on guard until eight tonight. I left a message at the station, telling them that we’re both on a stakeout outside the city, so don’t show up over there.”
Then he went upstairs to tell Kika about the changing of the guard.
It rained all afternoon, forcing Espinosa to divide his watch between Kika’s living room and the stairway. Kika wanted to know if she could go to the Avenida Atlântica. The decision was made by the weather—it was still raining in the evening. In spite of the rain, daylight saving time meant that it was still light at seven-thirty, when Maldonado came back to replace Espinosa. He would stay for two hours, time enough for Espinosa to return home, and when he came back they would discuss a strategy for the night and the next day.
It was eight-fifteen when he opened the door to his apartment. The red light on the answering machine was blinking. He pressed the button to listen while he walked across the room to open the blinds. The first message was from Clodoaldo, who left only his name. The second was from him as well, in his signature style: “Espinosa, I have to talk to you urgently. Clodoaldo.” There had been a third call from someone who hadn’t left a message. The last message was from the station. Clodoaldo had been found dead.
PART 6
Clodoaldo had
been murdered with a shot to his temple, point-blank, and the gun beside the body would have suggested suicide to someone unaware of recent events. The idea wouldn’t even have occurred to anyone who knew the street teacher. He himself had been a street kid, had survived every kind of threat, and would never have killed himself. The thought certainly didn’t cross Espinosa’s mind. He had gotten the news in more than one installment. The first piece came by phone, without many details; the second he received personally, from the officer on duty at the station, with a single detail: the gun found beside his body, an official police-issue .38, was the one stolen from his apartment. The body had been found on the back seat of a taxi parked in a quiet street in Copacabana minutes after the driver had filed a complaint at the station, claiming that he had been forced to abandon the car by a man with a revolver. On the seat, next to Clodoaldo’s body, was the stolen .38.
Espinosa couldn’t believe that the criminal had gone to his apartment and attacked him merely to steal the revolver he was planning to use to kill his friend, then left the piece as a calling card. He felt a shiver in his spine when he remembered that the man still had his other weapon and could use it to leave another signature. And he was certain that last night’s silent message was the murderer’s announcement of Clodoaldo’s death.
At the Forensic Institute, Espinosa was the sole claimant on the body. As far as Espinosa knew, the street teacher had no relatives, but Espinosa planned, just in case, to ask around at the homeless shelters. Only then would he make arrangements for the body. The clerk on duty, whom Espinosa knew, tried to comfort him while he removed the body from its drawer—death had been instantaneous, the officer’s friend hadn’t suffered. The clerk also said other things that Espinosa didn’t manage to hear while looking at the jaundiced, cold body before his eyes. Clodoaldo had died immediately, there had been no pain, but that was not what mattered most: Espinosa was hurting not because of the absence of pain but because of the absence of life. Clodoaldo had known pain since the moment he was born.
While he was taking care of the paperwork in the Forensic Institute, he thought of his many meetings with Clodoaldo, of the occasions when they’d teamed up to combat the urban predators who preyed on street kids; he thought of the mutual respect and admiration they’d built up over the years when they both worked downtown; he thought about how to deliver the news to the boys and girls on the Avenida Atlântica. He realized that the man had gone to Kika’s neighbor’s apartment to throw him off the scent and keep him away from Clodoaldo.
On the sidewalk, in front of the Forensic Institute, he could barely hear the boy who was waving at him. “Taxi, sir?” After asking a couple of times, he gave up. Espinosa left on foot, looking for his car, which he’d parked on a side street, but was unable to focus on the search. What most intrigued him about the many events that had followed Magali’s death was that nothing made sense. Nothing had anything to do with anything else. The nonsense had culminated with the breakin at his apartment and the theft of the weapon later used to murder Clodoaldo. Why go to so much trouble? The only objective could be to deliver a message, a kind of advance warning. But was it the advance warning of his own death or someone else’s? Besides Clodoaldo, who else, of the people he knew, could be next—and why? The sight of the white arches, lit up against the sky, of the old aqueduct at Lapa brought him back to his senses. He must have long since passed his car; he would have to go back a few blocks; but it was hard to take his attention off the view in his head. A little more alert, he retraced his steps. He didn’t have to walk far to spot the car. Maldonado was seated on the hood.
“You walked right by me, just a few feet away. I figured you needed to think. I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m so sorry about what happened to Clodoaldo. Since you hadn’t shown up, I called your house, but no one answered. I called the station, and they gave me the news.”
Espinosa asked his colleague to drive. They got in the car and didn’t say a word until they arrived in Copacabana. Back home, alone, leaning over the little balcony that looked onto the square, he felt tears welling up.
It had been less than three hours since he had heard the message on the answering machine. He hadn’t had dinner, and he wasn’t at all sleepy. From his balcony, he could see the windows of nearby buildings, lit up by colorful Christmas trees. For those people, crimes were news in the papers, and loved ones died from natural causes; Christmas, for them, was the commemoration of a birth, not an occasion for macabre recollections.
A taxi stopped in front of his building. A woman got out. Looking from above, without much light, he couldn’t make out her face, but he could see that she had a nice figure. The intercom rang. When Espinosa opened the door of his apartment, Flor seemed slightly winded, just enough for him to notice the movement of her chest under the neckline of her dress.
“Surprised?”
“A little.”
“May I come in?”
“Sure. Come in.”
Flor was wearing the same dress that had so disturbed Espinosa on the Sunday when they went out to get lunch for Vieira. And he knew that she knew that it had disturbed him. She came into the apartment with possessive ease. She looked around, judging the resident by his residence, gestured toward the balcony, moved her head slightly, as if to show her approval, and turned to face Espinosa, who had remained standing in the middle of the room.
“You must think it’s strange for me to show up like this, especially after the earlier unpleasantness.”
“I think I went too far.”
“It’s fine. For me, it’s over.”
“How’s Vieira?”
“We got in a fight.”
“A fight?”
“Yeah. It was all my fault. I said something I shouldn’t have. We fought over nothing. I said that he was angry. He said that I didn’t know what he was like when he was really angry. I asked if he killed women when he was angry. I shouldn’t have said it. He left without saying a word.”
“And why did you say it? Do you think he killed Magali? Were you afraid he’d kill you?”
“No. I don’t know. He was really wound up. I was a little scared, but I don’t think that he could kill someone.”
“What about Magali?”
“No. I think I overdid it.”
They were still standing in the middle of the living room. While she was talking, Flor was moving around, touching objects without picking them up. Smoothly, looking at him, turning her body slowly while she talked, she moved as if weightless.
“Can’t we sit down?”
“Sorry. Have a seat, of course.”
Flor sat on the sofa and Espinosa in the armchair, even though he read her choice of the sofa as a veiled invitation to sit next to her. She still hadn’t indicated the reason for her visit, and Espinosa wasn’t inclined to guess.
“You must be wondering what I came for.”
“True. And I don’t think it’s just to tell me that you had a fight with Vieira.”
“Of course not.”
“So?”
“I’ve come to seduce you.”
“Now you’ve really surprised me.”
“And what do you think of the idea?”
“I think that you—”
The sentence was cut off by the doorbell. It wasn’t the intercom, but the doorbell to the apartment itself. He got up, still reeling under the impact of Flor’s declaration, crossed the living room, and opened the door. It was Kika. Before anyone could say anything, Flor stood up. Kika looked at her and at Espinosa.
“I’m sorry, I came without calling. I didn’t know you had company.” She turned around and ran down the stairs. Espinosa stood with the door open until he heard the door to the entrance slam.
“I must be interfering with something, but it seems that both of us arrived without warning. I just happened to get here first.”
“You’re not interfering with anything.”
“Then let’s get back to where we were before the doorbell
rang.”
“Flor, it’s not a good day. I just came from the Forensic Institute, where I identified the body of a friend who was murdered this afternoon. Besides, your fight with Vieira is only temporary. I wouldn’t want him to think that I called you here.”
“I didn’t know about your friend…. I’m sorry. Good-bye.”
She got up and sashayed out, the same way she’d come in. Espinosa didn’t like the visit, Flor’s barging in, the ambiguity she’d used to describe the fight with Vieira, her running into Kika. She had indeed come to seduce him, he reflected. What he didn’t understand was why. It was late; it had been an intense day.
He got up early. His first thought was of Clodoaldo. He felt hungover when, in fact, he’d had only two beers the night before, to take the edge off. He was still on his first cup of coffee when Vieira called.
“Sorry it’s so early, but I have to talk to you.”
“Did something happen?” Espinosa immediately thought of Clodoaldo’s murder, but didn’t say anything to Vieira.
“Nothing. Nothing yet. But I think something’s about to. Some son of a bitch has been calling me to ask if I’m ready for another meeting in the street. I also think I’m being followed. I’m not sure; it could just be paranoia. But I’ve never been very paranoid. What worries me most is that my revolver disappeared.”
“When was that?”
“That what?”
“The disappearance of your revolver.”
“I don’t know. I only noticed it was missing this morning. Ever since these fuckers started following me, I decided I wouldn’t go out unarmed. When I went to get the gun today, it was gone. I already looked through the whole apartment. I always kept it in the same place, I never moved it, and it’s not in the drawer where it always was. There’s only the space where it was. Someone came in here and took my fucking gun.”
Vieira didn’t know that Espinosa’s apartment had been broken into or that his guns had been stolen; and Espinosa still hadn’t had his second cup of coffee or eaten the extra slice of toast. He also didn’t want to tell Vieira about Clodoaldo over the phone. They decided to meet at the station. Before leaving, he left a message for Kika.
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