The night before, Espinosa had sent the main newspapers the news of the teacher’s death, along with some details about his work with street kids, hoping that the obituary would attract the attention of some possible relative.
He walked to the station with long strides, without looking at shop windows, people, or cars, and without letting himself be distracted by anything. He didn’t expect the autopsy to turn up any more clues to the identity of the murderer. He was still working on his report of the previous day’s events when Vieira arrived. Even before saying hello to anyone, Vieira realized that something was wrong. As soon as he heard that Clodoaldo was the victim, he took a seat in the nearest chair and sat staring at the floor, murmuring words no one could make out but that anyone who knew him could guess.
When Espinosa finished the story, Vieira grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the office.
“Let’s go down to the corner for a coffee.” And as soon as they were on the sidewalk, he squeezed the arm he was still holding and said: “Fuck, Espinosa. The bastard is either from the police or was hired by the police. There’s no way around it. If you want to find the motherfucker, you’d better start at home.”
“I’d already thought of that, but what makes you so sure?”
“Because I’m sure, damn it. Think about it, Espinosa: who, besides the police, would go into your apartment, steal your official service weapon, and leave it next to the body? Fuck, the guy’s as cold as ice. He’s already killed four people, and it doesn’t look like he’s ready to stop. Nobody pulls shit like that without guarantees. Even if he’s a hired professional, he’s got to be counting on police protection if something goes wrong.”
“But why would they be doing it with me, specifically?”
“That’s what I can’t figure out, baby. Unless you’ve gotten yourself into trouble … Sorry, buddy. Forget what I just said, that was stupid.”
“It’s not that stupid, and you might be on to something. I doubt that someone so well organized could be mixing me up with someone else, but maybe he or whoever’s behind him is misinterpreting something I actually did do. Think with me. Bad cops have tried to coopt me over the years. When they realized they weren’t getting anywhere, they gave up and left me alone. I think something like that happened to you. Maybe people like us are more threatening than declared enemies.”
“But why only now?”
“Because we haven’t given them a chance until now. The chance came, even though we didn’t mean to give it to them.”
“When, for fuck’s sake?”
“When you lost your wallet.”
“What does that—”
“Let me finish. When the kid realized he’d gotten his hands on a police I.D., he got scared and dumped it. The guy who found it was a lowlife who’d always been in trouble with the law. Once he’d gotten his hands on the I.D., he decided to make some money without much risk, or at least that’s what he thought, and tried out a gay disco where he knew there were drugs. He got a lot of powder, which he started selling cheaper than the street price. So on the second or third try the big dealers find out. But find out what? That some Officer Vieira’s responsible. They start following the guy and find out that there’s always a kid tracking him, and sometimes a guy with red hair, and sometimes even a guy from the Twelfth Precinct, from my team. Just afterward, they see you leave the Thirteenth Precinct and follow one of their distributors into the Galeria Alaska. They must have thought that it was a new group trying to get into the drug business without going through the traffickers, simply taking drugs off junkies and reselling them at reasonable prices. They get the guy with the wallet, torture him to get him to turn in the rest of the group, but it turns out there’s no group. In a desperate attempt to escape death, he remembers Clodoaldo and the kid, simply because they’re the only people he’s got—he’d noticed them a few times looking suspicious—and fingers them. They kill him, then they kill the first kid by mistake, then the second kid; and when they go to kill Clodoaldo, since they knew he was my friend, they use my own gun to make it look like I’d killed him myself. They didn’t have the balls to kill two police officers. In your case, they beat you up as a warning. As for me, I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just know that if they stole the weapon to warn us what they’d do, they still have my other gun. And now you tell me that they’ve stolen yours as well. They can still sign two checks.”
“Very good.”
“There’s one other thing that’s been worrying me. If the murderer really does like to sign his crimes, he couldn’t have left a clearer signature than your belt around Magali’s legs.”
“You don’t think they could be unrelated incidents? That Magali’s death might have nothing to do with the other murders?”
“I did until I noticed the murderer’s habit of leaving his personal mark at the scene of the crime. The belt is such an extraordinary coincidence that I doubt it’s truly a coincidence.”
They didn’t go to the corner to have a coffee; they had walked beyond it and had almost made a complete pass around the block. If they turned, they’d be back in front of the station, so they decided to keep walking straight, toward the beach. Vieira was still holding on to Espinosa’s arm, partly for support but also because he was always affectionate with his friends. They stopped in a café on the last block before the beach. Espinosa was no longer worried about possible stalkers, since after the breakin at his apartment the criminal had no reason to beat around the bush: they knew who he was, where he worked, where he lived, where he hung out, and who his friends were; they could follow him as much as they wanted, but it wouldn’t make any difference. Even so, he kept his eyes peeled.
“Espinosa.”
“What?”
“Do you really think someone in the police thinks that we’re involved in drugs?”
“They might not think it themselves, but might want other people to think so.”
“What do you think is going to happen?”
“The stolen guns could mean two things: that they want to kill us, each with the other’s gun; or that they want to kill, with our guns, people connected to us. No one would break into our apartments just for the pleasure of collecting guns from cops.”
They had left the café and were on the Avenida Atlântica, turning the corner to head back to the station.
“Listen. If some group in the police force suspects that we’re working together in some drug deal, they’d certainly see the visits we pay each other, the walks, like this one, that we take together: it could all add up to prove that we’re hiding something. Everything we’ve done in the last few days would confirm their suspicions.”
“What are we going to do?” Vieira asked.
“I don’t think they’re going to keep the pressure on us for very long. It’s risky; the guy could get caught. I think they’re trying to keep the attacks and the murders close together, in order to make us feel besieged. Up till now they’ve killed two street kids, a trivial lowlife, and a street teacher, also trivial in his own way. Even without crediting them with Magali’s murder, they’ve killed people the police consider peripheral. They might even think they’re doing a little social cleansing. As for us two, they’ve only showed that they could have killed us but didn’t, because we’re both police officers. It wouldn’t look good to be killing colleagues. I have the feeling that before they try anything on us, they’re going to take a stab at people connected to us. That makes Kika and Flor the favored targets, and if the mind planning this is as fascist as I suspect, Flor will be the next victim.”
Clodoaldo’s body would stay at the Forensic Institute, waiting for someone to claim it, for three more days. If nobody appeared, Espinosa would take charge of the burial. He hoped to get the murderer before those three days were up.
Kika called around lunchtime, as she’d promised. She didn’t want to have lunch, but she accepted his invitation for “a salad” in the restaurant at the Museum of the Republic, almost directly in f
ront of her building. They both wanted to talk about the meeting with Flor the night before; they both felt guilty for something they couldn’t quite pinpoint. They met at the door of Kika’s building twenty minutes after the phone call. They crossed the street, and half a block later they found themselves in front of the former Catete Palace.
“Sorry about interrupting your meeting last night.”
“It wasn’t a meeting; she showed up like you, without calling, just before you rang the bell. Both of you surprised each other, and I must say that I was even more surprised.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No. She’s the girlfriend of a friend of mine.”
“Isn’t it strange that your friend’s girlfriend should be with you in your apartment late at night?”
“Strange things have happened in the last few days. It’s not just friends’ girlfriends who have been coming into my apartment.”
“Espinosa, what’s happening? None of this has to do with the kid, does it?”
“No. The kid, totally unawares, was just a part of what’s been going on.”
“And what’s going on?”
“I’m not entirely sure. And I don’t think anybody is.”
“Who’s doing it?”
“I don’t know that either. The guy who’s killing the people is just a hired gun; Vieira and I’ve been trying to find out who he is through informers. As soon as we get a break we’ll go after him.”
“The guy who’s been killing people? What people? Who else has he killed, besides the kid?”
“Clodoaldo. Yesterday. Right before you came to my apartment. I’d just gotten back from the Forensic Institute.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
They were in the museum’s restaurant, a kind of veranda at the level of the treetops, above the gardens of Catete Palace. Kika put her hands on top of Espinosa’s. Sadness replaced worry. Once, when they were out together, Espinosa had told her about Clodoaldo. She knew of their friendship and mutual admiration.
“The girl who was in your apartment, was that his girlfriend?”
“No. She’s Vieira’s girlfriend; she doesn’t even know Clodoaldo.”
“And are you worried about her?”
“I am.”
“Is she in danger?”
“I think so.”
“What about me?”
“A little, also.”
“A little? What’s a little?”
“I don’t think your life is in danger, but I think they might threaten you.”
“But why? What have I done?”
“You haven’t done anything. They’re trying to get to me.”
“And what did you do?”
“It’s not about what I’ve done, but what they think I’ve done.”
“And what do they think you’ve done?”
“They think that I’m trying to get a piece of the drug market.”
“Holy shit! And who are they? Traffickers?”
“No.”
Kika shot him a blank look.
“The police.”
“The police?”
“Yeah. The police. Not all of it. A part of it.”
“Let me see if I understand. Some group of the police force itself is threatening you because they think you’re trying to get into the drug market. Based on this suspicion, they’ve already killed four people and attacked two, just to dissuade you. The next candidates are me and your friend’s girlfriend? Is that it?”
“That’s what I think.”
“And do you also think that I’m in real danger?” Kika was talking through her teeth, but even so people at the neighboring tables were looking at her.
“I think there is in fact some danger, even though I also think that in your case they’ll behave a little differently.”
“Could you be a little clearer, please?”
“It’s like this. Until now, they’ve only killed what they consider to be the trash of society. They think they’re acting along the lines of the Department of Urban Sanitation. As for eliminating actual human beings, they don’t think it’s a very important detail, something they’re rarely called to account for, except when there’s some scandal and the press and public opinion weigh in. Street kids, beggars, transvestites don’t count as part of humanity. They look as much like people as a trash can looks like a plate of food served in a restaurant. You’re college educated, middle class, professional; you belong to the kind of people they’re supposed to protect, not eliminate, so I don’t think they’ll try anything too radical; but that doesn’t mean they won’t try to scare you.”
“And these public sanitation employees are the same ones who sell powder to adults and children, people who belong to the same society they think they’re cleaning up?”
“Precisely because they think that way.”
“I still don’t get why they think you’re trying to get into their business.”
“Because of a series of coincidences that began with the loss of a wallet, which was found by the kid who asked you for help. You know the story involving him; what you don’t know is the other part, about Vieira and me.”
Espinosa briefly related the events that, to his mind, formed a series but not necessarily a story, adding that he didn’t think that the series of deaths had ended with Clodoaldo’s murder.
“Unless the perpetrators are convinced that we’ve gotten out of the business, though it’s even harder to convince them that we were never in it in the first place.”
The conversation and meeting itself created an absurd scene that Espinosa tried to tie together with a thread he couldn’t quite find. It was two days before Christmas, he was with a gorgeous woman in a place that looked like a set from a romantic movie, and yet he couldn’t figure out the plot line. He was a cop harassed by the police; the girl wasn’t his girlfriend, only a victim of the same persecution; the set could quickly change from romantic movie to detective story.
They decided that for at least the next two days he and Maldonado would keep guarding her, and that she wouldn’t go anywhere at all without warning them first. The rest of the lunch was tense, with silences broken by short phrases and muttered curses from Kika, who ate her own salad and Espinosa’s meal as well.
They left the restaurant unhurriedly. The difference in temperature between the terrace beneath the trees and the Rua do Catete, packed full of people, was enough to make Espinosa’s forehead break out in sweat, even though it was only a short walk to Kika’s building from the restaurant. Maldonado was waiting for them at the door. Before going up with the detective, Kika kissed Espinosa quickly, partly on his cheek, partly on the side of his mouth.
“Sorry about yesterday.”
From the same public phone Kika usually used, Espinosa called Vieira. He wanted to know if he’d called Flor or taken any protective measures for her; he himself didn’t want to do anything without telling his friend.
“We had a quick conversation to work out a misunderstanding and decided to go out tonight.”
“Vieira, something tells me that the guy is going to try something today, or tomorrow at the latest; don’t make it any easier for him. I know it’s risky, but the only way to get to him quickly is to let him get to us first, unless we come across some information. But remember, that doesn’t mean we can let him get to anybody else. Just to us.”
“Damn it, buddy, you think I’m an amateur?”
“I know you’re not, but I’m sure he isn’t either. He’s got your gun, and I forgot to ask you this morning if you’ve got another one.”
“I borrowed one that’s even better than my own.”
“Great. I mean, well, use it only in extreme cases.”
“Fuck, Espinosa, we are the extreme cases. Anything that wasn’t extreme he’s already eliminated. The guy who got me the gun agreed to check with his contacts to find out who the son of a bitch is. He said he’d check back with me as soon as he had a lead.”
The moment Espino
sa hung up, Vieira tried calling Flor. Nobody answered. He tried a few more times in the next half hour, and the result was the same. I bet that little shit, Junior, still hasn’t managed to aim at the bucket, he thought. Or maybe the dad decided to give a demonstration to the retard? Flor must be feeling like a real institution. Since nineteen whatever, from father to son. She could order a plaque for the door of her apartment.
He opened his dresser drawer, the same one from which his first weapon had been stolen, and removed the automatic he’d borrowed from the station near his house—surely a gun taken off some sleazebag—along with the ammunition that came with it. He threw everything onto the bed and started counting the bullets. He stopped halfway. Bullshit. He’d never been in a shootout where he’d needed more ammo than a gun could hold. By the time the bullets ran out, somebody would be dead.
He was still sitting on the side of the bed. He loaded the clip, put a bullet in the barrel, and flicked on the safety; then he gathered the remaining bullets. As he was putting them back in the drawer, one of them fell on the floor, rolling underneath the dresser. The job of fishing it out forced him onto his hands and knees; he had to stretch his body twice, getting down and standing up again, which not only took him quite a while but left him breathless for a few minutes afterward. He was shirtless, wearing shorts and no shoes. The effort had produced sweat deep in the folds of his belly. He wondered how he could maintain the pretense that he was protecting someone from a professional assassin when the simple effort of picking up a bullet from the carpet practically finished him off. His body still bore traces of the attack; his mouth was trying to adjust to his new dentures; and his soul was trying to adjust to more recent apparitions. He doubted seriously whether he could defend himself and Flor.
He didn’t know what to do while he was waiting. He didn’t even know what he was waiting for: if it was Flor, who would never again be simply soft and sweet; or if it was the man, breaking down the door and shooting before he could even reach the gun beside him in his bed. His aesthetic sense was not his most highly developed, but even he didn’t think that it was proper to fight wearing only a pair of Bermuda shorts; he imagined his picture in the papers, looking just like one of the lowlifes, who never seemed to be wearing a shirt when they got killed. He was also uncomfortable because his feet were slightly puffy, probably because of the heat. He dismissed the idea of putting on a shirt and shoes, turned on the air conditioner in his room, looked for a movie on TV, and sat down to wait.
December Heat Page 20