December Heat

by Luiz Alfredo Garcia-Roza

  “I know who the guy is and where to find him.” The sentence came out so quickly that he had to repeat it to make Espinosa understand.

  “What did you find out?”

  “Listen to this. He was hired by a group from inside the police itself, a group that didn’t want to do its own dirty work. The job was to get the man, who they realized wasn’t an officer at all; to get the kid, who they thought was a runner; and Clodoaldo. They thought it was a group working under our protection. They got the sleazeball with my wallet and worked him over. Except the guy didn’t have anything to say. They thought he was hiding something, so they squeezed him until he turned in the people who were after him, meaning the kid, Clodoaldo, and me—except he didn’t have anything to say about me. They must have pushed him too hard, and he died. All they knew about you is that they’d seen us together. All they wanted was for us to get off their turf. They ordered the kid killed, the guy with the wallet, and Clodoaldo; and they fucked with you and Flor. I don’t know what else they planned to do.”

  “How’d you find out all of this?”

  “Don’t ask me how. I’m not in the police anymore, and I don’t have to obey the fucking rules. The sons of bitches humiliated me and put me out of commission. What did you expect? That I’d take it like a good boy?”

  “Fine. No further questions. You said you know where the guy is.”

  “Here’s what happened. He’s hiding not only from the people he’s attacking but also from the people who hired him. He moves every two days. I got the address of the place where he was. I went there this morning. He’d just left the hotel. I went over every inch of the place and didn’t find a thing. He’s careful, but he made a mistake. He made some calls from the phone in the lobby to avoid leaving behind a list of numbers. But it so happened that between the time he left and when I got there, there weren’t many calls made from that phone. They were all to residential numbers except for two, each to two different hotels. I called the second one and they confirmed that he was staying there. He used the same name he’d used at the hotel he’d left. He must have fake papers.”

  “If he’s moved to another hotel, it’s because he’s going to stay at least until tomorrow.”

  “Maybe the son of a bitch is sentimental and wants to spend Christmas at home.”

  “We could get Maldonado.”

  “I’d rather we didn’t. Think about it, Espinosa—the fucker’s always been one step ahead of us. He’s competent, but he’s got to be getting information from the police itself. If not that, then our phones are tapped. That’s why I didn’t say anything over the phone. We’d better act without talking to anyone.”

  “Where is he?”

  “The last place you’d think to look for a hired gun. On the Avenida Atlantica, in the Le Meridien hotel.”

  “He can’t be paying for it himself.”

  “Do you have a plan? Or should we just ring the doorbell and shoot the son of a bitch in the face?”

  “Which is a plan.”

  “Fuck, Espinosa, I’m serious. The guy could get away.”

  “If he’s thinking of escaping, he wouldn’t have moved to another hotel. I think he’s going to try something tonight.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “The guy likes to make an impression. Everything he’s done so far has had a cinematic touch: killing Clodoaldo inside a taxi, with my gun; tying Flor to a chair strategically placed right in front of the door, for maximum impact when you walked in. Even the kid, sitting in the sand and with his back to the rock, could have been a scene from the movies. He likes what he does and thinks he’s got style.”

  “Goddamn it, the guy’s a murderer and you’re talking to me about how he’s got style?”

  “Calm down. You found out who the guy is and where. Now we just have to choose the best moment to get him, and I have a suspicion of what he’s planning. I’ll say it again: he likes to put together scenes, and there’s nothing more Hollywood than Christmas. And today’s Christmas Eve. I think he’s going to try something tonight.”

  “And what do you think it could be?”

  “Could be any one of several things. All involving people connected to us, or us ourselves.”

  “What do you suggest?”

  “I suggest that you use my bathroom, take a shower, shave, choose a clean shirt from my wardrobe. Once you’ve done that, we’ll go to the Meridien.”

  It was two-twenty in the afternoon, but the sky had grown dark with rain clouds when they arrived at the hotel. The valet parking attendant looked at Espinosa’s car as if it were a garbage truck but still deigned to put his hand on the handle and open the door. Instead of going to reception, they sought out the head of security. They knew from experience that hotel managers and cops didn’t get on very well.

  The man who was introduced to them could just as well have been a bookkeeper or the coatroom supervisor; few would have guessed that he was, in fact, the chief of security. Espinosa showed his badge, which the man examined without touching it; then he looked at Vieira as if to ask if he too were a cop. In a short time and with few words it became clear that he wasn’t the bookkeeper. Espinosa summed up the story not entirely truthfully, failing to mention his suspicion that another murder would be committed that very night. He didn’t want to make the guests and management unduly uncomfortable.

  “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “I’d like to know if he is in fact staying in the hotel, and if he is, which room he’s in. I promise you we won’t do anything without talking to you first.”

  The security chief was not only satisfied with the way the officer presented the situation; he was visibly thrilled to have been consulted in the first place. He went to reception and, after checking the computer, returned with the manager, who had the information they sought.

  “The man you’re looking for checked in this morning. He arrived before noon, and since he didn’t want to pay the full rate for a one-hour difference, he registered, paid for one night, and asked us to hang on to his suitcase while he went to lunch and did a little shopping. The hotel has a Christmas dinner, so we asked if he wanted to make a reservation, and he said yes, for two. He should be back any minute now, and since he still doesn’t know what room he’s staying in, he’ll have to stop off at reception. If you gentlemen would like to make yourselves comfortable, we’ll let you know as soon as he arrives.”

  Espinosa knew that the manager would want them to make themselves comfortable somewhere out of range of even the most curious guest. Since he didn’t plan to hang out in the employees’ rest room, he asked where the manager would suggest.

  “The reception’s right above the ground floor, just in front of the escalator. On the floor directly above that there’s a lounge where you won’t be seen by anyone entering the hotel. You can also intercept the elevators arriving from the ground floor and the reception area. I’ll leave a walkie-talkie with you; someone at reception will let you know as soon as the man picks up the key.”

  It was three in the afternoon when, seated in a comfortable leather chair, Espinosa tested the walkie-talkie. During the next hour Vieira dozed off for a few long minutes, snapping to attention every time the walkie-talkie crackled. Espinosa contacted the guard at reception: “Nothing to report, Officer.” Even if the man came in through another door, he’d have to pass through reception to find out what room he was in and to get the key. At four in the afternoon, he still hadn’t arrived. Something was wrong.

  “Vieira, you said that the guy made two phone calls to hotels. What was the other one?”

  “I don’t remember. What’s the difference? Didn’t he come here?”

  “Did he?”

  “Of course, damn it. He checked in here, didn’t he?”

  “He checked in, but that doesn’t mean he’s staying here.”

  “Motherfucker!”

  “Exactly. You didn’t check out the other call because you were sure that the last one was where he’d de
cided to go. You called here, found out that somebody with that name had checked in here, and didn’t think anything more about it. All that’s here is a suitcase. Which is probably full of old newspapers.”

  “Motherfucker!”

  “You already said that.”

  “The other hotel was … it was … the Miramar!”

  From reception, they called the Miramar Palace, also located on the Avenida Atlantica, but all the way at the other end of the beach. They gave the same name the man had used.

  “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no one here by that name.”

  “Please, check again. It’s extremely important. Look under his first name and last.”

  “Nothing, sir. There’s no one registered under that name.”

  Vieira, who was right next to Espinosa, tried to guess the answers on the other end of the line. There was no need to confirm them.

  “Just because nobody’s registered under that name doesn’t mean anything. Let’s go over there.”

  During their vigil inside the Meridien, they hadn’t noticed the change in the weather. The sky was black, and rain was falling so hard that they could barely make out the buildings along Copacabana Beach. Instead of waiting for the car (the valet had gone to fetch it from God knows where), they got in a taxi that was discharging guests at the hotel. It took a little longer than normal to travel the distance between the two ends of the beach.

  At the Miramar Palace they set aside professional courtesies and headed straight to reception. Espinosa flashed his badge and spoke simultaneously to the receptionist and the kid behind the computer.

  “I called a few minutes ago asking for a guest. The name wasn’t right, so we’re going to have to find him by a description.”

  “Officer—”

  “I know what you’re going to say—that it’s Christmas Eve, that the hotel is full, that it’s impossible to find someone from a description, et cetera. But it so happens that someone’s life depends on this, and every minute counts.”

  “What information do you have?”

  “He came in today, by himself, between ten and one. He’s a little shorter than I am, very strong, short brown hair, roundish face, narrow, almost Oriental eyes.”

  “I know who it is.”

  “What?”

  “I remember him perfectly. He came in by himself right after noon. I’m not completely sure which room he’s in. Let me check.”

  After consulting the computer, the kid emerged victorious.

  “Room 512. Mr. Mozart.”

  “What?”

  “Mr. Mozart. That’s his name.”

  After leaving Espinosa’s apartment, Flor rehearsed a few variations of the conversation she was planning to have with Vieira. She didn’t want to lay out all the details—it wouldn’t sound natural—and besides, if the story wasn’t convincing enough, she would always have recourse to seduction. Furthermore, she had faith in the cheesiness of the holidays. But she had no idea what Vieira had been up to since the day before. She knew she’d pushed him too far. It was the second time he’d answered her with silence; the men she knew had been more prone to emotional explosions. Magali had told her that he could rage, but she’d never mentioned him reacting with silence; for Flor, it was completely novel. And leaving didn’t seem to be his usual reaction to difficult situations; he’d always preferred sticking to the comfort of his apartment. He wasn’t a thinker: he was a man of action. That was why she was worried about his disappearance. Even worse, she couldn’t find Espinosa either. Deep down, she worried that the two were plotting against her. But the officer seemed to have really enjoyed her morning surprise. It was Christmas Eve; they must be out shopping. Even cops had friends and relatives. And if neither was home, there was no reason for her to stay cooped up in her apartment, even with rain threatening. She needed to fix her nails and do something about her hair—the beauty salon wasn’t far. The only thing she feared, more than anything in the world, was running into the guy who’d tied her up.

  The fight with Vieira hadn’t been that serious; there was no reason for him to hold it against her. Besides, she was convinced that she was right: the gunman was doing exactly as he pleased, and the two officers and the little detective couldn’t do anything to stop him. It was three against one, and the guy, all by himself, was in complete control. She was already on the street, looking at the clouds and wondering if they meant rain. Anyway, she could learn something from the episode with her assailant, wherever he was. He’d shown her quite clearly that the best weapon was order, precision, and efficiency: the winners weren’t the ones who made the most noise but those who controlled the volume. That morning with Espinosa, she’d been extremely competent, almost wordless. The other night, when she’d come to his apartment and immediately blurted out that she was there to seduce him, the guy had gone on the defensive, especially after that girl had shown up with the face that looked scared of dick. Her mistake then had been speaking. This morning she hadn’t made any mistakes; he’d had nowhere to run to; it was like a rape. That was how it was done. Few words, good timing, and just the right amount of action. You couldn’t fail. If the equipment was up to the task. And her equipment was a gift from God. For the few random details that needed a little fine-tuning, the hairdresser was more than adequate.

  Even though he didn’t have family in Rio, Maldonado didn’t want to spend Christmas Eve working. He wondered if what he was doing was at all useful. If the murderers and attackers really were from the police, he and Espinosa couldn’t do anything about it on their own. Stories about kids confronting corrupt cops in a big metropolis belonged to films, and the setting was usually New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco. This wasn’t a film, he wasn’t a kid, and the city wasn’t New York, Los Angeles, or San Francisco: it was Rio de Janeiro on a hot summer afternoon, with heavy dark clouds in the sky announcing yet another torrential Christmas.

  Kika was all sweetness with Espinosa because he’d spent the night awake in the living room, protecting her against the hired gun. He, who’d also been there since the early-morning hours, was looked upon with friendliness but nothing more. If the guy barged in suddenly and popped a bullet between his eyes, he wouldn’t be remembered for more than a week. After that, she’d have trouble pronouncing his name correctly. So it was better to shoot the guy before he had a chance to shoot one of them, or even all of them. He took his gun from the holster and placed it on top of the table. He’d never shot anyone. Well, he’d never shot to kill; he’d fired into the air and, even once, in a slum, in the direction of some fugitives, but he’d known the bullets wouldn’t hit anyone. But if that guy came up the stairs ready to get the girl, he wouldn’t think twice, because by the second thought he’d be dead; he had to get the guy before he could fire back. He wondered if there’d be two different sounds, one of the shot and the other of the bullet entering the guy’s body. Surely not. The two things would be simultaneous, life and death. He wouldn’t like to have to kill somebody, even though he’d thought about it thousands of times. Something told him the guy wouldn’t show up. But that suspicion didn’t put him at ease.

  In the old house, there was none of the natural excitement of three young women on vacation. The medical student was on duty, having volunteered for the shift to keep her boyfriend company; he was interning at the same hospital. Kika and the other girl couldn’t decide whether to accept invitations to friends’ houses or to make a cozy dinner and go to bed early. Maldonado thought it seemed sad for two young women to spend Christmas without parents, boyfriends, or friends. And neither of them was a wallflower. He was thinking of inviting them to a Christmas dinner with some friends of his when Kika’s beeper nipped his Christmas romance in the bud.

  Maldonado accompanied her to a nearby shopping gallery with a row of public phones. Even though there were plenty of phones, there was a short line in front of every one. The wait was compensated for by the smile Maldonado saw spread over Kika’s face as soon as she hung up with the girl at
the answering service.

  “What was it? Did Santa Claus leave you a message?”

  “It wasn’t him, but it might have been his idea.”

  “And?”

  “And I’m going to have to fix my nails and do something about my hair.”

  Espinosa and Vieira looked at each other, hardly able to believe their ears.

  “Room 512,”

  “But he’s not in his room,” said the kid at the reception desk.

  “What do you mean, he’s not there?”

  “The key’s on the rack.”

  “Call up there. If anyone picks up, say the hotel is offering a little Christmas present.”

  “But the key’s on the rack.”

  “Fuck the key, damn it, do what the officer’s telling you.”

  The kid called up and let the phone ring until Espinosa told him to hang up.

  “You didn’t see when he went out?”

  “No, sir. Sometimes we get busy with tourists arriving and the guests just drop the key off. Today we got two big bus groups; the lobby was packed for at least an hour. He could have gone out then.”

  “And about what time was that?”

  “Between three and four, more or less—right before you gentlemen arrived.”

  “We can’t spend the rest of the day running up and down the beach. If our suspicion that he’s going to do something tonight is correct, he’ll be plotting something against one of us or against Kika. And I don’t think he’s going to try anything before ten at night.”

  “Why ten?”

  “Because, based on his previous behavior, we are acting on a somewhat fantastic hypothesis: our suspect likes constructing scenes. We must therefore allow that it is plausible that he is going to build some sort of grand finale today, precisely, Christmas night. So far, nothing has contradicted our hypothesis. According to that logic, we must conclude that if he’s going to try anything, he’s going to try it at night, at dinnertime, at the Meridien.”

  “Goddamn.”

  “Goddamn what?”

  “You talk so well.”

  “I’m being serious, Vieira.”