by Blake Banner
I gave her the drink and smiled. “Just don’t get drunk before you’ve told me the story.”
“After that, have I got permission?”
“After that, you can drink yourself into oblivion, if you so wish.”
“I do wish,” she said sourly and drank. “They tried to revive him, there by the pool. Paul wanted to call an ambulance, but Gabriel stopped him. He said it would take too long, they would take him in the car.” She shook her head. “I could see he was already gone. His skin was pasty and gray. His eyes were open and he wasn’t breathing. His mother was hysterical, screaming that he was dead.” She mimicked her without compassion, “‘Está morto! Esta´morto!’ They rushed him out to the car and bundled him in the back. And just before they left, Gabriel went up to Paul and I have never seen anything so horrific and evil and terrifying in my life. He put his face right up close and spat at him. He said that if Gonzalo was dead, Humberto would die, too, and Paul would spend the rest of his life in Monte Cristo, a notorious prison in Amazonia, where he would be tortured until he begged for death.”
“What did you do?”
“Paul made an executive decision, as he needed to. He was probably right in this case. He said if we stuck around and waited for the police, or if we handed ourselves in, we were as good as dead. Especially him, Humberto, and Carmela. He said we had to go, right then and there. He had a boat moored by the house and we should use that to get to Macapá, where we could get passage to the U.S.A. The moron of his whore insisted on collecting her jewels and her clothes. That delayed us, and it cost her her life, and almost cost Reggie his.”
“Gabriel came back?”
She nodded. “Yes, he came back, with his farm hands. They got Luz in the house. I don’t want to even imagine what they did to the stupid bitch. Reggie was shot in the head just as he was clambering aboard the boat.” She paused, looking into her drink. “They didn’t kill him, but it might have been better if they had.” She sighed and shrugged. “God alone knows how we didn’t kill ourselves that night. We must have been doing forty miles an hour down the river, dodging logs and heaven knows what else. We dropped Carmela at Fordlandia...”
“Where?”
“Don’t laugh. It is actually called that. Fordlandia. She had family there. We eventually made it to Santarem, where Paul bought another boat and we got medical attention for Reggie. It cost a small fortune in bribes to buy the doctors’ silence, but we managed it. Then we sailed on to Macapá, where we bought papers for Humberto and caught a ship for New York. If you have money in Brazil, you can buy anything. And anyone.”
I drained my glass. “I am going to need names, dates… the name of the ship… I’ll need you to make a formal statement.”
“I know.”
“I won’t use the information if I don’t have to. But you understand that Humberto may have killed again, twice.”
She nodded. “God, what a mess.”
“That night, the night of Simon’s murder, where was Humberto?”
She shook her head. “I assumed he was with Paul at the church.”
“Did Paul say anything to you, after he phoned Sylvie?”
“No. Just that there had been a break-in and that Simon had been killed.”
I stood. She watched me. Her expression was both strong and pathetic. She smiled. It wasn’t a happy smile. “I don’t suppose you want to stay?”
I smiled back. It was the same kind of smile. “Thanks. I’m spoken for.”
“How delightfully old-fashioned of you.”
I left her at the door, climbed into my ancient Jaguar and headed home, thinking about my choice of words. Spoken for. An ancient Latin phrase crept into my head. Res ipsa loquitor: the thing speaks for itself.
That was me. The thing. The dinosaur speaks for itself.
FOURTEEN
The next morning it was drizzling from a low ceiling of heavy cloud. Dehan was waiting in the doorway of her apartment block and dodged across the road when she saw me coming. She climbed in and slammed the door as I pulled back into the traffic. I tried out a smile.
“How was your evening?”
She shrugged. “How did it go with Elizabeth Cavendish?”
“It is quite a story.”
She listened in silence as I recounted it. When I had finished, she said, “So what are you thinking? It kind of supports what we were saying yesterday.”
“On the face of it.” I threw her a smile. “Prima facie.” She didn’t respond. I went on. “So I am thinking I need to break Paul down and get the truth out of him. At the same time, I think I would like a warrant to search the church, the rectory, and the grounds.”
“What about Sylvie?”
I shook my head. “Right now, trying to talk to Sylvie is a waste of time. She’ll just keep seeking refuge in her supposed amnesia. I think she has almost come to believe it herself. No, we need to appeal to Paul’s self-interest. Not Reverend Truelove, but the real Paul, the amoral Amazonian adventurer.”
She cocked her head on one side. “He sounds like a man who’d go a long way to protect his son.”
“Up to a point, you’re right. But he has a pretty warped sense of what protection means, hasn’t he? He did risk his own life to get him out of Brazil, but wouldn’t risk his business deal to protect his son from a bully.”
She turned away and gazed out the window at the wet people hunched under their umbrellas, jostling each other on the passing sidewalk.
“True.”
After a bit, I asked her, “You alright?”
She looked surprised, but didn’t smile. “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“I don’t know. You seem distracted.”
“I’m fine.”
We climbed the stairs to the captain’s office in silence and I tapped on the door.
“Come!”
I opened the door for Dehan and she stared at me blankly, so I went in ahead of her. The captain beamed when he saw us and stood, reaching for our hands like we were the guests of honor at his restaurant.
“Stone! Dehan! Come in, come in, sit. I have been expecting you to show up.” He laughed. “You were about due!”
He sat as we sat, smiling. The corners of his eyes creased around his graying temples, making him look comfortable and reassuring.
“To turn JFK on his head, let me ask you, what can your police department do for you?”
He expected a laugh, so I gave him one. Then, I explained the case in some detail, told him there was a sergeant at Elizabeth Cavendish’s house right then taking her statement, explained about Humberto’s ambiguous legal status, and told him I wanted to interview him in the presence of his putative father, while at the same time conducting a search of the church, the rectory, and the grounds.
When I had finished, he flopped back in his chair. “You sure know how to pick ’em, I’ll give you that. See if you can get the reverend’s permission for the search, will you? It’ll be interesting to know how he reacts. If he says no, we will apply for a court order. I’ll contact social services and discuss the status of the boy. You think he did it?”
I shook my head. “It is very hard to tell at this stage, sir. At the very least we need to eliminate him as a suspect. There are other possibilities…”
He nodded. “The reverend and Sylvie themselves, I should have thought, jointly or severally. Julio Beltran; his story may be very credible, but it may just be no more than that!” He grinned. “We Latinos are a very creative people, you know, John! Am I right, Carmen?”
The smile she gave him had a miraculous quality to it, like water coming out of a stone.
I nodded. “I am sure, sir, and it is early days. There may still be angles we have not yet uncovered. This case has a way of throwing up surprises.”
He laid both hands palm down on the desk. “Good! Exceptional work as always, both of you. Choose your team for the search. Carry on!”
As we were going down the stairs, I phoned Reverend Truelove.
&n
bsp; “Good morning, Detective. I have been expecting your call.”
“I figured. Elizabeth called you last night, I guess.”
“Yes. I suppose you want me to come in.”
“Not exactly.” I entered the detectives’ room and rested my ass on the edge of my desk. Dehan dropped into her chair. “I would like you to bring Humberto in to talk to me. I would like you to sit in on the interview. Bring a lawyer if you think you’ll need one.”
“I see…”
“Don’t be a runner on me, Paul. This is not Brazil and we are not gunning for him. Whether he did it or not, he needs help and you need to get his situation straightened out. He is a vulnerable person and he needs protecting.”
“Yes. I understand that, and you are right.”
“I want something else, too, and I am hoping you are going to cooperate with me.”
“What is that?”
“I want to search the church, everything.”
“What do you think you’re going to find?”
I hesitated. “The murder weapon.”
He grunted. “Hmm, I have often wondered about that. There is not much point in my saying no, is there? If I do, you will get a search warrant and the proverbial shit will hit the fan. Besides, I would like you to see I actually have nothing to hide. Yes, go ahead. We’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up. Dehan was watching me. I said, “You want to pick a team and search the church? Go over everything with a fine-toothed comb. Use your judgment. We are looking for a bowie knife and a large kitchen knife. Maybe they threw them in the trash, maybe they threw them in the river. Maybe they never had them in the first place. Maybe we will get lucky and they are buried in the garden.”
She stood. “Got it. I’ll get an unmarked…”
I reached in my pocket, pulled out my keys and threw them to her. “Take mine.”
She frowned. “You sure?”
“You’ve driven it half across the country, I think you’ll be alright driving it as far as East Bronx.”
“…Thanks.”
Twenty minutes later, Maria called me from the desk to say that Reverend Truelove and Humberto had arrived. I went to fetch them and led them up to interview room number three. Humberto was smiling a lot, like he thought the whole thing was a great gas. That didn’t surprise me so much. But the reverend was looking more resigned than worried, and that did. I wondered if it was because he thought the spotlight was off him and onto his son.
They sat side by side and I smiled at Humberto. He grinned back at me and made that sound teenage boys make when they’re embarrassed and they laugh, like a braying donkey.
I addressed his father. “Reverend, am I right in thinking that Humberto understands us when we speak English?”
“Up to a point, yes. But his vocabulary is limited.” He spread his hands. “It is limited by his mental capacity.”
I turned to his son. “Humberto, eu sou John. Tu es Humberto.”
He laughed like a kid who just got his favorite toy for Christmas.
I put my hand on my chest, then reached across and put my hand on his chest. “Eu e voce, amigos.”
It was like I had busted a dam. His voice was huge and he bellowed with a total lack of inhibition.
“Deo gratia! E un angelo! E un angelo! Voce angelo. Gratia Maria! Misericordia! Gratia!” And he laughed, rubbing his vast hands all over his face and his head, leaning against his father. “Amigo! Amigo!”
The reverend said, “You probably gather. He says you are an angel, and he is thanking Mary for your friendship.”
“Doesn’t he think of Sylvie as Mary?”
“Any woman whom he favors can become the Sacred Mother.”
“Mater Sancta, Maria…”
I put my hand on my chest again. “Eu, voce, Maria Sylvie, amigos.”
He was still smiling, but now his eyes were studying me. He spoke more quietly. “Angelo, angelo di la guarda. Humberto, angelo di la guarda, santisima madre, fili et pater noster, angelo di la guarda.”
I looked at Paul. “Is he saying that he is Sylvie’s guardian angel?”
“In as much as he is speaking coherently at all, Detective, he is identifying himself as her guardian angel, yes. I think she once jestingly called him that and he liked it.”
I gave Humberto the thumbs up and pushed a little further. “Eu, voce, Maria Sylvie e Simon…”
He groaned loudly, dropped his head on the table and covered it with his arms. “None! None! Diavolo incarnato, note oscura, santaficata Maria! Santaficata Maria! None! None!”
“Is he calling Simon the devil incarnate?”
He sighed. “I don’t know what you hope to achieve with this, Detective.”
I leaned closer toward Humberto. “Diavolo incarnato?”
Paul interrupted, “Onde voce ollo a diavolo incarnato?”
“No jardim de Getsêmani! Santa Maria plena di graza! Fora! Fora! Fora!”
He started covering his head again. Paul placed his hand gently on his shoulder. “I asked him where he had seen the devil incarnate. He said he had seen him in the Garden of Gethsemane.”
“What does that mean?”
“It could be simple fantasy…”
“Does he hallucinate?”
He was taken aback. “Well, no I have never known him to…”
“Then why would this be fantasy?”
“I simply mean…”
“I am getting tired of you putting obstacles in my way at every step of this investigation, Paul. You are not doing yourself any favors. At the moment, I am trying harder than you know to help you and Humberto. Keep trying to sabotage me and you will lose my support. Have I made myself understood? You are running out of credit.”
He drew breath. “He may have seen somebody in Sylvie’s garden. He has referred to her garden as Gethsemane in the past.”
“He did. I know he did. He scared off a burglar shortly before Simon was killed.” He looked astonished, but I ignored him and turned back to Humberto. I put my hand on his huge arm. “Angelo de la guarda. Voce, e eu. Maria Sylvie e Simon.”
He kept his head covered, muttering, “Malo, malefico, diavolo incarnato, muita sanguis nas manos, muita sanguis no punhal, muita sanguis, malo malefica, diavolo incarnato, Santa Maria… Santa Maria…”
He went quiet, but for the sound of his sobs. I looked at Paul.
He sighed again. “He keeps saying it is bad, the devil incarnate had blood on his hands, lots of blood on the dagger. But this does not constitute a confession of any sort, Detective. He could be talking about a film he has seen. It could be anything.”
“You and I both know exactly what it means, Reverend. What did you talk to Sylvie about for forty-five minutes on the phone the night Simon was killed?”
“I called when I saw the police had left to see if she was all right.”
“Why didn’t you go over?”
“She told me not to.”
“Did she tell you Humberto had been there?”
“No!”
Humberto looked up. His face was wet. “Amigo. Angelo di la guarda.”
“Did she tell you who had killed Simon?”
“No. She said she wanted to forget.”
“Was it Humberto?”
“No…!” He hesitated. “I don’t know.”
I turned to Humberto. “Did Simon hurt Sylvie, Humberto?”
“Malo, Diavolo…”
“Did you stop him from hurting Sylvie? Did you stop Simon from hurting Sylvie?”
He grinned. “Humberto, angelo di la guarda, Santa Maria plena di graza…”
My phone rang. I looked at the screen. It was Dehan. I glanced at Paul. “Excuse me.” I stepped out of the room into the corridor and answered.
“Yeah.”
“Stone. I think you’re going to want to come and see this. We found both knives. It’s like a hoard, or a stash of treasures. It’s in the grounds, in the hedgerow by the fence. The bowie knife is in a plastic bag. The k
itchen knife isn’t. I think there’s still blood caked on both weapons.”
I was quiet for a moment. “Okay, I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Have you called the CSI team?”
“Yeah. They are already on their way.”
“Don’t let them take anything away till I get there. Here is what I want you to do…”
I stepped back into the room and sat. I smiled at Humberto. He grinned. I put a sentence together I hoped he would understand. “Eu quiero ollare votre tesoro.”
He laughed his donkey bray laugh. “Voce, eu, ollare meu tesoro!”
Paul frowned. “He is going to show you his treasure? What treasure?”
“Let’s find out.”
FIFTEEN
I stepped out of the reverend’s car onto the wet sidewalk, in the damp, gray afternoon. Paul got out of the driver’s side and helped Humberto out of the back, then led him around to where I was waiting. We walked together through the gate and into the grounds of the church. Outside the big, red doors, a uniformed cop watched us. I stopped and said to Paul, “Don’t say anything.” Then I smiled at Humberto and repeated, “I want to see your treasure. Eu quiero ollare votre tesoro.”
He gripped my arm in a powerful hand, grinning widely, and led me at a shambling run along the path toward the garden where the fête had been held just a few days earlier. I saw Dehan and half a dozen cops standing back, as I had asked her to on the phone. They watched Humberto and I cross the garden toward the hedgerow that separated the church grounds from Sylvie’s house. He was grunting his strange laugh as he pulled me along across the wet grass.
Then he was ducking, crouching down and shouldering his way in among the thick undergrowth of yew trees, holly, and oak, pulling me down to follow him. I crawled in after him, through a green tunnel, and found myself suddenly in a kind of natural, organic chamber, perhaps five or six feet across, four or five feet high, where over time, he had cut back the branches to form a hideout for himself. He sat on an old blanket and grinned at me. I figured I was the first person he had ever brought into this place. I smiled, “Amigos.”
“Santa Maria, Meua Donna.” He got on his knees and edged up the hedge, pulling back the branches and peering through. I joined him and realized I had a perfect view of the back of Sylvie’s house.