6
The early stage of the investigation uncovered several facts, but others remained mysterious. The first was that all three victims had three addresses: one official, one private (which didn’t figure on the police registry), and a third where their mistresses lived. The two who died in Copacabana apartments had been killed in their official residences: little apartments used almost exclusively for rendezvous. The unofficial addresses corresponded to upper-middle-class buildings in Barra da Tijuca, where the deceased had lived with their families. Ramiro’s job was to visit the widows. He learned that the policemen had spent only three or four nights a week at home; on the other nights, they’d claimed to be working the late shift or performing some other professional duty: following a suspect, working out of town, investigating undercover. Their wives had long since given up on checking out their husbands’ excuses; or, because they lived so comfortably, they were no longer interested.
Their mistresses, like the wives, had extremely limited social lives, subsisting even more invisibly than the policemen themselves. None of the murdered men were drug addicts or alcoholics. These facts were gleaned on Friday and over the weekend, and brought to the group’s first meeting outside the station house.
The restaurant was not frequented by cops from either of the Copacabana precincts, though that wasn’t what had inspired Espinosa to select it. If anyone wanted to know where they were meeting, all they had to do was follow them. The important thing was never to meet in the same place twice. The choice was to be communicated to the others by Espinosa shortly before each meeting.
“I don’t care if they see you. I just don’t want them to be able to listen in.”
The plate of the day was rice with sausage. For Espinosa, anything besides frozen spaghetti was welcome. Welber, attentive to his girlfriend’s suggestions, asked for grilled chicken breast; Ramiro and Artur both ordered the special.
Even though all three of them had participated in investigating the addresses and possessions of the dead cops, Ramiro provided the outline, since only he had been in direct contact with the widows.
“It’s not for nothing that they hid their real addresses. With a detective’s salary, they wouldn’t have been able to pay for one of the cars in their garages, much less the houses and apartments they lived in. None of them was married to a rich woman or had won the lottery.”
“Family money? Inheritance?”
“Nothing. Them or their wives. But they weren’t show-offs. None of the cars were imported or brand-new. One of them lived in a house, the others in apartments; everything was good quality, but nothing spectacular. They didn’t give parties or hang out in expensive places.”
“The first one you talked to didn’t warn the other two that you were coming?”
“No. That’s what I find most intriguing. They didn’t know about one another; their husbands rarely mentioned their colleagues. Another thing: nobody in the area knew they were cops. It’s true that a lot of cops will do anything to deny that they’re cops, so as not to draw the attention of drug dealers, but in their case I agree with what the chief said the other day: they seemed to be hiding deliberately. The wives don’t know much, and I don’t think they’re hiding anything. They really seemed not to know. Either they were really out of the loop, or they’re really good actresses. I’d bet on the first.”
“How did they react to your visit?”
“They thought it was normal for us to investigate their husbands’ deaths. They even thanked me for the attention we were giving the case.”
“And what about their colleagues in the station, did you have any problems?”
“Not directly,” said Ramiro. “But this morning I found this note on top of my desk.”
The inspector removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it on the table. It was handwritten, in capital letters: if you like your family, leave other people’s families alone.
“Any idea who did it?”
“Someone from this precinct, of course. Nobody from outside, even a cop, would risk entering the building, passing by reception, and coming up to the second floor to leave a note on my desk.”
“That’s the kind of thing I was trying to say last time. It’s one thing to fight criminals, another to go after your own colleagues. We’re certainly going to have to keep in touch with the widows. Maybe they’re really not hiding anything. Maybe they don’t realize that they do know something. When the time is right, we’ll have a more detailed conversation with them. But I don’t think your families are in any danger.”
“What if they are?”
“That’ll put us in a tough position. We can’t send the wolves to protect the sheep. If we have to, we’ll get help from outside.”
The three men looked at the chief.
“From God or the devil. But I think that the author of the note isn’t so much worried about the investigation as he is about the possibility that it might interfere with something already in motion.”
Back at the station, Espinosa found a message to call Freire, from the Criminological Institute.
“The three bullets came from the same weapon,” Freire said, as soon as he picked up the phone.
“He wasn’t worried about using a different gun,” Espinosa said. “It’s like a signature.”
“All we have to do is read it.”
Freire’s taciturn nature didn’t prevent him from being the best forensic researcher on the force, even though his material resources were hardly more extensive than a magnifying glass and he’d been known to pay for more substantial work out of his own pocket.
It was three weeks since the first murder and they still didn’t have a single witness. Nobody had seen anything; their informers didn’t have a single clue. The silence was absolute. The intended message seemed to have gotten through: anyone who said or hinted at anything was putting themselves at risk.
Espinosa heard the suggestion more than once, in the form of an argument: “Isn’t it just corrupt cops killing each other off? Let them kill each other. They’re cleaning up the force.”
7
Ever since their first encounter in Espinosa’s apartment, Irene had always preferred his place. Espinosa visited hers only to pick her up or drop her off, never to spend the night. He didn’t mind; her apartment was bigger and magnificently decorated, but his was more relaxing.
As always, Irene arrived with a grocery bag whose contents were predictable, but which she always announced halfway up the stairs.
“Italian bread, smoked salmon, cheeses, wine—”
“If I said the tastiest thing isn’t in the bag …”
“… you’d be saying the same thing you said last time.”
They hadn’t seen each other in a month. They hugged for longer than usual, and Irene was a good hugger, hugging with her whole body; their first kiss was soft at the beginning and then grew more intense; and they sampled each other’s bodies before they got to the wine, salmon, and cheese. Irene was a generous lover, offering every part of herself to Espinosa, seeming to enjoy the act even more than her lover did. There was no part of her anatomy Espinosa hadn’t visited, but every corner still had inexhaustible secrets that both savored each time they met.
They lay for a while in silence, looking at the ceiling. Espinosa asked the first question:
“Do you still think about Olga?”
“Do you mean do I think about her when we’re in bed together or do I remember her sometimes?”
“The second part is rhetorical.”
“I still think about her, but not when we’re having sex. When we’re in bed, I think about you … when I can think at all. I think a person’s sexuality has a lot of different layers…. Old partners are always present; you can’t separate lovers that way. But you can be sure of one thing: my favorite part is with you.”
Espinosa rolled over, propped himself up with his elbow, and rested his head in his hand. He spent a while looking at her beautiful face and
expressive eyes without saying anything.
“What do you want to know?” Irene asked. “If I love you? If I love you more than I loved Olga?”
Espinosa silently looked at Irene, so close that he could hardly bring his eyes to focus on her face.
“They’re different loves,” Irene continued. “You can’t compare it. They’re all part of the same love, but I want you to understand that I don’t mix them up. You’re unique, and I’ve never loved anyone like I love you. With you, I’m not trying to rebound from anyone. Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. I’m not scared of you or your past. I’m scared of myself.”
“Why don’t we have a little salmon and a glass of wine to celebrate the present, before going back to bed?”
Espinosa didn’t possess Irene’s clarity; she could speak so easily about her feelings and emotions. He had a hard time even thinking about his own feelings, much less discussing them. He never knew what to say when introducing Irene to people—“friend” didn’t sound right; she wasn’t exactly his girlfriend; “lover” … nobody introduces someone as their lover. He needed a new vocabulary to describe their relationship. It was like the new kind of family, with its multiple marriages: there still weren’t words to describe the various kinds of relationships that resulted.
He ate breakfast alone. Irene had left a note saying that she had to be in São Paulo before lunchtime, and that she had to swing by her house and her office before heading to the airport. She didn’t try to act like a wife; even if she were married, she wouldn’t fit the stereotype. She also didn’t seem like an executive, though she was always on the road for work.
Espinosa was crossing through the Peixoto District on his way to the station when he spotted Welber walking toward him. He immediately understood that the pleasant start to the day would soon be a memory.
“I’ve been trying to call your cell phone, but you must have forgotten to turn it on.”
Espinosa fumbled in his jacket pockets to find the phone, which, like his landline, had been turned off since the night before.
“What’s happened this time? For you to come all the way here, after trying to call me …”
“I didn’t come especially to talk to you, but since your building’s on the way I thought you’d like to have a look.”
“What happened?”
“A woman. They called saying it was a policewoman. They called the Thirteenth as well, with the same message.”
“And is she a cop?”
“No, but she was the mistress of one of the dead ones.”
“Which one?”
“Ramos.”
“Where was it?”
“Straight ahead, a hundred meters from your building.”
“My building?”
“Yeah. Right behind here, on the Rua Santa Clara.”
Espinosa took Welber’s arm and they turned around and headed back in the direction from which Espinosa had come.
“There’s a passageway by my building that goes right to the Rua Santa Clara. Tell me what happened on the way.”
“There’s not a lot to go on. She was found inside a car, with a bullet in her head, shot point-blank. The murderer was probably sitting in the driver’s seat. The car must have been stopped when he fired.”
“Have you already been there?”
“I was. There are cops from both precincts.”
“What was her name?”
“Rita. Maria Rita. Ramiro saw her yesterday.”
“Who found the body?”
“The doorman from the building across the street. He thought it was strange that a woman was sleeping in the car. He went up to it and saw that her shirt was covered with blood.”
“When was that?”
“He called at seven-thirty this morning. The station informed Ramiro, who told me to tell you.”
The Rua Santa Clara started near the Túnel Velho, wrapped around the Peixoto District, and headed in a straight line to the Avenida Atlântica, cutting Copacabana in half and separating the jurisdictions of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Precincts. There were cars and cops from both at the scene. If it had come down to it, Espinosa could have argued that the crime had occurred on the left side of the street, in his precinct. But the two chiefs and several policemen weren’t at the scene to argue about such things. Espinosa lifted the yellow tape blocking off part of the sidewalk. He was recognized and exchanged a few words with some of the other people there, feeling out their mood.
“It looks like killing cops wasn’t enough for them and they’ve decided to try out some terrorism.” The comment, made in a raised voice, came from a cop from the Thirteenth, and didn’t appear to be directed at anyone in particular. “Serial killer and terrorist.” He went on: “You’ll see, the son of a bitch killed the woman just to set the tone. Does anyone still doubt that it’s a serial killer?” It was clear to Espinosa that the question was directed at him; Welber noticed his boss’s discomfort.
“It has nothing to do with you, sir.”
“Yes, it does. They know we’re investigating, and it’s easier for them to go along with the idea that there’s some serial killer liquidating cops than to accept that the police force is investigating itself.”
“Do you think that’s it?”
“That the police force is investigating itself? Maybe. But there’s no serial killer. Our murderer isn’t choosing the victims, just carrying out orders. Serial killers are American. We don’t have those in our culture.”
Welber looked at him.
“Crime is also culture,” Espinosa concluded.
The detective wasn’t sure whether to take the comment seriously.
While Espinosa spoke to some of the policemen individually, Ramiro cased the area. He took in the scene of the crime, examining the car through the windows. Then he paid visits to all the neighboring buildings and spoke with the doormen and garage attendants. He spent most of the morning at the garages of the nearby buildings interrogating employees and residents.
As Espinosa saw it, the crime was of a piece with the preceding ones, with a sole variation: the victim, instead of being a cop, was a cop’s mistress. The rest was identical: a single shot, no struggle, no disturbances, no witnesses.
The car had been found with its windows and doors closed but not locked, the key in the ignition. The victim’s purse contained money and credit cards, along with personal documents and a cell phone. The car’s papers were in the glove compartment.
Cops from the Thirteenth gathered around Espinosa. Almost all of them knew each other, some only by sight, but everyone knew who the chief was and what he was doing there.
“So, sir, any progress in the investigation of our colleagues’ deaths?” The question, asked by an old detective from the Thirteenth Precinct, was accompanied by a smile that could have been friendly if it hadn’t been delivered with perceptible irony.
“Not much.”
“Doesn’t it look like a serial killer in the great American tradition?”
“Only if the horse speaks English.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry about it, only kidding.”
“What about the people who have been threatening one of your men?”
“It’s not exactly a threat. Just a reminder.”
“He shouldn’t let his guard down. These people aren’t messing around.”
“People? You think it’s more than one?”
“Whoever’s doing this”—the older cop pointed to the car—“isn’t acting alone.”
“Why do you think it’s more than one person?”
“Because it would be hard for someone on their own to be that efficient.”
“I think exactly the opposite.”
“Either way, sir, we’ve got to be careful. See you later.”
The detective was already turning to leave when Espinosa asked, “Speaking of which, when were you talking with the man I’ve got on the case?”
“I wasn’t. I don’t even
know who’s working on it. Why?”
“Because he and I are the only ones who know about the threat.”
“Oh, Chief, you know how these things get around.”
The detective left without saying anything else. The next person to approach Espinosa was Officer Assunção, whom Espinosa had known since college. He was a friendly guy who patted Espinosa on the shoulder and said, “Well, buddy, what a load of shit, huh? Now they’ve decided to bump off the wives as well.”
“In this case, the mistress,” Espinosa answered.
“Same difference.”
“It’s not exactly the same thing. The wives are still alive.”
“Do you think they’re in danger?”
“Who? The widows?”
“The mistresses.”
“Possibly. This one might have seen something or someone she wasn’t supposed to, and the same might go for the others.”
“How are we going to cover this up?”
“We’re not going to cover it up, we’re just not going to tell the press everything. If they ask, tell them someone killed a prostitute. They’ll lose interest immediately.”
It was early, the sun still low in the sky, but the day was already hot. Espinosa continued to ponder the detective’s mention of the threat directed against Ramiro. If they knew about the note, they knew about everything.
A Window in Copacabana Page 4
