It was only near the end of the afternoon, when Welber and Artur returned to the station, that the two stories merged into one.
“Chief, the address of the woman who threw herself out of the window of the tenth floor of that building in Leme was the same as Celeste’s friend Rosita. We managed to get the doorman to reveal that the dead woman was a cousin who had been staying at Rosita’s apartment for the past few days. It must have been Celeste.”
Espinosa asked them to repeat the story one more time. As soon as the detectives finished, Espinosa thought for a few seconds in silence, then told them about his meeting with Serena Rodes.
“It might not have been a suicide,” Espinosa said.
“Murder?”
“It’s possible.”
“So the guy managed to get rid of the cops and the mistresses.”
“If it was the same killer.”
“Do you think there could be more than one?”
“Maybe. Of the six deaths, Celeste’s was different. Even the ambiguity: was it suicide or murder?”
At the end of the day, before Espinosa went home, Detective Ferreira arrived from the Forensic Institute. Espinosa was alone in his office.
“Good afternoon, Chief. I went back to the Forensic Institute. I’d already been there on Saturday morning.”
“What did you get?”
“There’s something strange, Officer. The name of the woman who died is the same as the woman who lived there, Rosita.”
“What do you mean?”
“The name of the woman they did the autopsy on was Rosa Maria do Nascimento, known as Rosita.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. I talked with the guy in charge of IDs and the one who autopsied her.”
“Call Welber, Artur, and Ramiro.”
The first two were still in the station; Ramiro had gone home.
“They killed the wrong woman,” Espinosa said as soon as his colleagues came in.
“What?”
“That’s right. They killed the wrong woman.”
“It wasn’t Celeste?”
“No. It was her friend.”
“How could the murderer have mixed them up?”
“I don’t think he mixed them up, I just don’t think he knew what she looked like. He probably had an address, a name, and a description, but no photo. Celeste and the friend were the same age and, according to the doorman, looked a lot alike.”
“And the doorman, how could he have gotten it wrong?”
“He only saw the body from a distance.”
“But the ‘doctor’s’ men didn’t get it wrong.”
“Of course not. That’s why they cleared the apartment out so quickly. As soon as the doctor learned that the dead woman was his girlfriend, he had them take everything out of the apartment and arranged for the autopsy and burial.”
“That means Celeste is still alive.”
“She must have gotten there right when her friend fell. She must be hiding, scared.”
“In that case, the murderer doesn’t know he killed the wrong woman.”
“He knows, if he managed to get the purse.”
“Why would someone who was being threatened like that throw her purse out of the window?”
“For either one of two reasons: to attract attention from people outside or—”
Just then the phone on Espinosa’s desk rang. He let it ring once, twice, three times; on the fourth ring, Welber took the phone off the hook and held it up.
“Or … ?”
“So the murderer couldn’t see what was in the purse.”
“And what was in the purse?”
“Her ID.”
Welber handed the phone to Espinosa and sat looking at him until Espinosa had finished speaking and hung up.
“It must have happened like this,” Espinosa went on. “The murderer discovers where Celeste is hiding. Doesn’t matter how. He gets into the building without being seen and rings her doorbell. Rosita answers. He knows that there are two women in the apartment, and the description he has matches the woman who opens the door. Since the other woman isn’t home, he has to make sure that she’s the one he’s looking for. That’s when he makes a mistake: he asks her name. Rosita, realizing that he doesn’t know what Celeste looks like, figures they’re both safe as long as he doesn’t find out. He keeps asking. They start fighting. That’s when he sees her purse. She grabs it before he gets to it. He tries to yank it away from her, but she throws it out the window first. Even though he’s not sure who she is, he’s already revealed himself to be the murderer, so he pushes her to her death.”
“And what happened to the purse?”
“He—or some pedestrian—took advantage of the confusion to snatch it from the sidewalk. Celeste must have come in right then and noticed what happened, then ran away without even collecting her things from the apartment.”
6
Serena was used to eating alone. That day, however, her husband had decided to have dinner at home, and she thought that it was the right time to mention her meeting with Officer Espinosa. She still had a clear image of Espinosa in her mind, but she couldn’t remember what color his eyes were. He was a pretty attractive man. She suspected that she’d overstepped some boundary, but she wasn’t sure exactly which one. She felt as if she’d committed adultery.
As soon as her husband walked in the door, before he could even start in about the problems at the Ministry of Finance, Serena took the initiative.
“I spoke to Chief Espinosa today.”
“What?”
“I saw the chief of the Twelfth Precinct today.”
“You went to the station to talk about the woman who killed herself?”
“I didn’t go to the station … and she didn’t kill herself.”
“My God, Serena, what’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that I’m not going to pretend that I’m blind or retarded.”
“Who is this guy, and what did you say to him?”
“His name is Espinosa, he’s very polite and calm, and he came here to talk to me.”
“He came here to our house?”
“No, he came here to Leme. He didn’t want to, he wanted me to go over to the station, but when I said that it was about the woman they said threw herself out of the tenth-floor window he asked where I was calling from. I said a public phone and he suggested we meet at noon. We talked at one of the tables on the sidewalk at the place around the corner. The police didn’t know there was someone else in the apartment and they didn’t know anything about the purse.”
“Serena, I’m sure all of this is true, but I don’t understand why you’re getting involved. The chief can’t pretend you haven’t spoken to him, and now you’re part of a police investigation.”
“Worse things have happened to me.”
“No, they haven’t, Serena. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into.”
“It would have been worse if I hadn’t gotten involved.”
“I can see if I can’t help the officer forget he talked to you.”
“So if you can’t shut me up, you’ll try to shut him up.”
“No, Serena, I’m trying to keep you out of trouble.”
“Let’s just pretend that a woman, our neighbor, who was my age, wasn’t thrown out of a window in front of ours and didn’t die crushed on the sidewalk. And you think you’re going to fix the whole country.”
“I’m an economist, not a policeman.”
“Lucky for the police.”
Guilherme still had his jacket on; they were still in the living room, where he had gone to drop his briefcase after he’d walked in the door. They were both standing, but while Serena had stayed fixed in the same position, he had been pacing the room during the conversation. His steps were deliberate; he had his hands in his pockets, and when he spoke it was calmly. But Serena knew that the calmer he looked, the closer he was to an explosion. That wasn’t what she wanted. All she wanted
was to be able to talk about the subject that was tormenting her with the same energy with which they discussed her husband’s problems at the ministry. She sat down on the sofa and tried to relax. She was still wearing the same clothes she’d worn at lunch, and she was still as excited as when she’d said good-bye to the officer.
Espinosa left the office earlier than usual. He was sure that Celeste would try to reach him at home. He also wanted to think about his meeting with Serena. There was no doubt about it: she was the same woman he’d seen downtown. She hadn’t shown any sign of recognizing him, and there was no reason why she should. She’d been the one who’d come into the café, and he’d been just a guy sitting there drinking a cappuccino. No reason why she should have noticed him.
It was still light outside when he headed down the Avenida Copacabana, turned right, walked for two blocks, then cut through the Galeria Menescal, which connected the Avenida Copacabana to the Rua Barata Ribeiro. He could have reached the Peixoto District by taking a right out of the station; it was less than half the distance. But he wouldn’t have passed by the Arabic take-out place in the Galeria Menescal.
He was walking into the Galeria, dividing his thoughts between the Arabic food and Serena, when he felt a tap on his arm.
“Officer Espinosa?”
He didn’t have to ask the woman’s name. The frightened look was introduction enough.
“I’m Celeste.”
The gallery was wide, with shops on both sides, and lots of people passed through it. It was this last bit that worried Espinosa. He put his arm around Celeste’s shoulders as if they were old friends, and the two walked toward the Arabic restaurant.
“Sorry, I followed you from the station. I was looking for a more populated place to approach you.”
“It’s dangerous for you here.”
“I don’t know where else to go. I left everything I had behind me. Did you see what they did to my friend?”
“I did.”
“The son of a bitch thought it was me.”
“You can’t expose yourself. They could be following you.”
“I don’t think so. They lost my scent. I didn’t go back to my place or my friend’s.”
At the restaurant, Espinosa sat between the gallery and Celeste. If they were going to try anything against her they’d have to get close, and his eyes were peeled.
“Let’s eat something here, like old friends. The murderer doesn’t know exactly what you look like. Do you want some falafel?”
“Sure.”
He ordered two falafels and two soft drinks.
“You have to hide.”
“I don’t have anywhere to go. Ever since they killed Rosita, I’ve been staying in a little hotel near here, but my money won’t hold out for long. All I have are the clothes on my back. I need to buy some stuff. I used my ATM card to take out all the money I had in the bank. It wasn’t much, but I took out a little bit every day. I didn’t want to go to my own branch.”
The weak lighting of the gallery was augmented by the bright lights of the shops, but it was still difficult to make out people a little distance off, especially at dusk, when the light was weakest.
“I don’t think it’s safe for us here. You might not be being followed, but I might well be.”
“Where should we go?”
“Let’s leave on the Barata Ribeiro side. You hang on to my arm. As soon as we see a taxi, we’ll jump in. If anybody’s following me, they’ll know I live two blocks from here, and they won’t be expecting to see me get into a taxi.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know yet.”
They walked nearly half a block before they found an empty taxi. As soon as the driver hit the gas pedal, they both looked back to see if anyone was waving desperately for another cab. They didn’t see anything suspicious.
“Now that they might have seen us together, my apartment isn’t safe for you. Where’s your hotel?”
“A few feet from your building.”
“What?”
“It’s also in the Peixoto District.”
“I know which one you’re talking about. I had to stay there once when my apartment was being painted. Was it a coincidence?”
“What?”
“That you chose a hotel right near my house.”
“I know where you live, sir. I have Nestor’s address book.”
“Can I make a suggestion? Since we’re already holding hands, you can stop calling me sir.”
Celeste jerked back and removed her hand from Espinosa’s arm.
“Sorry—it’s the first time in the last few days that I’ve felt safe. I just didn’t want that feeling to end.”
“You’ll still be safe.”
Espinosa told the driver to turn around after three or four blocks. He took the Avenida Copacabana back in the opposite direction, and turned onto Figueiredo Magalhães, stopping almost at the end, near the Túnel Velho. They got out and waited for the taxi to drive off, then stood there on the sidewalk for a while to make sure no other car had stopped nearby. Convinced they hadn’t been followed, they walked the few hundred yards to the back entrance to the Peixoto District, a little alley used only by locals. The Hotel Santa Clara was located on one of the side streets in the neighborhood, indistinguishable from the other three-story colonial-style buildings. When they reached the reception area, it was already getting dark.
“Does anybody know you’re here?”
“Nobody.”
“What name are you using?”
“ngela Cardoso.”
“Even if they’ve seen us together, they can’t know about this place. You’ll be fine here if you’re careful. Don’t leave unless it’s absolutely necessary. It’s best if you don’t leave at all. When I want to talk to you, I’ll use the name Benedito. Don’t answer calls from anybody else. Remember: I’ll never use the name Espinosa. I’ll only be Benedito.”
“Is that your first name?”
“Almost. I’ll get you some clothes. Do you need to leave to eat?”
“No, I’ve been cooking here.”
“That’s better. Now listen. I’m not going to come back here. If you absolutely need to speak with me, call my house and leave the name ngela on the machine. I’ll call you from another phone.”
“Espinosa … he threw my friend out of the window, right?”
“So it seems. I’m very sorry.”
Celeste kissed Espinosa on both cheeks and went in.
The distance from the hotel to Espinosa’s building was only a couple hundred feet. As soon as he got home, he checked his messages. There was one: “Hey, hon. If you’re not chasing after too many criminals, maybe I could bring something over for dinner.”
He called Irene. “Do you want me to come get you?”
“Not necessary.”
“Irene, I need a favor. Would you have a couple of simple dresses that you could bear to part with?”
“As long as they’re not for you, I can check. What size?”
“It must be the same as yours.”
“Hmm. Is that just a guess?”
“Right.”
“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll be there in an hour.”
While he was in the shower, Espinosa thought about what an exceptional woman Irene was. If he had asked his ex-wife the same question, it would have been greeted with a bunch of snippy comments, even if she knew they were unjustified. Irene would never put herself in the position of being a nag.
She arrived an hour later, carrying a bag with bread, cold cuts, and wine in one hand; in the other, covered in plastic, were some clothes. Espinosa went down to help her as soon as she buzzed.
As they walked upstairs, Irene described the food she’d brought, and when they went into the apartment she laid the clothes out on the sofa.
“If it’s what I think, I decided the girl would need underpants as well. Everything I brought is easy to wash and doesn’t even need to be ironed. I saw you on TV the other day. I thou
ght you were hiding someone.”
“In fact, she was hiding at a friend’s house. The friend got killed. The murderer mixed them up, and now he’s after her.”
“Is she here?”
“No. I’m the only one who knows where she is, and it’s better that way. Nobody else can get in trouble.”
“Except you.”
“That’s what I get paid for.”
“Which doesn’t mean …”
“Of course not.”
“Do you think the murderer could find her?”
“When he killed her friend, he eliminated his only way of finding her. Now, he’s back to the drawing board.”
“He could start with you.”
“There’s nothing to tie me directly to the girl, and I’m sure nobody followed us to the place she’s hiding.”
“So you think she’s safe?”
“For a few days.”
“Why only for a few days?”
“They know what they’re doing. They’ve already killed three cops and three women right under our noses, without leaving a single clue. We don’t have any idea who they are. I don’t think it’ll take them long to find Celeste. Unless we get them first.”
They opened the French windows to let in the cool night air. They set out the food on a table next to the window, and for the first time in several days Espinosa put some music on. Slowly, as the wine registered in their bodies, they started taking off their clothes. Irene hugged Espinosa tight, first on the chair in the living room, then on the floor, and if they had had more outdoor space than a two-foot-wide balcony, they would have made love in the open air. Since they didn’t, they moved to the bed.
It was eight o’clock. The sun was up and Irene had left the table set for breakfast. He’d never figured out how she could rise so early in the morning, get ready, prepare breakfast, and leave, all without ever making the slightest sound. He preferred to attribute it to Irene’s discretion rather than the effects of the wine. He showered, imagining Irene still there with him—preferably also in the shower.
Before nine, it was already hot. He walked on the shaded side of the street on the way to the station. He saw no sign that he was under surveillance. Most of the cars around his building were the same as always, and the ones that weren’t were empty. If someone was following him, he was a master. Espinosa didn’t want to leave the house with Irene’s clothes. He’d do that only under conditions of absolute security. As soon as he got to the station, he advised the group to keep lunch open, and told one of them to come by a half hour before to learn where.
A Window in Copacabana Page 8
