If that was it, the lock on the driver’s side would be down, but it wasn’t.
There was still the question of motive. He dismissed attempted kidnapping as highly unlikely. The place wasn’t right: there was only one exit; the businessman could have made a dramatic escape when they stopped at the ticket window. Besides, kidnappings were never carried out alone, and there was no sign of a second assailant.
Third scenario: the executive knows the murderer. They come together to pick up the car. When they get in, he or she puts the gun to the executive’s head and fires. He or she grabs his wallet and the watch—to make it look like a robbery—and leaves by the emergency stairs.
Espinosa didn’t take these imaginary scenarios too seriously and didn’t try to commit them to memory. As the investigation progressed, he knew, other possibilities would arise, none of which would even vaguely resemble the original ones; eventually they would all merge to create other, more complex, scenarios. He walked down to the car. The forensic expert was placing various instruments and labeled plastic envelopes into a case.
“I’m taking these away to check ‘em out,” he said. “So far there’s not much to tell you. The gun was pressed against the victim’s temple when it was fired, and it was probably a .38. He died instantly. No sign of a struggle, no fingerprints. I’ll know more after a more thorough examination.”
“Thanks, Freire. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
As he was leaving, he turned back to Freire:
“One more thing. Any trace of lipstick on his lips or face?”
“Not that I could see. The pathologist can find out.”
Fourth scenario: on the way to the parking lot, the businessman meets a girlfriend. They kiss and walk together to the car. The executive opens the passenger door for her, walks around the car, gets in, and—before he turns on the engine or the lights—is shot.
By half past nine, there wasn’t much more he could do. The café on the first floor of the parking lot, next to the escalator, was closed. (If Ricardo Carvalho had stopped in for coffee before going up the escalator, someone might have seen him.) But all the shops and bars were shut, the streets deserted. And there wouldn’t be anyone at Planalto Minerações either.
A fifth scenario—suicide—didn’t even occur to him. No gun was found in the car.
4
Espinosa made it a rule never to say certain things over the phone. He stopped by the station, picked up his car, and went to talk to the executive’s wife. On the way to her home in Jardim Botânico, he thought of more possibilities.
When the doorman asked his name, Espinosa flashed his badge and said he’d rather arrive unannounced.
“It’s the penthouse, sir. Just press P.”
Espinosa didn’t reply. The elevator was lined with mirrors and—unless someone else had just gotten off—perfumed.
He had to ring the doorbell twice, which made him think the doorman had buzzed to warn her that the police were coming. But that theory crumbled when the door opened. The beautiful young woman who answered seemed completely at ease.
“Dona Bia Carvalho?”
“Bia Vasconcelos,” she replied firmly and, seeing Espinosa’s confusion, added:
“I use my maiden name.”
“I’m Inspector Espinosa, from the First Precinct.”
“Has something happened?”
“Yes. I’m afraid I’m not bringing you good news.”
“What’s wrong?”
“May I come in?” Espinosa asked without answering.
“Of course, please, come in. But what’s wrong?” she asked, almost whispering.
“Your husband is dead,” said Espinosa. “Murdered.”
Bia Vasconcelos turned pale and reached for something to steady herself. Espinosa grabbed her arms and helped her sit down on the sofa. For a few seconds, she simply stared at something between the wall and the ceiling.
“I’m so sorry,” said Espinosa. “But there’s no way to break news like this gently.”
“How did it happen?”
“I could tell you how he was found, but not how it happened. Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes, please, the kitchen’s through there.”
Espinosa soon returned with the water.
“Do you need a tranquilizer or anything? Would you like me to call someone?”
“No, I don’t need to take anything, but could you call my father? His name is Alírio Vasconcelos, and his number’s on the first page of that book.”
Her hand trembled as she pointed to the address book by the phone.
While Espinosa was dialing, she turned to him and said:
“Please, let me tell him myself.”
Espinosa heard a voice answer and carried the phone over to where she was sitting.
“Daddy … Ricardo’s dead … murdered…. Yes, murdered…. I don’t know yet…. Yes, I’m fine…. A policeman named—” She turned to Espinosa. “Sorry, what was your name again?”
“Espinosa, Inspector Espinosa from the First Precinct.”
“Inspector Espinosa,” she repeated.
“My father wonders if you would mind waiting for him to come over? It’ll just take him a few minutes.”
“Of course. No rush, I’m not in a hurry.”
She repeated this to her father and hung up. They sat for a while in silence. Bia Vasconcelos gradually recovered her color and asked what time her husband had been murdered and how. Espinosa described approximately when and, as gently as possible, how he had been found. She sat staring at the same point between the wall and the ceiling. Then, without being asked, she said flatly:
“I was having a beer with a friend right around there at that time.”
“What time was that?” asked Espinosa.
“Between five and six. I left right after six because I wanted to drop by the studio before coming home.”
“And did you?”
“No, I went to the movies instead. I needed to think a few things over, and the theater’s a good place for that.”
“How was the movie?”
“You have a very courteous way of interrogating people, Inspector.”
“I’m not interrogating you. You just mentioned having a beer with a friend and going to the movies.”
“Without the friend,” she added.
Espinosa didn’t probe further. He asked a few questions about her husband’s habits, wondered if he had any enemies, if he’d said anything that might have some bearing on the crime, if she’d noticed anything strange about him when he left home that morning.
“Did your husband usually carry some kind of briefcase?”
“Yes, he has a leather briefcase he takes with him everywhere.”
“Could you describe it, ma’am?”
“It’s brown leather, the usual size, with two or three compartments inside and his initials engraved on the outside.”
Her voice was gradually calming down. She remained seated. Espinosa became aware of soft music coming from somewhere in the bookcase—classical music. He couldn’t identify the composer. After a few minutes, the doorbell rang.
Alirio Torres Vasconcelos was about sixty, with a deep voice and a broad chest. He enfolded his daughter in a long embrace, introduced himself, asked the inspector to give a detailed account of what had happened, which Espinosa did, though he omitted some details. From the questions the father asked and from his reactions to the answers, it became obvious that he hadn’t really liked his son-in-law. Finally, he asked what immediate steps needed to be taken.
“I’m afraid,” said Espinosa, “that someone will need to identify the body. But that can be done tomorrow.”
And with that he left the father alone with the daughter.
On the street, he suddenly realized he hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich at lunchtime.
5
The mineral-exploration company Planalto Minerações occupies the twelfth floor of a building on Rua do Ouvidor, near Avenida Rio Branco
. The smoked-glass facade protects the occupants of the luxurious offices from prying outside eyes. The air-conditioning maintains a civilized temperature, keeping the tropics permanently at bay. The elevators are spacious, silent, and swift. The closed-circuit television and an efficient security system ensure that both the First and the Third Worlds are held at a safe distance.
News of the murder had preceded Espinosa. In reception, two young women were chattering excitedly; their excitement only increased when Espinosa flashed his badge.
“Good morning, I’m Inspector Espinosa from the First Precinct. I’d like to talk to the director of the company.”
“Dr. Daniel Weil is the president, but he’s not in yet … he usually gets here around ten,” one of the women replied breathlessly. “Would you like to speak to one of the directors?”
Cláudio Lucena, executive director of the company, must have been about the same age as Ricardo Carvalho. He was athletically built and elegantly dressed; his somewhat high-pitched voice seemed out of keeping with his otherwise masculine appearance. He received Espinosa with an unconvincing pained look on his face.
“Inspector, what a tragedy. How could something like this happen?” he said, getting up and extending his hand.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” replied Espinosa.
“Sit down, please,” said Lucena, indicating some comfortable-looking black leather furniture.
Espinosa noticed that everything was black, gray, or white, pictures and ornaments no exception to the rule. ‘Despite the lack of color, everything was in excellent taste. Seeing Espinosa looking around, Lucena remarked, “Our offices in Brazil and abroad are all decorated exactly the same. Our president says it’s a way to make sure we always feel at home wherever we are. Dona Carmem, two coffees, please,” he said into the intercom.
Sitting down in the armchair opposite Espinosa, he said:
“Inspector, I’m ready to help in whatever way I can.”
“Thank you, sir. When did you last see Ricardo Carvalho?”
“We left together last night, at six forty-five; we stood outside chatting for a few minutes and then left in different directions. I got a cab on Avenida Rio Branco and he went to get his car in the garage. I must have been the last person to see him alive.”
“The next to last, I hope, Mr. Lucena.”
“I mean the last person who knew him, Inspector.”
“Why do you think the murderer was a stranger?”
“I really don’t know, except that I can’t believe anyone who knew him would have done this.”
“Do you always go home by cab?”
“Yes, it’s more convenient.”
“Why didn’t you get a ride with your friend?”
“He lives in Jardim Botânico, I live in Leme—they’re in different directions.”
Carmem brought in a tray with a silver coffeepot, two cups, two glasses of water, and a plate of cookies. Conversation stopped while the coffee was poured. Then they were left alone again.
“Did you know Ricardo Carvalho well?”
“Well, we worked together, but we were also friends: we went to each other’s houses and took a few trips together with our wives.”
“What was he like?”
“An excellent businessman, absolutely devoted to the company, ambitious, uncompromising. As a friend he was loyal and very helpful. Everyone in the company respected him.”
It sounded to Espinosa like the man thought he could have been describing himself.
Lucena paused, then added: “I just don’t understand how someone could have done this.”
“Did he have any enemies outside the company? You said he was uncompromising.”
“Well, that might be a bit strong. He was a skilled negotiator and didn’t like to lose. But nothing that would justify murder.”
“Nothing justifies murder.”
“Of course not. I was just thinking of a motive.”
“Did Ricardo Carvalho ever say anything that might have some bearing on the crime?”
“I can’t think of anything, to be honest, Inspector, besides theft. I can’t see what other motive there could have been.”
“How was his relationship with his wife?”
“Bia’s a wonderful person—much too good for Ricardo.”
Realizing he’d spoken strongly, he added:
“Oh, don’t be surprised that I should say that about a friend, Inspector, especially about a friend who’s just been brutally murdered. But it’s absolutely true. There was no one like Ricardo for making money, but when it came to personal relationships he was a disaster.”
Espinosa’s furrowed brow invited Lucena to continue, although his high-pitched voice and pretentious tone were irritating.
“Ricardo didn’t care much about people.”
“Not even his wife?”
“Well, a beautiful, intelligent, cultured wife was an important accessory for him. But he could do without love—I think he even considered it dangerous.”
“And how did she feel about that?”
“Bia’s got her job—she’s an internationally renowned designer—so they lived in totally separate worlds. Their paths crossed less and less.”
“Did those worlds involve extramarital affairs?”
“For him, definitely. As for her, I don’t think so. She’s very proper; if she fell in love with someone else, she wouldn’t stay with her husband.”
“I was thinking more about casual affairs.”
“Oh, that’s not Bia’s style; she’s not easily seduced.”
“Have you ever tried, Mr. Lucena?”
“Inspector, Ricardo was my best friend and my wife is a friend of Bia’s.”
“That sounds more like a justification than a reply, Mr. Lucena.”
“No, I never tried to seduce her.”
“One more question. Do you know if Mr. Carvalho kept any guns at home?”
“I’m not sure. About a year ago, when we went to the beach for the weekend, he took a revolver with him.”
“Could you describe it?”
“I really only glimpsed it. I know it was a revolver, but I have no idea what kind.”
“One last thing. Was he carrying anything when you last saw him?”
“Only his briefcase.”
“Are you sure he had it on him?”
“Absolutely.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lucena. You’ve been very helpful.”
“If you need anything from me, Inspector, please get in touch. I want this murderer to be found.”
Dr. Weil, the president and CEO of the company, still hadn’t come in. The secretaries and the other employees could add little to what Mr. Lucena had told him; Rose, Ricardo Carvalho’s secretary, hadn’t come in; she had apparently called earlier to say she wasn’t feeling well. So Espinosa would have to return to Planalto Minerações on another day. The idea didn’t exactly fill him with joy.
6
Not many people showed up at the wake. Alírio Vasconcelos and Elisio came with Bia. Elisio, the director of her gallery, was like a brother to Bia. The son of one of Alírio’s former employees, he had lost both parents when he was only nine; Alírio had raised him like his own son. He studied at the School of Fine Arts and, even before graduation, was put in charge of the Torres Vasconcelos Gallery. It had been hard for Bia to convince him that it was okay for him to leave, that she could sit through the night with only her friend Teresa for company. Ricardo’s parents, again on Bia’s insistence, also left before the wee hours. Only Bia and Teresa remained.
After a first cup of coffee at the café in the chapel, the two friends sat down, facing the coffin. Liberated from the morgue, the body had been made up to look like a sleeping movie star.
“So, my friend, does this mean that God is as good as people say?” said Teresa, as if commenting on the success of a fund-raiser.
“Teresa!” replied Bia, shocked by the harshness of the remark. “Ricardo was my husband, and we sti
ll cared about each other.”
“Honey, the only thing your late husband cared about was money.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“But not dishonest. Or unfair, for that matter.”
And she went on:
“I never understood how a pretty, intelligent woman like you, with excellent taste, could have married someone like him.”
“In the beginning, he was really kind and sweet to me,” replied Bia, slightly embarrassed.
“As kind and sweet as when he cradled a gold bar in his hands.”
There was no anger in Teresa’s voice; she remained perfectly calm and friendly.
“Look, let’s talk about this some other time. It doesn’t feel right to be talking about him while he’s lying dead right in front of us,” said Bia softly, as if talking to herself.
“Fine. Not that he ever treated you so delicately, when he was alive.”
That was the end of it. They started talking about Bia’s speech at the architecture school and the days when they had lived together in Italy.
They had met in Milan. Bia was studying at the Istituto Europeo di Design, while Teresa was finishing her law degree. Teresa’s parents were Italian immigrants and so she had a right to Italian citizenship, which made it much easier to live in Milan and travel around Europe. When she came back to Brazil, she never bothered to transfer the credits, and ended up marrying a lawyer twenty-two years her senior. She lost a little of her vivacity, but remained intelligent and talkative.
In the morning, when Ricardo’s parents came back to the chapel, Bia and Teresa went home to change clothes and eat something. After nine, a few friends began to arrive; around ten, Ricardo’s fellow executives and a few employees showed up. Daniel Weil was huffing and puffing.
“My dear, such a tragedy. We’re so profoundly shocked by this brutal crime. I’ve insisted that the investigating officer keep me informed of his progress. And you can count on me for anything, anything at all.”
The Silence of the Rain Page 2
