“No, no, take your time.”
“The first thing happened on Thursday, and I only really thought about it two days ago. I was home, around two-thirty or three, when a man called me, saying he was from the insurance company and wanted to talk about Ricardo’s life-insurance policy. I didn’t know there was a policy—Ricardo had never mentioned it. I told him to get in touch with Rose. It was only this weekend that I connected the call with her disappearance. I could be imagining things, but I thought I’d better tell you.”
“Indeed, thank you. And what else? You said there were a couple of things.”
“The other thing is that when I was cleaning out Ricardo’s things, I found a gun case …”
“Yes?”
“That was empty.”
There was a moment of silence, long enough for both to consider that the other had hung up or that they’d been cut off—but each knew the other was still there.
“Couldn’t he have taken it out of the case and put it somewhere else where it would be handier? In the bedside table, maybe, or in his dresser drawers, or in a briefcase?”
“No, Officer, those were the drawers I was cleaning out. And as for the briefcase … Ricardo only had one, and he always had it with him. You already asked me about it.”
“Thank you, Dona Bia. If you find the gun, please let me know. I’ll be in touch with you later. Again, thanks for calling.”
After he hung up, he decided that life wasn’t as bad as he’d thought a few minutes ago.
Monday morning boasted a weekly event: all the drag queens, pickpockets, and drunks they’d locked up during the weekend were sprung loose. The station looked like an open-air market.
“Welber!” cried Espinosa, without much hope of being heard. But he was.
“Welber, go to Planalto Minerações and deploy all your charm on Cláudio Lucena’s secretary. Get her to help you search Ricardo Carvalho’s office.”
“What am I looking for?”
“A life-insurance policy and a revolver. Try to find out if the company has any standard life-insurance policy. If not, ask what insurance company they usually use. If Ricardo Carvalho had one, Cláudio Lucena might have one too—they were good friends. As for the gun, check out every square inch of that office. Go on ahead—I’ll call Dr. Weil and Dr. Lucena to ask them to help you out. I’ll leave the secretary to you. First, though, go by Bia Vasconcelos’s apartment and get the gun case she found in her husband’s closet.”
“Inspector, you mentioned an insurance policy, and I remembered—last week your friend the investigator came by twice.”
Welber’s voice had gone down an octave. Espinosa was all ears. “Which one?”
“That huge ex-cop with the gray hair.”
“Aurelio.”
The ex-officer was free, so they decided to have lunch at the Bar Monteiro, near the corner of Rua do Ouvidor, one block from Planalto Minerações. The choice had nothing to do with the location and everything to do with the good beer and pork sandwiches. When Espinosa got to the bar he didn’t have to look very hard; Aurélio took up most of the available space. He was even taller than Espinosa and weighed about three hundred pounds, all muscle. Next to him, the little bar table looked like a board standing on its side. Despite his size, he rose briskly to greet his friend.
“I’m sorry we didn’t run into each other last week, Aurélio, but I was all caught up in the case of the executive murdered in the parking garage.”
“That’s exactly why I was looking for you.”
The waiter appeared to take their order.
“Two pork sandwiches and two beers.”
“Was he insured by your company?”
“He was—the beneficiary was his wife.”
“And …?”
“That would be it, if he hadn’t been insured for a million dollars.”
“A million dollars?” asked Espinosa, practically leaping out of his chair.
“More or less, depending on the value of the dollar.”
“When did he take out the policy?”
“A little over two years ago. Normally we’d investigate, but with this amount at stake, and taken out such a short time ago, we’ve got to really dig.”
“Did anyone else at Planalto Minerações have a policy with you?”
“Cláudio Lucena, but not taken out at the same time or for the same amount.”
“Who did it first?”
“Lucena.”
“In that case, Ricardo Carvalho, when he was deciding to take out a policy, could have asked his friend, which would mean that, besides Ricardo, Cláudio and their secretaries must have known about the policy.”
“One more thing,” added Aurélio. “At the same time Carvalho took out the policy he traveled to New York several times. From what I understand, Planalto Minerações deals more with London and Amsterdam than with New York. It would be worth finding out if any of their business would have taken him to New York around then. He could have gone to have tests done, consult a specialist…. Just after that to take out a million-dollar policy is a pretty big coincidence.”
“Fine, but the coincidence is between the trips and the policy, not an illness and the policy. There’s no sign Ricardo was sick—in fact, he was a picture of health. Besides, be careful not to put the cart in front of the horse. Ricardo Carvalho wasn’t killed because he had a life-insurance policy; he was killed, and then the question of the insurance comes up.”
“I agree that people don’t get killed because of insurance policies; if that were the case, no one would take them out … except for the beneficiaries.”
“Aurélio, like you said yourself, the only beneficiary is the widow. Do you think Bia Vasconcelos shot her husband in the head to get the money?”
“I don’t know much about her. I’ve never seen her myself, but she looks very pretty in the photo. From what I’ve heard, Ricardo fucked everything in sight, and the wife could have been angry enough to blow his brains out. As far as we can tell, she’s financially independent—she probably wouldn’t kill for money. But on the other hand, since she’s the only beneficiary … no one would suspect her. Too obvious. She wouldn’t kill for money but because she was sick of being betrayed.”
“How old-fashioned.”
And, after that comment:
“Tell me something, Aurélio. Were you the one who called the widow on Thursday afternoon?”
“No, I didn’t even know they’d called.”
“Someone called, and the widow, not wanting to talk about it then, suggested that the guy get in touch with the husband’s secretary.”
“And did they call?” the investigator asked.
“I don’t know. The secretary disappeared on Thursday, after a mysterious phone call to the widow. We still don’t have any idea where she ended up. Another detail that could be interesting is that Carvalho had a revolver that disappeared. I still don’t have any details about the weapon, but as soon as I do I’ll let you know.”
Espinosa finished the story by telling him about Bia’s meeting with Júlio on the afternoon of the murder. The sandwiches and beers came. For a few minutes, they were respectfully silent. Before he’d finished the first half of his sandwich, Aurélio ordered another one. Espinosa knew Aurélio wasn’t hiding anything, just as the investigator knew Espinosa wasn’t holding back. The fact was, though, that neither of them knew much. They could always go out for more beer and sandwiches when they found out something new. They talked about their old times in the police force and about their salaries. Everyone understood the unwritten law that you didn’t talk about wives and kids. When they were finished, they said good-bye, promising to keep each other up-to-date.
Espinosa didn’t go back to the station by the shortest route; he went by the used-bookstore on Rua do Carmo first. He found a nice translation of The Life and Adventures of Nicholas Nickleby, by Dickens, in two volumes printed on coated paper, for less than the cost of the sandwiches and beers. He strode into the s
tation carrying it like a trophy under his arm. Welber arrived later.
“So, how was it?” asked Espinosa.
“That secretary’s a tough one, but she ended up helping. His papers and documents are all in a personal file, very well organized. We looked at every page. No sign of a life-insurance policy. But I did find this.”
In a package, wrapped in a handkerchief, was a box of .38 caliber bullets.
“They were in Ricardo Carvalho’s desk drawer. I went to Bia Vasconcelos’s apartment and got the gun case. It was for a Colt .38.”
The ammo was imported; the box was missing about twenty bullets. They were identical to the bullet that had been removed from the executive’s head. Why was Ricardo Carvalho armed? What was he scared of, or who was threatening him? It looked as if he had taken the gun to work on that day, or the day before. What for? The gun wasn’t in the office, it wasn’t at home, and it wasn’t with him when he was killed. The possibility that someone had stolen the gun from the car was remote. When the police got there, there were several witnesses—anyone who had tried to take the gun would have been seen, even a cop.
Another idea was that Ricardo hadn’t been the one who’d left with the gun, and that the box of bullets could have been put in his drawer by someone else. Rose? Cláudio Lucena? Both had left about the same time Ricardo had. Even Lucena, who’d run into him in the elevator lobby, could have been waiting for him, dashed quickly into his office, planted the box of bullets in his drawer, and still gotten back in time to bump into him before the elevator got there—especially when everyone was going home and the elevators were moving slower than usual. Rose could have done the same thing. Either one of them could have followed him into the parking garage and shot him. One thing seemed clear: whoever killed Ricardo Carvalho had stolen his briefcase.
Espinosa summed up his conversation with Aurélio for Welber. He couldn’t resist telling him the story of the million-dollar life-insurance policy.
Only on Wednesday, over a week after the death of Ricardo Carvalho, did Espinosa start shaking down his informers. In fact, he’d already started the process, but not with the required emphasis. A few threats here and there encouraged the first information to start trickling in. There weren’t any new lowlifes around, there was no news of any hired guns, no sign of a briefcase with embossed initials. He squeezed a little harder—a few threats of interrogations, a few hints of enforcing the law—and the first real information reached his ears: an underground lottery in the Zona Norte had been given a gun to sell, a foreign weapon that matched Espinosa’s description.
7
Max’s depression waned as his anger waxed. He couldn’t let anyone know about the twenty thousand dollars. And he’d even given the bitch that possibility. He had only two options now: first, be satisfied with the twenty thousand dollars and shut up. On the other hand, he knew where she lived, and she’d left her mother all alone. Someday she’d have to come home.
He’d already been locked in his room for almost a week, leaving only once a day to eat. When his sister finally knocked and called his name, he tried to put her off but was surprised to see two men there, a surprise that soon changed to shock when one of them flashed a badge and mumbled something Max didn’t hear, or didn’t want to hear. His sister’s wide-eyed stare was all questions.
“Get dressed,” said the younger officer.
In the car, it was once again the younger one who ordered him to cross his legs, handcuffing his right wrist to his left ankle. On the drive from Méier to the Praça Mauá, they didn’t speak to him once. When the older one finally broke the silence, they were already inside the interrogation room.
“So, Max, let’s put aside the formalities. We know your name, address, and occupation, so we can get straight to the point.”
Max wondered what occupation they had attributed to him, but decided not to ask. The older one opened a big dark envelope, from which emerged the Colt .38 Detective Special. Max’s eyes almost popped out of his head, and his blood seemed to drain from his veins.
“Well? How long have you been walking around shooting people?”
Espinosa’s voice was calm and collected, as if he had all the time in the world.
“I … I didn’t shoot anyone, sir.”
“I understand. So your gun went off all by itself?”
“It … the gun … it’s not mine, Officer.”
“Well, if it’s not yours, whose is it?”
“I’m not exactly sure.”
“You’re not exactly sure?”
Espinosa stroked his incipient beard and looked at Max patiently.
“And, without knowing exactly, who could the gun belong to? Because if it’s not yours and you don’t know whose it is, then you sold a stolen gun. We know you don’t use a gun at your job, so how do you end up wandering the streets trying to sell this gun to anybody who wants it?”
Again, Max was curious to know what exactly it was they were talking about: his “job.” He still didn’t ask. He was even more interested in knowing how they’d located the gun, and there was no doubt that it was the same gun.
“Officer, if I tell you, you won’t believe me.”
“Try me. You never know.”
“I got the gun out of a garbage bag.”
“And how did you know it was in the bag?”
“Because I saw when they put it in.”
“And who put it in?” asked Espinosa, as if he were talking with a child.
“It was a woman.”
“A woman?” It was Espinosa’s turn to be surprised. “Why don’t you take it from the beginning.”
“Last Tuesday, I was on the corner of Rua da Quitanda and Rua São José a little after six, when along comes a woman walking real fast, almost running, who bumped into me and kept walking, fast, looking behind her, like she was being followed. Close to where we were, there were a bunch of garbage bags. She stopped, looked around, took something out of a briefcase, and shoved it into one of the bags. As soon as she was gone, I opened the bag and there was the gun right on top. I tore off a piece of plastic, wrapped it up, and took it home. When I saw it was imported, I thought I could get a good price for it. I offered it to some shopkeepers until the lottery guy took it to see if anyone was interested. That’s the whole story.”
Max’s vendetta had begun.
“No, it’s not, Max. That’s only part of the story. I want to know a lot more. Unless you want to be accused of the murder.”
“What are you talking about, Officer? I never killed anyone.”
“But this gun did, and I want to know who was holding it when it was fired.”
“Then I guess it must have been the girl.”
“What did she look like?”
Max described her as best he could.
“Welber, get the photo we took from the house, mix it in with some others and bring it over here.”
A few minutes later, Welber brought over five pictures and spread them out on the table.
“Which of these is the woman you saw?” asked Espinosa.
“This one here, doctor. That’s her,” said Max excitedly.
“What did the briefcase she was carrying look like?”
“It was brown leather.”
Espinosa looked at Welber and they both left the room. The story made sense—he wouldn’t have been able to make it up. At least, he couldn’t have made up Rose, and he couldn’t have guessed the exact day and hour of the crime. And there was the detail of the briefcase. Everything made perfect sense. The only thing that didn’t make sense was Max himself.
After letting Max wait for an hour, they came back in.
“We’re going to release you,” said the older one, “but you are prohibited from leaving the city or going to any unknown place. We found you the first time and we can find you again. If you try to play around and hide out, Detective Welber here will make sure you never dream of fleeing for the rest of your life. Stay at your sister’s house, where we can find y
ou. You can go.”
Espinosa knew that Max would be more useful loose than in jail. Besides, he had a feeling Max hadn’t killed the businessman. He didn’t have the face of a killer.
Max walked out of the station dumbfounded. He would rather have been knocked around and threatened in the usual way. The idea that they’d believed him and treated him well! Unheard of, from what he knew of the police. That inspector was different, but it still didn’t make sense. They must have worked like hell to find that gun, and he still couldn’t understand how they’d done it. They’d come straight to him without even searching his room, taken him to the station, after which he’d made up a story, they’d believed it (or pretended to believe it), and then they’d let him go. He didn’t understand a damn thing.
“They treated me like a king. The only thing they forgot was to ask for my lawyer.”
Two hours later, Max already had started remembering it like that.
“Don’t be an idiot, Bro, no one’s going to pry you out of that shithole in the slums and think you’re a king. Those cops are getting ready to jump you. And what’d you do anyway?”
“I didn’t do anything, Sis. They made a mistake.”
“Max, we’re a mistake. No one makes mistakes with people like us—everything they say is right just because they say it.”
Max thought for a few seconds about what his sister said and started thinking again about what had happened at the station. How did they know about him? The allusions to his “job,” his “occupation”: what did they really know? And if they knew, why did they let him go? The only reason he could imagine why he was at home and not behind bars was that they thought he could lead them to the secretary, but that was exactly what he hoped for from them. It was obvious that they didn’t know about the twenty thousand dollars—and certainly not about the note. Even though they’d found the gun, they were still convinced it was a murder and not a suicide. He laughed, not about that, but about the fact that only a few days earlier he’d been screwed and couldn’t go to the police—and now the cops were coming to him. Maybe he could count on their help in finding Rose. He was over the sadness but had kept a little bit of his anger—essential if he was going to look for her himself. Luckily he hadn’t sold any of his dollars; they could trace his hidden fortune just like they’d traced the gun. The best thing he could do was hide the money somewhere else. If they found Rose, she could tattle and the whole police force would come after him; he’d have to take the precaution because of the secretary. In the event that they found her, she’d be faced with the story he made up, and the least she would do in return was spill the beans about the suicide, the note, and the dollars. On the other hand, without the police, the chances of getting the note back were remote. There was still another side of the question he had to think about. Now that the gun had led the cops to him, the note was the only alibi he had to protect himself against the murder charge.
The Silence of the Rain Page 10
