After I opened the balcony door, I went back to the table to continue reading the paper. The gray sky was the same color as the building across the way. The rain was falling harder, and a wind from the southeast started spraying it into the room. I rose again and closed the glass door, leaving the blinds open. I walked around the apartment. A fourth cup of coffee was out of the question. The papers didn’t have anything else to say for themselves, and the only phone call that would have mattered that Sunday morning hadn’t come. Bia wouldn’t have liked my shelfless bookshelf. What put Bia so far out of my league? Because she was rich and educated in Europe? Or because she was an artist and I was a cop? Ever since I’d met her, I’d been asking this question at least once a day. I didn’t have any illusions about people’s purity—I knew very well that a nun can be even more violent than a policeman, and that a workaday husband and father can be capable of unimaginable perversity. I didn’t think I was any different. I’d ended up being a cop in the same way you might end up teaching high school. How I viewed myself and my profession was different from how most people regarded “cops,” and Bia Vasconcelos didn’t seem to be any different from the rest on this account. Cops play a role in society only when they’re investigating something. The phone rang. Welber.
“Inspector, I’m sorry to bother you on a Sunday morning, but Max has disappeared.”
“What do you mean? He’s not at his sister’s house? He didn’t go out to take a walk? It’s a Sunday,” I added, even though I knew that that didn’t make any difference for a lowlife like Max.
“He’s gone, Inspector. Since last night, nobody’s seen him anywhere.”
“Keep looking. If that guy disappears, we’ll look like fools—we had him in our hands.”
Max’s disappearing right after the murder of Rose’s mother was a suspicious coincidence—especially as the only thing he had going for him was that he didn’t look like a murderer. Max couldn’t have known about the old lady’s death, unless he was the murderer himself or was again “just passing by,” since the only news of the murder had appeared in today’s O Dia and he’d been gone since the night before.
The amount of time the chief had given me to take care of the case and write up a minimally helpful report was running out. And even though the original dossier had grown by one more murder and one more disappearance and by the discovery of the murder weapon, I didn’t think we’d made significant progress on the Ricardo Carvalho case. Max was an ideal candidate. A marginal, petty thief, with no criminal record, who’d sold the murder weapon to the illegal lottery in the Zona Norte. Not even his mother would believe the story about how he was walking by the crime scene at the exact moment when the alleged murderer was getting rid of it. And yet, for reasons I couldn’t quite describe, I didn’t think that he’d killed the executive. The other possibility—if you believed Max’s story—was to put it together with a few things Dona Maura had said and charge Rose. That is, if anyone could locate her … and if she was still alive. Excepting these two possibilities—not even hypotheses, just mere possibilities that might lend the case some coherence—I didn’t have anything else. The idea that it was a crime of passion committed by Júlio, with or without Bia’s help, was ridiculous. Attributing the crime to an occasional murderer, with no link to the victim, who’d meant only to rob him, didn’t make sense either. Ricardo had been killed with his own gun, which left two possibilities. Someone had gotten his gun, at or before the moment of the crime, to shoot the executive. Or Ricardo Carvalho had committed suicide. The second possibility was complicated by two factors. The first was that the weapon hadn’t been found inside the car. The second was that this version didn’t account for the disappearance of the secretary or the murder of her mother.
The rain had slowed down a little, so I opened the balcony window again. I looked in the icebox and found two frozen items: pasta with red sauce and pasta with red sauce. I chose the first and left the second for dinner. This Sunday was turning out to be as electrifying as every other.
After I ate the first serving of pasta without even bothering to take it out of the packaging, I dedicated the next three hours to reading the Nicholas Nickleby I’d bought at the used-bookstore. Just after five, the phone rang for the second time.
“Inspector Espinosa?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry to be calling on a Sunday, but you said if I remembered anything…. It’s Alba Antunes.”
“Don’t worry, ma’am, nothing could make my day any worse. You saved the day.”
“Please don’t call me ma’am.”
“Okay, Alba. What have you remembered?”
“I didn’t remember anything, but something happened I thought I’d better tell you about.”
“Yes?”
“It could be nothing or just my imagination, but … the last few times I’ve gone out with Júlio, someone followed us in a car.”
“Tell me more.”
“Well, once we went to the movies and then out to eat. As I was driving, I noticed that there was a car behind us the whole time, on our way to the theater and then to the restaurant afterward. The next day, Júlio came by the gym to pick me up. This time he was driving, but I looked around and saw a car behind us. It was the same one as the night before and I’m sure he was following us. I couldn’t see the face of the driver—both times it was dark and I couldn’t even tell if it was a man or a woman.”
“Did he try anything? To force your car over or threaten you in any way?”
“No. He didn’t bother us at all, even though it’s not that much fun to be followed. But there’s another detail, Inspector. I didn’t say anything to Júlio.”
“Why not?”
“He’s really paranoid. Every little ache and pain makes him think he’s terminally ill. Once, he freaked out and decided that he had mercury poisoning. If I tell him we’re being followed, he’s as good as dead. What worries me is that when I’m alone, nobody follows me, which makes me think the stalker is after Júlio. And Júlio can’t defend himself at all, Inspector.”
“Even if that’s true, couldn’t the impression that you’re being followed come from the same paranoia? I mean, it’s not unheard of for one car to be behind another during a long drive.”
“And sit and wait for us while we eat, watch a movie, and fuck?”
“ …”
“The only thing I can say,” she continued, “is that if he had wanted to do something to us, he already would have done it—there were plenty of opportunities. Unless he’s waiting to get Júlio by himself. I can’t ask him if he’s being followed without freaking him out.”
“And you think he’s really so vulnerable?”
“I don’t think so, I know so. When we fight, I have to control myself so I don’t scare him too much. My anger is a little … exuberant. When I get a grip, I see he’s terrified, looking for the nearest exit.”
“Alba, there’s not a lot I can do for you. If this goes on and becomes a stalking, I can ask for protection. For now, be careful, avoid deserted places, and keep your eyes open. If you’re sure you’re being followed, it’s better to tell Júlio so he can watch out.”
“Fine. I’m more intrigued than scared.”
“If they keep following you or try anything, call me immediately.”
The strength of the feminine maternal instinct perplexed me. All a man has to do is look unprotected and show the look of a cow lost in a field for a woman to rain down on him instantly. Júlio was obviously a fool, but still, two marvelous women were ready to help him decide between strawberry and chocolate ice cream. That Alba wasn’t stupid. If she said they were being followed, they were. Now they needed to find out why and by whom, and at this point the police couldn’t make it any easier—we already had two disappearances and two murders. Which made finding Max right away even more crucial.
I don’t like October and I don’t like Sunday. October was starting on a Sunday. The only thing worse would be if Monday fell on a Sunda
y. The rain started up again, and the best thing to do was wait around until I could eat the second serving of pasta.
2
“I would prefer not to,” Bartleby the scrivener repeated calmly and peacefully to his boss and protector. Me neither: I would prefer not to. I’d prefer, on Monday morning, not have to go to the station, not have to attend the release of all the rowdy drunks, transvestites, pickpockets, tough guys, hookers, and junkies. I’d rather not have to fill out useless forms or write reports as an expression of police incompetence. I’d rather, when I meet a pretty woman, not have to start out with the ominous line: “I’m Inspector Espinosa from the First Precinct.”
It so happens that my boss will never hear the sentence “I would prefer not to,” especially not from my mouth. In high spirits I headed to work on Monday morning. The rain from the day before was still coming down, mistier and more insistent, dampening the soul more than the body.
Welber filled me in on the details involving his frustrated attempts to find Max. He had disappeared with all his belongings. There was nothing left in the room in Méier. His sister didn’t even know that he wasn’t home. Max had vanished without leaving any clue as to where he was going. Nothing he’d said to his sister suggested that he’d disappear like that. I was starting to believe it had been idiotic to leave him alone. Either I’d completely misjudged him or something had happened between the day he was released and Saturday that made him break the deal I’d made with him. Bums don’t usually break deals with the police—they know they won’t have a second chance.
I didn’t believe that both crimes had been committed by the same person, even though I was sure they were related. In fact, they had only one detail in common: there were no fingerprints besides those of the victims themselves. If my suspicions were correct, we were dealing not with one but with two murderers—which didn’t help brighten my Monday morning.
It would have been hard for Max to go to a different city. He was a rat in the mazes of Rio de Janeiro; he wouldn’t feel right in a different environment. He was hidden somewhere in the city, and eventually he’d have to stick his neck out. The fact was that Max hadn’t seemed inclined to flee, and, in that case, someone—I didn’t have any idea who—was killing and disappearing people.
The morning passed without event. Before people started cracking jokes about how we’d released the principal suspect, I put Welber in charge of activating our webs of informants to help find Max. He was probably holed up in some fleabag hotel. I ordered a Big Mac and a milkshake from the McDonald’s on the other side of the plaza and sat around waiting for some kind of inspiration that would change the direction of the investigation. “Change the direction” was a euphemism. We weren’t going anywhere. Cops in American movies didn’t have to feel so helpless. The medical experts practically solved it for the detective, who just had to wander the streets of New York, San Francisco, or Los Angeles. If the medical people couldn’t figure it out, there was always the possibility of sending a hair to the FBI. The next day we’d even know what soccer team the criminal rooted for. Here, in the fabulous Third World, we’re lucky if the medical report tells us whether the victim died from a gunshot or poison.
Welber was holding an envelope.
“Inspector, we’ve gotten the ballistics results.”
Freire had been good enough to send them over. The results were detailed and exhaustive. The gun Max had sold was the same one that had killed the executive and the same one whose case Bia Vasconcelos had found. What we’d concluded in our investigation was now technically confirmed: Ricardo Carvalho had been killed with his own gun. This gun would have been tossed into the garbage by Rose, his secretary, picked up by Max, and sold to the gamblers. Obviously, Max had accused the secretary to protect himself. There was a detail, though, that I bumped up against now, reviewing the case. For him to have blamed the secretary, he had to know that she had vanished. Otherwise she could unmask him. How could he have known that? The same held true for the second murder. If his disappearance was linked to the death of Rose’s mother, how could he have known about that? Max knew way too much.
This week would be the last the boss had given me to investigate the case. If I couldn’t make at least some minimal sense of it, I couldn’t justify working on it full-time. And I’d have to go back to regular duty—which would make progress unlikely. It was true that we didn’t know very much, but that was exactly why we needed more time. I’d have to wait and see if the chief would agree.
I needed to check something out. I called Aurélio. He wasn’t there. I left a message. We managed to catch up at the end of the day.
“Hey, Espinosa. Another beer?”
“I’d love to, but first I need some information. Are you by any chance following the professor and his girlfriend?”
“What professor, Espinosa? … In any case, I’m not following the professor and his girlfriend. Who are they?”
“People linked to the case of the executive. They’re not important. Thanks anyway, though. I didn’t think it was you, just because you wouldn’t have been noticed. But I needed to make sure. Let’s get a beer tomorrow, if you have time.”
I hung up with the feeling that something was about to happen—and that it wasn’t something good.
Whoever was following Júlio and Alba wasn’t too worried about being seen. That could mean two things: it was either an incompetent amateur or someone who didn’t care if they were noticed and even made sure that they were. I had to find out if they were just trying to scare Júlio and Alba or if they meant to do something more meaningful. I called the gym. The receptionist with the perfect body answered. I said my name, which she didn’t take for Espinhosa, and asked for Alba.
“Inspector, what a pleasure. How are you, sir?”
“If I’m going to call you by your name, it’s not fair if you call me sir.”
“All right,” she said, a little embarrassed, “it’s just that your name is so fancy. Wasn’t Espinosa the name of a philosopher?”
“True.”
“Well then! There’s no difference between calling you sir and calling you by the name of a philosopher.”
I decided not to go into it, as the issue wasn’t my name or what she should call me but her own safety. Júlio’s too, true, but for the time being I was more worried about her.
“Any news?” I asked her.
“Why are you asking? Because of what I told you? Are you worried about me?”
I said yes to the last, thereby answering all three questions. “Are you going home by yourself?”
“Is that an offer?”
“It’s a concern, but it could be an offer.”
“No one’s coming with me. I’ll take you up on it. I should be getting out of here around eight.”
“Don’t leave before I get there.”
It was ten to six. I thought it was best to leave before I got caught in rush-hour traffic. On the way I fantasized about things I can’t confess to. I got to Ipanema an hour early, so I went into a bookstore I like. Forty minutes later I emerged with a Joseph Conrad under my arm. At ten to eight I arrived at the gym and was disappointed to see that the receptionist had already gone home. Since I knew the way, I went in and up the stairs behind the weight room. One of Alba’s partners met me and invited me to wait in the aquarium-office. Alba was in the shower. She emerged a few minutes later, smelling of soap, her smooth wet hair hanging over her shoulders. She took my arm and said good night to her friend. We went down the stairs; she looked like a schoolgirl. As for me, ever since the receptionist had looked at me as if I were some kind of prehistoric animal, I had no idea what they thought of me in that gym. When we got to the sidewalk she asked:
“Are you really worried about me or are you just hitting on me?”
In fact, I was a prehistoric animal. I didn’t know what to say. Also, if the answer to the first part of the question was “yes,” the second was probably “maybe.”
“I’m worried about you,�
� I said a little awkwardly.
“That’s it? Too bad.”
“Where’s your car?” I asked.
“I didn’t drive. I really only do when it’s raining. I like to walk, and I live pretty close by so I walk whenever I can.”
“Then let’s take mine—it’s on the other side of the street.”
“Why don’t we walk? It’s a nice night and we can chat. We’ll be there in twenty minutes max.”
“It would be safer if we drove.”
“You are really worried about me,” she said, clearly frightened.
“Alba, two people have been murdered and two are missing—and within just over a week. I don’t want to make it any easier for them, but if you want, we can walk.”
We were in front of the gym. The lights were on and it felt safe. The same couldn’t be said of the street. The trees cut off some of the light and there weren’t a lot of people around—the street was almost exclusively residential. I left the book in my car and went back to the door of the gym, where Alba took my arm again as we headed toward her house. As soon as we started walking, I heard an ignition being turned on. Since we were facing the oncoming traffic on a one-way street, I wasn’t worried. I looked behind us and saw a metallic gray car turning the corner. It was too dark to see what kind of car it was.
“What did the car that followed you look like?”
The Silence of the Rain Page 12
