Every Bitter Thing (25 page)

“What was going through your mind?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Tell me the thoughts you had at the time. It doesn't matter if they were pure speculation. Just tell me.”

Fonseca leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the armrests, and touched the tips of his fingers together.

“This is a little embarrassing,” he said, “but I'll be frank with you. When I saw that roll, I thought I should have set a higher fee. I think she would have paid it. I think she would have peeled off every note and given it to me. There was a kind of quiet intensity about the woman. She desperately wanted Sacca released, God knows why. And God knows what they have in common.
She
was a woman of some class. From my experience of
him
, he's an ignorant buffoon.”

“What else?”

“That's it. That's the extent of it. I was kicking myself about that money. And now”—Fonseca, with the same difficulty as before, rose from his chair—“you'll have to excuse me. Please be careful not to let the door hit your asses on the way out.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

T
HE SCENE OF
A
BILIO
Sacca's murder was already crawling with reporters. Gonçalves wisely kept his lip buttoned until all four of them were within the perimeter of crime-scene tape and away from attentive ears.

“The landlady is a widow,” he said then. “Lives alone, works nights in a hospital. Over there”—he pointed toward the home of the closest neighbor—“we've got an old lady. She hasn't been out of her place in two days, but didn't see anything, and she didn't hear anything.”

“Where's the body?” Silva asked.

“This way.”

Gonçalves led them down an alley. Sacca's place was a tiny freestanding building in the rear of his landlady's home.

“Built for a maid,” Gonçalves said. “There's just the one room and a bathroom.”

“What's the landlady's story?”

“Around ten thirty this morning she went to collect the rent. The door was ajar. He was stretched out in a pool of blood. She didn't panic. Like I said, she works in a hospital.

Says she's seen a lot of bodies in her time. She checked his vital signs before she called it in, told the attending officer the paramedics didn't need to hurry. He'd been dead for hours, she said. The ME confirms that the death was sometime between 1:00
A.M.
and 4:00
A.M.
”

“He's already here?”

“The ME? It's a she. Gilda Caropreso. Inside.”

Arnaldo glanced at Hector. “You and your girlfriend have to stop meeting like this,” he said. “People will talk.”

“How about Janus Prado?” Silva asked.

“He's off today, but they always keep him posted on stuff like this. He called me, asked me if you were coming. When I told him you were, he said to have fun and….”

“And what?”

“And to tell Arnaldo Nunes he's so ugly that when he walks by toilets, they flush.”

Gonçalves seemed pleased to be passing the message along.

G
ILDA CAROPRESO
, very much at ease in a room crowded with men, was wearing yellow jeans and a pale blue blouse. The only concessions to her profession were latex gloves and a pair of plastic booties. She circulated among the newcomers, collecting kisses on her cheeks and giving Hector one on the mouth. Then they all went over and looked down at the body.

Abilio Sacca was a mess.

“I don't think he got anywhere near his attacker,” Gilda said. “I'll have a closer look under a microscope, but there doesn't appear to be anything under his fingernails except dirt. There is, by the way, a lot of that. And the rest of his personal hygiene doesn't have much to say for it either.”

Silva knelt. Gilda hadn't been exaggerating when she spoke of Sacca's hygiene. Close-up, and under the steely smell of blood, the corpse gave a whole new definition to the term “body odor.” He squinted through the plastic bags to have a closer look at the victim's hands.

“Ouch,” he said.

“Indeed,” she said. “Whatever the killer was using, Sacca was trying to fend it off.”

“So ‘it' didn't get left behind?”

“No. Hector tells me you have a theory this killer might be the Arriaga boy's father.”

“Not everyone ascribes to it, but I do.”

“Poor man.”

“Crazy man. If it's him, he's killed a lot of innocent people.”

“A man like that belongs in a mental institution, not in a jail.”

“That's for the courts to decide,” Silva said.

“Yes,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

“Could the weapon used to beat him have been a baseball bat?” Hector asked with a flash of inspiration.

Silva stood and Gilda knelt for another look. After a while, she said, “Maybe. I'll check for wood fragments in the wounds. What kind of wood do they use for baseball bats?”

“Ash,” Hector said. “The same wood the English use for cricket bats.”

“How the hell do you know what the English use for cricket bats?” Arnaldo said.

“He comes up with that kind of stuff all the time,” Gilda said. “He's a repository of totally useless information.”

“And occasionally amazing instances of insight,” Silva said.

“Once the killer got past the hands,” Gilda said, “he concentrated on the head. There's considerable damage to the forehead, temples, cheekbones, nose, and jaw. There's also a second and very damaging blow to the crown. That one was probably postmortem, a final whack to make sure he was dead. And before you ask, yes, he was shot. Once. In the lower abdomen.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

J
ULIO
A
RRIAGA ENTERED THE
stale-smelling apartment, put the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter and started opening windows.

Inez put one hand on her pregnant belly and another on his arm. “I'll air the place out,” she said. “You go get the rest of the stuff.”

He came back, lugging the heavy tent, to find she hadn't opened a single window. She was standing in front of the answering machine.

“You'd better listen to this,” she said.

“What—”

Inez put a finger to her lips and pushed the play button.

The woman who'd recorded the message was speaking in Portuguese, which was a good thing since Julio Arriaga's English, even after three years in the United States, was still nothing to write home about. When he couldn't get by in Portuguese, he used Spanish. And why not? Everybody knew you didn't have to learn English if you lived in South Florida.

Senhor Arriaga
, the voice said,
my name is Solange Dirceu.
I'm calling on behalf of Detective Sergeant Harvey Willis of the Miami-Dade Police Department. It's most urgent that Detective Willis speak to you. When you get this call, no matter what time of the day or night, please call me on my cell phone to set up an appointment.

She gave him a number and hung up.

“Want to hear it again?” Inez asked, her finger poised above the machine.

Julio looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

“Leave it for tomorrow,” he said.

“No matter what time of the day or night,” Inez said, quoting verbatim. She'd been a schoolteacher, and she still had a pedagogical bent.

“Oh, hell,” he said, and went to get a pencil to make a note of the number.

The following morning, at the appointed hour of nine, Detective Sergeant Willis was on the Arriagas' doorstep. He was accompanied by some black cop, whose name Julio didn't catch, and an attractive brunette whose name he did: Solange Dirceu, the woman he'd spoken to the night before.

Julio settled them around the dining table, the only place in the apartment that had enough chairs. Inez, flustered to have three people she didn't know in her kitchen, served them coffee. After it had been established that his English really wasn't good, the rest of the interview went through Solange. What Willis told him next caused Julio to sit back in his chair.

“
Puta merda
,” Julio said.

Solange translated this as “holy cow.” She didn't approve of Julio's choice of words.

The entire interview, with Julio's approval, was recorded on a small device Willis had brought with them. They finished within half an hour and left Julio sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the wall.

“I
GOTTA
make this quick,” Harvey Willis said, “so I can concentrate on my driving. I'm on I-95, surrounded by crazy Haitians. I even have one sitting next to me in the front seat.”

In the background, over the noise of the traffic, Silva heard Pete André tell Willis that racist honkies like himself had no place among Miami Beach's Finest.

“It's about Julio Arriaga,” Willis went on, ignoring his partner.

“He struck again since last we talked,” Silva said. “He killed another passenger.”

“No, he didn't.”

“What?”

“Julio Arriaga didn't kill anybody. Julio Arriaga hasn't been in Brazil. He never left the States.”

“Harvey, are you sure?”

“Absolutely sure. He's been camping in Chekika.”

“Chekika?”

“It's in the Everglades. He's been there for the last two weeks.”

“And he can prove it?”

“He can. You want to camp in there, you gotta get a license. The park rangers come around to stamp it. I saw the license, I saw the stamps, and I just got off the phone with one of the rangers. He remembered Arriaga, said he's seen him every day for the last two weeks. And I do mean every day. He worked both weekends.”

“Goddamn it. So that's another dead end.”

“Far from it. Hold on to your seat. Julio says Aline took his pistol when they split. Says he thought long and hard about going down there for his son's funeral. He really wanted to, but in the end he didn't. Why not? Because his new wife is pregnant, and he was afraid of what his ex might do to him with that gun. Turns out she blamed
everyone
for the death of her son,
everyone
including him.”

“But it's been months since it all happened—”

“Julio said he talks to Aline's mother every now and then, said they always got along. The old lady told him Aline is still as bitter as she ever was—and just as angry. According to her, Aline is keeping Junior's room like a shrine; pictures, votive candles, the whole nine yards. She even puts chocolates on the pillow of his bed. And she does it every single night.”

“So Aline's insane?”

“‘Crazy' was the word Julio used. And, oh yeah, Junior owned two baseball bats, wooden ones.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T
HEY WENT FOR HER
at eight o'clock in the evening. She'd been home for more than an hour by then.

Durval Kallos, one of Hector's men, was stationed within sight of Aline's front door. He'd found a convenient bench at a bus stop, and stood up when he saw the brass approaching.

“Evening, Durval,” Hector said. “Who's in the rear of the building?”

“Serginho, Senhor.”

“Your radios working?” Silva asked.

“Sim, Senhor.”

“We're going to take her. You stay here, tell Serginho to stay there. Neither one of you is to leave his post for any reason. If she comes out of that door, and we're not with her, bring her down.”

Durval looked shocked. “Use my gun, Senhor?”

Silva nodded. “The only way she's going to get out of there alone is to shoot her way out. And she'll be looking to shoot
you
.”

“You're certain, then? Certain she's the one we're looking for?”

“Not a hundred percent. More like ninety-nine.”

“How many security guards covering the building?” Arnaldo said.

Durval pointed with his chin. “Just those two over there, the fat one and the thin one.”

The other four cops turned to look.

“Like Laurel and Hardy,” Gonçalves said.

Hector snapped his fingers. “I
knew
that fat guy reminded me of somebody.”

The rent-a-cop who came to meet them was the fat one. Silva held up his warrant card for inspection. The guard studied it carefully before he opened the gate.

“You've seen my name,” Silva said. “What's yours?”

“Virgilio, Chief Inspector. Virgilio Ycaza.”

“Okay, Virgilio, listen up. We're going to arrest Senhora Aline Arriaga. You're going to help.”

Virgilio looked mystified. “The four of you need help? With her? But she's just a little thing. No taller than that.”

Virgilio held a hand below his double chin.

“It's not muscle we need, Virgilio. Come along. I'll explain on the way.”

Halfway to the front door, Virgilio waddling next to Silva, they were intercepted by the other guard.

“What's going on?”

“They're federal cops,” Virgilio said. “They're going to arrest Senhora Arriaga.”

“Why? What did she do?”

“Maybe nothing,” Silva said. “Maybe she killed eight people.”

The thin guard blinked, looked at his companion, back at Silva. “Why?” he said. “Why would she do a thing like that?”

“Revenge,” Silva said.

“For her son?”

Silva nodded.

“He was nice kid,” the thin guard said. “But
eight
people?”

“Six of whom didn't have a damned thing to do with it,” Silva said. He pointed to the Taurus .38 lodged in a holster suspended from the guard's belt. “You know how to use that?”

“We're
Policia Militar
,” the man said and stood up a little straighter. “Both of us are.”

Silva had suspected as much. Most rent-a-cops were moonlighting policemen. If you were in the ranks, it was a stretch to live on your salary.

“Good,” he said. “You stay here and cover the stairwell. If she comes down, tell her to lie down with her face to the floor. If she doesn't, or if she tries to get up, shoot her.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“I'm not.”

The guard's face paled. His hand went to the butt of his gun.

“And me?” Virgilio asked.

“You're coming with us.”

In the elevator, Silva explained what he wanted Virgilio to do: “You ring her bell. You tell her you've got a delivery. When she opens the door, you step back. Not left. Not right. Back. Leave the rest to us.”

Virgilio swallowed.

“We don't deliver packages,” he said. “People pick them up downstairs.”

“This time, you decided to do her a favor. She knows you, doesn't she?”

“Yes, Senhor. She knows me.”

“So there's no reason for her to suspect anything. She'll probably think you're after a tip.”

The elevator stopped on Aline's floor. All of them stepped out. Virgilio lowered his voice to a whisper. “What if she asks to see it through the peephole? The package, I mean.”

“Then it will mean she's suspicious.”

“What if she is? What if she starts shooting through the door?”

“I don't think she'll do that.”

“You don't
think
?”

“Are the doors steel?”

The guard shook his head. “Wood.”

“Good,” Silva said. “Let's go.”

Virgilio grasped his arm. “
Good?
A bullet goes through wood like a whore goes through condoms.”

“I'm not thinking about bullets. I'm thinking about getting into that apartment. Let's go.”

Virgilio didn't say anything else, followed along meekly, but Silva could see the tendons standing out on his fat neck.

The sound of a television program, one of the evening soaps, was coming from inside Aline Arriaga's apartment.

The federal cops drew their pistols and took up positions, two on each side of the frame. Silva nodded to Virgilio. Virgilio pressed the doorbell, a harsh, loud buzzer. Someone turned down the volume on the television set. They heard a woman's footsteps, approaching the door, coming to a stop on the other side.

“Who's there?”

“Virgilio, from downstairs, Senhora. I've got a package.”

The chain came off. The door started to swing open. Virgilio stepped back. Hector stepped in front of him, holding his Glock in both hands.

Aline Arriaga was still in her work clothes. The laser sight from Hector's pistol painted a dot of red light on her white blouse.

She put a hand to her mouth. For a moment they all stood there, frozen. Then Aline's shoulders slumped.

“Put the gun away,” she said. “I'm not going to give you any trouble.”

But Hector didn't put the gun away.

“Take a step backward,” he said. “Turn around. Put your hands behind your back.”

She complied. Arnaldo stepped forward with his handcuffs, shackled her wrists.

“So soon,” she said. “I didn't expect you so soon.”

Her remark irritated Silva. He didn't think it was soon at all. Not soon enough for Bruna Nascimento, not soon enough for any of the innocent victims. He blamed himself for not having gotten to the bottom of it earlier. It seemed so obvious now.

“This is about Rivas, isn't it?” she asked.

“No, Senhora, it's about guilt and innocence. Someone is guilty of the murder of a number of perfectly innocent people. We think it was you.”

“Don't you dare talk to me about guilt and innocence! My son was innocent. Someone is guilty of killing him. And how much effort did you put into finding that person? None at all, that's how much!”

She leaned forward, trying to get closer to Silva.

Arnaldo pulled her away, forced her into a chair and held her there. She tried, at first, to shake him off, but when she realized how strong he was, she stopped struggling.

“You say this isn't about Rivas,” she said, “but you're lying through your goddamned teeth. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't know how things work in this country? How the rich and powerful get justice and the rest of us can go to hell? Rivas is an important man. Your superiors are on your necks. You need someone to blame. It's a simple as that.”

“No, Senhora,” Silva said, “it's not as simple as that.”

But she wasn't listening.

“None of you gives a good goddamn about people like me,” she said. “You'd sing a different tune if you'd ever lost a child.”

At that, Hector, Arnaldo, and Gonçalves all looked at Silva. But Silva had eyes only for Aline.

“I had a son, Senhora,” he said. “We lost him when he was eight years old.”

Her mouth went slack, aggression replaced by pity in the space of a heartbeat.

“Did you have other children?”

“No, Senhora. We never did. He was our only child.”

“Your wife….”

“Never got over it. Neither one of us did.”

“It's worse for the mothers,” she said. And then: “I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

“No. You're right. It is. It's worse for the mothers.”

“What was his name?”

“Mario. Like mine.”

“And he….”

“Leukemia.”

“Leu … kem … ia. I don't know what I'd have done if Julio had died of leukemia. I mean, it isn't even contagious. There's no one to blame.”

“No. No one to blame.”

“But there is when your child is murdered.”

“Yes. Then.”

“And what do you think the murderer of a child deserves?” she said. The manic glint was coming back into her eyes.

Silva looked at his colleagues, then at his hands. “There's no death penalty in this country,” he said.

“I didn't ask you that. I asked you what a murderer of a child
deserves
.”

Silva met her eyes. “Death,” he said.