Every Bitter Thing (3 page)

“Hard to miss. How often do you see a guy with painted toenails? Was Rivas gay?” Arnaldo asked.

“He was,” Pereira responded, “and I'll get to that in a minute. So, what's your take on the shot? If it wasn't meant to kill him, why shoot him at all?”

“You put a bullet into a man's abdomen,” Silva said, “it's like giving him a punch in the gut. He's going to bend over forward.” Silva extended his left hand as if he was shooting a pistol, and raised his right as if he was holding a club. “Then the perp hits him on the back of the head to bring him down.” He brought down his right arm, matching action to words. “Once he's on the floor, there's no escape. And the killer can see him suffer while he finishes him off at leisure.”

Pereira rubbed his chin. “Makes sense,” he said. “But how come Rivas just let him stroll in with a club in one hand and a gun in the other?”

“Maybe the little he was able to see through the peephole didn't seem like a threat.”

“Anyone in the building hear a shot?”

Pereira shook his head. “No one we talked to, and that's all the adjoining neighbors except for the guy downstairs. He isn't home.”

“According to you,” Arnaldo said, “you have the case ninety-nine percent solved. How about sharing? It would be really nice to get out of here before lunch.”

“Let's start with a motive,” Silva said.

“I have one,” Pereira said. “Sexual jealousy.”

“Evidence?”

“Plenty. I have …”—he paused for effect—“letters.”

“Did I hear a fanfare of trumpets just before you said ‘letters'?” Arnaldo said.

“What kind of letters?” Silva said.

“Let's move on to the next exhibit, shall we? Right this way, gentlemen.”

Pereira ushered them through an arch, across a dining room, and through an open door.

Half of the space was occupied by a breakfast nook, the rest by a modern kitchen. Seated at a table, wearing a pair of latex gloves, was a young man in shirtsleeves. His suit jacket hung neatly over the back of a chair.

“Chief Inspector Silva, Agent Nunes,” Pereira said, “meet Detective Vargas.”

Vargas blushed and got to his feet.

“Heard of you, Senhor. Heard of you both.”

Silva offered a hand. The young man snapped off his right glove before he took it. Then he shook hands with Arnaldo.

“Tell them about the letters,” Pereira said.

“They're all in order,” Vargas said. “From the thirteenth of August up until … well, I don't know exactly. The last seven were never opened. I thought we'd let the forensics people do that. I just finished putting the others into plastic envelopes.” He picked one up and held it between Silva and Arnaldo, not sure who should get it. “The series starts with this one.”

“
Tell
them,” Pereira said. “They can read later.”

Vargas turned an even brighter shade of pink. “They're love letters, and in the beginning they're pretty much like any other love letters, but then they turn abusive. The writer, who was older than Juan, knew Juan was ditching him for someone younger.”

“Knew, or thought?”

“Knew, Senhor. He mentioned the other party by name.”

“And that name was?”

“Gustavo.”

“Were the letters signed?”

“With a single letter, a ‘T.' Look here. See?”

“Any return address?”

“No. No stamps, either. They're dated, though, on the outsides of the envelopes.”

Silva turned to Pereira. “Hand-delivered?”

Pereira shrugged. “Or stuffed in his mailbox, or slipped under his door.”

“Did you question that guy out front? The one dressed like the Student Prince.”

Pereira shook his head. “I was just about to when you guys showed up.”

“Let's do it together,” Silva said.

While they were waiting for the doorman to come up, Pereira took the federal cops on a tour of the apartment. There were two bedrooms, but only one bed showed signs of having been slept in. Pereira tapped his fingers on the drawer of a bedside table.

“Here's where we found the letters,” he said.

“If the guy who killed him wrote the letters,” Arnaldo said, “why didn't he take them with him?”

“He probably wasn't thinking about anything except beating the shit out of Juan,” Pereira said.

Arnaldo shook his head. “Doesn't fit,” he said. “He took his weapons, didn't he? So why not the letters?”

“Stop constructing alibis for my perp,” Pereira said.

“What if Senhor T already
has
an alibi?” Arnaldo said.

Pereira glared at him.

“What is it with you, Nunes? How come you always try to rain on my parades?”

“What else did the ME have to say about that blunt instrument?” Silva asked.

“Some kind of a bludgeon; thicker than a cop's baton, round, no sharp edges.”

“Take us through the business of the dead bolt one more time.”

“According to Carmen, Juan was a security freak. One time, she came in and forgot to engage the bolt. He had a fit, damned near fired her.”

“But when she arrived this morning?”

“The dead bolt wasn't engaged. That much we managed to get out of her.”

“So Rivas almost certainly let the murderer in,” Silva said, “and the murderer almost certainly let himself out. Begs a question, doesn't it?”

“What question?”

“Juan wasn't suspicious of his caller. Wouldn't you be suspicious of someone who was sending you abusive letters?”

Pereira gave an exasperated snort.

“Look, you guys want to do the devil's advocate thing, that's okay. Me? I'm a man who looks for the most obvious solution.”

A voice intruded. “José de Araujo, Senhores.”

The detective from downstairs, his shoes now tied, was in the doorway. Behind him, standing on tiptoe to look over the detective's shoulder, was the guy in the operetta costume. Under the polished leather brim of his hat, his eyes were big with curiosity.

“Is he here?” he said.

“Who?” Pereira said.

“Senhor Juan. I heard he was … killed.” Araujo gave a delicious shiver.

“You heard right,” Pereira said. “The body's in the living room, behind the couch.”

The doorman looked disappointed. “Behind the couch, huh?” For a moment, Silva thought he was going to ask if he could see it.

Pereira fished a notebook out of his pocket. “What's that name again?”

“José de Araujo, Senhor.”

Pereira made a note of it and pointed his pen at an upholstered chair. “Sit down, José.” The doorman did, and Pereira took a seat facing him. The detective waited until Pereira waved him off, and then left without a word.

“How long you worked here, José?” Pereira said.

“Six years, Senhor.”

“How well did you know Juan Rivas?”

“Very well, Senhor. I greeted him every day. I opened the door for him. I delivered his packages. When he had a visitor, I called him on the interphone. When he needed someone—”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” Pereira said.

“Can I smoke, Senhor?”

“No, you can't. Did Juan have any special friends?”

A sly look came over the doorman's face. “So you know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“Know he was a
viado
, Senhor. I guess I can say that. Now that he's dead. And you being the police.”

“He didn't make any secret of it, then?”

“Only sometimes.”

“Such as when?”

“When he got a visit from his father, Senhor. His father is a very important man. A Colombian, I think. Or maybe a Uruguayan. Not an Argentinean.”

“You think his father was unaware of Juan's homosexuality?”

“What?”

“You figure Juan's old man didn't know his son was a viado?”

“
Sim
, Senhor. That's what I think.”

“Why?”

“Senhor Juan always acted differently around his father, Senhor Jorge.”

“Acted differently? How?”

The doorman took off his cap, revealing a bald patch, and scratched the top of his head. “He just … did. Most of the time, you could see that Senhor Juan was a viado, see it before he opened his mouth. You didn't have to see him hugging and kissing that friend of his. You just knew.”

“Friend? You saw him with a friend?”

“All the time, Senhor.”

Pereira glanced at Silva. A smile curled one corner of his mouth.

“An older man, was he? This friend?”

“Sim, Senhor.”

“How much older?”

The doorman considered the question. “Thirty years older. Maybe more,” he said after a short pause.

“Brazilian?”

“No, Senhor. They always spoke
Castelhano
together. And also with Juan's father.”

“Juan's father knows this man?”

“Sim, Senhor. They are friends.”

“You know the friend's name?”

“His name is Garcia, Senhor. Tomás Garcia.”

“Tomás with a T, right?” Pereira asked, making a show of writing it down.

“Sim, Senhor. Is there any other way to spell it?”

Pereira snapped his eyes from notebook to doorman. “You trying to be a wiseass, José?”

“No, Senhor. I honestly don't—”

“You have any idea how to get in touch with this Tomás Garcia?”

“But of course, Senhor.” José de Araujo pointed a whitegloved finger at the carpet under his feet. “Senhor Tomás, he lives downstairs on the second floor.”

Chapter Five

“M
OTIVE, MEANS, AND OPPORTUNITY
,” Pereira said when the doorman was gone. “I am
so
going to nail this guy Garcia.”

“What's that proverb?” Arnaldo asked. “Something about not counting your eggs until the hen lays them?”

“Nunes,” Pereira said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, “even you, your pithy proverbs, and your half-assed suppositions are but minor irritations on this fine day. Share my joy.

Think of the comedown for that boss of yours. He's down there shooting his mouth off, and I'm up here solving the case.”

“Pithy?” Arnaldo said. “Did you say pithy?”

“I did,” Pereira said. “And I even know what it means.”

“I'd approach this one with caution,” Silva said. “Believe me, Walter, you don't want to be proven wrong.”

“I'm
not
wrong. Senhor T-for-Tomás is our man. You guys want to be in on the collar?”

“The wise thing to do,” Silva said, “would be to get rid of Sampaio first.”

“True,” Pereira said. “We don't want him horning in on the interrogation. That alone would give him grounds for another goddamned news conference. Hey, how come it's taking him so long to get up here?”

“Body's still here,” Arnaldo said.

“So what?”

“Sampaio gets weak in the knees if he sees a corpse. Corpses give him nightmares.”

“That's your twisted sense of humor again, is it, Nunes?”

“No, Walter,” Silva said. “It isn't.”

“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You're serious? Corpses give him nightmares? And a wimp like that heads up the Federal Police?”

“And a wimp like that does,” Arnaldo said.

A
RNALDO AND
Pereira watched as the body, now zipped into a black bag, was lifted onto a gurney and rolled out the door. Silva came out of the kitchen, putting his cell phone in his pocket.

“I told Sampaio,” he said. “He's on his way.”

“And all this time he's been talking to those reporters?” Pereira asked. “How does he do it?”

“It's a talent,” Silva admitted.

“Filho da puta. How much are you going to tell him?”

“Mushroom treatment,” Silva said.

“Meaning?”

“We're going to keep him in the dark and feed him shit.”

The words were no sooner out of Silva's mouth when the door opened and The Mushroom bustled in. “Senhores,” he nodded curtly, taking in the group. Then he extended a hand to Pereira. “I don't think we've met.”

Pereira took the hand. “Pereira. Civil police. I've heard of you, Senhor, seen you on television.”

“Have you indeed?” Sampaio preened. “Heard good things, I hope.”

Pereira looked at Arnaldo, then back at Sampaio. “Absolutely, Senhor. Nothing but good.”

Sampaio gave a perfunctory smile, as if he'd expected nothing less. Then the smile vanished.

“How long has the victim been dead?”

It seemed like a strange choice for a first question. Silva looked at Pereira.

“The medical examiner's preliminary conclusion,” Pereira said, “puts the murder between 10:00
P.M.
last night and 2:00
A.M.
this morning.”

“And your people were called shortly before 7:00, correct?”

“That's correct, Senhor.”

Sampaio scratched the nonexistent whiskers on his immaculately shaved chin and let them wait for his next comment. His body language said he was privy to important information. When he spoke, it seemed like an anticlimax.

“The father of the victim, as these gentlemen know, is a Very Important Person, Jorge Rivas, foreign minister of Venezuela.”

“Yes, Senhor, I'm aware of that.”

Sampaio stopped scratching and looked at each of them in turn.

“The president instructed our foreign minister to call Rivas personally, communicate the death of his son, and express the sympathy of the Brazilian government.”

“Thoughtful of the president,” Arnaldo said.

Sampaio paused for a moment, apparently concluded—erroneously—that Arnaldo was being sincere, and continued. “The phone call,” he said, “was placed about an hour ago.”

Pereira couldn't contain his curiosity. “How'd you find that out?” he said. “You got a contact in the Foreign Office?”

Sampaio fixed him with a fish-eyed stare. The director had many sources of information, none of which he shared. Knowledge was power. The silence went on for so long that Pereira started to fidget. When Sampaio deigned to resume, his tone was cold enough to freeze water.

“Kindly show me the courtesy,” he said, “of not interrupting again.” Pereira's eyes narrowed, but the director stared him down. “Our foreign minister was unable to complete the call. It seems that Senhor Rivas
had already been informed of his son's death. He is, even as we speak, approaching Brasília.
So my questions to you, gentlemen, are these: Who the hell told Rivas about the death of his son? Which one of you, or which person reporting to one of you, felt he had the right to do that? And if the informant proves to be someone unassociated with you people, how did that person find out about it?”

Arnaldo and Silva exchanged a look. “We will endeavor to discover the answer to those questions, Director,” Silva said.

“You're goddamned right you will. And when you do, you'll tell me first, is that understood?”

“Understood, Director.”

“What else have you got?”

“Nothing else at the moment,” Silva said.

Sampaio looked deeply into his chief inspector's eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, the exemplary communicator versus the master at concealment.

Sampaio blinked first. “All right,” he said, “keep me posted. I've got to get out to the airport. I want to be there when Jorge Rivas's flight arrives.”

Without even a nod in Pereira's direction, he bustled off in the direction of the elevator.

“Prick,” Pereira said when Sampaio was safely out of earshot.

“You have no idea,” Arnaldo said.

Silva glanced at his watch. “Unless he's a gentleman of leisure, the odds on Garcia being home at this time on a weekday morning aren't good.”

“No, but we can still toss the place, question the maid, get handwriting samples, maybe even find the murder weapon. I have Judge Carmo's number right here.”

Pereira pulled out his cell phone.

Caio Carmo was what the cops termed a “friendly judge,” willing to issue a search warrant on the thinnest of evidence. The two federal policemen stood waiting while Pereira tried first Carmo's home, then his chambers. Carmo, as it turned out, was in court.

Pereira left an urgent message and the cops adjourned to a nearby
padaria
to drink coffee and wait.

T
OMÁS
G
ARCIA'S
front door was opened by Garcia's maid, a young woman with bad teeth and a Bahian accent. From the glazed look she gave Pereira's ID, Silva concluded she couldn't read. She said her name was Safira Nogueira and, when prompted, produced a dog-eared identity card.

Her employer wasn't there, she said, hadn't been home when she showed up for work that morning. She normally arrived at nine, left at six. Normally, too, he'd be there to greet her and to see her out.

Vargas read the warrant and explained, in layman's language, what it gave them the right to do. She asked them to wait while she tried to reach her employer. But, as it turned out, Tomás Garcia wasn't picking up his cell phone. Reluctantly, she admitted them.

The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to the one upstairs, as if the younger man was striving to appear older, while the older was clinging to vestiges of youth. The palette in Juan's apartment had been a mélange of dark reds and browns; Garcia's place was a riot of color, the decoration contemporary and minimalist.

Pereira and Silva sat on a yellow leather couch, Safira on an upright chair, upholstered in cerulean blue, designed for aesthetics more than for comfort. The other two cops began to search the premises.

“Were you aware of the fact,” Pereira asked, kicking off the questioning, “that Tomás Garcia and Juan Rivas were lovers?”

Safira showed no surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes Senhor Juan would come down here to spend the night. Sometimes Senhor Tomás would go up there. They used to call each other, too. Sometimes five or six times a day.”

“But not recently?”

“No, Senhor. Not recently.”

Vargas came into the living room with a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand. He hadn't been away for more than three minutes.

“From his desk,” he said. “The same handwriting as the letters.”

Pereira smiled, as if the young cop had given him a present.

“How about the club?” he said. “Or the gun?”

Vargas shook his head. “Not yet, Senhor.”

“Keep looking,” Pereira said.

Just then, there was a rattle of keys at the front door. Vargas, without being told, crept over and stationed himself behind it. Pereira rose to his feet, looked at Safira, and put a finger to his lips.

Silva, too, stood.

Keys in hand, a figure in his late fifties, or perhaps in his early sixties, entered the apartment. He froze when he saw the men standing in front of the couch.

“Senhor Garcia?” Silva asked.

“Who are you people? What are you doing in my apartment?”

“I'll take that for a yes,” Silva said.

Garcia sensed a movement behind him and turned to find Detective Vargas gently shutting the door. He took a nervous swallow, and his prominent Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

“No need to be alarmed,” Silva said. “We're police officers. Here's my identification.”

As Garcia read, the stiffness drained out of his neck and shoulders. He slouched, looked very tired; defeated, even.

“A police ID doesn't give you the right to invade my apartment,” he said.

“No,” Pereira said. “But this does.” He produced Judge Carmo's warrant and held it out. “Read it, if you like.”

“I certainly will,” Garcia said. His Portuguese was fluent, but heavily accented. He snatched the paper out of Pereira's hand and started to examine it.

“That will be all for now, Safira,” Silva said.

The maid looked to her employer, but he kept his eyes glued to the paper. Safira nodded at Silva and left the room.

Garcia was wearing a tailored suit and a Versace tie, but he'd done a bad job shaving. Narrow swatches of whiskers clung to his chin. He smelled of Scotch whiskey and mintflavored mouthwash. Folding the warrant, he licked his lips and looked at Pereira.

“Were you aware, before you read that”—Pereira pointed at the papers—“that Juan Rivas was dead?”

“I was aware,” Garcia said, cautiously.

He could hardly have said otherwise what with the circus going on downstairs. If he hadn't known before he got home, someone in front of the building would have told him.

“We found your letters,” Pereira said, “the ones you wrote to Juan about Gustavo.”

Tomás Garcia turned a shade paler. His eyes moved from side to side as if seeking an avenue of escape.

“You want to tell us about it?” Pereira asked. “Get it off your chest?”

“I loved him,” Garcia said. “We had a spat. We were estranged, I admit that. I was angry, but I would never have….” His voice trailed off.

“Have what?” Pereira said.

“Killed him.”

“And yet your letters….”

Garcia put a hand over his eyes and sank down onto the sofa. “Oh, God,” he said. “You don't believe me, do you?”

Pereira didn't reply.

“All we want,” Silva said, “is the truth. If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

Garcia, apparently surprised by Silva's gentle tone, lifted his head. “This is one of those good cop/bad cop routines, isn't it?”