Every Bitter Thing (5 page)

Chapter Seven

A
NOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MURDER
. It was very early in the morning. The sun was just coming up. Pereira was standing near the body, making notes, when a young patrolman touched him on the shoulder.

“A telephone call, Senhor, patched through on the radio.”

“Who is it?”

“Chief Inspector Silva, Federal Police.”

Pereira went to his car and grabbed the microphone. “It's not a good time, Mario. I'm busy.”

There was a crash of static, then Silva's voice. “This will only take a minute. Can you hear me okay?”

“I can. So can half the cops in Brasília.”

“I'm aware of that. You recall your remark about airborne pigs?”

Pereira thought for a moment, and then said, “Yeah. What about it?”

“I've found others in the database.”

“Others? As in more than one?”

“Four. All with the same characteristics.”

“Four? Jesus Christ! Where are you?”

“In my office.”

“I'll come to you. Give me half an hour.”

“Ask for Arnaldo.”

Pereira groaned. “Not Nunes again! What a crummy day this is turning out to be.”

A
RNALDO MET
Pereira in the reception area at Federal Police headquarters and led him to a windowless conference room. The furnishings consisted of a round wooden table, four chairs, and nothing else. There was a hole in the ceiling where some kind of repair had taken place to the pipes or conduits. A notebook computer was plugged into a socket halfway up one of the walls. The only other objects on the table were an overloaded ashtray and a pad of paper with a few notes. The stench of ten thousand dead cigarettes hung in the air.

“Christ,” Pereira said, “what a dump.”

“This is the VIP room,” Arnaldo said. “You should see the new one.”

“Worse than this?”

“It will be. The coffee staining of the carpet and the filling of the ashtrays are scheduled for tomorrow.”

“Why aren't we meeting in your office, Mario?”

“Security reasons.”

“Hiding from your boss?”

“Exactly.”

“So you're still keeping him in the dark?”

“If Sampaio was a portobello,” Arnaldo said, “he'd be the size of this table.”

“Have a look at this,” Silva said. He moved the mouse, and the computer's screen came to life. It showed the image of a horribly mutilated corpse.

“Jonas Palhares,” Silva said, “petroleum engineer, thirty-four years old, divorced, no children, lived alone.”

“Lived where?”

“Rio de Janeiro.”

Silva clicked the mouse. The next photo was also of Palhares, taken from a slightly different angle.

“When did it happen?” Pereira said.

“About two weeks before Christmas.”

“Suspects?”

“One. His girlfriend, Chantal Pires.”

“You sound like you doubt it.”

“I do.”

“Why?”

Silva pointed at the screen. “Look at him. Women are into poison and pistols; they don't do things like that.”

“Depends on the woman.”

“For once,” Arnaldo said, “I agree with Pereira. Take my mother-in-law.”

Pereira ignored him. “No chance it could have been a robbery?”

“No,” Silva said. “Palhares's wallet was still in his pocket, his watch was still on his wrist. There was no sign of a break-in.”

“Just like Rivas.”

“Just like Rivas.”

“That girlfriend you mentioned. She live-in?”

“No. And she's one of the few people he knew in Rio. He's from Belo Horizonte originally, only been in Rio for about a year.”

“She a local?”

Silva nodded. “They met on the beach.”

“She have a key to his place?”

“Yes.”

“And this guy … what's his name again?”

“Palhares.”

“Palhares was also shot in the gut?”

“He was.”

“Who called it in?”

“The girlfriend. And long after the murder.”

“Another reason to believe she didn't do it.”

“Exactly.”

“You guys going to talk to her?”

“We are. I sent a man from São Paulo.” Silva glanced at his watch. “He should be arriving there as we speak.”

“Why? You've got a field office in Rio, haven't you?”

“Yeah,” Arnaldo said. “But we haven't got Babyface.”

“Babyface?”

“Haraldo Gonçalves,” Silva said. “We call him Babyface.”

“I'll bet he loves that.”

“Hates it,” Silva said. “But that's beside the point. When it comes to females, he's our secret weapon. Women open up to him.”

“In every way you can imagine,” Arnaldo said.

“You got a dirty mind, Nunes.”

“It comes,” Arnaldo said, “from excessive association with homicide detectives.”

Silva chose another file on the computer's desktop and opened it. The image on the screen showed the body of a young man. His blond ponytail looked like a mop used to soak up blood. The blood was his; it had dried and was more brown than red.

“Victor Neves,” Silva said, “twenty-six years old, exporter of leather goods, lived in Campinas, engaged to the same woman for over three years. Murder was”—he checked his notes—“almost a month ago. The vic's mother found the body. He was her only child. She's been under sedation ever since.”

“Suspects?”

“The cops in Campinas like Neves's partner for it. He has no alibi, and they say there's something shifty about him.”

“You sending someone?”

“I am.”

“Okay. Number three?”

Silva clicked the mouse. “Paulo Cruz.”

“
That
Paulo Cruz?” Pereira said. “The guy who wrote the sex books?”

“That Paulo Cruz. He lived in Brodowski. It's a little town near Ribeirão Prêto.”

“I know where Brodowski is. Everybody does. Portinari came from there. You ever read any of Cruz's stuff?”

“No. You?”

“Every single one.”

“There were only three,” Arnaldo said.

“So I read three.”

Again, Silva clicked the mouse. The upper part of Cruz's body now filled the screen.

“Are those little white things what I think they are?”

“That, Walter, would depend upon which little white things you're referring to.”

The next photo was even tighter. It framed the victim from the middle of his chest to the crown of his head. Some of Cruz's teeth were lying on the rug. There were smaller objects as well, not quite as white.

“Maggots,” Silva said.

Pereira pinched his nose, as if the smell was there in the meeting room with them. “Yuck,” he said. “Took a while before they found him, huh?”

“Over a week. He was working on a book. His girlfriend was away in Bahia.”

“No maid?”

“He had one, but she was on vacation.”

“Live-in girlfriend?”

“She wasn't live-in. But they did have three kids.”

“And he never married her? Betcha
she
did it. Hell hath no fury and all that.”

“She didn't do it,” Silva said. “I told you. She was in Bahia.”

“She got any proof of that?”

“Plenty.”

“If it was me, I'd take a closer look at that proof. She's a natural for it.”

“The cops in Brodowski thought so too. But her alibi is rock-solid.”

“No other suspects?”

Silva shook his head. “And Brodowski isn't exactly an epicenter of violent crime. The locals are well out of their depth. They'd already filed a request for help.”

“You said four. Who's the fourth?”

Silva frowned. “That one confuses me.”

He clicked the mouse. A black man in knee-length shorts was staring at the camera with one eye. The other was mashed to a pulp. His bloodstained polo shirt bore the Lacoste crocodile emblem.

“Nice shirt,” Pereira said. “Who's he?”

“He's The Man Who Doesn't Fit. João Girotti, a thug with three convictions, one for armed robbery, one for burglary, one for auto theft.”

“A man still in search of his vocation,” Arnaldo said.

“Good riddance,” Pereira said. “Where did this punk end his days?”

“In an alley, in back of a bar, in Brasilândia.”

“Brasilândia?”

“A suburb of São Paulo,” Silva said. “A slum. Girotti lived there whenever he wasn't a guest of the state.”

“Was he gay?”

“Not as far as we know.”

“And the other three you just showed me all had girlfriends. How do we tie four straights to a gay like Rivas?”

“I don't think we can. I think we're going to have to discard your original hypothesis of homosexual jealousy as a motive for Rivas's murder.”

“I'm still gonna find out if Tomás Garcia was here in Brasília when these people were killed.”

“And you should. But I'm now convinced he's not our man.”

“Okay, okay, I have to admit, it's looking pretty thin. But tell me this: what's a lowlife like Girotti have in common with four respectable citizens?”

“Maybe they were only
apparently
respectable citizens,” Arnaldo said.

“Okay, so how do we connect Girotti to four
apparently
respectable citizens?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” Silva said. “I don't have an answer.”

“Any ballistics results on the bullets?”

“Not yet. But….”

“I know, I know, don't even bother to say it. The MO is just too similar. It's the same killer. But it doesn't necessarily follow that the
victims
are connected. We could be dealing with some sick bastard who picks them at random.”

“That's possible.”

“But you don't think it's likely?”

“No, I don't.”

“Why?”

“São Paulo, Campinas, Ribeirão Prêto, Rio, and Brasília; one killing in each city. That's almost
too
random to
be
random. I think the killer had a reason to go to those places, and I think that reason was that he wanted to kill those specific people.”

“Who was the first?”

“Girotti, the thug.”

“And when was that?”

“Back at the end of November.”

“So it's been going on for over two months?”

“It has.”

“All right, Mario, I admit it. You were right, and I was wrong. You saved my ass, and I owe you one. Thanks.”

“
De nada
.”

“What about that guy in Miami?”

“Gustavo Fernandez.”

“We rule him out?”

“Not just yet. I've got a friend, a cop in Miami. He'll talk to Fernandez.”

“When?” Pereira said.

“Today, when he gets up. It's three hours earlier in Miami.”

Chapter Eight

T
HE BUILDING WAS THREE
stories tall, ugly, and painted flamingo pink. A concrete sign to the left of the door identified it as the Ocean View.

Detective Sergeant Harvey Willis glanced at the opposite side of the street. “Bullshit,” he said. The building over there was considerably taller and effectively blocked any possible view of the North Atlantic.

But view or no view, the three-story monstrosity he was standing in front of would command healthy rents. The Miami Beach of picture postcards, Bermuda shorts, and tourist-pale knees was only four blocks to the north.

Pierre “Pete” André, Willis's partner, looked at his watch.

“If he's a night owl,” he said in his soft Creole accent, “he's not gonna be happy.”

It was a quarter to ten, still very early by Miami Beach standards.

T
HE MAN
who answered their ring was wearing a light blue T-shirt, darker blue pajama shorts, and an attitude.

“Gustavo Fernandez?” Willis asked.

“What's it to you?” the man said.

“Detective Sergeant Willis, Miami Beach PD. This”—Willis jerked a thumb toward the black man standing next to him—“is Detective André.”

The man ran a hand through his unkempt hair and stared at them out of bleary, brown eyes. He didn't seem in the least intimidated.

“Cops?”

“Cops.”

“Got any ID?”

“Sure.”

Willis had his badge ready.

The man fish-eyed it. “Something with a picture,” he said.

Willis turned the badge case over and let Fernandez scrutinize his warrant card.

“What do you want with me?” Fernandez said, finally admitting to Willis's identity. “I didn't do anything.”

“I didn't say you did,” Willis said. “May we come in?”

“
Carajo
, do you know what time it is?”

“It's about ten.”

“Middle of the fucking night.”

“Can we come in?”

“Wait,” Fernandez said and shut the door in their faces.

They heard voices from within, Fernandez and another man.

“Ah,” André said. “Like that.”

A minute later, the door opened again. The apartment had been pitch-black. Now the overhead lamp was on.

“I hope you're going to make it quick,” Fernandez said and stepped aside.

The place was a studio, a single room with a kitchenette in one corner and a king-sized bed in the other. Beyond a door on their right, someone flushed a toilet.

Fernandez pointed at a table encircled by four chairs. “Sit there,” he said.

He walked to the window and pulled aside a heavy blackout curtain, revealing the wall of an adjoining building.

“Ocean view, my ass,” Willis whispered to his partner.

On his way back to the table, Fernandez switched off the overhead lamp. “What's this all about?”

Willis took the lead. “You were an acquaintance of Juan Rivas, right?”

“What's with the
were
shit? We're still acquaintances.”

“You don't know?”

“Know what?”

“It was in the
Herald
, him being the son of the Venezuelan foreign minister and all.”

“I don't read the fucking
Herald
. Where are you going with all this?”

“Juan Rivas is dead.”

“No shit?” Fernandez didn't look devastated or even concerned, just curious. “What happened to him?”

“He was murdered.”

“Huh.”

“The way we hear it,” André said, “you and he—”

Fernandez looked at the door to the bathroom, held up a hand, and lowered his voice.

“He was a friend. That's all, just a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Willis said. He reached into his pocket, took out his notebook, and glanced at a page. “According to our information, you also know a guy by the name of …”—he found what he was looking for—“Tomás Garcia?”

“That old fart? Yeah, I know him. So?”

The shower in the bathroom went on; it made a lot of noise. Fernandez looked relieved.

“According to Garcia,” André said, “you and Rivas were an item.”

“That's a load of crap,” Fernandez said.

“Is it? The Brazilian cops have Rivas's telephone records. They told us the two of you spent a lot of time chatting with each other.”

Fernandez cast another glance at the bathroom door.

“Okay, okay: at one time. But no more. That's history.”

“So the two of you haven't spoken for a while?”

“What did I just say? History.”

“What happened?”

Fernandez shrugged.

“I moved on,” he said.

“You broke up?”

“There was nothing to break. Casual sex, that's all it was. What have you guys got to do with any of this? Juan was murdered down in Brazil, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You mean he was here?”

“No. It happened in Brazil, all right.” Again, Willis consulted his notebook. “There were three occasions when you didn't exchange telephone calls for over a week. The first was from the tenth to the eighteenth of August.”

“I was in Brazil.”

“And from the third to the thirteenth of October?”

“Again, Brazil.”

“That the last time you were there?”

“Yeah. Last time.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Hell, yes, I can prove it. I've got the stamps in my passport.”

Willis turned the page. “The third time period in which the two of you weren't calling each other,” he said, “was from the fourteenth to the twenty-second of November.”

In the bathroom, the sound of the shower stopped. Fernandez lowered his voice. “He was here.”

“He stayed with you?”

“No, I mean here in Miami. He took a hotel suite. He was after a good time. I showed him around.”

“Did you stay with him? There in the suite?”

“What if I did?”

“When did you first meet him?”

Fernandez thought for a moment. “July. It musta been the first or the second. I remember taking him to the fireworks on the Fourth. You done?”

“Just a few more questions. What did he tell you about his relationship with Garcia?”

“That the old fart wouldn't let go, couldn't get it through his head that Juan was finished with him. He kept slipping letters under Juan's door.”

“Did Juan show any of those letters to you?”

“He read a few when we talked by phone. We laughed about them. Hey, you think the old fart killed him?”

“Do you?”

Fernandez shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Did Juan talk to you about any of his other relationships?”

“No.”

“Did Juan ever tell you about anyone he was afraid of?”

“No.”

“Anything you can think of that might lead to finding his killer?”

“No,” Fernandez glanced at the bathroom door. “How much longer is this gonna take?”

Willis stood up and André followed suit.

“We'll be out of here,” Willis said, “just as soon as you show us those stamps in your passport.”

“H
ELLO
, B
ABYFACE
.”

“You know I don't like that nickname, Chief Inspector.”

It was 4:30
P.M.
in Brasília. Haraldo Gonçalves was calling in from Rio de Janeiro.

“Sorry,” Silva said, smoothly. “It just slipped out. What have you got?”

“
Nada.
Chantal Pires is a dead end. She's no killer.”

“Chantal Pires? That would be Jonas Palhares's girlfriend.”

“The very same.”

“All right, let's hear it.”

“They met on the beach.”

“So?”

“The girls you meet on the beaches in Rio, they're all dressed alike, which means in bathing suits about the size of postage stamps. And nobody is stupid enough to wear jewelry or a watch, so you don't know whether you're dealing with an heiress or a whore until she opens her mouth.”

“And often not even then.”

“And often not even then. You must be younger than you look, Chief Inspector.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Senhor. It just slipped out. Chantal told me Palhares had her in bed two hours into their first date.”

“How forthcoming. Go on.”

“Palhares lived in a rental apartment, a duplex penthouse on Vieira Souto in Ipanema. The guy went through a divorce, for Christ's sake! You gotta ask yourself how he could have afforded it.”

“So you went there and had a look?”

“I did. There's a stain where he bled out on the rug. The air-conditioning had crapped out, and Palhares's corpse was there for a while before they found him. The whole place still stinks. The owners have got some work ahead of them before they can rent it out to someone else.”

“Find anything of interest?”

“Nothing.”

“The Rio cops have any other suspects?”

“Not one. And they're backing off on Chantal. As well they should.”

“What makes you so sure they can rule her out?”

“The way she talked. When he brought her home the first time, she took one look at that apartment and thought she'd found the duck that lays golden eggs.”

“In the fairy tale, it was a goose.”

“Whatever. She told him she was a model.”

“But she isn't?”

“No, Senhor. But she sure as hell looks like one.”

“So he bought it.”

“He bought it. She let him tell her long, boring stories about oil rigs, fed his ego, waited on him hand and foot, fucked him until he was cross-eyed. And, apparently, things were going just fine, and she was already thinking of herself as Senhora Palhares.”

“And then someone came along and killed him.”

“And then someone did. And if Chantal knew who it was, she'd kill him with her bare hands.”