Every Bitter Thing (6 page)

Chapter Nine

H
ECTOR
C
OSTA WAS BOTH
the head of the federal police's São Paulo field office and Mario Silva's nephew. Late the following morning, he drove from São Paulo to Campinas. It was a pleasant drive through verdant hills studded with small farms, and he made good progress until he reached the outskirts of the city. But then things started to go wrong.

Campinas, now numbering over three million inhabitants, had recently introduced a number of one-way streets. He was in town for more than an hour before he located the precinct housing the homicide squad.

But he'd called ahead, and when he gave his name to the desk sergeant, he was immediately directed to the office of Delegado Artur Seixas.

Seixas was a man pushing sixty. On the wall behind his desk was a small blackboard with a label.
Days Until Retirement
, it said. The number 27 was scrawled in white chalk.

“From today?” Hector asked.

“Including weekends,” Seixas said. “First thing I do every morning is pick up the chalk and change the number.” He stuck out a hand and Hector shook it. “It was my wife's idea. She keeps telling me how great it's going to be, and I go along with the game. But the truth is I hate the idea. You'd think thirty-five years would be enough, wouldn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it isn't. Not for me. I don't fish, I don't hunt, I got no hobbies at all. I'm afraid I'm gonna go nuts. You want to go get some lunch?”

T
HEY SAT
at a counter and ate sandwiches.

“I understand you have a suspect,” Hector said when the conversation turned to the Neves case.

“You talking about Eduardo Coruja, his business partner?”

“Him.”

“Nah! That turned out to be a dead end.”

“No other suspects?”

“Nope.”

“Any forensics that might help?”

“We got the bullet and sent it to Brasília. My understanding is you're going to compare it to the one you took out of that Venezuelan.”

“We are. Anything else?”

“Nothing else. And our forensics people are first-class.”

“Unicamp, huh?”

Seixas opened his hands, as if the answer was obvious. And indeed it was. Unicamp, the Campinas branch of the University of São Paulo, trained the best criminal forensics people in the country. The professors who worked there were often called upon, nationwide, to consult on difficult cases.

“No offense,” Hector said, “but I'd still like to have a look at that apartment.”

“None taken,” Seixas said. “We can go over there right now. I brought the key.”

N
EVES HAD
lived in a high-rise bordering the university's campus. The neighborhood was packed with bars, boutiques, and trendy restaurants. The building's security guard recognized the grizzled cop from previous visits and buzzed them through at once.

An elevator was waiting. The indicator panel skipped every other number. “Lofts,” Seixas said. “Every apartment takes up two floors.”

Victor Neves's place was on seventeen. His front door opened onto a living area backed by windows rising two stories to the ceiling. A counter divided the living/dining area from the kitchen. An open door led to a guest bathroom. A stairway curved upward.

“Watch your feet,” Seixas said, indicating some dried bloodstains just inside the front door.

“Must have shot him right here,” Hector said.

“Uh-huh,” Seixas agreed. He pointed to a much larger bloodstain near the sofa. “And beat him to death over there.” One side of the blood pool had a straight edge. “There was a carpet,” Seixas said. “They took it for analysis.”

“And?”

“Lots of fibers and stuff. Some interesting blond hairs, so they tell me, but we've got nothing to compare them with, so they're all pretty useless at this stage.”

“I take it Neves's girlfriend is not blond.”

“You take it right. She's a brunette.”

The downstairs area was small, the furnishings sparse. The kitchen had all of the modern conveniences, including a dishwasher, but everything in miniature. The apartment was spacious enough for a couple, but not for a couple with kids. Telltale smudges of black fingerprint powder showed on many of the surfaces.

“What's upstairs?” Hector asked.

“A bed and a bathroom. Go ahead. Have a look. I'll stay here. I've seen it already, and I have bad knees.”

Hector climbed the stairs, stood at a metal rail, and took in the view of the city. Beyond the urban sprawl, a mountain range showed bluish in the haze.

Seixas looked up at him from below. “The shades were down when Neves was found,” he said. “He'd probably closed them for the night.”

Closets with sliding doors lined the far side of the sleeping area. Next to the bed was a small table with a clock radio, a reading lamp, and a copy of a novel written by Paulo Coelho. Hector picked up the book and absently flipped through the pages. A bookmark slipped out and fell to the floor. He picked it up, looked at it, and went downstairs to show it to Seixas.

“N
EVES WAS
reading
Guerreiro da Luz
. He left it on the nightstand next to his bed. Guess what he was using for a bookmark?”

“Tell me,” Silva said.

“A boarding pass for a flight from Miami International to São Paulo Guarulhos. Neves's name was on it. He was in Miami last November.”

“And so was Rivas. Is that what you're getting at?”

“A long shot, I know—”

“A very long shot.” Silva grabbed a ballpoint from the porcelain mug on his desk. “Date?”

“The twenty-second of November.”

“Airline?”

“TAB.”

“Flight number?”

“8101.”

“Got it. Did you get a chance to speak to Janus?”

“I did.”

Janus Prado was the head of São Paulo's homicide squad.

“Did he have anything more on that thug João Girotti?”

“He was busted on a burglary charge, but in the end they couldn't hold him. The witness, the
only
witness, recanted.”

“Bought off?”

“Or scared off. Girotti was released on the afternoon of the day he was killed. If he'd stayed in jail, he might still be alive. The term ‘protective custody' comes to mind.”

“Don't be a wiseass. You're starting to sound like Arnaldo.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“What else?”

“Prado's guys are doing no more than go through the motions. Their feeling is that whoever killed Girotti did the city a favor.”

“Did they question the people in the bar?”

“Only briefly. Girotti was there celebrating his release. He drank nonstop from about five in the afternoon until nine or nine thirty at night. Then he left. His body was discovered fifteen minutes later.”

“He left alone?”

“No. With a woman.”

“That kind of a bar, eh?”

“That kind of a bar.”

“Maybe the killer got the woman to lure him outside.”

“You don't think Girotti is a dead end? Somebody else's victim?”

“You saw the photos?”

“I saw the photos. Unlikely, huh?”

“Very. But it won't be long before we know for sure. I should have the ballistics results on those bullets by tomorrow at the latest. Is Babyface back from Rio?”

“Should be by now.”

“Send him over to that bar.”

Chapter Ten

T
HE
B
AR DO
E
LIAS
was a shabby establishment with a sign in the front window offering beer for two reais.

Haraldo Gonçalves wasn't about to miss out on a deal like that. He bellied up to the bar and rapped his knuckles on the wood.

“A Cerpa,” he said.

“Beer's only for folks old enough to drink.” The bartender grinned.

His attempt at humor failed miserably. “Take a good fucking look,” Gonçalves said, flourishing his warrant card in the bartender's face.

“Brahma or Antarctica?” the bartender said.

“I told you. Cerpa.”

“No Cerpa. We only got Brahma and Antarctica.”

“Antarctica, then.”

The bartender reached into a cooler, pulled out a cold bottle, and poured half of the contents into a glass. He set the glass and the bottle on the bar between them.

“You look too young to be a cop,” he said.

“No shit. Elias around?”

“Elias sold me this place back in 1997. I never got around to changing the name.”

“And yours is?”

“Renato Cymbalista, but nobody calls me that. They call me Gordo.” The word meant fatty, and it was appropriate.

“Gordo, huh?” Gonçalves said, eying Cymbalista's vast midriff. “I can't imagine why.”

He was still miffed about the fat man's attempt at humor.

“You in my place on business, or pleasure?” Gordo asked.

Gonçalves looked around him with distaste and curled his lip. “What do you think?” he said. “Were you working the night João Girotti was murdered?”

“Yeah.”

“How well did you know him?”

“I didn't know him at all. Why he chose my place to drink in, and the alley out in back to get killed in, I couldn't say.”

“Did you talk with him?”

“Just to take his orders.”

“What was he drinking?”

“Beer with Dreher chasers.”

Gonçalves wrinkled his nose. Conhaque Dreher, cachaça flavored with ginger, was just about the cheapest distilled spirit you could buy.

“Got pretty drunk, did he?”

“He got wasted.”

“Think back. Did he talk to anyone else?”

“I don't have to think back, on account of I already told the story twice. By now, I got it memorized. First, I told it to the uniformed guys who showed up just after Graça found the body. Then I—”

“Who's Graça?”

“One of the girls.”

“She works for you?”

“None of them work for me. We got an arrangement. They use the place to pick up customers, and the customers buy them drinks. Like that, see?”

“How did Graça find the body?”

“The women's toilet is out there.” Gordo shot a thumb in the direction of the rear door. “She walked out to use it, and she stumbled over him.”

“This was how long after he left?”

“Ten minutes? Fifteen? Not long.”

“Back to my question: did he talk to anyone else?”

“Just the girl who was sitting at his table, the one he left with.”

“And that would be?”

Gordo shrugged. “Some blond,” he said. “I never saw her before. She shoulda come over and talked to me first, but she didn't.”

“Why didn't
you
talk to
her
?”

“The guy was buying anyway, and I was busy.”

“Seen her since?”

Gordo shook his head.

His eyes now accustomed to the dim light, Gonçalves checked out his surroundings. Standing at the bar, just a few meters away, an old man with bleary eyes was staring straight ahead and nursing a drink.

The other male patrons, seven in number, were distributed between two tables, three at one, four at the other. All of them had given him the once-over when he came in.

Since then, they'd lost interest.

The women, on the other hand, were looking at him expectantly. It was still early in the day, and there were only three of them. One, a would-be blond, winked.

Gonçalves turned back to the bartender. “This Graça, is she here?”

The bartender stretched his neck to look over Gonçalves's shoulder.

“No,” he said.

“Is there anyone else here now who was here then?”

“Leonardo was.” Gordo pointed along the bar. “He almost never leaves.”

The old man with the bleary eyes didn't react, even though he was close enough to hear every word.

“But I wouldn't waste your time with him if I was you,” Gordo said, not lowering his voice, speaking as if Leonardo wasn't there. “He doesn't recognize his own wife half the time.”

“You're exaggerating, right?”

“I'm not. She comes in three or four times a week to drag him home, and he honest-to-God doesn't recognize her. I don't think it's just the booze. Something is screwed up in his head.” He pointed at his temple and made a circular motion. Maybe it's that … that….”

Gonçalves helped him out. “Alzheimer's?”

“Yeah, that. I figure there's a bright side, though.”

“What's that?”

“Think about it. Every time he takes her to bed, it's like he's fucking a different woman. You married?”

“No.”

“Then you have no idea what I'm talking about.”

“I think I do. There
are
happy marriages, you know.”

“So I hear. Never seen one myself. Want another beer?”

“Not yet. So Leonardo was here, but he really wasn't. Who else?”

“None of the guys over there, maybe one of the girls. They're coming and going all the time. It's tough to keep track.”

“All right. One more question. After this guy Girotti went outside, did you hear a shot?”

Gordo shook his head.

“No,” he said. “And, before you ask, the answer is yes.”

“Yes to what?”

“Yes, I know what a shot sounds like. We hear them all the time around here.”

Gonçalves picked up his glass and went over to where the women were clustered around a table. Gordo had called them girls, but they were hardly that. They hadn't been girls for a long, long time.

They made for a colorful group: one was a
mulata
, one was black, and one was white.

“Mind if I sit down?” Gonçalves said.

“Your mother let you play with big girls?” the mulata said, sizing him up.

“She lets.”

“Then sit,” the black woman said. “I'm Dorothy. This is Amalia”—she indicated the youngest—“and this is Ruby.”

“Haraldo,” Gonçalves said.

Amalia was the one who'd winked at him. She reached out and fingered his necktie.

“Nice,” she said. “You a cop?”

“Yeah, I'm a cop.”

“I like cops,” she said. “Want to go somewhere and show me your gun?”

“Not today, thanks. I'm working.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Me too.”

She took a cigarette from the pack on the table and held it to her mouth, waiting for him to light it.

“Sorry,” Gonçalves said. “I don't smoke.”

Amalia reached into her purse, produced a cheap plastic lighter, and handed it to him. He held the flame to the tip of her cigarette. She put a hand around his, as if she needed to steady it, which she didn't. When he doused the flame, she released him and took a long drag.

“I hate to break up this little scene,” the black woman said, “but you can do me with handcuffs if you want.”

Gonçalves shook his head. “I just want some information,” he said.

“
Caralho
, you're no fun at all,” Amalia said, tipping off some ash.

The white one didn't say anything, didn't even look at him. It occurred to Gonçalves that she might have been pretty once.

“The least you could do is to buy us some drinks,” Amalia said.

“What are you having?”

She inclined her head in the direction of the bar. “He knows,” she said.

“But I don't,” Gonçalves said.

“Champagne,” she admitted: part of her deal with the bar's owner, no doubt.

“How much?”

“Has to be a bottle. It goes flat, so Gordo doesn't sell it by the glass.”

“How much?”

“Sixty reais.”

She blew a smoke ring in his face. The ring was damn near perfect. She must have spent a lot of time perfecting the technique.

“Sixty reais, huh?” Gonçalves said.

The champagne couldn't have been imported, not in a bar like this, not for a price like that. And if it wasn't imported, it was a ripoff. But Gonçalves figured it was worth it to get the girls talking. When he turned in his expenses, he hoped Silva would think so too.

“All right,” he said.

The white woman emerged from her stupor to flash him a smile. It was a surprisingly sweet smile, but it didn't last.

The black woman lifted a hand and made a gesture to Gordo.

A minute or so later, he bustled over and made much of opening a bottle of Peterlongo, cheap sparkling wine from Rio Grande do Sul. Gonçalves could have bought it for less than ten reais in any second-class supermarket. The better stores didn't stock it.

He waved off the glass that Gordo offered him and pointed at his own. “Give me another one of those,” he said.

“One Antarctica, coming right up.”

Gordo hustled off, smiling for the first time since Gonçalves had waved his credentials in his face.

“Wise choice,” Amalia said, grinding her cigarette into the ashtray and taking only the tiniest sip of her wine. The butt continued to smolder. “Okay, what do you want to know?”

“You remember that murder a while back? Body found out back?”

“Sure, I remember. Thing like that doesn't happen every day, not even around here. Besides, a friend of mine stumbled over him when she went out to do
xixi
. It scared her half to death. She came back screaming.”

“You remember the woman he was with?”

“Sure.” Amalia tipped wine onto the butt. It sizzled and went out.

“Do you know her name?”

“I've been working this joint for three years. I thought I knew all the girls, but that one….” She shook her head.

“She been back since?”

“No. You think she had something to do with it?”

“Maybe. Maybe she lured him outside so the killer could get at him.”

“Or maybe she was just trying to turn an honest trick, and when the killer showed up she made herself scarce.”

“That's possible too. What do you remember about her?”

“She was goddamned fast, for one thing.”

“What do you mean, fast?”

“That João, the murdered guy, he wasn't here two minutes. We're all still looking at him, waiting for him to make a move. Then she sashays in like she owns the place. She didn't look around, didn't smile at anybody; she just made straight for his table and took a seat.”

“You think he knew her?”

“Hell, no. He looked surprised. I thought he was going to tell her to fuck off. But he didn't.”

“Then what happened?”

“They talked. He drank. The drunker he got, the louder he got.”

“What did you hear him say?”

“Nothing. Just the same crap, over and over. He was shitfaced.”

“Could you hear anything the woman said?”

“Not a word. But she was trying to calm him down. She put a hand on him right here.”

Amalia laid a hand on Gonçalves's thigh.

“After a while,” she said, “she moved it up to—”

Gonçalves crossed his legs.

“Hey,” she said, “you don't have to get all fidgety on me. I was just explaining.”

She took another cigarette out of the pack and put it between her lips. Gonçalves picked up the lighter and lit it.

“So she's got her hand between his legs,” he prompted.

“She's grabbing his cock, that's what she's doing. But does he move? No, he orders another round. And then another one. He was here for hours. Guy like that, guy who just gets out of jail, you'd think he'd be crazy for a woman, right? But no, he just keeps drinking. Around about the time I'm thinking he's gay, he finally pays the bill. When he stands up, his legs are all wobbly, but I can see he isn't gay at all.”

“And then what?”

“And then they left. They went out that way.”

Amalia pointed toward the back of the bar. Gonçalves followed the line of her finger and saw a single door. On the wall next to it was a crudely painted sign. The sign said SENHORAS.

“Why didn't Girotti wait here until she got back from the toilet?”

“Are you kidding? There was no way she was going to let him do that, no way she was going to give anybody else a chance to get their hooks into him. She took him by the hand and led him outside. The lady's toilet opens onto the alley. So does that door. And the alley itself runs between two streets. She never came back.”

“What did she look like? Describe her.”

Amalia took another puff on her cigarette. Some of the smoke rose past her eyes and caused her to squint. Or maybe she was just remembering.

“She was white, and she was blond. Maybe that's why he let her stay. Guy like him doesn't get many chances with a white woman. And I'll bet he never had a blond in his whole life, probably wanted to know what she looked like down there.”

“Tall? Short?”

“Neither. Medium, I'd say.”

“How about her eyes?”

“She was wearing sunglasses, big and really dark. She must have had a hard time seeing anything.”

“Suppose you saw her in a lineup. Would you recognize her?”

“Not in a million years,” Amalia said.