Every Bitter Thing (15 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

G
ILDA'S HOUSE KEYS RATTLED
when she tossed them onto the counter. She hung her purse on the back of one of the kitchen chairs and sank heavily into another.

“Sometimes,” she said, “people make me sick.”

Hector had a spare glass waiting. He filled it from the open bottle of Chilean red and handed it to her.

She took a healthy gulp, sighed, and leaned back in her seat. After a moment, she went on.

“I know you were annoyed when I wouldn't talk to you,” she said, “but when you called everybody was standing around, waiting for me to cut.”

“I wasn't annoyed,” he said, “I just—”

She continued as if she hadn't heard him.

“It was a double autopsy, a married couple, murdered in their bed. They'd been asleep when the killer came in. The husband died instantly, one shot to the temple. His wife took two in the chest. Neither shot hit her heart.”

She took another sip of wine. For a moment, Hector thought she was finished. But she wasn't.

“She must have awoken in pain,” she said, “awoken to see the person who was killing her.”

Hector put down the spoon he was using to stir the spaghetti sauce and leaned against the sink. “And that was?”

“Her daughter. Fourteen years old. Because her parents wouldn't let her go to a party.”

Gilda took another swallow of wine, put down the glass, and rubbed her eyes. She'd been crying.

“Where did she get the gun?” Hector asked.

“Does it matter?”

“No. No, I suppose it doesn't.”

“It was her father's. That Arriaga case, the one you called about, that makes me sick too.”

Hector picked up his spoon. She took a paper towel from the roll and blew her nose.

“The boy didn't fall,” she continued. “Not unless they held him on their shoulders so he could fall from a height of at least two and a half meters. There was semen in his rectum. The rape was postmortem.”

Hector poured himself another glass of wine and sat down.

“Postmortem? How can you tell?”

She looked at the sauce bubbling on the stove. “You really want me to tell you that? Before dinner?”

Hector shook his head. “You didn't, by any chance, bring me a copy of the autopsy report?”

“It isn't finished.”

“After all this time? Why not?”

“The mother came to the morgue and wanted to know all the details. Paulo didn't have the heart to tell her. And he didn't want her getting her hands on any report. But he wouldn't falsify it either. So he put off finishing it until the cops could complete their investigation. He told the mother her boy died from a severe cranial trauma, which was true, and he put a sample of the semen out for DNA analysis.”

“In order to provide evidence for the homicide guys? So they could bust someone before the report became available?”

“Exactly. But without that report, there was no justification for DNA analysis. Paulo asked the lab to do him a favor. They said they would, but not as a priority.”

“So it's still not done?”

“Oh, it's done, all right. It arrived the day before yesterday. One rapist only. Paulo briefed the civil police. They're getting samples from the men who were in the shower with Arriaga.”

“Has the delegado in charge of the jail been informed?”

“I have no idea. Why?”

Hector topped up his glass. “He reported it as an accident.”

“He must have known otherwise.”

Hector got up to stir the sauce. “Probably did, probably saving himself the trouble of investigating. I doubt he would have done it if he'd known there was semen in the kid. He'll get a reprimand at the very least.”

“The bastard should be fired.”

“True. When is Paulo going to finish his damned report?”

She raised an eyebrow at the adjective. “Paulo will finish it,” she said, “when they identify the rapist. He believes it will bring the mother some degree of closure if she knows that the man responsible for her son's death is going to pay for it.”

Hector put down the spoon and returned to his seat. An image of Aline Arriaga's tear-stained face popped into his mind. There would be no closure for her. Not ever. He took a sip of wine, looking at Gilda over the rim of his glass. “You agree with what Paulo did?”

Gilda crossed her arms across her chest. “I wasn't consulted.”

“I didn't ask you if you were consulted. I asked you if you agreed.”

“Don't use that tone of voice with me, Hector Costa.”

He put down his glass. “I'm going to call Paulo right now.”

“If you pick up that phone,” she said, steel in her voice, “you can sleep on the couch.”

“Goddamn it, Gilda—”

“Paulo Couto is a kind, caring man. He did what he did to spare that woman grief. Can you get that through your thick skull?”

“So you
do
agree with him.”

“I've had just about enough of this. I didn't come home to subject myself to an interrogation. Go question some criminal and leave me alone.”

Gilda got to her feet, stormed into the bedroom, and slammed the door.

Chapter Twenty-Four

“Y
OU NEED ANYTHING ELSE
?” Rosa asked. Mondays were slow days, and this Monday had been even slower than usual. It was only 7:00 P.M., not late as far as Mansur was concerned, but Rosa was already wearing her tennis shoes, a sure sign that she was on her way out the door.

Mansur shook his head, didn't respond when she wished him a good evening, and waited until he heard the ping of the elevator before opening his refrigerator. The damned thing wasn't big enough for more than a couple of six-packs, and the ice cubes were tiny, tinier still when Rosa didn't fill the trays as, once again, she hadn't.

Mansur gritted his teeth. There was enough ice for three drinks, maybe four. Three drinks was nothing, just enough to get a taste. One more mistake like that, just one more, and he'd fling Rosa out on her ass. That would mean he'd have to hire his third secretary since August, but so what? Secretaries were expendable.

He harvested what ice there was, twisting the plastic trays, letting it clink into the little crystal bucket with the silver top. Then he fished out a handful, put it in a glass, and wiped the wetness from his hand on the seat of his pants. The tongs were for visitors.

Mansur kept his whiskey under lock and key; had to, otherwise the cleaners would get at it. One time, he'd found the deep amber of his Black Label watered down to the pale straw of his J&B. Right after that, he'd put the lock on the cupboard. He took out a bottle and checked the tiny mark he'd made on the label. The level hadn't lowered since last time. Thing was, Rosa had a key to that cabinet too—and he really didn't trust anyone when it came to his whiskey. Or much else, for that matter.

The whiskey came from Scotland via Paraguay, all smuggled in, all delivered directly to the office. That not only provided him with cheaper alcohol, it also concealed the extent of his consumption from Magda. He knew damned well she wouldn't give a shit if he drank himself into an early grave, but the money it cost was something else. She'd bitch about that.

And bitching, when it came right down to it, was about the only thing he
did
get from Magda. Bitching about where he spent his evenings, bitching about the occasional perfume she smelled on his clothes. Bitch, bitch, bitch—and no sex.

Magda didn't drink, either; but Magda could go fuck herself, because he could always find someone to drink with. He could also find women to have sex with, so her attitude on that score didn't bother him either. The glue that held their marriage together was his hard-earned money. Magda would strip him to his underwear if he gave her half a chance.

He uncorked the bottle and poured himself a generous dose. Swirling the ice with a forefinger, watching it dissolve, he leaned back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.

The door to his office was open and the whiskey bottle in plain sight. The odds were someone would show up before long.

But no one did. And today, of all days, he had a great story to tell. As he sipped, he tried to put names to the faces on that airplane.

The uppity stewardess was the first one who came to mind. And as he was thinking about her, he remembered Juan Rivas too. With a name like that, it had to be the arrogant little prick with the dark skin, earring, and moustache. He'd kept the stewardess busy, practically monopolized her. Every time he'd wanted a refill, the little fairy seemed to sense it and get his finger on the call button first. One of the enduring impressions Mansur had of the flight was lots of sucking on ice in otherwise empty glasses.

And then there was Motta. Motta of the birthmark. Motta, the dumb fuck. Mansur had good reason to remember him.
How could he talk to Silva about Motta without getting his ass in a sling?
Short answer: he couldn't. But it really didn't matter. It wouldn't change anything, wouldn't contribute to solving the cop's case. Motta, that little weasel, didn't have it in him to kill anybody. No, if anybody on that flight was a murderer, it was the guy who was posing as a priest. A hard case, that one, steely gray eyes, black hair, nose in his book all the time, none of that “love thy neighbor” stuff you'd expect from a clergyman.

Mansur got up, dropped more ice into his glass—not much left now—and poured another drink. While he was on his feet, he decided to take a stroll around the floor, find some company.

E
MERSON
C
UNHA
wasn't at his desk. Cassio Zannoto was, but he didn't have time for a drink: he was meeting somebody for dinner. That's the way he said it. Somebody. Not his wife. Not a friend. Not a client. Somebody.

Which meant he was being discreet. Which meant it was probably somebody who worked in the office. Maybe that new receptionist, the blond. Sneaky bastard, Zannoto. Nice piece of ass, the blond.

He went back to his office, picked up the phone, and tried calling Gilmar Pedroso down on the second floor.

No answer.

His glass was empty again and he refilled it. He drank quickly, cracked the last vestiges of ice between his teeth, locked away the whiskey, and dumped the empty trays on Rosa's desk along with a nasty note.

It was almost a quarter to eight, and he was still alone.

He went down to the garage, nosed his black Corolla up the ramp, and plunged into the rush-hour traffic. It took him fifteen minutes to go three blocks. If he'd known it was going to be that bad, he would have drunk a couple of whiskies neat, given the traffic time to die down. But it was too late now. He was in the gridlock, committed to moving forward.

Running on alcohol, his thoughts took flight:
It's Magda's fault. If she'd gone along with buying an apartment in town, I'd be living within walking distance of work. But no. Goddamned Magda had to have a house out in Alphaville with a garden, and a swimming pool, and two maids to sit around and drink coffee with. That's when she wasn't at the hairdresser's, or playing cards, or—

He screeched to a halt, narrowly avoiding a white BMW that jumped the light. He hit the horn. The driver of the BMW, pulling away, opened his window and stuck out an arm to make an obscene gesture.

His sudden stop had put him on the crosswalk. Pedestrians were moving all around him. He crept forward for another three blocks. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard.

Eight sixteen now. Getting dark.

The traffic showed no sign of thinning. Half an hour out of the office, and he hadn't moved eight blocks.

The Jockey Club! No races tonight, but the bar is open. Just a small detour.

He turned left at the next corner, got onto Avenida Europa, made it by fits and starts over the bridge, and turned right. On nights when the nags weren't running, it was dark under the trees, and the long street was lined with girls. Black girls, white girls,
mulattas
. Blond girls (they usually got the color from a bottle), red-haired girls (ditto), black- and brown-haired girls. Girls with short-shorts and no panties, girls with dresses cut down to their navels. Girls with hemlines that rose above their thighs. Girls who wore only short bathrobes, or sarongs.

There were a few cars pulled over to the curb, men on their own, leaning toward open passenger windows, doing some negotiating. Mansur felt a stirring in his groin. Instead of leaving his car with the valet, he took a left at the corner and circled the block.

When he appeared again, and the girls saw him for a second time, they started strutting their stuff in earnest, pouting their lips, lifting their skirts to crotch level, plunging their hips forward, flashing what they had (or didn't have) under their short bathrobes and sarongs.

Mansur swelled to full erection, painful in the confinement of his trousers.

By the time he'd reached the end of the line, he'd made his choice, but she was back at the beginning of the queue, so he had to circle the block a second time before he could stop. Her voice was deep, deeper than that of most women. If he'd been more sober, he might have paused, thought twice.

He and his Chosen One cut a deal. She hopped aboard and directed him toward one of the high-rotation motels that lined the Raposo Tavares.

Sometimes the girls worked scams with the motel's owners. When the happy couple got to their room, the john would find a man or two waiting for him. Instead of getting laid, he'd be relieved of his watch and wallet. If he was a married man, and wanted to keep it that way, who could he complain to? The cops? Creating a risk that his wife would get her hands on the statement? Leaving her in a position to be able to prove, with a legal document, that he was picking up whores? And then have her divorce him and take all his goddamned money? No way!

Mansur
did
go to the Raposo Tavares, but he drove right past the establishment his girl had suggested and went to the Bariloche, a motel he'd used before, a place he trusted. He was too smart, too experienced, to fall for some cheap scam.

But he wasn't smart enough, or experienced enough, to spot the Ford Escort that followed him from his office all the way to the front gate of his nice, safe motel.