Requiem for a Killer (11 page)

As soon as he entered he was faced with a
stack of papers waiting for his signature. He sat down
dispiritedly, unlocked his drawer and saw his treasure-trove next
to the pen: a chocolate bar.

Conscious of the crime he was about to
commit against the scales, Dornelas made sure no one was coming –
no footsteps in the hall – before carefully unwrapping the tin foil
to reveal two little squares of pure joy. He carefully and
delicately broke them off from the bar with his fingers and placed
them on his tongue. He was in heaven.

While the chocolate was melting in the
corner of his mouth he put away the rest of the bar, picked up the
pen and closed the drawer. If he didn’t keep it locked up his pen
would be gone in no time, forget that this was a police station. He
pulled the stack towards him and began working. Solano rapped on
the open door.

“Come in,” he said. And felt a childish
relief he’d put the chocolate away in time. Now he wouldn’t have to
share it with anyone.

“Inspector, I’ve got information on Marina
Rivera and Nildo Borges.”

It was the excuse he needed to leave the
paperwork for later. He pushed the stack away, dropped the pen on
the desk, pushed the melting chocolate to the other side of his
mouth with his tongue and settled in his chair.

“Great. Give it to me.”

Solano sat down and opened a file full of
papers on his lap.

“Marina Rivera was born in Rio de Janeiro on
June 26, 1962, but grew up in a small town upstate, São Francisco
de Itabapoana. Her father and grandparents are Cuban. They found
asylum in Brazil after the 1959 revolution. In fact, they were able
to escape just before the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. Penniless,
they went first to Miami and with the help of friends were able to
start a new life. They ended up in Brazil where the grandfather
owned some land in the countryside of the state that he had bought
when they lived in Cuba. Her parents, Alonso and Zuleika – who’s
from Minas Gerais – met soon after and had Marina not much after
that. She has a brother named Fernando Rivera who works in the
import-export business and lives in Miami.”

“That’s it?”

“There’s more. She graduated from law school
at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro in 1984 and that’s
where she met Nildo Borges.”

“Excellent.”

“From then on their paths crossed several
times. But there’s nothing that points to any relationship between
them other than professional.”

“That’s hard to believe. If you saw the two
of them together you’d see there’s something deeper going on there.
Go on.”

“Nildo Borges was also born in Rio, had a
normal middle class upbringing with nothing noteworthy to mention.
In college however, he went off on a new tack: he discovered
politics. By the sound of it, it was love at first sight. He and
Marina met in her freshman and his senior year. He was a student
leader, was arrested in 1979 and reappeared a few years later on
the political scene running for councilman in Rio. Marina acted as
a vote canvasser and was his communications coordinator. He lost.
He’s married, has two kids and lives in an enormous house in the
Historical Center.”

“Why did he end up here in Palmyra?” asked
the inspector. “Although he certainly has more power here than he
ever would in Rio,” he added, answering his own question.

“His father was born and died here. He
founded Peixe Dourado, a small fishing company that evidenced
tremendous growth after Nildo took over when his father died,
nearly twenty years ago. He has a brother, Wilson Borges, generally
considered an idiot, who runs the business while Nildo concentrates
on politics. Still, revenues have grown by double digits over the
last five years.”

Dornelas was puzzled by this last piece of
information.

“I presume Marina followed him here?”

“Correct. With no family or future prospects
in Rio, Marina followed Nildo Borges here and today lives alone in
a little house, also in the Historical Center. She’s never been
married and there is no information of any kind regarding a
boyfriend or lover.”

“Do you have anything on the City Council
building?”

“It’s the same old shit. An invitation to
bid was published, eleven companies showed up with proposals and
only one met all the requirements.”

“The one made by Raimundo Tavares. An
invitation made to order,” concluded Dornelas, who now remembered
the engineer’s name from newspapers and TV.

“That’s right. The job ended up costing a
lot more than it was supposed to, two additional budget allocations
were needed for its completion and it took almost two years more
than planned to be concluded.”

“Let me guess: Nildo Borges was the
president of the City Council at the time.”

“You got it. Besides overseeing the
elaboration of the project, it was he who got it approved in the
City Council. They say Nildo followed the work very closely for a
long time. But the job took so long that eventually there ended up
being a new City Council president. Councilman Jurandir Botman,
from an opposing party, was who took over. He discovered the
irregularities by chance, when he bought a car to use in the
legislature. Because of this car, and since work on the building
was still going on, he decided to build an underground parking lot.
Much to his surprise, an engineer on the job then told him that
that wouldn’t be possible because of structural and documentation
irregularities affecting the building. So the president installed
an official legislative hearing and a full investigation was made.
The report raised some very serious issues, including seepages,
purchases of materials different from those originally approved,
flaws in the rain drainage system, leaks, paving problems that
impeded waterproofing of the indoor flooring, the lightning rod
system below standard, exposed piping, a fire prevention and safety
project different from the one that was actually executed, as well
as documentation irregularities beginning with the approval of the
original plans. It’s really ugly, sir.”

“And this all happened under the supervision
of our friend, engineer Raimundo Tavares!”

“Not directly. Another engineer from his
company had been named to do the job. That’s the excuse he gave at
the hearing and as a result he ended up hanging his own employee.
The company obviously suffered since all payments were suspended
while the official investigation was going on. But after the issue
cooled off and stopped making headlines construction was authorized
to restart and payments began again. On the grapevine they say that
all he got was a slap on the wrist and then the whole thing went
away.”

“And City Hall never noticed anything during
their inspections?”

“It looked the other way until the hearing
began. The property wasn’t even legally deeded. For sure somebody
was being paid off by Raimundo Tavares. Apparently it was all done
very quickly so that the cash could be misappropriated without any
fuss.”

“We now have a connection between Raimundo
Tavares and Nildo Borges. If Maria das Graças gave us his name to
cover up for someone else we’ll figure it out. One thing’s for
sure: she helped us a lot, whether she knows it or not. And that
puzzles me. Anything else?”

“That’s it so far.”

“Good work.”

“Thanks, sir.”

Solano left and Dornelas picked up the phone
and dialed three numbers.

“Anderson, Joaquim Dornelas, how are
you?”

“Everything’s going fine, Inspector, thank
God.”

“Great. I have more photos for you to
download from my cell phone and burn on to a CD. Can you do that
now?”

“I’ll be there in two minutes.”

“Thanks.”

And he hung up. The stack of papers on his
desk seemed to be calling to him with a voice of its own, and
Dornelas was being seduced by it like Ulysses by the mermaids in
the epic Greek poem. But he pushed the stack aside and stood up. He
began wandering haphazardly around the office to help him think
more clearly.

He took deep breaths and the images stored
in his subconscious began coming forcefully back to him. One by one
they flashed through his mind in a sequence that made no sense; the
freshly painted and unfinished wall under the window in Maria das
Graças’ room, the drag marks and the tire ruts on the little beach,
the place where the body was found, the syringe, the round band-aid
on the dead man’s arm. The connection between these facts and the
information regarding Nildo Borges and Raimundo Tavares was still
somewhere out there, off in the distance, flimsy perhaps, but it
was clear to him that it existed.

“Can I come in, Inspector?” asked Anderson,
standing in the doorway.

“Please do.”

“Is this the cell phone?”

Dornelas nodded. Anderson picked it up from
the desk.

“I’ll bring it back in ten minutes.”

“Thanks.”

He left.

And then, hit by a sudden bolt deep down,
one of those that comes with no warning, Dornelas went back to long
ago, to the communion between his mind and his soul, but on
another, higher level. Unconsciously he remembered the Benedictine
school, the study of the liturgies, the interminable high masses.
The horror of the confessional came back to him, the priests
dressed in black, true vultures who asked him in sweet tones to lay
bare his soul. The day he married Flavia came back to him, the vows
of faithfulness, eternal love, and then inexplicably he began to
distance himself from it all, from the oppression and the
dogmas.

In his soul it was very clear to him that it
was the power of society’s conventions, and not his personal
beliefs, that had led him down this path until now. He saw that he
was now being very practical about an issue that was so very
abstract. He surprised himself. It made him feel light, at peace.
And it liberated him in a profound and intimate way. When he was
satisfied and had realized that his train of thought was wavering
along paths that were far from the investigation, he picked up the
phone.

“Marilda, get me Marina Rivera, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

And he hung up. The phone rang almost
immediately.

“Marina Rivera on the line, sir.”

“Thank you. Marina, how are you?”

“Very well. And how are you?”

“I’m fine too. Listen, I’d like to chat with
you about the investigation. When could we meet?”

“When’s a good time for you?”

“Today would be good if it’s not too
late.”

“Okay. When and where?”

“I have an appointment at nine. Could we
meet for coffee at seven-thirty at the Cultural Center?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Wonderful. See you later.”

He had no sooner put the phone on the hook
when Anderson came rushing into his office, Dornelas’ cell phone
glued to his ear.

“Inspector, there’s a call for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Your son.”

His legs turned to jelly. Dornelas took the
phone and sat down. Anderson put the CD with the new pictures on
the desk and left.

“How are you, son?”

“Hi Dad. Everything’s okay here. I called
because I miss you.”

His eyes dampening and his heart thumping in
his chest, Dornelas went to close the door and then back to his
seat.

“Me too, dear. I tried calling you both last
night but I got the answering machine. How’s your sister?”

“She’s okay too. She went out with some
friends. I don’t know where they went but I don’t think she’ll be
long.”

“Are you guys okay?”

“We’re getting used to it, Dad. This city is
a lot bigger than Palmyra and there’s lots to do. It’s cool,” said
Luciano unenthusiastically, “but I real miss it back there,
especially you.”

Dornelas felt a lump in his throat.

“I really miss you and Roberta too. So tell
me, how’s school?”

“Good too. Everything here is bigger, more
modern…I don’t know.”

Like his son, Dornelas also felt out of
place in big cities. That was probably why he had turned down so
many promotions.

“Have you gone fishing?”

“I don’t have time. There’s so many things
to do here that the ocean is like just a place for tourists to take
pictures. A whole lot different from there, where it’s like our
backyard.”

Luciano was right about that. Dornelas was
connected to the ocean in Palmyra by an invisible umbilical cord
that could never be cut. After a few days away he started missing
the pungent stench of the bay’s mud mixed with that of rotten fish
and dried algae, the fishermen’s nets drying in the sun and the
unmistakable dried diesel oil on the wooden planks of the pier.

“Can you come here this weekend?”

“I’m not going to be able to make it, son.
I’m in the middle of an important investigation. Ask your mother if
you and your sister can’t come and spend the weekend here with me.
I’ll buy the bus tickets and pick you up at the bus station any
time you want.”

“I’ll talk to Mom, but you know how she
is.”

“I know. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her about
it later, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you son.”

“I love you too, Dad. We’re buddies,
right?”

“Always. You know that.”

“Yeah.”

“Bye, son.”

“Bye.”

And he hung up as his heart sank into a well
of new and contradictory emotions he had not yet learned to deal
with. Out the window he saw the sky’s turquoise color being
overtaken by night and the still weak light from the streetlamps as
they warmed up. He closed everything up and left.

He went by the photo printing shop, picked
up the order he had placed at lunchtime, placed another and paid
for it. He headed home. Lupi needed a walk and so did he.

He crossed the bridge over the river and
entered Abolição Street in the Historical Center. Palmyra’s daily
ritual was to wake up in the evening to welcome the tourists from
all over the world. The loud hodgepodge of voices in German,
English, Italian, French and God knows what others turned the town
into a true 21
^st
century Babel.