Requiem for a Killer (4 page)

It was so tiresome and at the same time so
simple. All Nildo had to do was give him a name. Dornelas felt like
leaping over the desk and violently shaking the man’s identity out
of him the way you shake pennies out of a piggy-bank.

“Do you have a name, sir?” he asked
dryly.

The music stopped, the crowd fell silent,
the rally disappeared.

“José Aristodemo dos Anjos, better known as
White Powder Joe.”

Dornelas had thrown out the bait not knowing
he was going to catch such a big fish. Nildo went on.

“According to my information he was making
his way up the hierarchy.”

“Threatening the Doorman?”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.”

The Doorman was the big boss of drug
trafficking in the city. From Monkey Island – which actually became
a peninsula after the city canalized part of the riverhead – he
commanded a small army of young boys and adolescents who spread
nickel bags of cocaine, marijuana and especially crack all over the
city.

He was known as a violent man who stops at
nothing to eliminate his rivals, no matter who they are. It’s a
long list. Nobody knows where the nickname came from. Some say it’s
in honor of his first kill, when he crushed a guy’s head in a car
door. Others say it goes back to when he was a doorman at a club at
the beginning of his career. And still others claim he got it in
Hell itself, so large was the myth surrounding him.

“I’ve only heard of White Powder Joe by his
nickname. The pictures we have of him aren’t good,” said Dornelas.
“It’s difficult for us to enter some parts of the island. I don’t
want to send my men in and have them be executed in cold
blood.”

Unlike Rio de Janeiro, which possesses elite
troops specially trained to enter the slums, equipped with
bullet-proof vehicles and weapons more powerful than those of the
Civil and Military Police, the resources available to Dornelas were
ridiculous even compared to those used by the drug dealers.

While the Civil Police have .38s or 9mm
revolvers, the drug lords can count on HK-47 rifles and more. And
the larger the caliber, the more unfair the war. It’s a big boy
fight, an even-up match for the Federal Police, who sometimes sign
agreements with the Civil and Military Police in each state to
combat trafficking on a regional basis. The division of labor
between the two is very clear: the MP take preventive action, the
Civil deal with legal and administrative issues. Sometimes these
roles get mixed-up. And when the salaries are not equal, it turns
into a battle among brothers.

“I understand what you’re saying. And think
I can help you,” said Nildo, clasping his hands together and taking
on the magnetic look of a psychic, like the one successfully used
by that famous king of telemarketing who was consecrated on TV as
the apostle of Miami’s rich and needy female airheads. “Here’s what
I’m going to do: I’m going to mobilize my allies on the Council to
raise the police department’s budget to help you eradicate this
cancer from our society once and for all.”

Realizing that the councilman was going to
insist on continuing his campaign speech, Dornelas brought the
conversation to an end. He stood up.

“I appreciate your willingness to help,” he
said, shaking the politician’s hand.

“You can count on me. If I learn anything
else I’ll inform you immediately.”

Time to go. He said good-bye to Marina and
left. As the elevator door was opening a sudden thought erupted in
his mind and Dornelas went back. He entered the reception area.
Marina was talking to a woman. He told her the reason for his
return and re-entered Nildo Borges’ chamber.

“I’m sorry to interrupt you, Councilman, but
could you tell me who informed you of White Powder Joe’s
death?”

Nildo Borges froze on the spot as if he’d
been caught in bed with another woman.

“A voter,” he responded impulsively.

“Could you give me his name, sir? I’ll need
to talk to him.”

“Ah, well, I received a call at home, very
early, around seven-thirty in the morning. It was a man and he
didn’t tell me his name. It would help if I could give you the
person’s number, but unfortunately I don’t have caller ID on my
phone.”

“Another question, if you don’t mind.”

“Fire away, Inspector.”

“One thing puzzles me. Can you think of any
reason why they would call you instead of the police?”

“Inspector Dornelas, I asked myself the same
question as soon as I hung up. I have no idea. I’m very sorry.”

“I see,” he said regretfully. “Thank you
again for your help. If you find out anything else please let us
know. Have a good day.”

“The same to you, sir.”

And he left.

Chapter 4

B
ack on the street
Dornelas searched in his pocket for his cell phone and remembered
he’d left it on his desk for Anderson to download the pictures he’d
taken in the morning. He was thinking of going over some issues
regarding the investigation with Solano and Lotufo. With that plan
aborted he headed towards Vito’s Bar.

He went up the high stone step and came face
to face with Vito himself, a cranky Italian who had left Italy, his
wife, children, dog and parrot and come back to live with a
Brazilian woman he had met during his vacation and had fallen in
love with.

The woman was pretty, charming, worked in
the kitchen and had a natural talent for dealing with her husband’s
grouchiness, a trait Flavia lacked and that Dornelas admired. Maybe
a little of that from his ex-wife, just a little, would have saved
their marriage. Maybe. The thought saddened him.

Vito’s Bar was known for being laid-back,
featuring half a dozen tables, simple plates and silverware, cream
cheese jars for glasses and a limited menu, but with an Italian
touch that Dornelas liked in addition to the selection of
cachaças
– Brazilian sugar cane rum – filling the shelves
behind the counter. He was also attracted by the prices and the
coffee, which Vito could make like no one else.

“Good-a afternoon, sir. Whatta it gonna be
today?”

“Coffee, please.”

“And a little
cachaça
?”

“Not yet.” And he fell silent.

The memory of his ex-wife and the strain of
a badly-slept night hit him like a sack of cement. He would like to
have the quiet moments back, moments that brought him peace, not
like now, up to his neck in this mud pit of badly resolved issues
between him and Flavia. A hot breeze blew through the door bringing
with it the nauseating stench of the bay. Dornelas could actually
see his anguish taking shape, gaining consistency.

Lost in his thoughts, he drank his coffee in
silence while watching on the TV hanging next to the kitchen door a
blurry image of someone who looked liked himself dragging a man out
of the bay by the arm, probably taken on some tourist’s cell phone.
In the foreground an expressionless reporter saying something he
didn’t want to hear.

He paid the bill, thanked Vito and hit the
street.

*

“Inspector, Inspector, can you talk to us
for a minute about the body that was found in the mangrove?” asked
a guy holding a little notebook and a pen, jumping on him as soon
as he stepped into the precinct. Two identical characters remained
seated with the same expectant look on their faces.

“Not now.”

The guy sullenly sat down again. The other
two looked at him sympathetically. Dornelas turned to Marilda.

“Any messages?”

“No, but there’s a woman who wants to speak
to you. It sounds urgent.”

Marilda pointed to the bench on the other
side of the reception area where a woman was seated wearing very
colorful and tight clothes, almost a second skin, leaving nothing
of her firm, curvy and compact body to the imagination.

The outfit began at the ankles, went up her
legs, hips and stomach, and then opened into a plunging neckline
from where her breasts, pressed together like two headlights on a
truck, seemed ready to jump out.

“Good afternoon. I’m Chief Inspector Joaquim
Dornelas,” he said, extending his hand to her.

She shook it and quickly got up, while
clutching at the cleft in her garment and pulling it up.

“Charmed. My name’s Maria das Graças.

“What can I do for you?”

“Inspector, I really need to talk to
you!”

“Could you give me fifteen minutes? I’ve
been out all day.”

“I can help you with this morning’s
crime.”

Dornelas was surprised.

“Please, come with me to my office.”

As the woman entered the room and sat down,
the inspector saw the heads of his men pop out into the hall like
mushrooms in search of a last glimpse of Maria das Graças. He
closed the door.

“How can I help you, ma’am…?” he asked,
stretching out in his chair. He was tired and didn’t care if it
showed

“Not ma’am. Just Maria das Graças, please.
Ma’am makes me feel older than I am.”

“Excuse me. What can I do for you, Maria das
Graças?”

She squeezed the little gold purse in her
hands.

“I’m José Aristodemo dos Anjos’ sister. I
know how he died.”

Dornelas jumped in his chair as if stung by
a wasp. He settled back down and stared at her.

“What did you say?”

“Just what you heard. I know how my brother
died.”

And they stayed that way, staring at each
other for a few seconds in silence, until Dornelas decided to
pressure her:

“Then tell me!”

“It’s not so simple.”

“Why not? You either died or you didn’t.
What’s so complicated about that?”

This logic led Maria das Graças to
tears.

“I’m sorry, I’m just over tired,” he said,
taking a box of tissues out of his drawer. Maria das Graças was not
the first woman to cry at the police station, nor would she be the
last.

“I forgive you. It’s just so recent,” she
said while drying her tears and blowing her nose. “I’ve been
getting myself ready for this day for a long time, big help that
was. When the time comes it hurts all the same.”

“I understand what you’re saying.”

His ex-wife came back to mind.

“Would you like a glass of water,
ma’am?”

“Please, just Maria das Graças,” she said
smacking her lips together while she touched up her makeup with the
help of a little mirror.

Dornelas picked up the phone and dialed
three numbers.

“Marilda, have someone bring a glass of
water to my office, please.”

“Right away, sir.”

It took only two minutes for Solano to
materialize in the doorway with a glass in his hand. In all his
years working in the Palmyra Police Department he could not
remember ever seeing Solano serve water in his office, or anywhere
else in the precinct for that matter; not even once, to anybody.
The detective placed the glass on the desk while taking a long look
at the woman’s cleavage.

“Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Solano said sweetly.

Dornelas flashed him a menacing look and he
left. She sipped from the glass and put it on the desk.

“My brother was murdered, Inspector.”

“How do you know?”

“I heard it.”

“What do you mean, you heard it?”

“I heard it, you know, like you hear
music.”

“Please explain.”

“Well,” she began, settling into the chair,
“it was late, maybe early morning. My brother’s asleep and I’m in
the room next to his, workin’, if you know what I mean. The
doorbell rings like it does all the time. I was busy so he gets up
to answer it. When he opens the door some men grab him and tell him
not to yell. But he did yell in a sorta smothered way, as if they’d
put a gag in his mouth. Then they injected him with somethin’ and
left. It all happened real fast.”

Dornelas remembered the round band-aid
inside the fold of the left arm.

“How do you know they injected him with
something?”

“’Cause I found this outside the front
door.”

She took a dirty, disposable syringe out of
her purse, with the needle still attached to it, and put it on the
desk. Dornelas studied it as if it were a museum piece. He got a
transparent plastic bag out of his drawer and bagged it, careful
not to touch it.

“Let’s go back a bit. Tell me in more detail
what happened after they came in.”

She took another sip of water.

“First they held him down and stopped him
from yellin’. Then when he couldn’t move they started swearin’ and
callin’ him every name in the book. I remember a few of ‘em: ‘this
is so you’ll learn a lesson, you asshole’, and ‘you oughtta mind
your own business, you son of a bitch’, ‘you double-crossed the
boss muthafucker.’ Stuff like that.”

“Did you see who they were, or how many
there were?”

“I think there were maybe three or four…I
was terrified, Inspector. As soon as they came in me and my client
was paralyzed, we just stayed the way we was, he on top of me, and
him panting so much he had to bury his head in the pillow. My heart
nearly jumped outta my mouth. I thought they was gonna come into my
room and kill us both too. Then I heard, ‘that’s it, ma’man, just
be cool and see if you can get in a good word with Jesus.’ And then
I didn’t hear nothin’, it was all quiet. I waited a bit and when I
felt safe I got outta bed and went to his room, but I didn’t see
anyone. I went into the living room and still nobody. The front
door was open so I went out and found the syringe on the
ground.”

“Do you suspect anyone?”

“I can make you a list if you want. I don’t
think it’ll help much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Half the city’ll be on it.”

“Explain yourself.”

“My brother was involved with drugs for a
long time. And that meant gettin’ involved with lotsa people, lotsa
bad people.”