Requiem for a Killer Page 9

  “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 21st century Babel.

  Dornelas liked the mixture of peoples and cultures the city offered. He stopped at Alambique, a store specializing in cachaça – it prided itself on stocking dozens of brands, domestic and foreign – and checked prices of various Cuban and Minas Gerais blends. He was struck by all of them; cachaça for the price of scotch whiskey. He left indignantly.

  He turned right on Ouro Street, jumped over the chain and left the Historical Center. Taking Carroças Avenue, the main entrance to the city, he went on home. It was only seven; enough time to walk the dog before going on to the Cultural Center.

  As soon as he opened the door Lupi started spinning around and jumping up and down, whining the whole time. Dornelas patted him, threw his keys and the package of pictures on the hall table and went upstairs, turning on the lights as he went. He entered his room and saw that, as usual, Neide had closed the house up like a bunker. The sash windows were all closed. There was not a breath of air. His shirt stuck to his body with sweat.

  He lifted up the sash in the middle window, opened the shutters and looked at the sky, the few scattered clouds and the moon shyly rising. He noticed the luminescent ring around the moon and remembered the old proverb he’d learned as a child: ring nearby, rain far away; ring far away, rain nearby. He opened the other two shutters wide and lowered the sashes.

  Since the city was surrounded by mountains, strong winds were rare whenever it started raining. And yet it would rain in the front room, the children’s room, every time.

  He went in their room, lifted the first sash, opened the shutters and looked down at the street. There were few people going by; an elderly couple walking together, she hanging on his arm, a few cars here and there, nothing out of the ordinary. Stores were closing their doors. He opened the other two shutters and closed all the sashes, one on top and one on the bottom in case it rained while he was out. In the living room the dog started to bark in a strange, alarmed way.

  He turned out the lights, turned around to go downstairs and was startled by a sharp crack, glass breaking and something heavy falling on the floor. He instinctively crouched down, turned around and saw a hole in one of the panes in the middle sash. He didn’t dare turn on the light. He crawled forward to the window nearest him and looked out through a corner pane. Nobody on the street. He raised the window and leaned out, looking both ways. Nothing. He went back inside, turned on the light and found half a brick under his daughter’s bed. Wrapped around it was a folded sheet of paper, like from a school notebook, bound to the brick by a tightly knotted string.

  Dornelas picked it up, removed the string and opened the paper. It was
a note on which was written in block letters: “Don’t go sticking your nose where it don’t belong.” It was unsigned.

  He sat on his son’s bed and took a deep breath, his heart pounding. He was sweating buckets. He opened the sashes and closed the shutters in both rooms. He changed his shirt, left the note and the brick on the hall table, picked up his keys and left. Lupi’s walk would have to wait.

  Chapter 9

  The first thing he saw as soon as he entered was an enormous black and white photograph hanging on the wall: a woman standing up, naked, her entire body wrapped loosely in bandages; a poorly made mummy.

  Her milky skin was visible through the slits, a little tuft of hair on her pubis and large breasts with nipples the size of oranges, hanging to the sides, pulled by the tightly wrapped gauze. She wore a black band above her eyes that held an evil expression, and wielded a sword in a menacing fashion in one of her hands.

  He went on to the next one, a huge enlargement of female genitals squeezed between tightly closed legs; only the black, pubic hair was visible; two male fingers, index and middle, were making their way mischievously down there. Dornelas stopped in front of it in total astonishment. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

  Startled, he turned around.

  “This photographer does incredible work. He’s from here, did you know that?” asked Marina.

  “I’m either getting old or this is just pure porn.”

  “Or maybe both,” she said with an impish look.

  “Maybe,” smiled a condescending Dornelas.

  “Shall we sit down?”

  “Sure.”

  They left the exhibition hall and went to the café in the room next door. They found a round table and sat down.

  “This must be an important case, Inspector. Still working at this hour?”

  She threw out the question with the sarcasm of the private sector workaholic who sees Brazilian civil service as a den of inefficiency and loafers. Apart from whether she was right or not, Dornelas was surprised at her provocation, since she was also a public servant. He decided to let it go; replying would only make it worse.

  “It’s better than just sitting at home thinking about silly things,” he answered.

  She smiled.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I’d like to know more about what led you to follow Nildo Borges to this one-horse town.”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s not the way I see it.”

  “So how do you see it?”

  Marina sat up in her chair and leaned her elbows on the table.

  “I followed Nildo because I was lost in Rio. I don’t like big cities. I was brought up in a small town. I’m better off here.”

  Dornelas felt comforted by the empathy he felt. Marina continued:

  “Nildo is a very able politician who took the opportunity to combine his love of politics with his family business when it arose. You know it was his father who founded Peixe Dourado, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, things sort of fell into place for him after the election in Rio.”

  “His first one, which he lost, right?”

  “Right. Shortly afterwards, when he was still frustrated with politics in the capital, his father died and he came here to take care of the family business.”

  The waiter appeared. Marina ordered a cup of coffee and a bottle of sparkling water. Opening the menu Dornelas suddenly felt ravenous. There was nothing but appetizers; he imagined small, greasy portions. What he wanted was something more substantial, maybe a goró. Frustrated, he ordered the same as she, plus an order of fries, which would have to hold him over until he got back home.

  “Why him and not his brother?” asked Dornelas, putting the menu down on the table.

  “Wilson? He’s a complete idiot. If it weren’t for the family business he’d be hard pressed to find a job anywhere else.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “He’s totally unprepared. He’s always lived off his family’s money and he knows nothing about the business – neither this one nor any other. He spends his time and money creating absurd projects that never come to anything. And worse, he’s dumb as a doornail. He tries to offset his stupidity with an arrogance like I’ve never seen before, he’s a real jerk. Suffice to say that to this day nothing he’s done has ever worked out.”

  “So why did Nildo put him in charge of Peixe Dourado?”

  “It’s just a front. Nildo gave him an office, a phone and a secretary to show the opposition councilmen that he’s out of the business. But in fact, it’s Nildo who runs the company.”

  “I thought he only interfered occasionally, like when that refrigeration unit broke down.”

  “That happens frequently. They’re all old and they cost a fortune.”

  “You seem to be well acquainted with the company!”

  “I only know what I hear Nildo saying. I don’t get involved. Peixe Dourado is a black box to me, as I imagine it is to you.”

  “It is indeed,” he said, then added, “for the time being.”

  Marina Rivera jerked up in her seat as her eyes opened wide. Dornelas had just opened a door she had been insisting on keeping closed. It was time to go through it.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Exactly what I said: for the time being.”

  “Do you think there’s a connection between the Mangrove Crime and Peixe Dourado?”

  “It’s a possibility I can’t ignore.”

  She shook her head lightly, like a canoe gently rocking in the swells.

  “But I’m willing to keep you out of it should we find something, shall we say, unsavory.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Illegal.”

  “Are you asking me to betray Nildo after all these years I’ve been with him? This is a man who has been a tremendous help in my life, Inspector. A part of what I am and what I do, I owe to him. I quit my career as a lawyer in Rio because I thought that by coming here to Palmyra with him I could make a difference.” She lowered her eyes, seemingly lost. “In a small city like this I can actually see the results of what I’m doing. That’s really gratifying, you know?”

  “I understand what you’re saying. But remember that we’re talking about murder here. If we find any connection to the crime, think of the consequences to his career and to yours. You followed him here. Better think about how far you’d be willing to go if the investigation were to reveal something illegal.”

  The coffee, mineral water and fries arrived. Dornelas put sugar in his coffee, poured water in both glasses and picked up a fry that almost scalded his fingers. Marina Rivera was close to collapsing. She didn’t touch anything. She stared motionless into emptiness. She was struggling with herself, as if the ground had dropped out from beneath her feet.

  “It would be wise if you didn’t mention our talk to the councilman.”

  “Why?”

  “For your own good. Despite the two of you having had a very long relationship – about which, I must say, I still know very little – think about what you represent in his life and in his business. Ask yourself if he would protect you from the scandal, should it come to that, or whether you would merely be...” – words escaped him – “collateral damage, as they say in American movies. Nobody is irreplaceable, you know.”

  Marina saw herself sinking into a deep, dark hole. After so many years serving the people and the councilman, this was the first time she had ever seen her beliefs put in check.

  “Aren’t you being too hard on me, Inspector?”

  “On the contrary. I’m simply the one who’s opening your eyes to a world you insist on not seeing. What if Nildo has switched sides, become a criminal? Or more, what if his idiot brother is not such an idiot after all?”

  “Who knows?” she said softly to herself.

  Marina sugared her coffee, took a sip and put it down. It was cold. She mechanically sipped the water, a lost look on her face.

&nb
sp; “I need some time to think, Inspector.”

  “You have twenty-four hours. Is that enough?”

  “I think so. What are you asking me for, in practical terms?”

  “Access to the company’s books, especially the private ones with the slush funds, the unaccounted-for income, that sort of thing. Look for notations, anything. I want to start there. If I show up at his door with a court order I’m sure Nildo Borges will find a way to make this information, if it does in fact exist, disappear in the wink of an eye.”

  “That I can believe.”

  “And I don’t want to involve the Federal Police before I’m sure there’s something really going on.”

  Mentioning the Federal Police frightened her even more.

  “You have twenty-four hours,” Dornelas repeated.

  “I have to think.”

  Marina got up and left.

  *

  The message had been delivered.

  Now it was time to wait for the plan he’d put in motion to take its course. He looked at his watch, paid the check and rushed home. The next to last episode of the soap was going to start in ten minutes.

  It involved an intricate storyline that had dragged on for months around the people possibly implicated in the murder of a steel magnate. The plot pointed to several suspects: the laid-off driver, the betrayed wife, the insatiable lover, the greedy competitor.

  Tonight millions of Brazilians of all ages and social spheres would join him in a ritual that bordered on religious fanaticism. Discovering the identity of the murderer was merely the end of a story which had unfolded in the same manner as so many other soaps before it. Good guy, bad guy. Rich man, poor man. The heroine and the viper. Good and evil. The dull routine of it was just what a single inspector needed.

  He opened the door and was almost knocked over by a nauseous smell. He turned on the lights. Lupi was cowering under the coffee table in front of the couch, tail between his legs, eyes wide open and ears hanging down in shame. He was shaking. Not satisfied with leaving a puddle of pee on the brick floor, he had also left a pile of dog shit in the corner of the living room for good measure. Dornelas hurried to the laundry room in search of a rag, disinfectant and a shovel. He got it all cleaned up in a trice.