Leighton Gage - Every Bitter Thing

The man ran a hand through his unkempt hair and stared at them out of bleary, brown eyes. He didn’t seem in the least intimidated.

“Cops?”

“Cops.”

“Got any ID?”

“Sure.”

Willis had his badge ready.

The man fish-eyed it. “Something with a picture,” he said.

Willis turned the badge case over and let Fernandez scrutinize his warrant card.

“What do you want with me?” Fernandez said, finally admitting to Willis’s identity. “I didn’t do anything.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Willis said. “May we come in?”

“ Carajo, do you know what time it is?”

“It’s about ten.”

“Middle of the fucking night.”

“Can we come in?”

“Wait,” Fernandez said and shut the door in their faces.

They heard voices from within, Fernandez and another man.

“Ah,” Andre said. “Like that.”

A minute later, the door opened again. The apartment had been pitch-black. Now the overhead lamp was on.

“I hope you’re going to make it quick,” Fernandez said and stepped aside.

The place was a studio, a single room with a kitchenette in one corner and a king-sized bed in the other. Beyond a door on their right, someone flushed a toilet.

Fernandez pointed at a table encircled by four chairs. “Sit there,” he said.

He walked to the window and pulled aside a heavy blackout curtain, revealing the wall of an adjoining building.

“Ocean view, my ass,” Willis whispered to his partner.

On his way back to the table, Fernandez switched off the overhead lamp. “What’s this all about?”

Willis took the lead. “You were an acquaintance of Juan Rivas, right?”

“What’s with the were shit? We’re still acquaintances.”

“You don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“It was in the Herald, him being the son of the Venezuelan foreign minister and all.”

“I don’t read the fucking Herald. Where are you going with all this?”

“Juan Rivas is dead.”

“No shit?” Fernandez didn’t look devastated or even concerned, just curious. “What happened to him?”

“He was murdered.”

“Huh.”

“The way we hear it,” Andre said, “you and he-”

Fernandez looked at the door to the bathroom, held up a hand, and lowered his voice.

“He was a friend. That’s all, just a friend.”

“Uh-huh,” Willis said. He reached into his pocket, took out his notebook, and glanced at a page. “According to our information, you also know a guy by the name of…”-he found what he was looking for-“Tomas Garcia?”

“That old fart? Yeah, I know him. So?”

The shower in the bathroom went on; it made a lot of noise. Fernandez looked relieved.

“According to Garcia,” Andre said, “you and Rivas were an item.”

“That’s a load of crap,” Fernandez said.

“Is it? The Brazilian cops have Rivas’s telephone records. They told us the two of you spent a lot of time chatting with each other.”

Fernandez cast another glance at the bathroom door.

“Okay, okay: at one time. But no more. That’s history.”

“So the two of you haven’t spoken for a while?”

“What did I just say? History.”

“What happened?”

Fernandez shrugged.

“I moved on,” he said.

“You broke up?”

“There was nothing to break. Casual sex, that’s all it was. What have you guys got to do with any of this? Juan was murdered down in Brazil, right?”

“What makes you think that?”

“You mean he was here?”

“No. It happened in Brazil, all right.” Again, Willis consulted his notebook. “There were three occasions when you didn’t exchange telephone calls for over a week. The first was from the tenth to the eighteenth of August.”

“I was in Brazil.”

“And from the third to the thirteenth of October?”

“Again, Brazil.”

“That the last time you were there?”

“Yeah. Last time.”

“Can you prove it?”

“Hell, yes, I can prove it. I’ve got the stamps in my passport.”

Willis turned the page. “The third time period in which the two of you weren’t calling each other,” he said, “was from the fourteenth to the twenty-second of November.”

In the bathroom, the sound of the shower stopped. Fernandez lowered his voice. “He was here.”

“He stayed with you?”

“No, I mean here in Miami. He took a hotel suite. He was after a good time. I showed him around.”

“Did you stay with him? There in the suite?”

“What if I did?”

“When did you first meet him?”

Fernandez thought for a moment. “July. It musta been the first or the second. I remember taking him to the fireworks on the Fourth. You done?”

“Just a few more questions. What did he tell you about his relationship with Garcia?”

“That the old fart wouldn’t let go, couldn’t get it through his head that Juan was finished with him. He kept slipping letters under Juan’s door.”

“Did Juan show any of those letters to you?”

“He read a few when we talked by phone. We laughed about them. Hey, you think the old fart killed him?”

“Do you?”

Fernandez shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Did Juan talk to you about any of his other relationships?”

“No.”

“Did Juan ever tell you about anyone he was afraid of?”

“No.”

“Anything you can think of that might lead to finding his killer?”

“No,” Fernandez glanced at the bathroom door. “How much longer is this gonna take?”

Willis stood up and Andre followed suit.

“We’ll be out of here,” Willis said, “just as soon as you show us those stamps in your passport.”

“Hello, Babyface.”

“You know I don’t like that nickname, Chief Inspector.”

It was 4:30 P.M. in Brasilia. Haraldo Goncalves was calling in from Rio de Janeiro.

“Sorry,” Silva said, smoothly. “It just slipped out. What have you got?”

“ Nada. Chantal Pires is a dead end. She’s no killer.”

“Chantal Pires? That would be Jonas Palhares’s girlfriend.”

“The very same.”

“All right, let’s hear it.”

“They met on the beach.”

“So?”

“The girls you meet on the beaches in Rio, they’re all dressed alike, which means in bathing suits about the size of postage stamps. And nobody is stupid enough to wear jewelry or a watch, so you don’t know whether you’re dealing with an heiress or a whore until she opens her mouth.”

“And often not even then.”

“And often not even then. You must be younger than you look, Chief Inspector.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, Senhor. It just slipped out. Chantal told me Palhares had her in bed two hours into their first date.”

“How forthcoming. Go on.”

“Palhares lived in a rental apartment, a duplex penthouse on Vieira Souto in Ipanema. The guy went through a divorce, for Christ’s sake! You gotta ask yourself how he could have afforded it.”

“So you went there and had a look?”

“I did. There’s a stain where he bled out on the rug. The air-conditioning had crapped out, and Palhares’s corpse was there for a while before they found him. The whole place still stinks. The owners have got some work ahead of them before they can rent it out to someone else.”

“Find anything of interest?”

“Nothing.”

“The Rio cops have any other suspects?”

“Not one. And they’re backing off on Chantal. As well they should.”

“What makes you so sure they can rule her out?”

“The way she talked. When he brought her home the first time, she took one look at that apartment and thought she’d found the duck that lays golden eggs.”