Leighton Gage - Every Bitter Thing

“Cavalcante thinks the shot came first,” Pereira said, “and it probably would have killed him. But the murderer decided not to hang around and wait. The other wounds were inflicted by some kind of blunt instrument. There’s nothing in the apartment that fills the bill. No gun either.”

“You notice those red toenails?” Silva asked.

“Hard to miss. How often do you see a guy with painted toenails? Was Rivas gay?” Arnaldo asked.

“He was,” Pereira responded, “and I’ll get to that in a minute. So, what’s your take on the shot? If it wasn’t meant to kill him, why shoot him at all?”

“You put a bullet into a man’s abdomen,” Silva said, “it’s like giving him a punch in the gut. He’s going to bend over forward.” Silva extended his left hand as if he was shooting a pistol, and raised his right as if he was holding a club. “Then the perp hits him on the back of the head to bring him down.” He brought down his right arm, matching action to words. “Once he’s on the floor, there’s no escape. And the killer can see him suffer while he finishes him off at leisure.”

Pereira rubbed his chin. “Makes sense,” he said. “But how come Rivas just let him stroll in with a club in one hand and a gun in the other?”

“Maybe the little he was able to see through the peephole didn’t seem like a threat.”

“Anyone in the building hear a shot?”

Pereira shook his head. “No one we talked to, and that’s all the adjoining neighbors except for the guy downstairs. He isn’t home.”

“According to you,” Arnaldo said, “you have the case ninety-nine percent solved. How about sharing? It would be really nice to get out of here before lunch.”

“Let’s start with a motive,” Silva said.

“I have one,” Pereira said. “Sexual jealousy.”

“Evidence?”

“Plenty. I have…”-he paused for effect-“letters.”

“Did I hear a fanfare of trumpets just before you said ‘letters’?” Arnaldo said.

“What kind of letters?” Silva said.

“Let’s move on to the next exhibit, shall we? Right this way, gentlemen.”

Pereira ushered them through an arch, across a dining room, and through an open door.

Half of the space was occupied by a breakfast nook, the rest by a modern kitchen. Seated at a table, wearing a pair of latex gloves, was a young man in shirtsleeves. His suit jacket hung neatly over the back of a chair.

“Chief Inspector Silva, Agent Nunes,” Pereira said, “meet Detective Vargas.”

Vargas blushed and got to his feet.

“Heard of you, Senhor. Heard of you both.”

Silva offered a hand. The young man snapped off his right glove before he took it. Then he shook hands with Arnaldo.

“Tell them about the letters,” Pereira said.

“They’re all in order,” Vargas said. “From the thirteenth of August up until… well, I don’t know exactly. The last seven were never opened. I thought we’d let the forensics people do that. I just finished putting the others into plastic envelopes.” He picked one up and held it between Silva and Arnaldo, not sure who should get it. “The series starts with this one.”

“ Tell them,” Pereira said. “They can read later.”

Vargas turned an even brighter shade of pink. “They’re love letters, and in the beginning they’re pretty much like any other love letters, but then they turn abusive. The writer, who was older than Juan, knew Juan was ditching him for someone younger.”

“Knew, or thought?”

“Knew, Senhor. He mentioned the other party by name.”

“And that name was?”

“Gustavo.”

“Were the letters signed?”

“With a single letter, a ‘T.’ Look here. See?”

“Any return address?”

“No. No stamps, either. They’re dated, though, on the outsides of the envelopes.”

Silva turned to Pereira. “Hand-delivered?”

Pereira shrugged. “Or stuffed in his mailbox, or slipped under his door.”

“Did you question that guy out front? The one dressed like the Student Prince.”

Pereira shook his head. “I was just about to when you guys showed up.”

“Let’s do it together,” Silva said.

While they were waiting for the doorman to come up, Pereira took the federal cops on a tour of the apartment. There were two bedrooms, but only one bed showed signs of having been slept in. Pereira tapped his fingers on the drawer of a bedside table.

“Here’s where we found the letters,” he said.

“If the guy who killed him wrote the letters,” Arnaldo said, “why didn’t he take them with him?”

“He probably wasn’t thinking about anything except beating the shit out of Juan,” Pereira said.

Arnaldo shook his head. “Doesn’t fit,” he said. “He took his weapons, didn’t he? So why not the letters?”

“Stop constructing alibis for my perp,” Pereira said.

“What if Senhor T already has an alibi?” Arnaldo said.

Pereira glared at him.

“What is it with you, Nunes? How come you always try to rain on my parades?”

“What else did the ME have to say about that blunt instrument?” Silva asked.

“Some kind of a bludgeon; thicker than a cop’s baton, round, no sharp edges.”

“Take us through the business of the dead bolt one more time.”

“According to Carmen, Juan was a security freak. One time, she came in and forgot to engage the bolt. He had a fit, damned near fired her.”

“But when she arrived this morning?”

“The dead bolt wasn’t engaged. That much we managed to get out of her.”

“So Rivas almost certainly let the murderer in,” Silva said, “and the murderer almost certainly let himself out. Begs a question, doesn’t it?”

“What question?”

“Juan wasn’t suspicious of his caller. Wouldn’t you be suspicious of someone who was sending you abusive letters?”

Pereira gave an exasperated snort.

“Look, you guys want to do the devil’s advocate thing, that’s okay. Me? I’m a man who looks for the most obvious solution.”

A voice intruded. “Jose de Araujo, Senhores.”

The detective from downstairs, his shoes now tied, was in the doorway. Behind him, standing on tiptoe to look over the detective’s shoulder, was the guy in the operetta costume. Under the polished leather brim of his hat, his eyes were big with curiosity.

“Is he here?” he said.

“Who?” Pereira said.

“Senhor Juan. I heard he was… killed.” Araujo gave a delicious shiver.

“You heard right,” Pereira said. “The body’s in the living room, behind the couch.”

The doorman looked disappointed. “Behind the couch, huh?” For a moment, Silva thought he was going to ask if he could see it.

Pereira fished a notebook out of his pocket. “What’s that name again?”

“Jose de Araujo, Senhor.”

Pereira made a note of it and pointed his pen at an upholstered chair. “Sit down, Jose.” The doorman did, and Pereira took a seat facing him. The detective waited until Pereira waved him off, and then left without a word.

“How long you worked here, Jose?” Pereira said.

“Six years, Senhor.”

“How well did you know Juan Rivas?”

“Very well, Senhor. I greeted him every day. I opened the door for him. I delivered his packages. When he had a visitor, I called him on the interphone. When he needed someone-”

“Okay, okay, I got it,” Pereira said.

“Can I smoke, Senhor?”

“No, you can’t. Did Juan have any special friends?”

A sly look came over the doorman’s face. “So you know,” he said.

“Know what?”

“Know he was a viado, Senhor. I guess I can say that. Now that he’s dead. And you being the police.”

“He didn’t make any secret of it, then?”