Leighton Gage - Every Bitter Thing

Without even a nod in Pereira’s direction, he bustled off in the direction of the elevator.

“Prick,” Pereira said when Sampaio was safely out of earshot.

“You have no idea,” Arnaldo said.

Silva glanced at his watch. “Unless he’s a gentleman of leisure, the odds on Garcia being home at this time on a weekday morning aren’t good.”

“No, but we can still toss the place, question the maid, get handwriting samples, maybe even find the murder weapon. I have Judge Carmo’s number right here.”

Pereira pulled out his cell phone.

Caio Carmo was what the cops termed a “friendly judge,” willing to issue a search warrant on the thinnest of evidence. The two federal policemen stood waiting while Pereira tried first Carmo’s home, then his chambers. Carmo, as it turned out, was in court.

Pereira left an urgent message and the cops adjourned to a nearby padaria to drink coffee and wait.

Tomas Garcia’s front door was opened by Garcia’s maid, a young woman with bad teeth and a Bahian accent. From the glazed look she gave Pereira’s ID, Silva concluded she couldn’t read. She said her name was Safira Nogueira and, when prompted, produced a dog-eared identity card.

Her employer wasn’t there, she said, hadn’t been home when she showed up for work that morning. She normally arrived at nine, left at six. Normally, too, he’d be there to greet her and to see her out.

Vargas read the warrant and explained, in layman’s language, what it gave them the right to do. She asked them to wait while she tried to reach her employer. But, as it turned out, Tomas Garcia wasn’t picking up his cell phone. Reluctantly, she admitted them.

The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to the one upstairs, as if the younger man was striving to appear older, while the older was clinging to vestiges of youth. The palette in Juan’s apartment had been a melange of dark reds and browns; Garcia’s place was a riot of color, the decoration contemporary and minimalist.

Pereira and Silva sat on a yellow leather couch, Safira on an upright chair, upholstered in cerulean blue, designed for aesthetics more than for comfort. The other two cops began to search the premises.

“Were you aware of the fact,” Pereira asked, kicking off the questioning, “that Tomas Garcia and Juan Rivas were lovers?”

Safira showed no surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes Senhor Juan would come down here to spend the night. Sometimes Senhor Tomas would go up there. They used to call each other, too. Sometimes five or six times a day.”

“But not recently?”

“No, Senhor. Not recently.”

Vargas came into the living room with a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand. He hadn’t been away for more than three minutes.

“From his desk,” he said. “The same handwriting as the letters.”

Pereira smiled, as if the young cop had given him a present.

“How about the club?” he said. “Or the gun?”

Vargas shook his head. “Not yet, Senhor.”

“Keep looking,” Pereira said.

Just then, there was a rattle of keys at the front door. Vargas, without being told, crept over and stationed himself behind it. Pereira rose to his feet, looked at Safira, and put a finger to his lips.

Silva, too, stood.

Keys in hand, a figure in his late fifties, or perhaps in his early sixties, entered the apartment. He froze when he saw the men standing in front of the couch.

“Senhor Garcia?” Silva asked.

“Who are you people? What are you doing in my apartment?”

“I’ll take that for a yes,” Silva said.

Garcia sensed a movement behind him and turned to find Detective Vargas gently shutting the door. He took a nervous swallow, and his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.

“No need to be alarmed,” Silva said. “We’re police officers. Here’s my identification.”

As Garcia read, the stiffness drained out of his neck and shoulders. He slouched, looked very tired; defeated, even.

“A police ID doesn’t give you the right to invade my apartment,” he said.

“No,” Pereira said. “But this does.” He produced Judge Carmo’s warrant and held it out. “Read it, if you like.”

“I certainly will,” Garcia said. His Portuguese was fluent, but heavily accented. He snatched the paper out of Pereira’s hand and started to examine it.

“That will be all for now, Safira,” Silva said.

The maid looked to her employer, but he kept his eyes glued to the paper. Safira nodded at Silva and left the room.

Garcia was wearing a tailored suit and a Versace tie, but he’d done a bad job shaving. Narrow swatches of whiskers clung to his chin. He smelled of Scotch whiskey and mintflavored mouthwash. Folding the warrant, he licked his lips and looked at Pereira.

“Were you aware, before you read that”-Pereira pointed at the papers-“that Juan Rivas was dead?”

“I was aware,” Garcia said, cautiously.

He could hardly have said otherwise what with the circus going on downstairs. If he hadn’t known before he got home, someone in front of the building would have told him.

“We found your letters,” Pereira said, “the ones you wrote to Juan about Gustavo.”

Tomas Garcia turned a shade paler. His eyes moved from side to side as if seeking an avenue of escape.

“You want to tell us about it?” Pereira asked. “Get it off your chest?”

“I loved him,” Garcia said. “We had a spat. We were estranged, I admit that. I was angry, but I would never have…” His voice trailed off.

“Have what?” Pereira said.

“Killed him.”

“And yet your letters…”

Garcia put a hand over his eyes and sank down onto the sofa. “Oh, God,” he said. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

Pereira didn’t reply.

“All we want,” Silva said, “is the truth. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear.”

Garcia, apparently surprised by Silva’s gentle tone, lifted his head. “This is one of those good cop/bad cop routines, isn’t it?”

“It’s not a routine. I’m not trying to trick you. I honestly want you to tell me what happened.”

Garcia began speaking in a rush. “You say you want the truth? All right, here’s the truth: I wanted to patch it up between us. I’d tried everything else, so I threatened to kill myself, and-”

“Wait. You threatened to kill yourself?”

Garcia frowned. “You said you read the letters.”

“Not all. There were a few unopened.”

“A few? How many is a few?”

“Seven.”

“Seven. The last seven?”

Silva nodded.

Garcia stared past him. A tear pearled out of his left eye and ran down his cheek. He made no attempt to wipe it away.

“Yesterday,” he said, “I spent the day with a bottle. I got shitfaced. I passed out for a while, woke up, and started drinking again. Sometime around midnight, or maybe it was later, I heard banging around upstairs. His living room is… was… just above this one. I thought to myself, He’s with that bitch Gustavo Fernandez.”

“One moment, Senhor Garcia,” Silva said. “You said you heard ‘banging around.’ Did you hear a shot?”

“A shot? No.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I’m sure. I know what a shot sounds like. There was no shot. Why do you want to know if there was a shot? What does a shot have to do with anything?”

“Who’s Gustavo Fernandez?”

“Gustavo Fernandez is a whore. Gustavo Fernandez is a filthy, money-grubbing whore Juan met in a sauna.”

“A sauna?”

“In Miami. Gustavo is Cuban, one of those so-called exiles. Always complaining about how Che Guevara and the Castro brothers took their island away, but they wouldn’t go back to it if you paid them.”