“What did you get on Bustillo?” he asked the smooth-talker.
Flores repeated the same story Handal had got from the lady at the pharmacy. Also, Bustillo had two brothers, an architect and a doctor, but they hadn’t heard from him either. There wasn’t a trace of the suspect.
Villalta said there was no record of a yellow Chevrolet registered under the name Jacinto Bustillo. Maybe the car was too old.
“Are you sure?” Handal asked, but he knew the mess the files were in since the latest restructuring. “I’m going to have to make a statement to the media. Commissioner’s orders. Things are heating up. Nobody knows what’s going on. We’ve got to calm everyone down.”
“Boss, if we describe the car, won’t we be alerting the suspect?” Flores asked.
But the description of the car had already been leaked; it would be better to make photocopies of the composite sketch, but not mention Jacinto Bustillo’s name, since there still wasn’t any proof.
What was strange, said Villalta, stroking his large jaw, was that the suspect hadn’t gone into his ex-wife’s pharmacies in either the Plaza Morena mall or downtown.
“Afraid he’d be recognized,” said Handal.
“But he could have at least sent the snakes,” the detective insisted.
“Maybe they’re not that well trained,” suggested Flores.
It was four in the afternoon when Deputy Commissioner Handal entered the Black Palace’s pressroom. He was tense, right now he hated the Commissioner, a guy who was too young and too naïve for the job. A guy who was forcing him to meet with the press when he still didn’t have good news to report. It was really the Public Relations Officer’s job to show up here. For fifteen minutes he answered the reporters’ questions as vaguely as he could and stressed whenever he had the slightest opportunity that the authorities were on the suspect’s trail and that the public should stay calm and report any suspicious behaviour.
Rita was the worst of them. She was insolent, insisting on asking what the motive was for the murder of Doña Sofía Bustillo and whether that crime wasn’t the key to explaining the attacks at the Plaza Morena mall and downtown, as though she already knew the Deputy Commissioner’s theory about the case.
“I can’t say any more, we’re still investigating,” Handal said curtly before leaving the room. He headed towards his office.
“A woman called claiming she has some information about the yellow Chevrolet,” Flores whispered to him. They still weren’t far enough away from the reporters. Her name was Beatriz Díaz. She was a storeowner in the Macrópolis housing project. She said that the car had been parked in front of her store until this morning.
Handal took a breath. He walked with Flores and Villalta to his office, sat in the swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk and waited a few minutes for the reporters to leave. He didn’t want any more leaks, he warned them. He told them to go down to the car without attracting any attention; he’d meet them there in a minute. He took the time to call his wife to tell her that he was in charge of this damned case and he wasn’t sure what time he’d be home for dinner.
As soon as he got in the Nissan he ordered Villalta not to put the siren on. But he soon saw how useless his caution had been: there were news vans in front of the store already.
“Goddamn sons-of-bitches!” Handal yelled.
The woman was positively gleeful in front of all the cameras and microphones. She was leaning on the counter, surrounded by bags of candy, canned goods, rolls of toilet paper and cans of soft drinks. She said the yellow Chevrolet had been parked across the street for two weeks, and that a filthy drunk slept in it at night. During the day, he’d leave to commit God only knew what evil deeds. This morning the car had disappeared, driven no doubt by that criminal, maybe because he was afraid the police would get him. A police officer had come by just the night before last.
“A police officer came here the other night?” Rita asked. She was crowded into the tiny space, which was filling up with more and more journalists.
“Yes,” said Niña Beatriz. “I called the authorities to take him away. I didn’t like the look of him. But the officer was weak; the guy convinced him that sleeping in your car isn’t illegal. Give me a break!”
The Deputy Commissioner stepped onto the sidewalk. Exasperated, he grabbed Villalta by the arm.
“Get me the names of the officers who came here last night. I want them right now.”
That was exactly what the reporter from Ocho Columnas wanted to know, but Niña Beatriz said she could only remember that his first name was Dolores. She’d forgotten his last name.
“How did you find out about this woman?” Handal asked a reporter who’d just arrived. He was beginning to lose his temper.
“I don’t know,” the reporter said, shrugging his shoulders. “They just sent me.”
The Deputy Commissioner ordered Flores to do whatever he could to get that old bitch in the patrol car right away. He waited on the sidewalk. Now it turned out that the police had been told about the guy with the snakes two nights ago. Just what he needed.
Detective Flores was on his way, smiling like a good boy, leading Niña Beatriz to the car, paying no attention to the onslaught of cameras, microphones and reporters. They hadn’t gone four blocks before Niña Beatriz told them she’d been the one who called the media. After the other night, she didn’t trust the police anymore and didn’t think they’d show up.
“Are you taking me to headquarters?”
“We have to interview you, madam,” said Handal. “This is a serious case. I’m in charge.”
She told them they were all incompetent — they could’ve caught the guy last night. Why hadn’t they done it? She’d even called city hall to get the municipal authorities to get rid of that bum, but they ignored her too.
“Do you have any idea what the suspect’s name is?” asked the Deputy Commissioner.
She wasn’t so good with names, but Don Eduardo could help them. He’d even talked to him; she’d seen them. Why didn’t they ask him? He lived with his sister Adriana and her husband Damián, on the second floor of Building B.
Villalta manoeuvred quickly. The Nissan did a U-turn, tires screeching, and drove back the way they’d come. The reporters’ cars driving behind them couldn’t keep up.
“Hey, young man, be careful! What’s the matter with him?” Niña Beatriz complained. She said she didn’t understand the part about the snakes. She didn’t think the animals could’ve been in the car the whole time without her or any of the other neighbours noticing. The Chevrolet hadn’t moved in two weeks. The bum left on foot every day with a canvas bag to pick up junk.
They stopped in front of the store again.
“Take a ride around the block,” Handal ordered as he got out. He went to Building B, climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the first of two doors. A woman asked who it was without opening up. “Police. I’m Deputy Commissioner Handal. I’m looking for Don Eduardo.”
The woman opened the door, looking distrustful. Handal showed her his ID.
“Eduardo isn’t here,” she said. “He disappeared two days ago. Come in if you like.”
It was Adriana. She was worried. She’d heard about the old yellow Chevrolet on the news, the one that looked like the car that had been parked out there on the street. Eduardo had tried to talk to the owner.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Handal asked without entering.
“He left on Thursday morning and he hasn’t been back since. It’s really strange. Eduardo always comes back here to sleep.”
The Deputy Commissioner knew that this was going to be a new development in the case, one of those new developments that complicated everything. Especially now that she was saying that her brother was unemployed with a history of behavioural problems.