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.”
“And this Gustavo? He’s here now? In Brasilia?”
“I thought he was. He’s been here twice before. Juan paid for his tickets both times. Business class, no less. The little bitch said he wouldn’t fly tourist.”
“And now you think he’s here again?”
“I assumed he was when I heard the noise.”
“You think Gustavo killed Juan?”
“How should I know?”
“I’m not asking you what you know, Senhor Garcia. I’m asking you what you think.”
“Then I think… not. Gustavo had a good thing going. He was in it for the money. Why should he kill a goose that was laying golden eggs for him?”
“Could Juan have done something to make Gustavo jealous?”
Garcia shook his head.
“Impossible. Gustavo didn’t care about Juan. I couldn’t get Juan to see that, but it’s true.”
“All right, so you heard this banging around…”
“And it sounded like they were having a rough fuck on the carpet. I couldn’t stand it. I was drunk. I went up there on an impulse.”
“Drunk,” Pereira repeated. “And angry too, I’ll bet.”
“Angry too, I admit it. Being angry isn’t a crime.”
“Murder is,” Pereira said.
“Goddamn it! I’ve already told you. I didn’t kill him!”
“Senhor Garcia,” Silva said, “please.”
Garcia took a deep breath.
“I took the elevator. When it stopped on three-”
“Wait a minute. You took the elevator? For one floor?”
“Normally I’d walk up the stairs, but I was so drunk, I decided to take the elevator. As I got off, I heard the metal fire door to the stairwell slam shut. All the banging had stopped. I walked into the apartment-”
“You walked into the apartment? Are you telling me the door was open?”