Requiem for a Killer (23 page)

“Don’t do this, sir. He’ll kill me.”

“No he won’t. We’ll deal with him. I just
want to know why didn’t you tell me your client that night was
Wilson Borges?”

“He promised he’d kill my mother and me if
either of us ever said anythin’ to the cops.”

“The cops are not the press. It’s not our
job to print the names of your clients so people can read them in
the paper.”

“The guy is crazy, sir, a maniac.” She
covered her face with her hands and began to sob gently. “The worst
thing can happen to a woman in my business is to have her client
fall in love with her. It’s a disaster. Lots of men confuse the
tenderness we show them in bed with real love. It was like that
with Wilson, he fell madly in love with me.”

“Explain that.”

“He’d call me all times of day sayin’ he
loved me, that I was the woman of his dreams. Came a time it
bothered me so much I didn’t answer his calls anymore.”

“But you did answer, that’s why he went to
your house that night.”

“Cause I asked him to. I wanted to talk to
him about his bein’ obsessed, tell him what he was feelin’ had no
future, that I’m a prostitute, that I see lots of clients... It was
like talking to a kid in school in love with his teacher. The guy
just didn’t get it.”

“And the way you got him to understand was
to go to bed with him one more time?”

She nodded and lowered her eyes again.

“It was the only way to calm him down,” she
said quietly, almost whispering.

Dornelas left her in silence for a few
seconds.

“When did you see him last?”

“That same night. Soon’s they took my
brother I got out of bed to see what was happenin’. When I opened
the door and found the syringe on the ground, Wilson was already
dressed and half way out the door. But first he stuck his finger in
my face and told me not to say anythin’ about him bein’ with me to
the cops. He said he’d kill me and left.”

“Did he threaten you again after that?”

“No, never again.”

Maria das Graças was watching him fearfully,
waiting for Dornelas to say something.

“Why did you faint when I told you the lab
had found insulin in the syringe?”

“My brother’s disease was almost a secret at
home, somethin’ we didn’t talk about, not even between us. Dindinho
thought it made him look weak, that his enemies could like use it
against him. That’s why he said we shouldn’t say anythin’ about his
condition to anyone.”

“But apparently you did tell someone outside
the family, just the one.”

“Wilson Borges.”

“Why?”

“He’s a diabetic too. It came up once when
we were talkin’.”

“But that doesn’t make him your brother’s
killer.”

“No, it don’t.”

“Although the fact that he has access to a
large quantity of insulin makes me suspect him,” Dornelas said,
thinking out loud. “On the other hand, he could have told someone
else, who then used the information to kill your brother.”

She nodded nervously while rubbing her hands
together.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“Please.”

Dornelas sat down in his chair again, picked
up the phone and dialed three numbers.

“Marilda, please bring two glasses of water
to my office, but bring them yourself.”

“Right away, sir.”

And he hung up. He didn’t want to be
interrupted by Solano’s long looks at Maria das Graças’
cleavage.

“Do you want to stop for a while?”

“No, I’m okay.”

“Good. Did you know that the car that took
your brother belongs to the Doorman?”

Looking down, she shook her head.

“Do you know who he is?”

“Yes.”

“Did your brother do business with the
Doorman?”

“Not that I know of. But like I already told
you, I didn’t know much about my brother’s business. He’d go down
his hole during the day and only come out when he was good and
ready to.”

A light knock on the door and Marilda came
in with two glasses of ice water on a tray. She put one down in
front of each of them and started to leave.

“Thanks, Marilda.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

They both drank.

“Who do you suspect of killing your
brother?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Dornelas waited a bit in hopes that she
would offer some new information. Faced with her silence, he
decided to end the conversation:

“Very well. If I need to talk to you again
I’ll ask you to come back in.”

“Anytime, Inspector. Just don’t tell anyone
about Wilson Borges. I’m scared of him, I really am.”

“Don’t worry. Like I said, we’ll deal with
him.”

Dornelas got up to open the door and saw for
the first time that Maria das Graças was exhausted.

“The next time you see Raimundo Tavares tell
him to expect an indictment for giving false testimony.”

“You tell him.”

The inspector shut the door as soon as she
went out.

*

Dornelas went back to his desk and drank the
rest of the water in his glass. He felt restless. He got up and
went to Solano’s office. He needed to digest out loud the
conversation he had just had.

“Want some coffee?” he asked the
detective.

“Not right now. But I’ll keep you
company.”

They went to the lunchroom and Dornelas
poured himself some coffee. He was glad to see steam coming from
the cup, a sign that the coffee had been freshly brewed. He didn’t
feel like drinking the mid-morning leftover coffee in the thermos,
lukewarm and bitter. He sugared and stirred it.

“The conversation with Dona Maria das Graças
was enlightening,” he said, before sipping from the cup.

“How so?” asked Solano.

“She didn’t expect us to discover when the
job in her bedroom was done.”

“And how did she take it?”

“She seemed surprised, but when I said
someone else had paid for it her eyes really opened wide in fright.
From there it was easy to deduce that it was Wilson who was with
her the night of the crime.”

“How’d you find out?”

“I threw out the bait and she bit. Once I
assumed that it was Wilson who’d paid for the job, it seemed
obvious that he was a special client.”

“And was he?”

“Wilson fell in love with her. He probably
wanted to get her out of prostitution.”

“But he couldn’t do it.”

“No, but he hasn’t gone back since the
crime.”

“Why do you think that is?”

“I can think of two reasons,” pondered the
inspector. “If he’s involved in the crime he’d automatically
disappear. And if he isn’t, he certainly wouldn’t want to see his
name in the press linked to the death of a drug dealer. That might
well spill over onto his brother’s career.”

Solano looked at him admiringly. Dornelas
continued:

“On the other hand, if it was Wilson who put
out the hit, and then killed Marina Rivera because she was nosing
around Peixe Dourado, that would reinforce my theory that there’s a
connection between Wilson and the Doorman, and, consequently, with
drug trafficking.”

A light went on in his head. Dornelas threw
the cup with hot coffee in the trash.

“How busy are you right now?” he asked
Solano.

“The usual.”

“Let’s go.”

They left after first telling Marilda they’d
be back after lunch. If necessary, they could be reached on their
cell phones.

*

Dornelas and Solano burst into Vito’s Bar.
The Italian was sweeping the floor while his wife was setting the
tables for lunch.

“
Buon giorno, Dottore
. A coffee?”

“Two, one for you and one for me.”

Vito froze, clutching the broom.

“What’sa happening, sir?”

“I need to talk to you,” said Dornelas,
pulling out a chair for the Italian to sit down. He was in a
hurry.

Vito slid slowly onto the chair, terrified.
His wife stood paralyzed in the middle of the room, a stack of
plates in her hands.

“Inspector, I have all-a my papers. I’m-a
Brasiliano now. My wife, she gonna have my bambino.”

“It’s got nothing to do with that. Relax.
It’s about a doubt I have regarding an investigation I’m working
on. I need your help.”

The Italian calmed down, resting his arms on
the table. His wife rushed behind the counter to make coffee.
Dornelas and Solano sat down.

“Do you, a restaurant owner, know of some
other restaurants that are dealing drugs with some fishermen? Note
the emphasis on some. I’m asking because they may be delivering
fish together with a lot of drugs. A package deal, you
understand?”

Running his hands through his black unruly
hair, Vito´s eyes opened wide as he stretched his head over the
table like a turtle and took on a conspiratorial tone.

“
Dottore
, that-a happen all-a the
time. They putta little package of grass, crack or coke in-a bottom
of the plastic boxes, cover it all-a with fish and shrimp, putta
ice on the top, and deliver it. They offer to me once but I say no.
Is a
à la carte
service, sir.”

“A fisherman offered it to you?”

“No, was a guy who has nothing to do with
fishing. A dealer. I even think he was-a the guy you take outta the
canal.”

“Why didn’t I think of this before?”
Dornelas banged his fist on the table.

“And this-a only happen because there’s
clients who ask-a for the drugs, like I gotta put marijuana and
cocaine on my menu! Issa ridiculous!”

Asking him the name of the fisherman who
made the deliveries would be useless. And Dornelas didn’t want to
put the Italian’s neck on the block; it was bad enough having to
live with what happened to Marina Rivera.

Vito’s wife appeared with two cups of coffee
on a tray and served them to the inspector and her husband.

“Thank you.”

“
Grazie, amore.”

They both took sugar sachets from a small
bowl in the middle of the table. Dornelas sweetened his
recklessly.

“What time are the deliveries made to the
restaurants?”

“The ones-a who pay to have the best fish
get ‘em early in the morning, soon as the boats get to the pier. If
you donna pay, you get delivery a little later.”

“And the Fishing Institute inspects the
boats as soon as they arrive at the pier, correct?”

“Correct,” said Vito. “But there been times
when I hadda buy my fish straight off the boat, at the pier.”

“Why?” Solano took the question out of his
boss’s mouth.

“’Cause I donna pay bribes and I donna buy
drugs.”

“But have you ever seen them selling drugs
right on the pier?” asked Solano.

“Never.”

“That’s it!” This time Dornelas banged the
table so hard Solano and Vito jumped in their seats. “The drugs
don’t go to Peixe Dourado nor to the pier because they’re first
delivered to the restaurants along the coast, or to the ones you
can only reach by boat. Those were White Powder Joe’s points of
sales and distribution. From there he delivered to other
restaurants in the city.”

Vito cautiously nodded his agreement, as if
the conversation were being monitored by a hidden camera.

“But if the fish don’t go through Peixe
Dourado, what’s the company’s connection to the drug trafficking?”
Solano asked.

“The company’s slush fund, if there is one,
will tell us that. Nildo’s got until tomorrow to come up with
evidence proving he has nothing to do with all this.”

Dornelas drank his coffee in one gulp; when
he put his hand in his pocket to get his money, Vito interrupted
him.

“This-a one’s on the house, sir.”

“Thanks.”

And they left.

*

Out in the street again, the inspector took
out his cell phone and dialed some numbers.

“Are you out on the water today?”

“Not yet, but I’m going out in a while.
Why?” asked Claudio.

“I want to have lunch at Silvinho’s, on
Escondida Island. Can you give me a ride?”

A brief silence and then Claudio
replied:

“Is it because of the investigation,
sir?”

“Yes, it is.”

“I’m scared of getting involved in that
stuff, Inspector.”

“You’re not going to be involved. You just
have to take me.”

Another silence. Dornelas could feel his
friend’s misgiving.

“All right.”

“In twenty minutes at the pier?”

“I’ll be there.”

They hung up.

*

Claudio skillfully docked the boat and held
it steady against the fenders for a few seconds, enough time for
Dornelas and Solano to jump onto the small deck right on the water
line. A flight of stairs would take them to the restaurant on the
upper level.

Alone at the helm, Claudio pushed off and
steered out to the open sea.

Even though it was Monday, a day most
restaurants in town were closed, Silvinho’s was open.

As restaurants go, there was nothing very
special about it. The same stone walls and wooden furniture found
in most of Palmyra’s bars and restaurants. A restaurant like any
other, except for the site – a pile of rocks in the middle of the
ocean, one kilometer from the city and with a privileged view of
the Historical Center.

That, plus the platters of seafood that came
from nearby waters, was included in the generally hefty prices that
tourists, mainly foreigners, paid without complaint. A Coke at
Silvinho’s would set you back at least five bucks.

Emerging from the stairs to the deck,
Dornelas and Solano stopped dead: two fish out of water. With more
skin showing than clothes, no customer, not even the waiters, was
wearing a suit and tie. Solano, dressed more informally, felt sorry
for his boss.

Under the lulling sound of lounge music,
Dornelas quickly took off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves,
took off his tie, folded it and put it in his pocket. A slender
blonde clothed in tatters – the kind you see in fashion magazines –
greeted them with surprise, as if they were beings from another
galaxy.