“It comes from nailing bad guys, Pereira. What’s your conviction rate? Two percent?”
They were walking as they spoke. The trail of blood ended behind one of the couches, and there they stopped. The victim wore pajamas and a bathrobe. The bathrobe was up to his waist, the pajamas down to his ankles.
“Found like this?” Silva asked.
Pereira shook his head. “Cavalcante stuck a thermometer up his ass.”
“Okay to approach the body?”
“Go ahead. We’re done with him.”
Rivas’s feet were bare, the toenails enameled red. Both legs were bent at unnatural angles. His cheekbones were caved in, his forehead indented, the top of his skull crushed. Silva’s overall impression was that of a broken doll. In almost thirty years of law enforcement, he’d never seen a more brutal beating.
“Ouch,” he said.
The corpse was still wearing a wristwatch, or rather the shattered remnants of one: a Cartier, with a gold case and wristband.
“You find his wallet?” Silva asked.
Pereira nodded. “In his bedroom, out in plain view, full of money. We left a few small bills.”
Silva wasn’t entirely sure he was kidding.
Arnaldo walked around the body. “It computes,” he said. “A guy beats anyone that bad, it’s not robbery. It’s personal.”
“Sometimes, Nunes,” Pereira said, “your deductive powers amaze me.”
“I gotta admit,” Arnaldo said, “that such a reaction is not uncommon, even among highly experienced operatives.”
“What’s Cavalcante’s estimate on the time of death?” Silva said.
“Between 10:00 P.M. and 2:00 A.M. ”
“Murder weapon?”
“Good question. Look here.”
Pereira bent over and pointed. Only then, amid all the gore, did Silva see the bullet hole. It was a palm’s breadth above Rivas’s groin.
“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.”
