“According to Carmen, Juan was a security freak. One time, she came in and forgot to engage the bolt. He had a fit, damned near fired her.”
“But when she arrived this morning?”
“The dead bolt wasn’t engaged. That much we managed to get out of her.”
“So Rivas almost certainly let the murderer in,” Silva said, “and the murderer almost certainly let himself out. Begs a question, doesn’t it?”
“What question?”
“Juan wasn’t suspicious of his caller. Wouldn’t you be suspicious of someone who was sending you abusive letters?”
Pereira gave an exasperated snort.
“Look, you guys want to do the devil’s advocate thing, that’s okay. Me? I’m a man who looks for the most obvious solution.”
A voice intruded. “Jose de Araujo, Senhores.”
The detective from downstairs, his shoes now tied, was in the doorway. Behind him, standing on tiptoe to look over the detective’s shoulder, was the guy in the operetta costume. Under the polished leather brim of his hat, his eyes were big with curiosity.
“Is he here?” he said.
“Who?” Pereira said.
“Senhor Juan. I heard he was… killed.” Araujo gave a delicious shiver.
“You heard right,” Pereira said. “The body’s in the living room, behind the couch.”
The doorman looked disappointed. “Behind the couch, huh?” For a moment, Silva thought he was going to ask if he could see it.
Pereira fished a notebook out of his pocket. “What’s that name again?”
“Jose de Araujo, Senhor.”
Pereira made a note of it and pointed his pen at an upholstered chair. “Sit down, Jose.” The doorman did, and Pereira took a seat facing him. The detective waited until Pereira waved him off, and then left without a word.
“How long you worked here, Jose?” Pereira said.
“Six years, Senhor.”
“How well did you know Juan Rivas?”
“Very well, Senhor. I greeted him every day. I opened the door for him. I delivered his packages. When he had a visitor, I called him on the interphone. When he needed someone-”
“Okay, okay, I got it,” Pereira said.
“Can I smoke, Senhor?”
“No, you can’t. Did Juan have any special friends?”
A sly look came over the doorman’s face. “So you know,” he said.
“Know what?”
“Know he was a viado, Senhor. I guess I can say that. Now that he’s dead. And you being the police.”
“He didn’t make any secret of it, then?”
“Only sometimes.”
“Such as when?”
“When he got a visit from his father, Senhor. His father is a very important man. A Colombian, I think. Or maybe a Uruguayan. Not an Argentinean.”
“You think his father was unaware of Juan’s homosexuality?”
“What?”
“You figure Juan’s old man didn’t know his son was a viado?”
“ Sim, Senhor. That’s what I think.”
“Why?”
“Senhor Juan always acted differently around his father, Senhor Jorge.”
“Acted differently? How?”
The doorman took off his cap, revealing a bald patch, and scratched the top of his head. “He just… did. Most of the time, you could see that Senhor Juan was a viado, see it before he opened his mouth. You didn’t have to see him hugging and kissing that friend of his. You just knew.”
“Friend? You saw him with a friend?”
“All the time, Senhor.”
Pereira glanced at Silva. A smile curled one corner of his mouth.
“An older man, was he? This friend?”
“Sim, Senhor.”
“How much older?”
The doorman considered the question. “Thirty years older. Maybe more,” he said after a short pause.
“Brazilian?”
“No, Senhor. They always spoke Castelhano together. And also with Juan’s father.”
“Juan’s father knows this man?”
“Sim, Senhor. They are friends.”
“You know the friend’s name?”
“His name is Garcia, Senhor. Tomas Garcia.”
“Tomas with a T, right?” Pereira asked, making a show of writing it down.
“Sim, Senhor. Is there any other way to spell it?”
Pereira snapped his eyes from notebook to doorman. “You trying to be a wiseass, Jose?”
“No, Senhor. I honestly don’t-”
“You have any idea how to get in touch with this Tomas Garcia?”
“But of course, Senhor.” Jose de Araujo pointed a whitegloved finger at the carpet under his feet. “Senhor Tomas, he lives downstairs on the second floor.”
Chapter Five
“Motive, means, and opportunity,” Pereira said when the doorman was gone. “I am so going to nail this guy Garcia.”
“What’s that proverb?” Arnaldo asked. “Something about not counting your eggs until the hen lays them?”
“Nunes,” Pereira said, rubbing his hands in satisfaction, “even you, your pithy proverbs, and your half-assed suppositions are but minor irritations on this fine day. Share my joy.
Think of the comedown for that boss of yours. He’s down there shooting his mouth off, and I’m up here solving the case.”
“Pithy?” Arnaldo said. “Did you say pithy?”
“I did,” Pereira said. “And I even know what it means.”
“I’d approach this one with caution,” Silva said. “Believe me, Walter, you don’t want to be proven wrong.”
“I’m not wrong. Senhor T-for-Tomas is our man. You guys want to be in on the collar?”
“The wise thing to do,” Silva said, “would be to get rid of Sampaio first.”
“True,” Pereira said. “We don’t want him horning in on the interrogation. That alone would give him grounds for another goddamned news conference. Hey, how come it’s taking him so long to get up here?”
“Body’s still here,” Arnaldo said.
“So what?”
“Sampaio gets weak in the knees if he sees a corpse. Corpses give him nightmares.”
“That’s your twisted sense of humor again, is it, Nunes?”
“No, Walter,” Silva said. “It isn’t.”
“Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You’re serious? Corpses give him nightmares? And a wimp like that heads up
