It was Gilda’s night to cook. Garlic, sauteing in butter, perfumed the hallway between the elevator and their front door. In the kitchen, where Hector’s fiancee was deftly wielding a chef’s knife, colorful mounds of diced vegetables lined the counter.
The youngest of Sao Paulo’s female assistant medical examiners blew a few strands of silky, black hair out of her eyes, offered a cheek to be kissed and kept on dicing.
“It’s a curry,” she said. “Killer hot. You’re going to love it.”
He came up behind her, put his arm around her waist and nuzzled her ear.
“This,” he said, “is what I love. As far as your cooking is concerned…”
“Finish that sentence,” she said, waving the knife, “and you starve. Your uncle arrive?”
He released her, picked up the drink that was waiting for him and put it to his lips. It had become their daily ritual, a glass of wine in the kitchen.
“He did,” Hector said, after taking a sip.
“Why didn’t you bring him home for dinner?”
“He went to see the Artist.”
Gilda rinsed her hands in the sink and dried them with a paper towel.
“Bastards,” she said.
Hector didn’t ask her who she was talking about. The most maligned people in the country that day were the ones who’d abducted Juraci Santos.
“I went out to her house and had a look around.” He filled her in on his conversation with Lefkowitz and shared the tech’s theories.
“He’s good, isn’t he, that Lefkowitz?” she said when he was done.
“Damned good,” he said.
“He talked me into extracting the bullets before I came home.”
“So that was his idea? I thought you offered.”
“I probably would have left it until tomorrow, if he hadn’t asked. They were twenty-twos. We sent them to Brasilia.” She picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. “I heard the sisters were found holding hands.”
“That’s right.”
“And I heard the bastards killed a little dog.”
“They did.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“What kept you?”
“A meeting. My uncle, Arnaldo, Babyface and Mara.”
“The usual suspects. Has she managed to get her hooks into him yet?”
“Mara? Into Babyface? She must be ten years older than he is.”
“Not Babyface, silly. Your uncle.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gilda added a masala to the pan. The aroma of the spices began to overpower the smell of garlic.
“Come on, darling,” she said, “you know what I’m talking about.”
“I certainly do not.”
“You don’t know that Mara Carta is sweet on your uncle?”
“What? No!”
“She is. Every woman in your office knows it. Even I know it, and I don’t work in your office.”
“So how come I don’t know it?”
“Because you’re a male and dense.”
“My uncle would never-”
“I didn’t say he would. I’m just saying Mara is sweet on him.”
“He loves my Aunt Irene, and she loves him.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I don’t doubt Mara loves him as well. You come right down to it, he’s pretty lovable. And she’s divorced.”
“With two kids.”
“And your uncle has no kids, and he loves kids.”
Gilda added the diced vegetables to the pan. Hector drained his wine, got up and poured himself another glass.
“Take it easy with that,” she said.
“You want more?”
“With dinner.”
“Beer goes better with curry.”
“The hell it does. Ask any Indian.”
“Indians aren’t supposed to drink.”
“That depends on the Indian. They’re not all Hindus and Muslims, and they’re not all devout.”
He sat down again, took another sip.
“How long,” he said, “do you think this has been going on?”
“Indians drinking wine?”
“Cut it out, Gilda.”
“Mara being sweet on Mario? I have no idea.”
“When did you first notice?”
“At last year’s Christmas party. Mara had a few too many. She made it obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“No, and I don’t think it was obvious to your uncle either. He’s kind of dense that way.”
“Dense? Mario Silva is the sharpest criminal investigator in this country.”
“Uh huh. But Mara isn’t a criminal. Tell me this: today, during your meeting, did she sit next to him at the table?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Did she touch him?”
“Touch him how?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. On his arm, maybe? Leaned up against him perhaps?”
“She might have.”
“Might have, huh? More than once?”
“Gilda, this is silly. That’s the way Mara is. She’s kind of touchy-feely. It doesn’t really mean anything.”
“Uh huh. When was the last time she touched you?”
Hector thought about it for a moment.
“I don’t think she ever has,” he said.
“Did she hover over him, serve him coffee?”
“She… gave him a hot towel to clean his face when he got in from the airport, and she had a sandwich waiting.”
“I rest my case.”
“Case? There is no case! Mara is sadly mistaken if she thinks she can get anywhere with my uncle. He’s not interested in any woman except his wife.”
She grinned. “That’s part of his appeal. He’s a challenge.”
“Gilda, this is no laughing matter. You know the state Irene is in. She’s fragile.”
“I know the state she’s in. I know she’s fragile. I also know she drinks herself insensible every night. I know she’s not capable of having a conversation with anyone after six o’clock in the evening, and that your uncle is never home before six.”
“She never got over their son’s death. She can’t help herself. You know that.”
“Hector, with all due respect to your aunt, her son died twenty years ago.”
“So?”
“So maybe Mara thinks Mario has put up with Irene’s dipsomania long enough, that the mourning should come to an end, that your uncle deserves a better life from here on in. Maybe she thinks she can give it to him.”
“That’s for him to decide, not her.”
“Do you think they even make love anymore? Mario and Irene?”
“I have no idea, and I’d never ask.”
“Maybe you should tell him Mara is interested, draw his attention to it, see how he reacts.”
“No way,” Hector said, “I know exactly how he’d react. He’d reject the idea out of hand.”
“But if you-”
“No, Gilda. No and no. There is no way I’m going to get involved in this.”
“And there, ladies and gentlemen, is another outstanding example of the difference between men and women. Get some plates, Hector, and set the table.”