Julio Arriaga entered the stale-smelling apartment, put the bags of groceries on the kitchen counter and started opening windows.
Inez put one hand on her pregnant belly and another on his arm. “I’ll air the place out,” she said. “You go get the rest of the stuff.”
He came back, lugging the heavy tent, to find she hadn’t opened a single window. She was standing in front of the answering machine.
“You’d better listen to this,” she said.
“What-”
Inez put a finger to her lips and pushed the play button.
The woman who’d recorded the message was speaking in Portuguese, which was a good thing since Julio Arriaga’s English, even after three years in the United States, was still nothing to write home about. When he couldn’t get by in Portuguese, he used Spanish. And why not? Everybody knew you didn’t have to learn English if you lived in South Florida.
Senhor Arriaga, the voice said, my name is Solange Dirceu. I’m calling on behalf of Detective Sergeant Harvey Willis of the Miami-Dade Police Department. It’s most urgent that Detective Willis speak to you. When you get this call, no matter what time of the day or night, please call me on my cell phone to set up an appointment.
She gave him a number and hung up.
“Want to hear it again?” Inez asked, her finger poised above the machine.
Julio looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.
“Leave it for tomorrow,” he said.
“No matter what time of the day or night,” Inez said, quoting verbatim. She’d been a schoolteacher, and she still had a pedagogical bent.
“Oh, hell,” he said, and went to get a pencil to make a note of the number.
The following morning, at the appointed hour of nine, Detective Sergeant Willis was on the Arriagas’ doorstep. He was accompanied by some black cop, whose name Julio didn’t catch, and an attractive brunette whose name he did: Solange Dirceu, the woman he’d spoken to the night before.
Julio settled them around the dining table, the only place in the apartment that had enough chairs. Inez, flustered to have three people she didn’t know in her kitchen, served them coffee. After it had been established that his English really wasn’t good, the rest of the interview went through Solange. What Willis told him next caused Julio to sit back in his chair.
“ Puta merda,” Julio said.
Solange translated this as “holy cow.” She didn’t approve of Julio’s choice of words.
The entire interview, with Julio’s approval, was recorded on a small device Willis had brought with them. They finished within half an hour and left Julio sitting at his kitchen table, staring at the wall.
“I gotta make this quick,” Harvey Willis said, “so I can concentrate on my driving. I’m on I-95, surrounded by crazy Haitians. I even have one sitting next to me in the front seat.”
In the background, over the noise of the traffic, Silva heard Pete Andre tell Willis that racist honkies like himself had no place among Miami Beach’s Finest.
“It’s about Julio Arriaga,” Willis went on, ignoring his partner.
“He struck again since last we talked,” Silva said. “He killed another passenger.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“What?”
“Julio Arriaga didn’t kill anybody. Julio Arriaga hasn’t been in Brazil. He never left the States.”
“Harvey, are you sure?”
“Absolutely sure. He’s been camping in Chekika.”
“Chekika?”
“It’s in the Everglades. He’s been there for the last two weeks.”
“And he can prove it?”
“He can. You want to camp in there, you gotta get a license. The park rangers come around to stamp it. I saw the license, I saw the stamps, and I just got off the phone with one of the rangers. He remembered Arriaga, said he’s seen him every day for the last two weeks. And I do mean every day. He worked both weekends.”
“Goddamn it. So that’s another dead end.”
“Far from it. Hold on to your seat. Julio says Aline took his pistol when they split. Says he thought long and hard about going down there for his son’s funeral. He really wanted to, but in the end he didn’t. Why not? Because his new wife is pregnant, and he was afraid of what his ex might do to him with that gun. Turns out she blamed everyone for the death of her son, everyone including him.”
“But it’s been months since it all happened-”
“Julio said he talks to Aline’s mother every now and then, said they always got along. The old lady told him Aline is still as bitter as she ever was-and just as angry. According to her, Aline is keeping Junior’s room like a shrine; pictures, votive candles, the whole nine yards. She even puts chocolates on the pillow of his bed. And she does it every single night.”
“So Aline’s insane?”
“‘Crazy’ was the word Julio used. And, oh yeah, Junior owned two baseball bats, wooden ones.”