A man was leaning on the trunk of Manuel’s car. At the sight of them he straightened up, took a couple of steps in their direction, and then stopped.
There was something familiar about him. Not until they were almost face-to-face did Manuel place him. This was the police lieutenant who’d grilled him at the hospital until the captain intervened. Manuel didn’t recall his name, but he did remember the man’s obvious dislike. And the beer belly the uniform had certainly concealed better than his current attire: pleated pants worn very low and a thin V-neck sweater that revealed the buttons of his shirt like a row of rivets affixed to his hide.
Over the years Manuel had developed a sixth sense for bullies and louts, and he was sure this guy was going to cause him nothing but trouble. Even so, he was almost more surprised by the reaction of the priest.
“What’s he doing here?” Father Lucas whispered.
“Manuel Ortigosa?” the man challenged him, although it was obvious he knew the answer. “I’m Police Lieutenant Nogueira.” He flashed a badge and pocketed it again. “We met yesterday at the hospital.”
Manuel was wary. “I remember.”
“Are you going somewhere?” the man said with a gesture toward the suitcase visible in the backseat.
“I’m going home.”
The officer shook his head, evidently troubled by the answer.
“I need to speak with you,” he said, as if he were trying to convince himself of that fact.
“Speak,” Manuel replied with no sign of concern.
The officer gave the priest a baleful look. “In private,” he added.
It appeared that the man’s dislikes were wide ranging. Either that or the two knew one another too well already.
The priest refused to be intimidated. He ignored the unfriendly attitude of the other man and addressed Manuel. “If you’d like for me to stay . . .”
“That won’t be necessary, thanks.”
It was obvious the priest was reluctant to leave. The officer looked like a shady character. But faced with the choice, Manuel opted for the one with a uniform.
Even so the priest lingered. He shook hands again in farewell without a glance toward the officer. He spoke as he got into the little gray SUV parked behind them. “Come see me.”
Manuel watched him drive off and then turned to the officer.
“Not here,” the man said. “There’s a bar in the village just before you get onto the main road. With parking in front. Follow me.”
INERTIA
In contrast to the cool weather outside, the strong noonday sun had turned the car interior into an oven. Manuel parked in a dirt lot next to the officer’s old BMW and half a dozen dusty station wagons. He got out, tossed his jacket onto the seat, and locked the car. He headed for the bar entrance, but the lieutenant stopped him.
“This will do,” he said, standing on a terrace with plastic chairs and worn umbrellas. “Wait here.”
He returned almost immediately with two black coffees and dishes filled with something that looked like meat stew. He lit a cigarette before he initiated the conversation. Obviously that was why he’d chosen the terrace.
The officer stirred two spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee. “You’re on your way out of town?”
“The funeral and burial are over. There’s nothing to keep me here,” Manuel replied, his voice indifferent.
“You’re not planning to stay with the family for a few days?”
“They’re not my family. They’re my husband’s family.” This time the officer seemed unmoved by his insistence. “I didn’t know them before . . . before this.”
“Yes, that’s what you said at the hospital,” the man replied pensively. “Did you get a call from headquarters?”
“Yes, this morning. They said everything was ready. I could come collect his things, and they’d mail me a copy of the police report in case I needed it for the insurance.”
“Sons of bitches!” the lieutenant snarled and jabbed his cigarette toward Manuel. “They did it all right, they did it again! What balls they’ve got!”
“Did it again? What?”
The officer countered his question with another. “What did you think of your in-laws?”
Manuel was reluctant to commit himself. “I didn’t have time to form an opinion,” he lied. In fact he did have an impression of them, but he certainly wasn’t about to share it with this fellow. “We exchanged a couple of words, that’s all.”
“Uh-huh. No surprises there.”
“Would you like to tell me what this is all about?”
Nogueira took a long, noisy drag on his cigarette and consumed the tobacco all the way to the filter. He tossed it under the table and ground it underfoot, even though there was an ashtray on the table. He gave Manuel an angry look. He pulled over one of the plates of stew and speared a piece of meat.
“About? It’s about the fact that álvaro Mu?iz de Dávila didn’t have an accident, or at least it wasn’t just an accident.” He put the piece of meat into his mouth. Manuel sat there amazed and alarmed while the man finished chewing. “His car went off a straight stretch of road, and it’s true there was no indication he’d tried to brake. And no sign any other driver was involved. But as I was about to tell you in the morgue before my commanding officer butted in, we noticed the vehicle had a broken taillight and traces of white paint.”
“I asked the captain about that when he called this morning. He thinks it could have come from a bump in a parking lot, entirely unrelated. He said it could have happened several days earlier.”
“Right, he would say that.” The man devoured another piece of meat. “And how did he explain the laceration se?or Mu?iz de Dávila had in his side?”
“Laceration?”
“An injury. A stab wound that left only a small puncture mark. He could have gotten to his car without any problem and tried to escape his attacker, but the wound was fatal. The internal bleeding weakened him. Maybe it killed him before the car ran off the road. Assuming no other vehicle ran into him from behind.”
“The captain didn’t mention a stab wound.”
“Certainly not. Spanish aristocrats don’t get stabbed to death. That’s for drug addicts and prostitutes. But the fact is that the body of álvaro Mu?iz de Dávila had a puncture wound in the lower right abdomen. The medical examiner spotted it during her preliminary check of the deceased. She’s a friend of mine; if I ask her to, she’ll tell you. She’s as disgusted as I am by this sort of thing.”
“This sort of thing? But what are you trying to tell me? The injury wasn’t from the accident? Was he attacked?”
The man looked around carefully before replying, even though they were alone on the terrace. “There is at least one very suspicious aspect to his death.”
“And why are you telling me? Why did they say his death was an accident? And why aren’t they investigating?”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There is a series of extremely suspicious events connected with this death, and they aren’t being investigated. And it’s not the first time either. The name of the great Mu?iz de Dávila family has to be kept pristine and above suspicion at any price, even when it’s smeared with their own shit. That’s the ancient and shameful tradition.”
Manuel weighed the man’s words and tried to understand. “You’re telling me . . .”
“What I’m telling you is that there’ve been social divisions since the world began. There are the miserable masses who work themselves to death to get to a crappy retirement not worth having, and then there are the others—the landowners, princes who’ve lived off our sweat for generations and do whatever they damn well please. And never face any consequences.”
“But álvaro didn’t even live here. He wasn’t—”