“He doesn’t like it? Don’t screw with me, the woman cultivates flowers! If she had to wipe dirty butts in a hospital the way my wife does . . .”
That was the first time Nogueira had breathed a word about anything to do with his family. Manuel made a mental note and suppressed a desire to challenge the man. Yeah, it bothers you that your wife wipes butts in a hospital, but you go off to the whores. And you take off your wedding ring to try to hide your sin. “And Catarina’s assistant doesn’t like the way her husband treats her. This morning the couple played out a nasty little scene. The guy could hardly contain himself.”
“You think they’re getting it on?”
He sighed at the man’s simplistic view of the world. “I have no idea. The man obviously admires her, but I doubt it’s like that.” He remembered Vicente’s anguished tone as he spoke of her at the greenhouse. “Nogueira, I was going to say that maybe today’s not—”
“Right, that’s exactly why I was trying to contact you. We can’t get together today.”
Manuel felt a childish disappointment. He’d so wanted to cancel on the man that he’d mentally rehearsed his refusal to play sidekick. He’d expected to rouse the lieutenant’s ire.
“You remember I said I’d get someone to bring us álvaro’s car from the depot? Ophelia and I looked it over, and now we’re going through the calls on his phone.”
“I thought we’d already gotten everything from the call history.”
For a moment Nogueira said nothing. When he did speak it was with the reluctant tone of someone giving out confidential information. “Listen. Almost everyone has a cell phone, but almost nobody understands what the thing really does. álvaro’s phone is the latest generation. Like the others, it records the numbers called, incoming calls, and duration of connections. It also has an app that records its exact location for each connection. In addition, and this is more complicated, we’re trying to identify the owners of the numbers he called and those who called him.”
“Would that help?”
“We’re just getting started. But we’ve finished with the car and that’s why I really needed to speak to you.”
Manuel waited for it.
“Ophelia says she remembers that when she examined the body at the accident site that night, the car had a GPS navigator. We haven’t located it.”
“Right—álvaro had a portable GPS. He’d had it for years. He could have ordered an onboard system when we bought the car, but he preferred the old one. He said it had all his usual routes recorded and it was a hundred percent reliable.”
“Do tell.” The policeman clicked his tongue in displeasure. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but all onboard GPS systems these days come already loaded with a full set of maps and addresses; if they’re deleted or if you do a factory reset, the older routes can be recovered from memory.”
“So what?”
“Sometimes individuals who don’t want to be tracked for some reason prefer a portable GPS they can remove or destroy without having to pull it out of the dashboard.”
“There’s another possibility.”
This time it was Nogueira’s turn to wait for it.
“Maybe someone stole it. A traffic accident where a lone driver dies, a portable GPS no one’s paying attention to and nobody would ever miss . . .”
Nogueira’s voice was sharp. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, but cops are called in to deal with thousands of accidents in this country every year, and we in the police make sure that every one of us is above reproach. We put our lives on the line to help others, and all too often we’re the losers. I personally guarantee the absolute integrity of every police officer in the region. The Guardia Civil doesn’t shelter thieves.”
“I’m only saying what might have happened.”
“Not possible. But what certainly may be possible is that it might have been stored in another box that they forgot to give you. Go and ask for it. We need to know where he was and where he was headed when he died. The GPS may have that information.”
“I’ll phone tomorrow.”
“I’ll pick you up late tomorrow night, around midnight. The hooker we have to interview is on the job tomorrow evening.”
Manuel wanted to protest. He’d sworn to himself the previous night he wouldn’t go back there for anything in the world, but today he knew he couldn’t avoid it. He had to. Not really to prove Nogueira wrong, but because the man’s dedication to the truth was greater than his. Despite their differences. Over the course of the day, his insistence that the priest had to tell him everything had become a hope that Lucas hadn’t shared everything with Nogueira. That thought and his guilt over withholding information made him feel he had to follow Nogueira’s game plan.
He said goodbye and ended the call.
He needed to escape this reality, and he found a way. He put pen to paper for an uninterrupted four hours. The dog sat motionless at his feet. Manuel occasionally looked down and thought that perhaps it hadn’t been such a bad idea after all to yield to the impulse to bring the creature back with him.
OF EVERYTHING HE REFUSED
His shoulders sagged. For a moment it seemed his feelings and desires counted for nothing; he was trapped by circumstances; a terrifying, inexplicable power was smashing reality into his face. Sheer inertia had sent him hurtling toward the real world, and now some mindless force was impelling him in a random direction chosen by an indifferent universe.
It was almost 2:00 a.m. when he gave in to the dog’s continual yawns, stopped writing, put on his heavy jacket again, and took Café outside to do his business. Back in the room he carefully removed the contents from the jacket pockets and put them into the desk drawer. He stood and regarded the gardenias as if the simple act of examining them might unravel the secret of their unexpected appearance. He closed the drawer very slowly, his eyes on the flowers until the drawer clicked shut. He suddenly remembered the photo he’d been carrying all day and fished in his pocket for it. The bent corners again snagged the satin lining of the jacket. The young man’s confident gaze hypnotized him. He spent several minutes contemplating it, studying the boys’ expressions, their body language, the frank camaraderie of the older boys that shut Santiago out, the younger one’s possessive clutch, and the protagonist—that young man who had the clean, spirited, proud look of a prince in a fairy tale.
He opened the drawer to deposit the photo, but at the sight of those flowers he decided to stow it in his jacket pocket instead. He turned out the lights and went to bed, leaving the television on but with the sound off. He wondered briefly if the flickering images would bother the dog and then felt stupid for posing the question to himself. Café nestled watchful on the blanket, head down between his little legs. Manuel’s heart went out to the dog, much to his own surprise. He was sorry for Café but wasn’t so sure he liked this newfound pet. The dog’s watchful liquid gaze made him uneasy. He wasn’t used to owning an animal, and he was sure this animal knew it.
This was an unexpected first for him. Many children had pets, but the circumstances of his own childhood hadn’t permitted that. And later he’d never felt the urge to take on the responsibility for a dumb animal that he saw others willingly assume. He guessed he liked animals, but in more or less the same way he liked violins, for example, or Botero’s sculptures. He had no particular interest in acquiring them. He glanced at the lit television screen and decided to leave it on.
As soon as he closed his eyes he felt something spring onto the mattress. He sat bolt upright and looked at Café. The animal stood on the foot of the bed. Man and dog remained there unmoving, studying one another, posing the question and waiting for the answer.
“Well, I had to pay extra to keep you here, so I guess you’re entitled to a bed.”
The dog curled up at his feet. Manuel lay back with a smile. A minute later he took the remote and clicked off the television.
That was the first night since his arrival in Galicia that he didn’t dream of the young boy in tears.