“Did he hit her?”
“She’s not saying that. He’s a good client, and she doesn’t want to risk losing him. But he can get really shitty sometimes, and that’s exactly what suggests to me he’s not taking the love pill.”
Manuel nodded. Nogueira continued with his theory. “Maybe he’s ashamed of going to the doctor about his problem. That would mean undergoing tests to confirm your heart is up to it, that the problem isn’t physical—something, say, like a blockage in his . . . well, you know. And checking to see that the guy’s not allergic, either to the medication or its principal ingredient. More than one pill popper has given himself a heart attack or started to see the world in a blue haze. But lots of times men reluctant to confess their problems to a doctor turn to a stimulant. Cocaine, for example. No heart-to-heart with your physician required for that. The result is immediate, but the effects aren’t consistent, and the duration is shorter, especially for a habitual user.”
“Did you ask the girl?”
“Of course, but I knew what she was going to say. Our little Nieves has taught them their lessons well. Never in a million years would they admit anyone was taking drugs in there. They know they’re talking with a cop, and for them, no matter how friendly we act, a dog is still a dog. And then I wasn’t able to locate the other girl. She must be busy.”
“She was here with me.”
Nogueira’s expression showed his surprise.
“She suddenly popped up next to the car and made me promise not to tell her boss. So I hope you’ll be just as discreet. Otherwise she’ll be in big trouble.”
“Sure. Don’t ever think I’m so close to little Nieves that I’d burn a source.” He was clearly offended.
“I’m not thinking anything. I’m just telling you.”
Nogueira nodded.
“She says álvaro went upstairs with her when Santiago absolutely insisted on it. A couple of times. But all they did was talk. álvaro paid her double not to say anything. But that doesn’t mean her boss knew.”
Nogueira nodded slowly, his hands tight on the wheel. He said nothing.
Manuel gave him a suspicious look. “You don’t look too surprised. Funny, I’d swear that just a couple of days ago you were trying to make me think álvaro was a regular with the prostitutes.”
Nogueira started the engine, pulled out, and left the neon lights behind. The dim light of the car interior illuminated his face enough for Manuel to make out the closed expression behind the lieutenant’s mustache. The policeman drove for a while in silence, apparently concentrating on the unlit road and on avoiding the blinding headlights of the cars coming the other way.
Manuel wasn’t worried. He was starting to get used to Nogueira’s repressed hostility and the signs that the man held information close until he found it opportune to fire it like a spread of close-counted torpedoes directed at a target’s waterline. And besides, even though he was keeping something back, he drove with the delight of a child with a brand-new toy. Manuel noticed that they’d gone past the turnoff to the inn, and he assumed that the man was prolonging the drive for the sheer pleasure of it. He was surprised when a few miles farther along, the lieutenant pulled up before a bar busy with a Saturday-night crowd of locals and suggested they have a drink.
The average age inside was over forty. There were many couples, although there were also groups of single women. The size and the elegance of the glasses, as well as the music, reminded him strongly of the 1980s, and the volume was kept low enough to permit conversations. Manuel estimated that they were about a dozen miles north of As Grileiras in a recognizably heterosexual setting, far enough from the estate to minimize the risk that someone might see them as something other than a couple of middle-aged men sharing a drink in a bar any Saturday night.
Manuel noticed a secluded area in the back that would probably be good for conversation, but he wasn’t surprised when Nogueira opted for the uncomfortable metal barstools and ordered a couple of gin and tonics. The waitress dropped bright-colored berries into them. Manuel could hardly keep from laughing at the sight of Nogueira pulling out the cocktail straws and planting both elbows as he hunched over the bar, for all the world the picture of an old-fashioned gigolo.
“West End Girls” by the Pet Shop Boys came on the sound system. Manuel took a swallow of his drink. It was bitter and slightly perfumed. Good Lord, this is like summer camp. “Are you going to tell me why we’re here?”
Nogueira turned with an innocent expression. “You got anything better to do? It’s Saturday night, we’re having a drink and a conversation like . . .”
“Like a couple of friends?”
Nogueira’s face tightened. Then he sighed and seemed somewhat distressed. “I already told you we have to talk about the phone calls.”
“Go ahead and talk.” Manuel didn’t drop his slightly condescending tone of infinite patience.
Nogueira settled on the uncomfortable barstool looking straight ahead. He partly covered his face with one hand in an attempt to hide the fact they were discussing something sensitive. He spoke in a low voice. “I already said that the most interesting thing was to establish not only who called him and who he talked to, but also the origin of the calls.”
Manuel took another swallow of his gin and tonic. This time it didn’t taste so bad.
“First of all I have to say that since I’m not on active duty anymore, and because the case is closed, my resources are limited. But we’ve identified quite a few numbers, and we’re working on the rest. He got calls from Gri?án and Santiago; and he made calls to the seminary where they studied, which the family still supports, to the Ribeira Sacra winery, to Gri?án, to Santiago. And . . . to a known drug dealer.”
“A drug dealer?”
“Right. A pusher, really; you can hardly call him a dealer. He dabbles in it just enough to pay his bills, and he’s been known to the police for a long time.”
“Why would álvaro phone a dealer?”
“Well, you can answer that question better than I can.”
Manuel stiffened. “álvaro didn’t take drugs.”
“Are you sure?”
“Absolutely.”
“Not everyone who takes drugs looks like a down-and-out junkie. There’re lots of different types of drugs. He could be using something, and you wouldn’t notice it until it got to a critical level.”
“No,” Manuel said decisively. “That’s impossible.”
“Maybe . . .”
“I tell you, absolutely not!” he answered, raising his voice.
The officer looked back, manifesting the calm that he’d shown earlier, and gestured to urge him to take it easy and lower his voice.
“Sorry,” Manuel apologized. “But there’s nothing to discuss. He didn’t take drugs.”
“Okay, right.” Nogueira accepted his testimony. “There might be other links . . . When Fran died, the same guy turned up in connection with the aborted investigation. We knew he’d supplied Fran in the past, but because they slammed the case shut so fast, we never got to interrogate him.”
“And what reason could álvaro have had for having any contact at all with him? Especially since his brother died three years ago?”
“As I said, there are other possibilities.” Nogueira picked up his glass, took a hefty swallow, contemplated it, and then took another. “To?ino deals in smuggled goods, mostly to earn a living, but he’s known to be a male prostitute.”
And there it came, the torpedo fired at the waterline. Now he understood why Nogueira hadn’t challenged the report that álvaro hadn’t gone to bed with Baby. He’d tucked that explosive bit of information away in his inventory of humiliation so he could fire it for the greatest effect.
Manuel left his drink on the bar and walked away through the crowd. Nogueira caught up with him by the car. “Where are you going? We haven’t finished our talk.”