“Yes.”
Santos snatches the paper from Moniz’s hand, and he throws her a hostile glance, then turns back to Ariel. “You are sure?”
She’s not. Ariel and John don’t exchange a lot of handwriting.
“Actually, no, I’m not sure. But I think so. A chambermaid found the note under our bed when she was making up the room. I think John must have placed it next to me while I was sleeping, but then maybe I flung aside the sheets.”
Moniz notices Ariel glance at his food, and pushes the bread basket toward her. “Can we offer you something, senhora? Have you eaten?”
Ariel shakes her head, though it’s not entirely clear to her which question she’s declining. Moniz decides it was the latter. He looks over his shoulder, finds the waiter’s eyes, then points down at the stew, makes a circular motion, points at Ariel. The waiter nods, says something through the pass to a spectacularly mustachioed cook.
Six o’clock is not really dinnertime in Lisbon; there are just a couple of other customers in this homey restaurant, and one waiter. Ariel can feel all these eyes on her, this woman who strode directly to the detectives’ table.
“So you can see now, can’t you? John left our room, and meant to return, but didn’t.”
“Yes,” Moniz agrees, “that seems to be true.” He glances back down at the note, just a couple of lines: GONE FOR WALK. BACK 7:30 FOR B’FAST. LOVE YOU.
“This is evidence, isn’t it?” Ariel leans forward. “This, plus the security footage.”
“Well, I do not—”
“Together these are proof that something bad has happened to John.”
The waiter deposits a steaming bowl in front of Ariel, clams and greens and potatoes and chunks of some meat or another. Ariel immediately burns her tongue.
“If this was truly written by your husband? Then yes, it is evidence of something. But it is evidence that he left your hotel of his own will.”
“And he meant to return. At seven-thirty. Which he did not do.”
The three of them eat for a minute. Ariel watches Moniz’s arm piston up and down to shovel in fresh bites even while he’s still chewing the previous, his mouth never closing completely. He licks his lips and absentmindedly scratches his beard.
Ariel pushes her bowl aside. “But when would you check? How long does my husband need to be missing before you’ll believe me?”
“If you prefer,” Moniz says, “we can keep this paper, and if it does turn out that your husband is truly missing, we can examine for fingerprints. Is that what you prefer?”
He makes an uncommitted napkin swipe at his beard, which he doesn’t quite rid of bread crumbs. He meets Ariel’s eye, not shying away from her, from her misery.
Ariel has sympathy for these cops; she doesn’t enjoy antagonizing them, and she can’t afford to alienate any allies; she comes across precious few.
Moniz retrieves his notepad and pen, stares at the blank paper. Perhaps he’s formulating his questions, or maybe translating them into English, scouring his memory for vocabulary, verb conjugations. It can’t be easy to do this job in a language that’s not your first. Just figuring out the correct forms of politeness, the apologies, it must be exhausting.
“Are you ever before visiting Lisboa, senhora?”
“No.”
“But your husband is, yes? He has friends here?”
“Friends? Not that I know of. Acquaintances, maybe. Through work.”
“Do you know any of their names?”
“I’m sorry,” she says for the umpteenth time. She has spent so much time apologizing to dubious men for their doubts.
“He is not speaking to anyone while you are here? Anyone at all?”
“Well, just one woman.”
It was late that Saturday afternoon, a time of day when all of Lisbon was gathering under umbrellas in cafés. Ariel ordered what everyone seemed to be having, an unlikely concoction made with white port, a spirit that Ariel hadn’t even known existed, and now the port spritz was her absolute favorite drink, sweet and delicious and barely alcoholic, it went down like a soda, and she was trying to decide whether it would be reckless to order a second— “Luigi!”
A young woman was suddenly beside their table, smiling down with perfect white teeth between full, red-painted lips, deep dimples, a glorious Afro, flawless glowing skin. Ariel has been surprised by the broad prevalence of Brazilian people, and the influence of Brazilian culture, here in Lisbon, exhibiting a sort of reverse colonialism that she found heartwarming, and hopeful.
“Olá!” this spectacular-looking woman said to Ariel’s stunned-looking husband.
“Luigi?” John pointed at himself. “Me? I am sorry, but no.”
The woman cocked her head, furrowed her brow. This was not a woman whom men denied knowing; being rebuffed was not familiar to her.
“My name is John,” he said. “Not Luigi. This is my wife, Ariel.”
This woman opened her mouth to argue, then reconsidered, and reconstructed her dazzling smile. God, she was an amazing-looking human, clad in a loose little nothing of a dress.
“Ah,” she said, with an adorable shrug. “Desculpe.”
She sauntered back to her table, where it looked as if she explained the interaction to her companion, another beautiful young woman wearing another slip of a dress. She too glanced at John, then at Ariel, and met her eye before turning back to the animated storyteller, and there was some acknowledgment in that look, an understanding—I know that you know what we know.
Both women threw back their heads in carefree laughter, they were young and beautiful, the center of attention, of attraction, it was a sunny day, nothing could be better. They took sips of their spritzes to prove it, how fun their lives were, how little they cared about John. Ariel knew that it’s not always as fun as it looks. There’s such a thing as being problematically good-looking.
Ariel was struck with a certainty: This woman and John had shared a one-night stand, but he’d lied to her about his name. Now he was back in Lisbon with Ariel, running into this old fling, and on the spur of the moment he rashly decided to pretend he’d never met her.
“She’s amazing,” Ariel said.
“Is she?” John stared down at the menu, avoiding Ariel’s gaze, avoiding this conversation.
“Oh please. Even I wouldn’t kick her out of bed.”
John laughed, but didn’t say anything.
“It’s okay if you know her,” Ariel said. “If something happened. You know that, right?”
“Honestly,” he said, “I’ve never met her.”
Ariel’s head was buzzing from the alcohol, from the heat and the jet lag, from the proximity to such a ludicrously sexy person. Ariel knew that it didn’t make sense, but there was no doubt about it: She was a little bit jealous. Also a little bit aroused. Maybe more than a little.
*
What a bitch, Barnes thinks. What a stuck-up, ungrateful, condescending bitch. As soon as he returns to his little office, he makes another call, which is answered promptly with “Hello Barnes.”
“Mr. Wagstaff! How is life treating you today?”