Lucien

1 The boy was sweating profusely as he crawled towards the truth, like a wounded animal. Lucien watched him with a mix of curiosity and sadness, knowing that these kinds of cases were common but never less painful. "Did you kill her to rob her, didn"t you?" Lucien said with a deep voice. "I didn"t mean to kill her. Proof is, I had a toy g*n," the young man replied, trying to defend himself. "Did you know she had a lot of money?" Lucien asked, scrutinizing the boy"s eyes. "I didn"t know how much," he admitted. "But since she had worked all her life, I assumed she had savings." Lucien nodded sadly. "How many times did you ask her for money?" he asked. "I don"t know. Several times," the young man confessed. "Every time I went to see her, she already knew what it was for. She was my grandmother and always gave me five dollars. Can you imagine? One is a laborer; you tell me what you can do with five dollars..." Lucien frowned at the sadness and indignation in the young man"s voice. "I understand," he said sympathetically. "Had her husband passed away?" "Yes, almost forty years ago," the boy replied. "My grandmother had a small haberdashery in Artigas Square, but she had to close it two years ago because she couldn"t walk well." "And your father?" Lucien asked. "He"s in Aigua," the young man replied. "Is your mother still alive?" Lucien asked. "Do you have siblings?" The voice of young Carlos Nadal was cold, without a hint of remorse. Lucien, the detective, listened attentively as he took notes. It was yet another case of violence on the streets of Maldonado, but something about the way the young man recounted his crime made it different. "How did you know your grandmother kept money in her house?" Lucien asked, trying to probe into the killer"s mind. "I distrusted banks and even savings accounts," Carlos replied calmly. On the night of the crime, Nadal had been seen leaving his grandmother"s house by a neighbor. Shortly after, another neighbor had found the elderly woman"s lifeless body. And the next day, the killer had been captured sleeping at the bus terminal. "How did you come up with the idea to kill her?" Lucien asked. "I didn"t plan to. She attacked me, and I was afraid," the young man responded. Carlos recounted how his grandmother had threatened him with scissors and how he had searched for something to defend himself, finding a poker next to the kitchen. "How many times did you hit her?" Lucien asked. "I don"t know. She wouldn"t fall. And she kept staring at me," Carlos replied with a vacant expression on his face. The image of the elderly woman resisting the blows from the young man with the poker was too disturbing for Lucien. What kind of person was capable of such a thing? Just the thought made his stomach churn. Lucien speculated as he listened to Carlos Nadal"s account. He could hear the prosecutor"s voice in his mind, uttering the words that would condemn the man before the jury: "Nadal, then, mercilessly launched himself against his unfortunate victim..." But as Carlos spoke, Lucien could feel the man"s anguish and desperation in his voice. "What did you do when you saw her on the floor?" Lucien asked in a somber voice. "I just stood there, looking at her, not understanding anything. I didn"t want to kill her. I swear you can believe me." "But then you had the coldness to search the drawers." "At first, I headed towards the door, but then I remembered I only had a dollar fifty in my pocket and that the hotel had kicked me out for owing three weeks. So, I turned back..." Carlos"s words faded in Lucien"s mind as he remembered the contents of the cardboard box. Two rings and a cameo and an old purse. Where was the loot? Why hadn"t Carlos searched for it? But the answer was simpler than Lucien expected. "I didn"t look for it. I just wanted to leave and never see her again. I always felt like she was watching me." Lucien furrowed his brow as he pondered Carlos"s words. Was the elderly woman truly watching him from the grave? Was it his conscience that made him feel observed? And as Carlos spoke of his hunger and lack of money, Lucien knew that something else was at play. Something darker and more disturbing. "I didn"t have much more than before," Lucien thought with a mixture of sadness and fear. Lucien couldn"t look away from the man"s face in front of him, who spoke with the calmness of someone with nothing to lose. How could someone be so cold? "Why did you choose the terminal?" he asked, trying to keep his composure. "I didn"t choose it, I ended up there by chance. It was very cold," the man"s response was sharp and left no room for doubt. Lucien knew he was lying, but he couldn"t prove it. "Did you plan to go to Brazil?" "With the few dollars I had left in my pocket?" the man replied sarcastically. "I understand the situation was difficult, but what plans did you have once you recovered?" "For starters, sleep," he said with an ironic smile. "So, you didn"t think you would get caught?" the commissioner asked. "No, but if I had, at least I would have slept well that night," the man shrugged. The police had found the loot, the money wrapped in paper, on top of the wardrobe. There were twenty-two thousand dollars. "What would you have done if you had found the money?" "I don"t know," the man replied, furrowing his brow as he thought about the question. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door and Bronzetti rushed in. "Inspector Osorio just called. He wanted to speak to you, but I told him you were busy," he said, trying to catch his breath. "They"ve just killed a man on Guanabara Street, near the Wolf Forest. He seems to be someone important, a wine magnate." "Do we know anything else?" "He was riddled with four shots while heading to his car. There are no witnesses, the street isn"t usually busy, and there was no one around at that time." Lucien turned his gaze to Nadal and immediately asked: "Is Lorenzo here?" He headed towards the door and saw Lorenzo in his office. "Would you mind coming for a moment?" Nadal, with his large eyes, watched them as if everything that had happened was none of his concern. "We"ll start the interrogation again and take note of all the answers. When he has signed his statement, take him to Prevention. You, Bronzetti, come with me." Osorio belonged to the seaside town of Punta del Este. Lucien knew something bad had happened. Crimes in that city were rare, and when they happened, they were a problem for the entire Maldonado Department since only the rich and bourgeois inhabited it all year round. He put on his black coat and wrapped his neck with the navy-blue scarf that Mrs. Lucien had personally knitted. Before leaving, he took out tobacco from his coat pocket and started rolling a cigarette, which he lit in the hallway after casting one last glance at the killer. Although it wasn"t very late yet, there were few people on the street with that icy wind whipping their faces and piercing their warmest suits. The two men sat in the seats of one of the small black D.I. cars and crossed much of Maldonado in record time, reaching Punta del Este resort. On Guanabara Street, several agents were stopping traffic and preventing onlookers from approaching a body lying on the sidewalk. Four or five men were coming and going around it. Osorio was there and approached Lucien. "The district commissioner has just arrived. And so has the doctor." Lucien shook hands with the commissioner, whom he knew well. He was an elegant and amiable man. "Did you know Oscar Bernabé?" Lucien asked. "Should I have known him?" "He"s a very important man, one of the biggest wine merchants in Maldonado. "Wine of the Hills". You must have read those words in countless ads, I suppose. That man filled ships and tank wagons with wine." The man on the sidewalk was imposing, with a build reminiscent of a rugby player. The doctor stood up, shaking the mud off his knees. "I don"t think he lasted more than two or three minutes. Perhaps the autopsy will reveal more information." Lucien gazed into his steady, pale blue, almost grayish eyes, the strong features of his face and a prominent jaw that seemed to fade away. The Police Technical van arrived, and the technicians disembarked with their tools like a film crew on set. "Has the prosecutor been notified?" "Yes, he"ll send a substitute and an investigating judge." Lucien looked around for Osorio and found him a few steps away, vigorously moving his arms to warm up. "What"s your car?" There were five or six luxury cars parked on the sidewalk. Bernabé"s was a red Mercedes. "Have you checked the glove compartment?" "Yes. Sunglasses, a Michelin guide, two Lavalleja Road maps, and a box of cough drops." "He could have come from one of the houses on this street." The street was short, and as he turned, Lucien recognized the small hotel in front of which the body lay. The house was of 1900s style, with a facade decorated with sgraffito motifs and windows adorned with arabesques. He felt the iron peephole of the front door, made of oak with rivets, move. "Do you want to come with me, Bronzetti?" Lucien approached the door and impatiently pressed the doorbell. After several moments, a woman appeared in the partially open door, showing only one eye and one shoulder in the darkness of the hallway. "What do you want?" the woman asked. Lucien immediately recognized her. "Good evening, Lucrezia." "What do you want?" she asked suspiciously. "I"m Commissioner Lucien. Don"t you remember me? It"s been ten years since the last time we saw each other." Without waiting for a response, Lucien pushed the door and entered the house. "Come in," he said to his partner, Bronzetti. "You didn"t know Madame Lucrezia, as everyone calls her." Lucien was in a familiar environment. He flipped the switch and opened the door to the spacious living room, filled with rugs, curtains, colorful cushions, and floor lamps with silk shades. Madame Lucrezia was about fifty years old, though she looked closer to sixty. She was a plump, short woman who might have passed for distinguished in some eyes. She wore a black silk suit, and several rows of pearls adorned her neck. "Always so active and discreet, aren"t you?" Lucien had known her thirty years ago when she was pretty and sweet, with dimples in her cheeks when she smiled. But since then, Lucrezia had moved up. Now she owned this elegant and expensive little hotel, where couples would retreat to enjoy champagne and top-brand whiskies. "Has something happened here?" Lucien asked as Lucrezia took her time to respond. "Nothing has happened here. I don"t know what happened outside. I heard a lot of noise." "You didn"t hear the gunshots?" "Gunshots? I thought they were car noises." "Where were you?" "Finishing dinner in the kitchen. I was eating a ham sandwich. I never have dinner." "Who"s in the house?" "No one. Why do you ask?" "Who was with Oscar Bernabé?" "Who is Oscar Bernabé?" "You"d better cooperate. Otherwise, I"ll have to take you to the Investigations Division." "I only know my clients by their first names. Almost all of them are important people." "Of course, and you don"t open the door until you recognize them through the peephole." "Of course, I don"t open the door to just anyone. This house is luxury, and I don"t accept any client. That"s why the brigade leaves us alone," Madame Lucrezia said proudly.