Requiem for a Killer by Paulo Levy Page B

realized that his train of thought was wavering
along paths that were far from the investigation, he picked up the
phone.
    “Marilda, get me Marina Rivera, please.”
    “Right away, sir.”
    And he hung up. The phone rang almost
immediately.
    “Marina Rivera on the line, sir.”
    “Thank you. Marina, how are you?”
    “Very well. And how are you?”
    “I’m fine too. Listen, I’d like to chat with
you about the investigation. When could we meet?”
    “When’s a good time for you?”
    “Today would be good if it’s not too
late.”
    “Okay. When and where?”
    “I have an appointment at nine. Could we
meet for coffee at seven-thirty at the Cultural Center?”
    “I’ll be there.”
    “Wonderful. See you later.”
    He had no sooner put the phone on the hook
when Anderson came rushing into his office, Dornelas’ cell phone
glued to his ear.
    “Inspector, there’s a call for you.”
    “Who is it?”
    “Your son.”
    His legs turned to jelly. Dornelas took the
phone and sat down. Anderson put the CD with the new pictures on
the desk and left.
    “How are you, son?”
    “Hi Dad. Everything’s okay here. I called
because I miss you.”
    His eyes dampening and his heart thumping in
his chest, Dornelas went to close the door and then back to his
seat.
    “Me too, dear. I tried calling you both last
night but I got the answering machine. How’s your sister?”
    “She’s okay too. She went out with some
friends. I don’t know where they went but I don’t think she’ll be
long.”
    “Are you guys okay?”
    “We’re getting used to it, Dad. This city is
a lot bigger than Palmyra and there’s lots to do. It’s cool,” said
Luciano unenthusiastically, “but I real miss it back there,
especially you.”
    Dornelas felt a lump in his throat.
    “I really miss you and Roberta too. So tell
me, how’s school?”
    “Good too. Everything here is bigger, more
modern…I don’t know.”
    Like his son, Dornelas also felt out of
place in big cities. That was probably why he had turned down so
many promotions.
    “Have you gone fishing?”
    “I don’t have time. There’s so many things
to do here that the ocean is like just a place for tourists to take
pictures. A whole lot different from there, where it’s like our
backyard.”
    Luciano was right about that. Dornelas was
connected to the ocean in Palmyra by an invisible umbilical cord
that could never be cut. After a few days away he started missing
the pungent stench of the bay’s mud mixed with that of rotten fish
and dried algae, the fishermen’s nets drying in the sun and the
unmistakable dried diesel oil on the wooden planks of the pier.
    “Can you come here this weekend?”
    “I’m not going to be able to make it, son.
I’m in the middle of an important investigation. Ask your mother if
you and your sister can’t come and spend the weekend here with me.
I’ll buy the bus tickets and pick you up at the bus station any
time you want.”
    “I’ll talk to Mom, but you know how she
is.”
    “I know. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to her about
it later, okay?”
    “Okay.”
    “I love you son.”
    “I love you too, Dad. We’re buddies,
right?”
    “Always. You know that.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Bye, son.”
    “Bye.”
    And he hung up as his heart sank into a well
of new and contradictory emotions he had not yet learned to deal
with. Out the window he saw the sky’s turquoise color being
overtaken by night and the still weak light from the streetlamps as
they warmed up. He closed everything up and left.
    He went by the photo printing shop, picked
up the order he had placed at lunchtime, placed another and paid
for it. He headed home. Lupi needed a walk and so did he.
    He crossed the bridge over the river and
entered Abolição Street in the Historical Center. Palmyra’s daily
ritual was to wake up in the evening to welcome the tourists from
all over the world. The loud hodgepodge of voices in German,
English, Italian, French and God knows what others