The Night Watchman by Richard Zimler

‘I don’t believe I’ve ever seen anyone enjoy smoking so much, sir. Also, you stared at me for a while with an expression that’s hard to describe.’
    ‘Distanced amusement,’ I suggested; it was a look that G specialized in, I’d learned from those who’d taken offence at his behaviour in the past.
    ‘That seems about right. And then you asked if I was new to the force. I told you I was, and you said, “Good luck, Luci.” Which was odd. Because I hadn’t told you my name and you claimed at first not to have any idea who I was.’
    ‘I was testing you,’ I told her; I seemed to owe her at least a small explanation.
    ‘For what reason?’
    ‘I think you said it yourself – to see how far you’d go to be of assistance.’
    She considered that possibility. ‘Maybe that’s right, sir. Because after you finished writing on your hand, you added, “We’re grateful to you,” and I asked you who we was, and you said, “Hank and I.” Then, you took two last puffs on your cigarette and stubbed it out. And you asked if I liked Lisbon.’
    ‘What did you say?’
    ‘That I did. And I asked you the same thing. You smiled. A beautiful smile, sir. And you said, “It was hard to be here at first, Luci – very hard. But I’ve grown to like it – maybe even love it. Because Hank does.”’ And then your eyes rolled back in your head and you leaned over, like . . . like a puppet that no longer has any fingers holding up its head and arms. You stayed that way for a few seconds, and then you slowly raised yourself up. And you were you again.’ Tilting her head, she added, ‘Are you really all right, sir?’
    ‘Yes, fine. You did very well, Luci, but now we need to get back to work. And remember to keep all this to yourself. It’s very important.’
    I took a few minutes off to straighten up the bedrooms upstairs, then helped Luci hunt around the living room and kitchen for any additional clues the killer might have left behind. While we worked, she gazed at me from time to time, anxious for an affirmation of the solidarity we’d achieved. It made me wary. Still, I nodded towards her whenever I noticed her staring, and that small acknowledgement seemed to be enough for her.
    The other inspector on my team, Manuel Quintela, soon arrived, and I led him outside to question Coutinho’s neighbours. Manuel was a lanky young man, hardworking and bright, but unable to keep his youthful eagerness out of his expressive hands and voice, which often irritated his colleagues, since nearly all cops – at least, in my experience – liked to regard themselves as world-weary pros. He took the top half of the street; Luci and I covered the bottom. We soon discovered that the artist who’d sketched the portrait of Fernando Pessoa hanging in Coutinho’s living room – Julio Almeida – lived just down the block with his wife, Carlota. After I’d explained what had happened to their neighbour, Almeida told me that Coutinho had recognized him at a nearby café about six months before and come to his house a few weeks later for tea, and that he’d asked to see some recent drawings. He’d ended up buying the small portrait of Pessoa. Almeida had no idea where it had hung in the victim’s home. Coutinho had told him that he felt most himself when painting with Japanese brushes. He’d added that he wanted to have Almeida and his wife over for dinner, but he’d never called. Before I left, Carlota mentioned that the building under construction near the bottom end of the street – covered with scaffolding – had been abandoned for more than a decade.
    Over the next two hours, we discovered that none of Coutinho’s neighbours on the Rua do Vale had heard a gunshot or seen anyone leaving or entering his house over the last two days. It was nearly four o’clock by then, and the Valium and heat had made me feel as though I were trudging across miles of sand dunes. I told Luci she had forty-five minutes to get a bite to eat and