Chapter 1
Detective Amóz sat down on the couch next to Cora and asked for a glass of water.
I went to get it, wishing I were dead. Funnily enough, at that moment I wasn’t thinking about myself or this awful situation I was in, but about my mother.
I could picture her tearstained face, her look of disappointment burning my skin and turning my stomach.
I would have rather died than have to face her.
At the sink I splashed some water on my face and wet the back of my neck. Then returned to the living room.
“Thank you,” said the detective, drinking the whole glass in one go. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”
“It’s fine.”
“Aren’t you going to take a seat?” he asked.
“I’d rather stand.”
Amóz shrugged and took a small notepad from his pocket.
“Do you have a vehicle registered in your name?”
“Yes.”
“A black Ford Focus, license plate RMC2209?”
“That’s right.”
“Funny, because I checked the registration with the DMV and they told me the vehicle with RMC2209 plates is burgundy, not black.”
I gulped.
“There must be some mistake in the system.”
“Mistake?” He raised his eyes from the notepad and fixed them on me. “Are you the one driving the vehicle?”
“My friends and I … we’re four roommates, and we share the car.”
“Can you call your friends in here, please?”
“Unfortunately, two of them aren’t home right now.”
“And the other one’s my boyfriend,” Cora interjected. “But he’s asleep, sir.”
It was only then that Detective Amóz seemed to notice her presence. His eyes lit up briefly as they took in her plump thighs and perky breasts, only to dim again when they returned to his notepad.
“Do you want me to go wake him up?” I asked, uncomfortable with the silence.
“No need. Can you tell me where you were last Friday afternoon?”
He placed his glass on the coffee table and waved his left hand in the air, as if shooing away a fly.
“Friday, let me think … Ah! I was here, at home, cooking dinner for some friends.”
“Can anyone confirm this?”
“I can,” said Cora. “Everybody was here, getting things ready for the dinner.”
“Nobody went out at any time?”
“I don’t think so, Officer,” I said.
“I’m a detective, not a police officer.”
“Sorry, Detective.” I didn’t like the tone of this conversation one bit and decided to switch to the offensive. Innocent people tend to be more fearless. “What’s with all the questions?”
“We received a report. Last Friday, around one PM, a homeless man was run over near Largo do Machado by a black Ford Focus with the license plate RMC2209. The driver came to the man’s aid, but there was no record of him at any emergency room in any hospital in the region.”
“Whoa, that’s insane!” Cora said. “So, the man’s family has been looking and can’t find him?”
“No, ma’am. It was an anonymous tip.”
Cora beamed, seemingly thrilled at being called ma’am.
“Nobody here was at Largo do Machado,” I assured the detective.
“It must be some friend of yours trying to mess with you, Dante,” ventured Cora.
Suddenly it hit me: Miguel had made the call. It had to be. He’d done much worse than telling his mom or Rachel: He’d ratted us out to the cops.
“Can I go to the garage and take a look for myself?” asked Detective Amóz, getting up from the couch.
“Sure,” I replied, screaming Fuck no! in my head. “Would you like some more water first?”
He declined. Cora took it as her cue to light another cigarette and escape to Piglet’s room.
I led the detective through the kitchen and past the laundry room.
We took the back elevator, squeezing into the cabin buzzing with mosquitoes from up the shaft.
Amóz was droning on about something to do with traffic policies; meanwhile I saw my entire life flash before my eyes, like a convict on death row.
The garage was dark and cramped. I let the detective go ahead of me.
I prayed Bukowski wasn’t there, but in vain: The car was facing the wall, just as it had been since Friday night.
Amóz had to squeeze between Bukowski and the third-floor neighbor’s well-kept blue VW Beetle to reach the front.
As he crouched down to inspect the fender, I knew it was the end for me.
I could try to lie, fight him, even kill him to get rid of the problem, but it would just snowball.
Besides, I wasn’t a murderer. I didn’t have the courage to take anyone’s life.
It was better to go ahead and pay now for my mistakes.
“Okay,” Detective Amóz said. “Someone from forensics might come by later this week … but it’s just procedure, okay?”
“No problem,” I replied, concealing my surprise.
We shook hands and I made a point of accompanying him up the ramp to the building’s entrance. As soon as the detective turned the corner, I sprinted back to the garage. I couldn’t believe my eyes: Bukowski’s front fender was perfect, not a single scratch.