Chapter 4
Thursday morning arrived gray and chilly, with a steady drizzle that was unusual for Rio de Janeiro.
Guess I won’t be going to the beach this week, I thought as I put on a striped sweater I hadn’t worn since college.
I arrived at the café half an hour early.
Arthur was already there waiting for me.
On the table was a self-help book on how to overcome obstacles.
Since the dinners had started, I’d given up on those kinds of books, which were only good for keeping us under control, adhering to social norms: Don’t kill anybody, don’t kill yourself.
I gave Arthur a hug and ordered a coffee. He was already sipping on a hot chocolate and eating a croissant. He even seemed happy.
“I took a leave of absence from work and I’ve been coming here every day. I get here as soon as it opens and stay until evening.”
“You need to move on with your life, Arthur.”
Of course I knew that it wasn’t that easy, and he paid no heed to my platitudes.
“Do you know what seagull meat means?”
The question sent a chill down my spine. I stared at him blankly, trying to figure out exactly how much he knew. Was he playing with me? Any misstep could prove fatal. I pressed my fingers against my palms, trying to quell my nerves.
“No clue.”
He accepted my answer. As he chewed, he took a folded sheet of paper from inside the book and handed it to me. On it was a handwritten list. I was sure I’d find my name. I read and reread it.
Seagull meat
Secret dinners. Illegal—HUGE SCOOP!!!!
Near Copacabana?
How much? When? Who? How?
Get cash for informant (five thousand?)
“Where did you find this?” I asked.
“On Ruth’s desk, last night.”
Now I understood the unexpected call. He must have just found that piece of paper and, without anyone around to share the news with or enough material to go to the police, he’d called me.
An icy breeze blew in from off the coast and whipped against the buildings along the waterfront, funneling into side streets like the one we found ourselves on.
Wearing an overcoat, Arthur looked like a bona fide Sherlock Holmes.
I was his Watson, except that in the books, Watson’s a loyal partner and genuinely wants to help. I was more like Professor Moriarty.
“Seagull meat is the first item,” said Arthur as I scanned the list. “It must be important, but I don’t know what it means.”
“Neither do I.”
“It looks like some sort of code.”
“Is this Ruth’s handwriting?”
“Yes.”
She had nice handwriting, with firm a’s and o’s, pompous t’s and j’s, like a kid taking a calligraphy class.
It didn’t look like a hastily written list at all.
I watched the people passing on the street, sheltered by their umbrellas or running under awnings, and considered whether it was time to drop another clue, maybe mention that I had seen a news story about human flesh dinners, but I decided that was a stupid idea: Arthur would be suspicious of how convenient it was that I just happened to have that information.
“I looked at our bank account,” he said. “Ruth withdrew five thousand reals before she disappeared. The bank teller said she seemed both nervous and excited. I think you’re right, Dante. She was investigating something and went to meet up with this informant.”
“Any idea who it might be?”
“Not yet. I need to get into her emails, but I don’t have her computer password. I hired one of my neighbors to do it.”
As he blew on the hot chocolate and the steam wafted to his face, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears. “I think she’s dead.”
“Hey … just, calm down,” I said, knowing it was pointless. I touched his hands, but he quickly pulled them back.
“I think Ruth was writing a story about these secret, illegal seagull dinners. She started poking around, found out something, and was murdered for it.”
“I think you’re getting ahead of yourself.”
“Getting ahead of myself?” He slammed his cup down on the table so hard that a nearby couple glanced over at us. “I just want to know what happened to my fiancée.”
I drank the last sip of lukewarm coffee and ordered another.
I urgently needed to warm up. My mind was racing, trying to find the right words.
That list was the closest I’d ever come to finding Vladimir.
Then a gloved hand touched my shoulder, snapping me back to reality.
I craned my neck instinctively and gasped when I found Umberto standing by our table, wrapped in a coat and scarf and holding a red umbrella emblazoned with I ? NY.
“Dante, my boy, how lovely to run into you,” he said, now under the café’s awning. He shot me a sly smile and took off his gloves. “Some weather we’re having, huh?”
Arthur gave him a confused look. Before I could do anything, Umberto went on:
“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?” He held out his hand to Arthur. “I’m Umberto, Dante’s godfather. You are…?”
“Arthur.”
“Pleasure to meet you!” Without waiting to be invited, Umberto pulled up a chair. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was on my way to the bank but decided to stop for a hot drink, what with this dreary London weather.”
Arthur took another sip of his chocolate, visibly uncomfortable.
The waiter brought my coffee and Umberto ordered a cappuccino.
He took off his scarf and put his gloves in his coat pocket, rubbing his hands and blowing on them in a futile attempt to get warm.
I knew this was no chance encounter, but now I think it was Umberto’s goading that caused my unforgivably delayed reaction.
“Dante came to see me on Tuesday and told me all about you,” he said, as if picking up the thread of an old conversation. “You’re the one looking for your wife, right?”
“Fiancée.”
“I am so sorry…”
The waiter brought his cappuccino, and I thought about asking for the check. It was the only way I could think of to get out of this ludicrous situation. How did Umberto know all of that? I couldn’t contain my anger.
“Don’t look at me like that, Dante! Your friend doesn’t mind you telling me his story, does he?”
It took Arthur a few seconds to respond. “It’s fine.”
“Did you manage to find out anything else?”
“Not yet,” I answered for Arthur. “We were just leaving, actually.”
Umberto ignored my cue:
“I hope she turns up soon … I lost my wife years ago and God only knows how much suffering it brought me…” His little act made me sick.
There weren’t enough drugs in all of Rio to put up with it.
“I know Dante’s a good friend, but you can count on me too, okay?
I know of some good private investigators who might be able to help. ”
It was the perfect bait. As soon as the words came out of Umberto’s mouth, Arthur looked at him differently and gladly accepted the card the old man took from his wallet, identical to the one he’d given me the night of our first dinner at the apartment.
That flashy card with UMM Company stamped in big, bold letters made me want to put an end to his bullshit right then and there.
“If you could recommend a good investigator, that would be great. I’m trying everything.”
“See? The Lord works in mysterious ways!” said Umberto. Arthur would take any crumb he was offered. “Say, do you fellas have any lunch plans?”
“No, why?”
“Come have lunch at my house! It’s just next door. I’ll ask Cícera to prepare something yummy and I can go ahead and get you the investigators’ contact information from my address book. There’s no time to waste.”
“Unfortunately, that won’t be possible,” I replied quickly. “I’ve got work, Godfather.”
“Oh, Dante, stop it! I won’t let you do that to me or to your friend … Arthur wouldn’t feel comfortable alone with me. Keep us company! It’s only two blocks away!”
“I—”
“I won’t take no for an answer! It’ll be a quick lunch, something simple, just so we can talk a little more.” Umberto left a hundred on the table and got up. “That should do it.”