Chapter 26
Four Weeks Earlier
The knock at the door comes harsh and loud. So jarring that I drop the newspaper I was reading. It’s been a while since I’ve received visitors. Doctor Amado is the only person who has visited of late, and I’m not expecting him, neither does he knock with such aggression.
I try to think if I owe money to any creditors or gambling mates. A salesman should go away if I simply do not respond. It could be a traveling priest seeking a room for the night. I could use the company of a priest.
When the knock comes again, it is decidedly aggressive and not priestly. Whoever is behind that door is demanding to come inside as though they own the house, and I dislike them already. I make my way to the door slowly, just as I hear Maria das Dores shuffle over from the kitchen at last.
“It’s all right, Maria das Dores.” I wave her away. The woman only gets slower with age. “I’ll get it.”
I open the door and a tall, broad-shouldered officer holds up his badge. “Polícia Civil. Are you Leandro Neves?”
My gaze travels from the black badge to the pistol at his waist. This police officer already knows my first and last name.
“Yes.”
“Mind if I come in?”
He walks in before I can collect myself from the surprise. His boots leave a trail of dirt on the floor as he scans his surroundings: the shadowed walls and heavy drawn curtains, the peeling wallpaper, the broken piano. Maria das Dores peeps from behind the kitchen door.
My first thought is that a relative of mine died.
This would be good news; people in novels always receive unexpected inheritances from distant relatives, and the news is sprung upon them by a police officer or a lawyer or some official third party.
I no longer have any living relatives I care about, other than, of course, the one who is already dying.
“How can I help—”
“Do you live alone here?”
He stands between the foyer and the drawing room and does not look at me as he speaks. His gaze travels up to the second floor, almost like he already knows the answer. Almost like he knows about her.
I rummage in my vest pocket for a cigarette. No, later. If I drop the cigarette or if my fingers shake as I strike the match, my nerves will show.
“Yes,” I answer. I catch myself and guilt descends on me. What a horrible thing to write her off like that, as though she is dead.
As though she doesn’t exist.
But I don’t correct myself. Too complicated. It is easier to say I live alone. And at times it feels that I do. The hollow emptiness that overpowers me some nights, the deep anguish. The solitude.
Except when I’m with her.
He moves into the parlor, appraising his surroundings.
I become aware of how little sunlight filters in, even at high noon.
Was it always this dark in here? I should have had Maria das Dores open the curtains and clean the windows.
I don’t like the way he keeps turning his back to me, and come to think, has he even said what his name is?
“So there is no one else in the house?” he asks.
My breath catches. No, it is not a matter of a distant relative dying and leaving me an inheritance.
“We have servants.” I wave a hand toward the kitchen, where Maria das Dores has retreated and is no doubt pressing an ear to the wall.
“Besides the servants,” he says.
“What brings you here, officer?”
“Routine investigation.”
“Investigation of what?”
He ignores me as he moves through the first floor. He peeks inside my study, the parlor, the alcove, and several other rooms, somehow always a step ahead of me.
My mind races. Legally and officially, he ought to have paperwork. But what do men like him care for paperwork? For legality? No, that is not the way things are done in these parts. Appeals to legality will not work, will only get me beaten up. If anything, what might work is…
“I am a Neves. I want to know what cause or incident brings you here, or I’m afraid I must ask you to leave.”
The Neves name. It’s a card I try not to play, but it’s also the only card I have.
Or don’t have. It depends on who you ask. And that is the danger of invoking the Neves name, but I hope he doesn’t know all that business.
I am the tainted Neves, you could say. The long-neglected black sheep.
He slows, glances over his shoulder at me, and smirks.
I know his type. He reminds me of the bullies from school. He thinks little of me, thinks he can do whatever he wants with me. Thinks he can walk into my home with no explanation, trample over my rights with the mere threat of authority.
He takes a few more steps and stops at the base of the stairs. We are now almost back where we started. He turns to face me, eyes simmering with disdain. I wish he wasn’t so much taller than me.
“Very well, Leandro Neves.” He says my surname with exaggerated emphasis. “A former maidservant reported an incident to us a few days ago. Does that spark any memories?”
Former maidservant. My stomach tightens. The chambermaid hasn’t showed up to work in two days, not since the night when…
“She claims you are keeping a woman locked up in a room here, in this house,” he says. “She saw this woman unconscious in bed, with you beside her. So why don’t you show me the upstairs rooms next?”