A Million Drops Read online

  “Can I come in? I really have to piss.”

  Laura opened the door and stood aside. She saw his erect penis and felt not one iota of desire, just a vague queasiness.

  “Sit down to pee. I don’t want you spraying the toilet with that hose.”

  How strange, to share the intimacy of hygiene, bathroom routines, the excretions of another man who wasn’t Luis. When they first started living together, she had found it shocking, Luis’s hang-up, the way he insisted on locking himself in the bathroom to defecate. She didn’t care about seeing him sitting there with his boxers around his shins, but something about it upset him. It was as though this facet of himself was somehow incompatible with weekends on the ski slopes, dinners at fancy restaurants, evenings at the Liceo, and making love on a catamaran docked in the bay of Cadaqués. Luis never realized that he didn’t have to be perfect in order for her to love him. In fact, she was sure now that it was actually his weaknesses, more than anything, that had kept her by his side all those years.

  The man in the bathroom realized that it wasn’t him Laura’s gray eyes were gazing at. It was time to grab his clothes and get out of there, before the bitterness starting to show on her pretty lips turned into something much worse.

  “I’ll just get dressed and get out.”

  “That’s the idea.”

  Laura got into the shower and pulled the flowered curtain closed. She could hardly fit in the little tile-floored stall and yet somehow the two of them had apparently found a way to do it together the night before. Four handprints were still visible on the tiles. Feeling a wave of nausea roil her stomach, she wiped them away and let the water stream over her.

  Laura exited the bathroom in the hopes of finding herself alone. The guy had gotten dressed but he was still there. His evening attire—shiny tight black shirt, leather pants to emphasize his bulge—seemed out of place in the cold light of day. He was snooping around in the corner of the living room she used as an office.

  “You didn’t tell me last night that you were a cop.” In among her books was a framed photo of Laura in her dress uniform: Deputy Inspector Laura Gil. In one corner of the frame hung a police decoration of merit.

  “There are probably lots of things I didn’t tell you,” Laura responded, annoyed that the man was rummaging through her things.

  “You also neglected to mention that you’re married,” he added, pointing to her wedding photo.

  The verb tense pricked Laura’s skin like a needle. She almost smiled, seeing herself with Luis, the two of them so young, him in a tux and velvet bow tie, her in a pretty tulle dress with no veil but a beautiful long train. Other times.

  “You should go. Now.”

  The man nodded, slightly disappointed. He made a move as if to stroke Laura’s damp neck, and she stopped him with a look that left no room for doubt. There was nothing he could do. The guy clucked his tongue, though it wasn’t so much in disappointment as it was wounded pride. He flexed his biceps and puffed out his chest as though attempting to point out what she’d be missing, then headed for the door. Before walking out, he gave her a snide glance.

  “You should get some help, Deputy Inspector. You fuck like a praying mantis. Plus, I don’t think you’re too stable, and in theory people like you are supposed to protect people like me. As a citizen, that concerns me.”

  Laura repressed the urge to make his muscular body double over with a well-aimed kick to the balls.

  “If I fuck like a praying mantis, you should thank me for not biting your head off. And as for you, keep practicing. There are exercises you can do to help with premature ejaculation, you know.”

  Once she was alone, Laura opened the armoire in search of clean clothes. Luis’s were gone, his polos and summer shirts, the Bermuda shorts he wore on weekends, his loafers and flip-flops. The empty plastic hangers were a metaphor for the spaces Laura didn’t know how to fill. She put on a long-sleeve Nirvana T-shirt with a V-neck damask sweater on top, and slipped a CD into the player. The opening of the Pathetique filled the air like an infectious virus.

  There came a knock at the door.

  What does that idiot want now? She wondered.

  She went to open the door, prepared to show the guy just how unpleasant she could be when pissed off, but the man before her was not the one she’d been expecting.

  “I just bumped into some maniac going down the stairs, hurling insults that not even you would want to hear. I don’t know what you did or didn’t do to the guy, but he’s really pissed off.”

  Alcázar was leaning against the wall, wearing his standard cynical smile. Laura frowned, annoyed.

  “Just one more asshole. What are you doing here?”

  She liked Alcázar. His huge gray military-style mustache hadn’t changed in fifty years, and she found this comforting, despite his unpleasant habit of sucking it under his lower lip when he was pensive. If he twisted his mouth, the mustache moved like a curtain, left to right, so you could never actually see all of his teeth.

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Alcázar asked, peeking over his top student’s shoulder. Behind her he saw clothes strewn on the floor. He also saw the remains of coke on a mirror on the nightstand, and the empty bottles.

  “This isn’t a good time.”

  Alcázar nodded, taking out a toothpick and sticking it between his teeth.

  “I’m not surprised, with that music. What’s it called, ‘Invitation to Suicide’?”

  Laura shook her head. “You should try listening to something besides boleros and rancheras. Could you stop digging around in your gums with that thing? It’s foul.”

  “Everything about me is bothersome and foul. That’s why I’m being retired. That’s all us old fogies are—black marks and dark clouds on the horizon of the young and their delusions.”

  “Don’t be a cynic. That’s not what I meant.”

  Alcázar put away his toothpick.

  “I saw a little beach café on the other side of the cove. They have breakfast specials.”

  “I’m not hungry,” Laura protested, but Alcázar stopped her with a raised index finger. He used to do the same thing at the station, when discussions had gone on so long that he lost patience and decided it was time to lay down the law. When Alcázar raised an index finger, that was the end of all democracy.

  “A table has already been reserved, with tablecloth, candles, and flowers. I’ll meet you on the beach in five minutes.”

  Wind buffeted the faded awning. Inside, the café smelled of tackle and fish that was none too fresh. There was no one there except the owner, a bored-looking man reading the paper, one elbow leaning against the bar. He didn’t look very happy to see the two of them walk in. Alcázar ordered coffee. Laura ordered nothing; her head hurt and her guts were churning. Even though she’d brushed her teeth as if attempting to obliterate them, the taste of Cointreau was stuck stubbornly in the back of her throat. Alcázar ordered for her: a cheese sandwich and a Coke Light.

  From their table they could see a stretch of beach and the rocks along the bluff. Seagulls hovered against the wind. Some floated lightly, others folded their wings and dove, skimming the crest of the gray waves.

  “How did you find this place? It’s depressing.” That was Alcázar’s opening gambit. He was a city man, a man who liked crowds, the smell of gas, and pollution.

  Laura liked the sea because she could disappear into the horizon simply by looking at it.

  “It’s as good as any other place. Why did you come, to make sure I’m not doing anything stupid?”

  The owner brought over their order and deposited it carelessly on the table before them. Alcázar laced his fingers on the tabletop, as though waiting to bless the cheese sandwich that Laura had no intention of even tasting.

  “Zinoviev is dead. More than dead, I’d say. They really did a job on him before finishing him
off.”

  Laura paled. She tore at the crust off her bread, oblivious of her own actions.

  “What kind of job?”

  “Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Flayed him alive, strip by strip. Cut off his balls and stuffed them down his throat.”

  “I can’t say I’m sorry. In fact, I almost feel the urge to jump for joy.”

  Alcázar’s skeptical look made Laura uncomfortable, like when she was a rookie and he—her boss—would offer her a piece of candy from the glass jar on his desk. She hated those candies, they were always stale, gummy, and stuck to the wrapper, but if he gave a slight nod she had no choice but to smile, pop one in her mouth, and hide it under her tongue until she walked out of the office, where she could covertly spit it into her hand. It left a bad taste in her mouth for days. But the next time she was in his office she always accepted another.

  “What do you expect me to say? The son of a bitch killed my son.”

  “We don’t have proof of that. We never did.”

  She found his words pathetic, obscene.

  Laura clenched her jaw and watched him for a few seconds, her expression inscrutable.

  “But we both know he did it.”

  “It makes little difference what anyone knows if there’s no evidence to prove it.”

  “You didn’t seem to care too much about evidence a couple decades ago.”

  Alcázar kept his cool despite the low blow. He calmly finished his coffee, staining the tip of his mustache.

  “Times have changed. We’re not living in the seventies.”

  Laura began to tremble, as though she’d suddenly come down with malaria.

  “Of course not. Scaring kids was your thing. Wasn’t hard to get a confession out of the little ones, was it?”

  Alcázar held her gaze. “In theory, democracy was invented so that guys like me couldn’t keep doing what we used to do. You, better than anyone, should know that.”

  There came a tense silence; Alcázar was visibly uncomfortable.

  “I’m sorry,” Laura said, gazing absently out at the beach. She saw her six-year-old son running along the shore, Luis following. She saw another time, one that had existed until just eight months ago, and then disappeared as though it never was.

  “Did you come out here to arrest me?”

  Alcázar held his breath and then let it all out at once, like someone deciding to jump into a tub of freezing cold water. Determined.

  “I want you to tell me if it was you. I can help, but I need to know.”

  Laura gently evaded her boss’s gaze.

  “I understand why you’d suspect me. I understand perfectly,” she murmured.

  “I don’t think you do. Zinoviev’s wrists were cuffed to a beam. With police-issue handcuffs. Yours. He also had a photograph of your son, Roberto, staple-gunned to his heart.”

  Laura shivered and sank her nails into the paper tablecloth, as though imagining it was Zinoviev’s black eyes and she could rip them out and wrench them from her nightmares. She struggled to stand and had to hold on to the table.

  “If you think it was me, you know what you have to do.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Laura.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “I’m not, but by now there’s probably a patrol car at your front door.”

  She looked at Alcázar as though all the life had seeped out of her, as though the only thing holding up her empty body was air.

  “I’m not planning on going to jail.”

  Alcázar sucked on his mustache.

  “I think you’re going to have to start considering it. But I’m not going to stop you from walking out that door. I wasn’t here. Got it?”

  Yes. Laura got it perfectly.

  PART ONE

  THE LEAN WOLF

  1

  BARCELONA, JUNE 20, 2002

  “You don’t understand. This bitch is trying to take everything I have, she actually wants alimony for life.”

  Gonzalo had never wanted to be a lawyer, despite what the sign hanging on his office door said: GONZALO GIL. SPECIALIZING IN CIVIL, MATRIMONIAL, AND TRADE LAW. He would have been just as happy to be standing behind a butcher’s counter. He’d simply let fate decide for him, and given that he was now in his forties, there was no point in complaining.

  “The law is on your wife’s side. I think you should come to a settlement agreement. It would save you time and energy.”

  His client lifted his chin and gave Gonzalo a look that suggested he’d just had a finger rammed up his ass.

  “What kind of a lawyer are you?”

  Gonzalo understood the man’s perplexity; the guy was expecting to be lied to. Everyone was, when they walked in the door. It was as though rather than legal counsel, people came in search of some sort of wizard, someone to solve their problems through sorcery. The thing is, Gonzalo didn’t know how to lie. For a moment, he considered the possibility of handing his client one of the pretentious-looking business cards bearing the logo of his father-in-law’s firm. All the man would have to do is walk out of Gonzalo’s office and down the hall to the end. No need even to exit the building.

  “You should have consulted with an expert before you put your wife’s name on the deed to your house and property. I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

  He could just imagine what his father-in-law would have said in response to such an admission, rolling his eyes: “When are you going to learn that in our profession a lie does not presuppose the absence of truth but a resource to disguise it with legal subterfuge to the point of being unrecognizable.” Besides being one of the best lawyers in the city, his father-in-law, Agustín González, was a die-hard cynic. Gonzalo had seen him virtually hypnotize clients with a tangled web of words that left them spellbound, ready to sign whatever he placed before them even if only to avoid admitting that they didn’t understand a word of his mumbo jumbo and were trying to escape the old man’s look of reproach. He always bade them farewell with his best smile—the one that said, ever so politely, You’re fucked.

  Ten minutes later, Gonzalo’s assistant, Luisa, walked through the door. She always came in without knocking, and after this many years, Gonzalo had given up trying to convince her otherwise. Luisa was a whiz at office software, cell phones, and every other device and program he had no idea how to operate, which in this day and age made him a functional illiterate. Besides, he liked the geraniums she’d planted on the balcony. “This place is so sad. It needs a little color, and I’m going to provide that,” she’d said the first time she walked into the office, sure of the fact that this reasoning would lead Gonzalo to see he had no choice but to hire her. She was right, of course. Before this young woman walked into his life, his flowers always died, turning into desiccated clusters that disintegrated on touch. Naturally, he hired her, and he hadn’t regretted it. He just hoped she’d be able to keep her position after his firm was folded into his father-in-law’s.

  “I see we’ve earned another devoted client for life.” In addition to being efficient and dressing colorfully, Luisa possessed a sarcastic wit.

  Gonzalo shrugged. “At least I didn’t bleed him dry in exchange for empty promises.”

  “Honesty only honors the honorable, Solicitor. And we’ve got bills to pay, the rent on this gorgeous office is due to your father-in-law, and—oh, yes, small detail!—there’s my paycheck.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Too young for you. I could report you for child abuse.”

  “When you have your own firm, I’m going to be terrified.”

  Luisa flashed him a roguish smile. “As well you should. I’m not going to let clients slip away like fish through a net full of holes. By the way, your wife just called. She said not to forget to arrive home at six o’clock. On the dot.”

  Gonzalo leaned back against his faux-leather
armchair. Ah, yes, the annual “surprise” party in honor of his birthday. He’d nearly forgotten about the ritual.

  “Is Lola still on the line?”

  “I told her you were exceedingly busy.”

  “Good girl. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Luisa’s sharp look quickly replaced the tinge of sadness and disappointment in her expression.

  “I hope you remember that when you have your meeting with the old man.”

  He started to say something, but she saved him the embarrassment by speeding out of the office. Gonzalo inhaled deeply and took off his tortoiseshell glasses, which were as heavy and as outdated as his suits and ties. He rubbed his eyes, and his gaze alighted on the portrait of Lola and the kids hanging on the wall. An oil painting, his wife had given it to him when he first opened the office and his dreams were still big. Things had really changed, and not in the ways he’d hoped.

  He walked out onto the balcony to get some fresh air. The geraniums shared what little free space there was with an air-conditioning unit and a bicycle he’d never ridden. The firm’s first advertising sign still hung on the railing. In all these years it had never occurred to him to change it. The sun and exposure to the elements had faded the letters, though if truth be told it had barely been visible from the street even when it was brand-new. The sign was symbolic, the absurd flag of a tiny island uselessly proclaiming its independence from the adjacent offices, all of which were property of AGUSTÍN GONZÑLEZ AND ASSOCIATES, SINCE 1895. Sometimes Gonzalo was convinced that the only clients who walked into his office actually did so by mistake, opening the wrong door. He also suspected that from time to time his father-in-law sent him a few losers—the crumbs, the lost causes he felt weren’t worth his time. After all, Gonzalo was his daughter’s husband, and that had to count for something, even if don Agustín considered him a complete idiot. A milquetoast, to be precise.