Southwesterly Wind An Inspector Espinosa Mystery

1 At four in the afternoon, the little neighborhood restaurant was empty. The only waiter, toward the back, divided his attention between a pile of plates in front of him and the television perched in the corner of the room. Eyes glued to the screen, he took a plate, sprayed some alcohol on it, wiped it off, and stacked it on another pile next to the first one. He did it unhurriedly, at the pace of the TV movie. Once he was done, he separated the plates into two perfectly equal piles; the movement forced him to tear his eyes away from the screen. Then he moved on to the silverware. He took the pieces out of a plastic box to his left, sprayed them with the cleaner, and, after carefully wiping them, tossed them into another box to his right. This task was harder to coordinate with the TV because the box was divided into compartments for spoons, forks, and knives, and it was almost impossible to select the right compartment without looking. The repetitive, monotonous sound of the silverware being tossed into the box added to Espinosa's irritation, and made it harder for him to concentrate on the conversation. "I don't do odd jobs." "I know you don't, Sergeant." "But that's what you're proposing." "I need help." "Why don't you hire a private investigator?" "I don't know any. I know they exist; I see their ads in the papers---they seem more interested in catching people cheating on their wives." "And what do you want me to investigate?" "A murder." "A murder?" "Right." "Who got killed?" "I don't know yet." "You don't know him?" "No, he's not dead yet." h"Not dead yet?" "Well, there's no body. Nobody's been killed . . . yet." With every passing minute, Espinosa regretted more deeply that he had agreed to this meeting. "You've been bugging me for a week about this? You want me to investigate the murder of someone---you don't know who---who isn't even dead? Are you screwing around with me?" "No, Sergeant. Please, I know it looks weird . . ." "It looks weird?" "Sorry." "And can you tell me where, and why, this murder is going to take place?" "N . . . No . . . I'm so sorry." "And naturally you don't know who the murderer is going to be." "I do." "Sorry?" "Me." "You're planning on committing murder?" "Not if you put it so . . . clearly." "Clearly? Son, the only thing missing in all this talk is clarity." "You're right, sir. Maybe I should explain, even though it's not all that clear even to me." "If it's not too much trouble, of course." "I understand your irritation, Sergeant." "So please get to the point." "A psychic saw that I would commit a murder before my next birthday. There's less than two months to go." "A psychic?" "I mean, not one of the ones who wear turbans . . ." "I know." "Last year, some friends from work were with me in a bar celebrating my birthday. One of the people there, who wasn't with us, offered to give me a birthday present: a reading of my future. I'm completely skeptical about that kind of thing, but it seemed like fun and my friends kept at me, so I agreed. The guy made a few general predictions, the kind all psychics make, and then finished by saying that before my next birthday I would kill somebody and that the murder wouldn't be an accident." "And you believed him?" "I had to. He didn't have any reason to be telling me something like that." "And how long before your next birthday?" "Less than two months." "And you want me to find out whom you're going to kill?" "Yes, sir, if you will. I can't pay very much." The kid spoke calmly. His diction was clear, and Espinosa could see in his eyes that he'd been suffering for a long time. Espinosa recovered his usual tone: calm, deliberate, devoid of irony or irritation. "Our meeting began badly. My fault. Let's go to the station, and we can resume ourGarcia-Roza, Luiz Alfredo is the author of 'Southwesterly Wind An Inspector Espinosa Mystery', published 2005 under ISBN 9780312424541 and ISBN 031242454X.