Silver Nitrate(58)

He sighed and let go of Montserrat’s hand. The haberdashery closed its shutters with a loud clang at the same moment the lamps went on.

“Tell me what happened.”

She did, starting with their meeting at the Zona Rosa, then ending by recounting her conversation with the cops and the questions they had peppered her with. Tristán reached into his pocket and took out a cigarette, toying with it before pressing the tip against the lighter’s flame and giving her a weary look.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?”

“When I was in Abel’s room there was a silence.”

“You mean a noise?”

“No, a silence. Or rather, it was a presence that seemed to muffle the room. It was unnatural; I have never experienced anything like it. I don’t think Abel lied when he said there are such a thing as curses and spells. We need to get back into Abel’s apartment. I can pick the lock, it won’t be a problem.”

“It would be a big problem if someone saw us doing that.”

That, plus the fact that they would be breaking into the place where someone had recently died. It felt to Tristán almost like desecrating a tomb.

“We’ll go late tonight.”

“His death is not our fault.”

“No, but we need to know who was behind it. Can’t you feel it? This is not over.”

Insects began to fly around the lampposts, attracted by the lamps’ glow. He opened his mouth, letting smoke curl up to the heavens, and narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t know that,” he said and started walking.

“Did Abel’s death make the news today? I checked the headlines, but there was nothing. Did it get any play on the radio or TV?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think that’s strange? It’s the kind of story that should be in the tabloids.”

“Maybe it’ll make tomorrow’s edition.”

“I spent forty-eight hours being bullied by cops. They would have tipped off the reporters if there was anything juicy cooking. If they didn’t, it’s because someone didn’t want his death to be a big deal. Reporters writing nota roja don’t suddenly grow shy.”

“You’re getting into conspiracy theory territory. Maybe the stories Cornelia peddles at Enigma are rubbing off on you.”

“Someone murdered Abel, and it was connected to the film he shot decades ago. That’s no conspiracy theory.”

The businesses on the street they were walking down had grown sparser, and now they were going past houses and the occasional apartment building. The windows of an apartment turned red when someone switched on a string of Christmas lights.

“If someone did, then we should leave it alone.”

“I don’t think we can.”

“Why not?”

“Because of that silence I heard in the room. Because something has gone terribly wrong. I don’t think the worst we’re going to encounter are apparitions of dead girlfriends and invisible presences.”

The stretch of sidewalk where they stood was bathed crimson by the Christmas lights. Tristán eyed Montserrat wearily.

“We don’t know that. Let’s get you back home. You can shower, change your clothes, and it’ll be fine in the morning.”

“I need to find out the truth more than I need a shower.”

“God damn it,” Tristán replied, slapping a hand against his thigh while he hurriedly took another puff of his cigarette.

“Alma Montero, Clarimonde Bauer, and José López,” Montserrat said, holding three fingers up and counting them. “Those are the people Abel kept talking about, and those are the folks who can help us figure out what is going on and why Abel is dead. I’m going to find them.”

He closed his eyes and tried to focus on the rich taste of the cigarette coating his tongue.

“Maybe I don’t want to know why he died.”

“He was our friend and someone sliced his throat open.”

The bitter smoke escaped the corner of his mouth as he snapped his eyes open. Ahead of them another house had turned their Christmas lights on. They were green.

The first week of December. It was the season to devour empanadas, eat rosca de reyes, and listen to the fireworks exploding late at night. He was hoping to drink all the way through the posadas—he’d work off the calories in January. It was not the month to be chasing after murderers.

“Montserrat, the worst thing to do is to get involved in this mess.”

“Well, I’m going to go to his apartment to see if I can find a Rolodex and track down his contacts.”

“God, no! Breaking in—”

“You can stand guard or you can stay out of it, but I’m headed to your building and I’m picking that lock.”

“With what?”

“I know how to pick locks with a pencil cap, in case you don’t remember,” she said and gave him a brazen look he recognized well from their days playing by the warehouses stuffed with grain. He was acquainted with this iron stubbornness. There was no point in attempting to dissuade her.

“Maybe I could ask my contacts around Televisa and get a phone number for Alma Montero,” he ventured. “That way you don’t have to commit a crime to get your way.”