The Night Watchman by Richard Zimler Read Free Book Online

rope around his wrists and stuffed the gag in his mouth while the other held the gun.’
    ‘Or the murderer made him tie the gag on himself,’ she observed, ‘then tightened it and moved on to his wrists.’ Gazing at the victim, she added in a solemn voice, ‘Sensing he wasn’t going to make it, he lowered his head any way it fell and let death take him.’
    ‘Maybe so, but I’d say it’s more likely that the murderer kicked him hard to take the fight out of him.’ I showed her the bruise on the side of his chest. ‘Some people wake up every morning eager to hurt somebody, Luci. Unfortunately for us, they don’t wear any special sign. They’re the chemistry teacher who looks like Harry Potter and the carpenter who sings country music ballads while weeding his vegetable garden.’
    I hadn’t intended to mention my dad, but references to him occasionally popped out of me without warning.
    While I was examining the surgical scars behind Coutinho’s ears, David Zydowicz, the medical inspector, shuffled into the room. His droopy, heavily hooded eyes opened wide with pleasure when he spotted me, but they betrayed weariness as well. He’d aged a lot in the two months since his heart attack. I’d visited him twice in the hospital. His walk had become a fragile balancing act.
    ‘Checking to see if he washed properly?’ David asked in his Brazilian singsong. He was from São Paulo and Jewish. His father had survived Treblinka. David had had his Dad’s prison-camp number tattooed on his own forearm in solidarity, which was the most moving testament to filial love I’d ever heard.
    ‘He was a friend of Catherine Deneuve,’ I told him – our slang for anyone who’d had a face-lift.
    He shuffled closer. ‘But not such a good friend,’ he noted, flapping his bony hands. ‘I could do better blindfolded.’ Taking out his latex gloves, he said, ‘Just after I left the hospital, I decided to get a few collagen shots myself.’
    ‘But your wrinkles have always given you classic good looks,’ I protested.
    He snorted. ‘I was talking about my ass, Henrique.’ He patted his behind. ‘My wife says it’s become a balloon with all the air let out. Nothing to hold onto any longer.’
    We shared a laugh meant to ease the oddness of his being so diminished. He leaned over the body and sniffed. ‘Four,’ he said; he gave stenches a rating from one – barely noticeable – to ten, a rating he’d never given out because it was the stink of Hitler and his cronies rotting away in Gehenna, the Jewish hell. ‘After I get a good look at him, I’ll clean him up a bit.’
    While David pressed on an ache in his lower back, I introduced him to Luci. Squinting, he focused a beam of masculine delight on her face. Even in his debilitated state, his libido was dancing a samba.
    To come to her rescue again, I reached into my shirt pocket for Moura’s foil. ‘This may have a trace of cyanide on it,’ I told him. ‘How about disposing of it for me?’
    He grabbed it in a tissue and tucked it in the pocket of his smock. ‘Where’d you get cyanide, son?’ he asked.
    ‘From a suspect who killed himself this morning. It’s been one hell of a day.’
    ‘Sorry to hear it,’ he said, patting my arm.
    Turning to Luci, I said, ‘Time for us to interview the housekeeper.’
    Senhora Grimault was an elderly, sparrowish woman with her hair clasped in a tight grey bun and the big knobby hands of a peasant. Her earrings were golden hearts, and she smelled pleasantly of lavender perfume. When we stepped inside, she was pouring steaming milk into her coffee cup. She looked up at us with an eager, curious, intelligent face. I trusted her right away.
    After we’d finished the introductions, I asked if she was French, and she told me she was from Braga, but that her husband was from Rouen. With hopeful eyes, she asked us to sample her homemade sponge cake, but my gut wasn’t up to the challenge. Luci thanked her but also said no, citing