“How do you like it in São Paulo? It’s a beautiful city, I think, so vibrant — I grew up in England, you see, but my mother’s from Rio and I always thought I wanted to come back here, see where they began, and once I was here, well, I couldn’t leave, could I? It’s just so alive!”
The view from his window: medium-rises blocking the view of more medium-rises, skyscrapers pressed together. On the horizon, favelas, breeze-block houses with iron roofs, trees popping up behind crumbling walls, the maripa palm and bacuri tree, whose seeds were rubbed on eczema. São Paulo, Terra da Garoa — land of drizzle. One in every 74 people owned a gun; of every 74 guns, 70 were illegal. To avoid the gridlock, the rich took helicopters to work; an estimated 70,000 flights every year.
“Yes sir,” I cried out, before my silence could let Luca forget. “This is the place to be.”
He emerged from the bathroom, tucking the back of his shirt into his trousers as I turned. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I didn’t mean to keep you waiting… did you say Bonnie?”
“That’s right. Let me buy you a drink or something, to thank you for your time.”
“I don’t, thank you…”
“I insist, absolutely, my pleasure, it’s an honour to meet someone from Interpol — did my boss tell you I was interested in applying?”
“No, he didn’t.”
“I think the work you do is incredible, just incredible, please, let me buy you a drink.”
He was tired, frustrated, had walked into his hotel room, wanting to be alone.
I was charming, interested, fluent, friendly.
I was company.
I was everything I thought he might want me to be.
“All right,” he said. “Just one drink.”
I bought him a half pint of expensive German beer, myself a glass of red wine.
“We have CCTV of her face from a dozen different crime scenes,” he mused, as I sat, chin resting on the palm of my hand, nodding along. “She doesn’t wear a mask — that’s part of her MO. She looks like a wealthy woman who you might genuinely believe is going to buy a diamond ring, up to the moment where she robs you. No guns. No team. Her victims aren’t fools, someone should have noticed, should have raised the alarm, but no one did. You can show cashiers an image of themselves talking to her, sometimes for an hour at a stretch, and they deny it, while looking at the footage, they deny it, not possible, they’d have remembered her. How does she make them forget? Maybe people are just blind, maybe the world doesn’t know how to pay attention. I’m sorry; this must be boring for you.”
“Not at all. I’m interested in the case.”
He smiled, weary, a man tired from chasing shadows.
“I’m not sure there is a case,” he mused, eyes elsewhere. “Just one failure after another.”
I gripped my glass.
Feelings of…
sympathy, a desire to comfort, a desire to say it’s okay, really, it’s not you, it’s me… feelings of… guilt?
Is this guilt?
I look away and find it hard to look back, hard to meet his eyes.
“Tell me about her,” I said. “Tell me about the thief.”
He leant back in his chair with a puff, rolled the glass between his hands for a moment, drained it down, laid it on the table between us, stared into nothing much. “Cocky. Sometimes sloppy, though she’s getting more professional. Takes risks, but doesn’t appear to care. Whimsical. Her choice of targets aren’t always the biggest hauls or the easiest grabs; spiteful, perhaps? Ambitious, maybe. Milan felt like a crime of opportunity, and she was sloppy with the hand-off in Vienna. Self-destructive, perhaps. Wanting attention. She sells mostly on the darknet. Absurd: she should have a fence, couriers, reliable contacts. When I get permission, I try to bid, lure her out. Nearly had her in Vienna, but we found only the jewels, not her. We found hot coffee and a blue coat, stolen property in a paper bag, but she had vanished. Did we miss her? Did we blink?”
I don’t dare blink, in case this moment disappears for ever.
“How long have you been on the case?” I asked, barely breathing, words in my mouth, des mots, das Wort, 
, la palabra, a palavra, 
, come on, come on!
“I think… three years. We don’t investigate so much, but coordinate. A repeating MO across international borders, a purple notice issued, I got drawn in and it has been… it is… stagnant.”
“Perhaps this time…”
“No,” he cut me off, soft, a shaking of the head, a curl of the shoulders. “No, I don’t think so.”
Silence between us.
I lounged in it a while, let it soak through my skin.
“Why are you a policeman?” I asked at last.
“Why are you?” he replied, quick, smiling, deflecting hard.
“I think we make things better.”
“Do you?” He bit back on laughter, then shook his head, raised his hands in an apology, sorry, sorry, of course.
“Also,” I added, wry smile, head down, “my dad was a copper.”
“That sounds more like it.”
“And you?”
He drew in his breath slowly, rolled his lips into his mouth, then puffed them out again with a little exhalation of breath. “I dislike arrogance.”
“Is that it?”
“The law is the great equaliser. All of us, we must obey the law, we must act within a certain code. To refuse that… it is very arrogant, don’t you think?”
“I suppose so, but I would have expected…”
He raised his eyebrows, pressing his palms against his empty glass.
“… something else,” I mumbled.
Silence between us, eyes looking away, apologising for things not said. Then I said, “Do you… think you’ll ever catch the thief you’re looking for?”
His eyes wandered up to the ceiling, an old question he’d asked himself many times before. “I don’t know,” he said at last. “Sometimes I think… no. Sometimes I think that. Sometimes you find yourself thinking it’s okay to be a failure.”
I opened my mouth to say something that Bonnie might say, something like no, it’s fine, you’re wonderful, don’t be…
I was slow, the words didn’t come, and by the time they were ready, it was too late.
Silence.
“Sorry,” he began, an apology for honesty, embarrassment at his life, his work, himself. “Sorry.”
“No — don’t be.”
Silence.
“When are you flying back?” I murmured, looking into my glass.
“Day after tomorrow. They wanted me to stay around a while longer, look interested.”
“What do you want?”
“The case to be over. Perhaps it’s worth being here. Perhaps we’ll find something.”
“I heard about a photo, the woman in the park…”
“It came from an anonymous email account. Upstanding citizens don’t send photos of international jewel thieves to us without making themselves available.”
“Then do you think…”
“I think it was her,” he replied, clear and simple. “I think she sent us the photo. It’s real, no doubt. I think she wants us to look for her; that’s how she gets off.”
“‘Gets off’?”
“Is it wrong?” he queried, eyebrows rising. “‘Gets off’?”
My face, hot. I would not flush, I drank red wine, the redness of the drink brighter than the rising blood in my capillaries. “In English, it implies sexual arousal from an action.”
He considered this a moment, lips narrow, eyebrows tight. “Yes,” he said at last. “Yes, I think that is correct.”
I am my fingers, perfectly at rest.
I am my legs, easy on the floor.
I am at ease.
“What you’re describing… sounds pathological.”
“Yes,” he mused again. “I would not disagree with that.”
“Do you… have sympathy for her?”
“Sympathy?”
“If she is… everything you think she is… do you feel sorry for her?”
“No. Of course not. She breaks the law.” He hesitated then, head on one side, considering the statement further.
I am at ease.
I am at ease.
I fail to be at ease. My face is hot; what is this? Excitement, terror, happiness, dread, guilt, pride, giddiness of companionship after too long alone, what a companion, a man who knows everything about me, who knows me, the shock of it, the delight, the…
His features flicker in unexpected concern. I am at ease, I am at fucking ease. He mumbles, “I’m sorry, you are… did I say something? I’m not selling my job well, it is of course—”
“No,” I cut him off, sharper than I’d meant. Then soft, smiling, I am my smile, I am my bloody fucking smile, “No, it wasn’t anything you said. Sorry. It’s been a long day for me too. Let’s… talk about something else.”
We talked, he and I, for another hour and a half.
Then he said, “I should…”
Of course, I replied, jumping to my feet. You’re very…
It’s been a pleasure…
… good luck with the…
… of course, you too.
A moment, perhaps.
But no: he looked at me, and saw a young woman, looking to him for ideas, inspiration, an example. He would set a good example.
Luca Evard was always a good man.
Good night, Inspector Evard.
Good night. Perhaps we shall meet again.