“It ended quickly. Alicia spent a few nights sleeping rough, keeping an eye on the entrances and exits of the main bordellos in the Raval quarter. She discovered that whenever there was a routine police raid, the clients would sneak out through some concealed door, and that sometimes the young girls or boys working there did the same thing. Alicia decided to follow them. They hid from the police in doorways, in cafés, and even in the sewers. Most of them were caught and made to spend a night in prison, or worse still, but that’s neither here nor there. Others managed to dodge the police. And the ones who did always ended up in the same place: the junction of Calle Joaquín Costa and Calle Peu de la Creu.”

“What did she find there?”

“At first glance, nothing special. A couple of grain warehouses. A grocer’s. A garage. And a textile mill whose owner, someone called Rufat, had had a few brushes with the police because of his tendency to go overboard when he applied corporal punishment to some of his female workers, one of whom had lost an eye. Rufat was a frequent client of the establishment where Margarita Mallofré worked until her disappearance.”

“The kid works fast.”

“That’s why the first thing she did was eliminate Rufat. He was a brute, but he had no link to the case beyond the coincidence that he was a regular visitor to the establishment. Which was only a few streets away from his own business.”

“And then? Back to square one?”

“Alicia always says that things follow not their apparent logic, but instead an inner logic.”

“And what logic could there be in this case, according to her?”

“What Alicia calls the simulation logic.”

“You’ve really lost me now, Leandro.”

“The short version is that Alicia believes that everything that happens in society and in public life is a staging, a mere simulation of what we are trying to pass off as reality, but in fact isn’t.”

“Sounds Marxist.”

“Don’t worry. Alicia is the most skeptical person I know. According to her, all ideologies and creeds, without distinction, are brain inflammations induced by low intellect. In a word, simulations.”

“Even worse. I don’t know why you’re smiling, Leandro. I don’t find this funny. I’m feeling an increasing dislike for this young lady. She’s good-looking, at least?”

“I don’t run a hostess agency.”

“Don’t get angry, Leandro, I was only joking. How does that story end?”

“Once Rufat was no longer a suspect, Alicia began to peel off what she calls the onion skins.”

“Another one of her theories?”

“Alicia says that every crime is like an onion: you have to cut through lots of layers to find out what’s hidden inside, and on the way you must shed a few tears.”

“Leandro, sometimes I marvel at the fauna you recruit.”

“My work consists in finding the right tool for each task. And keeping it sharpened.”

“Be careful you don’t cut yourself one of these days. But go back to the onion story. I was enjoying that.”