Dying Gasp (7 page)

“Weren’t you suspicious?”

Otávio shook his head.

“We’re not accustomed to having our daughter lie to us. Discretion is one thing, an out-and-out lie is another. I didn’t think Andrea would ever do that.”

“You mentioned a message on your answering machine.”

“Yes,” Raquel said. “That was later. She left it at a time when she knew Otávio would be at work, and I’d be out shopping.”

“How could she know you’d be out shopping?”

“On Wednesdays, there’s a
feira
, on the Rua Santa Rita. It’s where I go to buy fresh vegetables and fruits. Andrea could have called me on my cell phone, but she didn’t. She called here, when she knew I’d be at the feira.”

“Did you save the message?”

“I meant to. I erased it by mistake.”

“We both heard it, though,” Otávio said hastily. “We listened to it several times. Even if we’d kept it, it wouldn’t have added anything to what we know.”

Otávio was wrong. Sometimes the electronics guys could pull amazing things out of the background noise of a recording, but Arnaldo decided not to mention that. The couple was already suffering, and there would be a great deal more suffering still to come.

“She said she was with Marta,” Raquel said. “She said Marta didn’t want to go home. They’d taken a nap on the beach. A woman had come along and started talking to them. She told them she was a talent scout. Our Andrea is a pretty girl. So is Marta Malan. The woman offered them jobs as models. They thought it was a godsend. Literally, as if it was a sign from God that He was blessing their relationship.”

Arnaldo looked at each of Andrea’s parents in turn. They didn’t give any more credence to that story than he did. He wondered if the girls had always been that naïve, or if they’d simply grasped at a straw.

“I suppose Marta must have lied about her age,” Otávio said.

“If the woman ever asked,” Arnaldo said, “which I’ll bet she didn’t.”

“Andrea said I wasn’t to worry,” Raquel said. “Imagine that. What was she thinking? How could I
not
worry?”

“I don’t suppose she said where they were going?” Arnaldo said.

“Oh, but she did,” Raquel de Castro said. “She said they were going to Manaus.”

Merda, Arnaldo thought.

But he didn’t say it.

Chapter Twelve

RECIFE/BRASILIA/MANAUS

A
RNALDO
N
UNES ARRIVED AT RECIFE’S delegacia central at 11:55 the following morning. The corporal on the reception desk was a slim fellow with a wispy beard who looked more like a clerk than a cop. Before Arnaldo had a chance to say anything, the corporal asked, “You that federal guy, Nunes?”

“Do I look that much like a cop?”

“Frankly, yeah,” the corporal said. He picked up the phone. “You’re expected. Have a seat over there.”

Two minutes later, a tough-looking brunette with a shoulder bag came into the reception area and stuck out a hand.

“Vilma Santos,” she said. “I’m your lunch date.”

Vilma had dark brown eyes and used little makeup. She had broad shoulders and stood erect. Her grip was as strong as a man’s.

“Come on,” she said. “My car is out front.”

When they were seated in her beat-up Fiat, she said, “I’m a delegada. You call me Vilma. I’ll call you Arnaldo. You know Olinda? You like
pitu
?”

As a delegada, Vilma was a senior cop. Olinda was the ancient colonial city bordering on modern Recife. Pitu
,
a freshwater crayfish, was a specialty of the region.

“Yes and yes,” Arnaldo said. “We gonna meet the chief?”

“Nope,” she said. “I’m all you get. You work with Silva?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Cool. I wish I did.”

“How come I don’t get to see Venantius?”

“You’re not important enough.”

“Huh?”

“You’re just an agente, so you get me.”

Arnaldo looked her up and down. “I’m not complaining,” he said.

The drive to Olinda took twenty minutes. It was a city long past its prime, many of the historic buildings in near ruin. Century-old palm trees and stately churches spoke of former grandeur. She took him to a restaurant fronting the sea. They chose the terrace, shaded by an awning.

“Actually,” she said, “you’re better off with me than you’d be with the chief.”

“I told you, I’m not complaining.”

She leaned closer. Arnaldo could smell her perfume, something citric, like sweet lime juice laced with orange blossoms. “You know who Norberto Venantius’s big brother is?” she asked.

“The mayor?”

“Bingo. Norberto doesn’t know shit about law enforcement. He went from running the family’s sugar mill to chief of police in one easy step. The mayor figures to move on soon. He’s gonna be the governor, and Norberto’s gonna be the candidate for his old job. He’ll win.”

“Like that, is it?”

“Yeah, it’s like that. The old families still run this town. But don’t be hurt that he won’t see you. The chief doesn’t spend time with anyone who knows anything at all about police work. They’re liable to embarrass him by asking him questions about which he knows less than nothing.”

“Like catching felons?”

“Exactly. And he’s too pompous to want to be embarrassed. Something else too: he hates dealing with anybody who isn’t important.”

“Like me?”

“Like you.” She looked him up and down. “But I’m not complaining.” She flashed him a grin. “I see you wear a wedding ring. You play around on the side?”

“No,” Arnaldo said.

“Good for you,” she said.

They drank beer with the pitu, peeling them as they went. During the meal, she rehashed the situation, then added, “It’s a political hot potato. The mayor is big buddies with Deputado Malan.”

“Yeah, I heard. So what’s your conclusion? What happened to the girls?”

“At first, I assumed they were runaways.”

“But you don’t any more?”

“No.”

The waiter intervened, bringing them little bowls of warm water, slices of fresh lime floating on top, and linen napkins with which to clean their hands. When he’d gone away, Arnaldo asked, “What made you change your mind?”

“A girl who calls her parents within a few hours of leaving home, you think a girl like that’s going to let a couple of months go by before she calls again?”

“I guess not. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Arnaldo signaled the waiter. He arrived with two cups and left with the plate of pitu shells.

“Something happened to her in Manaus,” Vilma said, “or on her way to Manaus, or maybe some sicko killed her right here in Recife and hid her body.”

Arnaldo took a sip of his coffee. It was first-rate, and he said so, then added, “And you figure whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well?”

“Marta’s father is a drunk and a womanizer. Her mother is just a drunk. They’ve got money and influence, but they’re not happy people. It must have been a relief for Marta to get away. But she and Andrea were more than just good friends. They’d stick together. Whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well. I’d bet on it.”

Arnaldo was itching to tell Vilma what he knew, but he didn’t.

“So I guess you asked the cops in Manaus to keep an eye out for her,” he said.

She sat back in her chair and expelled air through her mouth. “You know Manaus?”

Arnaldo nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said.

They exchanged a look.

“The cops are worse than the town itself,” she said.

“Nothing’s worse than the town itself,” Arnaldo said.

“The cops are worse,” she repeated. “They’re lazy and crooked, and every request we make for help falls into a black hole. We never got answers. I told Norberto I wanted to go up there and have a look around.”

“You must love your job.”

“It’s my substitute for not being able to find a good man.” Arnaldo didn’t want to go there.

“And what did Venantius say?” he asked.

“He said he wasn’t going to send me off on vacation, that he had better things to do with his budget.”

“Vacation? I guess he’s never been to Manaus.”

“I guess not. Anyway, I don’t think it had anything to do with the money. I think he did it to get off the hook. If Marta and Andrea are in Manaus, they’re out of our jurisdiction. That means it’s no longer Norberto’s problem.”

“Yeah, but it’s still mine. You figure the next step is for someone to go to Manaus?”

“That’s what I figure.”

“Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said.

“UH-OH,” MARIO Silva said when Arnaldo told him.

Being young, female and without protection was bad anywhere in Brazil, worse in the major cities, much worse the farther north and west you got. And no major city in the country was further north and west than Manaus.

“How about sending Babyface?” Arnaldo said.

The more than seventeen hundred kilometers of copper wire, microwave links and electrical disturbances between Recife and Brasilia made for a very bad connection, but didn’t conceal the note of hope in his voice.

“Babyface is in Rio,” Silva said. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Arnaldo said, hope fading. “Hector then?”

“Hector’s still recovering from jet lag.”

Arnaldo, desperate, appealed to friendship.

“Come on, Mario. You know how much I hate Manaus.”

“Everybody in their right mind hates Manaus,” Silva said. “Stay at the Plaza. It’s close to the center of town.”

“Which is like being close to the center of a sewer,” Arnaldo said, bowing to the inevitable. “I’ll stay at the Tropical. It’s outside of town, and it’s got a swimming pool.”

“The Plaza. It’s cheaper, and you won’t have time to use a pool.”

Silence.

“Arnaldo? You there?”

“I can hardly hear you. It’s a lousy connection.”

“Don’t give me that. You heard me. The Plaza.”

“The Plaza is a dump.”

“You’re not going on vacation.”

“You’re telling me. Who the hell would be crazy enough to go to Manaus on vacation?”

“Lots of people. There’s the river, the jungle, the duty-free zone, the old opera house—”

“Dengue, malaria, yellow fever, bad food—”

“I think it might help,” Silva said, breaking in on this litany, “if you had photos of the killers in the other snuff films. I’ll send them by courier to the Plaza.”

“Tropical.”

“Plaza. We already sent the cops in Manaus a photo of the guy who killed Andrea. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll light a fire under them.”

“Speak up,” Arnaldo said. “I can’t hear you.”

Silva spoke up, but it didn’t do any good. The line was dead.

Later, but before Silva got around to any fire-lighting, he spotted an E-mail in his inbox:

Subject: Photo and request for information

Your photo matches Damião Rodrigues, RG 146324682, seven
arrests, two convictions. No pending warrants in this city or State.

Please advise if you want us to find and hold
.

The E-mail was signed by Bento Rosário, a clerk in the Manaus Police Department. Immediately after reading it, Silva called Arnaldo. But cell phones in the north were even more unreliable than they were in Brasilia. He succeeded only in leaving a voicemail message.

T
HE FOLLOWING morning, Arnaldo called from Manaus, the self-styled Capital of the Amazon.

“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

“What?”

“Bento Rosário, the guy you—”

“I remember who he is. What about him?”

“They’re telling me he doesn’t work there anymore.”

“He doesn’t—”

“They said he quit.”

“
Who
said he quit?”

“I just got off the phone with his supervisor. I also asked him about that felon, Damião Whats-his-name’s rap sheet.” “Rodrigues. Damião Rodrigues. And?”

“There isn’t any rap sheet.”

“I don’t believe it,” Silva said.

“I told you you wouldn’t,” Arnaldo said. “When I . . . uh, expressed a similar sentiment, the
filho da puta
hung up on me.”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Silva said.

“Probably. Try me.”

“Soon after Bento shoots us his E-mail,” Silva said, “someone above him in the hierarchy gets wind of what he’s done. This someone has reason, probably financial, to keep the law off of Damião’s back. This someone hides, or destroys, Damião’s rap sheet, sees that Bento goes off on a little vacation, and puts out the word that he’s moved on to greener pastures.”

“That’s how I figure it,” Arnaldo said.

“Did those photos arrive?”

“Yeah, but you sent them to the Plaza by mistake. I had to go over there and pick them up.”

“Because you’re staying at the Tropical?”

“Sure,” Arnaldo said, innocently. “Isn’t that what we agreed?”

This time the silence lasted longer. Finally, Silva said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: give me two hours, then go to the headquarters of the Manaus PD. By that time, the chief should be expecting you. I’m going to have the director call the governor of the state of Amazonas, or the mayor of the city of Manaus, or whoever it takes to shake those people up. You go in there and demand personal access to their archives. If they don’t cooperate, call me immediately.”

“Who are you going to tell what?”

“The director gets the truth about the clerk and Rodrigues’s file. That will be enough to convince him we can’t trust the people at the Manaus PD. I’ll suggest he tells whoever he calls that it’s a confidential matter of national security. He doesn’t tell them about snuff videos, he doesn’t tell them about Andrea, or Marta, he doesn’t tell them squat.”

“You think people are gonna buy into that national security stuff?”

“Who cares? They don’t have to believe it. They just have to act as if they do.”

“I love it when you’re angry.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere. And don’t think for a minute you’ve heard the last of this business about the Hotel Tropical.”

Chapter Thirteen

T
HE CHIEF OF
M
ANAUS’S Civil Police was a florid man of slightly above average height and greatly above average weight. When Arnaldo was ushered into his office, his gray uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves.

“Damned air-conditioning is on the fritz again,” he said with an accent that marked him as a
carioca
, a native of Rio de Janeiro. Rings of sweat stained the area under his arms. He was using a handkerchief to blot his forehead. He stopped blotting long enough to stand up, extend a sweaty palm across his desk and offer his hand.

“Ivan Pinto,” he said.

“Arnaldo Nunes.”

“I used to think Rio was hot, but it’s got nothing on this place. I’ve been here almost five years, and I’m still not used to it. I ran a delegacia back home, and this was a step up, but I sometimes ask myself what I’m doing here.”

Arnaldo studied the cop’s ample waistline, watching the lethargic way he was patting his forehead.
Probably as little as
possible,
Arnaldo thought. Cariocas were not famous for their industry.

“Have a seat,” Pinto said, sinking back into a chair that protested under the strain.

The chief’s gun belt was draped over one of the chairs in front of his desk. Arnaldo took the other one.

“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.

“You come well recommended,” Pinto said, but there was an underlying tone of resentment in his voice. “So, what can I do for you?”

“Bento Rosário.”

“Who?”

“Bento Rosário, a clerk who works in your archives. I want to talk to him.”

The chief seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head.

“Never heard of him,” he said. “I seldom go down there myself. Too much dust. It makes my eyes water and my nose run. If you want, I’ll get Alberto Coimbra in here. Alberto’s the man in charge of the archives.”

Arnaldo wanted.

They made small talk about the town and the river while they waited for Coimbra, who showed up shortly. He was stoop-shouldered, wore wire-rim glasses with thick lenses, and reminded Arnaldo of a ferret.

The chief made the introductions and asked about Rosário.

“Doesn’t work here anymore,” Coimbra said.

He sounded like a mouse might have sounded if a mouse could talk. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Arnaldo recognized the voice.

“You’re the guy I talked to on the telephone,” he said.

“Yes, I am,” Coimbra squeaked, “and I told you the same thing then I’m telling you now. Rosário doesn’t work here any more.”

“Yeah,” Arnaldo said, “and you didn’t hang up on me, either.”

“I
didn’t
hang up on you. We were cut off.”

Arnaldo paused long enough to let Coimbra know that he wasn’t buying it. Then he said, “How about you go get me Rosário’s
ficha
?”

Coimbra looked at his boss, then back at Arnaldo.

“I looked for it after you called,” he said.

“And?”

“And I couldn’t find it.”

“Let me get this straight,” Arnaldo said. “You lost his personnel file?”

“I didn’t say we lost it,” Coimbra said. “I said I couldn’t find it. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Leave your number. I’ll call you when we locate it.”

Which will be about the time the river freezes over
, Arnaldo thought.

“How about the rap sheet on Damião Rodrigues?” he said.

“There is no rap sheet on Damião Rodrigues. There never was a rap sheet on anybody named Damião Rodrigues.”

“How can you be sure? You have a personal acquaintance with every bad guy in this town?”

Coimbra’s glasses had slipped down over his nose. He pushed them back, magnifying the size of his pale eyes.

Face like a ferret
, Arnaldo thought,
but eyes like a Weimaraner
. “I’ve been working in archives for twenty-two years,” Coimbra said. “The name Damião is unusual. I would have remembered it if I heard it, and I assure you I never did.”

“So how come we got this E-mail from Rosário?”

“I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to him about that.”

“Which is what I’m trying to do. Are you now going to tell me that no one in this building knows Rosário well enough to tell me where he lives?”

“Of course not,” Coimbra said, adding a sniff to his squeak. “After we spoke, and in the spirit of interagency cooperation, I went over there myself and tried to find him for you. I just got back. He moved. No forwarding address.”

“The E-mail is from yesterday, goddamn it!”

“I can’t help that. He moved. That’s all I can tell you, and that’s what his neighbors will tell you, too. Go over there if you don’t believe me. I’ll give you the address.”

“I might just do that.”

Coimbra gave him a ferrety little smile.

Which is when Arnaldo knew for certain that going over there wouldn’t do a damned bit of good.

After Coimbra left, Pinto raised both palms in a gesture of helplessness.

“Well, then,” he said, as if that was the end of it. “Anything else I can do for you?”

Whatever was going on, the chief was a part of it. Arnaldo was sure of that.

“Maybe you can tell me a little bit about the trafficking of women here in Manaus?”

“Looking to get laid?” Pinto asked with a leer.

“Business,” Arnaldo said.

“Business?” the chief said. “Prostitution is a local matter, and there’s no law against it. It’s no business of the federal police.”

“I didn’t say prostitution,” Arnaldo said, “I said trafficking. That’s illegal. And when it’s happening across state lines, it
is
our business, especially when the girls being trafficked are minors.”

The chief stopped smiling. “You been talking to that fucking priest?”

“What fucking priest?”

“Barone. That Salesian.”

“No. I haven’t. Should I?”

The chief swatted the air with his hand as if he was brushing away an annoying insect. The hand was still holding his handkerchief, and little droplets of moisture flew off and flecked the wall next to his desk. He brought the drenched handkerchief back to his forehead and resumed patting.

“I want to have a look at your archives,” Arnaldo said.

The chief shot him an indignant look.

“What?” he said.

“Your archives. I want to go there and have a look around.”

“Why?”

“I’ve got photographs. I’m gonna try to match them with names.”

The chief’s smile returned. “Coimbra can do that for you,” he said. “Just give me the photographs. I’ll make it a priority, have an answer for you in a day or two.”

And I already know what that answer would be
, Arnaldo thought. “I have to do it myself,” he said.

The chief frowned, and his eyes turned cold. “Are you suggesting my people are untrustworthy?”

“Not at all,” Arnaldo said blandly.

“Then what are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Chief. The matter is confidential, a question of national security. I’m not supposed to delegate any part of it. If you want more information, you gotta talk to my boss.”

“The governor called me,” the chief said. “The governor
and
the mayor. They both got calls from the director of the federal police in Brasilia. He made them promise to cooperate, but he wouldn’t tell them anything either.”

Arnaldo raised both palms in the same gesture of helplessness the chief had used just minutes before.

“Well, then,” he said. “If my boss won’t tell the mayor and the governor, how can you expect me to tell you?”

T
HE ARCHIVES, LOCATED IN the basement of the delegacia, were a warren of ceiling-to-floor shelves, dusty, deprived of daylight, and lit only by fluorescent lamps. The stuffy atmosphere was entirely disagreeable and so was Arnaldo’s reception. Coimbra showed his displeasure at the invasion of his lair. He and the chief exchanged what they probably thought were surreptitious glances.

“I want you and your people to extend Agente Nunes every consideration,” Chief Pinto said.

“As ordens,
Senhor
.
Every consideration.”

The only things missing were a wink and a nudge.

“What, exactly, are you looking for?” Coimbra said.

“That’s confidential,” Arnaldo said. “Just show me your system.”

“I don’t like people digging around in my files,” Coimbra said. “They get things out of order. All you have to do is tell me what you want, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

“I’d rather do it myself,” Arnaldo said.

“And I’d rather you didn’t,” Coimbra said.

They glared at each other.

“I’ve got an idea,” Chief Pinto said, as if it had just occurred to him. “Alberto here can help you. You can do it together.”

Arnaldo shook his head.

“I’m gonna do it alone,” he said.

A
RNALDO WAS a believer in the adage “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

After an unsuccessful morning in the archives, and an equally unsuccessful attempt to get a decent lunch in the
padaria
across the street, he was ready for a break. He decided to use it to locate the man the chief had called “that fucking priest.” A Salesian, Pinto had said. By inquiring at the first church he came to, Arnaldo discovered there was only one Salesian in Manaus: Father Vitorio Barone, who ran a school in the São Lázaro district. The parish priest was even able to furnish him with an address: number fourteen Rua de Caxias.

The Rua do Caxias turned out to be a narrow lane bisected by a filthy canal, more of an open drain than a waterway. A smell of raw sewage assailed Arnaldo’s nose. A mangy brown dog with visible ribs was tearing into a plastic sack of garbage in front of number twelve, a shack built of scrap lumber.

The neighboring building, number fourteen, was a mansion by comparison. Anywhere else it would have been categorized as a dump. Two stories tall, and twice as wide as any other house on the street, it was a haphazard pile of gray cinder block. An ancient pickup truck, painted yellow, but flaking in places to reveal the original blue, was parked in front. Arnaldo could hear children’s voices, getting louder, as he approached.

The door was open. He stood on the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust from sunlight to shade. A gang of kids became visible. They were seated on the cement floor, singing the alphabet. One of them caught sight of the figure in the doorway and whispered something to the child next to him. That one whispered to another and soon seventeen pairs of brown eyes and one pair of blue were turned in Arnaldo’s direction.

The blue eyes belonged to a priest in a black cassock. The singing faltered. The priest frowned. One of the kids saw the frown and elbowed his neighbor. The singing swelled. The priest stopped frowning.

They sang the alphabet through to the end. Then they sang it over again. When they finished for the second time, the priest clapped his hands.

“Dismissed,” he said.

The kids streamed out, walking past Arnaldo, giving him the once-over. The priest came forward.

Something about him, perhaps his long legs, perhaps the way he kept his neck erect when he walked, reminded Arnaldo of a flamingo. A shock of unruly black hair capped his high forehead. The hair was cut as a man might cut it himself if he didn’t care how looked.

“Father Barone?” Arnaldo asked.

He got a curt nod, then a question. “And you are?”

“Agente Arnaldo Nunes, federal police.”

Father Vitorio’s expression shifted from neutral to hostile.

“What do you want?”

“Your name came up at the police station,” Arnaldo said. “The chief referred to you as ‘that fucking priest,’ or words to that effect.”

The priest didn’t blanch. “So?” he said.

“So right now they’re probably referring to me as ‘that fucking federal cop.’ I figured we two fuckers should get acquainted.”

“The chief,” Father Vitorio said, “thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”

“And the feeling is mutual, eh?”

“I didn’t say that,” the priest snapped.

“No,
Padre
, you didn’t.”

Arnaldo looked around the room, seeking something to defuse the tension. His eye fell on some children’s drawings that were spiked onto nails driven into the unpainted wall. “What’s this?” he said, walking over to have a closer look.

“My art class.”

The priest followed Arnaldo and stood at his shoulder.

“I get discarded computer paper from an office in the duty-free zone,” he said. “The children make their drawings on the back. For the crayons . . . I accept contributions.”

Arnaldo could take a hint when he heard one. He reached for his wallet.

The priest performed a vanishing trick with Arnaldo’s ten-Real note. Then he gestured at the drawings.

“As you can see,” he said, “there’s a definite preference for gray, brown, and black. I offer them all the colors of the rainbow, but they choose gray, brown, and black.”

Arnaldo studied the kids’ pictures: stick figures holding guns, stick figures lying on the ground, houses with bullet holes in the walls. None of the kids showed any talent, and Father Vitorio, whatever else his abilities might have been, didn’t seem to have a vocation for teaching technique.