Every Bitter Thing (9 page)

“We located Luis Mansur.”

“Where is he?”

“São Paulo.”

“Have you spoken to him?”

“No, but I hope to later today. I want to show him photographs of that dead thug, Girotti.”

“You're coming here?”

“I am. So is Arnaldo. He has a line on the Kloppers, Marnix and Jan. They're from a place called Holambra, a little town near São Paulo. Marnix's parents still live there. Arnaldo spoke to them.”

“Marnix is the father of Jan, right?”

“Right. And get this: the old folks say they have no idea how to reach either one of them.”

“They don't know where their own son is?”

“Or their grandson. So they say.”

“Sounds unlikely.”

“Which is why Arnaldo is going there personally.”

“Do they know he's coming?”

“He thought it would be better if they didn't.”

“What a nasty surprise, opening your front door and finding Arnaldo Nunes on your doorstep.”

“I'll tell him you said that.”

“I knew you would. That's why I did it. When are you arriving?”

“Tuesday.”

“Only on Tuesday? Why not earlier?”

“Sampaio's up to something. He's set a meeting for Monday.”

“All right, Tuesday. Congonhas or Guarulhos?”

“Guarulhos. Arnaldo is still going on about that accident, says he's not going to fly into Congonhas ever again.”

“I'll arrange it. See you then.”

“Wait. There's more. One of the domestic airlines came through on Clancy. It appears he caught a flight to Palmas.”

“Palmas? The capital of Tocantins?”

“The very same.”

“Why the hell would a tourist want to go there?”

Tocantins was the newest of the Brazilian states, carved out of the much older, and larger, state of Goiás. Palmas was a new city, constructed on what had been, until two decades earlier, a low hill covered with sun-baked red earth and a few stunted trees.

“God knows,” Silva said. “And there's no record of him coming back.”

“There aren't many hotels in Palmas. If he stayed in one, it shouldn't be tough to locate him.”

“We're checking.”

“Car rental?”

“Checking that too.”

“Credit card records?”

“American. Requesting them through channels.”

“How about Motta?”

“Nothing yet. We've placed telephone calls to all the Darcy Mottas in the records, spoken to most, and we're still awaiting callbacks from three. A physical description would help. You should ask the flight attendant if she remembers him. I'll pose the same question to Lidia Porto when I see her.”

“When you see her?”

“Sorry. I should have mentioned that. We located her.”

“And she's there in Brasília?”

“She is. She agreed to see us at five.”

“That's quick. What was she doing in the States? Did she say?”

“She did. She was visiting her daughter and grandchildren. The daughter married an American.”

“Have you warned her she might be in danger?”

“Not yet. I thought it best to break the news in person.”

“Some of those old grannies can surprise you. Tough as nails.”

“This one doesn't sound that way.”

“I just had another thought.”

“Tell me.”

“There may have been a security camera above the boarding gate in Miami. It might have recorded images of the people boarding the flight.”

“Where did that idea come from?”

“We were talking about Americans and photos. Sometimes I surprise myself.”

“I'll ask Harvey Willis.”

“That friend of yours? The Miami Beach cop?”

“Uh-huh. I'll phone him as soon as I hang up.”

Chapter Fourteen

T
HE SINGLE CHIME OF
the doorbell was still resonating when frantic barking overpowered it.

“Who is it?”

The woman's voice came from inside the apartment, almost a shout as she strived for audibility over the yapping.

Silva leaned in closer to the door. “Senhora Porto?”

“Yes.”

“Chief Inspector Silva, Senhora. And Agent Nunes. We called.”

“Oh, yes. Of course. Just a moment.”

“Who the hell did she think it was?” Arnaldo growled, looking at his watch. “How many other appointments is she likely to have at exactly five
P.M.
on a Tuesday?”

In the space of a heartbeat, he'd gone from cheerful to grumpy. They could hear her moving away from the door, calling the dogs. Apparently, there were four of them, and all four had Teutonic names.

“Little bastards,” Arnaldo said.

“Since when,” Silva said, “don't you like dogs?”

“I like
most
dogs,” Arnaldo said.

“But?”

“But
those
dogs are dachshunds.”

“How can you tell?”

“Because my sister-in-law, Elisa, has three of them, and no other dog sounds quite like them. You hear the hysteria? The underlying threat in everything they say?”

“Say?”

“Bark.”

“Dachshunds are cute.”

“They're cute because they have to be cute. It's nature's way of assuring the survival of the species. If their appearance matched their character, mankind would have exterminated them centuries ago. Believe me, those big eyes and adorable little snouts are just a defense mechanism. Inside, dachshunds are dark and twisted.”

“I've always liked them,” Silva said.

“That's because you don't
know
them,” Arnaldo said. “The woman has gone to lock them in another room. Good thing, too, otherwise they'd nip our heels off. You get them in a pack, they're vicious. I'm telling you, Mario—”

The door opened. The dogs were still kicking up a fuss, but now it was coming from a distant corner of the apartment.

“Chief Inspector Silva? Agent Nunes?”

Lidia Porto was a woman in her mid-sixties wearing sensible shoes and a cardigan sweater covered with dog hair. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck.

They gave her a professorial air.

“I'm Silva, Senhora. This is Nunes.”

She extended a hand to each of them in turn.

“Won't you come in?”

She led them down the hallway into her living room. There were numerous photos strewn about. But, in the case of
this
grandmother, most of the photos were of dogs. Arnaldo had been right about the breed. They were dachshunds.

She had coffee waiting, and served them each a cup, speaking while she poured. “I'm sorry it took me a moment to answer the door. I thought it best to put my babies in the bedroom. Not everyone likes dogs, you know.”

“Hard to believe, isn't it?” Arnaldo said, adding sugar.

“Agent Nunes loves dogs,” Silva said, “even more than I do myself. He's particularly fond of dachshunds.”

She put down her cup and started to get up. “Well, then,” she said, “why don't I just—”

“Unfortunately, though,” Arnaldo said hastily, “I've developed a recent allergy to their hair.”

“To the hair of dachshunds?”

“Yes,” Arnaldo said with a sigh. “I think it came from cuddling them too much. I fear I've stroked my last dachshund.”

“You poor man,” she said and shot him a look of sympathy.

“If you don't mind,” Silva said, putting the interview back on track, “I have a few questions.”

“Of course not. Ask away. You wanted to know about my last trip to the United States, isn't that right?”

“Actually, no, Senhora.”

She frowned. “No?”

“I wanted to talk about your trip back home. You traveled on TAB flight 8101 on the twenty-second of November, correct?”

“Yes, it was the twenty-second of November. I didn't remember the date when you called, but after we hung up I checked my ticket stub. I always hang on to the stubs. My husband does something with them at tax time.”

“Your husband? You're married?”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “When we spoke by telephone, didn't I tell you I was in the United States visiting my daughter?”

There was nothing wrong with her memory, but somehow, Silva had imagined her to be a widow.

“Uh, still married, I meant.”

“Twenty-nine years,” she said with satisfaction. “And very happily.”

“But your husband didn't accompany you to the States?”

She gave him a censorious look. “Someone had to stay at home and care for the babies.”

In the bedroom, the “babies” were still going ballistic.

“A kennel?” Silva suggested.

She made a dismissive gesture. “Goodness, no. People who love their animals never subject them to kennels. Isn't that so, Agent Nunes?”

“Never,” Arnaldo agreed, draining his cup.

“Do you recall who sat next to you on the flight?” Silva said.

“He was a famous author. Shortly after we got back, someone murdered him. Is that what this is about?”

“In part,” Silva admitted. “So you sat next to Paulo Cruz?”

“I did, and I was thrilled. I've read
all
of his books. They're so …
educational
.”

“Do you recall the tenor of your conversation?”

“We didn't talk much, I'm sorry to say. I had a thousand questions, of course. As soon as he told me who he was, I started right in. But he'd been attending some conference or other, and he was exhausted.”

“So he slept?”

“He didn't even want dinner. He couldn't seem to keep his eyes open. He asked the stewardess for a pillow and drifted off.”

“And he slept until….”

“He slept all the way to São Paulo. He didn't even wake up for breakfast.”

“So you didn't have much of a chance to form an impression.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say that. There were a couple of things I noticed.”

“Such as?”

“He looked older, for one thing.”

“Older than what, Senhora?”

“Older than he does on the jackets of his books.”

“I see. Anything else?”

“He wasn't wearing a wedding ring. I didn't think much about it at the time, but later, in the pictures of his funeral, there were three children who looked just like him.”

“Anything else?”

She thought about it for a moment, shook her head, and said, “Have you found out who murdered him? Or why?”

“Not yet, Senhora.”

“Such a pity. He seemed like a very nice man. And so …
talented
.”

“After he fell asleep, Senhora, did you sleep yourself?”

“I don't really sleep on airplanes, Chief Inspector. I only doze a little. It's not that flying makes me nervous, or anything, but I can't seem to fall asleep unless I'm lying down.”

“So you were awake all night?”

She nodded. “All night.”

“Did you get up, move around the cabin?”

“No, I didn't. I was in the window seat. Professor Cruz was sleeping between me and the aisle. I didn't want to disturb him.”

“Tell me about your fellow passengers,” he said. “Who else do you remember?”

“There was a very unpleasant man at the check-in. He sped up at the last minute and pushed in ahead of me. He smelled of whiskey.”

“Luis Mansur?”

“I don't know his name. But if you ask the man with the spot on his face, he could probably tell you.”

“Man with a spot on his face?”

“Yes. You're speaking to all of the passengers, aren't you?”

“We are.”

“Then I guess you haven't gotten to him just yet. He has a mark on his face. Just here.” She touched her cheek.

“What kind of mark? A birthmark?”

“A birthmark, yes. A rather large one.”

“And why would he be likely to remember the name of the fellow who smelled of whiskey?”

“Because at a given point, the fellow who smelled of whiskey came over and sat down next to him.”

“And they spoke?”

“And they spoke. But not for long, only a couple of minutes. Then the man who smelled got up and went back to his original seat.”

“Did you hear what they talked about?”

“No. But the man with the birthmark wasn't enjoying the conversation. He looked very displeased.”

“Do you remember any of the other passengers?”

“There was a priest; at least I
think
he was a priest. He was wearing a … what do you call it?” She pointed to her neck.

“Clerical collar?”

“Yes.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“No.”

“Who else can you remember?”

“I was reading most of the time. But I do recall a young man, a teenager. He was traveling all by himself in business class, and I thought that was strange. I never traveled business class until I was over forty. Even now, my husband complains about the difference in price; but frankly, he can afford it. And the tourist cabin is just
too
uncomfortable.”

“A teenager. Who else?”

She put a finger to her lips, remembering. “A gentleman traveling with his son. Both of them appeared to be very nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Craning their necks to see who was getting on board, muttering to each other in voices just above a whisper. But that was before we took off. Once we were in the air, they settled down and went to sleep.”

“Like Professor Cruz.”

“Like Professor Cruz, except the two of them woke up for breakfast.”

“Who else?”

“A young man with a ponytail. Another young man with a little moustache and a gold earring here.” She touched an ear. “I think that was about it. There weren't many people in the cabin. Oh, yes, I almost forgot, there was a fellow in his thirties with a suit and an attaché case. He was one of those people who don't make much of an impression. I forgot about him last time, as well. I wouldn't have remembered him at all, if the woman hadn't prompted me.”

Silva glanced at Arnaldo, who raised an eyebrow.

“What last time?” he said. “What woman?”

“Some research person. Doing work for the airlines.”

“When was this?”

“Quite some time ago. Not long after I got back. She called and made an appointment. Maybe I couldn't have told you as much as I have if she hadn't taken me through it once already.”

“She posed the same questions we've been asking?”

“Her focus was on passenger service, and the experience of flying business class over long distances. But many of the questions
were
similar.”

“Did she leave a business card?”

“No, she didn't.”

“How about identification? What did she show you?”

“She didn't offer any.”

“And you didn't ask?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I didn't ask
you
for any either, did I?” she said. “I like to be cooperative. This woman already knew, when she called, that I'd been a business-class passenger on the flight. She must have had access to records. I had no reason to be suspicious.”

“No, Senhora, of course you didn't. What did this woman look like?”

Lidia Porto put her hands over her head and waved her fingers. “She had frizzy red hair, quite a lot of it. She wasn't young, but she wasn't old either, mid-thirties, I'd say. About my height, maybe a little taller. Not fat, not thin, just … normal. I'm sorry I can't be more helpful than that.”

“Eye color?”

“I don't know.”

“You don't remember?”

“No. I don't
know
. She was wearing dark glasses.”

“Dark glasses? Here, inside your apartment?”

Lidia Porto nodded. “She told me she was suffering from conjunctivitis.”

“Anything else you can remember about her?”

“Not really. Why?”

“Senhora Porto, if she—or anyone else claiming to be from the airline—gets in touch with you again, don't let her in. Lock the door and call us immediately. Call me personally. Here's my card.”

Silva took one out of his case and handed it to her. She looked at it and then looked back at him. For the first time, he saw alarm in her eyes.

“Don't you think,” she said, “it's time you told me what this is all about?”

“Yes, Senhora,” Silva said. “I do.”

And he did.