Ernesto took one look at Babyface’s jacket and tie and turned belligerent.
“What?” he said.
Babyface held up his ID. “Federal Police.”
“Oh, the federal police is it? Our very own Brazilian gestapo. Our very own Praetorian guard.”
Babyface blinked. “Praetorian guard?”
Ernesto Portella was probably the only guy in the whole favela who’d ever even heard of the Praetorian guard.
“Don’t give me that innocent look. You guys fool most people, but you don’t fool me. I know what you are. You talk up a storm about maintaining law and order, existing to serve and protect the people, but it’s all a big lie. The reality is you’re the ones who shore up the bloodsuckers.”
“Bloodsuckers? What bloodsuckers?”
“You know damned well who the bloodsuckers are. They’re the ones who prey on the masses. If it wasn’t for you and your cronies, capitalism would be a thing of the past.”
Babyface recognized that the guy had just come off a long bus ride, and he was inclined to cut him some slack, but not too much. And he sure as hell wasn’t about to be drawn into a political discussion. He opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get a chance. The man’s wife appeared in the doorway and brushed her husband out of the way.
“Is this about the Lisboas?” she said. “The missing persons report we filed?”
“As a matter of fact, it is.”
“Why didn’t you say so? Come in.”
“Actually,” Babyface said, “I’d like you to come out. I’d like you to accompany me to our field office. I’ve got a car. I’ll bring you home afterward. It shouldn’t take more than an hour or so.”
“Are you out of your mind?” Ernesto said. “We just got home from a trip to Pernambuco. I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to sleep.”
“Shut up, Ernesto,” Clarice said. And then, to Babyface, “Federal police, you said? Why are you people getting involved?”
“It might turn out to be a kidnapping,” Babyface said. “It’s part of our mandate to investigate kidnappings.”
“Look, Agente . . .”
“Gonçalves.”
“Agente Gonçalves, I’d like to help, I would. That’s why I went to the police in the first place, but I’ve told them everything I know. Not once, but twice. Read the report, talk to Delegado Tanaka, he’ll—”
“Delegado Tanaka’s dead.”
“What?”
“Delegado Tanaka is dead. Someone blew him up with a bomb. We think it might be related to what you told him.
But, what . . . how?”
“Senhora Portella, I don’t want to stand here in your doorway, trying to explain the whole thing. I want you to come with me and meet a gentleman who’s flying in from Brasilia specifically to interview you and your husband.”
“From Brasilia?”
Babyface nodded.
“And this gentleman thinks it’s that important? To speak to us, I mean?”
“He does,” Babyface said. “We all do.”
Clarice turned and addressed her husband.
“Ernesto,” she said, “splash some cold water on your face and change that damned shirt.”
SILVA AND Hector were waiting for them in one of the con-ference rooms.
Ernesto had changed to a T-shirt that had Alberto Korda’s famous portrait of Che Guevara on the front, the one where Che is wearing a beret. The beret was black, and it looked just like the one Ernesto had on his head, red star and all.
Silva took one look at Ernesto’s shirt, and his eyes nar-rowed. It wasn’t because of Che’s politics. Silva felt politics were a man’s own business, even if the man in question was a goddamned Communist. No, politics weren’t the issue. Nationality was.
In 1978, an Argentinian tie with Brazil, and Argentinian victories over Poland and Peru, had knocked Brazil out of contention for the World Cup. Then, in 1990, Argentina had done it again, playing a defensive game and beating Brazil 1–0 in some of the least spectacular soccer ever.
Soccer in Brazil is a serious business, and World Cups are the most serious soccer of all. Silva knew his smoldering resentment of Argentinians and things Argentinian was big-oted, but he couldn’t help himself. His dislike was visceral.
“Senhora,” he said, taking Clarice’s hand and giving her a little bow. To Ernesto, he said, “You are aware, are you not, that that man”—he pointed to the portrait on the front of the shirt—“was an Argentinian?”
Ernesto, who disliked Argentinians quite as much as Silva did, and for much the same reasons, raised a belligerent jaw. “He was not,” he said.
“He was a Cuban and a hero of the revolution.”
“Argentinian,” Hector said.
“Argentinian,” Babyface said.
“Argentinian,” his wife said, “who went to Cuba to help Castro. Now shut up, Ernesto.”
Ernesto mumbled something about lies spread by capital-ist lackeys and lapsed into a sullen silence. It was with no input from him that Clarice recounted, at Silva’s request and for the third time in succession, the circumstances of the Lisboa family’s departure. Then she went on to tell them about her experience in the secondhand furniture shop. She didn’t go into detail, just glossed over everything to finish the story as soon as possible.
“And you told all of this to both Sergeant Lucas and Delegado Tanaka, is that right?” Silva said.
Clarice nodded.
“And I showed him the envelope, the one with the money.
By him, you mean Delegado Tanaka?”
“Yes, Delegado Tanaka.”
“And what did he do then?”
“He told us to bring him to the shop. He wanted to talk to the owner and see the furniture.”
“No goddamned consideration for the working man,” Ernesto said, speaking for the first time in about ten minutes, “none at all. It was a workday, we earn by the hour and we—
Shut up, Ernesto,” Clarice said.
If she hadn’t said it, Silva would have.
“So the three of you went to the shop?” he said.
“Yes, and Augusta’s armario was still there, and so were the table and chairs. The bedside tables, the ones with the Formica tops, had already been sold.”
“Do you recall the address of the shop?”
“I don’t think I ever knew it. But I can show you where it is.”
“For the second damned time,” Ernesto said.
Everyone ignored him.
“And the name of the owner?” Silva asked. “Do you remember that?”
She thought about that for a moment before shaking her head.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Alright, what did Delegado Tanaka do next?”
“He sent us away. It was almost as if . . . as if . . .”
“As if what, Senhora Portella?”
“Well,” she said, “I know this is going to sound silly, but . . . as if he were trying to get rid of us.”
“And I had to take three buses to get to work instead of two, and when I got there the foreman told me it was too damned late, and that I could turn around and go home,” Ernesto said.
This time, Clarice paid some attention to her husband.
“Delegado Tanaka knew we were going to be late, but he didn’t offer to pay for the bus, or anything. Not like this young man here”—she pointed to Babyface—“who says he’s going to take us home after we’re done.”
“And he will,” Silva said. “Now, answer me this, and it’s very important. Do you recall anything about Delegado Tanaka’s conversation with the shop’s owner?”
“Everything,” she said. “We were right there. Until he sent us away, that is.”
“Tell me.”
“Delegado Tanaka asked the owner about the furniture, how he got it, and the owner said he bought it, and Delegado Tanaka asked him if he could prove it, and the owner said he could, that he paid by check and he got the canceled check back, and he even had a copy of a paper
he’d given to the carioca.”
“Carioca? What carioca?”
“Didn’t I mention that? The man was a carioca.”
“How did you know?”
“If it talks like a carioca,” Ernesto said, “and if it has a big, fucking medallion from the Flamengo Futebol Club hanging from its neck on a gold chain, it is a carioca.”
Silva felt his heart pounding in his chest. The hairs on the back of his neck were starting to stand up.
“You saw this man? You saw the man who sold the furni-ture?”
“Don’t you get it?” Ernesto said. “He was the same guy who picked up the Lisboas, the same guy who offered Edmar the job. Jesus. You guys are slow on the uptake.”
“It must have been the same man,” Clarice said. “The shop owner said he had a mustache and black, oily hair, just like the man who came to fetch Edmar, Augusta, and their kids. Not only that, he gave the shop owner the same name he’d given us.”
“The same name?” Silva said.
And I’ll bet anything, he thought, that it’s the same name that Arnaldo gave me. Christ Jesus!
“When we first spoke to Delegado Tanaka,” Clarice went on, “he asked me what the man’s name was, and I couldn’t remember. Neither could Ernesto. But then the shop owner went and fetched the check, and he read it off. And I’ve been able to remember it ever since.”
“Roberto Ribeiro,” Silva said.
Hector and Babyface looked at Silva in surprise, but they knew better than to interrupt.
“Yes,” Clarice said brightly. “That’s the man. Roberto Ribeiro.”
Chapter Forty-one
ERNESTO WAS PROVING TO be of no help at all. In fact, he was proving to be a downright pain in the ass. To every-one’s relief, including Clarice’s, Silva suggested Babyface take him home.
“Why?” Ernesto asked suspiciously.
“We’re going to see that secondhand furniture dealer,” Silva said. “There are three of us and your wife makes four. It’s a small car.”
“I’m not a big guy. You can pack me in. I know my rights.
Rights? What rights?”
“My wife hasn’t done anything. Me neither. You got noth-ing to arrest us for.”
“We’re not arresting you.”
“No?”
“No.”
“So you need my wife to go with you voluntarily?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t need me?”
“No.”
“Clarice, you want to go with these cops? You want to go back to that shop? Again?”
“I want to see the end of this, Ernesto. I want to find out what happened to Augusta and her family. I’m going.”
“You see?” Silva said. “It’s voluntary. She’s simply agreeing to help us with our inquiries.”
“Aha,” Ernesto said, as if he’d caught Silva in an admis-sion of wrongdoing.
“What do you mean, aha?”
“It’s the duty of every citizen to help the cops with their inquiries, right?”
“Yes.”
“So it’s my duty to go along, too.”
“But we don’t need you,” Silva said.
“Let me get this straight. Are you suggesting I don’t do my duty as a citizen? What kind of cop are you, anyway?”
“You’d better let him come, too,” Clarice said, putting a hand on Silva’s arm. “Otherwise, I’ll never hear the end of it.
Gonna be a tight fit,” Babyface said.
WHEN THEY entered his secondhand furniture shop, Goldman was standing at a counter near the door, reviewing some paperwork. He looked up when he heard the bell, but the budding smile vanished from his lips when he saw the Portellas and their companions.
“What, again?” he said.
“It’s the federal police this time,” Clarice said apolo-getically.
“Federal, schmederal,” Goldman said, “the police are the police.”
“I’m Chief Inspector Silva. This is Delegado Costa and that’s Agente Gonçalves.”
They all shook hands.
“No offense,” Goldman said, “but I think your visit is a waste of time. I already told everything I know to that Japanese fellow.”
“Delegado Tanaka,” Silva said. “He’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Somebody blew him up with a bomb. It happened before he filed his report of his conversation with you. We think it might have had something to do with what you told him.”
“Caralho. A bomb, huh? He have kids?”
“Two. Both daughters.”
Goldman shook his head.
“The violence in this town is beyond belief,” he said. “I should move to Israel.”
“Or maybe not,” Silva said. “They’ve got bombs there, too.
Yeah, I suppose you’re right. Okay, how can I help?”
“What can you tell us about this guy Roberto Ribeiro?”
“She was here,” Goldman said, pointing at Clarice. “She must have told you.”
“We want to hear it from you,” Hector said.
“Not much to tell. Ribeiro came in here with a load of fur-niture. I bought it off him, sold some of it. Then this lady and her husband—”
“Me,” Ernesto said.
“Yeah, you,” Goldman said, looking at Ernesto’s T-shirt and beret with distaste, “came in and started looking at the merchandise.”
“Overpriced merchandise,” Ernesto said.
“You told me that the first time you were in here,” Goldman said. “You don’t like my prices, go buy from some-body else.”
“I’ll buy from anyone I like,” Ernesto said. “Last I heard it’s still a free country, although God knows for how—”
“Shut up, Ernesto,” Clarice and Silva said in almost per-fect unison.
“Just get on with the story,” Silva said.
“Okay, so this lady here finds some furniture she thinks belongs to a friend of hers. I tell her I bought the stuff fair and square and that I’ve got a canceled check to prove it. She says her friend would never have sold it. I say she must have. She goes off and a couple of days later she comes back with the Jap . . . uh, I mean, Delegado Tanaka. He says he wants to see the canceled check. I give it to him. End of story.”
“So Tanaka held on to the check?”
“And the receipt.”
Silva had a sinking feeling in his chest, but he asked the question anyway: “And you didn’t make a copy?”
Goldman’s answer surprised him: “Of course I made a copy. You think I’m gonna send original checks and receipts to my accountant? What if he loses them? What then? How would I justify my expenses?”
“Senhor Goldman,” Silva said, “I would be most grateful if you would give me those copies.”
“No way,” Goldman said.
Silva frowned.
“I’ll make copies of the copies and give you those,” Goldman said.
THE MAN they were steered to at Ribeiro’s bank, the man who could have given them access to all his account infor-mation, was a vice president by the name of Bertoldo Perduzzi, and he was a stickler for details. Silva explained the situation with great patience. He wheedled. He cajoled. He came close to losing his temper. But Perduzzi wouldn’t budge. He just kept shaking his head.
“It’s not a question of not wanting to help you,” he said. “I understand this guy might be some kind of dangerous felon, but what if he isn’t?”
“He is,” Silva said. “I can assure you, he is.”
“Okay, he is. I’ll take your word for it. But accounts in this bank are inviolable and the law’s the law. You give me a war-rant, and I’ll be happy to give you whatever you need. But without a warrant, my hands are tied.”
“There’s a dead man, a delegado by the name of Tanaka, who managed to get whatever the hell he needed out of you people. And he did it without a warrant. How come he could and we can’t?”
“I have no knowledge of this man, Tanaka,” Perduzzi sniffed, “but if he’
d come to me I would have told him the same thing.”
“I want to talk to your boss,” Silva said.
And he did. And Perduzzi’s boss backed him up.
The only recourse was the legal route, and Silva took it. There was a judge he knew who was friendly, accommodating, and willing to work from home. But by the time the paper-work was ready, all of the people who could have furnished him with the information he needed had left for the day.
Fuming, Silva was waiting on the doorstep when Perduzzi arrived for work on the following morning. The banker greeted the cop like a cherished customer, wished him a cheerful good morning, scrutinized the warrant, and turned to his computer.
Minutes later, Silva was out the door of the bank and into the waiting car.
“Where to?” Babyface said.
Silva looked at the printout in his hand and rattled off an address.
“Never heard of it,” Babyface said.
“It’s that street under the Minhocão,” Hector said from the backseat. “Crime doesn’t pay.”
“I guess not,” Babyface said, letting out the emergency brake. “Not in his case, anyway. Maybe he’s got a habit, or maybe he gambles.”
“Or maybe he just likes living like a pig,” Hector said.
THE MINHOCÃO had an official name, but no Paulista ever used it; they just called it the Minhocão, the big worm. It was a viaduct that curled between the city center and the bairro of Água Branca and had been designed to alleviate the traffic gridlock between the two. For a while, it had done just that, but then the growth of the city clogged that artery, just like it had already clogged most of the others. These days, both the viaduct and the street below were bumper to bumper from early morning to well past midnight seven days a week.
What had once been a middle-class bastion had become cheap and run-down. People chose the neighborhood only if they couldn’t afford to live anywhere else.
There was no telling what color Ribeiro’s building had originally been, or even if it had been built of blocks, stone, or concrete. Exhaust fumes, and time, had colored the facade a uniform, sooty black, just like the stanchions that supported the viaduct.
Mario Silva - 02 - Buried Strangers Page 21
