Chapter Thirty-Three
“THAT,” SILVA SAID, AS the Cessna 182 lifted off the runway, “is a load off my mind.”
The little aircraft eased into a turn, before leveling out on a course for Belem.
“You gonna call Irene?” Arnaldo said.
“Not until I have the details for the connecting flight. Let’s see what we can learn from the kid.”
They strolled over to the rude wooden shack that served as an office. The furnishings consisted of a desk, three chairs and a telephone. On the desk were a calculator, a ledger and a goose-necked lamp. A file cabinet stood in one corner. The walls were decorated with unframed photographs of various aircraft crudely cut out of aviation magazines. The kid was in one of his chairs, with his feet on the desk and his nose in a center spead showing a nude with a pout. He looked to be no more than seventeen.
“You’re Max, right?” Silva asked.
“Sure am,” the kid said.
“And your father is Felipe, the guy who just left for Belem?”
“Right again. What can I do for you?” Max dropped the magazine and put his feet on the floor.
“I’m Chief Inspector Silva. This is Agent Nunes. We’re with the Federal Police.”
“Yeah,” Max said. “I know. I expect everybody in town does by this time.”
“We’ve got a few questions for you.”
“Fire away.”
“Did you see the lynching?”
The kid looked pained. “I did,” he said. “And you know what? I wish I hadn’t. It wasn’t at all like I thought it was going to be. I don’t mind telling you, I’m starting to get nightmares about it.”
“That’s called having a conscience,” Silva said.
“Doesn’t everyone?”
“No, son, in my experience not everyone does. Did you recognize anyone pulling on the rope?”
“They were all wearing masks.”
“I know that. It’s not what I asked.”
“I didn’t recognize anyone,” Max said.
“How would you feel if we were able to prove that someone other than the Indian murdered Omar Torres?”
“What do you mean, how would I feel?”
“Just that. How would you feel?”
Max grimaced. “I’d feel like shit. But …”
“But what?”
“Those guys with the masks?”
“Yes?”
“They all live in this town. So do I. You don’t.”
“In other words even if you recognized someone, you wouldn’t tell us.”
Max licked his lips. “Maybe it’s hard for you to understand—”
“No,” Silva said. “It’s not. So let’s talk about something else.” He took a piece of paper out of his pocket. “How about this? I give you some names. You say ‘yes’ to the ones that own aircraft, ‘no’ to the ones who don’t, ‘maybe’ to the ones you don’t know about either way. Got that?”
Max nodded.
“Omar Torres.”
“Yes. It’s a little—”
“I don’t need details. Yes, no, or maybe will suffice. Hugo Toledo?”
“Yes.”
“Roberto Lisboa?”
“Yes. Why do you—”
“Just answer the questions, please. Paulo Cunha?”
“Yes.”
“Cesar Bonetti?”
“Yes.”
“José Frade?”
“Him, too.”
“That’s a yes?”
“That’s a yes.”
“All of them then?”
“Uh-huh. Anybody around here with any money owns an airplane. You got a big ranch, you need one. You’re an important businessman, like Cunha, you don’t want to be left behind. You want to show you’re as good as the next man, so you buy one, too.”
“Any employ pilots?”
“Nope. They all fly themselves. My dad taught most of them. All of them, in fact, except for Lisboa. Where he learned, I don’t know.”
Silva put the paper back in his pocket. “I’d like you to show us those aircraft.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because none of them are here. Why would anyone pay us to tie them down if they have their own airstrip? And all of them do.”
“WELL, THAT wasn’t much help,” Silva said as they walked to their car. “Any one of them could have dropped the meat.”
“And no felon would be stupid enough to put a flight on the day of the murders into a logbook,” Arnaldo said.
“Probably not,” Silva said. “But it won’t hurt to check.”
They were buckling their seatbelts when Silva’s telephone rang. It was Lefkowitz, the chief crime scene technician in São Paulo.
“Wonder of wonders,” Lefkowitz said. “I got through.”
“Has it been a problem?”
“I’ve been trying Hector for the last hour.”
“I’m not surprised. There’s only one tower for mobile phones, and it’s down about half the time. Arnaldo is here with me. I’m going to switch you over to speaker.”
When he heard the change in the quality of the connection, Lefkowitz said, “Hi, Arnaldo. How’s life in the jungle?”
“About like you might expect.”
“I sympathize. I spent almost two years in Manaus, remember?”
“This place is worse.”
“Nothing is worse than Manaus.”
“I’ve been both places, and believe me, Lefkowitz, this is worse.”
“Jesus. You’ve got my sympathy.”
“What have you got for us?” Silva asked, cutting short the pleasantries.
“The blood on the Indian’s clothing?”
“Yes?”
“It’s not human. It’s bovine.”
“Bovine?”
“Yeah, Chief Inspector, you know, from a—”
“I know what bovine is, Lefkowitz. Are you sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“How about the knife?”
“Mostly human on the blade,” Lefkowitz said. “Mostly bovine on the grip.”
“And the prints?”
“All from the Indian, all on the grip, none on the blade. None at all. It was as if—”
Silva anticipated what he was going to say: “It had been wiped clean before someone pressed it into his hand.”
“You took the words right out of my mouth.”
“How about fingernail scrapings?”
“Nothing. There weren’t any.”
“Thanks, Lefkowitz. One more thing: Have you done anything to light a fire under Doctor Rodrigues?”
“I have. I used my powers of persuasion.”
“In other words,” Silva said, “you lied to her.”
“Big time. I told her you’d sent samples to me as well, said I was beginning my analysis.”
“And being the competitive person she is …”
“The race is on.”
“Good thinking.”
“Mind you, Chief Inspector, I have the greatest respect for Doctor Rodrigues’s abilities in the field of—”
“Save your breath, Lefkowitz. I know that woman as well as you do. Anything else?”
“Not at the moment.”
They hung up. Arnaldo started the jeep.
“Where to?”
“Back to the hotel. It’s been a long day. I need a drink.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
BY THE TIME MAURA got to Jade’s place, she’d managed to convince herself that her panic had been the product of an overactive imagination.
She counted out Fred’s seven hundred Reais and told him he could earn a thousand by taking her back the following day.
He waved a finger in front of her nose. “Not for a thousand, not for two thousand, not for any amount.” And then, exasperated: “You didn’t listen to a word I said, did you?”
“I listened, but there is no way I’m going to let go of this story.”
“That’s you
r decision. As for me, I’m not going back there. Not tomorrow, not ever.”
“If you don’t, I’ll find someone else.”
“You do that. Thanks for your business. Goodbye.”
Her response was to slam the door of his jeep.
The note she found on her bed was a revelation, and it did a great deal to cheer her up.
She went to the refrigerator and took out a beer. Her next step, she thought, should be to start interviewing the women. Can in hand, she went to Jade’s desk and found the address book where her friend had told her it would be—in the top right-hand drawer. It was an old one, with a battered cloth cover, and pre-dated Jade’s arrival in Azevedo by many years. There were even entries from their school days. Patricia Toledo’s number was the last on a crowded page filled with Ts.
“And why do you want to talk to me?” Patricia said after Maura had explained who she was and whom she worked for.
“Not just you, Senhora Toledo. I’d like to talk to some of the other leading townswomen as well.”
Calling her a leading townswoman struck a chord. “It’s Patricia,” she said, switching from cold to warm. “Let me rephrase the question, Senhorita Mandel—”
“Maura.”
“Maura. What do you think I—we—might be able to tell you that you don’t know already?”
Maura had anticipated the question and had her answer already prepared. “I came to cover the story of what happened to the tribe,” she said. “And I got here to find there’s been a lynching, but I’ve come to the conclusion that Azevedo has another story to tell, one that could be the basis for an entire series.”
“Series?”
“Yes. I want to write about the women who are opening up Brazil’s last frontiers. It’s heroic, you know, doing what you’re doing.”
“It is?”
“Absolutely. There are precious few people in São Paulo and Rio who have any idea about the difficulties you’ve had to overcome, the privations you’ve had to put up with, the progress you’ve made. You’re a shining example to women all over this country.”
“We are?”
“You are indeed.” She was laying it on thick, but she hadn’t misjudged her audience. Patricia was lapping it up.
“I’m flattered.”
Of course she was.
“So, if you could spare me some time? Perhaps tomorrow?”
“I’m pretty busy, but I suppose I could manage it.”
“I’d like to buy you lunch at the Grand. And perhaps you could invite some others? The right kind of people? Women like you?”
“Did you have anyone particular in mind?”
There was a whiff of suspicion in the question. Maura sensed and countered it. “No, no one in particular. After all, you’d know better than I.”
“Yes,” Patricia said, satisfied, “I would. How many?”
“Three would be a comfortable number. I want to do the stories in depth, not spread the personalities too thin.”
“Myself and two others?”
“Perfect!”
“I know just the people.”
I’ll bet you do. Gotcha!
After she hung up, Maura pawed through the other drawers in Jade’s desk, looking for something to ship her samples in. She wanted to get them off before the airport closed for the night.
She settled on two padded envelopes, each big enough for three bottles. She tightened the caps and taped the envelopes together into one package. Then she went to the Grand to talk to Amanda.
“It’s important that I get this stuff off before the airport closes,” she said.
“I talked to the kid,” Amanda said. “He and his old man are asking for sixteen hundred Reais.”
“Wow! Pricey.”
“He said it includes landing fees, gas, a night in a hotel, and meals, but I still think it’s outrageous. Why don’t you send it by truck? I could find you a driver going that way who would do it for two hundred.”
“How long would it take?”
“With any luck, it would be there by tomorrow night.”
“And without luck?”
“No way of telling.”
“So I’d lose at least a day, maybe more?”
“Uh-huh. Sorry, but those are the two options.”
“I’ll bite the bullet then.”
“Okay, but I’m right in the middle of preparing dinner, so there’s no way I can go out there at the moment. And if I know that kid, you won’t be able to count on him to make a pickup. Your best bet is to go to the airport and stand there, watching the oversexed little bastard until he takes off.”
“Sounds like you don’t like him.”
“You think? His name’s Max Gallo. You want to borrow my jeep?”
“MUST BE pretty important, huh?” Max said, taking the package and feeling it for some clue of what was inside. “To pay us all that money to take it, I mean.”
“It is important,” Maura said. “And it’s fragile, so don’t drop it. When can you leave?”
“Can it wait until tomorrow morning? My dad took a couple of people to Belem, and there’s nobody else to mind the store.”
“Negative,” she said. “It has to go tonight. And you’re charging me sixteen hundred Reais, remember?”
“Oh, I remember, all right. Okay, you’ve got a deal. I’ll go tonight.”
“So answer my question. When can you leave?”
“Well, first I gotta make a phone call, then I gotta file a flight plan—”
“I didn’t ask you how to build a clock. I asked you what time you can leave.”
“Hey,” he said. “Touchy.”
“You people want the money, or not?”
“We want it.”
“Then get a move on.”
“Okay, okay, just leave the package with me and—”
“I’m not going anywhere until I see you take off.”
“Oh. Okay. Give me a credit card and take a seat.”
The kid took the card she offered, turned his back on her, picked up the telephone, and carried out a conversation in a low voice. Then he hung up and started filling in some paperwork. Some fifteen minutes later, while he was still at it, the door opened, and a girl came in. She was petite, had long hair, was wearing a pink dress, and reminded Maura of a pixie she’d once seen in a cartoon. She was carrying a small overnight bag.
“We’re going? We’re really going to Belem?”
Max nodded. She squealed and started jumping up and down.
“We’re going to Belem! We’re going to Belem!”
Maura fled the display of youthful enthusiasm and went outside to wait in Amanda’s jeep. She was still sitting there, twenty minutes later, when the young couple came out of the little terminal building.
Max waved at Maura, strolled to one of the Cessnas, and opened the door on the passenger side. The girl climbed in, and he made much of adjusting her seatbelt.
Copping a feel or two while he’s at it, the little creep, Maura thought. Five minutes later, they were airborne. She glanced at her watch, reached for her cell phone, and called Nataniel Eder.
“Samples are on the way,” she said and gave him the aircraft registration number and an approximate arrival time.
“I’ll have someone meet him,” the Belem bureau chief said. “I suppose this is a rush job.”
“The rushest.”
“Results noon tomorrow at the latest.”
* * *
MAURA RETURNED Amanda’s jeep and passed the few hours until dinner by interviewing people about the lynching.
There were new stories in circulation. Omar Torres was now being pointed to as the author of the genocide. No Indians, no need for a reservation, he was rumored to have said. And the Indian, people were saying, had become convinced that Omar was the man responsible for killing his people.
She had grave doubts about the veracity of both reports. And so, she soon discovered, did the federal cops.
“How about we go for a wal
k?” she said to Gonçalves after they’d finished dinner.
“Okay, but only if you don’t repeat last night’s performance.”
“Deal.”
“I mean it, Maura. It would be a waste of your time and mine. I have no intention of telling you anything.”
“You don’t have to, and I’m not going to ask you a thing. In fact, there are some things I intend to tell you.”
The weather was clear, and there was a full moon. They walked to the square where Amati had been lynched, picked out a bench, and sat down side by side.
“I know about the parachute,” she said. “And the meat. And how you’re waiting for an analysis of the poison.”
“There’s only one way you could have learned all of that,” he said. “Jade told you.”
“She did not tell me,” Maura said.
It was true. Jade hadn’t told her. She’d written it.
“Whatever,” Gonçalves said, unconvinced but disinclined to argue. “Anyway, you promised we weren’t going to talk about the case.”
“No,” she said. “I didn’t. I promised I wasn’t going to ask you any questions.”
“So don’t.”
“I won’t. In fact, as promised, I’m about to tell you something. All you have to do is to swear to keep it to yourself.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Negative. We play by different rules. As a cop, I can’t hide behind journalistic ethics or client privilege. I’m obliged to come clean about what I learn.”
“But if I don’t tell you what I could tell you, and not telling you hampers your ability to solve this case, what then?”
“Is this the same information we were talking about last night?”
“No. Last night I had a suspicion. Now, I’m close to having proof. My information is more detailed and more complete. I have facts that will help you see this case in a whole different light. And to get me to tell you what I know, all I need is your word.”
“Why tell me at all?”
“Because I want to see the guilty parties brought to justice.”
“But that’s not all of it, is it?”
“No. It’s not all of it.”
“Out with it then.”
“I’m scared.”
“You’re what?”
“I had a scare today, out in the rainforest. I had a feeling I was being watched, watched by someone who has in all probability committed multiple murders, one of which you don’t even know about yet.”
The Ways of Evil Men Page 17
