The director looked down at his desk, and then went back to fumbling with the pencil. When next he spoke, it was with a touch of embarrassment.
“Probably not,” he said. “Most likely, she’s just a runaway. She’s fifteen, and she’s done it before.”
Silva raised his eyes to the ceiling. The director looked up just in time to notice.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I know it’s not normally a job for the federal police.”
“Normally?” Silva said. Then, when it became clear that Sampaio didn’t intend to respond, “How about ‘never’?”
Sampaio dropped his pencil and rested his forearms on his desk.
“Stop being difficult, Mario. Look at it from the deputado’s point of view. It’s not just a missing girl; it’s also a political thing. The deputado has to get her back before it’s known she’s gone. Otherwise, people might start asking themselves what she’s running away from, might draw the conclusion that there’s something dysfunctional about the household of the deputado’s son and daughter-in-law, or odd about the deputado himself, which of course there isn’t.”
“Which of course there isn’t,” Silva echoed. “With all due respect, Director, I can’t imagine that Deputado Malan has so little influence with the cops in . . . where’s he from again?”
“Recife.”
“In Recife, that he can’t get them to find her and be discreet about it.”
“That’s just it. They tried, and they can’t find her. Malan knows we’re better at that sort of thing than the locals. He wants us to look into it.”
“And if we say no?”
“We’re not going to say no,” the director said. “I’ve already told him yes. He’s waiting for your call.”
Chapter Three
DEPUTADO ROBERTO MALAN WAS a scion of one of the great landholding families of Brazil’s Northeast, people who’d wielded considerable power since colonial times. Originally, they held their estates in fiefdom to the King of Portugal. After the declaration of independence, they transferred their loyalty to the emperors of Brazil. Then, in May of 1888, Dom Pedro II, by Imperial decree, abolished slavery throughout the country. Slaves had been as much a part of the economic equation as sugarcane and coffee. Five times more Africans had been shipped to Brazil than to North America. Their value as property had been reduced to nothing by a few strokes of the monarch’s pen.
The powerful barons of Bahia and Pernambuco, owners of more than 90 percent of the arable land in those regions, managed to survive the blow by hiring their former slaves as employees. But the price of rent and food was deducted from wages. And the price of both was determined exclusively by the landlords. Deductions always exceeded wages. What’s more, the landlords no longer had the obligation to care for sick and infirm slaves. So, in the end, the landlords were better off than they’d been before. They came to accept, indeed embrace, a slaveless society.
What they couldn’t accept was a continuing subjection to Dom Pedro II. Their newfound distrust, and in some cases hatred, led them to work assiduously for his downfall. The traitor to his class, the last emperor of Brazil, was overthrown and sent into exile. A republic was established.
Within a year, Pedro Malan (named after the emperor he’d worked so hard to depose) became a duly elected senator in the new federal government and Malan had been in the legislature ever since. Roberto, the current patriarch of the line, the grandfather of the missing girl, had been there for over thirty years.
Now, at sixty-four, his was the name most often cited as the next president of the Chamber of Deputies, a job that would put him third in succession to the Presidency of the Republic. He’d become accustomed to treating federal employees much as he treated his workers back home.
“Sit,” he said, pointing Silva to a chair, as if he was issuing instructions to a household pet.
The deputado offered neither his hand, nor an apology for keeping Silva waiting. He was a man with a florid face, bushy white eyebrows, and a habit of leaning forward when he spoke.
Silva did as he was bade. The legs of his chair were unusually short, while Malan was sitting on something that raised him up. The politician’s diminutive stature was a feature well known to, and exploited by, caricaturists and cartoonists. He’d taken steps to compensate for it.
Ostensibly in the interest of keeping the inquiry under wraps, the deputado had asked that their meeting take place in his home on Paranoá Lake. The lake, an artificially constructed body of water in the center of Brasilia, was largely surrounded by imposing mansions like Malan’s. Behind him, through an open window, Silva could see an expanse of green lawn and the dock where the deputado’s gleaming white motor yacht was moored. A sailor in white shorts was polishing one of the cleats. There were two gardeners at work among the rose bushes, and the fragrance of the flowers permeated the room. Across the blue water of the lake the national flag waved lazily from its huge flagpole on the Praça dos Três Poderes. The room would have been a pleasant place had it not been for the presence of the man who owned it.
Silva took out his notepad, turned to a blank page and uncapped his pen.
Malan offered no refreshment, made no attempt to indulge in small talk. He got right down to business: “Sampaio tell you what this meeting is about?”
“Your granddaughter,” Silva said. “I understand she’s missing.”
“You understand right.”
“I’ve been told she’s gone missing before.”
“Right again.”
“What’s her full name?”
“Marta Nascimento Malan.” The deputado said it slowly so that Silva could make a note of it. “Her mother was a Nascimento.”
Silva was obviously expected to know the name, and he did. The Nascimentos also owned great estates in Pernambuco.
“Was?” he asked.
“Was,” the deputado repeated. “Now, she’s a Malan.”
Possessive, Silva thought.
“How long has she been missing?” he asked.
Malan had to rifle through the calendar on his desk to answer the question. When he found the annotation he was looking for, he tapped it with his finger.
“My son first told me about it on the fourth of this month,” he said. “So she must have gone missing four or five weeks before that.”
Silva lifted his head from his notebook and stared at the deputado.
“Five weeks before the fourth of April? More than two months ago?”
Malan wrinkled his nose and sniffed, as if he could detect criticism by scent alone. He glared at Silva. “I know how to count, Chief Inspector.”
It was the first time he’d used Silva’s title, but there was no respect in it. He said “Chief Inspector” much as he might have said “waiter” or “driver.”
Silva masked a flash of anger. “When did your son report her disappearance to the authorities?”
“On the same day he notified me, the fourth of April. He called a friend of ours in Recife, the mayor, Arlindo Venantius. You heard of him?”
“No,” Silva said.
“You will before long,” Malan said. “We’re talking about making him governor.”
Not running him for governor, making him governor. Malan paused long enough for Silva to draw the obvious conclusion, then said, “And Arlindo called his chief of police.”
Not the chief of police, his chief of police.
In many places in the North, true democracy was little more than a distant dream. The real power was in the hands of feudal families, and it had been that way for four hundred years. Silva was glad he hadn’t been obliged to deal with people like Malan when he was growing up in São Paulo. Back then, he had been accustomed to telling people what he thought.
“Why did your son wait for more than a month before talking to the mayor?” he said.
Malan waved an impatient hand.
“I told you. She’s gone missing before. Why fuss about it if she’s going to come crawling back
with her tail between her legs? One time, she was gone for almost three weeks. My son figured it was the same merda all over again. But this time it was different. This time she didn’t come back.” He shifted in his chair, considered for a moment, apparently decided to be candid. “Personally, I don’t care whether she comes back or not, but my son’s wife was nagging him, then she started nagging me, so I’ve got to do what I can. It’s family.”
“The police in Recife found no trace of her at all?”
“Obviously not. Otherwise, why would I bother to talk to you?”
Silva took a deep, calming breath.
Malan seemed to enjoy trying Silva’s patience. A smile creased a corner of his mouth.
“What’s the name of the police chief in Recife?”
“Norberto Venantius.”
“Same last name as the mayor. Pure coincidence, I suppose.” The deputado pulled his eyeglasses down to the tip of his nose and glared at Silva over the top of the frame.
“You trying to be a wise-ass?”
“No, Deputado, certainly not. I’ll need a photo of your granddaughter.”
The deputado grunted. “I’ll get you one,” he said, but he didn’t rise.
“Now?” Silva prompted.
“Not now. I’ll have to get one from my son. My secretary will call you when it arrives. You can come over and pick it up.”
“You don’t have a photo of your granddaughter?”
Malan started to redden. At first, Silva thought it was embarrassment, but it wasn’t. It was anger.
“Not a recent photo, no. I don’t want to have anything to do with her any more. She’s turned into a disrespectful little bitch. I don’t know how her mother puts up with her. Her father and I sure as hell don’t. What else do you need to know?”
“Do you have any idea why she left?”
“No.”
He looked straight into Silva’s eyes when he said it.
And Silva was sure he was lying.
Chapter Four
MANAUS,
BRAZILIAN STATE OF AMAZONAS
MARTA MALAN LEANED CLOSER to the mirror above the sink and studied her lip. The magazines she was fond of reading called that kind of lip “beestung.” Sometimes the effect was natural, sometimes achieved by injection. In Marta’s case it had been created by a blow from a fist, a huge, hairy, disgusting male fist. And that fist belonged to a bastard they called The Goat.
When Marta pulled the lip away from her gums and curved it over she could see a cut on the inside. The cut corresponded with the edge of one of her lower front teeth. She’d been cursing at him when he hit her. He must have caught her with her mouth open.
It wasn’t only her lip he’d damaged. There was a bruise on her cheek, and her nose was swollen. Gingerly, she touched it with a fingertip and moved it from side to side. It hurt, but it didn’t seem to be broken. That one, thank God, had only been a glancing blow.
She was tilting her head back, trying to look at the crusted blood inside her nostrils, when she heard a key in the lock. She spun around and faced the door. The deadbolt was sliding back.
Marta was adept at capoeira, the Brazilian martial art, but she couldn’t use it here. There was no room for a decent kick. She raised her fists. The animal had done something to her arm as well. No, not her arm, exactly, more like her shoulder. She wondered if she’d be able to throw a punch. Maybe not, but she was sure as hell going to try.
He didn’t come in right away, seemed to be having trouble with the bottom lock, the one on the doorknob.
The door was covered with steel sheeting, unpainted, and with traces of rust where it met the lower jamb. There were scratch marks on the metal, marks that might have been made by someone’s nails. The light in the little room was dim. There was no window and only one lamp, the one above the mirror. The bulb was tiny, barely enough to read by—if they’d given her something to read.
At last the door swung open. The fluorescent lights in the corridor cast the person standing in the doorway into silhouette.
Marta breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t The Goat. It was Rosélia, his bitch of a girlfriend, the one who’d lied to her and Andrea, the one who’d gotten them into this mess in the first place.
Rosélia came in cautiously. When Marta didn’t make any aggressive moves, she smiled, locked the door behind her, and put the keys in her pocket. She had something in her right hand, and she held it up for Marta to see: a wooden club.
Marta flinched.
“Don’t make me use it,” the bitch said. “I really don’t like hitting people.”
“Your boyfriend does.”
“Not really. And I certainly don’t.”
“So why did you bring it?” Marta asked.
“Because I’m not dumb enough to walk in here without it,” Rosélia said. “You’re quite the little wildcat, aren’t you?”
Marta didn’t reply.
“You shouldn’t have talked to him like that,” Rosélia said. “You made him angry.”
“Where’s Andrea?”
Rosélia’s smile was more like a smirk.
“She’s getting fucked. Third man today.”
“I don’t believe you. She wouldn’t.”
“She didn’t have any choice. Neither do you. You just don’t realize it yet. Andrea’s okay, because she isn’t stubborn like you are. She never threatened to bite and scratch the customers.”
“I meant what I said.”
Rosélia let out an exasperated sigh.
“Look, querida,” she said, “why don’t you just be reasonable? It’s not that bad. Every girl has to go through it, sooner or later.”
Marta didn’t like the bitch calling her “querida.” That’s what Andrea always called her.
“Not every girl,” she said. “I told you. Until I came here, there was no way I was going to let a man put his thing in me, not ever. You can force me, I know that, but I’m going to fight you every centimeter of the way.”
“Sooner or later,” Rosélia said, “you’re going to get sick of bread and water. Sooner or later, you’re going to get sick of sitting here on your own with nobody to talk to, nothing to read, no TV to watch. You’ll change your mind. It’s just a matter of time.”
“I’ll never change my mind.”
“I’ll talk to you again in a week.”
She put her hand into the pocket where the keys were and turned toward the door, but Marta suddenly didn’t want her to go.
Rosélia was right, maybe not about her giving in, but certainly about how bad it was to be alone with no one to talk to. Somebody, anybody, was better than just staring at the wall, or into the mirror.
“Why didn’t he rape me?” she said in a low voice, less aggressive this time.
Rosélia turned around, a triumphant gleam in her eyes. She must have thought Marta’s resistance was crumbling.
“How do you know he didn’t?” she said. “You were unconscious, weren’t you?”
“No. I wasn’t. I just pretended I was.”
“Aren’t you the clever one?” Rosélia walked over and sat on the bed, making herself comfortable, as if she was a friend who’d just dropped by for a chat. “Why don’t you come over here and sit down next to me?”
“I’ll stand. Why don’t you put down that club?”
“I’ll hold on to it, thank you very much.”
“Why didn’t he do it? Rape me, I mean.”
“That would be like owning a candy store and eating your finest chocolate. The Goat is a businessman. He saves the best for his customers.”
“But I’m not the best. I’m not anything.”
“No, querida, of course you aren’t. You know that, and I know that, but the customers don’t. They think you’re something special because you’re a virgin.”
“And The Goat—”
“Knows better. The Goat has had plenty of virgins. Nowadays, he doesn’t even like virgins.”
“But his customers do.”
&n
bsp; Rosélia nodded.
“It’s the idea that appeals to them. That, more than the fuck. They all want to be the first, the one they think you’re going to remember. They’re willing to pay through the nose for the privilege. In this business, querida, you’ll never be more valuable than you are right now.”
“How does he—”
“Do it? He holds an auction. The bidders are mostly the kids with rich fathers. It’s a prestige thing for them, coming up with the money to be the first and bragging about it later, like they won a race or something. Stupid, I know, but that’s the way the little bastards think. And you can stop looking at me like that. I don’t make the rules. I’m just telling you the way it is.”
“Who would even want me?” Marta said. “Who would want me when I look like this?”
She pointed to the bruise on her cheek.
“They don’t care about your face, querida. They care about what’s between your legs. Anyway, that bruise is your own fault. The Goat was reasoning with you, trying to get you to see his side of it. Then you had to get snotty. You tried to kick him. You tried to bite him. What did you expect him to do? Stand there and suck it up? You made him lose his temper. By the way, he told me to tell you no hard feelings.”
“No hard feelings?”
“Not on his part. It wasn’t personal. Just business.”
Marta snorted, and gave Rosélia a look that would freeze water. “You lied to me,” she said. “You lied to both of us.”
“Yeah,” Rosélia said, “I lied.” She didn’t seem to be in the least embarrassed. “Mostly, I just tell the girls I have jobs for them in hotels and restaurants. But I knew that wouldn’t work with you and your friend. You had too much class. I still can’t figure out why you were sleeping on that beach. Want to tell me?”
“No.”
“Not even if I tell you where your girlfriend is?”
Marta thought about it. “Then, yes,” she said. “You first.” Rosélia stared at her for a long moment as if she was reflecting on the benefits of honesty.
“Okay,” she said at last. “The Goat sold her.”
“Sold her? Sold Andrea?”
Dying Gasp Page 2
