Dying Gasp cims-4

by Leighton Gage

  Roselia received them at the front door, wearing a nightgown and suppressing a yawn. Her hair was in disarray. There were circles under her eyes.

  “I already told you,” she said. “I have no idea where he goes fishing. Somewhere on the river, that’s all I know. So why don’t the three of you get lost.”

  Silva waved a paper under her nose.

  “What’s that?” she said.

  “A search warrant. Assemble the girls.”

  She looked from the warrant back to him.

  “You’re wasting your time,” she said. “They don’t know a damned thing.”

  The girls all looked as disheveled as Roselia did. Silva addressed them as a group.

  “We’ve arrested Chief Pinto,” he said, “and some other cops along with him. They’re going to prison, and so is The Goat.”

  “He’s lying,” Roselia said, loud enough for even the girls in the back of the room to hear it.

  “If any of you want to leave,” Silva continued, “you’re free to go. No one is going to follow you. No one is going to force you to come back.”

  Silence.

  Silva tried again.

  “Who knows where I can find The Goat?”

  More silence.

  “The sooner I find him,” he said, “the sooner he’ll be in jail.”

  One of the girls, olive-skinned and with a broken nose, looked like she was about to say something.

  “You?” he said, pointing at her.

  The other girls turned to look at her.

  Roselia didn’t look, she glared.

  The girl pressed her lips firmly together and shook her head.

  Silva sensed she didn’t believe him. She wanted to, but she didn’t.

  The journalists he’d called hadn’t believed him either. They’d told him they’d have to send reporters to the delegacia central to check the story out. That had been forty-five minutes ago. In Manaus, even the media moved at a snail’s pace.

  “It’ll be on the radio any time now,” Silva said, hoping it would. “Hector, see if that thing works.”

  He pointed to the audio system on the bar. All you could pick up in Manaus were local stations, and Hector chose one at random. They were broadcasting an old Roberto Carlos tune.

  “You might be worried about where to go,” Silva said, still addressing the girls. “There’s a hospice in the city run by the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. I’ve spoken to them. They’ll give you a place to sleep, give you food, help anyone who wants to do something else with their lives.”

  Not one of the girls met his eyes. They were all staring at the wall, or at the floor, or at Roselia.

  “When I leave here,” Silva said, “I’ll be taking Roselia with me. You have nothing more to fear from her.”

  Roselia shot him a nervous glance.

  As if on cue, Hector turned up the volume on the radio.

  A breathless female voice replaced the music:

  … were arrested at their homes in the early hours of this morning. Formal charges have yet to be brought, but we’ve been informed that Chief Pinto and his associates will be accused of racketeering, extortion, and murder. The federal police…

  The girls’ voices overwhelmed that of the news reader.

  Hector lowered the volume.

  The girls fell silent, and every face turned toward Silva. They were looking at him differently now. Some of them were smiling.

  “This woman,” he said, pointing at Roselia, “says she doesn’t know where The Goat is. I think she might be lying, but there’s nothing I can do about that. She has the right to remain silent. As for you girls, we’ll leave you alone for a few minutes to reflect upon what you want to do, whether you’d prefer to stay here, or try to return to your homes, or take advantage of the offer being made by the good sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. My men and I will be outside, waiting for your decisions.”

  Roselia suddenly realized what Silva was up to. “Take me with you,” she said.

  Silva shook his head.

  “I’m sure the girls will be grateful for your… advice.”

  Roselia froze. The girls moved in to encircle her. One of them picked up a heavy glass ashtray.

  Silva led his companions to the door.

  When they were outside, he said, “Two or three minutes will probably do it.”

  Two or three minutes did.

  The goat was sunbathing when he heard the sound of the engines. Cautious, as always, he swept up his clothes and satellite telephone before retreating into the brush above the beach.

  The boat that swung into view from behind a neighboring island was gray, and so were the uniforms of the half-dozen men he could see on deck. Two of them were holding machine pistols. The helmsman spotted The Goat’s boat and made a beeline toward it. When they were about fifty meters away, he lifted an electronic megaphone. There was a crash of static, and The Goat’s name rang out across the water.

  “Jose Luis Ignacio Braga. Come out of the cabin with your hands up.”

  The sailors started hanging out fenders. The naval patrol boat came alongside The Goat’s cruiser. The girls, as they’d been instructed to do, remained below in the cabin, but Osvaldo came up on deck. When he saw the weapons, he raised his hands. The Goat took another step backward into the concealing foliage, turned on his heel, and started running toward the inflatable he’d stashed on the other side of the island.

  The Yamaha sixty-horsepower four-stroke had an electric starter. It was almost too much engine for the little boat. Almost.

  The navy men must have heard the roar when The Goat pushed the engine to full throttle, but he was shielded by the island, so they couldn’t see him. And, at his top speed of almost seventy kilometers an hour, there wasn’t a chance in hell they’d be able to catch him.

  BRASILIA

  “ My administrative assistant,” Malan said, “ Senhorita Godoy.”

  Silva wasn’t surprised that the deputado had left him cooling his heels for over thirty minutes, but he was surprised to find a woman in Malan’s inner sanctum. Senhorita Godoy was somewhere between fifty and sixty, a thin-faced individual in a dark suit, with a blouse buttoned up to her neck. “A pleasure, Senhorita,” Silva said.

  The pleasure, apparently, wasn’t mutual. Senhorita Godoy said nothing at all. Her cold gray eyes squinted at Silva through a pair of rimless glasses. She had a small mouth and thin lips. The lips were pursed.

  Malan’s expression, in contrast, was almost jovial. Silva recognized at once that it wasn’t so much his ultimatum that had secured him an appointment, as it was a desire on the part of the deputado to humiliate him. Malan kicked off their conversation with a vengeance.

  “No use begging me to change my mind, Silva. It’s made up and someone of your limited talent and ability isn’t about to change it.”

  “With all due respect, Deputado, I think we should limit this conversation to the two of us.”

  Malan raised an eyebrow. “And I think not. I have no secrets from Senhorita Godoy. Anything you have to say to me, you can say in front of her.”

  Silva remembered her now. The Godoy woman was an important figure in Malan’s church, a lady bishop or some such. It was said that the deputado kept her around because his coreligionists believed that anyone with Senhorita Godoy at his side must truly be laboring in the vineyards of the Lord. She was the mistress of the moral high ground.

  “As you wish,” Silva said.

  He put his briefcase on his lap and opened it. “I have here,” he said, “a number of documents from the Dutch police. This one”-he removed a sheaf of papers and put it on Malan’s desk-“is the transcript of an interview with Frans Oosterbaan, an associate of an Amsterdam businessman named Arie Schubski. And this one”-he removed a second sheaf and put it alongside the first-“is a list of Senhor Schubski’s clients provided by the aforenamed Senhor Osterbaan. There’s one name on the list, one in particular, to which I’d like to draw your attention. He’s an individual who liv
es right here in Brasilia, one who regularly receives DVDs mailed to him from the Netherlands.”

  While Silva had been speaking, Deputado Malan had been turning pale. Senhorita Godoy apparently hadn’t noticed. She was looking at Silva with a slightly bored expression, as if she was wishing he’d get to the point.

  Deputado Malan’s next statement took her entirely by surprise. “Leave us,” he said.

  She turned to look at him. “Are you addressing me?” she said, thin eyebrows climbing toward a frizzy hairline.

  “I am,” he said.

  Her pale skin turned red in embarrassment. She took in a deep breath, released it with an unladylike snort, and rose to her feet.

  “Hurry up, hurry up,” Malan said.

  “I’m not accustomed-”

  She got no farther.

  “For Christ’s sake, get out,” he said.

  Gathering what dignity she could muster, Senhorita Godoy made for the door and slammed it behind her. Malan took his head in his hands and looked down at the desktop, massaging his temples with his fingertips.

  “This could ruin me,” he said.

  “It certainly could.”

  The deputado took a deep breath and looked up. A tear of self-pity appeared at one corner of his left eye.

  “I don’t expect you to understand,” he said, “but I can’t help myself. It’s an addiction, like alcohol or drugs.”

  The tear started rolling down his cheek. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it away.

  “Like alcohol or drugs,” Silva repeated.

  “So help me God. I’d never do anything like that myself. I just like to… watch it, that’s all. If I don’t buy that merda, someone else will. It’s not like I’m a one-man market, inciting those criminals to do what they do.”

  Silva remained silent.

  “The reason you’re here,” Malan said, “it’s money, isn’t it?”

  “Partly,” Silva said.

  “I knew it! You and your holier-than-thou attitude! Silva, the incorruptible cop! You have your price, just like everyone else. How much do you want?”

  “For me? Nothing.”

  “What?”

  “The federal police’s budget allocation, Deputado. I not only want you to approve it as proposed, I want you to stand up in that committee of yours and fight for an increase of twenty percent.”

  “I’m only the chairman. I only have one vote. I can’t guarantee-”

  “Oh, I think you can, Deputado. I didn’t say fifty percent, I didn’t even say thirty percent. I’m a realist. Twenty percent will do us very nicely, and I’m sure you can get it.”

  Malan’s tears had dried up, as if they never had been. This was something he understood. This was politics.

  “Suppose I can. What else?”

  “Stop demanding my resignation. Call my boss and tell him you were overwrought by your granddaughter’s murder, that you overreacted, that you want me kept on the case. Then tell the same thing to the press.”

  Malan rubbed his chin. “I can’t do it.”

  “Of course you can.”

  “I’d be reversing myself.”

  “Politicians do it all the time.”

  “You don’t understand the political implications.”

  “I understand them perfectly well. Consider the alternative.”

  “You’re a bastard, Silva.”

  “And you, Deputado, are a sanctimonious hypocrite. But you’re a powerful man in this country, and from now on you’re going to be our sanctimonious hypocrite.”

  Malan didn’t react to the insult. Worse things had been said to him, even worse of him. “Sampaio know about this?” “No.”

  “Who else does?”

  “Only two of my trusted subordinates.”

  “And I have your word it will go no further?”

  “You have my word.”

  Malan reached forward and swept up both sheaves of paper. “I’ll keep these,” he said.

  “The names of the other Brazilians have been excised,” Silva said.

  “I had no intention of-”

  “Of course you did.”

  Malan looked offended.

  “And those are only copies,” Silva continued Malan narrowed his eyes. “The originals,” the deputado said, “will only be of use to you as long as they, like this conversation, are kept in the strictest confidence. We have a deal. Now, get the hell out of my office.”

  Silva called the director from the airport.

  “I just got off the phone with Malan,” Sampaio said. “What, in heaven’s name, did you say to him?”

  “I reasoned with him, Director, pointed out the error of his ways.”

  “He said he’s not only going to support our budget request, he’s going to push for an increase of twenty percent.”

  “Yes, he mentioned that.”

  “And he’s no longer calling for your resignation.”

  “He mentioned that too.”

  “What do you have on him, Mario?”

  “Have on him?” Silva asked innocently.

  Hector and Arnaldo were waiting when Silva got back to Manaus.

  “We found The Goat’s boat,” Hector said. “The girls, and a henchman of his by the name of Osvaldo, were on board, but The Goat managed to get away.”

  “How?”

  “They were anchored off a sandy beach. He went ashore to swim. When he spotted the patrol boat he hightailed it over to the other side of the island and took off in an inflatable. Osvaldo said he had it stashed over there in case of emergencies.”

  “Any idea about where he might have gone?”

  “Roselia says he didn’t take much money with him, so he can’t afford to run far.”

  “A man like that has money stashed somewhere. You can count on it. So Roselia’s still being cooperative, is she?”

  “She wants him caught as much as we do. She was the only one who knew where he was, and he’ll hurt her if we don’t pick him up.”

  “Five will get you ten,” Arnaldo said, “that he’s pissed at Claudia as well.”

  “No bet,” Silva said. “And speaking of Claudia…”

  “No sign of her. God knows how she does it, but she’s dropped out of sight again.”

  “Her boat?”

  “Hasn’t turned up. There are all these tributaries with overhanging trees. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

  “Get one of those heat-sensitive video devices. Put it in a chopper.”

  “We’ve got one,” Hector said. “It doesn’t work well in this climate. Not with all of those trees. Claudia’s got a scientific background. She probably knows that. And, if she does, she will have chosen a place where the canopy is thick.”

  “The boat is still her best bet to get out of here. Maintain aerial surveillance all night long. Maybe she’ll stick her nose out of her hole.”

  “I can’t believe that bitch got away again,” Arnaldo said.

  “She didn’t,” Silva said. “Not yet.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Hans Hauser pulled the visor of his blue cap low over his dark glasses and struck a pose in front of the mirror.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Claudia said.

  “Into town. I’m going stir-crazy on this fucking boat.”

  “It’s too dangerous,” Claudia said.

  “Hell,” Hans said. “It’s dangerous just sitting here.”

  He was right about that. By now, she must have heard the helicopter a half dozen times, flying around in circles up there like some demented insect. One of those times it had passed directly overhead. She’d sat on her bunk, her palms sweating, until the sound of the motor had vanished in the distance.

  “Besides,” he said, “it isn’t like I’m leaving you without protection. Otto’s gonna be here.”

  “Yeah,” Otto chipped in. “We got it covered. Tonight it’s him, tomorrow me. We decided.”

  The boat was moored to two trees, in a
minor tributary, some thirty kilometers east of the city. The location was decked over by a canopy of vegetation that made it invisible from the air.

  “I don’t think you get it,” she said, looking from one to the other. “I don’t want either of you going anywhere.”

  Hans reached for a bottle of cheap cologne. “Stop wasting your breath,” he said. “I’m going.”

  “And I’m going tomorrow,” Otto said.

  “I pay you to-”

  Hans didn’t let her finish.

  “You don’t pay us at all,” he snarled, catching her eye in the mirror. “Once you start dishing out the money, you can start giving orders again.”

  “I told you,” she said. “I have the money. I just don’t want to run the risk of going to get it. I promise-”

  “Your promise,” Hans snarled, “is the only reason we’re still here.”

  He splashed some aftershave into one armpit of his shirt. The stuff smelled like cloves.

  “You could at least make an attempt to change your appearance,” she insisted. “Cut your hair. Shave off that moustache.”

  Hans splashed the other armpit.

  “I like my moustache,” he said.

  And he left.

  The hull heeled and began to rock as someone climbed aboard the boat. Claudia awoke with a start. Footsteps sounded on the deck overhead. She grabbed her pistol and pointed it at the door.

  “Who’s there?” she said, when the footsteps reached the main cabin.

  “Who the fuck do you think?”

  Hans’s voice. He sounded drunk.

  She glanced at her watch. It was six-thirty in the morning, time to get up. Claudia had always been an early riser. She climbed out of bed and unlocked the door to her cabin. There he was, standing in the saloon, smelling of cachaca, staring at her out of a pair of bloodshot eyes. His hat was turned around, the visor projecting over the back of his neck.

  “Point that gun somewhere else,” he said.

  She lowered the Glock, put it on the table and started making coffee. Otto, who slept in the saloon, sat up in his bunk, rubbed his eyes, and yawned.

  “What time is it?” he said.

  “Six-thirty,” Claudia told him. “Time to get your fat ass out of bed.”