He parked in front of the hardware store next door. The guy arranging a display in the window gave the police car an apprehensive glance. He looked relieved when the people who got out of it started walking toward his neighbor’s establishment.
Next to one of the rolled-up metal doors was a sign, black letters on enameled metal, identifying Avri Cohen as the proprietor.
“Dead these two years,” a balding man with a paunch told Tanaka as the delegado stood there, making a note of it. “I own the place now. Name’s Goldman.”
Tanaka produced his policeman’s identity card.
“Hang on a second,” Goldman said. He took out a pair of reading glasses, gave the card a careful inspection, and then said, “What can I do for you, Delegado?”
He didn’t strike Tanaka as being nervous.
“For the moment,” Tanaka said, “you can just follow along. Lead the way Senhora Portella.”
Clarice navigated her way through the warren of furniture and stopped in front of a cupboard. Stained a walnut brown, with two latticework panels for ventilation, the triangular cupboard had been designed to fit into the corner of a room.
“This one,” she said. “And that’s the dining set over there.” She frowned and looked around. “I don’t see the bedside tables. They were right there, between the sofa and the wall.”
“Formica tops?” Goldman asked.
“Formica tops,” she confirmed.
“I sold them. What’s this about?”
Tanaka turned a cold eye on the merchant.
“Stolen goods,” he said.
Senhor Goldman held up his hands, palms outward, as if he were pushing something away from him.
“I had no idea,” he said. “I swear. No idea.”
“No?”
“No. I run a legitimate business. I pay my taxes.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you do,” Tanaka said. “No cash deals, right?”
Goldman reddened. “Well, yeah, sure,” he said. “A lot of my customers haven’t got bank accounts, much less credit cards. I wanna do business, I have to sell for cash. But I de-clare all of it.”
“Uh-huh,” Tanaka said skeptically.
“And I never buy for cash. I pay by check.”
“Do you now?” Tanaka said. “So you’ve got a record of who sold you this stuff? The cupboard? The bedside tables with the Formica tops?”
“Sure I do. All part of the same purchase. I’ve got the can-celed checks in the back. Probably even have an itemized receipt with the guy’s name on it. I’ll go have a look.”
“Not alone, you won’t,” Tanaka said. “Does this place have a back door?”
Tanaka’s caution was unfounded. Goldman had no inten-tion of making a run for it. And he’d been telling the truth. He had both a canceled check and an itemized receipt, signed by someone named Roberto Ribeiro.
“That’s it!” Clarice said when she heard the name. “That’s the name I was trying to think of, Roberto Ribeiro. He’s the one who offered Edmar the job. The carioca. The one who took them away.”
Tanaka’s heart lifted when he saw the logotype on the check, lifted even more when he saw the endorsement on the back. He, Ribeiro and Goldman all shared the same bank: Bradesco, Brazil’s second-largest and least exclusive banking institution. It meant he wouldn’t have to go through official channels. He could track the man down without leaving a trail.
“I may be here awhile,” he said to Clarice. “You can go now. If I find any trace of your friends, I’ll be in touch.”
“Who’s gonna pay for the bus?” Ernesto said.
“You are,” Tanaka said.
Before Ernesto could open his mouth to reply, Clarice took his arm and led him toward the exit. Tanaka thought he heard him say the word “fascist” as they went out the door. He turned back to Goldman. “You remember what this guy Ribeiro looked like?”
“Mulatto,” Goldman said promptly, no longer nervous. “Big mustache, hair slicked back with oil, wearing a chain with a Flamengo medallion. Can you beat that, somebody running around Sao Paulo with a Flamengo medallion? He’s lucky he’s so goddamned big. If he wasn’t, somebody would beat the crap out of him.”
“That somebody would have to get in line behind me,” Tanaka said.
Goldman protested when Tanaka told him he was taking both the check and the receipt. “I need that stuff for taxes,” he said. “Couldn’t you just make a note of-”
“No,” Tanaka said.
“But-”
“If you want to stand here talking,” Tanaka said, “maybe we can discuss the merchandise you’ve got out there block-ing a public sidewalk.”
Goldman, to his credit, blushed. “The guys on the beat know all about it.” he said.
“The guys on the beat,” Tanaka said, “report to me.”
“How about a cup of coffee, Delegado?” Goldman asked immediately.
“Coffee would be fine,” Tanaka said.
Tanaka waited until he was behind the wheel of the car before taking out his cell phone and calling Ricardo Fortunato.
“What can I do for you today, Yoshiro?”
Tanaka and his bank manager were on first-name terms. A few years earlier, when inflation had been running at upwards of 30 percent a month, Tanaka had spent more time on the telephone with Ricardo Fortunato than he had with his current mistress. In those days, you had to invest your money in the overnight market or you might wind up scratching for food at the end of the month. The people who manipulated the investments were the bank managers, peo-ple like Ricardo Fortunato. It was all done on the basis of verbal commitments; paperwork following after the transac-tions had been made. Relationships of trust were created, relationships that persisted long after hyperinflation had become history.
“I need some information, Ricardo.”
“Not about your own account, I take it?”
“No. And you know how it is when I have to go through channels. Takes too goddamned long.”
“I understand,” Ricardo said, his voice softer than before.
Ricardo didn’t have an enclosed office. His desk was right in front of the long counter where the tellers worked. Tanaka imagined him looking over his shoulder to make sure no one was listening.
“I’m holding a canceled check,” Tanaka said, “paid out of one Bradesco account into another. The recipient’s name is Roberto Ribeiro. Got that?”
“Got it. What do you want to know?”
“I want Ribeiro’s address.”
“Easy.”
“The check was issued by-”
“Don’t need it. Just give me the numbers: the payee’s account at the lower left and whatever’s written on the back.”
Tanaka did.
He heard Ricardo clicking away at his keyboard.
“Here it is,” the bank manager said. “Got a pen?”
Tanaka couldn’t believe it was going to be that easy.
Chapter Ten
Boceta had more to offer, but as usual, he was going to make them work for it. If people didn’t listen to him around the watercooler, they sure as hell had to sit still when they asked him for an opinion-no matter how long it took. He settled back in his chair.
“Remember Villasboas?” he said.
“Oh, Jesus Christ, here we go again,” Arnaldo said.
Boceta took off his glasses. “You are becoming tiresome, Agente.”
“Me? Tiresome? You should have to listen-”
Silva put a hand on Arnaldo’s arm and squeezed. “Villasboas,” he said. “I was working in Sao Paulo then. I remember, but I’m a little foggy on the details.”
“Who the hell is Villasboas?” Arnaldo said.
“Not who,” Boceta said, taking his usual satisfaction at the opportunity to correct someone. “Your question should have been what. Villasboas is a what. More specifically, it’s a town in Para.”
Para was the state that embraced the mouth of the Amazon River, a huge area, much of it remote jungle.