“He never mentioned Miami,” she said. “He was going to Boston. He has a friend there. Well, not really a friend, but someone he knew, someone he could stay with until he found a job.”
“Do you have the man’s address?”
“No.” Then added quickly, “He said I wouldn’t need it, that he wouldn’t be staying long. He expected to be set up on his own in no time.”
Silva waved the postcard as if he were fanning himself. “No other cards? No letters?”
“No.”
“And the call he refers to?”
“Never came. But. .”
“But what?”
“I don’t have a telephone at home,” she said, “only a cell phone, and it’s new. Somebody stole my other one, took it out of my pocket in the bus. When I went to get a new one, I found a place that was cheaper, but I had to change the number.”
“It’s one of those prepaid things?”
“Yes.”
“So your son would have nowhere to turn if he wanted to discover your new number.”
“I didn’t think about that at the time. But then, when he didn’t write and he didn’t call, I tried to get my old number back. They wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Someone else had it.”
“Have you tried calling that new number? Telling whoever answers that you’re worried about your son? Telling them he might try to get in touch?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The first few times the man was nice. Then he got impa-tient. Now he hangs up whenever he hears my voice.”
Probably called him a hundred times, Silva thought, probably drove the guy nuts.
“He could have been picked up by the Americans,” he said. “If that’s the case, they’ll hold him for a while and deport him. They never keep illegal aliens for long. If they did, they wouldn’t have enough room in their detention cen-ters. I suggest you give your son a couple of weeks, maybe a month, to reestablish contact. If he doesn’t, we can talk again.”
He made to rise from the table, but Irene put a hand on his arm, gently pulling him back into his seat.
“Tell him how long it’s been since Norberto left,” she said, looking at Maria de Lourdes.
Maria de Lourdes looked at her, then at Silva.
“Two months,” she said. “It was two months last Tuesday.”
Chapter Twenty-three
As the ornate facade suggested, the apartment block had once been in the heart of one of Sao Paulo’s most pres-tigious neighborhoods. But those halcyon days were gone. Now, the area was a hangout for drug dealers and male prostitutes.
Tanaka’s building faced a patch of withered grass and stunted trees called the Praca de Republica, Republic Square. On the far side, trembling under a flux of constant traffic, was Avenida Ipiranga, one of the busiest thorough-fares in the city. The honking of horns and the rumble of buses pursued Hector into the creaky, old elevator and fol-lowed him up to the second floor.
The elevator opened onto a dark corridor illuminated by low-wattage lamps and perfumed by frying garlic. Hector located the door for apartment 2F and looked for a bell. There wasn’t one, so he knocked. A moment later, he saw movement beyond the peephole.
“Who’s that?”
It was a deep voice that could have been male.
Hector held up his credentials.
“Federal police. I’m looking for Marcela Tanaka.”
The door opened as far as a chain would permit. A suspi-cious and heavily shadowed eye stared through the crack, the brown pupil oscillating between Hector’s face and the photo on the document he was holding.
“That’s me. What do you want?”
“Senhora Tanaka, I’m sorry to intrude on your grief. I’m Delegado Costa of the federal police. May I come in?”
“Why?”
“I’m investigating your husband’s murder.”
“That’s a job for the policia civil. How come you people are interested?”
“I’ll be happy to explain.”
At first, Hector thought she was going to tell him to do it from the corridor, but then she slipped the chain and revealed herself. She was a little shorter than Hector, but much heav-ier, wearing a loose-fitting dress in white linen that reminded him of a circus tent. She blocked the opening from side to side, and had to take two steps back to let him enter.
The front door opened directly onto a small living room. Heavy drapes framed French doors and a miniscule terrace, its white-painted metalwork blackened with grime. Through an open door to his left, Hector could see a hallway. There was another door to his right, but it was closed. The carpet was threadbare and the furniture had seen better days. Overall, the place was a dump. With one exception: a large-screen television, one of those plasma jobs. Hector had been pricing one just like it for a couple of months now and kept coming to the conclusion that he still couldn’t afford it. This one looked brand-new.
Senhora Tanaka didn’t offer refreshments, and she didn’t suggest he sit down. She simply sank her considerable bulk into an armchair and stared at him. Hector picked a place on the sofa, facing her across a coffee table with a stained sur-face only partially concealed by a lace doily.
The doily was the only delicate thing in the room. Everything else looked massive, solid. And that included Marcela Tanaka. If she had Japanese blood, it wasn’t evident. She was dark complexioned, had a slight mustache on her upper lip. And she seemed angry.
Hector had been prepared for grief, not rage. He considered inquiring about the source of her irritation, but decided not to. He had a feeling she’d tell him soon enough. He did a mental shrug and got down to business.
“Can you think of anyone with a reason to murder your husband?”
“What kind of a stupid question is that? You got any idea how many pieces of trash my husband put away in his life-time? Any one of them could have popped him.”
She talked like a cop. There was nothing surprising in that. She’d been married to one for years.
“No one in particular comes to mind?”
“No.”
“How about recent threats? Did your husband-”
“Look,” she said, “I have nothing to add to what I already said. You want answers? Go over to the delegacia and talk to them.”
“Senhora Tanaka,” Hector said patiently, “I’m only trying to help.”
“Help? You want to help? So go complain about the lousy pension they’re giving me. You know how much it is? Eight hundred a month, that’s how much. How am I supposed to live on eight hundred a month? The answer is I can’t. I got two young daughters to raise. I got rent to pay. I need food for the table. I’m gonna have to go out and get a job. A job. Me. At my age.”
“I’m sorry-”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry. You know what? You can kiss my ass!”
Hector couldn’t think of a less appealing prospect. Senhora Tanaka’s ass was the size of a mule’s and equally attractive. He made an attempt to get the conversation back on track.
“I’d like to have a look at any papers your husband might have left around the house,” he said.
“What for?”
The answer should have been obvious, but Hector gave her the benefit of the doubt. “There might be some clue as to who killed him.”
“There isn’t. There are no papers here, no official papers anyway. He never brought anything home. Now, if you’re done. .”
She rose to her feet.
She hadn’t repeated her question. She no longer seemed interested in why the federal police had taken an interest in her husband’s murder. That was odd. And there was some-thing else as welclass="underline" Hector had the distinct impression she was trying to get rid of him. He decided to dig in his heels.
“I’m sorry, Senhora Tanaka,” he said, not stirring from his seat, “but I must insist.”
“You can fucking insist all you want. I don’t want you sticking your nose into my bedroom.”
“Your bedroom?”
She was already flushing, but now she turned an even darker shade of red. “My bedroom, my daughters’ bedroom, anywhere in the house. Now, leave.”