“In a case like this,” Arnaldo said, “we don’t start by reading other people’s reports. We get to them eventually, but we find it works better when we begin by collecting information first-hand.”
“Maybe I’d better tell you the whole thing then,” she said. “I think that would be best.”
She took time to gather her thoughts. Below the transparent surface of the table, Arnaldo could see Otavio squeezing his wife’s hand.
“Marta’s father came home and found the two of them in bed,” Raquel said. “They were… in a compromising position. He pulled Andrea off the mattress by her ankles. Marta screamed. Andrea started gathering her clothes, but he didn’t give her time to find her shoes. He grabbed her by the wrist, dragged her to the front door and threw her out. Then he took a belt to his daughter. When he finished beating her, he locked her in her room, but Marta had a toolbox under her bed. She waited until her parents were asleep and took the door off its hinges. She came straight here and rang our doorbell. By that time it was a little before four in the morning. She and Andrea started talking about running away together. We-”
Raquel looked at her husband and bit her lip. He took up the tale.
“-discouraged it,” he said. “I’m a lawyer. I explained to Marta that she’s still under the custody of her parents. She had no right to run away, and if she did, they’d have every right to bring her back, forcibly if necessary. I told her she’d have to go home and face the music.
“They asked for time to discuss it. They went into Andrea’s room and came out about fifteen minutes later. They said they understood. Andrea was dressed by that time, and the sun was already up. She said she was going to walk Marta home. That was the last time we saw her.”
“Weren’t you suspicious?”
Otavio shook his head.
“We’re not accustomed to having our daughter lie to us. Discretion is one thing, an out-and-out lie is another. I didn’t think Andrea would ever do that.”
“You mentioned a message on your answering machine.”
“Yes,” Raquel said. “That was later. She left it at a time when she knew Otavio would be at work, and I’d be out shopping.”
“How could she know you’d be out shopping?”
“On Wednesdays, there’s a feira, on the Rua Santa Rita. It’s where I go to buy fresh vegetables and fruits. Andrea could have called me on my cell phone, but she didn’t. She called here, when she knew I’d be at the feira.”
“Did you save the message?”
“I meant to. I erased it by mistake.”
“We both heard it, though,” Otavio said hastily. “We listened to it several times. Even if we’d kept it, it wouldn’t have added anything to what we know.”
Otavio was wrong. Sometimes the electronics guys could pull amazing things out of the background noise of a recording, but Arnaldo decided not to mention that. The couple was already suffering, and there would be a great deal more suffering still to come.
“She said she was with Marta,” Raquel said. “She said Marta didn’t want to go home. They’d taken a nap on the beach. A woman had come along and started talking to them. She told them she was a talent scout. Our Andrea is a pretty girl. So is Marta Malan. The woman offered them jobs as models. They thought it was a godsend. Literally, as if it was a sign from God that He was blessing their relationship.”
Arnaldo looked at each of Andrea’s parents in turn. They didn’t give any more credence to that story than he did. He wondered if the girls had always been that naive, or if they’d simply grasped at a straw.
“I suppose Marta must have lied about her age,” Otavio said.
“If the woman ever asked,” Arnaldo said, “which I’ll bet she didn’t.”
“Andrea said I wasn’t to worry,” Raquel said. “Imagine that. What was she thinking? How could I not worry?”
“I don’t suppose she said where they were going?” Arnaldo said.
“Oh, but she did,” Raquel de Castro said. “She said they were going to Manaus.”
Merda, Arnaldo thought.
But he didn’t say it.
Chapter Twelve
RECIFE/BRASILIA/MANAUS
Arnaldo Unes arrived at Recife’s delegacia central at 11:55 the following morning. The corporal on the reception desk was a slim fellow with a wispy beard who looked more like a clerk than a cop. Before Arnaldo had a chance to say anything, the corporal asked, “You that federal guy, Nunes?”
“Do I look that much like a cop?”
“Frankly, yeah,” the corporal said. He picked up the phone. “You’re expected. Have a seat over there.”
Two minutes later, a tough-looking brunette with a shoulder bag came into the reception area and stuck out a hand.
“Vilma Santos,” she said. “I’m your lunch date.”
Vilma had dark brown eyes and used little makeup. She had broad shoulders and stood erect. Her grip was as strong as a man’s.
“Come on,” she said. “My car is out front.”
When they were seated in her beat-up Fiat, she said, “I’m a delegada. You call me Vilma. I’ll call you Arnaldo. You know Olinda? You like pitu?”
As a delegada, Vilma was a senior cop. Olinda was the ancient colonial city bordering on modern Recife. Pitu, a freshwater crayfish, was a specialty of the region.
“Yes and yes,” Arnaldo said. “We gonna meet the chief?”
“Nope,” she said. “I’m all you get. You work with Silva?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Cool. I wish I did.”
“How come I don’t get to see Venantius?”
“You’re not important enough.”
“Huh?”
“You’re just an agente, so you get me.”
Arnaldo looked her up and down. “I’m not complaining,” he said.
The drive to Olinda took twenty minutes. It was a city long past its prime, many of the historic buildings in near ruin. Century-old palm trees and stately churches spoke of former grandeur. She took him to a restaurant fronting the sea. They chose the terrace, shaded by an awning.
“Actually,” she said, “you’re better off with me than you’d be with the chief.”
“I told you, I’m not complaining.”
She leaned closer. Arnaldo could smell her perfume, something citric, like sweet lime juice laced with orange blossoms. “You know who Norberto Venantius’s big brother is?” she asked.
“The mayor?”
“Bingo. Norberto doesn’t know shit about law enforcement. He went from running the family’s sugar mill to chief of police in one easy step. The mayor figures to move on soon. He’s gonna be the governor, and Norberto’s gonna be the candidate for his old job. He’ll win.”
“Like that, is it?”
“Yeah, it’s like that. The old families still run this town. But don’t be hurt that he won’t see you. The chief doesn’t spend time with anyone who knows anything at all about police work. They’re liable to embarrass him by asking him questions about which he knows less than nothing.”
“Like catching felons?”
“Exactly. And he’s too pompous to want to be embarrassed. Something else too: he hates dealing with anybody who isn’t important.”
“Like me?”
“Like you.” She looked him up and down. “But I’m not complaining.” She flashed him a grin. “I see you wear a wedding ring. You play around on the side?”
“No,” Arnaldo said.
“Good for you,” she said.
They drank beer with the pitu, peeling them as they went. During the meal, she rehashed the situation, then added, “It’s a political hot potato. The mayor is big buddies with Deputado Malan.”
“Yeah, I heard. So what’s your conclusion? What happened to the girls?”
“At first, I assumed they were runaways.”
“But you don’t any more?”
“No.”
The waiter intervened, bringing them little bowls of warm water, slices of fresh lime floating on top, and linen napkins with which to clean their hands. When he’d gone away, Arnaldo asked, “What made you change your mind?”
“A girl who calls her parents within a few hours of leaving home, you think a girl like that’s going to let a couple of months go by before she calls again?”