“I guess not. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
Arnaldo signaled the waiter. He arrived with two cups and left with the plate of pitu shells.
“Something happened to her in Manaus,” Vilma said, “or on her way to Manaus, or maybe some sicko killed her right here in Recife and hid her body.”
Arnaldo took a sip of his coffee. It was first-rate, and he said so, then added, “And you figure whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well?”
“Marta’s father is a drunk and a womanizer. Her mother is just a drunk. They’ve got money and influence, but they’re not happy people. It must have been a relief for Marta to get away. But she and Andrea were more than just good friends. They’d stick together. Whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well. I’d bet on it.”
Arnaldo was itching to tell Vilma what he knew, but he didn’t.
“So I guess you asked the cops in Manaus to keep an eye out for her,” he said.
She sat back in her chair and expelled air through her mouth. “You know Manaus?”
Arnaldo nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said.
They exchanged a look.
“The cops are worse than the town itself,” she said.
“Nothing’s worse than the town itself,” Arnaldo said.
“The cops are worse,” she repeated. “They’re lazy and crooked, and every request we make for help falls into a black hole. We never got answers. I told Norberto I wanted to go up there and have a look around.”
“You must love your job.”
“It’s my substitute for not being able to find a good man.” Arnaldo didn’t want to go there.
“And what did Venantius say?” he asked.
“He said he wasn’t going to send me off on vacation, that he had better things to do with his budget.”
“Vacation? I guess he’s never been to Manaus.”
“I guess not. Anyway, I don’t think it had anything to do with the money. I think he did it to get off the hook. If Marta and Andrea are in Manaus, they’re out of our jurisdiction. That means it’s no longer Norberto’s problem.”
“Yeah, but it’s still mine. You figure the next step is for someone to go to Manaus?”
“That’s what I figure.”
“Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said.
“Uh-oh,” Mario Silva said when Arnaldo told him.
Being young, female and without protection was bad anywhere in Brazil, worse in the major cities, much worse the farther north and west you got. And no major city in the country was further north and west than Manaus.
“How about sending Babyface?” Arnaldo said.
The more than seventeen hundred kilometers of copper wire, microwave links and electrical disturbances between Recife and Brasilia made for a very bad connection, but didn’t conceal the note of hope in his voice.
“Babyface is in Rio,” Silva said. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”
“Oh,” Arnaldo said, hope fading. “Hector then?”
“Hector’s still recovering from jet lag.”
Arnaldo, desperate, appealed to friendship.
“Come on, Mario. You know how much I hate Manaus.”
“Everybody in their right mind hates Manaus,” Silva said. “Stay at the Plaza. It’s close to the center of town.”
“Which is like being close to the center of a sewer,” Arnaldo said, bowing to the inevitable. “I’ll stay at the Tropical. It’s outside of town, and it’s got a swimming pool.”
“The Plaza. It’s cheaper, and you won’t have time to use a pool.”
Silence.
“Arnaldo? You there?”
“I can hardly hear you. It’s a lousy connection.”
“Don’t give me that. You heard me. The Plaza.”
“The Plaza is a dump.”
“You’re not going on vacation.”
“You’re telling me. Who the hell would be crazy enough to go to Manaus on vacation?”
“Lots of people. There’s the river, the jungle, the duty-free zone, the old opera house-”
“Dengue, malaria, yellow fever, bad food-”
“I think it might help,” Silva said, breaking in on this litany, “if you had photos of the killers in the other snuff films. I’ll send them by courier to the Plaza.”
“Tropical.”
“Plaza. We already sent the cops in Manaus a photo of the guy who killed Andrea. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll light a fire under them.”
“Speak up,” Arnaldo said. “I can’t hear you.”
Silva spoke up, but it didn’t do any good. The line was dead.
Later, but before Silva got around to any fire-lighting, he spotted an E-mail in his inbox:
Subject: Photo and request for information
Your photo matches Damiao Rodrigues, RG 146324682, seven arrests, two convictions. No pending warrants in this city or State.
Please advise if you want us to find and hold.
The E-mail was signed by Bento Rosario, a clerk in the Manaus Police Department. Immediately after reading it, Silva called Arnaldo. But cell phones in the north were even more unreliable than they were in Brasilia. He succeeded only in leaving a voicemail message.
The following morning, Arnaldo called from Manaus, the self-styled Capital of the Amazon.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
“What?”
“Bento Rosario, the guy you-”
“I remember who he is. What about him?”
“They’re telling me he doesn’t work there anymore.”
“He doesn’t-”
“They said he quit.”
“ Who said he quit?”
“I just got off the phone with his supervisor. I also asked him about that felon, Damiao Whats-his-name’s rap sheet.” “Rodrigues. Damiao Rodrigues. And?”
“There isn’t any rap sheet.”
“I don’t believe it,” Silva said.
“I told you you wouldn’t,” Arnaldo said. “When I… uh, expressed a similar sentiment, the filho da puta hung up on me.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Silva said.
“Probably. Try me.”
“Soon after Bento shoots us his E-mail,” Silva said, “someone above him in the hierarchy gets wind of what he’s done. This someone has reason, probably financial, to keep the law off of Damiao’s back. This someone hides, or destroys, Damiao’s rap sheet, sees that Bento goes off on a little vacation, and puts out the word that he’s moved on to greener pastures.”
“That’s how I figure it,” Arnaldo said.
“Did those photos arrive?”
“Yeah, but you sent them to the Plaza by mistake. I had to go over there and pick them up.”
“Because you’re staying at the Tropical?”
“Sure,” Arnaldo said, innocently. “Isn’t that what we agreed?”
This time the silence lasted longer. Finally, Silva said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: give me two hours, then go to the headquarters of the Manaus PD. By that time, the chief should be expecting you. I’m going to have the director call the governor of the state of Amazonas, or the mayor of the city of Manaus, or whoever it takes to shake those people up. You go in there and demand personal access to their archives. If they don’t cooperate, call me immediately.”
“Who are you going to tell what?”
“The director gets the truth about the clerk and Rodrigues’s file. That will be enough to convince him we can’t trust the people at the Manaus PD. I’ll suggest he tells whoever he calls that it’s a confidential matter of national security. He doesn’t tell them about snuff videos, he doesn’t tell them about Andrea, or Marta, he doesn’t tell them squat.”
“You think people are gonna buy into that national security stuff?”
“Who cares? They don’t have to believe it. They just have to act as if they do.”
“I love it when you’re angry.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. And don’t think for a minute you’ve heard the last of this business about the Hotel Tropical.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Chief of Manaus’s Civil Police was a florid man of slightly above average height and greatly above average weight. When Arnaldo was ushered into his office, his gray uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves.
“Damned air-conditioning is on the fritz again,” he said with an accent that marked him as a carioca, a native of Rio de Janeiro. Rings of sweat stained the area under his arms. He was using a handkerchief to blot his forehead. He stopped blotting long enough to stand up, extend a sweaty palm across his desk and offer his hand.