T HE G OAT’S boate -his “nightclub” brothel-was a sorry sight in daylight. The weathered wood of the facade was badly in need of paint. Beer cans and empty cachaca bottles littered the parking lot. The three cops had to sidestep a pool of vomit to get to the front door.
Silva lifted his fist and pounded on the wood.
There was no response.
“Wake them up,” he said.
The house was isolated. Arnaldo got the message. He looked around him, then took out his Glock and pulled back the slide. Silva and Hector covered their ears. Arnaldo pointed the muzzle in the air and pulled the trigger. The sharp report came echoing back from the hill across the road.
“That should do it,” Silva said.
He was right. Seconds later, they heard stirring inside.
“Go away, you crazy bastard,” a woman’s voice said. “We’re closed. Go sleep it off. Come back tonight.”
“Police,” Arnaldo said.
“I told you to beat it.”
“You hear what I said? Police.”
“Yeah, I heard what you said. Go home and jerk off. Or maybe you want me to call Chief Pinto?”
“ Federal Police,” Arnaldo said, “and you’re the one who’s jerking me off. Open the fucking door before I shoot off the lock.”
That produced some nearly inaudible muttering. Two voices now. One of them could have been male.
Arnaldo hit the door with the butt of his Glock, leaving a visible dent in the wood.
“You hear me?”
“Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” the woman said. “Wait a minute. I gotta get the key.”
Time passed, enough of it and more to fetch a key from the remotest corner of the building.
“They’re stalling,” Silva said.
But then they heard the rattle of a chain. A moment later, one of the double doors opened to reveal a woman wearing no makeup, a nightgown, and a suspicious expression.
“Show me some ID,” she said.
Arnaldo flashed his badge.
“Anybody can buy a badge,” she said. “Something with a photo.”
He produced his federal police ID and held it up for her inspection.
“Okay,” she said. “And now the other gentlemen.”
“Jesus Christ,” Arnaldo said.
“Let’s see your own ID,” Silva said.
He was hoping she’d step away from the door to fetch it. But she didn’t. She’d been holding it ready, behind her back. Arnaldo took it and scrutinized it.
“Roselia Fagundes, huh?”
“I’ve shown you mine, Agente, now I want your friends to show me theirs.”Silva and his nephew pulled out their credentials. She took her time studying them, particularly Silva’s. Then she addressed him.
“What do you want?”
“A look around.”
“You have a warrant?”
“Not yet.”
“What are you looking for?”
“Minors. One minor in particular.”
“You’ve come to the wrong place. All our girls are over eighteen. We operate strictly within the law.”
“Not the way I hear it.”
“Then you hear wrong. We’ve got competitors. They’re jealous. They like to spread rumors about us. Who’s the minor?”
Wordlessly, Silva pulled out a photo of Marta Malan.
She took it, studied it and didn’t bat an eye.
“Never seen her before,” she said. “What’s she done?”
“You’ve got it backward,” Silva said. “She didn’t do a damned thing. People are doing something to her. And we think you’re one of those people.”
“Me? That’s absurd.”
“The way we hear it, you’ve been holding her prisoner for more than two months.”
“You hear it wrong. She’s not here.”
“We know that.”
“And she’s never been here.”
“And that’s bullshit. How come you won’t let us in?”
“I never said you couldn’t come in. Come ahead. Come in. Look around all you like. Then get the hell out of here and let us go back to sleep.”
She swung the door open, went to a neighboring wall and toggled a switch. The room filled with light. They were in a bar: no windows, tables of rude wood, folding metal chairs, an area in the middle raised and cleared for dancing. The place smelled of beer, cachaca, sweat, and, faintly, of perfume.
“This is the social area,” she said, kicking off the tour. “Cops drink for free at The Goat’s. You’re guests of the house while you’re in Manaus. Cachaca and beer only. Whiskey is extra.”
Silva ignored the invitation.
“What’s behind that door?”
“A toilet. Males only.”
“And that one?”
“A storeroom.”
“And that one over there?”
“Leads to where the girls sleep and work.”
“Then that’s where we’ll start.”
There were twenty-two bedrooms, seven of them occupied. Every bed had been slept in, but there were only seven girls. They all had identity cards proving they were eighteen or older. None of them looked it. None of them admitted to knowing a girl who called herself Topaz.
“Where are the others?” Silva said.
The Fagundes woman looked him straight in the eye.
“There are no others.”
“Why so many bedrooms for so few girls?”
She shrugged.
“Girls come, girls go. Sometimes we have a full house, sometimes we don’t.”
“How come the other beds are unmade?”
“We haven’t cleaned up from last night,” she said. “We alternate rooms. That way the sheets get a chance to dry out. It’s hot in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I noticed. Where’s The Goat?”
“He doesn’t sleep here.”
“He doesn’t, eh?”
“Only sometimes.”
“And you?”
“Sometimes.”
“How many entrances to the building?”
“The one you came in and one more. It’s around in back, leads to the annex.”
“Annex?”
“For the staff.” She held out five fingers, used her other hand to fold them one by one as she enumerated. “One bartender, one cleaning girl, one bouncer, one cook, one laundress.”
“Point out the way,” Arnaldo said.
The door was unlocked and ajar. It opened on a narrow alleyway between the main building and the annex.
Arnaldo pulled out his pistol and turned left, creeping on the balls of his feet. Unlike many big men, he could move quietly when he wanted to. There were no windows in the main building, but there was one in the annex. Arnaldo stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall. Then he wheeled around and forward, dropping to a crouch and extending his Glock in a two-handed grip.
He found himself pointing it at the forehead of a woman who wasn’t more than a foot away. She gave a yelp and dropped the pipe she’d been smoking onto the window sill. Ashes and sparks exploded from the bowl.
Arnaldo lowered his gun.
“ Calma, Senhora,” he said. “I’m a cop.”
The woman only had eyes for his pistol. She licked her lips and followed the Glock all the way back to the holster on his belt. Then, and only then, she said, “A cop, huh? What happened? You fall asleep? Spend the night? You better get your ass outta here. The Goat doesn’t like anyone inside after closing time. The girls know that. The Goat finds out which one of them you were with, he’s gonna whip her for sure.”
She had black skin and gray hair, and she wore a dress with short sleeves. She looked to be at least seventy. And now that she was over her fear, she was starting to get angry.
“I’m not a customer,” he said. “I’m a federal, and I just arrived.”
“A federal? You after The Goat?”
“Why would you think that?”
“I can think any damned thing I want, doesn’t mean I have to tell you. You scared me half to death.”
“For which I’m truly sorry. How long have you been sitting there?”
The woman retrieved her pipe and stared sadly at the empty bowl.
“Maybe ten minutes. I like to have a pipe before I get my hands in the suds. I just lit this one.”
“You see anybody go by?”
“Nobody special. The Goat, Osvaldo, some girls.”
“How many girls?”
“Hell, you think I’m gonna count ’em as they go by?” She stabbed at the air with her finger, did it three times. “One… two… three.”