“I’ve heard good things about him,” Silva said.
“And I about you. What brings you to Manaus?”
“I was about to ask you the same question.”
“My wife,” Lefkowitz said, glumly. “She’s a biologist, loves poking around in the jungle, and I love her. Otherwise…”
“We get the picture,” Arnaldo said, and stuck out a meaty paw. “Arnaldo Nunes. This here’s Hector Costa. That punk over there is Joaquim Almeida, and he can go fuck himself.” “Hey,” Joaquim said. “How about that doctor, huh?”
Everybody ignored him.
“The ladies and gentlemen of the press will be here any minute,” Lefkowitz said.
“Merda,” Silva said.
“Yeah. I thought I’d warn you. Pinto called them just now. That’s why he’s scribbling away over there, working out some kind of eloquent statement. He’s a real hound for publicity, the chief is. Never misses an opportunity for an interview, and a murdered priest doesn’t come along every day.”
There was something about Lefkowitz that inspired Silva’s confidence. He made a snap decision.
“How about we go inside the house?” he said. “Just the two of us.”
“Sure.”
He and Lefkowitz started walking.
“You asked me what I was doing here,” Silva said, stopping when they were out of earshot, but still outside. He told Lefkowitz everything he hadn’t told the chief: about the missing girl, about the woman who’d been calling herself Carla Antunes, about the snuff videos. By the time he’d finished, the eyes behind Lefkowitz’s glasses were huge.
“So Carla Antunes is really Claudia Andrade,” he said shaking his head. “The chief’s gonna shit a brick.”
“No, he isn’t,” Silva said, “because you’re not going to tell him.”
“You’re going to keep Pinto in the dark?”
“You bet I am.”
“How come you decided to come clean with me?”
“Because I trust you to keep your mouth shut, because I sense you’re not a great fan of the chief-”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
“And because it will help you with your investigation. There are certain things you should look for.”
They started walking again, climbed over the remains of the front door, and entered the house. When they came to a room with a king-sized bed in the middle of the floor, Silva let his eyes roam over the ceiling and the walls. Both were white, but the walls were a shade lighter.
“Fresh paint,” Lefkowitz said.
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
“We’ll find out for sure,” Lefkowitz said, “and we’ll also find out if there’s anything under it. How long will it take you to get me Claudia Andrade’s fingerprints?”
“A few hours, no more.”
Lefkowitz looked around him. He’d been sweating in the heat outside, and his glasses were slipping down his nose. He pushed them back up with his forefinger, ran a forearm across his brow, and started to roll up his sleeves.
“Good,” he said. “She must have left a few more around here somewhere. And, if she did, we’re gonna find them. First, though, let’s see if there’s any blood.”
Lefkowitz and his two assistants mixed and sprayed Luminol, closed the heavy curtains, and turned on a blue light. The wall, and patches of the floor, lit up like Copacabana on a Saturday night.
“I did a job in a favela once,” Lefkowitz said, looking at the glowing spots where blood had once splashed and pooled. “A whole family had been slaughtered: mother, father, and three kids. Drug thing. Father was a dealer, and he didn’t pay his suppliers. They killed the lot of them, threw the bodies in the river and scrubbed the place with a liquid detergent.” Lefkowitz turned toward him, his face eerie in the blue light. “This place is worse. There have been times when this room was swimming in blood.”
“How many?” Silva asked. “How many did she kill here?”
Lefkowitz blinked behind his thick lenses. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to tell you that, but I’ll try. First thing we’ll do is to sort the blood residue by type.”
“That the best you can do?”
“No. DNA testing is best I can do. But DNA analysis is expensive. The chief will never approve it.”
“Fuck the chief,” Silva said. “The federal government will pay.” “I like your style,” Lefkowitz said, “especially the fuck-the-chief part.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Marta’s mouth was dry, and it wasn’t only because she was afraid. The handkerchief they’d stuffed into it was sucking up her saliva like a sponge.
It was obvious, now, what they were up to, as obvious as the tears streaming down her cheeks. Her captors would be thinking they were tears of fear, about which they’d be right, and tears of resignation, about which they’d be totally wrong. There was no way she was going to give in to rape that easily. She wasn’t some simple country girl from the backwaters of the Amazon. She was a Malan. She’d resist them every centimeter of the way. She’d punch, and kick, and scratch. If they took out the handkerchief, she’d sink her teeth into the animal’s ear. With luck, she’d get it clean off before he knocked her senseless.
Claudia beckoned to Delfin.
“Here,” she said, and dropped a glittering thing into his palm.
“Put it in your mouth,” she said. “Keep it in your cheek.” Delfin stared at the little brass key, bright against his skin. “What’s it for?”
“The cuff on her ankle.”
“What about the-”
He would have said cord I use to strangle her with, but Claudia cut him off. The girl was right next to them, listening.
“You’re going use the one wrapped around her wrists,” she said. “It’s silk. Now, pay attention. I’m going to say ‘action’-”
“What?”
“Action,” she repeated. “I’m going to say the word ‘action,’ and when I do, you step into the shot-”
“What’s that mean, step into the shot?”
“You go over to her,” the woman said, “and you start cutting her clothes off.”
“With what?”
“With this.” The guy with the bags under his eyes handed him a knife. It was one of those commando things, sharp all the way down the front and halfway down the back.
“Last thing you do with it,” she said, “you cut through the cord and free her hands. Just cut one loop. Unwind the rest. When you’re done with the knife, drop it on the floor. Otto here”-she tilted her head toward the guy with the bags under his eyes-“will pick it up, so she doesn’t get her hands on it. Can you remember all of this?”
“Sure,” he said. “You think I’m stupid?”
She blinked her eyes at him and paused for a beat before she went on. “Once you free her hands, she’ll probably try to scratch you. Don’t worry about it. We cut her nails. Just make sure she doesn’t poke out an eye.”
“Okay.”
“When her hands are free, hold her wrists, or sit on her, while you spit out the key and unlock the handcuffs. Make sure she never gets off that bunk. If she does, we have to start all over again.”
“Can we do that?” he said.
“Of course we can, but try to get it right the first time. Once I turn those lights on, it’s going to get very hot. None of us are going to enjoy being in here any longer than we have to.”
“Okay. So once I get the handcuffs off her ankle, what’s next?”
“You do what we discussed. Any questions?”
“No.”
“Good. Otto, give me that camera.”
The camera wasn’t one of those little dinky things Delfin had seen the tourists use. It was almost as long as the woman’s arm and had a pad on the bottom so she could rest it on her shoulder.
“Otto,” she said, “lights.”
Delfin was looking at the largest of them when it came to life. He looked away, but a blue spot persisted in his vision. It started to fade, but it was there when Claudia’s European client came down the companionway and settled into the bunk opposite him. And it was still there when she said “action.”
Quartz halogen lamps are hot, and they seem hotter still when they’re switched on in a confined space. Twenty-two minutes into the recording, and despite the air-conditioning working flat out, the ambient temperature in the cabin was up to a hundred and eighteen degrees Fahrenheit, fully five degrees hotter than in the blazing sun.