“Sounds like me,” Arnaldo said. “But I didn’t do it.”
Yamaguchi straightened up and looked at him through her thick lenses. Then she looked back and forth between Hector and Silva.
“Who let the comedian into my autopsy suite?” she said.
“Thank you, thank you,” Arnaldo said. “This is my last show in Manaus. Don’t miss me in Brasilia and as soon as possible I’ll appear in Sao Paulo. I hope to be there for the rest of my life.”
“Semen?” Silva asked.
Yamaguchi nodded. “That also. But the bruising was caused by something else.”
“I’ll need a DNA analysis of the swabs.”
“Who pays?” she asked.
“Send them to Brasilia. We’ll do it there.”
“Five will get you ten,” Arnaldo said, “The Goat did it.”
“No bet,” Silva said.
“Who’s he?” Yamaguchi asked. She must have been one of the few people in Manaus who’d never heard of The Goat.
“A boate owner with a score to settle,” Silva said. “We had a score too. I expect he thought he was doing us a favor.”
“And he was,” Arnaldo said. “Let’s hear it for The Goat.” “What kind of a cop are you?” Yamaguchi said. “This is a murdered woman we’ve got here.”
“She was a tough person to love,” Silva said.
“But somebody did, in a matter of speaking,” Arnaldo said. Yamaguchi speared him with her eyes. “You are a disgusting man,” she said.
When the three federal cops left the autopsy suite, Lefkowitz was gone. Side by side, they walked down the dim hallway toward the front door.
“Normally,” Arnaldo said, breaking the companionable silence, “I hate these places.”
“So do I,” Silva said. “Normally.”
He paused next to an overflowing barrel of trash, took out his photo of Claudia Andrade, and tossed it on top.
Then he led the way out of the gloom and into the sunlight.