“She’s grabbing his cock, that’s what she’s doing. But does he move? No, he orders another round. And then another one. He was here for hours. Guy like that, guy who just gets out of jail, you’d think he’d be crazy for a woman, right? But no, he just keeps drinking. Around about the time I’m thinking he’s gay, he finally pays the bill. When he stands up, his legs are all wobbly, but I can see he isn’t gay at all.”
“And then what?”
“And then they left. They went out that way.”
Amalia pointed toward the back of the bar. Goncalves followed the line of her finger and saw a single door. On the wall next to it was a crudely painted sign. The sign said SENHORAS.
“Why didn’t Girotti wait here until she got back from the toilet?”
“Are you kidding? There was no way she was going to let him do that, no way she was going to give anybody else a chance to get their hooks into him. She took him by the hand and led him outside. The lady’s toilet opens onto the alley. So does that door. And the alley itself runs between two streets. She never came back.”
“What did she look like? Describe her.”
Amalia took another puff on her cigarette. Some of the smoke rose past her eyes and caused her to squint. Or maybe she was just remembering.
“She was white, and she was blond. Maybe that’s why he let her stay. Guy like him doesn’t get many chances with a white woman. And I’ll bet he never had a blond in his whole life, probably wanted to know what she looked like down there.”
“Tall? Short?”
“Neither. Medium, I’d say.”
“How about her eyes?”
“She was wearing sunglasses, big and really dark. She must have had a hard time seeing anything.”
“Suppose you saw her in a lineup. Would you recognize her?”
“Not in a million years,” Amalia said.
Chapter Eleven
Via E-mail
To: Mario Silva, Headquarters, Brasilia
From: Mara Carta, Field Office, Sao Paulo Further to your request, please find attached the passenger list for Transportes Aereos Brasileiros flight 8101 on the 22nd of November last year.
Cordially,
Mara
Mara Carta was Hector’s intelligence officer. The attachment consisted of six pages. The first was dedicated exclusively to first-class passengers. It added nothing to Silva’s knowledge. The last four listed the people in economy class. There, too, he found nothing of interest.
But the second page was a revelation. The third name Silva read caused him to blink; the last three brought him bolt upright in his chair.
TAB Flight 8101 22 Nov. Passenger List (cont.) Business Class Cabin
Passenger Name
Nationality
1
Arriaga*, Julio
BR
2
Clancy, Dennis, Fr.
US
3 Cruz, Paulo, Dr.
BR
4
Porto, Lidia
BR
5
Kloppers**, Jan
BR
6
Kloppers, Marnix
BR
7
Mansur, Luis
BR
8
Motta, Darcy
BR
9
Neves, Victor
BR
10
Palhares, Jonas
BR
11
Rivas, Juan
VE
Silva consulted Joao Girotti’s rap sheet and then placed a call to his nephew.
“Have you seen that passenger list for TAB 8101?”
“Not yet,” Hector said. “Why?”
“Cruz, Rivas, Neves, and Palhares are on it.”
“ All four? ”
“All four.”
“That’s it, then? That’s the connection we’ve been looking for?”
“Looks that way. On the night of the twenty-second to the twenty-third of November, they were all traveling in the business-class cabin of Flight 8101, TAB.”
“Where was Girotti?”
“He was in jail. He’d been there for a week.”
“How did he get out?”
“The witness, the only witness, recanted.”
“Recanted? Just like that?”
“Just like that. His lawyer was Dudu Fonseca.”
“Fonseca? Where did a punk like Girotti get the money to hire Fonseca?”
“Good question. And here’s another we should be asking ourselves: if Girotti had the money, why did he elect to sit around cooling his heels in jail? Fonseca could have had him out in a day.”
“Maybe Girotti didn’t have the money when he went in. Maybe he came into it after he got pinched.”
“That’s the most logical explanation, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh. Fonseca doesn’t lift a finger unless he gets a retainer in advance.”
“True. He generally needs to bribe some witness or another.”
“Or to hire someone to scare the witness off.”
“Also true.”
“What’s our next step?”
“Warn the surviving passengers.”
“I suppose it didn’t escape you that one of them might be the killer?”
“It certainly did not.”
“Who are they?”
“There are seven of them, one female. They’re all Brazilians, except for one of the males.”
“And he is…”
“An American, Dennis Clancy. There’s an ‘FR’ in front of his name.”
“A priest?”
“Either that or a misspelling. There’s a ‘DR’ in front of Cruz’s. Maybe they typed an F instead of a D.”
“And the others?”
“The woman was Lidia Porto. The men were Julio Arriaga, dependent of an airline employee, probably a kid.”
“Airline employee? TAB headquarters is here in Sao Paulo. Want me to handle that?”
“Would you? His mother’s name is Aline Arriaga. She’s the employee.”
“Got it.”
“Next, Kloppers, Marnix and Jan, father and son. Jan is the son, described here as a minor.”
“Kloppers? What kind of name is that?”
“No idea. The last two are Luis Mansur and Darcy Motta.”
“Names and nationalities, that’s all we’ve got to work with?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“There are going to be Mansurs, Portos, and Mottas galore.”
“Put Mara on it. Tell her to get into the national identity card database and start sifting. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can find out about the American.”
Silva’s next call was to the immigration section. He spoke to a clerk who said his name was Cizik.
“Cizik?”
“My old man was a Czech, Chief Inspector. How can I be of assistance?”
Silva explained what he wanted. Cizik told him everything was computerized. It would only take a moment.
A couple of minutes later, he was back on the line. “I’ve got copies of Clancy’s visa application and entry card. First name, Dennis? Occupation, priest?”
“That’s him.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, what?”
“Unusual case. It appears Father Clancy is still in Brazil.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“He’s been here for almost three months. Most gringos stay for three weeks or less. The few who stick around generally come in on another kind of visa.”
“Such as?”
“Study or work.”
“Could he have left? Could it be a computer glitch?”
“It’s possible, wouldn’t be the first time. But frankly…”
“Yes?”
“It’s not likely. He listed a hotel in Sao Paulo. Want me to call them?”
“I do.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Cizik was better than his word. Silva’s phone rang in less than ten.
“It checked out. He stayed at the Hotel Gloria on Avenida Ipiranga, in Sao Paulo. But it was only for one night.”
“The Hotel Gloria? Why do I-”
“Bobo, Chief Inspector. He used to live there.”
“Bobo, the TV star. Of course. I’ll get a man over there. Who did you talk to?”
“The manager, a fellow by the name of Vasco.”
“I appreciate your assistance, Cizik. Now listen. It’s very important we find this man Clancy.”
“Because?”
“Because if we don’t, and soon, he’s liable to kill someone, or someone’s liable to kill him. How about you check the passenger lists for domestic airlines?”
“Sure. Glad to help.”