“In a just world, the government would lose the case. But this is our government. They’re going to appeal, and re-appeal, and in the end the families of the victims might get some money sometime in the next century. That leaves this airline holding the bag. The money bag, I mean.
“The victims’ lawyers are going to claim negligence and pilot error, and we’re going to fight it, and the odds are we’ll lose. Now, granted, there has to be responsibility for a tragedy of this magnitude, but it isn’t fair that this airline should have to bear all of that responsibility just because a damned mechanic decided to postpone the repair of the thruster, and a damned captain decided to sign off on it.”
It had been a long speech, delivered with mounting passion, and Dornelles was winded at the end of it. It could have been his money he was talking about, and if he’d stopped there, Hector would have classified him as a company man to his fingertips.
But Dornelles wasn’t finished.
“I’m covering my ass here,” he said. “If I want to keep my job, I’ve got to help to keep this airline afloat. Fifteen years ago, the biggest air carrier, the flag carrier of this country, was Varig. I put seventeen years of my life into Varig, expected to draw my pension from Varig. Do you know what happened to them?”
“They filed for bankruptcy.”
“Exactly,” Dornelles said, as if he’d finally gotten his point across. “So you tell me what I want to know, or you can go out and get your court order.”
Go out and get your court order came out very much like go out and fuck yourself.
Hector weighed his options. It took him less than two seconds.
“You’ll keep everything I tell you in the strictest confidence?”
“I will,” Dornelles said.
As soon as he was out of Congonhas’s underground garage and was able to use his cell phone, Hector called Silva in Brasilia.
“Aline Arriaga wasn’t there. She takes Thursdays and Fridays off. I’ll try to catch her at home tomorrow.”
“Wasted trip then?”
“Not entirely.” He told his uncle about his discussion with Dornelles and finished by saying, “But when I finally got to the records there was nothing to find.”
“No incidents?”
“No. But I did discover something a bit out of the ordinary.”
“Which was?”
“Two flight attendants called in sick just before the flight was scheduled to depart from Miami. The plane took off shorthanded. Business class, as we already know, had only eleven passengers. Tourist class, on the other hand, was packed. And it was a night flight.”
“Day flight, night flight, what’s the difference?”
“There’s less space in tourist class, so it’s harder to sleep. According to Dornelles, tourist-class passengers are up and about throughout the night, going to the toilets, stretching their legs, asking for water and juice. For that reason, and also because there are a lot more of them, they require more attention from the flight crew than passengers in business or first class. So the chief steward took the second flight attendant out of business class and assigned her to tourist.”
“I’m sure she was pleased.”
“According to Dornelles, she probably was. The tourist class attendants rotate during their shift. The woman who got switched would be able to catch a few hours of sleep, but the one who stayed in business class all by herself would be awake all night.”
“And might well have seen something that would throw light on this situation. Did you get her name?”
“Bruna Nascimento. She’s in Sao Paulo on a seventy-two-hour layover. She’s staying at the Caesar Park, not the one on Rua Augusta, the one near Guarulhos. I called her room before I left Congonhas. No answer. Dornelles wasn’t surprised.
He said there’s nothing of interest anywhere near that hotel. The best time to catch her, he said, would be a few hours before flight time.”
“Put Babyface on it.”
“Will do. How’s it going on your end? Anything new?”
“We located Luis Mansur.”
“Where is he?”
“Sao Paulo.”
“Have you spoken to him?”
“No, but I hope to later today. I want to show him photographs of that dead thug, Girotti.”
“You’re coming here?”
“I am. So is Arnaldo. He has a line on the Kloppers, Marnix and Jan. They’re from a place called Holambra, a little town near Sao Paulo. Marnix’s parents still live there. Arnaldo spoke to them.”
“Marnix is the father of Jan, right?”
“Right. And get this: the old folks say they have no idea how to reach either one of them.”
“They don’t know where their own son is?”
“Or their grandson. So they say.”
“Sounds unlikely.”
“Which is why Arnaldo is going there personally.”
“Do they know he’s coming?”
“He thought it would be better if they didn’t.”
“What a nasty surprise, opening your front door and finding Arnaldo Nunes on your doorstep.”
“I’ll tell him you said that.”
“I knew you would. That’s why I did it. When are you arriving?”
“Tuesday.”
“Only on Tuesday? Why not earlier?”
“Sampaio’s up to something. He’s set a meeting for Monday.”
“All right, Tuesday. Congonhas or Guarulhos?”
“Guarulhos. Arnaldo is still going on about that accident, says he’s not going to fly into Congonhas ever again.”
“I’ll arrange it. See you then.”
“Wait. There’s more. One of the domestic airlines came through on Clancy. It appears he caught a flight to Palmas.”
“Palmas? The capital of Tocantins?”
“The very same.”
“Why the hell would a tourist want to go there?”
Tocantins was the newest of the Brazilian states, carved out of the much older, and larger, state of Goias. Palmas was a new city, constructed on what had been, until two decades earlier, a low hill covered with sun-baked red earth and a few stunted trees.
“God knows,” Silva said. “And there’s no record of him coming back.”
“There aren’t many hotels in Palmas. If he stayed in one, it shouldn’t be tough to locate him.”
“We’re checking.”
“Car rental?”
“Checking that too.”
“Credit card records?”
“American. Requesting them through channels.”
“How about Motta?”
“Nothing yet. We’ve placed telephone calls to all the Darcy Mottas in the records, spoken to most, and we’re still awaiting callbacks from three. A physical description would help. You should ask the flight attendant if she remembers him. I’ll pose the same question to Lidia Porto when I see her.”
“When you see her?”
“Sorry. I should have mentioned that. We located her.”
“And she’s there in Brasilia?”
“She is. She agreed to see us at five.”
“That’s quick. What was she doing in the States? Did she say?”
“She did. She was visiting her daughter and grandchildren. The daughter married an American.”
“Have you warned her she might be in danger?”
“Not yet. I thought it best to break the news in person.”
“Some of those old grannies can surprise you. Tough as nails.”
“This one doesn’t sound that way.”
“I just had another thought.”
“Tell me.”
“There may have been a security camera above the boarding gate in Miami. It might have recorded images of the people boarding the flight.”
“Where did that idea come from?”
“We were talking about Americans and photos. Sometimes I surprise myself.”
“I’ll ask Harvey Willis.”
“That friend of yours? The Miami Beach cop?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll phone him as soon as I hang up.”
Chapter Fourteen
The single chime of the doorbell was still resonating when frantic barking overpowered it.
“Who is it?”
The woman’s voice came from inside the apartment, almost a shout as she strived for audibility over the yapping.
Silva leaned in closer to the door. “Senhora Porto?”