“You people work with silenced weapons?”
“We don’t just sleep rough and eat snails.”
“Which handguns do you use?”
“Just one. The M975.”
“Which is?”
“The military version of the Taurus PT92.”
“Then it’s a single/double action 9x19 Parabellum, a copy of the Beretta 92?”
“Nice to talk to a woman who knows her handguns. Our M975s are so quiet, somebody fires one in the next room, you hardly hear it.”
“And I suppose Arriaga had lots of experience with that particular pistol?”
“Lots. And he was an expert marksman. There was this trick he used to do with an ax head and balloons. He’d shoot at the sharp edge of the ax. The ax would divide the bullet in two. He’d burst a balloon on either side of the ax with a single shot.”
“Impressive.”
“More impressive was that he could do it seven or eight times out of every ten.”
“Those M975s of yours, do you lose one every now and then?”
“Some of the guys get pretty attached to their handguns. We don’t make a fuss if one disappears. We’re all professionals here, and we figure lost weapons are ultimately gonna be used in good causes.”
“You think Arriaga might have taken one with him when he left?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, Major, you didn’t.”
“Can I tell you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“I know Arriaga pretty well, and I like him. He’s not unjust. He’s not a thug. He’s got a clearly developed sense of right and wrong. I hope to hell he isn’t the guy you’re looking for, but if Julio did this thing, the guy who messed with his kid would have deserved everything he got.”
“Thank you, Major. You’ve been very helpful.”
“What do you think should happen to a slimeball that kills a kid?”
“I’m not prepared to say.”
“Understandable, you being from the Federal Police and all, but my feeling is that we understand each other perfectly.”
Chapter Twenty
“I got good news and I got bad news, Mario.”
“Good news first, Harvey. I need some cheering up today.”
“Then this should help do it,” the Miami Beach cop said. “Those cameras you asked about? They exist. You’re gonna get a copy of a DVD showing everybody who boarded that flight.”
“Everybody?”
“Including the crew. They all board through the same door. The camera mounted above it runs continuously.”
“You are a prince among men, Harvey Willis.”
“Don’t lay it on too thick. Now for the bad news: we haven’t been able to track down this Arriaga guy. You sure he’s here in Florida?”
“No, I’m not. But he’s supposed to be.”
“Well, we came up with what we think is his address, but he doesn’t answer his door. And we got what we think are his home and cell numbers, but he doesn’t pick up his phones and, up to now, he hasn’t responded to our messages. His car, if it is his car, isn’t in the driveway, and his neighbors have no idea where he is. They’re all Anglos, and Arriaga, they say, doesn’t speak much English.”
“All Anglos? In South Florida?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“No fixed place of employment?”
“Nope. He floats.”
“As what?”
“A handyman. One of those neighbors had him in to do some work. Apparently he’s good.”
“And I guess it’s tough to find gainful employment if your specialty is killing people.”
“Not at all. Like you said, it’s South Florida.”
“You think maybe he’s still at it? Killing people? On the side, I mean?”
“If he is, there’s nothing in the records. And I mean nothing. No arrests, not even a speeding ticket. He appears to be squeaky clean.”
“No Social Security number? No credit card?”
“He has both.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Manage what?”
“Social Security. Credit cards. He’s not a legal resident.”
“Who told you that?”
“His wife.”
“You mean his ex-wife.”
“No. His wife.”
“And this wife you’re talking about lives there in Brazil?”
“She does.”
“Two possibilities then: either we got the wrong Arriaga, or she’s lying. And I’m pretty sure we’ve got the right Arriaga.”
“Interesting.”
“Arriaga won a green card in one of those lottery things. He’s married to a woman whose maiden name was Inez Bocardo, also a legal resident, and has been for over a year.”
“How easy would it have been to marry a second woman without divorcing the first?”
“Not easy. He would have been required to list his marriage status on his visa application. That would have shown him as married. So he’d need proof of divorce if he wanted to marry again.”
“We were told he couldn’t come to Brazil for his son’s funeral because he was in the States illegally.”
“Again, if we’ve got the right Arriaga, that’s bullshit. He could have gone, and come back, any time he wanted to.”
“Can you get a copy of those divorce papers?”
“Sure. Public records.”
“Check them, will you? Confirm that the ex-wife’s name is Aline.”
“Okay, and if it is?”
“I can only think of one reason why she’d want us to believe he wasn’t in Brazil when the murders were taking place.”
“Like she still loves him?”
“And is covering for him.”
“Well, duh,” Harvey Willis said.
Chapter Twenty-One
When summoning staff, Nelson Sampaio expected them to appear before him instantly.
“Where have you been?” he demanded of Silva.
“Ana only called me five minutes-”
“Five minutes is five minutes. Sit down. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Sampaio could have been displeased about any number of things, past and present. Saying anything at all would have been unwise. Silva took the indicated seat in silence.
“You knew,” Sampaio said, pointing an accusing finger at his chief inspector’s face, “that Tomas Garcia was a pederast.”
“I knew nothing of the kind, Senhor.”
“What?”
“A pederast, Director, is a man who has sex with boys. Juan Rivas was not a boy. I recall you telling me that he was thirty-two years old. That was on the day when you assigned me to the case. I called him a ‘kid,’ and you-”
Sampaio held up a hand. “I want a straight answer. Did you, or did you not, know that Tomas Garcia was buggering Juan Rivas?”
“I’m not sure who was buggering who, Senhor.”
“Stop that! Stop splitting hairs. Do you deny you were aware of what was going on between Tomas Garcia and Juan Rivas? Do you deny you were aware of their sexual relations?
Answer yes or no!”
“No, Senhor.”
“Aha! And you saw fit to conceal that information from me?”
“I didn’t consider it relevant, Senhor. Many times, you’ve asked me not to burden you with details.”
“You didn’t consider it relevant? You didn’t consider it relevant? ”
“No, Senhor.”
“All right, Chief Inspector. I’m listening. I want you to tell me why you didn’t consider it relevant. But before you do, I want to give you a small inkling of the trouble you’ve put me through.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it! Haven’t you got anything else to say other than yes, Senhor and no, Senhor?”
“If you’d only tell me-”
“Last night, Chief Inspector, those two old pals, Jorge Rivas and Tomas Garcia got good and drunk together.”
“Last night? Rivas is still here?”
“He’s still here. He stayed on for talks with the president and the foreign minister. Stop interrupting.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“And stop that, I already told you to stop that. Now, while in his cups, Garcia admitted to Juan’s old man that he’d been fucking his son- fucking the foreign minister of Venezuela’s son, which was news to the Foreign Minister of Venezuela, and was news to me, and was news to the minister of justice and was news to the president of this republic-but wasn’t news to you because you already knew all about it. Garcia said so just before Rivas punched him.”