“Yes… I mean, as you say, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it, I told you to stop that. After Senhor Rivas finished giving Senhor Garcia a few well-earned punches in the face and kicks in the groin, Garcia went on to admit that Juan had ditched him for somebody younger. That’s grounds for murder right there. So what do you suppose Jorge Rivas did then?”
“I don’t-”
“He picked up the goddamned telephone and called the foreign minister, that’s what!”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, he damned well did. And who do you think the foreign minister called? The president. That’s who! And who do you think the president called?”
“The minister of justice?”
“Exactly! And who do you think the minister of justice called?”
“You?”
“You’re goddamned right it was me! And his question to me, and my question to you, is: why haven’t you arrested the filho da puta? ”
“Because he didn’t do it, Senhor.”
“And just because he didn’t do-” The significance of Silva’s words suddenly sunk in, bringing Sampaio up short. “What did you say?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“What makes you think he didn’t do it?”
Silva rubbed his chin, wondering if the time had finally come to brief Sampaio on their progress. He decided it had. “We’re sure,” he said, “because we quickly discovered that similar murders preceded the death of Juan Rivas, murders that were committed with the same MO. An MO, short for modus operandi, is a criminal’s characteristic pattern-”
“I know what a goddamned MO is! Get to the point.”
“The victims were all shot in the abdomen and then violently beaten to death with a blunt instrument.”
“The same gun?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the instrument?”
“We don’t know. The killer takes it with him.”
“And why can’t the killer be Garcia?”
“One of the murders was in Brodowski. That’s a small town near-”
“I know where Brodowski is. It’s Pignatari’s birthplace. What do you think I am, some kind of goddamned philistine?”
“The painter’s name was Portinari, Senhor.”
“Stop beating around the bush, goddamn it, and get to the point.”
“The other murders were in Sao Paulo, Rio, and Campinas. We’ve interviewed the doormen at Garcia’s building and we’ve spoken to people in his office. Various witnesses are willing to swear that Garcia was here, in Brasilia, when those four killings took place.”
“Damn. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”
“As I said, Senhor, I didn’t want to burden you with details.”
The director sat back in his chair. “I want a full report,” he said, “and I want it right now. What else is going on?”
Silva told him about their discovery of the passenger list; the murder of Bruna Nascimento, the flight attendant; the death of the thug, Joao Girotti.
“What’s the significance of other victims having shared that cabin with Rivas?” Sampaio asked.
“We don’t yet know.”
“And Girotti? What’s he got to do with it?”
“We don’t know that either. It’s part of the puzzle. Bear with me. There’s more to tell.”
“Out with it.”
Silva told him about the death of Julio Arriaga, Junior; about the boy’s father, his background as a soldier, his short temper, the fact that he might own a silenced pistol, the fact that he’d gone missing, the fact that his ex-wife had lied about their still being married.
“Why are you wasting my time?” Sampaio said when he was done.
“Wasting your time, Senhor?”
“What do the kid and his father have to do with the murder of Juan Rivas? Not a damned thing, as far as I can see.”
“Maybe not, Senhor.”
“No maybes about it. Who else have you got?”
“We’re looking at four other people.”
“Who are they?”
“Other passengers who traveled in the business-class cabin. Their names are Luis Mansur, Marnix Kloppers, Dennis Clancy, and Darcy Motta.”
“What’s suspicious about them?”
“Mansur knows something he’s not telling us.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“No, I just have a feeling.”
“A feeling, huh? Very scientific. How about the other three passengers?”
“Clancy is an American priest. He went to Palmas.”
“Tocantins? That Palmas?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s suspicious. Why the hell would anybody, particularly a gringo, want to go to Tocantins?”
“Add to that the fact that Clancy has dropped off the map. So has Kloppers.”
“Kloppers? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Dutch. But he carries a Brazilian passport.”
“Born here?”
“Born here. He was traveling with his son. We’ve spoken with his parents by telephone. They claim they have no idea where he is. Or his son either.”
“Their own grandson? How likely is that?”
“Not very. Arnaldo Nunes is going to speak to them.”
“All right. That leaves one.”
“Darcy Motta.”
Silva related the story that Lina Godoy, Bruna’s friend and fellow flight attendant, had told Goncalves.
Sampaio rubbed his chin. “So Motta may be the one who framed the kid?”
“It seems likely. And I should add that he, too, has disappeared.”
“Using an alias?”
“We think so.”
“So what are you sitting around here for? Get back out there and find the killer. And be quick about it. I can’t hold off the whole damned Brazilian government for much longer.”
Silva nodded and stood up.
“And, Mario?”
It was Mario again, no longer Chief Inspector, a sign that the storm had blown over-at least for the moment.
“Yes?”
“Make sure you’re here for the meeting.”
“I’ll be here. But since you brought it up, would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”
“All right. But keep it under your hat.”
Silva nodded his assent.
“It’s about next year’s budget,” Sampaio said. “I’m going to explain why none of you can count on any raises.”
Chapter Twenty-two
When Hector was ushered in, the window behind Sergio Bittencourt’s desk was framing an Airbus 320. As it sank out of sight behind some shrubbery, the office was suddenly filled with the roar of reverse thrusters being engaged. The racket precluded conversation.
Junior Arriaga’s mother had been right when she called the delegado little. He didn’t quite come up to Hector’s chin. She’d also called him a bastard. Bittencourt went on to prove it.
“I hope this isn’t gonna take long,” he said. “I got better things to do than waste my time on a little punk of a dope smuggler, much less a dead one.”
“A dope smuggler, is it?” Hector said. “Guilty, was he?”
Bittencourt shrugged. “Caught with the goods, wasn’t he?”
“Arriaga was fifteen. You should have taken one look at him and transferred him.”
“It happened early in the morning, before I got in,” Bittencourt said. “I never even saw him, not until he was dead. And what makes you think you got the right to barge in here and tell me how to run my delegacia?”
Before Hector could reply, an oncoming roar built to a crescendo. Another aircraft sailed into view, the heat from its turbines distorting the air behind it. He watched it disappear, waited until he was sure the delegado could hear him, and said, “I’m here because the minister of justice wants a full investigation. Take it up with him if you’ve got a beef. I’ll even wait until you have him on the line.”
Bittencourt’s mouth tightened. Then he seemed to realize Hector might be perfectly serious, and he forced a smile.