Mansur did go to the Raposo Tavares, but he drove right past the establishment his girl had suggested and went to the Bariloche, a motel he’d used before, a place he trusted. He was too smart, too experienced, to fall for some cheap scam.
But he wasn’t smart enough, or experienced enough, to spot the Ford Escort that followed him from his office all the way to the front gate of his nice, safe motel.
Chapter Twenty-Five
In one of those rare moments in Brazilian aviation, Tuesday morning’s first flight from Brasilia to Guarulhos arrived early. The undercarriage hit the ground in Sao Paulo a full seven minutes ahead of schedule.
Silva turned on his cell phone as soon as the airplane came to a stop. It began ringing almost immediately.
“Forget about your chat with Mansur,” Hector said. “It’s never going to happen.”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
“Shot?”
“In the gut.”
“Beaten?”
“To a bloody pulp.”
“Damned fool! He said he had a revolver.”
“He did. It was in his briefcase, but he left the briefcase in his car.”
“Where did they find him?”
“In a motel room. The homicide guys know we’re interested in the MO. They called us right away.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s on the right-hand side of the Rodovia Raposo Tavares. You know that big supermarket, the Carrefour?”
“I know it.”
“About a kilometer farther on. Call me when you get close.”
“Transport?”
“Babyface for you, Samantha for Arnaldo.”
Samantha Assad was one of the director’s appointments. She had a law degree from Rio Branco, a black belt in jujitsu, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Nelson Sampaio’s ego.
Arnaldo couldn’t stand her.
“Call her on her cell phone,” Silva said. “Tell her I’ve determined that Arnaldo will be the point man on this one. He’s the one who’s going to question Marnix Kloppers’s parents. She’s not to pull rank.”
As a delegada, Samantha stood above Arnaldo in the pecking order. He had no law degree and was simply a senior agent.
“I already told her,” Hector said. “She said she wouldn’t, but you know Samantha.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Silva said. “I do know Samantha.”
The two cars were in the no-parking zone in front of the terminal. A couple of uniformed cops were staring daggers at them. It went against the cops’ grain to have anyone occupying the no-parking zone, even the Federal Police.
Silva hopped in next to Goncalves.
“Morning, Babyface.”
“Don’t you think this Babyface stuff is getting a bit tired, Chief Inspector?”
Silva made a point of studying Goncalves’s unlined face.
“Not yet,” he said.
“You’re driving,” Samantha said, tossing aside her copy of Vogue .
“No ‘Good morning, Senhor Nunes’?” Arnaldo said. “No ‘How are you, Senhor Nunes?’”
“My morning went out the window when I heard I’d be spending it with you. And I really don’t care how you are. Get in and drive.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Samantha, why you’re not married? Is it perhaps because you’re so damned bossy?”
“Fuck off,” she said and flounced to the passenger side.
“Tick, tick, tick,” he said, opening the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Biological clock. It’s ticking.”
“My biological clock is none of your business, Nunes. Get your fat ass into the car.”
He did and slammed the door.
“We’re taking the Anhanguera,” she said as he started the engine.
“Holambra is near Campinas,” he said, adjusting the mirrors. “Bandeirantes will be quicker.”
“Bandeirantes isn’t as pretty. I’m into pretty. We’re taking the Anhanguera.”
“See what I mean? Bossy.”
“Shut up. I’ve got a date tonight, and I don’t want to be late, so get moving. The Dutra to the Marginal to the Anhanguera.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to get to the Anhanguera,” he said. “I’ve lived in this town for more years than you’ve been alive.”
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “What’s that?”
Arnaldo cocked his head to listen. “What? I don’t hear anything.”
“Retirement clock,” she said. “Tick, tick, tick.”
“I don’t get it,” Arnaldo said, after a few minutes of not-so-companionable silence.
“What?” she said.
“Holambra.”
“Oho,” she said. “So the Great Expert on Sao Paulo doesn’t know what Holambra means.”
“And you do?”
“I do. Holambra is composed of the first three letters of Holland, the first two letters of America, and the first three letters of Brazil. Hol-Am-Bra, home of the Expoflora.”
“What’s the Expoflora?”
She said, “How could I forget? You’re Arnaldo Nunes. Beauty and art are beyond you. You wouldn’t know anything about the Expoflora.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s only the biggest flower exposition in all of Latin America, that’s all. Three hundred thousand visitors last year.”
“What do they do the rest of the year?”
“They grow flowers and bulbs and seeds for the national and export trade. And they sit around and marvel that someone like you can live in this country and be unaware of the existence of their Expoflora.”
“I don’t live in this country,” Arnaldo said. “I live in Brasilia. It’s kind of like Oz, with politicians.”
A little later, he said, “So how come a gang of Dutchmen decide to come and live in Brazil?”
“Economic refugees,” she said. “Came after the Second World War when their country was still a wreck.”
“And we were the land of the future. Funny how things change.”
“I can’t believe you’re such a cynic. That’s another thing I dislike about you.”
“How come you know all this? About Holambra, I mean?”
“Because I, unlike a certain Neanderthal I could mention, am aware of my surroundings. I am also a curious person-”
“You can say that again.”
“-who is always interested in finding out things about other people.”
“Nosy, I’d call it. And while we’re on the subject, did Hector tell you I’m to take the lead with the Kloppers?”
She looked out the window.
“Did he?” he insisted.
“Yes,” she sniffed.
And the silence descended again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Silva called Hector when they were passing the Carrefour.
“Just keep coming until you see the sign,” Hector said. “It’s blue and white, and it flashes. You can’t miss it.”
Indeed, they couldn’t. The huge sign was on a concrete pillar ten meters high. Sky blue and white are the Argentinean national colors. The Bariloche for which the motel had been named is an Argentinean winter resort where much of the architecture appears to be Swiss, or German. The motel, doing its best not to look out of place on a subtropical hillside, and failing miserably in the attempt, consisted of about thirty small chalets surrounded by a cinder-block wall. They went through the untended main gate and found themselves surrounded by uniformed cops, technicians, detectives with badges dangling from lanyards, gawkers, and the ladies and gentlemen of the press.
Silva got out of the car. Goncalves went off to face the challenge of finding a place to park.
Silva was immediately set upon. Hector, springing forward to rescue his uncle from the gang of reporters, took him by the arm. A uniformed cop lifted the yellow crime-scene tape so they could pass under it. That brought them out of the crush, but not beyond the cacophony of shouted questions. The journalists wanted to know who the victim was, whether there was more than one of them, how he, she, or they had been killed, when Silva was going to be available for comment.
The tenor of their questions indicated that they were being kept in the dark, for which Silva gave silent thanks.