“Sacca has been out for almost eighteen hours. Three to one he’s dead already.”
“No bet,” Arnaldo said.
Silva turned to Hector. “Do we have his home address?”
“We do,” Hector said.
Silva turned to Goncalves. “Call in the team we have standing by. Tell them to meet you there. If Sacca is still alive, put a protective cordon around him.”
“How tight?”
“Loose enough not to discourage Arriaga. The last thing we want to do is scare him off.”
“And if Sacca’s already dead?”
“Call Hector at the office. He’ll contact us. We’ll meet at the murder scene.”
Silva turned to Hector.
“Check Aline’s bank accounts. See if she’s made any substantial withdrawals. Check the airline records to see if she might have been in Brasilia around the time of Juan Rivas’s murder.”
“You think she’s an accomplice?”
“Juan Rivas was a cautious man, concerned with his possessions, concerned with security. I’m still curious as to why he opened the door to his killer. If he looked through the peephole and saw a woman, that might have been all it took. He might not have regarded her as a threat.”
“Whereas if he’d seen Julio out there…”
“Exactly.”
“Surveillance on Aline?”
“Immediately. Around the clock.”
“Phone taps?”
“Home, office, and cell-and if she uses a pay phone, even once, initiate coverage on that as well. My guess is she’ll be smart enough to use prepaid cell phones, but maybe not.”
“I’ll get right on it. Where are you and Arnaldo going to be?”
“First,” Silva said, “we’re going to find out what the hell happened in Santo Andre.”
“And then?”
“We’re going to have a talk with Dudu Fonseca.”
The man on duty in Santo Andre was right where he was supposed to be, directly across the street from the jail. He was Pedro Sanches, on the job since eight that morning and as reliable as they come.
“Morning, Sanches.”
“Morning, Chief Inspector.”
“You see La Selva on the way out?”
“Sure did. He practically bit my head off. He was not happy.”
“So I heard. He tell you Sacca has been sprung?”
“He did. But I got no orders to leave, so here I am.”
“Good man. Who was on duty last night at five?”
“New kid, name of Mendes.”
“You have his home number?”
“I do.”
“He live near here?”
“Matter of fact, he does.”
Silva groaned inwardly. “Merda,” he said. “Get him over here.”
Mendes showed up ten minutes later.
He had a sunny smile on his face and a pristine band of gold on the third finger of his left hand. For Silva, the unblemished ring clinched it.
“All right, Mendes, save us both some time. How long were you away from your post?”
The smile faded; Mendes looked at his shoes. “Not long,” he said. “Not long at all.”
“How long?”
“From a little before five to almost six yesterday evening.”
“Jesus Christ!”
“My wife and I are newlyweds, Chief Inspector. You’re a married man, right? You know how it is.”
“Give me your badge, Mendes.”
“What?”
“Give me your badge, and your gun, and go home to your wife. You’re suspended.”
“Come on, Chief Inspector. It was just a little slip, could have happened to anybody. I’ll be more careful the next time. You won’t catch me slacking off again.”
Catch me.
If he hadn’t said that, Silva might have let it go with a reprimand. He hated to ruin a man’s career.
Mara Carta stuck her head into Hector’s office and said, “Aline emptied her savings account.”
“When?” Hector said.
“Yesterday afternoon, just before two o’clock. She had over twenty thousand reais saved up, and she took every centavo.”
“And Brasilia? Did she go there around the time Rivas was killed?”
Mara stepped into the room and leaned against the doorjamb.
“If she flew, she didn’t do it under her own name. Her credit card receipts show no expenditures, not in Brasilia, not anywhere along the route.”
Hector was about to ask her who’d been assigned to the surveillance team when the phone rang. It was Goncalves, calling about the murder of Abilio Sacca.
Dudu Fonseca ’S offices were on Rua Major Sertorio in Cerqueira Cesar, just across the street from Sao Paulo’s most elegant bar for meeting high-class prostitutes, a place called La Bamba.
The people in the lawyer’s wood-paneled waiting room fell into two categories: felons, and the friends or families of felons. On observation alone, it was difficult to tell the difference.
The arrival of two federal cops caused them, as might have been predicted, not a little discomfort.
Fonseca didn’t keep them waiting. Not, Silva thought, because he was particularly concerned about the delicate sensitivities of his clients, but rather because he didn’t want those clients to panic, go running off, and give their money to a rival attorney.
With some effort, because he was very fat, Fonseca rose to greet them.
“Chief Inspector Silva. And Agent Nunes. What a pleasant surprise.”
“Pleasant surprise, my ass,” Arnaldo said.
Fonseca’s smile faded. He dropped back into a chair that groaned in protest.
“I’m sorry to hurry you along, gentlemen, but you arrived without an appointment, and you’ve seen my waiting room.
What do you want?”
“Abilio Sacca,” Silva said.
“What about him?” Fonseca said.
“We want to know who paid you to get him off.”
“I have no idea.”
“Don’t trifle with me, Dudu.”
“I’m not, Chief Inspector. I can’t imagine Senhor Sacca ever becoming a regular client, so I’d be perfectly willing to tell you. If I knew. Which I don’t.”
“Explain.”
“The woman who came to see me paid cash. She gave the name Batista, but I somehow doubt she was telling the truth. She called herself Senhora, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. What she was wearing was a blond wig. It was a good wig, but it was a wig. She used dark glasses, glasses so large that they effectively concealed all features above her nose, including her eyebrows.” He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’d like to be of more use to you, I really would. But I can’t. If I were to pass her tomorrow on the street, and if she wasn’t wearing the same wig and the same glasses, I wouldn’t recognize her.”
“Maybe not, but tell me this: had you ever seen her before, blond hair, dark glasses, and all?”
“Once.”
“When?”
“This wasn’t Senhora Batista’s first visit. She had come to me a while back about another man she wanted released.”
“Joao Girotti?”
One of Fonseca’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes. Girotti. How did you know?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to confirm it was Girotti.”
“Well, indeed it was. The felon’s friend, this woman. I don’t understand it.” Fonseca shrugged. “Maybe she has a passion for bad boys.”
“Here’s another name for you, Dudu. Do you remember a woman named Arriaga? Aline Arriaga? Came to you about her son?”
“Yes, of course. Her boy had a fatal… fall. He died in police custody. Doesn’t say much for our law enforcement community, does it? The people who are supposed to be protecting us, I mean.”
“Don’t get snotty with me, Dudu. Just answer the questions. Did Senhora Arriaga look anything like this blond?”
“Senhora Arriaga is a brunette.”
“And the blond, as you pointed out, was wearing a wig. We can, therefore, surmise that her natural hair color was not blond. I ask you again, could Senhora Arriaga have been that blond?”
Fonseca shrugged. “She could have been,” he said, “but there is no way I’d swear to it. So that’s a dead end for you there, Chief Inspector.”
“How much did you charge her for springing Sacca? Something like that must have been expensive, huh? I mean, after all, they had the little punk dead to rights.”