“And when you find them?”
“Depending on the way they dealt with their daughter’s homosexuality, they may have maintained contact with her and might have something to contribute.”
“All right. What else?”
“We have some enhanced frame blowups of the man who killed Andrea. Someone who casually strangles a woman, then cuts off her head with an ax, probably has a record of previous offenses. We’ll go through the archives, try to match the blowups with mug shots.”
“How long is that likely to take?”
“There’s no central database. We’ll have to check municipal and state police files as well as our own. Many of the local databases aren’t computerized, particularly in the Northeast where Andrea came from.”
“I don’t want a lecture; I just want a simple answer to my question. How long?”
“A couple of weeks, minimum.”
“Anything else you can do in the meantime? How about broadening the search, trying to identify the other thirteen victims?”
“The more we ask local police departments to do, the more time it’s going to take them to get back to us.”
“And time,” the director said, “is something we’re running out of.”
“Exactly,” Silva said.
When Andrea de Castro applied for her national identity card, she’d lived on the Avenida Boa Viagem in Recife. The telephone number still existed and was still listed to Otavio de Castro, her father.
When Silva called, a woman answered. As soon as he told her he was a cop, she started asking if he had news about her daughter. He told her he didn’t, that he was a federal, new to the case.
She asked why the federal police were now involved.
Silva lied. “If your daughter was kidnapped, and taken across a state line, then it’s a federal offense.”
“Of course,” she said. “How stupid of me. Well, I’ll be grateful for anything you can do. This is so unlike Andrea. Frankly, I’m scared to death.”
“I’ll send an agent,” Silva said. “His name is Arnaldo Nunes. He’s going to want to speak to your husband as well.”
“Of course. Today? Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow. He’ll fly up from Brasilia.”
“My husband normally gets home at seven, but I can ask him to be here earlier.”
“No need, Senhora. Seven will be fine.”
Silva summoned Arnaldo.
“I spoke to the mother of Andrea de Castro. You’ve got a meeting with her and her husband tomorrow evening at seven, in Recife.”
“Jesus Christ, why do you always save the best stuff for me? What am I supposed to tell them?”
“As little as possible. Just pump them for information.”
“Sometimes I hate this job.”
“The only thing we can do for them is to track down the people who did it.”
“And what a comfort that will be.”
“Not much, I know. But if it was your daughter-”
“I’d want the bastards to pay. All right, what about the cops in Recife? You want me to talk to them?”
“I do. I’ll call the chief up there, tell him you’re coming. Handle him with kid gloves. He’s related to the mayor, and the mayor is a buddy of the deputado.”
“That’s one of the things I love about the North. All of those people who manage to get where they are on their own merits. It restores my faith in democracy.”
“I’ll try for a noon meeting at the delegacia central. The chief’s name is Venantius, Norberto Venantius. If he can’t see you at noon, or if he wants to meet somewhere else, I’ll call you on your cell phone. Here.”
“What’s this?” Arnaldo said, taking the paper that Silva was offering him.
“The de Castros’ address.”
Arnaldo glanced at it and let out a low whistle. “Avenida da Boa Viagem,” he said. “Looks like they’re well off.”
“They might have been,” Silva said, “but not any more.”
Avenida Da Boa Viagem is the toniest address in all of Recife. One side of the broad thoroughfare is lined with expensive high-rise condos and hotels. Across the street, beyond the beach, white foam breaks over a recife, a reef that gave the city its name.
The de Castros’ ample terrace, where they received Arnaldo, was high up and had a view of the beach.
“I thought we’d sit out here,” Otavio de Castro said, coming forward and offering a hand. “I don’t know if you’re a smoker…”
He was in his midfifties, with brown eyes set into deep sockets of grayish skin. He looked like he hadn’t slept for a week. “I gave it up,” Arnaldo said.
“Me too,” de Castro said, forcing a smile. “Four times. I’m Otavio. This is my wife, Raquel.”
Raquel looked younger than he did. She was too thin, almost gaunt.
“Why don’t you take that one?” She pointed to one of four metal chairs encircling a table with a glass top. “Can I offer you some refreshment, Agente? Nunes, isn’t it?”
Arnaldo sat. “Yes,” he said, “Nunes. No, nothing, thanks. I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Well, maybe a glass of lemonade.”
She must have had some prepared. She returned with a sweating glass and perched on a chair opposite Arnaldo. Her husband, on his feet until then, took one of the remaining two places, pulled it against his wife’s and settled so close to her that their thighs touched.
“How can we help?” she asked, coming abruptly to the point. It wasn’t strictly polite by Brazilian standards, but Arnaldo forgave her for it.
“Why don’t we start,” he said, watching her carefully to see how she’d react, “by talking about Andrea’s relationship with Marta Malan? You’re aware of the fact that she, too, is missing?”
“Yes.”
She glanced at her husband then back to Arnaldo. “What do you want to know?” she said.
“Marta’s grandfather, the deputado, told us they’re lovers.”
Raquel didn’t flinch, didn’t seem taken aback, simply nodded.
“The deputado doesn’t approve,” Arnaldo said.
“Neither do we,” Otavio said.
“But not for the reasons you might expect,” his wife added hastily. “It’s not that we don’t accept Andrea’s sexual preference, it’s just we… well… it was a bit of a disappointment, at first, knowing she’d never give us grandchildren. She’s our only child, you see.” She crossed her arms and hugged herself, as if she was fighting a chill. Her husband put an arm around her. She rested her head on his shoulder.
Arnaldo made silence his ally. Down below, a wave broke and surf hissed over the sand. After an interval, she went on. “All we want, Agente, is for our daughter to be happy. Almost-let me see, how long has it been?-six years ago, when she started having doubts about her sexuality, she came to me right away. I reassured her, told her it was nothing to be ashamed of. Some people are just born that way.”
She sought Arnaldo’s eyes, looking for a sign of disapproval.
She didn’t find one.
“We’ve always been honest with each other,” she said. “I wanted to keep it that way. Oh, I suppose she must have her little secrets, but she’s open with us about the big things in her life.”
Arnaldo thought of his sons, how secretive they’d become since entering adolescence. He almost told Raquel de Castro she was lucky, but the words stuck in his throat. He took a sip of his lemonade. It was delicious, just the right combination of tart and sweet, but he found he had to force it down.
“You knew about, and accepted, her… sexual preference, and yet you disapproved of her relationship with Marta Malan?”
“Because of Marta’s age, Agente. Marta is three years younger than Andrea, sometimes four, depending on
