“You’re telling me. Who the hell would be crazy enough to go to Manaus on vacation?”
“Lots of people. There’s the river, the jungle, the duty-free zone, the old opera house-”
“Dengue, malaria, yellow fever, bad food-”
“I think it might help,” Silva said, breaking in on this litany, “if you had photos of the killers in the other snuff films. I’ll send them by courier to the Plaza.”
“Tropical.”
“Plaza. We already sent the cops in Manaus a photo of the guy who killed Andrea. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll light a fire under them.”
“Speak up,” Arnaldo said. “I can’t hear you.”
Silva spoke up, but it didn’t do any good. The line was dead.
Later, but before Silva got around to any fire-lighting, he spotted an E-mail in his inbox:
Subject: Photo and request for information
Your photo matches Damiao Rodrigues, RG 146324682, seven arrests, two convictions. No pending warrants in this city or State.
Please advise if you want us to find and hold.
The E-mail was signed by Bento Rosario, a clerk in the Manaus Police Department. Immediately after reading it, Silva called Arnaldo. But cell phones in the north were even more unreliable than they were in Brasilia. He succeeded only in leaving a voicemail message.
The following morning, Arnaldo called from Manaus, the self-styled Capital of the Amazon.
“You’re not going to believe this,” he said.
“What?”
“Bento Rosario, the guy you-”
“I remember who he is. What about him?”
“They’re telling me he doesn’t work there anymore.”
“He doesn’t-”
“They said he quit.”
“ Who said he quit?”
“I just got off the phone with his supervisor. I also asked him about that felon, Damiao Whats-his-name’s rap sheet.” “Rodrigues. Damiao Rodrigues. And?”
“There isn’t any rap sheet.”
“I don’t believe it,” Silva said.
“I told you you wouldn’t,” Arnaldo said. “When I… uh, expressed a similar sentiment, the filho da puta hung up on me.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Silva said.
“Probably. Try me.”
“Soon after Bento shoots us his E-mail,” Silva said, “someone above him in the hierarchy gets wind of what he’s done. This someone has reason, probably financial, to keep the law off of Damiao’s back. This someone hides, or destroys, Damiao’s rap sheet, sees that Bento goes off on a little vacation, and puts out the word that he’s moved on to greener pastures.”
“That’s how I figure it,” Arnaldo said.
“Did those photos arrive?”
“Yeah, but you sent them to the Plaza by mistake. I had to go over there and pick them up.”
“Because you’re staying at the Tropical?”
“Sure,” Arnaldo said, innocently. “Isn’t that what we agreed?”
This time the silence lasted longer. Finally, Silva said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: give me two hours, then go to the headquarters of the Manaus PD. By that time, the chief should be expecting you. I’m going to have the director call the governor of the state of Amazonas, or the mayor of the city of Manaus, or whoever it takes to shake those people up. You go in there and demand personal access to their archives. If they don’t cooperate, call me immediately.”
“Who are you going to tell what?”
“The director gets the truth about the clerk and Rodrigues’s file. That will be enough to convince him we can’t trust the people at the Manaus PD. I’ll suggest he tells whoever he calls that it’s a confidential matter of national security. He doesn’t tell them about snuff videos, he doesn’t tell them about Andrea, or Marta, he doesn’t tell them squat.”
“You think people are gonna buy into that national security stuff?”
“Who cares? They don’t have to believe it. They just have to act as if they do.”
“I love it when you’re angry.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. And don’t think for a minute you’ve heard the last of this business about the Hotel Tropical.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Chief of Manaus’s Civil Police was a florid man of slightly above average height and greatly above average weight. When Arnaldo was ushered into his office, his gray uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves.
“Damned air-conditioning is on the fritz again,” he said with an accent that marked him as a carioca, a native of Rio de Janeiro. Rings of sweat stained the area under his arms. He was using a handkerchief to blot his forehead. He stopped blotting long enough to stand up, extend a sweaty palm across his desk and offer his hand.
“Ivan Pinto,” he said.
“Arnaldo Nunes.”
“I used to think Rio was hot, but it’s got nothing on this place. I’ve been here almost five years, and I’m still not used to it. I ran a delegacia back home, and this was a step up, but I sometimes ask myself what I’m doing here.”
Arnaldo studied the cop’s ample waistline, watching the lethargic way he was patting his forehead. Probably as little as possible, Arnaldo thought. Cariocas were not famous for their industry.
“Have a seat,” Pinto said, sinking back into a chair that protested under the strain.
The chief’s gun belt was draped over one of the chairs in front of his desk. Arnaldo took the other one.
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.
“You come well recommended,” Pinto said, but there was an underlying tone of resentment in his voice. “So, what can I do for you?”
“Bento Rosario.”
“Who?”
“Bento Rosario, a clerk who works in your archives. I want to talk to him.”
The chief seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head.
“Never heard of him,” he said. “I seldom go down there myself. Too much dust. It makes my eyes water and my nose run. If you want, I’ll get Alberto Coimbra in here. Alberto’s the man in charge of the archives.”
Arnaldo wanted.
They made small talk about the town and the river while they waited for Coimbra, who showed up shortly. He was stoop-shouldered, wore wire-rim glasses with thick lenses, and reminded Arnaldo of a ferret.
The chief made the introductions and asked about Rosario.
“Doesn’t work here anymore,” Coimbra said.
He sounded like a mouse might have sounded if a mouse could talk. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Arnaldo recognized the voice.
“You’re the guy I talked to on the telephone,” he said.
“Yes, I am,” Coimbra squeaked, “and I told you the same thing then I’m telling you now. Rosario doesn’t work here any more.”
“Yeah,” Arnaldo said, “and you didn’t hang up on me, either.”
