“If he’s an ass-licking shit called Sampaio, he did.”
“That’s him,” Arnaldo said.
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that. Who the fuck are you?”
“Agent Haraldo Goncalves, Senhor,” Arnaldo Nunes said without missing a beat. “Federal Police.”
“Two of you, huh? Two federals and”-he glanced back and forth between Vargas and Pereira-“two civils. Well, you’re not stinting on the manpower, at least. What do the Federal Police have to do with this?”
Silva formulated his answer with care: “Consideration for your position, Senhor.”
“You know what it looks like to me? It looks to me like your ass-licking boss stuck his nose into my son’s case so people would pay attention to him. He may have thought I didn’t notice him at the arrival gate, but I did. When he wasn’t fawning on one of his betters, he kept trying to stick his head into the shots so he could get on camera. When we got to the VIP lounge, away from the reporters, he button-holed me. Told me you people were going to crack this case in short order. Have you? Have you cracked the case?”
Silva looked at Pereira.
“What?” the Venezuelan said, shifting suspicious eyes from one to the other.
“No, Senhor,” Pereira said at last. “We haven’t yet cracked the case.”
“Well, what are you doing hanging around here? Get out and solve it. Leave me and my friend alone. We have grieving to do. Christ, I wish I was in Caracas where the cops know their jobs.”
Pereira flushed and opened his mouth for a sharp retort, but Silva surreptitiously stepped on his foot. “We’re finished here, Senhor,” he said. “But before we move along…” Tomas Garcia, with the mien of a dog fearing a blow, took a step away from Rivas and lowered his head between his shoulders. “… I’d like to offer you my heartfelt sympathy on the death of your son.”
“Thank you,” Rivas said stiffly, then turned his back on the four cops and led Garcia off toward the bedrooms.
“How the fuck do you do it?” Pereira whispered, when the door closed behind them.
“Do what?” Silva asked.
“Keep your patience with a blowhard like that.”
“We get a lot of practice,” Arnaldo said.
“Reminds me of that filho da puta, your boss.”
“Like I said. Practice.”
“All right, Mario,” Pereira said, “I still think you’re wrong, but I’m gonna go along for the ride. What do you expect me to do while you’re checking that database of yours?”
“Talk to the other doormen. Find out when Rivas came home for the last time. Find out if he was alone. Find out if he had any visitors. Continue looking for the murder weapon. Believe me, Walter, you have nothing to lose by playing it this way. You might even uncover something that will strengthen your case against Garcia.”
“Or absolve him completely,” Arnaldo said.
Pereira stuck out his jaw. “Somebody teach a course in ballbusting at that federal police academy of yours, Nunes?”
“You’re looking at him,” Arnaldo said, exuding false modesty.
“Gustavo Fernandez,” Silva said, thinking aloud, “is a Cuban exile, probably an American citizen now. Either way, he would have needed a visa, which means we’ll have a record of his address in Miami. I can get a friend, an American cop, to do a background check.”
“For all the good that’s going to do,” Pereira said.
“Stop being so damned negative, Walter. We may just come up with something.”
“When pigs fly,” Pereira said.
Chapter Seven
Another day, another murder. It was very early in the morning. The sun was just coming up. Pereira was standing near the body, making notes, when a young patrolman touched him on the shoulder.
“A telephone call, Senhor, patched through on the radio.”
“Who is it?”
“Chief Inspector Silva, Federal Police.”
Pereira went to his car and grabbed the microphone. “It’s not a good time, Mario. I’m busy.”
There was a crash of static, then Silva’s voice. “This will only take a minute. Can you hear me okay?”
“I can. So can half the cops in Brasilia.”
“I’m aware of that. You recall your remark about airborne pigs?”
Pereira thought for a moment, and then said, “Yeah. What about it?”
“I’ve found others in the database.”
“Others? As in more than one?”
“Four. All with the same characteristics.”
“Four? Jesus Christ! Where are you?”
“In my office.”
“I’ll come to you. Give me half an hour.”
“Ask for Arnaldo.”
Pereira groaned. “Not Nunes again! What a crummy day this is turning out to be.”
Arnaldo met Pereira in the reception area at Federal Police headquarters and led him to a windowless conference room. The furnishings consisted of a round wooden table, four chairs, and nothing else. There was a hole in the ceiling where some kind of repair had taken place to the pipes or conduits. A notebook computer was plugged into a socket halfway up one of the walls. The only other objects on the table were an overloaded ashtray and a pad of paper with a few notes. The stench of ten thousand dead cigarettes hung in the air.
“Christ,” Pereira said, “what a dump.”
“This is the VIP room,” Arnaldo said. “You should see the new one.”
“Worse than this?”
“It will be. The coffee staining of the carpet and the filling of the ashtrays are scheduled for tomorrow.”
“Why aren’t we meeting in your office, Mario?”
“Security reasons.”
“Hiding from your boss?”
“Exactly.”
“So you’re still keeping him in the dark?”
“If Sampaio was a portobello,” Arnaldo said, “he’d be the size of this table.”
“Have a look at this,” Silva said. He moved the mouse, and the computer’s screen came to life. It showed the image of a horribly mutilated corpse.
“Jonas Palhares,” Silva said, “petroleum engineer, thirty-four years old, divorced, no children, lived alone.”
“Lived where?”
“Rio de Janeiro.”
Silva clicked the mouse. The next photo was also of Palhares, taken from a slightly different angle.
“When did it happen?” Pereira said.
“About two weeks before Christmas.”
“Suspects?”
“One. His girlfriend, Chantal Pires.”
“You sound like you doubt it.”
“I do.”
“Why?”
Silva pointed at the screen. “Look at him. Women are into poison and pistols; they don’t do things like that.”
“Depends on the woman.”
