“Warn the surviving passengers.”
“I suppose it didn’t escape you that one of them might be the killer?”
“It certainly did not.”
“Who are they?”
“There are seven of them, one female. They’re all Brazilians, except for one of the males.”
“And he is…”
“An American, Dennis Clancy. There’s an ‘FR’ in front of his name.”
“A priest?”
“Either that or a misspelling. There’s a ‘DR’ in front of Cruz’s. Maybe they typed an F instead of a D.”
“And the others?”
“The woman was Lidia Porto. The men were Julio Arriaga, dependent of an airline employee, probably a kid.”
“Airline employee? TAB headquarters is here in Sao Paulo. Want me to handle that?”
“Would you? His mother’s name is Aline Arriaga. She’s the employee.”
“Got it.”
“Next, Kloppers, Marnix and Jan, father and son. Jan is the son, described here as a minor.”
“Kloppers? What kind of name is that?”
“No idea. The last two are Luis Mansur and Darcy Motta.”
“Names and nationalities, that’s all we’ve got to work with?”
“At the moment, yes.”
“There are going to be Mansurs, Portos, and Mottas galore.”
“Put Mara on it. Tell her to get into the national identity card database and start sifting. Meanwhile, I’ll see what I can find out about the American.”
Silva’s next call was to the immigration section. He spoke to a clerk who said his name was Cizik.
“Cizik?”
“My old man was a Czech, Chief Inspector. How can I be of assistance?”
Silva explained what he wanted. Cizik told him everything was computerized. It would only take a moment.
A couple of minutes later, he was back on the line. “I’ve got copies of Clancy’s visa application and entry card. First name, Dennis? Occupation, priest?”
“That’s him.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm, what?”
“Unusual case. It appears Father Clancy is still in Brazil.”
“And that’s unusual?”
“He’s been here for almost three months. Most gringos stay for three weeks or less. The few who stick around generally come in on another kind of visa.”
“Such as?”
“Study or work.”
“Could he have left? Could it be a computer glitch?”
“It’s possible, wouldn’t be the first time. But frankly…”
“Yes?”
“It’s not likely. He listed a hotel in Sao Paulo. Want me to call them?”
“I do.”
“Give me twenty minutes.”
Cizik was better than his word. Silva’s phone rang in less than ten.
“It checked out. He stayed at the Hotel Gloria on Avenida Ipiranga, in Sao Paulo. But it was only for one night.”
“The Hotel Gloria? Why do I-”
“Bobo, Chief Inspector. He used to live there.”
“Bobo, the TV star. Of course. I’ll get a man over there. Who did you talk to?”
“The manager, a fellow by the name of Vasco.”
“I appreciate your assistance, Cizik. Now listen. It’s very important we find this man Clancy.”
“Because?”
“Because if we don’t, and soon, he’s liable to kill someone, or someone’s liable to kill him. How about you check the passenger lists for domestic airlines?”
“Sure. Glad to help.”
“Did Clancy pay the hotel with a credit card?”
“He did, and we have the number. But it’s an American card. I’ve had dealings with those people, Chief Inspector, and they’re a pain in the ass. The Americans are too damned afraid they’re gonna get sued. They don’t cough up anything without legal paper.”
“I have a friend who’s a cop in Miami Beach. You think he can help?”
“Don’t waste his time. They won’t give it to him either. We’ll get you the information eventually, but we’re gonna have to go through channels.”
“And how long is that likely to take?”
“At least a week, probably more. It’s not like we’re at the top of any of their priority lists.”
Silva told Cizik to do it anyway, thanked him, and placed another call to his nephew.
“The Gloria?” Hector said. “Isn’t that the place where Bobo-”
“It is. Listen, I’ve been thinking about that flight. Something else occurred to me.”
“What?”
“We should consider the flight crew as well. Find out who worked the business-class cabin.” * Dependent of Aline Arriaga, TAB employee #13679, traveling on standby. ** Minor child accompanied by parent.
Chapter Twelve
Bruna Nascimento and Lina Godoy breezed through immigration and followed the rest of the crew to the waiting van. A ten-minute drive brought them to the Caesar Park Hotel. The rising sun was painting the building with gold as they maneuvered their small suitcases through the revolving door and into the marble-floored lobby.
They checked in, sent their luggage upstairs, and then, as they often did after a long flight, the two young flight attendants went to the coffee shop.
Forty-five minutes later, they were on their second pot of hot chocolate and trying to get rid of Horacio Leao. Leao, their copilot, was handsome, single, and on a fast track to captain. He was also vain, shallow, and a crushing bore. His interests, as far as Bruna could determine, were limited to airplanes and sex. Horacio had been trying to get Bruna or Lina into bed for some time, and he’d made it abundantly clear that he’d be equally happy to score with either one.
“I’m just below the penthouse,” he was saying. “You can’t believe the view from up there. It’s almost as good as the one I get from the cockpit.”
Bruna toyed with her spoon and glanced out of the window at an A320 on its final approach. Lina looked at the tablecloth.
“So, how about it?” Leao looked from one woman to the other.
“One of you ladies want to have a look? I’ll get the check.”
He turned to signal the waiter; Bruna and Lina exchanged a what-an-idiot glance.
“We have some girl things to talk about,” Bruna said as Leao scribbled his name on the check. “What’s your room number?”
Leao furrowed his brow. She could practically see him decide to be hopeful.
“1607,” he said.
