“Where did that idea come from?”
“We were talking about Americans and photos. Sometimes I surprise myself.”
“I’ll ask Harvey Willis.”
“That friend of yours? The Miami Beach cop?”
“Uh-huh. I’ll phone him as soon as I hang up.”
Chapter Fourteen
The single chime of the doorbell was still resonating when frantic barking overpowered it.
“Who is it?”
The woman’s voice came from inside the apartment, almost a shout as she strived for audibility over the yapping.
Silva leaned in closer to the door. “Senhora Porto?”
“Yes.”
“Chief Inspector Silva, Senhora. And Agent Nunes. We called.”
“Oh, yes. Of course. Just a moment.”
“Who the hell did she think it was?” Arnaldo growled, looking at his watch. “How many other appointments is she likely to have at exactly five P.M. on a Tuesday?”
In the space of a heartbeat, he’d gone from cheerful to grumpy. They could hear her moving away from the door, calling the dogs. Apparently, there were four of them, and all four had Teutonic names.
“Little bastards,” Arnaldo said.
“Since when,” Silva said, “don’t you like dogs?”
“I like most dogs,” Arnaldo said.
“But?”
“But those dogs are dachshunds.”
“How can you tell?”
“Because my sister-in-law, Elisa, has three of them, and no other dog sounds quite like them. You hear the hysteria? The underlying threat in everything they say?”
“Say?”
“Bark.”
“Dachshunds are cute.”
“They’re cute because they have to be cute. It’s nature’s way of assuring the survival of the species. If their appearance matched their character, mankind would have exterminated them centuries ago. Believe me, those big eyes and adorable little snouts are just a defense mechanism. Inside, dachshunds are dark and twisted.”
“I’ve always liked them,” Silva said.
“That’s because you don’t know them,” Arnaldo said. “The woman has gone to lock them in another room. Good thing, too, otherwise they’d nip our heels off. You get them in a pack, they’re vicious. I’m telling you, Mario-”
The door opened. The dogs were still kicking up a fuss, but now it was coming from a distant corner of the apartment.
“Chief Inspector Silva? Agent Nunes?”
Lidia Porto was a woman in her mid-sixties wearing sensible shoes and a cardigan sweater covered with dog hair. A pair of eyeglasses dangled from a chain around her neck.
They gave her a professorial air.
“I’m Silva, Senhora. This is Nunes.”
She extended a hand to each of them in turn.
“Won’t you come in?”
She led them down the hallway into her living room. There were numerous photos strewn about. But, in the case of this grandmother, most of the photos were of dogs. Arnaldo had been right about the breed. They were dachshunds.
She had coffee waiting, and served them each a cup, speaking while she poured. “I’m sorry it took me a moment to answer the door. I thought it best to put my babies in the bedroom. Not everyone likes dogs, you know.”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?” Arnaldo said, adding sugar.
“Agent Nunes loves dogs,” Silva said, “even more than I do myself. He’s particularly fond of dachshunds.”
She put down her cup and started to get up. “Well, then,” she said, “why don’t I just-”
“Unfortunately, though,” Arnaldo said hastily, “I’ve developed a recent allergy to their hair.”
“To the hair of dachshunds?”
“Yes,” Arnaldo said with a sigh. “I think it came from cuddling them too much. I fear I’ve stroked my last dachshund.”
“You poor man,” she said and shot him a look of sympathy.
“If you don’t mind,” Silva said, putting the interview back on track, “I have a few questions.”
“Of course not. Ask away. You wanted to know about my last trip to the United States, isn’t that right?”
“Actually, no, Senhora.”
She frowned. “No?”
“I wanted to talk about your trip back home. You traveled on TAB flight 8101 on the twenty-second of November, correct?”
“Yes, it was the twenty-second of November. I didn’t remember the date when you called, but after we hung up I checked my ticket stub. I always hang on to the stubs. My husband does something with them at tax time.”
“Your husband? You’re married?”
She cocked an eyebrow at him. “When we spoke by telephone, didn’t I tell you I was in the United States visiting my daughter?”
There was nothing wrong with her memory, but somehow, Silva had imagined her to be a widow.
“Uh, still married, I meant.”
“Twenty-nine years,” she said with satisfaction. “And very happily.”
“But your husband didn’t accompany you to the States?”
She gave him a censorious look. “Someone had to stay at home and care for the babies.”
In the bedroom, the “babies” were still going ballistic.
“A kennel?” Silva suggested.
She made a dismissive gesture. “Goodness, no. People who love their animals never subject them to kennels. Isn’t that so, Agent Nunes?”
“Never,” Arnaldo agreed, draining his cup.
“Do you recall who sat next to you on the flight?” Silva said.
“He was a famous author. Shortly after we got back, someone murdered him. Is that what this is about?”
“In part,” Silva admitted. “So you sat next to Paulo Cruz?”
“I did, and I was thrilled. I’ve read all of his books. They’re so
… educational.”
“Do you recall the tenor of your conversation?”
“We didn’t talk much, I’m sorry to say. I had a thousand questions, of course. As soon as he told me who he was, I started right in. But he’d been attending some conference or other, and he was exhausted.”
“So he slept?”
“He didn’t even want dinner. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes open. He asked the stewardess for a pillow and drifted off.”
“And he slept until…”
