“Ana only called me five minutes-”
“Five minutes is five minutes. Sit down. You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
Sampaio could have been displeased about any number of things, past and present. Saying anything at all would have been unwise. Silva took the indicated seat in silence.
“You knew,” Sampaio said, pointing an accusing finger at his chief inspector’s face, “that Tomas Garcia was a pederast.”
“I knew nothing of the kind, Senhor.”
“What?”
“A pederast, Director, is a man who has sex with boys. Juan Rivas was not a boy. I recall you telling me that he was thirty-two years old. That was on the day when you assigned me to the case. I called him a ‘kid,’ and you-”
Sampaio held up a hand. “I want a straight answer. Did you, or did you not, know that Tomas Garcia was buggering Juan Rivas?”
“I’m not sure who was buggering who, Senhor.”
“Stop that! Stop splitting hairs. Do you deny you were aware of what was going on between Tomas Garcia and Juan Rivas? Do you deny you were aware of their sexual relations?
Answer yes or no!”
“No, Senhor.”
“Aha! And you saw fit to conceal that information from me?”
“I didn’t consider it relevant, Senhor. Many times, you’ve asked me not to burden you with details.”
“You didn’t consider it relevant? You didn’t consider it relevant? ”
“No, Senhor.”
“All right, Chief Inspector. I’m listening. I want you to tell me why you didn’t consider it relevant. But before you do, I want to give you a small inkling of the trouble you’ve put me through.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it! Haven’t you got anything else to say other than yes, Senhor and no, Senhor?”
“If you’d only tell me-”
“Last night, Chief Inspector, those two old pals, Jorge Rivas and Tomas Garcia got good and drunk together.”
“Last night? Rivas is still here?”
“He’s still here. He stayed on for talks with the president and the foreign minister. Stop interrupting.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“And stop that, I already told you to stop that. Now, while in his cups, Garcia admitted to Juan’s old man that he’d been fucking his son- fucking the foreign minister of Venezuela’s son, which was news to the Foreign Minister of Venezuela, and was news to me, and was news to the minister of justice and was news to the president of this republic-but wasn’t news to you because you already knew all about it. Garcia said so just before Rivas punched him.”
“Yes… I mean, as you say, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it, I told you to stop that. After Senhor Rivas finished giving Senhor Garcia a few well-earned punches in the face and kicks in the groin, Garcia went on to admit that Juan had ditched him for somebody younger. That’s grounds for murder right there. So what do you suppose Jorge Rivas did then?”
“I don’t-”
“He picked up the goddamned telephone and called the foreign minister, that’s what!”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, he damned well did. And who do you think the foreign minister called? The president. That’s who! And who do you think the president called?”
“The minister of justice?”
“Exactly! And who do you think the minister of justice called?”
“You?”
“You’re goddamned right it was me! And his question to me, and my question to you, is: why haven’t you arrested the filho da puta? ”
“Because he didn’t do it, Senhor.”
“And just because he didn’t do-” The significance of Silva’s words suddenly sunk in, bringing Sampaio up short. “What did you say?”
“He didn’t do it.”
“What makes you think he didn’t do it?”
Silva rubbed his chin, wondering if the time had finally come to brief Sampaio on their progress. He decided it had. “We’re sure,” he said, “because we quickly discovered that similar murders preceded the death of Juan Rivas, murders that were committed with the same MO. An MO, short for modus operandi, is a criminal’s characteristic pattern-”
“I know what a goddamned MO is! Get to the point.”
“The victims were all shot in the abdomen and then violently beaten to death with a blunt instrument.”
“The same gun?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the instrument?”
“We don’t know. The killer takes it with him.”
“And why can’t the killer be Garcia?”
“One of the murders was in Brodowski. That’s a small town near-”
“I know where Brodowski is. It’s Pignatari’s birthplace. What do you think I am, some kind of goddamned philistine?”
“The painter’s name was Portinari, Senhor.”
“Stop beating around the bush, goddamn it, and get to the point.”
“The other murders were in Sao Paulo, Rio, and Campinas. We’ve interviewed the doormen at Garcia’s building and we’ve spoken to people in his office. Various witnesses are willing to swear that Garcia was here, in Brasilia, when those four killings took place.”
“Damn. Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before?”
“As I said, Senhor, I didn’t want to burden you with details.”
The director sat back in his chair. “I want a full report,” he said, “and I want it right now. What else is going on?”
Silva told him about their discovery of the passenger list; the murder of Bruna Nascimento, the flight attendant; the death of the thug, Joao Girotti.
“What’s the significance of other victims having shared that cabin with Rivas?” Sampaio asked.
“We don’t yet know.”
“And Girotti? What’s he got to do with it?”
“We don’t know that either. It’s part of the puzzle. Bear with me. There’s more to tell.”
“Out with it.”
Silva told him about the death of Julio Arriaga, Junior; about the boy’s father, his background as a soldier, his short temper, the fact that he might own a silenced pistol, the fact that he’d gone missing, the fact that his ex-wife had lied about their still being married.
“Why are you wasting my time?” Sampaio said when he was done.
“Wasting your time, Senhor?”
“What do the kid and his father have to do with the murder of Juan Rivas? Not a damned thing, as far as I can see.”
“Maybe not, Senhor.”
“No maybes about it. Who else have you got?”
“We’re looking at four other people.”
“Who are they?”
“Other passengers who traveled in the business-class cabin. Their names are Luis Mansur, Marnix Kloppers, Dennis Clancy, and Darcy Motta.”
