have records. If she left during the night, call me. I want to talk to her personally. Tell her she can expect a visit in about an hour.”
He flipped his phone closed and said to Silva, “Dias. Calling from Mansur’s house. I’m going out there.”
“Why? What happened?”
“Dias is prepared for the usual tears and hysteria. He puts one hand on the package of paper handkerchiefs he keeps in his pocket, keeps the other hand ready to break her fall in case she faints. Then he hits her with the news. She looks at him for a couple of seconds and then, instead of turning on the waterworks, all she says is, ‘Where did they find the bastard?’”
“Hard,” Silva said.
“Harder, even, than my mother-in-law,” Prado agreed. “Want to come along?”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Where the waitress from the windmill had told them to expect a road, they found a rutted track, half-hidden behind a stand of bamboo.
“You think?” Arnaldo said.
“Take it,” Samantha said. “We can always come back.”
They bounced along through potholes, coating the car with red dust. Farther on, a sprinkler system was irrigating green shoots. Drops peppered the windshield. Arnaldo switched on the wipers and caught his first glimpse of the house through streaks of red mud.
No faux-Dutch architecture here. The place looked like most other farmhouses in the state, whitewashed walls surmounted by a roof of red tiles. The windows and doors were trimmed in blue.
Arnaldo parked between a tractor and a dusty pickup truck.
“Somebody’s coming,” Samantha said.
Arnaldo turned his head and saw a man emerging from a little outbuilding. He was tall, in his late fifties or maybe early sixties. When he saw them looking toward him, he doffed his broad-brimmed hat in a curiously old- fashioned gesture. His smile of welcome showed good teeth.
Samantha rolled down the window.
“We’re looking for Hans Kloppers,” she said.
“That’s me.” Kloppers clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Like to have a cup of coffee before we get started?”
“We’re not the people you think we are,” Samantha said.
The smile faded.
“You’re not the brokers from Sao Paulo?”
“Federal Police,” Arnaldo said, taking charge. “I’m Agent Nunes. I spoke to you on the phone. This is Delegada Assad, who is going to leave all the questions to me.”
Samantha glared at him. Kloppers simply looked glum.
“What do you want?” he said.
“For starters,” Arnaldo said, “I want that cup of coffee you just offered.”
“Follow me,” Kloppers said, no longer making an effort to be cordial.
Inside, he called out something in Dutch. A woman answered and fluttered into the living room. She looked at Arnaldo and Samantha with big eyes.
“My wife,” Hans said. “Greetje.” And to her he said, “They’ll have coffee.”
Arnaldo was struck by the multitude of family photos. They were on the piano, on the television set, on both of the bookshelves, on the end tables flanking the couch, on the walls; they were everywhere.
“Why are you here?” Kloppers said.
Apparently, they’d come to the end of the social chitchat.
“Let’s wait for the coffee-and your wife.”
Silence fell, punctuated only by the regular ticking of a mantelpiece clock. Liars, Arnaldo had often observed, became uncomfortable with silence. Over the course of the next few minutes, Kloppers didn’t stop fidgeting, cleared his throat at least five times, and assiduously avoided Arnaldo’s eyes.
Greetje Kloppers came back with a tray and served them very decent coffee, the rich odor of which filled the room. Arnaldo took an appreciative sip and zeroed in on one photo in particular.
“Nice-looking boy,” he said. “Is that him? Is that Jan?”
“Yes,” Kloppers said, and swallowed. “Yes, that’s our grandson.”
“Uh-huh,” Arnaldo said. “And that’s another picture of him. And so’s that one over there. The man with his hand on Jan’s shoulder, that’s your son, Marnix?”
“Marnix, yes.”
“And there, and there, and there too.”
Kloppers let Arnaldo’s words hang in the air. The silence continued until Greetje broke it.
“If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’ve errands to run.” She stood up. “You don’t need me. Hans can answer for us both.”
Samantha started shaking her head from side to side.
“Nice to have met you, Senhora Kloppers,” Arnaldo said. “Have a good day.”
Greetje picked up a purse from a side table and left the room.
Arnaldo waited for an exasperated snort from Samantha, reveled in it, and turned back to Hans. This time, he put an edge in his voice. “How stupid do you think I am, Senhor Kloppers? Do you expect me to believe that a man who has as many pictures of his son, and grandson, as you do has no idea of their whereabouts?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Like hell it is! Where are they?”
“I told you. I told you on the telephone. They went to the United States.”
“You know what you’re doing, Senhor Kloppers? You’re obstructing justice. There are penalties for obstructing justice.”
“I’m not-”
“How about you take me on a tour of the house?”
“What?” Kloppers gaped like a fish.
“A tour. Of your house. I want to have a look in the bedrooms.”
“No.”
“Why not? You have something to hide?”
“No. I simply don’t want you poking around my home.
Now I think it’s time for you to leave.”
He stood up and pointed at the front door.
Arnaldo, without a search warrant, had no other choice but to stand up and walk through it.
“What now, wiseass?” Samantha said when they were off the rutted dirt track and back onto the tarmac.
“I’m thinking,” Arnaldo said.
“Thinking? Is that what you call it? Don’t make me laugh. Hey, goddamn it, what are you doing?”
Arnaldo had stepped heavily on the brakes. Now he was pulling onto the shoulder of the road.
“Look at that,” he said as they came to a stop.
“Kids kicking a ball around,” Samantha said. “So what?”
“Towns of this size, how many teams have they got? My guess is one. Those kids are all about Jan’s age. Go and talk to them.”
Samantha stood on the sidelines for a while, long enough for them to get used to her, and then sidled over to the bench. A minute later, she was talking to one of the kids, a boy of nine, maybe ten, with red hair and freckles. At a given point, he turned around and pointed.
A minute after that, Samantha was back at the car.
“Drive,” she said. She couldn’t keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’ll tell you where to turn.”
