“Sure you were,” Silva said.
“You don’t have to take that tone with me, Chief Inspector. I’m not a criminal. You may disapprove of my lifestyle, but what I do isn’t illegal, and I’d never, ever hurt anyone.”
Moura was indignant, and if he wasn’t sincere, he was a damned good actor.
Chapter Thirty-Two
When the video disc arrived from Miami, Goncalves was at Guarulhos airport waiting for it. It was almost two in the morning by then, but Mainardi and Caetano were there, too, working the midnight to eight shift. By two thirty, they were all huddled in front of a television screen.
“Nope,” Mainardi said, after the first group of passengers filed by the camera.
“I backed it up to the previous flight,” Goncalves said. A new group of travelers started passing in review. “This is it. Pay attention.”
Half a minute later, Mainardi sat bolt upright in his chair.
Goncalves reacted by freezing the image.
Caetano put his finger on the screen, pointing out a man with a brown birthmark on his cheek. “Motta,” he said.
The image was sharp and clear, ideal for lifting a photo. Goncalves made a note of the timecode so he could locate it again with ease. “All right,” he said, “now let’s find the priest.”
Silva, anxious to see the video, got up at six in the morning. By seven, he was at the Sao Paulo field office, where a yawning Goncalves was waiting for him.
“You look like you could use some sleep.”
“I’ll get my second wind any time now,” Goncalves said.
Silva believed it. Goncalves, he knew, could spend an entire night clubbing and put in a full day thereafter.
“Ah, youth,” he said.
“Practice too,” Goncalves said.
Silva rubbed his hands in anticipation. “All right,” he said, “let’s get to it. Who’s first?”
“Motta.”
“Play it.”
Goncalves did, freezing the image as he’d done with the Customs agents.
“I had time before you got in,” he said, “so I lifted the best frame. No hits on the database.”
“Damn. You put it in circulation?”
Goncalves nodded. “Every border control point, every field office, and every delegacia.”
“Good. Who’s next?”
“The kid.” He unfroze the image. They watched in silence for a while, then: “There. That’s him.”
“Doesn’t look nervous at all,” Silva said. “Why did they pick on him?”
“One of them took a dislike to him,” Goncalves said.
“Just that? No good reason at all?”
“No good reason at all.”
Silva ran a hand through his hair. “Canalhas,” he said. “Where’s the priest?”
“Coming up. I didn’t bother with the timecodes. All the business-class people boarded together. It’s just as fast to let it run.”
They went through an eerie parade of the dead: Juan Rivas, Professor Paulo Cruz, Victor Neves, Jonas Palhares, Luis Mansur, and then…
“Clancy,” Goncalves said.
The priest was a handsome man, young, with an open face, dressed entirely in black. A sweater was draped over his shoulders; a small valise was clutched in his right hand.
“You give him the same treatment?” Silva asked.
“Same treatment. The e-mails went out about two hours ago.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed,” Silva said.
They got lucky.
The first call came in at three minutes past nine and by then Hector was there to take it. The call was from a delegado in Santo Andre, a satellite town southeast of the capital.
“You one of the guys who’s looking for Abilio Sacca?”
“Who?” Hector said.
“You got him tagged as Darcy Motta, but that’s wrong. His name is Abilio Sacca. I got a rap sheet on him as long as my arm. Better yet, I got his ass in a cell. All you gotta do is come over here and pick him up.”
“Where are you?”
“Got something to write with?”
“Go ahead.”
“Avenida Duque de Caxias, 384, in Santo Andre. It’s a gray building. You’ll be able to park right in front. Ask for me. In case you didn’t get it the first time, the name’s Carillo, with two l’s. I’m the delegado titular.”
“With two l’s. Got it. I really appreciate the call, Delegado.”
“Don’t mention it. You have something on him you can make stick? I got enough problems in this district without Abilio Sacca running around loose.”
Fifteen minutes later another call came in. This one was routed to Goncalves.
“Agent Goncalves? Ricardo Vasco speaking. I’m the day manager at the Hotel Gloria. You dropped by a while back-”
“Yes, Senhor Vasco. I remember you.”
“The guest you asked about? Dennis Clancy?”
“Yes?”
“He’s back. He and his wife just checked in.”
“His wife? Clancy is a priest!”
“Yes, I know. Distressing, isn’t it? I regret to say it happens quite often.”
“Tell your people to stay away from the room. Where will I find you?”
“At the reception desk.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Goncalves hung up and dialed Hector’s extension. Silva answered.
“Don’t go alone,” Silva said when Goncalves finished talking.
“You don’t want to be in on the bust?”
“Hector and I have a line on Darcy Motta. We’re going to Santo Andre. Take Arnaldo and bring in the priest.”
In the days when the Avenida Ipiranga was the jewel of Sao Paulo’s thoroughfares, the Hotel Gloria was the jewel of the Avenida Ipiranga.
But those days were long gone.
The lobby still boasted silver-plated chandeliers and faux-Aubusson carpeting, but brass had begun to shine through the silver and the carpeting had worn thin.
The Gloria’s restaurant had never managed to find quite the right chef or maitre. It had closed for renovation in the late eighties. More than two decades later, it was still closed, and the renovation was no further along than the sign on the door. Management put up a new one every six months (sooner if someone swiped it), to sustain the illusion of a future reopening.
All the rooms in the Gloria were, with one exception, small. Smaller, certainly, than they should have been in a hotel that charged the prices the Gloria did. The exception was the private suite designed for the owner’s personal use. That particular accommodation occupied the entire top floor of the hotel and featured an open-air terrace as big as a parking lot. Their first look at that terrace never failed to engender squeals of delight from the impressionable young ladies the owner had been fond of entertaining there. And that, of course, had been the
