“Yesterday, after you left, Ricco and the boys had a sales meeting. I was excluded. After the meeting, they all went over to the Blue Goose Saloon—to talk about the break-in, probably—leaving me to cover the showroom myself for the last hour of the day.”
“And?”
“Old Ricco had gotten something out of his safe for the meeting and didn’t shut it properly. Left it open just a crack. So I went in there—I just couldn’t pass up the opportunity—and inside I found an envelope of cash, something like ten grand, with a note on it to a guy named Lenny Otero. Attached was a report from this guy Otero, all written in longhand, which detailed his expenses and fees for a certain ‘project’ he had recently completed.”
“What project?”
“Framing Jack Swanson for bank robbery.”
“It
“Son of a gun!” said Jack, leaping from his chair and smacking his fist in his palm.
“Who’s that, your dad?” said Foote.
“Yeah. I’ve got the phone on speaker.”
“Good. Anyway, it doesn’t just come out and say it like that—not in so many words, of course. The report is written in a kind of oblique way, not naming names or anything, but when you read the whole note it’s as clear as day. Otero even asks Ricco at the end to burn the report. This is a smoking gun—no mistake about it.”
“That’s fantastic!” Jack said. “What did you do with it?”
“I had to leave it in there—but I photographed it with my cell camera. I’ve got the pictures right in my pocket. So listen, here’s what we need to do. We’ve got to go straight to the police, give them the pictures, and get them to raid that safe ASAP—I mean
“I understand,” said Corrie. Jack was crowding her, his face tense.
“Listen, Corrie. I’ll come get you. We have to go together—two of Ricco’s employees will be better than one.”
“Yes, but…” She thought fast.
“Just tell him where we are,” said Jack. “You can trust him.”
She shook her head.
“How far away are you?” Foote asked.
“A little over an hour by car, but—”
“That far? Shit. Look, I know you don’t want to give away where your father’s hiding, but we
“All right. I’ll meet you. There’s a country store in Old Foundry, New Jersey, called Frank’s Place. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“How will you get there if you don’t have a car?”
“Don’t worry about me, the cabin’s not too far. I’ll be there.”
She hung up. Jack seized her and hugged her. “This is great!” he said. Then his expression changed suddenly as acrid smoke filled the small cabin. “Oh, no. I’ve burned the pancakes!”
THE DOCKS OF ALSDORF, SUCH AS THEY WERE, LAY ALONGSIDE the Rio Itajai-Acu, a broad, brown, odorous river flowing out of the deep forested interior of the southernmost provinces of Brazil. The docks were a busy area, thronging with fishermen unloading their catches in great wooden wheelbarrows, fish dealers shouting and waving wads of money, ice mongers trundling blocks, whores, drunks, and peddlers pushing food carts loaded with soft pretzels, knockwurst, sauerbraten, and—even more strangely—kebabs of tandoori chicken.
Amid these multitudes an odd figure made his way—a stooped man dressed all in khaki, with a salt-and- pepper Van Dyke beard, hair clamped down under a Tilley hat. He was carrying a backpack bristling with butterfly nets, bait-station setups, jars, traps, collecting heads, funnels, and other obscure lepidoptery equipment. The figure was trying to get down to the landing quays, pushing through the heedless crowds, his shrill, querulous voice protesting in broken Portuguese as he shoved his way toward a shack at the far end of the floating quay, which sported a hand-painted sign reading ALUGUEL DE BARCOS.
Belmiro Passos, a skinny man in a T-shirt, shorts, and flip-flops, occupied the shack, eating a large soft pretzel and watching the figure approach. Behind Passos were boats—mostly battered Carolina skiffs with decrepit Yamaha engines—which he would rent to anyone for almost any purpose, legal or otherwise. His customers were primarily travelers going up- or downriver, visiting hard-to-reach villages, or fishermen whose own boats were out of order. Occasionally, Belmiro would rent to the rare adventure tourist, naturalist, or sport fisherman. As he watched the figure draw near, he immediately pegged him as a naturalist, and not only that but a butterfly collector, of which there were not a few who came to Santa Catarina State because of its varied and exotic butterfly population.
The agitated man finally broke free of the throngs of fishermen and came huffing over. Belmiro greeted him with a broad smile.
“
“We speak English,” said Belmiro quietly.
“Thank God!” The man shucked off his pack and leaned against it, panting. “My goodness, it’s hot. I want to rent a boat.”
“Very well,” said Belmiro. “For how long?”
“Four days, maybe six. And I need a guide. I’m a lepidopterist.”
“Lepidopterist?”
“I collect and study butterflies.”
“Ah, butterflies! And where you go?”
“Nova Godoi.”
At this Belmiro paused. “That is very long way up the Rio Itajai do Sul, deep in the araucaria forest. It is a dangerous journey. And Nova Godoi is private. No one go there. No trespass.”
“I won’t bother anybody! And I know how to deal with people like that.” The man rubbed his fingers together to indicate money.
“But why Nova Godoi? Why not go to Serra Geral National Park, which has many more rare butterflies?”
“Because the Nova Godoi crater is where the last Queen Beatrice butterfly was sighted in 1932. They say it’s extinct. I say it isn’t, and I’m going to prove it!”
Belmiro gazed at the man. Fanaticism shone in his watery eyes. This could be quite profitable if handled correctly, even though he would probably lose a boat and perhaps even become involved in an unpleasant investigation.
“Nova Godoi. Very expensive.”
“I have money!” the man said, removing a fat roll of bills. “But, like I said, I need a guide. I don’t know the river.”
A slow nod. A guide to Nova Godoi. Another problem. But not impossible. There were those who would do anything for money.
“How about you?” the man asked. “Will you take me?”
Belmiro shook his head. “I have a business to run,
“I’ll wait right here,” said the man, fanning himself with his hat.
