Every Bitter Thing Page 13
“His son was murdered. We’re investigating.”
“Junior? Somebody murdered Junior?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Jesus. Arriaga loved that kid with a passion. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be in the murderer’s shoes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What I said. Julio is a dangerous guy to cross. You know what his specialty was?”
“No. What?”
“Stealth killing.”
“You think he’d be capable of practicing that specialty of his on someone who killed his son?”
“He’d sure as hell know how to do it if he wanted to.”
“How come he left the service? His file lists him as resigned. But it doesn’t say why.”
“No. It doesn’t,” Funchal said. And stopped there.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Is it important?”
“Very important. Lives might depend on it.”
“All right, then. The fact is, he struck a superior, a lieutenant. He should have gotten a prison term and a dishonorable discharge, but….”
“What?”
“Well, frankly, we cut Arriaga some slack. The lieutenant was a prick, an incompetent, and, worst of all, he was wrong. Arriaga was good at what he did, and right. But we can’t have enlisted men going around beating up officers. Julio had to go. He took it hard. As to the lieutenant, the poor bastard had no idea how lucky he was. If Julio had wanted to go all the way, he certainly could have, and some of us thought he should have. I’m not going to tell you any more than that.”
“You people work with silenced weapons?”
“We don’t just sleep rough and eat snails.”
“Which handguns do you use?”
“Just one. The M975.”
“Which is?”
“The military version of the Taurus PT92.”
“Then it’s a single/double action 9x19 Parabellum, a copy of the Beretta 92?”
“Nice to talk to a woman who knows her handguns. Our M975s are so quiet, somebody fires one in the next room, you hardly hear it.”
“And I suppose Arriaga had lots of experience with that particular pistol?”
“Lots. And he was an expert marksman. There was this trick he used to do with an ax head and balloons. He’d shoot at the sharp edge of the ax. The ax would divide the bullet in two. He’d burst a balloon on either side of the ax with a single shot.”
“Impressive.”
“More impressive was that he could do it seven or eight times out of every ten.”
“Those M975s of yours, do you lose one every now and then?”
“Some of the guys get pretty attached to their handguns. We don’t make a fuss if one disappears. We’re all professionals here, and we figure lost weapons are ultimately gonna be used in good causes.”
“You think Arriaga might have taken one with him when he left?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, Major, you didn’t.”
“Can I tell you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“I know Arriaga pretty well, and I like him. He’s not unjust. He’s not a thug. He’s got a clearly developed sense of right and wrong. I hope to hell he isn’t the guy you’re looking for, but if Julio did this thing, the guy who messed with his kid would have deserved everything he got.”
“Thank you, Major. You’ve been very helpful.”
“What do you think should happen to a slimeball that kills a kid?”
“I’m not prepared to say.”
“Understandable, you being from the Federal Police and all, but my feeling is that we understand each other perfectly.”
Chapter Twenty
“IGOT GOOD NEWS and I got bad news, Mario.”
“Good news first, Harvey. I need some cheering up today.”
“Then this should help do it,” the Miami Beach cop said. “Those cameras you asked about? They exist. You’re gonna get a copy of a DVD showing everybody who boarded that flight.”
“Everybody?”
“Including the crew. They all board through the same door. The camera mounted above it runs continuously.”
“You are a prince among men, Harvey Willis.”
“Don’t lay it on too thick. Now for the bad news: we haven’t been able to track down this Arriaga guy. You sure he’s here in Florida?”
“No, I’m not. But he’s supposed to be.”
“Well, we came up with what we think is his address, but he doesn’t answer his door. And we got what we think are his home and cell numbers, but he doesn’t pick up his phones and, up to now, he hasn’t responded to our messages. His car, if it is his car, isn’t in the driveway, and his neighbors have no idea where he is. They’re all Anglos, and Arriaga, they say, doesn’t speak much English.”
“All Anglos? In South Florida?”
“Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“No fixed place of employment?”
“Nope. He floats.”
“As what?”
“A handyman. One of those neighbors had him in to do some work. Apparently he’s good.”
“And I guess it’s tough to find gainful employment if your specialty is killing people.”
“Not at all. Like you said, it’s South Florida.”
“You think maybe he’s still at it? Killing people? On the side, I mean?”
“If he is, there’s nothing in the records. And I mean nothing. No arrests, not even a speeding ticket. He appears to be squeaky clean.”
“No Social Security number? No credit card?”
“He has both.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Manage what?”
“Social Security. Credit cards. He’s not a legal resident.”
“Who told you that?”
“His wife.”
“You mean his ex-wife.”
“No. His wife.”
“And this wife you’re talking about lives there in Brazil?”
“She does.”
“Two possibilities then: either we got the wrong Arriaga, or she’s lying. And I’m pretty sure we’ve got the right Arriaga.”
“Interesting.”
“Arriaga won a green card in one of those lottery things. He’s married to a woman whose maiden name was Inez Bocardo, also a legal resident, and has been for over a year.”
“How easy would it have been to marry a second woman without divorcing the first?”
“Not easy. He would have been required to list his marriage status on his visa application. That would have shown him as married. So he’d need proof of divorce if he wanted to marry again.”
“We were told he couldn’t come to Brazil for his son’s funeral because he was in the States illegally.”
“Again, if we’ve got the right Arriaga, that’s bullshit. He could have gone, and come back, any time he wanted to.”
“Can you get a copy of those divorce papers?”
“Sure. Public records.”
“Check them, will you? Confirm that the ex-wife’s name is Aline.”
“Okay, and if it is?”
“I can only think of one reason why she’d want us to believe he wasn’t in Brazil when the murders were taking place.”
“Like she still loves him?”
“And is covering for him.”
“Well, duh,” Harvey Willis said.
Chapter Twenty-One
WHEN SUMMONING STAFF, NELSON Sampaio expected them to appear before him instantly.
“Where have you been?” he demanded of Silva.
“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 inspe
ctor’s face, “that Tomás 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 Tómas 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 Tomás 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 Tomás 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 São 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 Brasília, 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, João 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.”
“What’s suspicious about them?”
“Mansur knows something he’s not telling us.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“No, I just have a feeling.”
“A feeling, huh? Very scientific. How about the other three passengers?”
“Clancy is an American priest. He went to Palmas.”
“Tocantins? That Palmas?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s suspicious. Why the hell would anybody, particularly a gringo, want to go to Tocantins?”
“Add to that the fact that Clancy has dropped off the map. So has Kloppers.”
“Kloppers? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Dutch. But he carries a Brazilian passport.”
“Born here?”
“Born here. He was traveling with his son. We’ve spoken with his parents by telephone. They claim they have no idea where he is. Or his son either.”
“Their own grandson? How likely is that?”
“Not very. Arnaldo Nunes is going to speak to them.”
“All right. That leaves one.”
“Darcy Motta.”
Silva related the story that Lina Godoy, Bruna’s friend and fellow flight attendant, had told Gonçalves.
Sampaio rubbed his chin. “So Motta may be the one who framed the kid?”
“It seems likely. And I should add that he, too, has disappeared.”
“Using an alias?”
“We think so.”
“So what are you sitti
ng around here for? Get back out there and find the killer. And be quick about it. I can’t hold off the whole damned Brazilian government for much longer.”
Silva nodded and stood up.
“And, Mario?”
It was Mario again, no longer Chief Inspector, a sign that the storm had blown over—at least for the moment.
“Yes?”
“Make sure you’re here for the meeting.”
“I’ll be here. But since you brought it up, would you mind telling me what it’s all about?”
“All right. But keep it under your hat.”
Silva nodded his assent.
“It’s about next year’s budget,” Sampaio said. “I’m going to explain why none of you can count on any raises.”
Chapter Twenty-two
WHEN HECTOR WAS USHERED in, the window behind Sergio Bittencourt’s desk was framing an Airbus 320. As it sank out of sight behind some shrubbery, the office was suddenly filled with the roar of reverse thrusters being engaged. The racket precluded conversation.
Junior Arriaga’s mother had been right when she called the delegado little. He didn’t quite come up to Hector’s chin. She’d also called him a bastard. Bittencourt went on to prove it.
“I hope this isn’t gonna take long,” he said. “I got better things to do than waste my time on a little punk of a dope smuggler, much less a dead one.”
“A dope smuggler, is it?” Hector said. “Guilty, was he?”
Bittencourt shrugged. “Caught with the goods, wasn’t he?”
“Arriaga was fifteen. You should have taken one look at him and transferred him.”
“It happened early in the morning, before I got in,” Bittencourt said. “I never even saw him, not until he was dead. And what makes you think you got the right to barge in here and tell me how to run my delegacia?”
Before Hector could reply, an oncoming roar built to a crescendo. Another aircraft sailed into view, the heat from its turbines distorting the air behind it. He watched it disappear, waited until he was sure the delegado could hear him, and said, “I’m here because the minister of justice wants a full investigation. Take it up with him if you’ve got a beef. I’ll even wait until you have him on the line.”
Bittencourt’s mouth tightened. Then he seemed to realize Hector might be perfectly serious, and he forced a smile.