Dying Gasp Read online

  “Yeah, but it’s still mine. You figure the next step is for someone to go to Manaus?”

  “That’s what I figure.”

  “Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said.

  “UH-OH,” MARIO Silva said when Arnaldo told him.

  Being young, female and without protection was bad anywhere in Brazil, worse in the major cities, much worse the farther north and west you got. And no major city in the country was further north and west than Manaus.

  “How about sending Babyface?” Arnaldo said.

  The more than seventeen hundred kilometers of copper wire, microwave links and electrical disturbances between Recife and Brasilia made for a very bad connection, but didn’t conceal the note of hope in his voice.

  “Babyface is in Rio,” Silva said. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”

  “Oh,” Arnaldo said, hope fading. “Hector then?”

  “Hector’s still recovering from jet lag.”

  Arnaldo, desperate, appealed to friendship.

  “Come on, Mario. You know how much I hate Manaus.”

  “Everybody in their right mind hates Manaus,” Silva said. “Stay at the Plaza. It’s close to the center of town.”

  “Which is like being close to the center of a sewer,” Arnaldo said, bowing to the inevitable. “I’ll stay at the Tropical. It’s outside of town, and it’s got a swimming pool.”

  “The Plaza. It’s cheaper, and you won’t have time to use a pool.”

  Silence.

  “Arnaldo? You there?”

  “I can hardly hear you. It’s a lousy connection.”

  “Don’t give me that. You heard me. The Plaza.”

  “The Plaza is a dump.”

  “You’re not going on vacation.”

  “You’re telling me. Who the hell would be crazy enough to go to Manaus on vacation?”

  “Lots of people. There’s the river, the jungle, the duty-free zone, the old opera house—”

  “Dengue, malaria, yellow fever, bad food—”

  “I think it might help,” Silva said, breaking in on this litany, “if you had photos of the killers in the other snuff films. I’ll send them by courier to the Plaza.”

  “Tropical.”

  “Plaza. We already sent the cops in Manaus a photo of the guy who killed Andrea. First thing tomorrow morning, I’ll light a fire under them.”

  “Speak up,” Arnaldo said. “I can’t hear you.”

  Silva spoke up, but it didn’t do any good. The line was dead.

  Later, but before Silva got around to any fire-lighting, he spotted an E-mail in his inbox:

  Subject: Photo and request for information

  Your photo matches Damião Rodrigues, RG 146324682, seven arrests, two convictions. No pending warrants in this city or State.

  Please advise if you want us to find and hold.

  The E-mail was signed by Bento Rosário, a clerk in the Manaus Police Department. Immediately after reading it, Silva called Arnaldo. But cell phones in the north were even more unreliable than they were in Brasilia. He succeeded only in leaving a voicemail message.

  THE FOLLOWING morning, Arnaldo called from Manaus, the self-styled Capital of the Amazon.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Bento Rosário, the guy you—”

  “I remember who he is. What about him?”

  “They’re telling me he doesn’t work there anymore.”

  “He doesn’t—”

  “They said he quit.”

  “Who said he quit?”

  “I just got off the phone with his supervisor. I also asked him about that felon, Damião Whats-his-name’s rap sheet.” “Rodrigues. Damião Rodrigues. And?”

  “There isn’t any rap sheet.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Silva said.

  “I told you you wouldn’t,” Arnaldo said. “When I . . . uh, expressed a similar sentiment, the filho da puta hung up on me.”

  “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Silva said.

  “Probably. Try me.”

  “Soon after Bento shoots us his E-mail,” Silva said, “someone above him in the hierarchy gets wind of what he’s done. This someone has reason, probably financial, to keep the law off of Damião’s back. This someone hides, or destroys, Damião’s rap sheet, sees that Bento goes off on a little vacation, and puts out the word that he’s moved on to greener pastures.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” Arnaldo said.

  “Did those photos arrive?”

  “Yeah, but you sent them to the Plaza by mistake. I had to go over there and pick them up.”

  “Because you’re staying at the Tropical?”

  “Sure,” Arnaldo said, innocently. “Isn’t that what we agreed?”

  This time the silence lasted longer. Finally, Silva said, “Here’s what we’re going to do: give me two hours, then go to the headquarters of the Manaus PD. By that time, the chief should be expecting you. I’m going to have the director call the governor of the state of Amazonas, or the mayor of the city of Manaus, or whoever it takes to shake those people up. You go in there and demand personal access to their archives. If they don’t cooperate, call me immediately.”

  “Who are you going to tell what?”

  “The director gets the truth about the clerk and Rodrigues’s file. That will be enough to convince him we can’t trust the people at the Manaus PD. I’ll suggest he tells whoever he calls that it’s a confidential matter of national security. He doesn’t tell them about snuff videos, he doesn’t tell them about Andrea, or Marta, he doesn’t tell them squat.”

  “You think people are gonna buy into that national security stuff?”

  “Who cares? They don’t have to believe it. They just have to act as if they do.”

  “I love it when you’re angry.”

  “Flattery will get you nowhere. And don’t think for a minute you’ve heard the last of this business about the Hotel Tropical.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE CHIEF OF MANAUS’S Civil Police was a florid man of slightly above average height and greatly above average weight. When Arnaldo was ushered into his office, his gray uniform jacket hung over the back of his chair, and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves.

  “Damned air-conditioning is on the fritz again,” he said with an accent that marked him as a carioca, a native of Rio de Janeiro. Rings of sweat stained the area under his arms. He was using a handkerchief to blot his forehead. He stopped blotting long enough to stand up, extend a sweaty palm across his desk and offer his hand.

  “Ivan Pinto,” he said.

  “Arnaldo Nunes.”

  “I used to think Rio was hot, but it’s got nothing on this place. I’ve been here almost five years, and I’m still not used to it. I ran a delegacia back home, and this was a step up, but I sometimes ask myself what I’m doing here.”

  Arnaldo studied the cop’s ample waistline, watching the lethargic way he was patting his forehead. Probably as little as possible, Arnaldo thought. Cariocas were not famous for their industry.

  “Have a seat,” Pinto said, sinking back into a chair that protested under the strain.

  The chief’s gun belt was draped over one of the chairs in front of his desk. Arnaldo took the other one.

  “Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” he said.

  “You come well recommended,” Pinto said, but there was an underlying tone of resentment in his voice. “So, what can I do for you?”

  “Bento Rosário.”

  “Who?”

  “Bento Rosário, a clerk who works in your archives. I want to talk to him.”

  The chief seemed to think about it for a moment, then shook his head.

  “Never heard of him,” he said. “I seldom go down there myself. Too much dust. It makes my eyes water and my nose run. If you want, I’ll get Alberto Coimbra in here. Alberto’s the man in charge of the archives.”

  Arnaldo wanted.

&nb
sp; They made small talk about the town and the river while they waited for Coimbra, who showed up shortly. He was stoop-shouldered, wore wire-rim glasses with thick lenses, and reminded Arnaldo of a ferret.

  The chief made the introductions and asked about Rosário.

  “Doesn’t work here anymore,” Coimbra said.

  He sounded like a mouse might have sounded if a mouse could talk. Squeak. Squeak. Squeak. Arnaldo recognized the voice.

  “You’re the guy I talked to on the telephone,” he said.

  “Yes, I am,” Coimbra squeaked, “and I told you the same thing then I’m telling you now. Rosário doesn’t work here any more.”

  “Yeah,” Arnaldo said, “and you didn’t hang up on me, either.”

  “I didn’t hang up on you. We were cut off.”

  Arnaldo paused long enough to let Coimbra know that he wasn’t buying it. Then he said, “How about you go get me Rosário’s ficha?”

  Coimbra looked at his boss, then back at Arnaldo.

  “I looked for it after you called,” he said.

  “And?”

  “And I couldn’t find it.”

  “Let me get this straight,” Arnaldo said. “You lost his personnel file?”

  “I didn’t say we lost it,” Coimbra said. “I said I couldn’t find it. I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. Leave your number. I’ll call you when we locate it.”

  Which will be about the time the river freezes over, Arnaldo thought.

  “How about the rap sheet on Damião Rodrigues?” he said.

  “There is no rap sheet on Damião Rodrigues. There never was a rap sheet on anybody named Damião Rodrigues.”

  “How can you be sure? You have a personal acquaintance with every bad guy in this town?”

  Coimbra’s glasses had slipped down over his nose. He pushed them back, magnifying the size of his pale eyes.

  Face like a ferret, Arnaldo thought, but eyes like a Weimaraner. “I’ve been working in archives for twenty-two years,” Coimbra said. “The name Damião is unusual. I would have remembered it if I heard it, and I assure you I never did.”

  “So how come we got this E-mail from Rosário?”

  “I have no idea. You’ll have to talk to him about that.”

  “Which is what I’m trying to do. Are you now going to tell me that no one in this building knows Rosário well enough to tell me where he lives?”

  “Of course not,” Coimbra said, adding a sniff to his squeak. “After we spoke, and in the spirit of interagency cooperation, I went over there myself and tried to find him for you. I just got back. He moved. No forwarding address.”

  “The E-mail is from yesterday, goddamn it!”

  “I can’t help that. He moved. That’s all I can tell you, and that’s what his neighbors will tell you, too. Go over there if you don’t believe me. I’ll give you the address.”

  “I might just do that.”

  Coimbra gave him a ferrety little smile.

  Which is when Arnaldo knew for certain that going over there wouldn’t do a damned bit of good.

  After Coimbra left, Pinto raised both palms in a gesture of helplessness.

  “Well, then,” he said, as if that was the end of it. “Anything else I can do for you?”

  Whatever was going on, the chief was a part of it. Arnaldo was sure of that.

  “Maybe you can tell me a little bit about the trafficking of women here in Manaus?”

  “Looking to get laid?” Pinto asked with a leer.

  “Business,” Arnaldo said.

  “Business?” the chief said. “Prostitution is a local matter, and there’s no law against it. It’s no business of the federal police.”

  “I didn’t say prostitution,” Arnaldo said, “I said trafficking. That’s illegal. And when it’s happening across state lines, it is our business, especially when the girls being trafficked are minors.”

  The chief stopped smiling. “You been talking to that fucking priest?”

  “What fucking priest?”

  “Barone. That Salesian.”

  “No. I haven’t. Should I?”

  The chief swatted the air with his hand as if he was brushing away an annoying insect. The hand was still holding his handkerchief, and little droplets of moisture flew off and flecked the wall next to his desk. He brought the drenched handkerchief back to his forehead and resumed patting.

  “I want to have a look at your archives,” Arnaldo said.

  The chief shot him an indignant look.

  “What?” he said.

  “Your archives. I want to go there and have a look around.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve got photographs. I’m gonna try to match them with names.”

  The chief’s smile returned. “Coimbra can do that for you,” he said. “Just give me the photographs. I’ll make it a priority, have an answer for you in a day or two.”

  And I already know what that answer would be, Arnaldo thought. “I have to do it myself,” he said.

  The chief frowned, and his eyes turned cold. “Are you suggesting my people are untrustworthy?”

  “Not at all,” Arnaldo said blandly.

  “Then what are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything, Chief. The matter is confidential, a question of national security. I’m not supposed to delegate any part of it. If you want more information, you gotta talk to my boss.”

  “The governor called me,” the chief said. “The governor and the mayor. They both got calls from the director of the federal police in Brasilia. He made them promise to cooperate, but he wouldn’t tell them anything either.”

  Arnaldo raised both palms in the same gesture of helplessness the chief had used just minutes before.

  “Well, then,” he said. “If my boss won’t tell the mayor and the governor, how can you expect me to tell you?”

  THE ARCHIVES, LOCATED IN the basement of the delegacia, were a warren of ceiling-to-floor shelves, dusty, deprived of daylight, and lit only by fluorescent lamps. The stuffy atmosphere was entirely disagreeable and so was Arnaldo’s reception. Coimbra showed his displeasure at the invasion of his lair. He and the chief exchanged what they probably thought were surreptitious glances.

  “I want you and your people to extend Agente Nunes every consideration,” Chief Pinto said.

  “As ordens, Senhor. Every consideration.”

  The only things missing were a wink and a nudge.

  “What, exactly, are you looking for?” Coimbra said.

  “That’s confidential,” Arnaldo said. “Just show me your system.”

  “I don’t like people digging around in my files,” Coimbra said. “They get things out of order. All you have to do is tell me what you want, and I’ll fetch it for you.”

  “I’d rather do it myself,” Arnaldo said.

  “And I’d rather you didn’t,” Coimbra said.

  They glared at each other.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Chief Pinto said, as if it had just occurred to him. “Alberto here can help you. You can do it together.”

  Arnaldo shook his head.

  “I’m gonna do it alone,” he said.

  ARNALDO WAS a believer in the adage “The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

  After an unsuccessful morning in the archives, and an equally unsuccessful attempt to get a decent lunch in the padaria across the street, he was ready for a break. He decided to use it to locate the man the chief had called “that fucking priest.” A Salesian, Pinto had said. By inquiring at the first church he came to, Arnaldo discovered there was only one Salesian in Manaus: Father Vitorio Barone, who ran a school in the São Lázaro district. The parish priest was even able to furnish him with an address: number fourteen Rua de Caxias.

  The Rua do Caxias turned out to be a narrow lane bisected by a filthy canal, more of an open drain than a waterway. A smell of raw sewage assailed Arnaldo’s nose. A mangy brown dog with visible ribs was tearing into a plastic sack of garbage in front of numbe
r twelve, a shack built of scrap lumber.

  The neighboring building, number fourteen, was a mansion by comparison. Anywhere else it would have been categorized as a dump. Two stories tall, and twice as wide as any other house on the street, it was a haphazard pile of gray cinder block. An ancient pickup truck, painted yellow, but flaking in places to reveal the original blue, was parked in front. Arnaldo could hear children’s voices, getting louder, as he approached.

  The door was open. He stood on the threshold, waiting for his eyes to adjust from sunlight to shade. A gang of kids became visible. They were seated on the cement floor, singing the alphabet. One of them caught sight of the figure in the doorway and whispered something to the child next to him. That one whispered to another and soon seventeen pairs of brown eyes and one pair of blue were turned in Arnaldo’s direction.

  The blue eyes belonged to a priest in a black cassock. The singing faltered. The priest frowned. One of the kids saw the frown and elbowed his neighbor. The singing swelled. The priest stopped frowning.

  They sang the alphabet through to the end. Then they sang it over again. When they finished for the second time, the priest clapped his hands.

  “Dismissed,” he said.

  The kids streamed out, walking past Arnaldo, giving him the once-over. The priest came forward.

  Something about him, perhaps his long legs, perhaps the way he kept his neck erect when he walked, reminded Arnaldo of a flamingo. A shock of unruly black hair capped his high forehead. The hair was cut as a man might cut it himself if he didn’t care how looked.

  “Father Barone?” Arnaldo asked.

  He got a curt nod, then a question. “And you are?”

  “Agente Arnaldo Nunes, federal police.”

  Father Vitorio’s expression shifted from neutral to hostile.

  “What do you want?”

  “Your name came up at the police station,” Arnaldo said. “The chief referred to you as ‘that fucking priest,’ or words to that effect.”

  The priest didn’t blanch. “So?” he said.

  “So right now they’re probably referring to me as ‘that fucking federal cop.’ I figured we two fuckers should get acquainted.”

  “The chief,” Father Vitorio said, “thinks I’m a pain in the ass.”

  “And the feeling is mutual, eh?”