Every Bitter Thing cims-4

by Leighton Gage

  “When do I do it?”

  “No time like the present.”

  “While he’s still in Santo Andre?”

  “Why not? But first, call that delegado, Carillo, and tell him that no one, no one, except Sacca’s lawyer gets in to see him.”

  “Where do we get the lawyer?”

  “I’ll talk to Zanon.”

  “The public prosecutor?”

  “Yes. He’s as straight as they come, and he won’t like it one bit, but he owes me, and he’ll do it. When Sacca walks out the door we’ll have people waiting.”

  “At which time I call Aline again and tell her he’s on the street.”

  “Exactly. But this Arriaga character, if he is indeed our man, has already proven to be very resourceful. We mustn’t underestimate him. Assign a man to cover the exterior of the jail, more than one if there are multiple exits. Provide photos of Arriaga and Sacca. As an additional precaution, put an undercover operative into Sacca’s cell and tell him to stick to Sacca like glue, never more than a meter or so away. Make it a man adept at hand-to-hand fighting. Tell Carillo what we’re up to and tell him, too, that our operative is to be the last person introduced into that cell, the very last person introduced into that cell until we get Sacca out of there. And tell him to keep the whole undercover business under his hat.”

  “I knew it!” Aline Arriaga said when Hector called her. “I knew my Junior was innocent! What did you say that bastard’s name was?”

  “Sacca. Abilio Sacca.”

  Her next words came right out of Silva’s script.

  “I want to see him,” she said. “Where is he?”

  “He’s in a jail in Santo Andre.” Hector gave her the address. “I have to warn you, though. They won’t let you in unless he wants to see you, and he probably won’t. It’s his right to refuse.”

  “His right? A man like that has rights? How about my son’s rights? He had a right to be locked up with other kids. He had a right to live. And who showed any concern for him?”

  “I’m sorry, Senhora Arriaga. I know you-”

  “Did this Sacca show any remorse? Any remorse at all? Did he even say he was sorry?”

  “He’s not that kind of man.”

  “When he gets out of that delegacia, where will he be going?”

  “Perhaps to prison.”

  “ Perhaps? Only perhaps?”

  “These things are unpredictable, Senhora.”

  “You’re certainly right about that, Delegado. If I’ve learned anything about our judicial system in the last three months, it’s that it doesn’t work. Will you do one more thing for me? Just one?”

  “What’s that, Senhora?”

  “Keep me informed of this man’s whereabouts. I’m not going to get a good night’s sleep until I meet with him, face to face.”

  Although Zanon Parma was a friend of many years’ standing, his pleasure in receiving a call from Silva quickly vanished when he heard what it was about.

  “For Christ’s sake, Mario, I can’t just pull the guy out of there for no reason at all.”

  “I’m sure you’ll find a way, Zanon. It’s vitally important that you do.”

  Silence.

  “Zanon?”

  “Okay, okay, I’ll find a way, but Jesus, Mario-“

  “Just make sure of one thing: don’t get him sprung without informing me first. I don’t want Sacca walking out that door without half a dozen men waiting for him.”

  Silence again, this time more lengthy than the first.

  Then Zanon said, “I’ve got an idea that will work, but it’s gonna take time to set up. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get him out of there before the weekend. Monday would be the absolute earliest.”

  “Zanon says he needs another five days?” Arnaldo said the following morning. “Maybe six? What’s with that?”

  “Zanon is a straight arrow. He’s not going to do anything illegal.”

  Arnaldo sighed. “And legal takes time.”

  “Always and in all circumstances. Unfortunately.”

  “And you can’t push him any harder?”

  “No. We’ll just have to wait for his call.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?”

  “Why don’t we go have a chat with that delegado, Bittencourt?”

  “Call him first?”

  “Not on your life,” Silva said. “Let’s go in there with a show of force. Round up Hector and Babyface.”

  Sergio Bittencourt was biting into a croissant when the four men barged into his office. One of them he already knew. It was that federal cop, Hector Costa.

  Of the others, one was a kid who looked to be in his early twenties, one was a tall man in his fifties who moved with the grace of a cat, and the last was a man of about the same age wearing a gray suit. The latter had black eyes that closely resembled Costa’s.

  “Chief Inspector Silva would like a word with you,” Hector said.

  Bittencourt stood up, brushed flakes of pastry from his white shirt, and stuck out his jaw.

  “I’ve got a question for you, Delegado,” the man in the gray suit said. “How much money did you take from Senhora Arriaga?”

  “Did she say that? Did she say I took money from her? She’s full of shit.”

  “Ah, so you fed her the information out of the goodness of your heart, did you?”

  “Fed her what information? I didn’t feed her anything. What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “She wanted to know who was responsible for killing her son, correct?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “Just answer the question, Delegado. Did you, or did you not, tell Aline Arriaga that Joao Girotti raped and killed her son?”

  “I did not.”

  “You’re lying. She offered to pay for the information. You wanted the money. You gave her a name, you gave her Girotti.”

  “That’s a load of crap.”

  “Why Girotti, specifically? Did his name just pop into your head? Or did you have something against him?”

  “If she says that, it’s no more than her word against mine. And who is she? A nobody, that’s who! The word of a nobody against the word of a delegado? Don’t make me laugh. Get the hell out of here. This conversation is over.”

  “Your response,” Silva said, “told us everything we came here to find out. We’ll be talking again before long.”

  “Is that some kind of threat?”

  “Yes, Delegado, it is.”

  They were in the delegacia’s parking lot when Hector got a call from Horacio La Selva, the undercover agent he’d put in the cell with Sacca. La Selva sounded agitated. Hector made a gesture for the other cops to gather around him.

  “Some idiot,” La Selva said, “forgot to tell the guards I was a cop.”

  “That idiot would be me,” Hector said. “I told Carillo to keep it to himself, figured it would be safer that way. Safer for you, not Sacca. What’s the problem?”

  “The problem, Senhor,” La Selva said, changing his tune, “is that Sacca got sprung yesterday afternoon at five. But me?

  I had to spend another night in jail.”

  “Damn! Is the delegado there now?”

  “He just arrived, had some problem with his kid at school.”

  “Put him on.”

  There was the sound of the phone being handed over, then, “Carillo.”

  “What’s this about Sacca being released?” Hector said.

  “What we agreed,” Carillo said. “Silva sent a lawyer.”

  “No,” Hector said. “He didn’t.”

  “Well, somebody did. And he had all the right paperwork, so we had to spring Sacca.”

  “Tell me about this lawyer. Did he give you a name?”

  “He didn’t have to. I already knew the bastard. It was Fonseca.”

  “Dudu? You’re telling me Dudu Fonseca was the man who got Sacca out of there?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you. Hey, weren’t you guys supposed to h
ave a man stationed out in front?”

  “We were, and we do.”

  “Then he’s fucking blind, because Fonseca and Sacca must have walked right by him. There’s only one way out of here.”

  “Well,” Silva said when Hector related the details of the conversation, “that clinches that. Julio Arriaga is our man.”

  “Has to be. Aline Arriaga is the only person I told.”

  “And then there’s Fonseca.”

  “Fonseca? What’s with that?” Goncalves wanted to know.

  “Aline consulted him when her son was arrested,” Hector said. “And then he got Joao Girotti out of jail.”

  “That shyster isn’t cheap,” Goncalves said.

  Silva looked at his watch and made a quick calculation.

  “Sacca has been out for almost eighteen hours. Three to one he’s dead already.”

  “No bet,” Arnaldo said.

  Silva turned to Hector. “Do we have his home address?”

  “We do,” Hector said.

  Silva turned to Goncalves. “Call in the team we have standing by. Tell them to meet you there. If Sacca is still alive, put a protective cordon around him.”

  “How tight?”

  “Loose enough not to discourage Arriaga. The last thing we want to do is scare him off.”

  “And if Sacca’s already dead?”

  “Call Hector at the office. He’ll contact us. We’ll meet at the murder scene.”

  Silva turned to Hector.

  “Check Aline’s bank accounts. See if she’s made any substantial withdrawals. Check the airline records to see if she might have been in Brasilia around the time of Juan Rivas’s murder.”

  “You think she’s an accomplice?”

  “Juan Rivas was a cautious man, concerned with his possessions, concerned with security. I’m still curious as to why he opened the door to his killer. If he looked through the peephole and saw a woman, that might have been all it took. He might not have regarded her as a threat.”

  “Whereas if he’d seen Julio out there…”

  “Exactly.”

  “Surveillance on Aline?”

  “Immediately. Around the clock.”

  “Phone taps?”

  “Home, office, and cell-and if she uses a pay phone, even once, initiate coverage on that as well. My guess is she’ll be smart enough to use prepaid cell phones, but maybe not.”

  “I’ll get right on it. Where are you and Arnaldo going to be?”

  “First,” Silva said, “we’re going to find out what the hell happened in Santo Andre.”

  “And then?”

  “We’re going to have a talk with Dudu Fonseca.”

  The man on duty in Santo Andre was right where he was supposed to be, directly across the street from the jail. He was Pedro Sanches, on the job since eight that morning and as reliable as they come.

  “Morning, Sanches.”

  “Morning, Chief Inspector.”

  “You see La Selva on the way out?”

  “Sure did. He practically bit my head off. He was not happy.”

  “So I heard. He tell you Sacca has been sprung?”

  “He did. But I got no orders to leave, so here I am.”

  “Good man. Who was on duty last night at five?”

  “New kid, name of Mendes.”

  “You have his home number?”

  “I do.”

  “He live near here?”

  “Matter of fact, he does.”

  Silva groaned inwardly. “Merda,” he said. “Get him over here.”

  Mendes showed up ten minutes later.

  He had a sunny smile on his face and a pristine band of gold on the third finger of his left hand. For Silva, the unblemished ring clinched it.

  “All right, Mendes, save us both some time. How long were you away from your post?”

  The smile faded; Mendes looked at his shoes. “Not long,” he said. “Not long at all.”

  “How long?”

  “From a little before five to almost six yesterday evening.”

  “Jesus Christ!”

  “My wife and I are newlyweds, Chief Inspector. You’re a married man, right? You know how it is.”

  “Give me your badge, Mendes.”

  “What?”

  “Give me your badge, and your gun, and go home to your wife. You’re suspended.”

  “Come on, Chief Inspector. It was just a little slip, could have happened to anybody. I’ll be more careful the next time. You won’t catch me slacking off again.”

  Catch me.

  If he hadn’t said that, Silva might have let it go with a reprimand. He hated to ruin a man’s career.

  Mara Carta stuck her head into Hector’s office and said, “Aline emptied her savings account.”

  “When?” Hector said.

  “Yesterday afternoon, just before two o’clock. She had over twenty thousand reais saved up, and she took every centavo.”

  “And Brasilia? Did she go there around the time Rivas was killed?”

  Mara stepped into the room and leaned against the doorjamb.

  “If she flew, she didn’t do it under her own name. Her credit card receipts show no expenditures, not in Brasilia, not anywhere along the route.”

  Hector was about to ask her who’d been assigned to the surveillance team when the phone rang. It was Goncalves, calling about the murder of Abilio Sacca.

  Dudu Fonseca ’S offices were on Rua Major Sertorio in Cerqueira Cesar, just across the street from Sao Paulo’s most elegant bar for meeting high-class prostitutes, a place called La Bamba.

  The people in the lawyer’s wood-paneled waiting room fell into two categories: felons, and the friends or families of felons. On observation alone, it was difficult to tell the difference.

  The arrival of two federal cops caused them, as might have been predicted, not a little discomfort.

  Fonseca didn’t keep them waiting. Not, Silva thought, because he was particularly concerned about the delicate sensitivities of his clients, but rather because he didn’t want those clients to panic, go running off, and give their money to a rival attorney.

  With some effort, because he was very fat, Fonseca rose to greet them.

  “Chief Inspector Silva. And Agent Nunes. What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Pleasant surprise, my ass,” Arnaldo said.

  Fonseca’s smile faded. He dropped back into a chair that groaned in protest.

  “I’m sorry to hurry you along, gentlemen, but you arrived without an appointment, and you’ve seen my waiting room.

  What do you want?”

  “Abilio Sacca,” Silva said.

  “What about him?” Fonseca said.

  “We want to know who paid you to get him off.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Don’t trifle with me, Dudu.”

  “I’m not, Chief Inspector. I can’t imagine Senhor Sacca ever becoming a regular client, so I’d be perfectly willing to tell you. If I knew. Which I don’t.”

  “Explain.”

  “The woman who came to see me paid cash. She gave the name Batista, but I somehow doubt she was telling the truth. She called herself Senhora, but she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. What she was wearing was a blond wig. It was a good wig, but it was a wig. She used dark glasses, glasses so large that they effectively concealed all features above her nose, including her eyebrows.” He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I’d like to be of more use to you, I really would. But I can’t. If I were to pass her tomorrow on the street, and if she wasn’t wearing the same wig and the same glasses, I wouldn’t recognize her.”

  “Maybe not, but tell me this: had you ever seen her before, blond hair, dark glasses, and all?”

  “Once.”

  “When?”

  “This wasn’t Senhora Batista’s first visit. She had come to me a while back about another man she wanted released.”

  “Joao Girotti?”

  One of Fonseca’s eyebrows rose in surpr
ise. “Yes. Girotti. How did you know?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just wanted to confirm it was Girotti.”

  “Well, indeed it was. The felon’s friend, this woman. I don’t understand it.” Fonseca shrugged. “Maybe she has a passion for bad boys.”

  “Here’s another name for you, Dudu. Do you remember a woman named Arriaga? Aline Arriaga? Came to you about her son?”

  “Yes, of course. Her boy had a fatal… fall. He died in police custody. Doesn’t say much for our law enforcement community, does it? The people who are supposed to be protecting us, I mean.”

  “Don’t get snotty with me, Dudu. Just answer the questions. Did Senhora Arriaga look anything like this blond?”

  “Senhora Arriaga is a brunette.”

  “And the blond, as you pointed out, was wearing a wig. We can, therefore, surmise that her natural hair color was not blond. I ask you again, could Senhora Arriaga have been that blond?”

  Fonseca shrugged. “She could have been,” he said, “but there is no way I’d swear to it. So that’s a dead end for you there, Chief Inspector.”

  “How much did you charge her for springing Sacca? Something like that must have been expensive, huh? I mean, after all, they had the little punk dead to rights.”

  Fonseca frowned. “What I did was perfectly legal, Chief Inspector. Judge Miranda was kind enough to stipulate a bond, and my client paid it. As to my charges for the service, that information is strictly confidential. If you want the numbers, you’ll have to subpoena me. Furthermore, I resent the implication-”

  “That’s enough, Dudu. Get down off your high horse and tell me exactly what the woman said.”

  “She said that an acquaintance of hers, that’s what she called him, an acquaintance, was being held in Santo Andre. She wanted him out. I made a few phone calls. She sat where you’re sitting while I did it. Once I’d analyzed the problem, I gave her a price, my fee plus

  … expenses. She opened her purse, took out a roll of banknotes, and started counting them out.”

  “What was going through your mind?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tell me the thoughts you had at the time. It doesn’t matter if they were pure speculation. Just tell me.”

  Fonseca leaned back in his chair, put his elbows on the armrests, and touched the tips of his fingers together.

  “This is a little embarrassing,” he said, “but I’ll be frank with you. When I saw that roll, I thought I should have set a higher fee. I think she would have paid it. I think she would have peeled off every note and given it to me. There was a kind of quiet intensity about the woman. She desperately wanted Sacca released, God knows why. And God knows what they have in common. She was a woman of some class. From my experience of him, he’s an ignorant buffoon.”