“You watched the lynching from the time they hustled him out of the front door of the delegacia until the time he was swinging from a tree, and yet you can stand there and tell me you didn’t recognize a single one of the perpetrators?”
“I can, and I just did.”
“And I still find it hard to believe.”
“Too bad. You’ve got my answer.”
“This is a small town, the kind of a place where everybody knows everybody else—”
“It is a small town. We do know each other. And we stick together.” She crossed her forefinger with her middle finger and held them up scant centimeters from his face. “Like that.”
“All the time?”
“When it comes to outsiders like you, and that FUNAI woman, yes.”
“What do you have against the FUNAI woman?”
She threw up her hands and expelled another one of those pungent breaths of hers. “I’ve said all I’m going to say.”
And it was. He couldn’t get another word out of her.
BACK WHEN Silva was a two-pack-a-day man, cigarette smoke never bothered him, and he couldn’t understand why nonsmokers objected to it. For a year after he quit, people used to ask him if he minded when they smoked in his company. He’d always told them he didn’t.
These days, he did. He wanted, however, to put Renato Kassab at his ease, so he didn’t utter a word of protest when the lawyer ignited his second unfiltered Caballero in the space of fifteen minutes.
“It’s my understanding,” he said, rubbing his irritated eyes and hoping that Kassab would notice, “that Jade was here, talking to you, when they broke into Amati’s cell.”
“Indeed she was,” Kassab said, ignoring or oblivious to the eye rubbing. “I heard a gunshot. Later, I discovered it was Delegado Borges, firing his shotgun into the air to dissuade them. Unfortunately, it did little good.”
“No good at all might be a better way to put it.”
“Quite right, Chief Inspector. I stand corrected.”
“Before you spoke to Jade, you went outside and talked to the people who’d followed her down the street. Is that correct?”
“It is.”
“And you managed to convince them to disperse.”
“I did.”
“What did you say to them?”
“I don’t recall.”
“I see.”
What Silva saw was that Kassab was lying, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d admit it. He let it drop. “There seems to be a consensus that the Indian killed Omar Torres,” he said.
“Do you doubt it?”
“I do.”
“Why?”
“We have forensic evidence to the contrary.”
“Do you mind sharing it?”
“It would be a bit premature at the moment. As a lawyer, I’m sure you understand.”
“Perfectly. But it’s a revelation. We’ve all been operating under the assumption that the Indian was guilty.”
If Silva had been interrogating a criminal, he would have pounced upon the words ‘all’ and ‘operating,’ both indicators, in his opinion, of collusion. Instead he said, “What did Jade do when she heard the shot?”
“Took off as if the devil was after her.”
“Did you follow her?”
“No.”
“Were you close to the murdered man?”
“Torres? I knew him. We weren’t close. I thought he was a brute, a womanizer, and a braggart. I won’t miss him.”
“A brute, a womanizer, and a braggart—and yet the whole town stepped up to avenge him?”
Kassab picked a fragment of tobacco off his tongue with the tips of his thumb and forefinger. “They were acting out of a conditioned response as much as anything else. This is a frontier community. The people of Azevedo have been defending themselves against Indians ever since the town was built.”
“So there have been cases, in the past, where the Indians have proven themselves to be a threat?”
“Look at any history book.”
“I’m not talking, Senhor Kassab, about incidents out of history books. I’m talking about instances here in Azevedo.”
“Well … no. Not that I recall.”
“But it is true, is it not, that certain townsfolk have had their eye on the Indian’s land? They’d like to have the reservation declassified and sold off?”
“Yes. There’s a certain … conflict of interest between the Indians and the townsfolk. I admit that.”
“And where do you stand on that issue?”
“I’m a citizen of this town, Chief Inspector. I make my living here. These people are my friends and my neighbors, my colleagues and my clients. You could hardly expect me to take a position against them. But I don’t want you thinking, even for a moment, that I’m a racist or a bigot. I don’t believe, as some do, that Indians are dirty or diseased.” He waved his forefinger. “That said, it’s undeniable that they stand in the way of progress. Look at a map, Chief Inspector. Look at a map.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
Kassab ground out his cigarette into an overflowing ashtray, swiveled his chair around and opened the drawer of a credenza. He took out a topographical map protected by a transparent plastic envelope and put it on the table.
“This is the reservation,” he said, stabbing a finger at an area hatched in red. “This here”—he ran the same finger along an irregular black line—“is the Jagunami River. It’s the border. Private land on this side, and the reservation on the other.”
“Except for here,” Silva said, putting his own forefinger on the map. “Why is that?”
“Historical precedent,” the lawyer said. “That used to be the founder’s land, and he built a bridge. Out of consideration for what he’d done in colonizing the region, the government let him keep it, that part of the land and the bridge. These days, it all belongs to the mayor. His father doubled the size of his fazenda by buying this whole area here”—Kassab circumscribed it with his forefinger—“from Azevedo’s heirs.”
Silva continued to study the map. “Cunha’s piece looks rather small in camparison to the others.”
“Cunha is more of a businessman than he is a fazendeiro. He owns the pharmacy, the supermarket, and a few other establishments.”
“Does the reservation border on any land not owned by a citizen of Azevedo? Any public land?”
“Only on the far side.”
“Who are the others with property adjoining the reservation?”
“Roberto Lisboa, José Frade, and Cesar Bonetti.” Kassab pointed out the properties, one by one. “And this one belonged to Omar Torres.”
Silva leaned forward for a closer look. “So, on the side of the town, the sole access to the reservation is through the property of the men you’ve just mentioned.”
“At the moment, yes. If, however, a road were to be cut around this way—” Kassab traced a great circle around Lisboa’s fazenda, the one situated farthest from the town.
“But that road doesn’t exist, does it?” Silva leaned back in his chair.
“No,” Kassab said.
“Nor would there be any reason to cut it if the declassification were to occur sometime soon.”
“True. And if you’re implying our great landowners would benefit from a declassification of the reservation—”
“I am.”
“—then you’d be right. But indirectly, it would benefit almost everyone else in this town as well.”
“A rising tide floats all ships, eh?”
“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”
Chapter Nineteen
SILVA LOOKED UP WHEN he heard an aircraft heading toward the airport. It prompted him to return to the Grand, where Osvaldo greeted them with a thumbs-up. He looked much improved from their conversation earlier in the day.
“I heard it, too,” he said. “I expect it’s the people you were waiting for.”
“I hope so. Seen my colleague?”
“He’s in the bar, came in about fifteen minutes ago. He got stonewalled. He isn’t happy.”
“Neither am I,” Silva said.
“If it helps, I can give you a list of people I saw at the lynching.”
“It won’t. They’ll all give me a list of people who’ll swear they were somewhere else. We all set up for tomorrow?”
“I got the jeeps, and I recruited six guys to dig. They’ve got their own tools and their own truck.”
“Truck?”
“With four-wheel drive. You’re going to need it to bring the bodies back.”
“So we are. Good thinking.”
“They’ll be here at eight.”
SILVA GAVE the new arrivals half an hour to freshen up. Then he briefed them and handed out assignments. First, he addressed Gilda Caropreso, their medical examiner and Hector’s fiancée. “Gilda?”
“Senhor?”
“Go examine the bodies. Pay particular attention to the wounds in the fazendeiro’s neck. We’ll talk about them later.”
“I’ll go get my kit. Where are they?”
“Doctor Pinto’s office. Out the door and to the right. It’s a short walk.”
“This side of the street?”
“This side of the street. And be prepared for what you’re going to see. The Indian was suspended.”
“Yes,” she said. “I gathered that from what our taxi driver told us.”
“Same one we had, no doubt. I’m told there’s only one in town. Hector?”
“Senhor?”
“Early this morning, I sent prints, nail scrapings, clothing, and what’s reputed to be the murder weapon to São Paulo. Call Lefkowitz, and stress that I want a quick turnaround.”
Lefkowitz, Hector’s top forensic person, was the best in the business. Silva employed his services whenever he could.
“Will do.”
“I suppose your pilot has already left?”
“He’s been here before—and couldn’t wait to get away.
Why?”
“There’s no air courier service. Any future lab work will have to go by charter.”
“It’ll cost a bundle. Sampaio will have a fit.”
The Director of the Federal Police would not have been pleased to see the expressions the mention of his name elicited.
“Fuck him,” Arnaldo said.
“My sentiments exactly,” Silva said. He turned to Gonçalves, the third and last of the São Paulo team. “Haraldo?”
“Senhor?”
“You get the plum job, an assignment you’re going to like. A journalist from São Paulo, name of Maura Mandel, is staying with Jade Calmon, the FUNAI agent.”
“Attractive?”
“They both are. That’s why you’re going to like it. The woman at the reception desk will know where Jade lives. I want to get our signals straight for tomorrow morning. Go over there and invite them both to dinner.”
“My pleasure.”
“Let’s go, people. The sooner we get this cleared up, the sooner we’ll be out of this hellhole.”
“Amen to that,” Arnaldo said.
BY THE time they sat down to eat, Gonçalves, the Federal Police’s lothario, had already made inroads with Maura and had spirited her away to a table in a far corner of the restaurant. They had their heads together and were conversing in low tones. Jade was left with Gilda and the cops.
“Babyface works fast,” Arnaldo said.
“Babyface?” Jade said.
“That’s what we call him, but never to his baby face. It gets his nose out of joint.”
“Well, I can see why you would. He doesn’t look to be more than—”
“Exactly,” Arnaldo said.
“How old is he, anyway? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”
“Well into his thirties.”
She looked at Gonçalves with renewed interest.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Jade looked perplexed. “What’s with the ‘working fast’ bit? Somewhat of a charmer, is he?”
“You have no idea,” Arnaldo said. “Many are the households in which the caring parents of pining young women are careful never to mention any last name beginning with the letter G for fear of eliciting a hysterical outburst.”
“They’re well matched then.”
“A charmer herself, is she?” Silva asked.
“You have no idea. Many are the bars where sad young men spend their nights drinking to forget her. The development of this relationship should be interesting.”
“A battle of champions? The seductress seduced?”
“Or vice versa.” She looked around to make sure they weren’t being heard, lowered her voice, and leaned across the table to Gilda. “On a more serious note, did you …”
“Examine the bodies? Yes, I did. Why don’t we talk about it tomorrow on the way to the village?”
“Couldn’t you at least tell me one thing tonight?”
“All right. If I can. What is it?”
“Do you agree with the Chief Inspector?”
“About the Indian being innocent?”
“Yes.”
“I do.” She looked at Silva. “You were right to draw my attention to the wounds. They were delivered by someone at least as tall as Torres was, probably taller.”
“And the Indian was a shorter man. Good. Anything else?”
“They were laid on, one on top of the other. If the Indian was drunk, as they say he was, they would have been all over the place.”
“Yes, I spotted that one.”
“The killer was right-handed.”
“I spotted that, too. Anything else?”
“The wounds were deep, deep enough in one instance to sever one of the vertebrae. Only a man, or a stronger-than-average woman, could have inflicted them. And the fingernail scrapings, the ones you’ve sent off for analysis, are unlikely to be of any help.”
“Why?”
“The wounds were all on one side of Torres’s body, which wouldn’t have been the case if he’d been able to turn around. There were none on his hands, or on his forearms, as there would have been if he was facing his assailant and trying to defend himself. I doubt that he saw the person who killed him. If there’s anything under those nails, it’s unlikely to be from the killer, unless they had an altercation earlier in the evening.”
“Good work, Gilda. How about the Indian?”
“That conversation,” she said, “I really would prefer to leave for tomorrow.”
Chapter Twenty
ARNALDO PICKED UP THE butter dish and sniffed. “Rancid again.”
“It’s actually a flavoring agent. Because of the heat around here, people got used to the taste of rancid butter, and that’s the way they prefer it,” Silva said. “And by the way, they get it out of a can.”
“I hate Pará.”
“Stop bitching and try the fruit.”
It was fuzzy and brown and about the size of a mango. Silva cut into his and used his fork to pop white pulp into his mouth. Arnaldo studied him for a reaction.
“Well?”
“Kind of a cross between a banana and a pear. It’s not bad.”
“Not good either, I’ll bet. I’ll pass. Heads up. The ladies just came in.”
Silva turned to see Amanda and Maura approaching their table. The journalist, in a long sleeve shirt and cargo pants tucked into hiking boots, was dressed for the bush.
“Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said. “You didn’t tell her last night?”
Silva shook his head. “It would have ruined dinner.”
He stood up. “Good morning. Senhorita Mandel, won’t you join us for breakfast at least?”
“What do you mean by, at least?” Maura asked, suspiciously.
“You won’t be accompanying us to the village.”
“Oh, yes, I will.”
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
“Why not? Don’t you think the public has a right to be informed about what’s going on?”
“Not when it might hinder an investigation.”
“I’ll keep it all off the record, won’t write a word until you tell me I can publish it.”
“Sorry, the answer is still no.”
“I don’t think you’re sorry at all. And I’m certain your boss wouldn’t agree.”
Silva bristled. “My boss, Senhorita Mandel, is obsessed with seeing his name in the newspapers, which is something that interests me not at all. My obsession is apprehending criminals.”
“Is that for publication?”
“No, it is not.”
“Then it’s my turn to be sorry, Chief Inspector. I don’t like playing the game this way, but you leave me no choice. If you don’t agree to bring me along, I’m going to call Sampaio and quote you.”
“It is I, Senhorita Mandel, who might be said to be quoting you.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“What was the term you used back in Belem? Publicity whore? Yes, that was it. Publicity whore.”
“Are you threatening to squeal to him about something I said to you in confidence?”
“Are you?”
TEN MINUTES later, a fuming Maura Mandel, her arms akimbo, stood in the doorway of the Grand Hotel and watched the caravan prepare for departure.
Gilda got into the rear of the lead jeep, next to Hector. Silva sat in front. Jade, after casting an apologetic backward glance at her angry friend, took the wheel. And then they were off.
About five kilometers beyond the outskirts of the town, they branched off onto an unmarked and narrow road and crossed a bridge.
“That’s the Jagunami,” Jade said, pointing down at the sluggish brown water. “In most places, it’s the border of the reservation.”
“But not here?” Silva said.
“Not here. Enrique Azevedo, the founder of the town, staked out this land. In deference to him, and what he’d done for the region, the people drawing the reservation’s boundaries allowed him to keep it. He built the bridge. His house is over there, among those trees to the east.”
Silva squinted against the light. “It looks abandoned,” he said.
“It is. Azevedo’s heirs sold out to Hugo Toledo, the mayor’s father. Toledo had his own house, and it was bigger than that one, so he left Azevedo’s to rot.”
The Ways of Evil Men Page 10