“Jesus, Maura—”
“I want to tell you about it because if anything happens to me, you’ll know where to start looking.”
“If you have reason to believe—”
“I do.”
“Then you should back off. Now. No story is worth getting killed for.”
“I don’t intend to get killed—”
“Nobody ever intends to get killed, but they do.”
“I’m not going to back off on this, Haraldo. No way. So please stop beating around the bush. Are you willing to give me your word or not? Because if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you a thing. It’s my story, I unearthed it, and I intend to be the one to break it.”
“I don’t understand—”
“Of course you don’t. You’re not a journalist. Last chance, Haraldo. Your word. Yes or no.”
“You’re not giving me any choice.”
“Is that a yes?”
“It’s a yes.”
“Hallelujah! Finally! Okay, listen …”
Chapter Thirty-Five
SILVA’S ALARM CLOCK AND telephone rang in quick succession. Switching off the first, he picked up the second.
“Did I wake you?” It was Lefkowitz.
“By a couple of seconds, no.” Silva blinked his bleary eyes at the clock: 7:30 A.M. exactly. “Did you fall out of bed?”
“I got tired of sitting in São Paulo traffic for an hour and a half every morning. If I get up at five thirty, I miss the rush and get here in thirty-five minutes flat. Guess what I’ve got?”
“Insomnia?”
“Rodrigues’s report.”
“Already?”
“The time stamp on her email is five seventeen this morning. She must have pulled an all-nighter. You got email at that hotel of yours?”
“I’m not sure. And I don’t need all the scientific gobbledygook. Just give me the bottom line. What was in that meat?”
“Batrachotoxin.”
“Wait,” Silva said. He grabbed his notebook and a pen. “Spell it.”
Lefkowitz did.
“Got it,” Silva said when he’d confirmed the spelling. “Now what, exactly, is it?”
“A steroidal alkaloid. A lethal dose for an oversized person like Arnaldo would be in the neighborhood of one hundred micrograms.”
“Oversized person, eh? I’ll tell him you said that. How much is one hundred micrograms?”
“Please do. That’s why I said it. One hundred micrograms is roughly the weight of two grains of table salt.”
“Whoa! Toxic is right.”
“It’s extracted from the skin glands of the phyllobates terribilis.”
“What the hell is a—”
“A frog, not much bigger than my thumb, but with enough poison in it to kill ten human beings. Some tribes tip the darts of their blowguns with the stuff; hence the little creature’s other name: the poison dart frog. The poison blocks the transmission of nerve signals to the muscles.”
“Stops hearts from pumping, lungs from breathing, that sort of thing?”
“That sort of thing. Fast-acting, too. Fast enough to drop monkeys and birds in their tracks. Administered orally, it takes a bit longer to kill, but it’s just as lethal.”
“Commercially available?”
“Yes. It has some uses I won’t bore you with, but it’s heavily controlled. Mara has already started checking sources, but I think it’s more likely your killers extracted it themselves.”
“And how would they have done that?”
“I don’t know, but the Chocó tribe does it by impaling a frog on a piece of wood and holding it over a fire. Bubbles of poison form when the frog’s skin begins to blister.”
“How do you find out these things?”
“I have a secret. It’s called the Internet.”
“SO ALL the poisoner—”
“Or poisoners,” Gilda corrected.
“—or poisoners,” Silva agreed, “would have to have done was to gather the little bubbles, get them into a syringe and inject the meat.”
“But before that,” Hector said, pouring himself more coffee, “they would have had to have had specialized knowledge.” He put down the pot. “Think about it. This is an obscure poison, right?”
“It certainly is,” Silva said. “Anyone at this table ever heard of it before?”
They all shook their heads.
“So,” Gilda went on, “they wouldn’t only have to have known about it, but also how to extract it.”
“And who the hell would have?” Arnaldo said, cutting into a piece of jackfruit.
“A pharmacist, or a biologist,” Silva said.
“Or a doctor,” Gilda said. “Not all of us are as ignorant of poisons as I am.”
“Maybe somebody who knew the customs of Indians,” Hector put in.
“Which means you could include almost any long-term resident of this area.”
“Or someone who likes to read,” Silva said, “because they could have taken their knowledge from a book.”
“Or a priest who lived with one of the tribes,” Arnaldo said.
“In short, knowing what the poison was doesn’t bring us one iota closer to telling us who might have used it,” Silva said. “Let’s talk about who’s going to interview whom.”
HE CHOSE Paulo Cunha as the first subject for Arnaldo and himself. Cunha received them in the well-appointed office he kept above his pharmacy. Through the picture window behind his desk, the two cops could see his name in meterhigh letters on the façade of the supermarket across the street.
“Do I think Torres rooted out that tribe?” Cunha echoed Silva’s question. “I most certainly do.”
“Why?”
“He hated to see those Indians sitting on all that land. Truth to tell, all of us did, but Omar was the only one who ever said he intended to do something about it.”
“He said that, did he?”
“He did. I heard him myself, heard him say that if the government didn’t solve the problem, he would. I thought he was bluffing, never thought he’d do it, but he proved me wrong. It just goes to show, you never can tell about people.”
“Said he’d murder them?” Silva didn’t try to keep the skepticism out of his voice.
Cunha backpedaled. “Well … no, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. And it wasn’t just to me; he said it to a lot of people. Ask around. You’ll see.”
“All right. Let’s assume he was guilty—”
“Assume it, Chief Inspector, because he was.”
“—how could the Indian have learned that Torres was the one he should blame?”
“I can’t tell you. But I know he did.”
“How do you know?”
“Father Castori told me. And the Indian told him when that FUNAI woman took him there.”
“If that’s true, why didn’t Father Castori also tell Senhorita Calmon?”
“Didn’t he?”
“No. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”
“Not if you know Castori. The man has a drinking problem.” Cunha glanced at his watch. “Can we speed this up? I’ve got another appointment in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” Arnaldo said, “how about we talk about that truckload of wood?”
“What truckload of wood?”
“The one you sent to Belem yesterday.”
“Oh. That wood. What about it?”
“Where did you get it?
“I harvested it on my fazenda.”
“How long have you had that fazenda?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Almost fifteen years.”
“Fifteen years? And you still hadn’t harvested all the wood on the property?”
“It was hardwood. Hardwood takes time to grow. I don’t cut trees less than ten meters high.”
“So that whole truckload was freshly cut?”
“I harvested it about a mont
h ago.”
“How about you show us the site?”
“You’re suggesting I came by that wood illegally?”
“How about you show us the site?” Arnaldo repeated.
“I resent the implication. I have never, in all of my life, dealt in illegal wood.”
“Then you should have no objection to showing us the site.”
“I don’t. Of course I don’t. But it won’t tell you a thing. I’ve already burned the boughs and leaves, unearthed the stumps. And yesterday, I plowed the land for planting.”
“How convenient.”
Cunha bristled. “You have no right to—”
“Where do you store wood before you have it loaded onto a truck?”
“In a covered area near my front gate. I suppose you want to see that, too.”
“We do.”
“It’s empty at the moment.”
“So you’re not currently in possession of any wood at all?”
“None.”
“We want to see your financial records.”
“I’ve had enough of this! You want to see my fazenda? Get a search warrant. You want to see my records? Get legal permission.”
“Just a few more questions. I’m told you own an airplane.”
Cunha slammed a hand on his desk. “No, Agent Nunes, no more questions. I don’t like your attitude. If either one of you has anything else to say to me, you can say it in the presence of my lawyer and with the paperwork that would obligate me to talk to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. My secretary will show you out.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
THE MAYOR’S OFFICE WAS in the Toledo Building, the tallest in town, and the only one with an elevator. Beyond two glass doors and visible to anyone approaching from the street was a portrait, in oils, of a hunger-thin, fierce-looking man with a bristling moustache.
The mayor, in contrast, was clean-shaven, avuncular, and running to fat.
“Who’s the guy in the painting?” Gonçalves asked when he and Hector were seated, drinking coffee.
“In the entrance hall downstairs?” Toledo said. “That’s my old man, Hugo Senior.”
“A good likeness?”
“Him to the life,” Toledo said proudly, as if he’d painted it himself.
There was a distinct lack of similarity between the man in the portrait and the one seated in front them. Seeing a photo of Enrique Azevedo would have cleared up the mystery, but there was little chance of that. There were no photos of Enrique Azevedo, not a single one anywhere in the town. The elder Toledo had seen to that. In stark contrast to his wife, Hugo Senior had hated The Founder.
“Frankly, Delegado”—Toledo looked at the card Hector had given him—“Costa, I’d been expecting the courtesy of a visit from your boss. I am, after all, the mayor.”
“Unfortunately,” Hector said, ever the diplomat, “something urgent and unrelated to this case came up, so …” He opened his hands, palms upward.
“So here you are instead. Yes, I see. Well, let’s get started then. First, let me say by way of introduction that the good people of this town, myself included, are horrified by recent events. Firstly, by what Omar Torres did to those Indians. There are those, of course, who—”
Hector held up a hand to interrupt him. “One moment, Senhor Prefeito. Are you telling me you’re blaming Torres for the genocide of the Awana?”
The mayor blinked. A little too innocently, Hector thought.
“Of course. Why, otherwise, would the Indian have killed him?”
“We’re not sure he did.”
In the pause that followed, the door to Toledo’s office opened and a shapely brunette walked in. Both the cops stood up.
“Hello, Hugo, I wonder if … oh, I’m sorry. You have guests.”
“Ah,” the mayor said. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Toledo was a bad actor. This was no surprise. It was programmed. Hector was sure of it.
“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.
“Not in the least.” Toledo got up and shifted a chair from the nearby conference table to his side of the desk. “Please join us, my dear. Delegado Costa, Agent Gonçalves, this is my wife, Patricia.”
She flashed them a smile and sat down. The cops resumed their seats.
“I came into town for lunch and had time for a cup of coffee,” she said. “But I don’t want to interrupt anything. If you’re busy, I’ll just stroll down to the Grand.”
“Not at all,” Toledo said. “You’re welcome here. Isn’t she, gentlemen?”
“By all means,” Hector said. “We’d be grateful for your contribution.”
“Then I’ll have that coffee,” she said.
“Coming right up.” Toledo filled a cup from the thermos flask on his desk. She took it, reached for the sugar and served herself two spoonfuls.
“I suppose Hugo has told you,” she said, “about how horrified we are by what’s happened.”
Same word her husband used, Hector thought. Horrified. “Yes,” he said. “He has.”
She took a sip, studying the two cops over the rim of her cup. “Omar hated having those Indians there,” she said.
“Not that he was alone,” Toledo said. “Truth to tell, that reservation has always been a thorn in our sides. We’re productive people. We grow crops. We raise cattle. We contribute to the wealth of the nation. The more land we’ve got, the more the nation benefits. More food means lower prices. Our success generates tax income, makes the wheels of commerce go around. Commerce generates jobs. Now, you take the Indians. What do they produce? Nothing! They were sitting on land we could have turned productive. And worse, it was costing taxpayer money to keep them there. After all, who do you think pays the salaries of people like Jade Calmon? People like us, that’s who.”
It was a politician’s speech, obviously prepared in advance. Toledo was warming to his theme. His face was getting red. But Patricia was no wallflower. As soon as he paused for breath, she stepped in.
“The Awana were going to have to join the twenty-first century sooner or later. That’s all we ever wanted them to do: join the twenty-first century. Rooting them out never crossed our minds. And when Omar brought it up, we laughed at him. We never expected him to go out and do it.”
“How come you’re so sure he did?” Gonçalves asked.
“He kept going on and on about it. Not just to us. To everyone.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Everyone. Frade, Lisboa, Cunha, Bonetti, Doctor Pinto. Ask them, they’ll tell you.”
“What makes you sure the Indian knew who to blame?” Hector asked.
She turned to her husband. “You didn’t tell them?”
“I was about to when you arrived.” She turned back to the cops. “We had it from Father Castori,” she said. “And he had it from the Indian’s own mouth.”
“When was this?”
“Just after that FUNAI agent brought him to town,” Hugo said.
“Jade doesn’t speak the Indian’s language,” Patricia said. “She had to use the padre to translate for her.”
Hugo Toledo leaned forward in his chair and stared directly into Hector’s eyes, the very picture of sincerity. “Look, Delegado Costa, do you want my advice about all of this?”
“Please.”
“It’s this: We’re public servants, you and I. We have to think about what’s best for the town, we can’t get caught up in the details, we have to look at the larger picture.” The mayor was a hand-waver. He illustrated what he was saying by pointing first at Hector, then at himself and then extending his arms and as if to embrace the larger picture. “The man who poisoned the tribe has been punished. The man who murdered him has been punished. The people who lynched the Indian are good citizens. They might have gone overboard by taking the law into their own hands, but they did what they thought was right. Public sympathy is on their side. You won’t find anyone who’ll be willing to identify them or to testify aga
inst them. Attempting to do so will be a complete waste of energy. And even if you could find out who they are, which you won’t, to punish them would be a travesty of justice.”
“What if the Indian didn’t do it?”
The mayor expelled an exasperated sigh. “I’ve told you what Father Castori said. Go and speak to him, if you don’t believe me.”
“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”
“No, but you seem to harbor serious doubts. I’ve told you why we think the Indian was guilty. Now, please, tell me why you think he wasn’t. Do you have some kind of forensic proof?”
“We think we do.”
“The Indian was found, drunk, next to a corpse. He was covered in blood. The murder weapon, they tell me, was pried from his hand. You think you can explain all of that away?”
Hector stood up. Gonçalves took his cue and did the same.
“It would be premature,” Hector said, “to go into details about that at the moment. Thank you, Senhor Prefeito, for your time. And for yours, Senhora. You’ve both been most helpful.”
They hadn’t, of course. But it served his purpose to let them believe they had.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MAURA VEILED MOUNTING DISTASTE for her luncheon companions with a smile and pushed the remaining fish on her plate under a leaf of lettuce. Amanda’s menu had billed it as pacu, but it looked suspiciously like piranha. Or maybe pacu and piranha were the same thing. She didn’t know and didn’t want to ask.
All her questions up to now had been about the vicissitudes of living on one of Brazil’s last frontiers and how the women coped with them. They coped, in fact, extremely well. They were rich. They had servants. They traveled. They had spacious houses and air conditioning, drank imported beverages, and ate imported foods. Theirs was anything but a hardscrabble existence. And it was boring as hell. It wouldn’t make for a decent story.
She was about to ask her first important question of the afternoon, and had just turned to Patricia Toledo to do it, when she felt the vibration of her phone.
She excused herself and took it from the hip pocket of her jeans. It was Nataniel, calling from Belem.
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