The Ways of Evil Men

by Leighton Gage

  “We got the results,” the bureau chief said. “Congratulations.”

  “I’m on to something?”

  “You sure as hell are. There’s enough mercury in just one of those little bottles to kill a whale. You should get the IBAMA onto it right away.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

  “Oh? Why not?”

  “I’m having lunch with some ladies. I’m afraid I can’t get into it right now.”

  “You think he’s taking bribes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Happens all the time. Want some advice from an old warhorse?”

  “Always.”

  “Talk to him anyway.”

  “You’re suggesting I go to the fox—”

  She stopped before she gave the game away. The women were staring at her, paying close attention to every word she said. Nataniel, sharp as a tack, picked up on it straightaway.

  “And complain about somebody stealing the chickens? I am indeed.”

  “Why?”

  “Politics. The IBAMA big shots in Brasilia are jealous of their turf. An issue like this? It’s theirs. You’ve got to play it through channels. Any other way is going to get their noses out of joint.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “It is. But that’s the way it works. First you complain to him, then you complain to his superiors. That way, if he fails to solve the problem, they get a chance to distance themselves from whatever he might have been up to, and they can be seen to have taken corrective measures as soon as they learned about it. Believe me, if you do it any other way, they’re going to be pissed off. And getting them pissed off will get a certain publisher pissed off and …”

  “He’ll fall on me from a great height.”

  “He will.”

  “All right, Nataniel. I’ll take your advice.”

  “You’ll find I’m right. I’m looking forward to reading your stuff.”

  She thanked him, hung up, and turned back to Patricia. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “So, Patricia, you were saying that you ladies were all appalled by what Omar Torres did to that tribe, but …”

  “But what?” Patricia asked.

  “Are you sure he did it?”

  “Everyone in this town is,” Patricia said. “Everyone who is anyone heard him threatening to do it at one time or another. Isn’t that so, ladies?”

  The other two women nodded.

  “I heard him say it myself,” Rita said.

  “Me, too,” Maria said. “Many times. And the Indian knew it, too.”

  “The Indian knew who was responsible?”

  “That’s right. He told Father Castori that Torres did it.”

  “And how did the Indian discover that?”

  “He didn’t say. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, the important thing is that he knew, and he revenged himself upon Torres because of it.”

  “Last night,” Maura said, “I had a chat with one of the federal cops. They seem to think the Indian was innocent.”

  “I heard that not two hours ago from one of those same federal cops,” Patricia said. “And it’s a ridiculous assertion. The savage was lying right next to Omar’s body, dead drunk. He had a knife in his hand. He was covered with Omar’s blood. Who else could it have been?”

  “It’s not as complicated as those Federal Policemen are trying to make it out,” Rita chimed in. “It’s all simple and straightforward. Omar poisoned the tribe, and the Indian killed him in revenge. That’s it. End of story.”

  “There’s also the lynching,” Maura said.

  “That,” Patricia said, “was unfortunate.”

  “Very,” Maria agreed.

  “And so unnecessary,” Rita said. “The sort of thing that could give this town a bad name. I hope that when you write up that part of the story, you won’t tar the whole town with the same brush, go blaming all of us for the actions of a few.”

  “Of course not,” Maura said. “By the way, were any of you there when it happened?”

  All three women shook their heads.

  “But I heard that our delegado, Fernando Borges, tried to stop it,” Patricia said. “Unfortunately, he was overwhelmed.”

  “And I’m told that Osvaldo, the owner of this hotel, also tried to stop it,” Maura said.

  “I heard that as well,” Maria said. “But you have to take into account that he gets carried away about Indians. I think his mother was one. Or his grandmother. Or both. Can we please talk about something else? Some of your past stories, for example. Anything that was syndicated? Anything I might have read? Cesar and I get all the papers from Belem.”

  There was nothing Maura liked to talk about more than her past successes. But this time, she resisted the temptation. First she wanted to drop her bombshell.

  “Just one more question,” she said. “Fish are dying in the Sapoqui River. Did any of you hear anything about that?”

  The ladies shook their heads.

  “How did you hear about it?” Maria asked.

  “A fishing guide told me.”

  “Lots of fish?” Patricia asked.

  “Thousands.”

  “Probably an exaggeration.”

  “No,” Maura said. “It isn’t. I went there to have a look.”

  “What in the world could be causing that?” Rita said.

  “I asked myself the same question, so I took some samples of the water and sent them to Belem to be analyzed.”

  A silence fell, but whether it was caused by guilt, surprise, or a lack of knowledge, Maura couldn’t tell. There was nothing to be read in their faces.

  “I suspect,” she went on, in the hope of provoking response, “that it might be mercury.”

  The faces continued to be blank.

  A few more seconds went by before Maria said, “Why mercury?”

  “It’s used to extract gold,” Maura said. “It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

  “There’s no gold mining around here,” Maria said with conviction.

  “There is if those samples come back positive.”

  “And when is that likely to be?”

  “I’m not sure. A couple of days, perhaps.” Maura could lie like a trooper if she had to.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  HECTOR AND GONÇALVES HAD crossed paths with IBAMA representatives before. As a rule, they’d found them to be crusaders: men and women deeply concerned with Brazil’s flora and fauna. Their mission often led to them being grouped together with their non-governmental counterparts—organizations like Greenpeace. But unlike those other “tree huggers” and “greenies,” the IBAMA had real power behind it, not just the power to move public opinion, but the power to engage the forces of law enforcement within Brazil’s federal government.

  Raul Nonato, however, didn’t fit the mold. He wore no beard, no shorts, no sandals; his skin was pale, not browned by exposure to the sun. His linen trousers were freshly pressed, there wasn’t a scratch on his polished boots, his wristwatch was a stainless steel Rolex, and he was using cologne Hector had previously smelled exclusively on politicians—a sure sign it was expensive.

  He received them in his living room, the home of the much-vaunted sixty-inch television set. “My office is in back,” he said. “But we’ll be more comfortable here. Make yourselves at home.” He pointed to a couple of plush armchairs.

  “Never thought of taking an office in town?” Hector asked, sinking into the soft fabric.

  “I prefer working from home,” Nonato said, taking a seat on the couch. “Besides, it saves the agency money.”

  “Nice TV,” Gonçalves said.

  Nonato smiled, gratified by the admiration. “A gift from one of my rich uncles. A kinder person never lived. How about that Indian, eh? Slaughtering a white man like that? And then the lynching. This town hasn’t seen that kind of excitement since I got here.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “A little over two years.”

  “Like
it?”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. So what can I do for you?”

  “You’re an outsider,” Hector said, drawing him in, “and not involved in any of the recent events, so we thought you might see them from a different angle.”

  “Well,” Nonato said, “I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? From what I hear, Omar Torres was running around town, telling folks that the Indians had to go and—”

  “Who told you that?”

  “José Frade,” Nonato said promptly.

  “How come you remember so well?”

  “Because it was only this morning. Frade was in town to stock up on a few things. We met on the street and got to talking. The whole story came out.”

  “What whole story?”

  “Same one you must have heard.”

  “We’ve heard a story. But we’d like to hear it the way Frade told it to you.”

  “He said Torres was always going on and on and on about what he called ‘the Indian problem,’ and if the government didn’t do something about it soon, he would.”

  “And by ‘the Indian problem’ he meant?”

  “Getting them off the reservation. Opening up the land to more productive uses. And you know what? I can’t say I disagree with him. As long as it could have been done legally, of course, and without the Indians getting hurt.”

  “I’m a bit surprised to hear you say that,” Hector said.

  “You are? Why?”

  “Doesn’t it conflict with the IBAMA’s brief?”

  Nonato waved a finger. “Not at all! Don’t confuse us with the FUNAI. They’re the ones who are supposed to be looking out for the Indians. We don’t do people; we do environment, and if you think we stand in the way of progress, you’re laboring under a misconception. The IBAMA is all for development, it just has to be sustainable development. But don’t get me started on that. I’ll talk your ears off.”

  “Okay. So you were saying …”

  “Torres poisoned the Awana, and the last man standing, the one they lynched, found out about it—”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know, but he told Father C that he did.”

  “Castori?”

  “Yeah, Castori.”

  “And how do you know that?”

  “Same source. José Frade. And then you heard about where they found them, right? Torres’s neck all slashed to hell with a machete? The state the Indian was in? The bloody knife right next to him?”

  “Yes, we heard all of that.”

  “So that’s it. You know what I know.”

  “Okay then,” Hector said. “Thanks. I think that about covers it. By the way, just out of curiosity, what keeps you busy around here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your duties. What does an IBAMA agent do all day?”

  “We patrol. We make sure nobody’s breaking any environmental laws.”

  “Ever catch anybody?”

  Nonato grinned. “Not yet. My predecessor did a damned good job of cleaning up the place, got rid of the illegal loggers and all, didn’t leave me hardly anything to do.”

  “Do you know Paulo Cunha?”

  “Sure. Everybody knows Paulo Cunha. Why?”

  “We’re told he sends a lot of hardwood to Belem.”

  “He does.”

  “And you issue him transport permits.”

  “I do. Why wouldn’t I? It’s all legal.”

  “Where does he get the wood?”

  Nonato shrugged. “Some he buys from his neighbors; some he cuts on his own land.” He glanced at the clock on top of his monster TV set. “Hey, you guys want to see São Paulo play Palmeiras? It’s starting in about five minutes, and the picture on this thing puts you right there on the field.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  AFTER STRIKING OUT WHEN she mentioned the gold, Maura made a final attempt to elicit a useful response by bringing up the name of Welinton Mendes.

  But there, too, her luncheon companions disappointed her. No one, they told her, gave credence to anything old Welinton ever said. (Maria: one nugget, querida, hardly constitutes a strike). They also dismissed the disappearance of the prospector, preferring to believe he’d suffered some accident (Rita, taking a stab at humor: the old drunk probably fell into the Jagunami and drifted out to sea).

  The luncheon ended with kisses and hugs all around—and the three interviewees all got up and left at the same time.

  “Why the frown?” Amanda said when she came to clear the dishes from the table. “From over there, it looked like you all got along.”

  “We did,” Maura said. “They all invited me to tea.”

  “So I repeat, why the frown?”

  “Because I didn’t learn a damned thing. And I shudder at the thought of having tea. They’re not my kind of people.”

  “I agree they’re not your kind of people. But what were you hoping to learn?”

  Maura liked Amanda—and instinctively trusted her. With Jade gone, she needed at least one ally. “If you’ve got a minute,” she said, “I’ll tell you.”

  “I’m off to the supermarket. I need some stuff to prepare dinner. But if you want to tag along …”

  “Sure.”

  They were almost there by the time Maura finished her story. She concluded it by sharing the test results.

  “But nobody knows about that except for you,” she said, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

  “I will,” Amanda said. “I promise. So the old coot was right after all?”

  “He was.”

  Maura paused on the wooden sidewalk under the supermarket’s awning. The street, at that time of day, was virtually deserted, but she didn’t expect that to be the case inside. Better to finish their conversation out there in the heat, with only stray dogs and flies as witnesses.

  “You think someone killed him?” Amanda asked. “To take over his strike for themselves?”

  “That would be my guess. Ana’s, too.”

  Amanda brushed away a stray fly. “Isn’t it about time you clued in the cops?

  “Not yet,” Maura said. She explained her reasons, told her she’d already confessed her suspicions to Gonçalves.

  “Not good enough,” Amanda insisted. “You’ve got to speak to the Chief Inspector himself.”

  “And I will. But not yet. Let’s go inside, shall we? Get out of this heat?”

  Before she could turn around and go through the door, Amanda put a hand on her arm. “It could change the focus of their whole investigation. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Well, duh! Of course, I do.”

  “And if Welinton’s strike is on the reservation—”

  “Which it probably is, it could well have been the reason for murdering the tribe. Yes, I know that too. So I’m not going to let any grass grow under my feet. As soon as I get some photographs—”

  Maura stopped talking when a young woman carrying a baby on one arm and lugging a shopping bag with the other exited the supermarket’s front door. She greeted Amanda, and acknowledged Maura with a little smile, but was too heavily-laden to stop and chat.

  Amanda lowered her voice and said, “Photographs? You’re not planning on going back there?”

  “I am.”

  “That’s crazy! If those people, whoever they are, killed Welinton, what’s to prevent them from killing you?”

  “I’ll be careful. Besides, I’m not going alone. I’m going to bring Nonato, the IBAMA agent.”

  Amanda raised her eyes to heaven and snorted. “Nonato? That guy is useless. He knows no more about the rainforest than you do. No, Maura, my advice is to tell the federal cops and to tell them now.”

  “Stop insisting, Amanda. I can’t. Don’t you see? If I do, Silva will freeze me out.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “He did it before. If he does it again, that would be the end of my scoop. I’m not going to take that chance.”<
br />
  Amanda heaved a sigh. “I can see your point, but—”

  “It’s not going to take long. I’m going to talk to Nonato this afternoon.”

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I heard the feds discussing their plans. Nonato was on their list to be interviewed. You might run into them there. And if they haven’t gone yet, it will be worse. He’s a blabbermouth, that one. He’d tell them straight off what you’re up to.”

  Two scruffy kids with similar features, the eldest about nine and clutching a five-Real note, the other perhaps a year younger, passed them and went inside. They were talking about something their mother had said. Both women ignored them.

  “Tomorrow, then. And when he and I get back, and I’ve got my pictures, I’ll talk to Silva. Can you help me find a new guide?”

  “What’s wrong with Fred?”

  “He got skittish. He doesn’t want to go back, thinks it’s too dangerous.”

  “He’s right. If someone really is mining gold—”

  “As a fishing guide, he’s right. As a journalist, I see it from another angle.”

  Amanda sighed. “And there isn’t a damned thing I can say that’s going to change your mind, is there?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “Then I’ll think about the problem of the guide, but first let’s get out of this heat.”

  Ten steps beyond the front door, Amanda stopped short. “Sonia Frade,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Sonia Frade. That’s her, over there.”

  She lifted her chin, indicating a slim woman in a shapeless dress. Sonia was pushing a shopping cart, putting one foot in front of another like an automaton. Maura was struck by her eyes. They were brown, downcast and sad.

  “Introduce me?” she said.

  “Sure. Come on.”

  Just then, a tall man came around the far corner of the aisle and approached Sonia from behind. Again, Amanda stopped short.

  “Her husband,” she said. “He’s pissed off about something.”

  Maura studied the scowl on José Frade’s face and shrugged. “So what? Should we care?”

  “You wouldn’t ask if you knew the man. When he’s like that, folks around here stay out of his way.”