Square. Completely empty. And no way out except for the door. There was nothing else she could do. She leaned against one wall, sank down upon her haunches, and waited.
AN HOUR passed. Or maybe it was two. Without her cell phone, and unable to see her watch, Maura had no way of telling.
Suddenly, she heard a key turning in the lock. She started scrambling to her feet, but the adrenaline in her system had dissipated and she wasn’t fully erect when the door was flung open.
A silhouette appeared, deeper black against the blackness of corridor. An arm was raised. Something was flung at her head. When Maura attempted to fend it off, her fingers touched rough fabric. She clenched her fists, caught the object and had just enough time to see what she was holding—some kind of bag, or sack—before the door slammed shut. Still dazed, and with the image of what she’d seen persisting on her retina, she stood there for a moment, clutching the cloth.
And then it moved. There was something inside, something alive. She released her grip. The bag hit the floor with a soft plop, followed by an angry rattle. A second later, something slithered over her foot.
Chapter Forty-Six
NONATO WASN’T DEAD. THERE’D been no bullet in the chamber.
Gonçalves holstered his pistol, took out his handcuffs, and none too gently shackled the man’s hands behind his back.
“Tell us the rest of it and be quick about it,” Silva said.
Nonato was still trembling. He was opening and closing his mouth like a fish starved for oxygen.
Gonçalves grabbed him by the collar of his pajamas and shook him. “Talk, you filho da puta.”
It all came out in a rush: “She came here, told me she took water samples from the Sapoqui, told me she found traces of mercury. She wanted my help to discover who was behind it, go out there to make photos of the site, shut them down.”
“So she didn’t know it was Bonetti?” Silva said.
“No.”
“And you didn’t tell her?”
“No.”
“Did you call him after she was gone? Warn him?”
“That’s all. That’s all I did.”
“And what did you expect him to do?”
“Talk to her. Offer her money.”
“That? Or kill her?”
Nonato looked at his feet. If he’d said even a single word, handcuffed or not, Gonçalves would have hit him.
CESAR AND Maria were unwinding with a drink when they heard a knock.
“Cesar, it’s me, Raul. Let me in.”
Bonetti looked at his watch. “Fucking Nonato,” he whispered. “What does he want at this time of night?”
“Reassurance,” she whispered back. “He’s a nervous little bastard.”
“I’m getting nervous myself.”
“Calm down, Cesar. It’s all over now.”
“I don’t like having her body back there. The hell with waiting until tomorrow morning. As soon as he’s gone, we’ll take her out and dump her.”
“Get Nonato to help. It’ll remind him that he’s in as deep as we are.”
The knock came again, more urgently this time.
“Cesar? Maria? You guys in there?”
Bonetti held a finger to his lips to cut their conversation short. He went to the door, slid back the bolt and opened it. “Cops!” he shouted when he saw Nonato wasn’t alone.
Maria scuttled toward the back of the house, fumbled with the lock, and flung open the door only to find Hector waiting on the other side. He handcuffed her and brought her back to the living room where her husband, wearing cuffs of his own, was spewing abuse at Nonato.
“You weak, stupid little bastard! I’ll kill you for this!”
“Shut up,” Silva said. “Your killing days are over. Where’s Maura Mandel?”
“I got no idea.”
“We’re going to search the place,” Silva said. “If you’re lying, this gentleman here”—he hooked a thumb at Gonçalves—“will give you a severe beating.”
“That’s crap! You can’t do that. You’re cops.”
Gonçalves hit him in the stomach—hard.
“Think again,” he said as Bonetti fought for breath.
“Leave him alone,” Maria said. “You’re too late. She’s dead.”
When he heard that, Gonçalves turned to Maria. She saw the look on his face and recoiled in fear.
“If you’re not wrong,” he said, “you’re dead.”
Silva put a hand on his arm. “Take us,” he said to Maria.
She led them to a door in an unlit hallway. By the time they got there, her hands were trembling too much to insert the key. Gonçalves, cursing, grabbed her wrist and took over the task.
Inside in a pool of light cast by Silva’s flashlight, they found Maura facedown on the floor. And from somewhere in the dark they heard an ominous rattle.
Chapter Forty-Seven
IT WAS FOUR IN the morning. Maura, now out of danger, was resting comfortably, Gonçalves at her side. The other three cops, Gilda, and Doctor Pinto had adjourned to Jade’s living room.
“That snake was a mess,” Gilda was saying. “You shot it, right?”
“Babyface shot it,” Arnaldo said. “Six times. I was standing right next to him when he did it. The room was tiny. I don’t think my ears are ever going to be the same.”
“Whose idea was it to bring us the remains?” Doctor Pinto asked.
Arnaldo pointed at Silva.
The doctor turned to face him. “Quick thinking, Chief Inspector. Without that, she’d be dead.”
“It was a close call,” Gilda explained. “There wouldn’t have been time to run tests for the proper antivenin.”
“And speaking of dead,” Doctor Pinto said, “I’m sure it will interest you to hear that we’ve had another murder.”
“Another one?” Silva said.
Pinto nodded. “Just a few hours ago. I don’t recall ever having—”
“Who was the victim?”
“José Frade,” the doctor said shortly. His expression showed he didn’t take kindly to being interrupted.
“Where?”
“In the same alleyway where the Indian murdered Omar Torres. And with a machete to the neck, while urinating. The two killings were similar in every way.”
“But not,” Silva said, “committed by the same person.”
“Of course not,” Pinto said. “How could they have been? The Indian’s dead, isn’t he?”
Gilda shook her head from side-to-side. “The Indian wasn’t the murderer of Omar Torres.”
“He was. And that’s what my report is going to reflect.”
“You’re wrong.”
Silva intervened. “So you’re in agreement about one thing, at least: Torres and Frade were killed by two different people?”
“On that,” Gilda said, “we agree.”
“Yes,” Doctor Pinto said.
Silva addressed Gilda. “You saw Frade’s corpse in situ?”
She nodded. “It happened just below my window. A crowd gathered when they found him. The noise woke me up. I was just getting out of bed when Amanda knocked on my door.”
“Interfering woman,” Doctor Pinto grumbled. “It was none of her damned business.”
“Doctor Pinto feels,” Gilda said, “that I invaded his territory—”
“And interfered with my work. I’m the medical examiner in this town, not you.”
Gilda ignored him. “But I really don’t give a damn what Doctor Pinto thinks, because I totally disrespect him as a professional—”
“Why you little—”
“That’s enough, Doctor,” Silva said, “Get a handle on your temper, or I’ll expel you from the room. Go on, Gilda.”
“—so I borrowed a flashlight, went down to the alley, made a cursory examination, and found significant differences between the two murders.”
“Tell me.”
“The killer took the murder weapon.”
“But you have reason to bel
ieve it was the same kind of knife?”
“Very similar, I’d say.”
“Okay, go on.”
“The first blow to Frade’s neck, as with Torres, was administered from behind, but delivered by a shorter, and weaker, individual. The wound was slanted upwards and nowhere near as deep. I think, but this is just a guess, that it might have been delivered with some hesitation.”
“Why do you say that?”
“The full force of the killer’s arm wasn’t behind it.”
“And then?”
“Frade turned around, exposing the other side of his neck.”
“So he looked into the face of his killer?”
“He did.”
“How can you be sure which blow was delivered first?”
“He was facing the wall, urinating. The murderer wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him otherwise.”
“Makes sense. What else?”
“The first killer was right-handed. The second was left-handed. The second blow to Frade’s neck was delivered with more conviction that the first. It was deeper and much deadlier. I don’t think a two-time killer would have held back when he first struck. That’s speculation on my part, but—”
“It’s all speculation on your part!” Pinto sputtered. “I can refute everything you said.”
Silva held up a hand to silence him. “And you must feel free to do so, Doctor, when she’s finished. Go on, Gilda.”
“The first wound would have frightened him more. A little liquid goes a long way. If you have any doubts about that, try throwing a bottle of ink against a wall.”
“Yes, but why the fright?”
“A nick creates a small aperture, and a small aperture would have caused the blood to exit the body with more pressure behind it. It would have spurted much further. Scary, if you’re on the receiving end. The second wound, the one that severed the artery on the other side, wouldn’t have been as spectacular to watch, but it would have released his blood in a gush rather than a spurt. It would have drained him of a hundred milliliters of blood with every heartbeat. He would have lapsed into unconsciousness in less than twenty seconds, probably more like fifteen. Until he did, though, he tried to defend himself. There are slashes on his forearms. He held them up for protection.”
“Tell me this, Gilda, when you examined Torres’s body, you told me the wounds were deep, that they would have to have been inflicted by a man, or a very strong woman.”
“Yes.”
“And in this case? Could it have been a woman?”
She thought about it for a few seconds, then said, “I think so, yes.”
“I don’t,” the doctor said. “No woman in this town would have taken on José Frade. He was—”
“Thank you, Doctor,” Silva said, cutting him off. His next question was also directed to Gilda.
“You think he was able to inflict a scratch or two on his killer?”
“I think he might have, she said.
“You bag his hands?”
“I got Amanda to bring me some plastic bags from her kitchen. Makeshift, but they’ll do.”
“No scrapings as yet?”
“I was waiting for you to tell a certain party”—she shot her eyes in Pinto’s direction—“that I was authorized to take them.”
Silva turned to the certain party—and told him.
Chapter Forty-Eight
EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Max Gallo, the teenaged Casanova of the skies, took off for the State capitol. Accompanying him on the aircraft were a willing and enthusiastic blonde and two plastic envelopes containing scrapings Gilda had taken from under the fingernails of José Frade’s corpse.
An hour after his departure, Hector spoke to Alex Sanches, the young federal agent who worked with Barbosa—or as Arnaldo put it, worked instead of Barbosa. Sanches promised to meet the kid upon arrival and forward the samples to São Paulo.
Lefkowitz, in the course of another phone call, promised to subject them to DNA analysis and phone back the results in record time.
After Hector reported his telephone conversations to his uncle, the two senior men set out on a short walk to the delegacia.
“I’m beginning to think,” Arnaldo said, “that you have a pretty good idea about who killed Frade.”
“Don’t you?”
“Uh-huh. Pretty damned obvious when you think about it,” Arnaldo said. “I guess there’s no particular hurry about making an arrest.”
“No,” Silva said. “We’ll go after we’ve finished with the Bonettis.”
“I’M KEEPING them as far apart as I can,” Borges said when they got there.
“Which isn’t far, is it? Silva said.
“No. They’ve been shouting at each other all night. I don’t think either one got any sleep. I sure as hell didn’t.”
“Recriminations?”
“Big time. Can I go home now? My wife is about ready to kill me.”
“Not yet, I’m afraid,” Silva said. “Do you have a video camera?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“We’ll question her first. I want you to record it. After which, we’ll question him, and I want you to record that. Then you can go home.”
“How long is this gonna take?”
“Based upon what you’ve just told me,” Silva said, “I don’t think it’s going to take long at all.”
THE DELEGACIA was small, and there was no space given over to a room for interviewing suspects. It had to be done either in a cell or in the delegado’s office. Since Silva didn’t want either suspect to hear what the other one was going to tell him, he elected to use the delegado’s office.
They took Maria first. She was perfectly willing to talk, anxious to shift the blame onto her husband.
“It was all Cesar’s idea,” were her opening words on the videotape.
“Was it?” Silva said.
She nodded emphatically. “When he showed up with that old coot, it was a total surprise to me.”
From down the hall, they could hear Cesar Bonetti scream out the single word, “Bitch!” The timing was perfect, as if he could hear what she’d just said. He couldn’t, of course. It was just another addendum to the thoughts he’d been voicing throughout the night.
“And that was on the night Welinton sold his nugget and treated everyone to drinks at the Grand?” Silva asked, ignoring the outburst.
“Yes,” she said, casting a nervous glance in the direction of the cells. “No one’s going to let him out of there, are they?”
“No, Senhora, they’re not. And at about what time was this, your husband’s arrival with Welinton?”
“Late. Past midnight.”
“So your servants were all in bed?”
“Long since.”
“Do any sleep in the house?”
“No. We’ve got an edicula. It keeps them out of our hair.”
“Bitch!” Cesar Bonetti screamed again.
“That guy’s got one hell of a set of lungs,” Borges said, without taking his eye from the viewfinder. “It’s amazing he isn’t hoarse by now.”
“Please go on, Senhora,” Silva said.
“Cesar always told me he just happened to run into Welinton when he was leaving Crazy Ana’s.”
Silva raised an eyebrow.
“But I never believed him,” she went on hurriedly. “Never! He was waiting to waylay him. I’m surprised nobody else was, what with the old fool shooting off his mouth like that.”
“Yeah,” Arnaldo said, “in a town like this, I guess you gotta expect things like that.”
She missed the irony. “Exactly,” she said.
“All right,” Silva said, getting her back on track, “so there you were at home, and your husband showed up with Welinton. What happened next?”
“He made me fetch them drinks.”
“And by that time, do you think he’d already made up his mind to kill him?”
She paused. “Probably,” she admitted. And then, quickly, “But Welinton didn�
��t know that. He thought he was there to negotiate terms for a partnership. Cesar started by agreeing to take half the profits in return for buying the equipment and working the site. That’s what Welinton kept calling it. The site. Not the claim. He said we couldn’t claim it, because it was inside the reservation.”
“Uh-huh. So that’s why Cesar decided to kill the Indians? So the reservation would be dissolved and he could turn it into a real claim?”
She opened her eyes wide. “The Indians? Kill the Indians?”
“I think you heard me, Senhora.”
“I did. I was surprised, that’s all.”
“Because?”
“Because he had nothing to do with that.”
Silva frowned. He thought he’d solved that case as well. Now, it appeared that he hadn’t. Before he could say anything she plunged on. “I have no idea who killed those Indians. Neither one of us do. Cesar was furious when he found out. He said it would draw attention to what we’d—to what he’d done. And for once, the stupid shit was right. If some idiot hadn’t rooted out that goddamned tribe—–”
Silva brought her up short. “Please finish the story, Senhora Bonetti.”
“Where was I?”
“Cesar agreed to take half the profits—”
“And Welinton said he wanted a contract before they went any further. So Cesar got paper and a pen, and they wrote it all out. Meanwhile I served them more drinks. It was all cordial up to that point. Or at least the old coot thought it was.”
“And then?”
“Then Cesar said, since they now had an agreement, all signed and proper, that he wanted Welinton to tell him where he’d made the strike. And Welinton said he’d only do that after he’d put the paper somewhere safe. He said he trusted Cesar and all, but he’d been at Serra Pelada, and he’d seen what gold could do to some people, so he’d always been cautious after that. Up to that point, Cesar thought it was going to be easy to get the old man to talk, but now he saw it wasn’t.”
“He lost his temper?”
“Not really. He just got up, knocked Welinton out of his chair, and sat on his chest. Then he made me get a rope.”
Silva was tempted to ask how her husband could have made her do anything if he was sitting on the old man’s chest but didn’t.
The Ways of Evil Men Page 23