Dying Gasp

by Leighton Gage

  “Give me those,” she said, and snatched the envelope.

  The first photo was of an athletic-looking man crossing a parking lot. Arnaldo Nunes. She recognized him immediately. The second shot showed him entering the main entrance to the airport. Both shots were in profile, the background out of focus, obviously shot with a long lens.

  She shuffled to the third photo in the stack and froze.

  Otto came around to look over her shoulder.

  “Those are the two guys he met at the airport,” he said.

  When she didn’t say anything, he prompted her. “You recognize them?”

  “That one,” she said, “is Mario Silva.”

  Otto leaned forward for a better look. “No shit?” he said. “That’s Silva, huh? You sure? He looks different from when you see him on the news and stuff.”

  “It’s the outfit,” she said. “The bush shirt. Every damned photo you ever see of the man, every time he’s on television, he’s wearing a gray suit.”

  “He’d have to be crazy to wear a suit in Manaus. A suit would kill him in this climate.”

  “Then I wish he’d wear one and save us the trouble,” she said.

  Otto looked at her nervously.

  “Hey, Carla,” he said, “you’re not thinking of offing a federal cop, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “Uh . . . well, if you are, we gotta talk about it.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  “That’s heavy stuff, killing a federal. What are you worried about? What makes you think he’s after us?”

  “He’s after me,” Claudia said.

  Otto looked at her, waited for her to tell him more. When she didn’t, he said, “What makes you so sure?”

  She didn’t reply.

  “What?” he insisted.

  Again, no reply.

  “You’re sure it’s him? Really sure?”

  She stabbed the photo with her forefinger.

  “That’s Silva, and that’s his fucking nephew, Hector Costa. And the guy who met them, the guy who was already here in Manaus, is an old-time sidekick of both, an agente named Arnaldo Nunes.”

  “But how can you—”

  “Shut up, Otto. I know what I’m talking about.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him why she was so sure, or why she knew he was after her. That, and her real name, were none of his damned business.

  Chapter Eighteen

  IRENE WAS SITTING UNDER a beach umbrella, reading a book, just the trace of a smile on her face. Silva was stretched out on blinding white sand, soaking up the sun, his head on his arms. He had one eye open and was studying her.

  He heard his son call him.

  “Look, Papa, look!”

  He turned his head toward the voice, toward the clear, green sea. Little Mario, his ankles bathed in receding foam, was pointing at three dolphins swimming in the shallows, their dorsal fins skimming along the surface like the sails of tiny boats.

  And little Mario wasn’t so little anymore. He looked to be about twelve. His olive skin had been darkened by the summer sun, and his smile showed teeth like pearls.

  Silva got up and walked down to the water. They plunged in together. The dolphins came to meet them. Silva reached out to touch one—and the telephone rang, summoning him away from another experience he’d never had and now never would.

  Long accustomed to calls in the night, he was alert by the time the receiver was against his ear.

  “Alô,” he said.

  “Mario?”

  Arnaldo’s voice. Silva threw the covers aside, managed to get a hand on his wristwatch, but couldn’t find his glasses.

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost six,” Arnaldo said. “I just got a call from Father Vitorio.”

  “At this time of the morning?”

  “The man has no sense of propriety. Or maybe he’s just an insomniac. Anyway, he wants to meet.”

  Silva walked to the window.

  “What’s so important? Couldn’t he have waited a few hours?”

  “Apparently not. But at least he didn’t ask us to go over to that slum he lives in. He’s coming to us. The restaurant. Half an hour.”

  “Call Hector,” Silva said.

  Arnaldo agreed and hung up.

  Silva parted the curtains. The rising sun painted a golden stripe across the black water of the river, but there was a line of black clouds on the horizon. And they appeared to be moving directly toward him.

  FATHER VITORIO was punctual to the minute.

  “Six thirty on the dot,” Arnaldo muttered when he saw him in the doorway. “Must have been waiting outside so he could make a grand entrance.”

  There were no other guests at that hour. The restaurant was quiet, so quiet they could hear the priest’s cassock rustling as he approached the table. He stood there, waiting for Arnaldo to complete the introductions before he took a seat.

  “Coffee,” he said tersely to the hovering waiter.

  Silva didn’t think the priest needed it. He looked wired enough already.

  The waiter departed in the direction of the kitchen. Father Vitorio leaned across the table and lowered his voice.

  “You’re Silva, aren’t you?”

  “I am.”

  “I thought so. I’ve seen you on television.”

  “I have news about the young lady.”

  “Which one?” Silva said.

  “The pearl earrings and the gold crucifix. I’ve asked this before, but your man”—the priest cocked a thumb at Arnaldo— “wouldn’t tell me. So now I’m asking you: Who is she?”

  He’s going to find out anyway, Silva thought. There might be some benefit in letting the news come from me.

  “She’s the fifteen-year-old granddaughter of Roberto Malan,” he said.

  Father Vitorio responded in a hoarse whisper. “Malan? The deputado? That Malan?”

  Silva took a sip of coffee and nodded. “Him.”

  The priest ran a hand over the stubble on his cheek. “The old story,” he said.

  “What old story?”

  “The rich and famous get priority treatment. How many of the thousands of fifteen-year-old girls in this country could have brought three federal policemen to Manaus?”

  “It’s not just the girl, Padre. This case is far more complex than you think,” Silva said.

  “Is it? Tell me.”

  “I can’t do that, not at the moment. But I promise to brief you thoroughly before we leave this city. Now, what have you got?”

  “The deputado’s granddaughter is here in Manaus.”

  Silva put down his cup and sat upright in his chair. “You’re certain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you just said—”

  “I know where she was. From there, it should be possible for you to discover where she currently is.”

  “I hope to God you’re right. Where was she?”

  “In a brothel.”

  “Goddamnit,” Arnaldo said. He sounded as if he’d been expecting it all along.

  The priest turned on him. “No need to take the Lord’s name in vain, Agente. He’s taken good care of her up to now, and I’m confident He’ll continue to protect her. She entered that brothel a virgin and she left a virgin. She—”

  “Which brothel?” Silva’s voice was a whip.

  “All in good time. First, I want—”

  “Padre, please,” Silva said. “Time is critical.”

  “She’s been in Manaus, Chief Inspector, for more than two months. I don’t see that an extra few minutes—”

  “If what you’re going to say is that an extra few minutes won’t make any difference, you’re dead wrong. They could make every difference. Who’s your source?”

  “I insist on discretion.”

  “You’ll have complete discretion. Who’s your source?”

  “His name is Lauro Tadesco. He’s one of my ex-stude
nts. His ambition is to become a priest.”

  “How did he—”

  “He’s my own undercover investigator, my inside man. He gathers information we’ll be able to use in a future legal action against those whoremongers. He does it by visiting brothels.”

  Both of Arnaldo’s eyebrows went up. “He does what?”

  “You heard me, Agente. But you can wipe that expression off your face. Lauro has made a vow of chastity. Once he gets the girls alone, he makes it clear he doesn’t want sexual congress, only information. He always takes the precaution of asking them to keep his inquiries confidential.”

  “Let me tell you something about whores,” Arnaldo said. “Somebody starts asking a whore questions, she knows her pimp is going to want to know all about it. Whores will shop your boy for a flask of cheap perfume, or a bottle of cachaça. They probably already have. It’s their discretion you should have been worrying about, not ours.”

  The priest frowned.

  Silva intervened.

  “I doubt that Lauro is in any immediate danger, but I’m very much afraid that Marta is. Come on, Padre, out with it. Tell us everything you know, and tell us right now.”

  THE GIRL’S name was Topaz, at least that’s what she’d said. She’d claimed to be sixteen, but looked younger, and she worked at a brothel owned by an ex–police sergeant whom everyone called The Goat.

  According to Topaz, The Goat had been holding Marta for two months. He’d applied a lot of pressure, but she’d always refused to cooperate, kept saying there was no way she was going to let him turn her into a whore. On the afternoon of the previous day, she’d been taken from the boate by an older woman, a brunette. “This brunette,” Silva asked, “did Topaz see her personally?”

  “Only for a moment and only from the rear,” Father Vitorio said. “She was unable to give Lauro an adequate description.”

  “Merda,” Silva said.

  “Merda, indeed,” the priest agreed, “and it’s partly my fault. The Goat specializes in underage girls. I knew that. Perhaps I should have sent Lauro as soon as I spoke to Agente Nunes here, but it didn’t immediately occur to me. Our investigation is far more extensive, you see. We’re not concerned with only one girl.”

  “I appreciate that, Padre. You’ve been a big help. Now, if you’ll excuse us—”

  Silva started to get up, but the priest put a hand on his shoulder to restrain him.

  “You’re going there, aren’t you?” he said. “To The Goat’s?” “Immediately,” Silva said.

  “I want to go with you.”

  “You what?”

  Silva was totally surprised and made no attempt to hide it.

  Father Vitorio plunged on: “I want to be there when you question The Goat. I want to look into that man’s eyes when you confront him.”

  Silva shook his head. “Out of the question.”

  The priest leaned forward. “This is important to me. I can’t tell you how important.”

  “You’re not a cop. I couldn’t answer for your safety.”

  “You don’t have to answer for my safety. God takes care of my safety.”

  “The answer is no.”

  The priest flushed. “I helped you. I gave you a lead. You have an obligation to me.”

  “Right on all three counts, Padre. But you’re not going with us, and that’s final. Don’t waste your breath trying to get me to change my mind, because I won’t.”

  Father Vitorio clenched his jaw. Then, without another word, he stood and made for the door.

  THE GOAT’S boate—his “nightclub” brothel—was a sorry sight in daylight. The weathered wood of the façade was badly in need of paint. Beer cans and empty cachaça bottles littered the parking lot. The three cops had to sidestep a pool of vomit to get to the front door.

  Silva lifted his fist and pounded on the wood.

  There was no response.

  “Wake them up,” he said.

  The house was isolated. Arnaldo got the message. He looked around him, then took out his Glock and pulled back the slide. Silva and Hector covered their ears. Arnaldo pointed the muzzle in the air and pulled the trigger. The sharp report came echoing back from the hill across the road.

  “That should do it,” Silva said.

  He was right. Seconds later, they heard stirring inside.

  “Go away, you crazy bastard,” a woman’s voice said. “We’re closed. Go sleep it off. Come back tonight.”

  “Police,” Arnaldo said.

  “I told you to beat it.”

  “You hear what I said? Police.”

  “Yeah, I heard what you said. Go home and jerk off. Or maybe you want me to call Chief Pinto?”

  “Federal Police,” Arnaldo said, “and you’re the one who’s jerking me off. Open the fucking door before I shoot off the lock.”

  That produced some nearly inaudible muttering. Two voices now. One of them could have been male.

  Arnaldo hit the door with the butt of his Glock, leaving a visible dent in the wood.

  “You hear me?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I heard you,” the woman said. “Wait a minute. I gotta get the key.”

  Time passed, enough of it and more to fetch a key from the remotest corner of the building.

  “They’re stalling,” Silva said.

  But then they heard the rattle of a chain. A moment later, one of the double doors opened to reveal a woman wearing no makeup, a nightgown, and a suspicious expression.

  “Show me some ID,” she said.

  Arnaldo flashed his badge.

  “Anybody can buy a badge,” she said. “Something with a photo.”

  He produced his federal police ID and held it up for her inspection.

  “Okay,” she said. “And now the other gentlemen.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Arnaldo said.

  “Let’s see your own ID,” Silva said.

  He was hoping she’d step away from the door to fetch it. But she didn’t. She’d been holding it ready, behind her back. Arnaldo took it and scrutinized it.

  “Rosélia Fagundes, huh?”

  “I’ve shown you mine, Agente, now I want your friends to show me theirs.”Silva and his nephew pulled out their credentials. She took her time studying them, particularly Silva’s. Then she addressed him.

  “What do you want?”

  “A look around.”

  “You have a warrant?”

  “Not yet.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Minors. One minor in particular.”

  “You’ve come to the wrong place. All our girls are over eighteen. We operate strictly within the law.”

  “Not the way I hear it.”

  “Then you hear wrong. We’ve got competitors. They’re jealous. They like to spread rumors about us. Who’s the minor?”

  Wordlessly, Silva pulled out a photo of Marta Malan.

  She took it, studied it and didn’t bat an eye.

  “Never seen her before,” she said. “What’s she done?”

  “You’ve got it backward,” Silva said. “She didn’t do a damned thing. People are doing something to her. And we think you’re one of those people.”

  “Me? That’s absurd.”

  “The way we hear it, you’ve been holding her prisoner for more than two months.”

  “You hear it wrong. She’s not here.”

  “We know that.”

  “And she’s never been here.”

  “And that’s bullshit. How come you won’t let us in?”

  “I never said you couldn’t come in. Come ahead. Come in. Look around all you like. Then get the hell out of here and let us go back to sleep.”

  She swung the door open, went to a neighboring wall and toggled a switch. The room filled with light. They were in a bar: no windows, tables of rude wood, folding metal chairs, an area in the middle raised and cleared for dancing. The place smelled of beer, cachaça, sweat, and, faintly, of perfume.

  “This is the social area,” she sai
d, kicking off the tour. “Cops drink for free at The Goat’s. You’re guests of the house while you’re in Manaus. Cachaça and beer only. Whiskey is extra.”

  Silva ignored the invitation.

  “What’s behind that door?”

  “A toilet. Males only.”

  “And that one?”

  “A storeroom.”

  “And that one over there?”

  “Leads to where the girls sleep and work.”

  “Then that’s where we’ll start.”

  There were twenty-two bedrooms, seven of them occupied. Every bed had been slept in, but there were only seven girls. They all had identity cards proving they were eighteen or older. None of them looked it. None of them admitted to knowing a girl who called herself Topaz.

  “Where are the others?” Silva said.

  The Fagundes woman looked him straight in the eye.

  “There are no others.”

  “Why so many bedrooms for so few girls?”

  She shrugged.

  “Girls come, girls go. Sometimes we have a full house, sometimes we don’t.”

  “How come the other beds are unmade?”

  “We haven’t cleaned up from last night,” she said. “We alternate rooms. That way the sheets get a chance to dry out. It’s hot in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  “I noticed. Where’s The Goat?”

  “He doesn’t sleep here.”

  “He doesn’t, eh?”

  “Only sometimes.”

  “And you?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “How many entrances to the building?”

  “The one you came in and one more. It’s around in back, leads to the annex.”

  “Annex?”

  “For the staff.” She held out five fingers, used her other hand to fold them one by one as she enumerated. “One bartender, one cleaning girl, one bouncer, one cook, one laundress.”

  “Point out the way,” Arnaldo said.

  The door was unlocked and ajar. It opened on a narrow alleyway between the main building and the annex.

  Arnaldo pulled out his pistol and turned left, creeping on the balls of his feet. Unlike many big men, he could move quietly when he wanted to. There were no windows in the main building, but there was one in the annex. Arnaldo stood next to it for a moment, his back to the wall. Then he wheeled around and forward, dropping to a crouch and extending his Glock in a two-handed grip.