by Paulo Levy
“How’d you find out?”
“I threw out the bait and she bit. Once I assumed that it was Wilson who’d paid for the job, it seemed obvious that he was a special client.”
“And was he?”
“Wilson fell in love with her. He probably wanted to get her out of prostitution.”
“But he couldn’t do it.”
“No, but he hasn’t gone back since the crime.”
“Why do you think that is?”
“I can think of two reasons,” pondered the inspector. “If he’s involved in the crime he’d automatically disappear. And if he isn’t, he certainly wouldn’t want to see his name in the press linked to the death of a drug dealer. That might well spill over onto his brother’s career.”
Solano looked at him admiringly. Dornelas continued:
“On the other hand, if it was Wilson who put out the hit, and then killed Marina Rivera because she was nosing around Peixe Dourado, that would reinforce my theory that there’s a connection between Wilson and the Doorman, and, consequently, with drug trafficking.”
A light went on in his head. Dornelas threw the cup with hot coffee in the trash.
“How busy are you right now?” he asked Solano.
“The usual.”
“Let’s go.”
They left after first telling Marilda they’d be back after lunch. If necessary, they could be reached on their cell phones.
*
Dornelas and Solano burst into Vito’s Bar. The Italian was sweeping the floor while his wife was setting the tables for lunch.
“Buon giorno, Dottore. A coffee?”
“Two, one for you and one for me.”
Vito froze, clutching the broom.
“What’sa happening, sir?”
“I need to talk to you,” said Dornelas, pulling out a chair for the Italian to sit down. He was in a hurry.
Vito slid slowly onto the chair, terrified. His wife stood paralyzed in the middle of the room, a stack of plates in her hands.
“Inspector, I have all-a my papers. I’m-a Brasiliano now. My wife, she gonna have my bambino.”
“It’s got nothing to do with that. Relax. It’s about a doubt I have regarding an investigation I’m working on. I need your help.”
The Italian calmed down, resting his arms on the table. His wife rushed behind the counter to make coffee. Dornelas and Solano sat down.
“Do you, a restaurant owner, know of some other restaurants that are dealing drugs with some fishermen? Note the emphasis on some. I’m asking because they may be delivering fish together with a lot of drugs. A package deal, you understand?”
Running his hands through his black unruly hair, Vito´s eyes opened wide as he stretched his head over the table like a turtle and took on a conspiratorial tone.
“Dottore, that-a happen all-a the time. They putta little package of grass, crack or coke in-a bottom of the plastic boxes, cover it all-a with fish and shrimp, putta ice on the top, and deliver it. They offer to me once but I say no. Is a à la carte service, sir.”
“A fisherman offered it to you?”
“No, was a guy who has nothing to do with fishing. A dealer. I even think he was-a the guy you take outta the canal.”
“Why didn’t I think of this before?” Dornelas banged his fist on the table.
“And this-a only happen because there’s clients who ask-a for the drugs, like I gotta put marijuana and cocaine on my menu! Issa ridiculous!”
Asking him the name of the fisherman who made the deliveries would be useless. And Dornelas didn’t want to put the Italian’s neck on the block; it was bad enough having to live with what happened to Marina Rivera.
Vito’s wife appeared with two cups of coffee on a tray and served them to the inspector and her husband.
“Thank you.”
“Grazie, amore.”
They both took sugar sachets from a small bowl in the middle of the table. Dornelas sweetened his recklessly.
“What time are the deliveries made to the restaurants?”
“The ones-a who pay to have the best fish get ‘em early in the morning, soon as the boats get to the pier. If you donna pay, you get delivery a little later.”
“And the Fishing Institute inspects the boats as soon as they arrive at the pier, correct?”
“Correct,” said Vito. “But there been times when I hadda buy my fish straight off the boat, at the pier.”
“Why?” Solano took the question out of his boss’s mouth.
“’Cause I donna pay bribes and I donna buy drugs.”
“But have you ever seen them selling drugs right on the pier?” asked Solano.
“Never.”
“That’s it!” This time Dornelas banged the table so hard Solano and Vito jumped in their seats. “The drugs don’t go to Peixe Dourado nor to the pier because they’re first delivered to the restaurants along the coast, or to the ones you can only reach by boat. Those were White Powder Joe’s points of sales and distribution. From there he delivered to other restaurants in the city.”
Vito cautiously nodded his agreement, as if the conversation were being monitored by a hidden camera.
“But if the fish don’t go through Peixe Dourado, what’s the company’s connection to the drug trafficking?” Solano asked.
“The company’s slush fund, if there is one, will tell us that. Nildo’s got until tomorrow to come up with evidence proving he has nothing to do with all this.”
Dornelas drank his coffee in one gulp; when he put his hand in his pocket to get his money, Vito interrupted him.
“This-a one’s on the house, sir.”
“Thanks.”
And they left.
*
Out in the street again, the inspector took out his cell phone and dialed some numbers.
“Are you out on the water today?”
“Not yet, but I’m going out in a while. Why?” asked Claudio.
“I want to have lunch at Silvinho’s, on Escondida Island. Can you give me a ride?”
A brief silence and then Claudio replied:
“Is it because of the investigation, sir?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I’m scared of getting involved in that stuff, Inspector.”
“You’re not going to be involved. You just have to take me.”
Another silence. Dornelas could feel his friend’s misgiving.
“All right.”
“In twenty minutes at the pier?”
“I’ll be there.”
They hung up.
*
Claudio skillfully docked the boat and held it steady against the fenders for a few seconds, enough time for Dornelas and Solano to jump onto the small deck right on the water line. A flight of stairs would take them to the restaurant on the upper level.
Alone at the helm, Claudio pushed off and steered out to the open sea.
Even though it was Monday, a day most restaurants in town were closed, Silvinho’s was open.
As restaurants go, there was nothing very special about it. The same stone walls and wooden furniture found in most of Palmyra’s bars and restaurants. A restaurant like any other, except for the site – a pile of rocks in the middle of the ocean, one kilometer from the city and with a privileged view of the Historical Center.
That, plus the platters of seafood that came from nearby waters, was included in the generally hefty prices that tourists, mainly foreigners, paid without complaint. A Coke at Silvinho’s would set you back at least five bucks.
Emerging from the stairs to the deck, Dornelas and Solano stopped dead: two fish out of water. With more skin showing than clothes, no customer, not even the waiters, was wearing a suit and tie. Solano, dressed more informally, felt sorry for his boss.
Under the lulling sound of lounge music, Dornelas quickly took off his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, took off his tie, folded it and put it in his pocket. A slender blonde clothed in tatters – the kind you see in fashion magazines –
greeted them with surprise, as if they were beings from another galaxy.
“Is Silvinho around?” Dornelas asked the hostess.
“Who wants to speak to him?” the woman replied challengingly.
“Inspector Joaquim Dornelas.”
Definitely a being from another planet, she must have thought, as, spinning swiftly on her heels, she turned her back on Dornelas and went off in the direction of the kitchen as if she were on the catwalk, her hair rippling in the wind.
While they waited outside in the blazing sun Dornelas began to feel pangs of hunger brought on by the aroma emanating from the dishes the waiters were serving the tables.
A typical Brazilian-style fish stew, still bubbling in its clay bowl, went past them at the same time a man with grey hair came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a white towel that he dropped on the counter as he approached them.
“Silvio Freitas,” said the man, extending his arm to the inspector.
“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Freitas,” replied Dornelas, shaking his hand. “This is Solano. He works with me.”
They shook hands and the restaurateur led them to a table in the back, away from the customers.
“How can I help you, Inspector?” asked Silvio as soon as they sat down.
Seeing no reason to beat around the bush, Dornelas went straight to the point.
“Did you hear that we found a drug dealer’s body in Palmyra Bay last week?”
“Of course. So then he really was a drug dealer!” Silvio exclaimed.
“A big one.”
A waiter approached bringing them menus but Silvio stopped him.
“Let’s have something that’s not on the menu today,” he said. “Do you gentlemen like octopus?”
They both nodded.
“Excellent. We just received some fresh octopi this morning. May I offer them to you à provençal style? They’re delicious.”
Certain that the offer had been made with the intention of acquiring the policemen’s good will, as so many restaurants in the region did, Dornelas immediately interjected:
“On the condition that we pay our bill.”
Silvio Freitas was taken by surprise and eyed the inspector for a long minute with a mixture of admiration and wariness. He couldn’t remember the last time a police inspector had set foot in his restaurant. Not on the job, anyways. A siren started wailing in his head.
“Alright.” Silvio gave instructions to the waiter who wrote down the order and disappeared. He went on: “The body found in the bay... wasn’t it you who took it out?”
“Yes. His name was José Aristodemo dos Anjos and he dealt marijuana, cocaine and crack with some fishermen around here. Does that name ring a bell for you?”
“Nothing.”
“And what about White Powder Joe?” shot back the inspector, looking for a reaction from Silvio, who in turn feigned indifference. “From what we’ve discovered so far, the drugs entered the city after passing through the restaurants along the coast – we call them distribution points. White Powder Joe was who managed these points. From there he’d distribute the drugs to other restaurants, and to other places around the city.
“Why do you believe the restaurants would be involved in something like that?”
“To serve their clients. That’s your business.”
Silvio laughed nervously.
“Hold on, Inspector. Are you insinuating that I sell drugs to my clients or that I distribute them around the city?”
Dornelas decided to remain silent. His reply was the look on his face: direct and with no subterfuge.
“I see,” Silvio said deliberately. “So you’re here because you think my restaurant is one of these distribution points!”
“That’s right.”
“Do you have any proof?”
“No, but you’re going to help me out there.”
The restaurateur threw his head back and let out a burst of laughter.
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if I find the proof without your help you’re going to find yourself in a world of pain and misery.”
“How so?”
“We live in a small town, Mr. Freitas. This is not Rio de Janeiro, much less São Paulo. I can make a call from this cell phone” – Dornelas put his phone on the table – “and ask Judge Souza Botelho for a search warrant to go through every corner of this restaurant with a fine tooth comb. I can have the warrant here before we finish lunch. And if we find anything – and I’m betting we will – I’ll put you behind bars charged with drug trafficking, and close this fine establishment indefinitely.”
Dornelas hated having to play the hard-assed, son-of-a-bitch cop, but at this point in the investigation it was the only way to go. Deep down he knew that if he didn’t get what he wanted by squeezing the restaurateur he ran the risk of the case loosing the headlines in the media and then the whole thing would quickly go by the board.
“But there’s another way we can do this. You can invite me right now to visit your kitchen, a right, as you know, that I and all your customers here have by law. If you deny me this simple right I’ll be forced to assume that my suspicions are well-founded and that you have something to hide. And then we’re back to the cell phone, the search warrant and the rest of it.”
The waiter came up to them and asked about drinks. Dornelas ordered sparkling water, as did Solano. Silvio Freitas, with his eyes fixed on Dornelas, said nothing and the waiter went away.
“But before you decide which way you want to go,” resumed Dornelas, “I want you to understand that I’m not here to hurt you or your restaurant. On the contrary. This restaurant is a city landmark... Although I believe you’ve drifted away from your original purpose, which is to offer quality food in a singular location to Palmyra’s tourists and residents.”
Dornelas put his hands together on the table and closed with:
“If you are involved in any way with drug trafficking, I suggest you stop right now. This case will be turned over to the Federal Police and I’m sure they’re not going to come here to have a friendly chat with you over lunch. My investigation is focused on finding out who killed White Powder Joe and another person.”
“Marina Rivera,” Silvio let out, to Dornelas’ surprise.
“You knew her?”
“No, but it’s in all the papers. The funeral is today at five in the afternoon, right?”
The waiter came back with the drinks, pouring them for the inspector and the detective.
“Bring me a dark beer,” said Silvio.
The waiter wrote down the order and headed to the kitchen.
“If I have to talk I might as well do it with something cold to wet my whistle.”
During the hour and a half of conversation, in between forkfuls of little pieces of octopus, light as a feather, Dornelas had his suspicions confirmed, including how White Powder Joe distributed the narcotics in the city.
“How do you manage to keep your employees from discovering the packages in the bottom of the fish containers?” asked Dornelas.
“I receive and check the products myself, always alone and in the cold storage room in the back. My quality control,” said Silvio with a nervous laugh. “Used to check, I should say.”
“Did you make the payments yourself?”
“Always, as soon as I finished checking and putting the drugs away in a locked cupboard in the freezer. They last longer if they’re frozen, you know,” he said somewhat embarrassed. “The payments were always made in cash at the same time we paid for the cargo. I’m the only one who handles money around here. That way my staff had no idea I was over-paying.”
‘A cottage industry, but a hell of a well-oiled one’, thought Dornelas.
“Has anyone contacted you since White Powder Joe’s death looking to take over the business?” asked Solano, who until then had been merely an attentive listener.
“Nobody,” replied Silvio.
“Not surprising,” said Dornelas, “the case
is still hot news in the media. When it cools down someone will come looking for you.”
“And what do I do when that happens?”
“Tell them the truth, that you’re out of the business, that the cops showed up here and threatened you. But first I suggest you get rid of everything you have as soon as possible and settle up with whoever,” Dornelas advised him before adding, “If I ever hear you’re still in business…well, just remember the Federal Police.”
“Don’t worry, Inspector.”
“This octopus is really delicious.”
After coffee and no dessert, Dornelas paid the very expensive check and hitched a lift back to town with Solano on a boat with a group of tourists.
Chapter 17
Dornelas jumped off the boat and started walking very slowly along the pier. To Solano, who watched him closely, it looked as if his boss was looking for ants underneath the wooden floorboards. Very boring. And that’s how, deep in thought, in an underground world all his own, the inspector walked along the dirt street, through the Historical Center and on to the new part of the city. The sight of the police station building brought him back to earth.
He recalled the old case of a man who began sending him anonymous letters, one every day, for thirty days. The letters were crudely written. But in each one the writer revealed, intentionally or not, a clue to the crime he had committed: the brutal murder of his own girlfriend. In other words, his psyche betrayed him and he ended up getting captured by the police.
In Dornelas’ mind the guy was motivated simply by a desire to be caught.
The inspector was well aware that it was common for first time killers to regret what they’d done. When you cross that line there’s no going back; the criminal is separated from the flock and becomes a disfigured species, a freak of nature.
He opened the door to the precinct, feeling puzzled. Not really sure what had caused him to remember this specific case, he called a meeting of his team as soon as he went through the reception area.
Solano, Lotufo, Caparrós and Peixoto, his second in command who had just returned from his maternity leave, sat around the table. Dornelas apologized to him straight off.