“What Norberto did,” he said, “isn’t a crime. We wouldn’t put him in jail for trying to get into the United States. Your son has nothing to fear from Brazilian law.”
That seemed to reassure her. She truly met his eyes for the first time and her voice became more confident.
“There’s a travel agency in São Paulo,” she said. “They charged him five thousand dollars. Dollars, not reais.”
“Five thousand dollars? Where did your son get that kind of money?”
“He lived like a monk for over three years, saving every centavo, scraping it together. Worked seventeen, eighteen hours a day. Worked weekends and holidays. Never went to bars. Stopped buying cigarettes.”
“I’m assuming the Americans refused him a visa?”
She nodded.
It was the usual story. The Americans always denied visas to Brazil’s undereducated poor. They were convinced that, as soon as the Norberto Krupses of the world got over their bor-der, they were going to stay. And the Americans didn’t want any more people like Norberto Krups.
“This tourist agency,” Silva asked, “they proposed to smug-gle him through Mexico?”
It was the normal route: a flight to Mexico City, a truck-load of immigrants up to the border to hide for a day, then a mad dash across in the wee hours of the morning.
“I don’t know the details,” she said, toying with her empty cup. “He wouldn’t tell me, said he didn’t want me to worry.”
“What does he do for a living, this son of yours?”
She brightened. “Norberto’s a carpenter,” she said. “Every-body says he’s very good and very fast. He said they need good carpenters in America. He said he could earn twenty dollars an hour.”
The way she said it made twenty dollars an hour sound like a princely sum and as if she didn’t quite believe it.
“You have an address for this travel agency?”
Maria de Lourdes bobbed her head and reached for her purse, old and showing signs of many repairs. Covered with all of those L’s and V’s that were the designer’s trademark, it was an obvious castoff from one of her clients. She fumbled around inside the bag and removed a piece of paper.
“He left this,” she said.
Silva unfolded it, found it to be a receipt from the travel agency. The address was on the Rua Sete de Abril, a busy shopping street in the heart of São Paulo.
“May I keep this?”
She nodded.
“Any news of him since he left? Anything at all?”
Again, she reached into her purse. This time she handed him a postcard.
“All going well,” someone had written. “I’ll call you soon.”
An incomprehensible scrawl followed the short message. Silva put a finger on it.
“This is his signature?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
The photograph on the card showed three models in skimpy bathing suits. The legend above them informed the reader that they (and presumably the sender) were having “A Great Time on South Beach.”
Silva was still wearing his jacket. He reached into his breast pocket, retrieved his reading glasses, and subjected both sides of the card to closer scrutiny. The stamp had been canceled in Miami.
“He was going to Miami?”
Maria de Lourdes shook her head.
“He never mentioned Miami,” she said. “He was going to Boston. He has a friend there. Well, not really a friend, but someone he knew, someone he could stay with until he found a job.”
“Do you have the man’s address?”
“No.” Then added quickly, “He said I wouldn’t need it, that he wouldn’t be staying long. He expected to be set up on his own in no time.”
Silva waved the postcard as if he were fanning himself. “No other cards? No letters?”
“No.”
“And the call he refers to?”
“Never came. But . . .”
“But what?”
“I don’t have a telephone at home,” she said, “only a cell phone, and it’s new. Somebody stole my other one, took it out of my pocket in the bus. When I went to get a new one, I found a place that was cheaper, but I had to change the number.”
“It’s one of those prepaid things?”
“Yes.”
“So your son would have nowhere to turn if he wanted to discover your new number.”
“I didn’t think about that at the time. But then, when he didn’t write and he didn’t call, I tried to get my old number back. They wouldn’t give it to me.”
“Why not?”
“Someone else had it.”
“Have you tried calling that new number? Telling whoever answers that you’re worried about your son? Telling them he might try to get in touch?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“The first few times the man was nice. Then he got impa-tient. Now he hangs up whenever he hears my voice.”
Probably called him a hundred times, Silva thought, probably drove the guy nuts.
“He could have been picked up by the Americans,” he said. “If that’s the case, they’ll hold him for a while and deport him. They never keep illegal aliens for long. If they did, they wouldn’t have enough room in their detention cen-ters. I suggest you give your son a couple of weeks, maybe a month, to reestablish contact. If he doesn’t, we can talk again.”
He made to rise from the table, but Irene put a hand on his arm, gently pulling him back into his seat.
“Tell him how long it’s been since Norberto left,” she said, looking at Maria de Lourdes.
Maria de Lourdes looked at her, then at Silva.
“Two months,” she said. “It was two months last Tuesday.”
Chapter Twenty-three
AS THE ORNATE FACADE suggested, the apartment block had once been in the heart of one of São Paulo’s most pres-tigious neighborhoods. But those halcyon days were gone. Now, the area was a hangout for drug dealers and male prostitutes.
Tanaka’s building faced a patch of withered grass and stunted trees called the Praça de República, Republic Square. On the far side, trembling under a flux of constant traffic, was Avenida Ipiranga, one of the busiest thorough-fares in the city. The honking of horns and the rumble of buses pursued Hector into the creaky, old elevator and fol-lowed him up to the second floor.
The elevator opened onto a dark corridor illuminated by low-wattage lamps and perfumed by frying garlic. Hector located the door for apartment 2F and looked for a bell. There wasn’t one, so he knocked. A moment later, he saw movement beyond the peephole.
“Who’s that?”
It was a deep voice that could have been male.
Hector held up his credentials.
“Federal police. I’m looking for Marcela Tanaka.”
The door opened as far as a chain would permit. A suspi-cious and heavily shadowed eye stared through the crack, the brown pupil oscillating between Hector’s face and the photo on the document he was holding.
“That’s me. What do you want?”
“Senhora Tanaka, I’m sorry to intrude on your grief. I’m Delegado Costa of the federal police. May I come in?”
“Why?”
“I’m investigating your husband’s murder.”
“That’s a job for the policia civil. How come you people are interested?”
“I’ll be happy to explain.”
At first, Hector thought she was going to tell him to do it from the corridor, but then she slipped the chain and revealed herself. She was a little shorter than Hector, but much heav-ier, wearing a loose-fitting dress in white linen that reminded him of a circus tent. She blocked the opening from side to side, and had to take two steps back to let him enter.
The front door opened directly onto a small living room. Heavy drapes framed French doors and a miniscule terrace, its white-painted metalwork blackened with grime. Through an open door to his left, Hector could see a hallwa
y. There was another door to his right, but it was closed. The carpet was threadbare and the furniture had seen better days. Overall, the place was a dump. With one exception: a large-screen television, one of those plasma jobs. Hector had been pricing one just like it for a couple of months now and kept coming to the conclusion that he still couldn’t afford it. This one looked brand-new.
Senhora Tanaka didn’t offer refreshments, and she didn’t suggest he sit down. She simply sank her considerable bulk into an armchair and stared at him. Hector picked a place on the sofa, facing her across a coffee table with a stained sur-face only partially concealed by a lace doily.
The doily was the only delicate thing in the room. Everything else looked massive, solid. And that included Marcela Tanaka. If she had Japanese blood, it wasn’t evident. She was dark complexioned, had a slight mustache on her upper lip. And she seemed angry.
Hector had been prepared for grief, not rage. He considered inquiring about the source of her irritation, but decided not to. He had a feeling she’d tell him soon enough. He did a mental shrug and got down to business.
“Can you think of anyone with a reason to murder your husband?”
“What kind of a stupid question is that? You got any idea how many pieces of trash my husband put away in his life-time? Any one of them could have popped him.”
She talked like a cop. There was nothing surprising in that. She’d been married to one for years.
“No one in particular comes to mind?”
“No.”
“How about recent threats? Did your husband—”
“Look,” she said, “I have nothing to add to what I already said. You want answers? Go over to the delegacia and talk to them.”
“Senhora Tanaka,” Hector said patiently, “I’m only trying to help.”
“Help? You want to help? So go complain about the lousy pension they’re giving me. You know how much it is? Eight hundred a month, that’s how much. How am I supposed to live on eight hundred a month? The answer is I can’t. I got two young daughters to raise. I got rent to pay. I need food for the table. I’m gonna have to go out and get a job. A job. Me. At my age.”
“I’m sorry—”
“Sorry? You’re sorry? I’m the one who’s sorry. You know what? You can kiss my ass!”
Hector couldn’t think of a less appealing prospect. Senhora Tanaka’s ass was the size of a mule’s and equally attractive. He made an attempt to get the conversation back on track.
“I’d like to have a look at any papers your husband might have left around the house,” he said.
“What for?”
The answer should have been obvious, but Hector gave her the benefit of the doubt. “There might be some clue as to who killed him.”
“There isn’t. There are no papers here, no official papers anyway. He never brought anything home. Now, if you’re done . . .”
She rose to her feet.
She hadn’t repeated her question. She no longer seemed interested in why the federal police had taken an interest in her husband’s murder. That was odd. And there was some-thing else as well: Hector had the distinct impression she was trying to get rid of him. He decided to dig in his heels.
“I’m sorry, Senhora Tanaka,” he said, not stirring from his seat, “but I must insist.”
“You can fucking insist all you want. I don’t want you sticking your nose into my bedroom.”
“Your bedroom?”
She was already flushing, but now she turned an even darker shade of red. “My bedroom, my daughters’ bedroom, anywhere in the house. Now, leave.”
Hector pulled out the search warrant and dropped it on the table.
Marcela’s mouth dropped open.
Less than ten minutes later he found the money. It was in a canvas bag, stuffed into the back of her bedroom closet, concealed under a pile of old sheets.
Chapter Twenty-four
“SHE SAID IT WAS their life’s savings,” Hector reported to his uncle two hours later.
“And pigs have wings,” Silva said.
“When I asked her why she didn’t keep the money in a bank, she said they didn’t trust banks. Not after Collor.”
“Oh, please,” Silva said.
Fernando Collor had assumed the presidency of Brazil in 1989, a time of economic turmoil. His first significant act in office had been to freeze withdrawals from private bank accounts in an attempt to contain hyperinflation. People eventually got most of their money back, but it took a year. It took much longer for them to get over the fear of it hap-pening again.
But hyperinflation was now a thing of the past. Faith in the fiscal responsibility of government had been restored. Anyone who could justify where their money came from, and who wasn’t earning interest on it, was a fool. Tanaka hadn’t struck Silva as a fool.
“She’s a piece of work,” Hector went on, still somewhat shaken by his confrontation with Tanaka’s wife. “For a moment, I thought she was going to jump me. She outweighs me by God knows how many kilos. I started wishing I’d brought Arnaldo.”
“I fail to understand why you went over there on your own. You know you’re not supposed to do things like that.”
“I had no idea of what I was getting into,” Hector said, his tone defensive. “I’d pictured a visit to a bereaved widow, not an angry rhinoceros.”
“You should have brought Babyface.”
“If she’d wanted to, she could have snapped Babyface like a matchstick. Even Arnaldo would have had trouble if she’d decided to make a fight of it.”
“But she didn’t.”
“In the end, she didn’t. When I found the cash, she just collapsed. It was like letting air out of a balloon. But then she started thinking about how she’s gonna get it back.”
“And you know that because?”
“She started yelping about a receipt, made me count it twice, sat there watching me like a hawk while I did it. Before we even started, she called the office to verify my identity, make sure I was who I said I was. Then she put me on the line to talk to Babyface.”
“Why Babyface?”
“He was the guy I told her to ask for. She got me to talk to him, and then she took the phone back so she could hear his reaction to my voice. She made him give her a question that only Hector Costa would know the answer to.”
“What was the question?”
“That’s not important.”
“What was the question?”
“Okay, okay. The question was, what is the eye color of the assistant medical examiner who works with Dr. Couto?”
“I seem to recall that Babyface is the office expert on peo-ple’s love lives. You think he was suggesting something?”
Hector didn’t deign to respond to that. “Senhora Tanaka wouldn’t take my word for the office’s number, either. She looked it up in her telephone book.”
“What kind of money are we talking about here?”
“Ninety-four thousand American dollars. Rosa and Danusa are ranking the serial numbers as I speak, but there doesn’t appear to be any sequence. All the bills are old. Chances of tracing them are about nil.”
“So there’s no way we can prove ill-gotten gains? The lady is going to get it all back?”
“So it appears, deserving creature that she is. A hundred thousand dollars in the closet, and in the beginning of our conversation all she did was bitch about her paltry pension. You know what I think?”
“What?”
“Between being married to that woman, and being where he is now, Tanaka is better off dead.”
Chapter Twenty-five
GRANT UNGER’S EYES WERE both gray, one a slightly darker shade of gray than the other. They were eyes that reminded Silva of those of his sister’s cat. The cat, Diogenes by name, had been a huge tom, finally brought low by a sum-mer downpour that swept him into a storm drain. Silva’s sis-ter, Clara, thought it was a tragedy and cried for a week. But the cat’s demise had been a relief to the other cats in the neighborho
od, some of the smaller dogs, and most of Clara’s neighbors. To all of them, Diogenes had been a thoroughly disagreeable creature. And being disagreeable was another trait it shared with Grant Unger.
Unger had a habit of cupping a hand behind his ear when someone talked to him. A hearing aid might have caused him to change that habit, but Unger didn’t use one. Knowing Unger, Silva thought he avoided the apparatus for vanity’s sake. He also thought that Unger’s use of a hearing aid would have been superfluous much of the time. Unger was one of those people who paid scant attention to what others said, especially if they weren’t other Americans who were higher up in the pecking order. He never seemed entirely content unless he was doing the talking. And be-cause he was hard of hearing, Unger seemed to think that everyone else was, too. He didn’t talk to you, he shouted at you. The noise he was making at the moment evoked cold stares from neighboring tables. He and Silva were in the Belle Époque, a French restaurant that was one of Silva’s favorites. Not Unger’s, though. He’d just finished telling Silva how much he disliked all things French.
Unger was the FBI’s LEGAT, the legal attaché, at the American Embassy in Brasilia. His job, among other things, was to liaise with the Brazilian federal police. He’d been in the country for two years, but his Portuguese was still halt-ing, which put him at a definite disadvantage since most of the people he was supposed to be liaising with weren’t fluent in anything but their native tongue. Unger’s predecessor, Norton Wallace, had mastered the language in a little over a year. Silva sometimes wondered if Unger’s superiors were aware of the lousy job he was doing.
Brasilia is a city of diplomats, so to hear English being spoken isn’t unusual. But loud, American-accented English is another matter. The more sophisticated Americans are all too aware of how unpopular they’d become since the war with Iraq. Most of them took care to speak softly when in public.
Not Grant Unger.
“Jesus,” the FBI agent said, picking at his truite almondine, “they call that a trout? That’s not a trout. It’s a minnow. I’ll bet the damned thing doesn’t weigh more than four ounces.”
Silva didn’t bother to make the conversion to grams.
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