Dying Gasp cims-4

by Leighton Gage

  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.

  “ Alo,” 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.

  F ATHER V ITORIO 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-students. 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 cachaca. 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.”

  T HE 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.”

  “T
he 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.

  T HE G OAT’S boate -his “nightclub” brothel-was a sorry sight in daylight. The weathered wood of the facade was badly in need of paint. Beer cans and empty cachaca 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.

  “Roselia 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, cachaca, sweat, and, faintly, of perfume.

  “This is the social area,” she said, kicking off the tour. “Cops drink for free at The Goat’s. You’re guests of the house while you’re in Manaus. Cachaca 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.

  He found himself pointing it at the forehead of a woman who wasn’t more than a foot away. She gave a yelp and dropped the pipe she’d been smoking onto the window sill. Ashes and sparks exploded from the bowl.

  Arnaldo lowered his gun.

  “ Calma, Senhora,” he said. “I’m a cop.”

  The woman only had eyes for his pistol. She licked her lips and followed the Glock all the way back to the holster on his belt. Then, and only then, she said, “A cop, huh? What happened? You fall asleep? Spend the night? You better get your ass outta here. The Goat doesn’t like anyone inside after closing time. The girls know that. The Goat finds out which one of them you were with, he’s gonna whip her for sure.”

 
She had black skin and gray hair, and she wore a dress with short sleeves. She looked to be at least seventy. And now that she was over her fear, she was starting to get angry.

  “I’m not a customer,” he said. “I’m a federal, and I just arrived.”

  “A federal? You after The Goat?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “I can think any damned thing I want, doesn’t mean I have to tell you. You scared me half to death.”

  “For which I’m truly sorry. How long have you been sitting there?”

  The woman retrieved her pipe and stared sadly at the empty bowl.

  “Maybe ten minutes. I like to have a pipe before I get my hands in the suds. I just lit this one.”

  “You see anybody go by?”

  “Nobody special. The Goat, Osvaldo, some girls.”

  “How many girls?”

  “Hell, you think I’m gonna count ’em as they go by?” She stabbed at the air with her finger, did it three times. “One… two… three.”

  “I don’t need an exact number, just an estimate.”

  “Well, you’re not gonna get one.”

  “A dozen?”

  “Maybe a dozen.”

  “Young ones?”

  “All young ones.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  She pointed toward the end of the alley, curved her wrist to indicate they’d taken a turn to the right, toward the river. “Merda,” Arnaldo said and went back to fetch his companions.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The goat took the binoculars from their case on the console, looped the strap over his neck and looked back at his floating dock. The men on it were standing in a compact group, shading their eyes and looking out at the water.

  He was at least a kilometer away, and even with binoculars he couldn’t see the cops’ features. That made it damned near certain they couldn’t see him at all.

  And besides, there were at least two dozen boats within sight of that dock. There was no way they could know which one was his.

  His heartbeat began to slow as he assessed his options.

  Federals were bad news. It wasn’t likely he’d be able to bribe them, and he couldn’t expect any help from Chief Pinto. Pinto wouldn’t want to do anything that might bring the wrath of the federal government down on his head. But without the girls, the federals didn’t have a case. All he had to do was to send them off to somewhere safe and keep them there until the fucking federals went back to Brasilia, or wherever the hell else they had come from. In a flash of inspiration, it occurred to him that he was sitting on the solution: the boat. It would be a little cramped, but it was the dry season. Some of them could sleep on deck, or at worst, in shifts, some girls sleeping by day and the others by night. The Anavilhanas Archipelago was less than a hundred kilometers away. There were more islands there than days in a year, lots of beaches, too, where the girls could escape the cramped quarters, go ashore and lie around on the sand.