None of Father Vitorio’s neighbors had ever heard of a kid called Lauro Tadesco, and his name wasn’t in the telephone book. No surprise there. Telephones were expensive. Most poor people didn’t have them.
“How about I try the churches?” Joaquim said to the woman he knew as Carla.
“Are you crazy?” Claudia said. “It would get right back to that priest. Do this: go back to Pinto. Ask him to trace the kid through his national identity card.”
“He’s gonna ask me why I want to know. He’s gonna want more money.”
“We need him. I’ll pay Pinto. It won’t come out of your pocket.”
So Joaquim contacted the chief, and the chief responded as predicted: “How come you want to know about this Tadesco guy?”
“That job of Carla’s. She added a couple of people.”
“How many is a couple?”
“A couple. Two.”
“Gonna cost her more. You too.”
“She’s only paying me thirteen all up.”
“Sure she is. You tell her to call me.”
“Uh, maybe it was fourteen she said. Fourteen or thirteen. I can’t remember.”
“Just tell her to call me.”
The first thing the chief said to Claudia when she got him on the phone was “You know who keeps those records? The federal cops, that’s who.”
“They get hundreds, maybe thousands, of requests like that every day,” she said. “Why should they notice one inquiry?”
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know already,” he said, “but it’s extra work for me. How much you agree to pay Joaquim?”
She told him.
“Lying filho da puta,” he said. “Okay, you’re not gonna pay him anyway. Me you’re gonna pay an extra two thousand.”
“Two thousand? For something that’s gonna take one of your men no more than five minutes and isn’t costing you a centavo?”
“Maybe you know some other place you can get the information? Two thousand.”
Claudia sighed, but it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been expecting it. “I’ll send it over,” she said.
By ten o’clock the following morning, she knew that Lauro Alexandre Tadesco, age eighteen, son of Maria Lourdes Tadesco, father unknown, had listed his address as number thirteen, Rua Barbosa, in the bairro of Sao Conrado.
There was, of course, no guarantee that he still lived at the same address. But, according to one of the neighbors, he did. It turned out that Lauro was one of his mother’s seven children, neither the oldest nor the youngest, and they all lived at number thirteen, Rua Barbosa, in the bairro of Sao Conrado.
According to the same neighbor, a talkative old crone with only a few teeth, the mother took in washing, and the kids did all sorts of odd jobs to keep the family afloat. They were poor, but they were decent churchgoing folks, and they never caused anyone any trouble.
But if Joaquim was to follow Carla’s instructions to the letter, he still needed a visual of the kid. Fortunately for him, there was a bar just across the street. He settled in with a drink and watched the house.
About an hour later, when he was already feeling the effects of his sixth cachaca and was thinking of switching to Guarana, a kid of about the right age came out of the front door of number thirteen and started walking purposefully toward a nearby bus stop. There was no one else in the bar, and the bartender and Joaquim had been having a spirited discussion about the national sport. If you wanted to bond with any male in Brazil, that’s how you did it, talking about futebol. Joaquim touched his new buddy on the arm.
“That kid,” he said, pointing. “You know him?”
The bartender turned around for a look.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why?”
“Looks like a guy I used to know,” Joaquim said, “name of Joao Catanga.”
“Nah,” the bartender said. “That’s Lauro Tadesco. He lives there.”
Silva gave the whoremaster a decent interval, almost twenty-four hours, to ruminate upon what he’d said. Goat stew, Arnaldo dubbed the process. Then he went back to lean on him.
This time, Roselia was behind the bar.
“Where is he?” Silva asked.
“Said he was going fishing.”
“Fishing? Where?”
“Where else does one fish, Chief Inspector? On the river, of course.”
“He told me his boat sank.”
“It did. He went with a friend.”
“What friend?”
“He didn’t say.”
“When’s he due back?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Goddamn it, what did he say?”
“Just that he was going fishing.”
“You’re lying.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
And so forth.
The investigation was going nowhere fast.
Her name was Socorro Lins, and she needed another abortion. The old lady who worked out of that shithole down by the municipal dock was going to charge her seventy Reais to do it, up from sixty for the last one.
She’d just paid her rent, had some rice and beans in the cupboard, and still had ten Reais sewn into a corner of her hammock. Coming up with the extra sixty meant she’d have to hustle, doing eight tricks for the next three days instead of knocking off after the usual seven. But she wasn’t about to get uptight about it. Being pregnant was just another occupational hazard, like gonorrhea, and it was one Socorro had faced many times before. She’d been living the life for sixteen years now, and no longer remembered how many abortions she’d had, much less how many men. The wonder was that her body still kept trying to produce children. She thought it should have learned its lesson by now.
A few years ago, she would have said no to the creep with the round face, emotionless brown eyes, and tobacco-stained teeth. But now she was pushing thirty, and she hardly ever turned anyone down anymore. If they had the money, she’d deliver the goods. As soon as he’d met her price, she nodded and preceded him into an alley.
He did her standing up with her back against the wall of one of the buildings. There was no kissing, no stroking, none of that kind of crap. He just did a quick in and out. Fortunately, he was one of those guys who took precautions, and the condom he’d used was lubricated. It would have been a painful process without it.
She was using a tissue to wipe herself off, and he was zipping up his fly, when he came up with the proposition.
A few hours later, she found herself sitting in a car in Sao Lazaro, smoking another cigarette, a hundred and twenty Reais richer. And she was prepared to sit there all night if need be, because the deal was that she’d get another hundred when the job was done.
A dark-skinned kid, wearing eyeglasses, came out of a building in front of a bar and turned right, walking away from them.
“Merda,” the guy with the stained teeth said. He started the engine.
“That’s him?” she said.
“That’s him. Sit tight, I’m gonna go around the block and get in front of him.”
Joaquim watched the whore wriggling her ass toward the kid and watched the kid cross the street to get out of her way. Then she crossed the street too and took up a position against a lamppost, right where the sidewalk narrowed.
Now the kid had three choices: he could turn back, he could cross the street again, or he could pass her at a distance of not more than a meter. He chose to pass her, but to do it with his head down, avoiding eye contact. He also picked up his pace.
But then she spoke, and he came to a sudden, almost comic, stop.
The whole drama didn’t last long, no more than a minute or two. When she stopped talking, the kid reached for his wallet and handed her some money. She took it, smiled, and said something else. He listened, turned around, and went back in the direction from which he’d come, not once looking back. She let him get about a hundred meters away before she sashayed over to the car.
“Okay,” she said, sliding into the front seat. “All done. You owe me another hundred.”
Joaquim handed it over. She looked relieved, probably thought he was going to stiff her.
“You took money from him,” he said.
She shrugged, unconcerned.
“You wanted him to believe me, didn’t you?”
“So?”
“So what would a whore be doing out here on the street waiting for him, if it wasn’t for money? You ever see a whore do anything for free?”
Joaquim gave that some consideration and came to the conclusion she was right. He thought about beating her up, or maybe even offing her and recovering his investment. But it was late, and he was tired, and two hundred and twenty Reais was peanuts.
“How about taking me back to where you found me?” she said.
“Fuck you,” he said. “You got money. Call a taxi.”
“ So this whore stops Lauro, on the street,” Arnaldo said, spooning sugar into his cafe com leite, “tells him she’s a friend of Topaz’s, tells him she knows where they took Marta and for fifty Reais, she’ll tell him.” He sipped some of the froth, wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked first at Hector, then at Silva. “Come on, amigos, how likely is that?”
“Not very,” Hector admitted. He took a dab of butter on the end of his knife.
“Watch out for that stuff,” Arnaldo said.
Hector sniffed the near liquid. Rancid. He put down the knife, tore off a piece of the French bread and dipped it in his coffee. They’d given up on the hotel’s restaurant, opting for breakfast in the living room of Silva’s suite. It was coming up to eight A.M., and the room service waiter had just left.
“How did she locate Lauro?” Arnaldo went on, driving his theory home. “What makes her think he’s willing to pay? How did she find out where Marta is?”
“I think you made your point,” Silva said. He glanced at his watch. “They should be here any minute.”
Arnaldo took out his Glock, popped the magazine, removed a round, tested the spring with his thumb.
“It’s a setup,” he said.
Ten minutes later, Lauro Tadesco called from the lobby. Silva went into the corridor to wait. The elevator pinged. A dark-skinned kid with horn-rimmed glasses and a slight stoop got out.
“Where’s Father Vitorio?” Silva said.
Lauro licked his lips.
“He went on ahead,” he said.
“He what?”
“He knew you wouldn’t want him to come, Chief Inspector. He couldn’t accept that. He went on ahead.”
The kid was deferential, but defiant.
“All by himself?”
“Yes.”
“Goddamnit,” Silva said.
Father Vitorio parked his ancient truck under the shade of a palm tree, climbed down from the cab and studied the house. There was a vegetable garden on one side and a banana grove on the other. A cloud, heavy with rain, moved in front of the sun. The whitewashed walls of the building seemed to dim and the surrounding vegetation to fade. What had been brilliant green only a second before was now dulled to a bluish gray.
The shutters were closed, the house silent. The people inside, if there were people inside, must have heard him arrive, but no one came to the door. Could it be that the woman had lied to Lauro? Father Vitorio remembered reading about the murder of the elderly couple who’d owned the place. Perhaps he should have waited for Silva.
No! This is what God wants me to do. He will protect me.
And yet there was something about the place that caused the gooseflesh to rise on his arms. He crossed himself before moving forward.
Arnaldo drove the rental car. Lauro leaned over Silva’s shoulder to give directions.
“Turn right,” he said, “when you come to the main road.”
By the time they did, Silva had his temper under control.
“Father Vitorio,” he said to the kid, “has no idea what he’s getting himself into.”
“Father Vitorio,” the kid said, “is confident of God’s protection. It’s a question of faith, Chief Inspector. You either have it, or you don’t.”
He said it like he didn’t believe Silva had it. Silva turned around in his seat.
“And it’s no good looking at me like that,” the kid said. “Father Vitorio warned me about you. He said you’ve got a childish belief in something called snuff videos and that while we work to save all the girls, you’re only here because the girl you’re looking for is the granddaughter of a prominent politician.”
Silva pursed his lips and turned to stare through the windshield. The kid had hit a little too close to home with that one.
“Left at the next corner, then the first right,” Lauro said. “The place is about two kilometers ahead. There’s a sign with the name Mainardi. You can’t see anything from the road, just a narrow driveway that snakes down toward the river.”
“How come you know that?” Arnaldo said.
“Father Vitorio checked it out on the way to your hotel. Then he dropped me off and went back.”
Silva ran a hand over his eyes.
“How come Father Vitorio wants to be in on the arrest?” Silva asked, this time without turning around. He found it easier to converse with the self-righteous little twit if he didn’t have to look at him.
“God sent you here,” Lauro said, speaking slowly, as if he was addressing someone of limited intelligence, “because He wants Father Vitorio to take advantage of the opportunity you present.”
Silva couldn’t help himself. He swung around again. “Opportunity? What opportunity?”
“The rescue of the deputado’s granddaughter is going to be a big story, right? If Father Vitorio is present, the national press will want to interview him. That will give him a pulpit from which he can denounce what’s happening to girls who are of equal worth in the sight of God, but don’t have a depu-tado federal for a grandfather.”
A headache had begun to form behind Silva’s right eye. He lifted a hand and started massaging his temple. “So he’s already tipped the press?”
“Not yet. He wants to make sure you get the girl. Otherwise, there’s no story, right?”
“What’s the number of his cell phone?”
Lauro gave it to him, and Silva dialed it.
No one answered.
Arnaldo slowed to a crawl. Off to their left, they caught an occasional glimpse of the river through the foliage. On the right, the rainforest was a wall of green. The road was wide enough for two cars, but just barely.
“There,” Lauro said, and pointed.
Arnaldo pulled over.
“You want to take the car in there?” he asked.
“Hell, no,” Silva said. Then, to the kid, “You stay here.”
“I think I have a right-”
“You don’t,” Silva said shortly. “Let’s go.”
The three federal cops got out and entered the access road on foot. The previous night, as on almost every night in the Amazon, there’d been rain. The surface under their feet was unpaved. Silva stayed in the middle, following the impression of tire tracks in the mud. Two sets of them appeared to be quite recent. One diverged toward the right margin and disappeared into heavy brush. While the others waited, Hector followed that one. Wordlessly, he picked up a samambaia leaf and showed them the stem. The leaf, almost as tall as a man, had been cut at the base. Hector gingerly removed another leaf, thereby exposing the front grille of a Fiat Palio.
The car had been artfully camouflaged and was positioned for a quick escape.
“ You hear that? ”
Luis’s voice was little more than a whisper. Joaquim cocked his head to listen. He heard birds, insects, the thump-thump of a diesel motor out on the river; nothing else.
“What,” he said.
“I coulda swore… there it is again.”
This time, Joaquim heard it too: rustling leaves. He disengaged the safety on his AK-47.
From their hiding place they had a clear view of both the front of the house and the last twenty meters of the approach road.
“They’re not on the road,” Luis whispered. “They’re coming through the woods.”
“Still gonna get a big fucking surprise,” Joaquim said.
He checked the fire control on his assault rifle, making sure it was switched to full automatic. Luis worked the slide on his Glock, chambering a round, making what sounded to Joaquim like a hell of a racket. He shot his brother a look.
But, no, they were okay. The rustling hadn’t stopped. It was just getting louder.
“Coming right at us,” Luis said.
“Shut up, you moron, ” Joaquim hissed.
“Moron? Me, a moron? Watch your fucking mouth, Joaquim.”
“Watch yours, asshole.”
“Who you calling an asshole?”
The cops weren’t far away. Lauro couldn’t see them yet, but he could hear them, first doing something with one of their guns then arguing. One called another one a moron. Normally, Lauro didn’t like arguments. In fact, he didn’t like contention in any form. But he was pleased that the federal policemen were out of sorts with each other, because he was equally out of sorts with them.
Stay here, Silva had told him.
Stay and miss the climax of the operation that he, Lauro Tadesco, had brought about? Miss the liberation of the depu-tado’s granddaughter? Miss the apprehension of the people who’d abducted her?”
Stay here, indeed!
He could see them now, just ahead.
But they weren’t the federal agents. There were only two of them, not three, and one of them was pointing a- Oh, God!
Joaquim, staring over the sights of his AK-47, saw a flash of color moving among the leaves. He squeezed the trigger, felt the rifle kick into his shoulder and saw a red mist appear where his target’s head used to be. The body below it slumped out of sight.
Gotcha, you fucker, Joaquim thought.
But he didn’t release the trigger. He went on to blow through the whole magazine, hosing everything to the right and left of the man he’d just shot. Then he released the catch, changed clips, and was ready for another go.
Silva threw himself on the ground at the sound of the first shot. When the echo of the last round died he raised his head and looked at his comrades. Both were prone, both unhurt. He signaled them to stay where they were and to keep their heads down. The shooter had a weapon capable of full automatic fire. They had handguns. Their only option was to remain quiet and hope for an opportunity.
It wasn’t long in coming. He could hear men crashing around in the brush, getting closer. A voice said, “Luis?”
“Yeah,” a second voice replied.
“He’s over here. He don’t look like no cop,” the first one said.
More crashing around in the brush.
“Lemme see here,” the first voice said again. “Might be that kid.”
“What kid?”
“The priest’s little friend. Tadesco.”
“Yeah?”
“Give me a minute. Yeah. It’s him.”
“Good. So that’s one down, four to go.”
Silva was sure now there were only two of them, still hidden by the leaves and only meters away. He rose to his feet, trusting that they were still distracted by the body of their victim. Silently, cautiously, Silva’s companions followed his example.
“Merda,” the man called Luis said. “His head’s all fucked up. How can you be sure it’s him?”
“I rolled him over. The other side of his face isn’t blown out.” “Well, this side sure as hell is.”
Silva could see them, now, standing with their backs toward him, looking down at Lauro’s mangled body. Silently, he cursed himself. He should have handcuffed the boy to the steering wheel to keep him out of harm’s way.
Hector stepped on a twig. It broke with a sharp crack.
The killers spun around. The taller one, a guy with a growth of beard and a face like a jackfruit, had a pistol in his hand and he raised it. Hector pumped three quick rounds into his chest. The man dropped like a stone.
The other guy, clean-shaven and round-faced, had an AK-47. Silva’s single shot, aimed at his upper body, struck the breech of the assault rifle and slammed the stock into his ribs. Roundface squealed with pain, dropped the weapon and the game was over: cops two, killers zero.