“Major Funchal isn’t available at the moment. Who’s speaking?”
It was a woman’s voice, and she wasn’t happy.
Jealous wife, Mara thought. “Agent Mara Carta of the Federal Police,” she said.
The woman’s tone softened. “Sorry. He’s sleeping.”
“Sleeping?” Mara glanced at the clock on the wall of her office. It was two thirty in Sao Paulo, one thirty in Manaus.
“I know what you’re thinking,” the woman said. “He walked in here this morning stinking like a pig and looking like death warmed over. I doubt if he’s slept more than two hours in the last forty-eight. People who call here generally know how it goes when he’s on a mission. They don’t want to wake him up. You probably did just that.”
“Sorry,” Mara said. A protective spouse, not a jealous one. “Who am I speaking to, please?”
“Beth.”
“His wife?”
“The only one, as far as I know. What did you say your name was?”
“Mara.”
“It’s like this, Mara. He always comes back from one of these things flat-out exhausted. The officers feel they have to set an example, so they push themselves harder. He’s only thirty-six, but this jungle survival stuff is a young man’s game. I’m trying to talk him into getting out of it, but he loves it. And I love him. So what am I going to do, huh? What do you want to talk to him about?”
“I need some information about a man who served under him, a certain Julio Arriaga. It would have been three or four years ago, maybe a little more.”
“The name doesn’t ring any bells. But I’ll have him call you back. You’re here in Manaus?”
“No. Sao Paulo.”
Mara recited her telephone number. Beth read it back. “If he runs true to form,” she said, “he’ll get up in a few hours, eat something, and then crash for the night. If that happens, I’ll have him get back to you. Otherwise, he’ll call tomorrow morning.”
But Mara didn’t have to wait that long. Major Funchal called back less than half an hour later.
“Julio Arriaga?” he said, his voice hoarse. “Yeah, I remember him. He was a good soldier, but that temper of his… What’s he done now?”
“His son was murdered. We’re investigating.”
“Junior? Somebody murdered Junior?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Jesus. Arriaga loved that kid with a passion. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to be in the murderer’s shoes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What I said. Julio is a dangerous guy to cross. You know what his specialty was?”
“No. What?”
“Stealth killing.”
“You think he’d be capable of practicing that specialty of his on someone who killed his son?”
“He’d sure as hell know how to do it if he wanted to.”
“How come he left the service? His file lists him as resigned. But it doesn’t say why.”
“No. It doesn’t,” Funchal said. And stopped there.
“Are you going to tell me?”
“Is it important?”
“Very important. Lives might depend on it.”
“All right, then. The fact is, he struck a superior, a lieutenant. He should have gotten a prison term and a dishonorable discharge, but…”
“What?”
“Well, frankly, we cut Arriaga some slack. The lieutenant was a prick, an incompetent, and, worst of all, he was wrong. Arriaga was good at what he did, and right. But we can’t have enlisted men going around beating up officers. Julio had to go. He took it hard. As to the lieutenant, the poor bastard had no idea how lucky he was. If Julio had wanted to go all the way, he certainly could have, and some of us thought he should have. I’m not going to tell you any more than that.”
“You people work with silenced weapons?”
“We don’t just sleep rough and eat snails.”
“Which handguns do you use?”
“Just one. The M975.”
“Which is?”
“The military version of the Taurus PT92.”
“Then it’s a single/double action 9x19 Parabellum, a copy of the Beretta 92?”
“Nice to talk to a woman who knows her handguns. Our M975s are so quiet, somebody fires one in the next room, you hardly hear it.”
“And I suppose Arriaga had lots of experience with that particular pistol?”
“Lots. And he was an expert marksman. There was this trick he used to do with an ax head and balloons. He’d shoot at the sharp edge of the ax. The ax would divide the bullet in two. He’d burst a balloon on either side of the ax with a single shot.”
“Impressive.”
“More impressive was that he could do it seven or eight times out of every ten.”
“Those M975s of yours, do you lose one every now and then?”
“Some of the guys get pretty attached to their handguns. We don’t make a fuss if one disappears. We’re all professionals here, and we figure lost weapons are ultimately gonna be used in good causes.”
“You think Arriaga might have taken one with him when he left?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, Major, you didn’t.”
“Can I tell you one more thing?”
“Sure.”
“I know Arriaga pretty well, and I like him. He’s not unjust. He’s not a thug. He’s got a clearly developed sense of right and wrong. I hope to hell he isn’t the guy you’re looking for, but if Julio did this thing, the guy who messed with his kid would have deserved everything he got.”
“Thank you, Major. You’ve been very helpful.”
“What do you think should happen to a slimeball that kills a kid?”
“I’m not prepared to say.”
“Understandable, you being from the Federal Police and all, but my feeling is that we understand each other perfectly.”