In one of those rare moments in Brazilian aviation, Tuesday morning’s first flight from Brasilia to Guarulhos arrived early. The undercarriage hit the ground in Sao Paulo a full seven minutes ahead of schedule.
Silva turned on his cell phone as soon as the airplane came to a stop. It began ringing almost immediately.
“Forget about your chat with Mansur,” Hector said. “It’s never going to happen.”
“Dead?”
“Dead.”
“Shot?”
“In the gut.”
“Beaten?”
“To a bloody pulp.”
“Damned fool! He said he had a revolver.”
“He did. It was in his briefcase, but he left the briefcase in his car.”
“Where did they find him?”
“In a motel room. The homicide guys know we’re interested in the MO. They called us right away.”
“How do I get there?”
“It’s on the right-hand side of the Rodovia Raposo Tavares. You know that big supermarket, the Carrefour?”
“I know it.”
“About a kilometer farther on. Call me when you get close.”
“Transport?”
“Babyface for you, Samantha for Arnaldo.”
Samantha Assad was one of the director’s appointments. She had a law degree from Rio Branco, a black belt in jujitsu, and a chip on her shoulder the size of Nelson Sampaio’s ego.
Arnaldo couldn’t stand her.
“Call her on her cell phone,” Silva said. “Tell her I’ve determined that Arnaldo will be the point man on this one. He’s the one who’s going to question Marnix Kloppers’s parents. She’s not to pull rank.”
As a delegada, Samantha stood above Arnaldo in the pecking order. He had no law degree and was simply a senior agent.
“I already told her,” Hector said. “She said she wouldn’t, but you know Samantha.”
“Unfortunately, yes,” Silva said. “I do know Samantha.”
The two cars were in the no-parking zone in front of the terminal. A couple of uniformed cops were staring daggers at them. It went against the cops’ grain to have anyone occupying the no-parking zone, even the Federal Police.
Silva hopped in next to Goncalves.
“Morning, Babyface.”
“Don’t you think this Babyface stuff is getting a bit tired, Chief Inspector?”
Silva made a point of studying Goncalves’s unlined face.
“Not yet,” he said.
“You’re driving,” Samantha said, tossing aside her copy of Vogue .
“No ‘Good morning, Senhor Nunes’?” Arnaldo said. “No ‘How are you, Senhor Nunes?’”
“My morning went out the window when I heard I’d be spending it with you. And I really don’t care how you are. Get in and drive.”
“Did it ever occur to you, Samantha, why you’re not married? Is it perhaps because you’re so damned bossy?”
“Fuck off,” she said and flounced to the passenger side.
“Tick, tick, tick,” he said, opening the door.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Biological clock. It’s ticking.”
“My biological clock is none of your business, Nunes. Get your fat ass into the car.”
He did and slammed the door.
“We’re taking the Anhanguera,” she said as he started the engine.
“Holambra is near Campinas,” he said, adjusting the mirrors. “Bandeirantes will be quicker.”
“Bandeirantes isn’t as pretty. I’m into pretty. We’re taking the Anhanguera.”
“See what I mean? Bossy.”
“Shut up. I’ve got a date tonight, and I don’t want to be late, so get moving. The Dutra to the Marginal to the Anhanguera.”
“You don’t have to tell me how to get to the Anhanguera,” he said. “I’ve lived in this town for more years than you’ve been alive.”
“Wait,” she said, holding up a hand. “What’s that?”
Arnaldo cocked his head to listen. “What? I don’t hear anything.”
“Retirement clock,” she said. “Tick, tick, tick.”
“I don’t get it,” Arnaldo said, after a few minutes of not-so-companionable silence.
“What?” she said.
“Holambra.”
“Oho,” she said. “So the Great Expert on Sao Paulo doesn’t know what Holambra means.”
“And you do?”
“I do. Holambra is composed of the first three letters of Holland, the first two letters of America, and the first three letters of Brazil. Hol-Am-Bra, home of the Expoflora.”
“What’s the Expoflora?”
She said, “How could I forget? You’re Arnaldo Nunes. Beauty and art are beyond you. You wouldn’t know anything about the Expoflora.”
“Enlighten me.”
“It’s only the biggest flower exposition in all of Latin America, that’s all. Three hundred thousand visitors last year.”
“What do they do the rest of the year?”
“They grow flowers and bulbs and seeds for the national and export trade. And they sit around and marvel that someone like you can live in this country and be unaware of the existence of their Expoflora.”
“I don’t live in this country,” Arnaldo said. “I live in Brasilia. It’s kind of like Oz, with politicians.”
A little later, he said, “So how come a gang of Dutchmen decide to come and live in Brazil?”
“Economic refugees,” she said. “Came after the Second World War when their country was still a wreck.”
“And we were the land of the future. Funny how things change.”
“I can’t believe you’re such a cynic. That’s another thing I dislike about you.”
“How come you know all this? About Holambra, I mean?”
“Because I, unlike a certain Neanderthal I could mention, am aware of my surroundings. I am also a curious person-”
“You can say that again.”
“-who is always interested in finding out things about other people.”
“Nosy, I’d call it. And while we’re on the subject, did Hector tell you I’m to take the lead with the Kloppers?”
She looked out the window.
“Did he?” he insisted.
“Yes,” she sniffed.
And the silence descended again.