Every Bitter Thing (14 page)
“I
GOT GOOD NEWS
and I got bad news, Mario.”
“Good news first, Harvey. I need some cheering up today.”
“Then this should help do it,” the Miami Beach cop said. “Those cameras you asked about? They exist. You're gonna get a copy of a DVD showing everybody who boarded that flight.”
“Everybody?”
“Including the crew. They all board through the same door. The camera mounted above it runs continuously.”
“You are a prince among men, Harvey Willis.”
“Don't lay it on too thick. Now for the bad news: we haven't been able to track down this Arriaga guy. You sure he's here in Florida?”
“No, I'm not. But he's supposed to be.”
“Well, we came up with what we think is his address, but he doesn't answer his door. And we got what we think are his home and cell numbers, but he doesn't pick up his phones and, up to now, he hasn't responded to our messages. His car, if it is his car, isn't in the driveway, and his neighbors have no idea where he is. They're all Anglos, and Arriaga, they say, doesn't speak much English.”
“All Anglos? In South Florida?”
“Hard to believe, isn't it?”
“No fixed place of employment?”
“Nope. He floats.”
“As what?”
“A handyman. One of those neighbors had him in to do some work. Apparently he's good.”
“And I guess it's tough to find gainful employment if your specialty is killing people.”
“Not at all. Like you said, it's South Florida.”
“You think maybe he's still at it? Killing people? On the side, I mean?”
“If he is, there's nothing in the records. And I mean nothing. No arrests, not even a speeding ticket. He appears to be squeaky clean.”
“No Social Security number? No credit card?”
“He has both.”
“How did he manage that?”
“Manage what?”
“Social Security. Credit cards. He's not a legal resident.”
“Who told you that?”
“His wife.”
“You mean his ex-wife.”
“No. His wife.”
“And this wife you're talking about lives there in Brazil?”
“She does.”
“Two possibilities then: either we got the wrong Arriaga, or she's lying. And I'm pretty sure we've got the right Arriaga.”
“Interesting.”
“Arriaga won a green card in one of those lottery things. He's married to a woman whose maiden name was Inez Bocardo, also a legal resident, and has been for over a year.”
“How easy would it have been to marry a second woman without divorcing the first?”
“Not easy. He would have been required to list his marriage status on his visa application. That would have shown him as married. So he'd need proof of divorce if he wanted to marry again.”
“We were told he couldn't come to Brazil for his son's funeral because he was in the States illegally.”
“Again, if we've got the right Arriaga, that's bullshit. He could have gone, and come back, any time he wanted to.”
“Can you get a copy of those divorce papers?”
“Sure. Public records.”
“Check them, will you? Confirm that the ex-wife's name is Aline.”
“Okay, and if it is?”
“I can only think of one reason why she'd want us to believe he wasn't in Brazil when the murders were taking place.”
“Like she still loves him?”
“And is covering for him.”
“Well, duh,” Harvey Willis said.
W
HEN SUMMONING STAFF
, N
ELSON
Sampaio expected them to appear before him instantly.
“Where have you been?” he demanded of Silva.
“Ana only called me five minutesâ”
“Five minutes is five minutes. Sit down. You've got a lot of explaining to do.”
Sampaio could have been displeased about any number of things, past and present. Saying anything at all would have been unwise. Silva took the indicated seat in silence.
“You
knew
,” Sampaio said, pointing an accusing finger at his chief inspector's face, “that Tomás Garcia was a pederast.”
“I knew nothing of the kind, Senhor.”
“What?”
“A pederast, Director, is a man who has sex with boys. Juan Rivas was not a boy. I recall you telling me that he was thirty-two years old. That was on the day when you assigned me to the case. I called him a âkid,' and youâ”
Sampaio held up a hand. “I want a straight answer. Did you, or did you not, know that Tómas Garcia was buggering Juan Rivas?”
“I'm not sure who was buggering who, Senhor.”
“Stop that! Stop splitting hairs. Do you deny you were aware of what was going on between Tomás Garcia and Juan Rivas? Do you deny you were aware of their sexual relations?
Answer yes or no!”
“No, Senhor.”
“Aha! And you saw fit to conceal that information from me?”
“I didn't consider it relevant, Senhor. Many times, you've asked me not to burden you with details.”
“You didn't consider it relevant?
You didn't consider it relevant?
”
“No, Senhor.”
“All right, Chief Inspector. I'm listening. I want you to tell me
why
you didn't consider it relevant. But before you do, I want to give you a small inkling of the trouble you've put me through.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it! Haven't you got anything else to say other than yes, Senhor and no, Senhor?”
“If you'd only tell meâ”
“Last night, Chief Inspector, those two old pals, Jorge Rivas and Tomás Garcia got good and drunk together.”
“Last night? Rivas is still here?”
“He's still here. He stayed on for talks with the president and the foreign minister. Stop interrupting.”
“Yes, Senhor.”
“And stop that, I already told you to stop that. Now, while in his cups, Garcia admitted to Juan's old man that he'd been fucking his sonâ
fucking the foreign minister of Venezuela's son
, which was news to the Foreign Minister of Venezuela, and was news to me, and was news to the minister of justice and was news to the president of this republicâbut wasn't news to
you
because
you
already knew all about it. Garcia said so just before Rivas punched him.”
“Yes ⦠I mean, as you say, Senhor.”
“Goddamn it, I told you to stop that. After Senhor Rivas finished giving Senhor Garcia a few well-earned punches in the face and kicks in the groin, Garcia went on to admit that Juan had ditched him for somebody younger. That's grounds for murder right there. So what do you suppose Jorge Rivas did then?”
“I don'tâ”
“He picked up the goddamned telephone and called the foreign minister, that's what!”
“He did, did he?”
“Yes, he damned well did. And who do you think the foreign minister called? The president. That's who! And who do you think the president called?”
“The minister of justice?”
“Exactly! And who do you think the minister of justice called?”
“You?”
“You're goddamned right it was me! And his question to me, and my question to you, is:
why haven't you arrested the filho da puta?
”
“Because he didn't do it, Senhor.”
“And just because he didn't doâ” The significance of Silva's words suddenly sunk in, bringing Sampaio up short. “What did you say?”
“He didn't do it.”
“What makes you think he didn't do it?”
Silva rubbed his chin, wondering if the time had finally come to brief Sampaio on their progress. He decided it had. “We're sure,” he said, “because we quickly discovered that similar murders preceded the death of Juan Rivas, murders that were committed with the same MO. An MO, short for modus operandi, is a criminal's characteristic patternâ”
“I know what a goddamned MO is! Get to the point.”
“The victims were all shot in the abdomen and then violently beaten to death with a blunt instrument.”
“The same gun?”
“Yes.”
“What's the instrument?”
“We don't know. The killer takes it with him.”
“And why can't the killer be Garcia?”
“One of the murders was in Brodowski. That's a small town nearâ”
“I know where Brodowski is. It's Pignatari's birthplace. What do you think I am, some kind of goddamned philistine?”
“The painter's name was Portinari, Senhor.”
“Stop beating around the bush, goddamn it, and get to the point.”
“The other murders were in São Paulo, Rio, and Campinas. We've interviewed the doormen at Garcia's building and we've spoken to people in his office. Various witnesses are willing to swear that Garcia was here, in BrasÃlia, when those four killings took place.”
“Damn. Why the hell didn't you tell me this before?”
“As I said, Senhor, I didn't want to burden you with details.”
The director sat back in his chair. “I want a full report,” he said, “and I want it right now. What else is going on?”
Silva told him about their discovery of the passenger list; the murder of Bruna Nascimento, the flight attendant; the death of the thug, João Girotti.
“What's the significance of other victims having shared that cabin with Rivas?” Sampaio asked.
“We don't yet know.”
“And Girotti? What's he got to do with it?”
“We don't know that either. It's part of the puzzle. Bear with me. There's more to tell.”
“Out with it.”
Silva told him about the death of Julio Arriaga, Junior; about the boy's father, his background as a soldier, his short temper, the fact that he might own a silenced pistol, the fact that he'd gone missing, the fact that his ex-wife had lied about their still being married.
“Why are you wasting my time?” Sampaio said when he was done.
“Wasting your time, Senhor?”
“What do the kid and his father have to do with the murder of Juan Rivas? Not a damned thing, as far as I can see.”
“Maybe not, Senhor.”
“No maybes about it. Who else have you got?”
“We're looking at four other people.”
“Who are they?”
“Other passengers who traveled in the business-class cabin. Their names are Luis Mansur, Marnix Kloppers, Dennis Clancy, and Darcy Motta.”
“What's suspicious about them?”
“Mansur knows something he's not telling us.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“No, I just have a feeling.”
“A
feeling
, huh? Very scientific. How about the other three passengers?”
“Clancy is an American priest. He went to Palmas.”
“Tocantins? That Palmas?”
“Yes.”
“Well,
that's
suspicious. Why the hell would anybody, particularly a gringo, want to go to Tocantins?”
“Add to that the fact that Clancy has dropped off the map. So has Kloppers.”
“Kloppers? What the hell kind of name is that?”
“Dutch. But he carries a Brazilian passport.”
“Born here?”
“Born here. He was traveling with his son. We've spoken with his parents by telephone. They claim they have no idea where he is. Or his son either.”
“Their own grandson? How likely is that?”
“Not very. Arnaldo Nunes is going to speak to them.”
“All right. That leaves one.”
“Darcy Motta.”
Silva related the story that Lina Godoy, Bruna's friend and fellow flight attendant, had told Gonçalves.
Sampaio rubbed his chin. “So Motta may be the one who framed the kid?”
“It seems likely. And I should add that he, too, has disappeared.”
“Using an alias?”
“We think so.”
“So what are you sitting around here for? Get back out there and find the killer. And be quick about it. I can't hold off the whole damned Brazilian government for much longer.”
Silva nodded and stood up.
“And, Mario?”
It was Mario again, no longer Chief Inspector, a sign that the storm had blown overâat least for the moment.
“Yes?”
“Make sure you're here for the meeting.”
“I'll be here. But since you brought it up, would you mind telling me what it's all about?”
“All right. But keep it under your hat.”
Silva nodded his assent.
“It's about next year's budget,” Sampaio said. “I'm going to explain why none of you can count on any raises.”
W
HEN
H
ECTOR WAS USHERED
in, the window behind Sergio Bittencourt's desk was framing an Airbus 320. As it sank out of sight behind some shrubbery, the office was suddenly filled with the roar of reverse thrusters being engaged. The racket precluded conversation.
Junior Arriaga's mother had been right when she called the delegado little. He didn't quite come up to Hector's chin. She'd also called him a bastard. Bittencourt went on to prove it.
“I hope this isn't gonna take long,” he said. “I got better things to do than waste my time on a little punk of a dope smuggler, much less a dead one.”
“A dope smuggler, is it?” Hector said. “Guilty, was he?”
Bittencourt shrugged. “Caught with the goods, wasn't he?”
“Arriaga was fifteen. You should have taken one look at him and transferred him.”
“It happened early in the morning, before I got in,” Bittencourt said. “I never even saw him, not until he was dead. And what makes you think you got the right to barge in here and tell me how to run my delegacia?”
Before Hector could reply, an oncoming roar built to a crescendo. Another aircraft sailed into view, the heat from its turbines distorting the air behind it. He watched it disappear, waited until he was sure the delegado could hear him, and said, “I'm here because the minister of justice wants a full investigation. Take it up with him if you've got a beef. I'll even wait until you have him on the line.”
Bittencourt's mouth tightened. Then he seemed to realize Hector might be perfectly serious, and he forced a smile.
“Sergeant Rocas gave me your name,” he said. “I forgot it.”
“It's Costa. Hector Costa.”
“Okay, Hector, let's start this conversation all over again. Maybe we got off on the wrong foot. You call me Sergio, okay?”
“Sure, Sergio. Now, about the kid?”
“First time I saw him, he was on the shower-room floor.”
“You told his mother you were going to investigate. Did you?”
Bittencourt squirmed. “You know how many prisoners this place was built to hold? Fifty! You know how many I got back there right now? Hell,
I
don't know how many I got, but it's more than two hundred. You got no idea of what I have to put up with.”
“No, I don't. And you know what, Sergio? I don't care. I'm here to talk about the kid.”
“I
am
talking about the kid. He wasn't the first person to die in here, and he wasn't the youngest either, and he sure as hell won't be the last. Only difference is, most of them get stabbed.”
“Stabbed, huh? Where do they get the weapons?”
“The walls in this place are concrete, like sandpaper. These guys got nothing to do all day, so they sit around and scrape away on spoons, and bedsprings, and anything else they get their hands on. They keep scraping, and sharpening, until they have a weapon. Once a week, we do a search, but you can't imagine the places they think of to hide things in. We got cases in here that're always on the lookout for tender young ass, but they steer clear of kids raised in the shantytowns. First thing that kind of kid does is arm himself. The perverts don't want to get stuck, so they wait for the ones like Arriaga. And when one comes along, they settle on him like flies on honey. We don't get many of them, so the competition is fierce when we do.”
“You're telling me your people
knew
Arriaga would be attacked?”
“Hey, it's easy for you to take the high moral ground. You don't have to deal with it. First thing people learn when they come to work here is that, if they get between the flies and the honey,
they're
the ones who get stuck. You think I can find guards who're willing to lay their lives on the line for eight hundred reais a month? Give me a break!”
“So these guards of yours, they just let it happen?”
“It's like this: a lot of prisoners really look forward to their showers. Washing, fighting, fucking. It's recreation for them. Hell, I don't know why I'm wasting my breath explaining this. I really don't expect you to understand.”
“You're right. I don't.”
“As far as that kid is concerned, if I'd known he had somebody's juice up his ass, I woulda been on it in a flash. I don't want any more trouble than the next man. Last thing I want to see on my record is a reprimand. And juice up his ass, coupled with the time that's gone by without me doing anything about it, is sure as hell gonna get me a reprimand. But those pricks at the medical examiner's office never told me a goddamned thing. They kept me in the dark. First thing I heard about it was when those two guys from homicide showed up to take samples.”
“Which was when?”
“Yesterday. Up to then, we had it down as an accident. We thought the kid fell.”
“Sure you did. So between the time the kid was killed and yesterday, you did absolutely nothing?”
“Look, even if I'd suspected something, which I'm not, for one minute, about to admit I did, there wouldn't have been any point. You know how felons think. Nobody sees anything. Nobody knows anything. Why bother to ask? But now it's different. Now we've got DNA and we'll be able to nab the son of a bitch. I got no problem with that. It's what he deserves. No, my problem is different. My problem is I shoulda been kept in the loop. Then I could have filed as murder, instead of accidental death.”
“The DNA samples, did they get one from everybody?”
“Everybody who was still here. Some had moved on.”
“Some? How many?”
“Two, I think. Yeah, two.”
“Was one of them a punk by the name of João Girotti?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just answer the question, Sergio.”
“I don't remember. I got people going in and out all the time.”
“And the name doesn't ring a bell?”
Bittencourt shook his head.
“Do me a favor, Sergio. Get me those two names. And while you're at it, get me their jackets.”
Bittencourt grunted and picked up his phone. Five minutes later, two folders were on the desk. One was João Girotti's. The other belonged to a man named Ubaldo Spadafora.
Spadafora's mug shot showed a mild-looking man with mousy brown hair and moustache. He looked like anything but a hardened criminal. The written material confirmed the visual impression. Spadafora was a bookkeeper, arrested for embezzlement and larceny. It was a first offense. He wouldn't have spent a single night in jail if his employer hadn't caught him leaving the office with a briefcase full of cash.
“This address,” Hector asked, “is it current?”
Bittencourt shrugged. “It's the only one I got.”
“The homicide guys get a copy of this?”
“They got a copy. But they're gonna be wasting their time. The guy's a wimp.”
“And only real
machos
rape fifteen-year-old kids, right? I want a copy of this.”
“Copier's broken.”
“Then I'll borrow it and return it.”
“You want the other one too?”
“No. I already have everything I need on Girotti.” Hector stood up. “I might be back,” he said.
Bittencourt didn't seem pleased at the prospect.
U
BALDO
S
PADAFORA
lived in a small house with a vase of dead flowers on the porch. The bookkeeper opened his front door to find Hector looking down at the dried leaves and stalks. If he was surprised to see someone he didn't know standing on his doorstep at six o'clock in the evening, he didn't show it.
“My wife left when I got home from jail,” he said. “I kept forgetting to water them.”
Hector looked up. “You normally start a conversation by admitting you've been in jail?”
“I do if the conversation is with a cop. You're a cop, aren't you? You look like one.”
Hector held up his badge.
“Okay,” Spadafora said with a sigh. “Come on in. You want coffee?”
“I wouldn't mind.”
“All I have is instant. It's not bad if you make it with milk.”
“Good enough.”
Spadafora led the way to a small kitchen, where he popped two cups of milk into the microwave. Next, he opened a tin of cookies and began to arrange them in a circular pattern on a plate.
“They're not homemade,” he said. “I don't cook any more. There doesn't seem much point to it, cooking for one person.”
“You cooked before?”
“Serena said she had a full-time job taking care of her garden. She used to grow flowers: no fruits, no vegetables, just flowers. She'd have a fit if she saw it now. Most everything is dead.”
The microwave beeped. Spadafora removed the two cups, spooned in instant coffee, and began to stir.
“I'd do the shopping on my way home and then cook dinner. I'd call her away from the TV so she could join us for the meal. Afterwards, she'd go back to her
novelas
, leave me to do the cleaning up and the rest of the housework.”
“You had your hands full.”
“I did. I took care of the kids, too, when she was glued to the TV. But none of it was enough. Serena had her heart set on buying a weekend place at the beach, somewhere near Ubatuba. She loves Ubatuba. Take your cup and come along.”
“Is that why you stole the money?” Hector asked.
“I stole it,” Spadafora said, “because she wanted that house, and I wanted to get it for her. Then, when it all went wrong, she left and took the kids. She's taking this place too. Got a good lawyer, Serena did; cleaned out our bank account to hire him.”
“No chance that she'll forgive you, that you can make a fresh start?”
“You wouldn't ask that if you knew Serena. Enough about me. Why are you here?”
“The Arriaga boy. Remember him? The one who died in the shower?”
“How could I forget? Most brutal thing I ever saw.”
“You
saw
it?”
“Only the aftermath. I was at the other end of the shower room, and I had soap in my eyes. I heard a commotion, washed out the soap, saw him lying on the floor, bleeding from the head.”
“So you didn't see him being struck?”
“No, but I saw the rape. They propped him up on all fours. Two men held his thighs so they wouldn't collapse. Another pushed the nape of his neck so his head went down to the concrete floor. Then he buggered him.”
“
Who
buggered him? João Girotti?”
Spadafora shook his head.
“Girotti was in line. He would have been third. Exceptâ¦.”
“Except what?”
Spadafora winced, the memory painful. “He never got a chance. Somebody said the guards were coming. Girotti gave it up. He turned around, went under one of the showers, turned on the cold water to get rid of his erection.”
“So who was it raped the kid?”
“Castor Salles; Big Castor, they call him. And it's an apt description. When he saw Arriaga, the first thing he said was,
He's mine
. I heard him say it. The boy did too. He backed up against the wall. I went to the other end of the cell and turned my face away. Five minutes later, they were herding us into the shower. Less than five minutes after that, the boy was dead.”
“You think Delegado Bittencourt is aware of what he's got in Castor Salles?”
“How could he not be? You know, before I went to prison, I was against the death penalty. I used to look down my nose at primitive societies that execute people.”
“Primitive societies, huh? Like the Americans?”
Spadafora smiled a thin smile before he went on. “But now I think differently. People like Castor Salles, they're ⦠purely evil.”
The bookkeeper shivered, as if he could see Big Castor Salles right there in the room with him. Then he looked Hector full in the face. “You're a cop. You must see people like Salles all the time, primitives with no regard for other people and no respect for human life. What do you think should be done with them?”
Hector didn't answer, not because he didn't
have
an answer. He did. He had very firm convictions about what, in a land with no death penalty, should be done with animals like Big Castor Salles.
But he'd never share those convictions with a man like Ubaldo Spadafora.