Every Bitter Thing (12 page)

“And you caught up with Bittencourt?”

She nodded. “I got between him and his car. When he spotted me, he looked like he'd just taken a mouthful of sour milk, then he turned solicitous.”

“And what, exactly, did he tell you?”

“He said there were two dozen men taking their showers along with Junior, but no one saw him fall. Can you believe that? Two dozen men in the same shower, and no one saw him fall?”

“No,” Hector said. “I can't.”

“Bittencourt said he was looking into it, he said he was questioning everyone. He promised he'd get back to me.”

“And did he? Did he get back to you?”

She paused for a moment. “No,” she finally said.

And that's something else she isn't telling me
, Hector thought.

“I think I've troubled you enough,” he said.

“Wait,” she said. “You'll be looking closely into everything that happened on that flight, correct?”

“Correct, Senhora.”

“If, in the course of your investigation, you happen to discover who planted those drugs on my boy, will you tell me?”

“Senhora, I—”

“It's not that I don't believe every word Junior said. It's not that, but … well, there's always a bit of doubt, isn't there? It would set my mind at rest to know that he didn't lie to me.”

She was staring into his eyes. There was something manic about her look. “Will you?” she said. “Will you do it?”

Hector nodded.
What harm could it do?

She continued to search his eyes. “I have your word?”

“You have my word,” he said.

“Good,” she said and got up to lead him to the door.

T
HERE WAS
a
padaria
just across the street from Aline's apartment building. Hector went in, sat down at the zinc-covered counter, and ordered a cachaça neat. It was eleven o'clock in the morning. If the girl behind the counter thought it was early to be drinking straight cane spirit, she didn't show it.

Hector had surreptitiously switched off his mobile phone while Aline was showing him the pictures. Now he turned it on. He intended to call his uncle, but the phone rang before he could hit the speed dial.

Haraldo Gonçalves's name was on the caller ID.

The conversation that ensued prompted Hector to order another cachaça. He was still sipping it when the phone rang once again.

“Why couldn't I reach you?” Silva asked.

“I switched my phone off.”

“Why?”

Hector told him about his disturbing conversation with the bereaved mother.

Silva was silent for a moment. He knew what it meant to lose a child. Then he said, “Completely different MO.”

“And it happened in a jail,” Hector said. “No way it could be connected.”

“Maybe not. But the boy was in that cabin with the others, and that's too much of a coincidence to ignore. Did you hear about the flight attendant, Bruna Nascimento?”

“Just now. Babyface called.”

“Call him back. Tell him to turn around, go to international arrivals and try to talk to the customs agents who nailed the kid.”

“How about Bittencourt? That delegado?”

“Take him yourself. He's liable to pull rank with Gonçalves. And don't call him first. Surprise him.”

Hector looked at his watch. “Not even noon. I should catch him easy.”

“Who did the autopsy on the Arriaga boy?”

“I don't know. I'll find out.”

“From Gilda?”

“From Gilda. I'll call her straightaway. That it?”

“No. One more thing: call Mara and ask her to see what she can find out about the kid's father.”

“You think—”

“I don't think anything. I'd just like to know.”

The guy behind the counter picked up Hector's glass and gave him a questioning look. Hector shook his head and pointed at the coffee pot.

Chapter Seventeen

L
UIS
M
ANSUR'S FIRST PHONE
call from the Federal Police initially provoked curiosity, then irritation.

A woman who identified herself as Senhorita Mara Carta asked if he was the Luis Mansur who'd flown from Miami to São Paulo on the twenty-second of November.

“Yes,” he'd said. “What's this all about?”

“That was on TAB flight 8101, is that correct?”

“Yes. Why do you want to know?”

“Are you acquainted with a man called Juan Rivas, or a man called Jonas Palhares, or a man called Victor Neves?”

“No. And why the fuck are you asking?”

She sniffed. “I've given you no cause to be offensive, Senhor Mansur. I'm just doing my job. Did you make the acquaintance of any of the other passengers on that flight?”

“What is this? The Spanish Inquisition?”

“No, Senhor, it's the Federal Police, and I advise you to answer the question.”

“I
never
speak to people on airplanes.”

That was not, strictly speaking, true. The two times Mansur had been seated next to an attractive woman, he'd tried very hard to strike up a conversation.

“If you didn't speak to anyone,” the voice on the line went on, “what
did
you do on that flight?”

This was really too much. Mansur was tempted to hang up on her, but it
was
the Federal Police.

“What does anybody do on a flight? I had a drink. I ate my dinner. I watched a movie. Then I put on a sleeping mask, stuck in some earplugs, and slept all the way to São Paulo.

Now, I want to know—”

She didn't let him finish. “That's all for the moment. Someone will be contacting you soon.”

She hung up, without so much as a thank you.

Bitch!

Mansur had interpreted “soon” as sometime within the coming days. But the second call came less than an hour later, and at a most inconvenient time. He was in the process of firing Jamile Bastos and had made it clear to Rosa, his secretary, that he was not to be disturbed. But he hadn't locked the door to his office and that, in retrospect, proved to be a mistake.

Jamile possessed an ample bosom and very long legs. Mansur had made a play for her, and she'd brushed him off. He wasn't about to let her get away with this simply because she showed up on time and was good at her job. She was a single mother with two children to feed. She had
obligations
. She should have known better.

He'd been expecting tears, got them, and was handing Jamile a third paper handkerchief when Rosa barged in without waiting for a response to her knock. Luis raised his chin and glared at her, expecting her to back out again. But she didn't. Instead, she took a deep breath, closed the door behind her, and came over to whisper in his ear.

“I'm terribly sorry to interrupt, Senhor Mansur, but I have a chief inspector from the Federal Police on the line. I told him you weren't to be disturbed, but he insisted. He says it's vital he speak to you.”

Mansur was about to tell his secretary that the federal cop could wait until he was damned good and ready to call him back. But at that moment, Jamile rose to her feet, called him a
canalha
, and stormed out, the tears still running down her cheeks. He'd been only seconds away from explaining, in detail, exactly what she had to do to keep her job, and he had a full erection. The cop's timing couldn't have been worse.

“What's this cop's name?” he snarled.

“Silva. Chief Inspector Silva.”

“Put him on,” Mansur said.

T
HE FIRST
thing the São Paulo businessman said was, “What's so goddamned important?”

Silva took the telephone away from his ear and looked at it, as if it was the instrument itself, and not the man, who had offended him.

“Am I speaking to Luis Mansur?”

“You are.”

“Senhor Mansur, I'm—”

“Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. So my secretary told me. I repeat, what's so goddamned important?”

Silva suppressed a brusque retort. “There is a chance, Senhor Mansur, that your life is in danger.”

“What?” Mansur said. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You traveled business class aboard TAB flight 8101 from Miami to São Paulo on the twenty-second of November, correct?”

“I already answered that question the last time you people called. What's this ‘life in danger' crap?”

“Someone has murdered five of the people who traveled with you.”

“Five people on the same plane?”

“Five people who were in the business-class cabin.”

Silva elected not to mention young Julio Arriaga. Five killings were, he thought, quite enough to make an impact; gauging by Mansur's response, he was right.

“You're shitting me,” Mansur said.

“I can assure you, Senhor Mansur, that I am not, as you put it, shitting you.”

“
Caralho.
What happened to them?”

“They were shot and subsequently beaten to death.”

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Senhor Mansur?”

“I'm here. Who's doing this and why?”

“We have, as yet, no idea. The murders took place in four different cities.”

“Then how can you be sure they're connected?”

“The method of killing was the same, a single shot to the abdomen followed by beating with a blunt object. And the bullets were all fired from the same gun.”

“Who was killed?”

“The flight attendant, Bruna Nascimento.”

“I remember her all right. Arrogant bitch. Lousy service.

Who else?”

“Juan Rivas—”

“Sounds like a fucking Argentinean.”

“A Venezuelan, actually.”

“Almost as bad. Who else?”

“Victor Neves.”

“Never heard of him.”

“Jonas Palhares.”

“Him either.”

“And Paulo Cruz.”

“The professor? The writer? That Cruz?”

“That Cruz.”

“His funeral was in the paper. I didn't know he was on the same plane.”

“He was. What were you doing in Miami, Senhor Mansur?”

“Huh?”

“I asked you what you were doing in Miami.”

“Business.”

“What kind of business?”

“I deal in petroleum-based industrial lubricants. Let's cut right to the chase. You're
telling
me I could be a victim, but you're
thinking
I could be a murderer, right?”

“You're a perceptive man, Senhor Mansur.”

“You're goddamned right I am. Well, Senhor Chief Inspector Silva, let me tell you this: I didn't kill anybody.”

“Then you could be in danger yourself.”

“Who else was in that cabin? Remind me.”

“Would names have any significance for you?”

“Probably not.”

“Then it would suffice to say there was a fifteen-year-old boy, the son of an airline employee—”

“I remember him. I wondered why he was traveling alone in business class. They must have upgraded him because of his father. I guess we can rule him out. Who else?”

“An American.”

“Aha.”

“Aha?”

“You can't trust Americans.”

“You're entitled to your opinion, Senhor Mansur.”

“What does this American do for a living?”

“He appears to be a priest.”

“What do you mean, ‘appears to be'?”

“We're awaiting confirmation on that.”

“Priests don't murder people.”

“I have to differ with you. Occasionally they do. I've known one who did.”

“Who are the other—dare I say—
survivors
?”

“Three Brazilians. We haven't located any of them either.”

“So let me add this up. You got the American priest, the woman, a teenager, four dead guys, a dead stewardess, three other people, and me. That's twelve altogether.”

Whatever else Mansur might have been, he wasn't stupid. And he had a good memory.

“Correct,” Silva said.

“Well, I sure as hell didn't kill anybody. The old lady probably didn't, and the teenager ditto. That brings you down to four suspects.”

“One of the four is a child.”

“Oh, yeah. I remember him too. Traveling with his father.

Waste of money, taking a kid into business class. His old man should have popped him back in coach and let the stewardesses take care of him.”

Silva was beginning to develop a healthy dislike for Luis Mansur.

“So, let's see who we have left,” Mansur said. “There's only the priest and those two other guys, right? Maybe you'd better give me their names after all.”

“The father of the boy is Marnix Kloppers.”

“What the fuck kind of a name is that?”

“It's of Dutch origin, I believe.”

“And the priest?”

“Dennis Clancy.”

“And the last guy?”

“Darcy Motta.”

“Oh, yeah, Motta.” Luis Mansur chuckled.

Silva picked up on the reaction. “You know him?”

“Know him? Hell, no.”

“You didn't sit down next to him?”

Mansur bristled. “He tell you that? Tell you I sat down next to him? If he did, he's lying.”

“He hasn't told us anything. We're still looking for him.”

“You found
me
. How come you haven't found
him
?”

“His ticket was purchased with cash. We've been unable to uncover any credit cards. He has no driver's license, no telephone, no cell phone, no criminal record. It's possible that Darcy Motta is an alias, that his real name is something else.”

“Hmmm,” Mansur said. He sounded pensive.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” Silva asked.

“No.”

“Does the name Girotti mean anything to you? João Girotti?”

“Not a thing. Why?”

“He, too, was murdered. The method of killing, and the bullet used, matched the others.”

“But he wasn't on the plane?”

“No, he wasn't. Listen, Senhor Mansur, I'd like to speak to you personally. Could we meet on Tuesday morning? About ten?”

Mansur did a noisy flip through of his desk calendar.

“Make it nine,” he said. “I've got a busy day, but I'll shuffle my schedule around.”

“Nine, then. In the meantime, be careful.”

“Let me tell you something, Senhor Chief Inspector Silva. I've got a Taurus .38 and, before you ask, yes, I
do
have a permit to carry it. I was robbed one time on the street; a little punk threatened me with a knife. I gave him my wallet, and my watch, and the little fucker cut me anyway. It took six stitches to close the wound, and if I'd raised that arm up a fraction of a second later, I would have gotten it right in the face. I'm not about to let anything like that happen again. Anybody, man, woman, or child, who threatens me is gonna eat a bullet.”