The Ways of Evil Men (11 page)

“Arnaldo and I have already made a cursory examination of the bodies.”

“Well, do you think he could have inflicted that wound on himself?”

“No. I do not.”

“You see? So the story he told us makes sense. Something else, too: Amati had no reason to suspect Omar, no reason to attack him, and when we spoke to him at the
delegacia
, he didn’t even know the man was dead.”

“He said that, did he?”

“Yes, and I believe him. But there’s one reason that trumps all the others.”

“Which is?”

“Amati loved his son. And he wasn’t stupid. If he murdered a white man and was murdered in turn, it would put the boy’s future in jeopardy. He knew that.”

“So he’d never do it?”

“Never!”

“How old is the child?”

“Eight.”

“Eight,” Silva echoed. He kept his face impassive, but it was as if she’d put a knife into his gut and twisted it. Amati’s son was the same age as his own son had been when they’d lost him.

“What is the boy’s name?” he asked.

“Raoni.”

“Where is he?”

“In his village.”

“You left an eight-year-old alone in the rainforest?”

“It was Amati’s decision to make, not mine.”

“You didn’t try to argue him out of it?”

“The Awana, Chief Inspector, speak—make that spoke—a language unique in all the world. I only know a few words of it.”

“How, then, did you get his story, the one you told me on the telephone?”

“There’s a priest here in town, a man by the name of Carlo Castori. I got him to translate for me.”

“Yes,” Arnaldo said. “We’ve heard of him.”

“Anything good?”

“No.”

“Then you’ve been well-informed. Castori is a drunk and a hypocrite. When he lived with the tribe, he professed to care about them, but he never made a single convert, so now he hates them. These days, he spends more time ingratiating himself with the people who pay his bar bills than he does ministering to the needs of his flock. What his patrons want, he wants. And today they wanted Amati’s blood.”

“And what will happen to Raoni?”

“I’m going to send him to an orphanage in Belem. It’s a dreadful place, but there’s nothing else I can do.”

“Let me think about that one,” Silva said.

“Is there some way you might be able to help? Get him into an institution where he’d get better care?”

“Maybe.”

“The Chief Inspector is full of maybes,” Maura said.

Silva didn’t rise to the taunt. “How does it come about that a fellow I’ve heard described as a half-breed, a man whose mother was an Indian, came to be the owner of this hotel? Where did he get the money?”

The change of subject seemed to do Jade some good. The
tendons in her neck became less taut. She leaned back in her chair and reached for her drink.

“Osvaldo’s mother died when he was born,” she said. She took a sip, then another sip, before she continued. “They were poor, but he was an only child, and his father doted on him. The old man scrimped and saved and somehow got the money together to send Osvaldo to school in Belem.”

Silva drained the last of his whiskey and held up his glass for a refill.

Amanda saw the gesture and nodded at him from behind the bar.

“Why Belem?” he said.

“In those days, there were no schools here in Azevedo. None at all. Most of the children grew up illiterate, and most of the parents didn’t care, because they were illiterate themselves. But Osvaldo’s father was different. Like I said, he doted on him.”

Amanda arrived with a refill and removed Silva’s empty glass. He thanked her with a nod.

“While he was in the capital,” Jade continued, nodding at Amanda’s retreating back, “he met her. Amanda’s folks had left her a small inheritance. They’d owned a hotel themselves, and she’d worked in the business. Azevedo had no hotel at all, and a little bit of money goes a long way here. They built this place, and they’ve made a success of it.”

“How? I can’t believe there are that many visitors.”

“There aren’t. But a lot of … sexual recreation goes on. And, other than in the rainforest, this is the only place to do it. The restaurant, too, is a going concern. And so is this bar. According to Amanda, they’re doing well.” She turned to Maura. “Where’s your luggage?”

“Upstairs.”

“Go get it. You’re staying with me.”

“Jade, I don’t think—”

“I need you, Maura. I don’t want to be alone right now.”

Maura nodded and stood up. When she was gone, Silva leaned closer.

“There’s something I’d like to tell you. But if I do, you’re going to have to keep it to yourself.”

“You mean you don’t want me to tell Maura?”

“Or anyone else.”

“She’s my best friend. She’s here on my behalf.”

“Nevertheless, if you want to see justice done—”

“Of course I want to see justice done! If it’s my discretion that concerns you, why run the risk? Why tell me anything at all?”

“You’re going to guide us to the village. I think it’s likely you’ll witness things there that we’d like to keep to ourselves.”

“Why are you so concerned about confidentiality, Chief Inspector?”

“When information leaks out, it warns the guilty. And that makes our work more difficult, because they react by covering their tracks.”

“You’ve already discovered something, haven’t you?”

“We have.”

“Tell me.”

“Not until I have your word.”

“You have it. Tell me.”

“The slash wounds on the murdered man’s neck are closely spaced.”

“So what?”

“An intoxicated person wouldn’t have had the degree of physical control necessary to strike over and over again in the same place.”

“So that means—”

“It means, Senorita Calmon, that your Indian friend was almost certainly innocent.”

“I
THINK
I’
M GONNA
be sick.” Osvaldo Neto bolted from his chair and headed for the toilet.

“There goes his breakfast,” Arnaldo said, studying the hotelkeeper’s retreating back. “He must have really tied one on.”

“Did I ever tell you,” Silva began, “that my father was stationed in Italy during World War Two?”

“You did. Brazilian Expeditionary Force. What’s that got to do with Osvaldo?”

Silva took a sip of his coffee. He didn’t intend to be hurried. “Does the name Emmet Till mean anything to you?”

“Black kid in America, murdered for talking to a white woman? That one?”

“That one.”

“I saw the movie. So what?”

“His father, Louis, was an American soldier.”

Arnaldo expelled a sigh that lowered the oxygen level in the Grand’s restaurant. “Mario, where are you going with this?”

“Pisa, nineteen forty-five. Louis Till raped and killed an Italian woman. They hanged him for it. My father witnessed the execution and was sick for a week. Watching a hanging, he told me, could do that to a man.”

“You think that might be Osvaldo’s problem? The hanging and not the cachaça?”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“So talk to him about something else.”

“I’m about to do just that.”

Arnaldo put a finger to his lips. “Here he comes.”

Osvaldo resumed his seat. He’d brought a paper towel and was using it to blot his mouth. “I didn’t quite make it. I suggest you guys avoid the toilet for a while. If you need the facilities, use the ones upstairs. What else do you want to know?”

“Let’s talk about the townsfolk,” Silva said, “those of them who would most profit if the Indians were out of the way.”

Osvaldo leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If Torres wasn’t already dead, he would have been one. Now that he is, it leaves five.”

“Who are they?”

Osvaldo glanced over his shoulder to make sure they were still alone in the restaurant, then started counting off the Big Five on his fingers.

“Hugo Toledo. He’s the mayor. Hugo’s old man, Hugo Senior, and Enrique Azevedo, the founder of the town, were friends and partners. Azevedo never married. When he died, Hugo’s father bought up his land and then croaked before he had any other kids. Two years later, his wife died, too, and Junior inherited the lot. His Honor can deliver three thousand votes in any election. And that, I’m told, has bought him a piece of the governor and also a piece of a federal
deputado
.”

“Only a piece?” Arnaldo asked.

Osvaldo smiled. “What do you expect for three thousand votes? Even
deputados
are worth more than that.”

Silva took out his notebook, jotted down Toledo’s name, and kept his pen poised over the paper. “Who else?”

Osvaldo extended another finger. “Roberto Lisboa. Lisboa fancies himself a painter. Not houses. Canvases.”

“Is he any good?”

Osvaldo lifted his shoulders. “I couldn’t say. But I can tell you this much: he’s lousy at poker. He’s lost thousands to Torres. Nobody knows exactly how many thousands, but some folks say Torres could have taken over Lisboa’s place any time he wanted to.”

“Damned good reason for Lisboa to kill him,” Arnaldo said.

“And not the only one,” Osvaldo said. “Lisboa has a foreman, a guy by the name of Toni Pandolfo.”

“And?”

“And Torres was running around town telling people he saw Pandolfo buggering his boss.”

“Buggering?”

“Yeah, like sticking his dick—”

“I get the idea. When was this?”

“A couple of months ago, and if that story got back to the loving couple, there’s no knowing what Pandolfo might have done. He’s a hard case. He broke a man’s jaw once, right over there, just because the guy laughed about one of Lisboa’s pink shirts.”

“Okay. Who else?”

Another finger. “José Frade. An absolute pig, but lots of men like him because he’s generous when it comes to buying drinks.”

“Why did you call him a pig?”

“He beats his wife and he treats his daughters like shit, tells everybody he wanted sons, and blames Sonia for not giving him any. She’s a little thing, shy, skittish, and scared to death of him. Frade proposed to her down south somewhere. Porto Alegre, I think. She was an orphan, not even eighteen and all on her own. She accepted him without knowing anything about this place or what she was getting into. But she’s miserable here. Not cut out for this life. If
she had money, she would have left him long ago. Probably would have left him anyway if she didn’t have her girls to worry about.”

“How come you know so much about her personal life?”

“She talks to my wife. Matter of fact, Amanda is about the only person she
does
talk to. Like I said, she’s shy.”

“Did Frade have anything in particular against Torres?”

Osvaldo squirmed in his seat. “Well …”

“It’s a murder investigation, Osvaldo. You have to tell us.”

“All right. But you didn’t get it from me.”

“Agreed.”

“Sonia was having an affair with Torres.”

“You know that for a fact?”

“I do.”

“How? She told your wife?”

“No. Even
I
didn’t tell my wife.”

“So how come you know?”

“Out back, there’s a door opening on a staircase leading to the second floor. Torres had a key, one he used to get to a room he rented from me by the month. I was up there, one night, changing a light bulb, when I heard footsteps on the stairs. I figured it was Torres, and I knew he wouldn’t appreciate me seeing whoever he had with him, so I hid in a closet. But I was … well, you know, curious, so I left the door open a crack. And who do I see but Torres and Sonia going into the room together. He had an arm around her shoulder and a hand on one of her tits. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind about what they were about to do.”

“It surprised you?”

“It surprised me. But you know what? I don’t blame Sonia. I question her taste, but I don’t blame her. God knows, she has no joy in her marriage.”

“You think Frade knows his wife was cheating on him?”

“Not unless he found out recently. What I just told you, that was a couple of months ago.”

“But?”

“But if he did, you’ve got another suspect right there. In this part of the world, men look down on other men who don’t defend their honor.”

“And defending his honor would have constituted killing Torres?”

“Yeah, and maybe her, too. You see why I kept my mouth shut? Not for Torres. For her.”

“Okay. Next?”

Another finger. “Cesar Bonetti. He’s from Paraná, another one of those guys who came north to make his fortune. He keeps saying he’ll go home once he has. Can you beat it? Going on twenty years in Pará, and he still calls Paraná home.”

“He have anything against Torres?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Okay. Anyone else?”

“Just one more. Paulo Cunha, the guy who owns the pharmacy.”

“Pharmacy?”

“You’re thinking what I’m thinking, right? Looks like the tribe was poisoned, and a pharmacist would know all about poisons.”

“A pharmacist would.”

“He’s also got some other shops, but it’s with wood that he made—you’ll excuse the expression—a killing.”

“Wood?”

“Hardwood. From the rain forest. Around here, they call it ‘green gold’ ’cause it’s worth so goddamned much. You get it to the docks in Belem, you can sell it for upwards of sixteen hundred American dollars a cubic meter.”

“Where does Cunha get it from?”

“He
used
to get it from the other guys we’ve been talking about.”

“No more?”

Osvaldo shook his head. “None left. They’ve cleared their land.”

“So now he gets it from …”

“Take a guess.”

“The reservation?”

“I can’t prove it, but—”

“He’d need licenses from the IBAMA to ship it.”

“He would. And the IBAMA guy here in town owns two new cars and a sixty-inch television set.”

“What’s his name?”

“Raul Nonato.”

“I think maybe we’ll have a little chat with Senhor Nonato.”

“Again, you didn’t get it from me.” Osvaldo had been balling the paper towel in his hand. Now, he used it to wipe his sweating brow. “Listen, guys, I’m not feeling well at the moment, so if you don’t mind, I—”