The Ways of Evil Men (22 page)

“Samples are on the way,” she said and gave him the aircraft registration number and an approximate arrival time.

“I’ll have someone meet him,” the Belem bureau chief said. “I suppose this is a rush job.”

“The rushest.”

“Results noon tomorrow at the latest.”

* * *

M
AURA RETURNED
Amanda’s jeep and passed the few hours until dinner by interviewing people about the lynching.

There were new stories in circulation. Omar Torres was now being pointed to as the author of the genocide.
No Indians, no need for a reservation
, he was rumored to have said. And the Indian, people were saying, had become convinced that Omar was the man responsible for killing his people.

She had grave doubts about the veracity of both reports. And so, she soon discovered, did the federal cops.

“How about we go for a walk?” she said to Gonçalves after they’d finished dinner.

“Okay, but only if you don’t repeat last night’s performance.”

“Deal.”

“I mean it, Maura. It would be a waste of your time and mine. I have no intention of telling you anything.”

“You don’t have to, and I’m not going to ask you a thing. In fact, there are some things I intend to tell
you
.”

The weather was clear, and there was a full moon. They walked to the square where Amati had been lynched, picked out a bench, and sat down side by side.

“I know about the parachute,” she said. “And the meat. And how you’re waiting for an analysis of the poison.”

“There’s only one way you could have learned all of that,” he said. “Jade told you.”

“She did
not
tell me,” Maura said.

It was true. Jade hadn’t
told
her. She’d written it.

“Whatever,” Gonçalves said, unconvinced but disinclined to argue. “Anyway, you promised we weren’t going to talk about the case.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t. I promised I wasn’t going to ask you any questions.”

“So don’t.”

“I won’t. In fact, as promised, I’m about to tell you something. All you have to do is to swear to keep it to yourself.”

He crossed his arms and shook his head. “Negative. We play by different rules. As a cop, I can’t hide behind journalistic ethics or client privilege. I’m obliged to come clean about what I learn.”

“But if I don’t tell you what I
could
tell you, and not telling you hampers your ability to solve this case, what then?”

“Is this the same information we were talking about last night?”

“No. Last night I had a suspicion. Now, I’m close to having proof. My information is more detailed and more complete. I have facts that will help you see this case in a whole different light. And to get me to tell you what I know, all I need is your word.”

“Why tell me at all?”

“Because I want to see the guilty parties brought to justice.”

“But that’s not all of it, is it?”

“No. It’s not all of it.”

“Out with it then.”

“I’m scared.”

“You’re
what
?”

“I had a scare today, out in the rainforest. I had a feeling I was being watched, watched by someone who has in all probability committed multiple murders, one of which you don’t even know about yet.”

“Jesus, Maura—”

“I want to tell you about it because if anything happens to me, you’ll know where to start looking.”

“If you have reason to believe—”

“I do.”

“Then you should back off. Now. No story is worth getting killed for.”

“I don’t intend to get killed—”

“Nobody ever intends to get killed, but they do.”

“I’m not going to back off on this, Haraldo. No way. So please stop beating around the bush. Are you willing to give me your word or not? Because if you don’t, I’m not going to tell you a thing. It’s my story, I unearthed it, and I intend to be the one to break it.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Of course you don’t. You’re not a journalist. Last chance, Haraldo. Your word. Yes or no.”

“You’re not giving me any choice.”

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a yes.”

“Hallelujah! Finally! Okay, listen …”

S
ILVA
’
S ALARM CLOCK AND
telephone rang in quick succession. Switching off the first, he picked up the second.

“Did I wake you?” It was Lefkowitz.

“By a couple of seconds, no.” Silva blinked his bleary eyes at the clock: 7:30
A
.
M
. exactly. “Did you fall out of bed?”

“I got tired of sitting in São Paulo traffic for an hour and a half every morning. If I get up at five thirty, I miss the rush and get here in thirty-five minutes flat. Guess what I’ve got?”

“Insomnia?”

“Rodrigues’s report.”

“Already?”

“The time stamp on her email is five seventeen this morning. She must have pulled an all-nighter. You got email at that hotel of yours?”

“I’m not sure. And I don’t need all the scientific gobbledygook. Just give me the bottom line. What was in that meat?”

“Batrachotoxin.”

“Wait,” Silva said. He grabbed his notebook and a pen. “Spell it.”

Lefkowitz did.

“Got it,” Silva said when he’d confirmed the spelling. “Now what, exactly, is it?”

“A steroidal alkaloid. A lethal dose for an oversized person like Arnaldo would be in the neighborhood of one hundred micrograms.”

“Oversized person, eh? I’ll tell him you said that. How much is one hundred micrograms?”

“Please do. That’s why I said it. One hundred micrograms is roughly the weight of two grains of table salt.”

“Whoa! Toxic is right.”

“It’s extracted from the skin glands of the
phyllobates terribilis
.”

“What the hell is a—”

“A frog, not much bigger than my thumb, but with enough poison in it to kill ten human beings. Some tribes tip the darts of their blowguns with the stuff; hence the little creature’s other name: the poison dart frog. The poison blocks the transmission of nerve signals to the muscles.”

“Stops hearts from pumping, lungs from breathing, that sort of thing?”

“That sort of thing. Fast-acting, too. Fast enough to drop monkeys and birds in their tracks. Administered orally, it takes a bit longer to kill, but it’s just as lethal.”

“Commercially available?”

“Yes. It has some uses I won’t bore you with, but it’s heavily controlled. Mara has already started checking sources, but I think it’s more likely your killers extracted it themselves.”

“And how would they have done that?”

“I don’t know, but the Chocó tribe does it by impaling a frog on a piece of wood and holding it over a fire. Bubbles of poison form when the frog’s skin begins to blister.”

“How do you find out these things?”

“I have a secret. It’s called the Internet.”

“S
O ALL
the poisoner—”

“Or poisoners,” Gilda corrected.

“—or poisoners,” Silva agreed, “would have to have done was to gather the little bubbles, get them into a syringe and inject the meat.”

“But before that,” Hector said, pouring himself more
coffee, “they would have had to have had specialized knowledge.” He put down the pot. “Think about it. This is an obscure poison, right?”

“It certainly is,” Silva said. “Anyone at this table ever heard of it before?”

They all shook their heads.

“So,” Gilda went on, “they wouldn’t only have to have known about it, but also how to extract it.”

“And who the hell would have?” Arnaldo said, cutting into a piece of jackfruit.

“A pharmacist, or a biologist,” Silva said.

“Or a doctor,” Gilda said. “Not all of us are as ignorant of poisons as I am.”

“Maybe somebody who knew the customs of Indians,” Hector put in.

“Which means you could include almost any long-term resident of this area.”

“Or someone who likes to read,” Silva said, “because they could have taken their knowledge from a book.”

“Or a priest who lived with one of the tribes,” Arnaldo said.

“In short, knowing what the poison was doesn’t bring us one iota closer to telling us who might have used it,” Silva said. “Let’s talk about who’s going to interview whom.”

H
E CHOSE
Paulo Cunha as the first subject for Arnaldo and himself. Cunha received them in the well-appointed office he kept above his pharmacy. Through the picture window behind his desk, the two cops could see his name in meterhigh letters on the façade of the supermarket across the street.

“Do I think Torres rooted out that tribe?” Cunha echoed Silva’s question. “I most certainly do.”

“Why?”

“He hated to see those Indians sitting on all that land. Truth to tell, all of us did, but Omar was the only one who ever said he intended to do something about it.”

“He said that, did he?”

“He did. I heard him myself, heard him say that if the government didn’t solve the problem, he would. I thought he was bluffing, never thought he’d do it, but he proved me wrong. It just goes to show, you never can tell about people.”

“Said he’d murder them?” Silva didn’t try to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

Cunha backpedaled. “Well … no, not in so many words, but that’s what he meant. And it wasn’t just to me; he said it to a lot of people. Ask around. You’ll see.”

“All right. Let’s assume he was guilty—”

“Assume it, Chief Inspector, because he was.”

“—how could the Indian have learned that Torres was the one he should blame?”

“I can’t tell you. But I know he did.”

“How do you know?”

“Father Castori told me. And the Indian told
him
when that FUNAI woman took him there.”

“If that’s true, why didn’t Father Castori also tell Senhorita Calmon?”

“Didn’t he?”

“No. Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

“Not if you know Castori. The man has a drinking problem.” Cunha glanced at his watch. “Can we speed this up? I’ve got another appointment in fifteen minutes.”

“Okay,” Arnaldo said, “how about we talk about that truckload of wood?”

“What truckload of wood?”

“The one you sent to Belem yesterday.”

“Oh.
That
wood. What about it?”

“Where did you get it?

“I harvested it on my
fazenda
.”

“How long have you had that
fazenda
?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question, please.”

“Almost fifteen years.”

“Fifteen years? And you still hadn’t harvested all the wood on the property?”

“It was hardwood. Hardwood takes time to grow. I don’t cut trees less than ten meters high.”

“So that whole truckload was freshly cut?”

“I harvested it about a month ago.”

“How about you show us the site?”

“You’re suggesting I came by that wood illegally?”

“How about you show us the site?” Arnaldo repeated.

“I resent the implication. I have never, in all of my life, dealt in illegal wood.”

“Then you should have no objection to showing us the site.”

“I don’t. Of course I don’t. But it won’t tell you a thing. I’ve already burned the boughs and leaves, unearthed the stumps. And yesterday, I plowed the land for planting.”

“How convenient.”

Cunha bristled. “You have no right to—”

“Where do you store wood before you have it loaded onto a truck?”

“In a covered area near my front gate. I suppose you want to see that, too.”

“We do.”

“It’s empty at the moment.”

“So you’re not currently in possession of any wood at all?”

“None.”

“We want to see your financial records.”

“I’ve had enough of this! You want to see my
fazenda
? Get a search warrant. You want to see my records? Get legal permission.”

“Just a few more questions. I’m told you own an airplane.”

Cunha slammed a hand on his desk. “No, Agent Nunes, no more questions. I don’t like your attitude. If either one of you has anything else to say to me, you can say it in the presence of my lawyer and with the paperwork that would obligate me to talk to you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another appointment. My secretary will show you out.”

T
HE MAYOR
’
S OFFICE WAS
in the Toledo Building, the tallest in town, and the only one with an elevator. Beyond two glass doors and visible to anyone approaching from the street was a portrait, in oils, of a hunger-thin, fierce-looking man with a bristling moustache.

The mayor, in contrast, was clean-shaven, avuncular, and running to fat.

“Who’s the guy in the painting?” Gonçalves asked when he and Hector were seated, drinking coffee.

“In the entrance hall downstairs?” Toledo said. “That’s my old man, Hugo Senior.”

“A good likeness?”

“Him to the life,” Toledo said proudly, as if he’d painted it himself.

There was a distinct lack of similarity between the man in the portrait and the one seated in front them. Seeing a photo of Enrique Azevedo would have cleared up the mystery, but there was little chance of that. There
were
no photos of Enrique Azevedo, not a single one anywhere in the town. The elder Toledo had seen to that. In stark contrast to his wife, Hugo Senior had
hated
The Founder.

“Frankly, Delegado”—Toledo looked at the card Hector had given him—“Costa, I’d been expecting the courtesy of a visit from your boss. I am, after all, the mayor.”

“Unfortunately,” Hector said, ever the diplomat, “something urgent and unrelated to this case came up, so …” He opened his hands, palms upward.

“So here you are instead. Yes, I see. Well, let’s get started then. First, let me say by way of introduction that the good people of this town, myself included, are horrified by recent events. Firstly, by what Omar Torres did to those Indians. There are those, of course, who—”

Hector held up a hand to interrupt him. “One moment, Senhor
Prefeito
. Are you telling me you’re blaming Torres for the genocide of the Awana?”