The Ways of Evil Men (23 page)

The mayor blinked.
A little too innocently
, Hector thought.

“Of course. Why, otherwise, would the Indian have killed him?”

“We’re not sure he did.”

In the pause that followed, the door to Toledo’s office opened and a shapely brunette walked in. Both the cops stood up.

“Hello, Hugo, I wonder if … oh, I’m sorry. You have guests.”

“Ah,” the mayor said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

Toledo was a bad actor. This was no surprise. It was programmed. Hector was sure of it.

“I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” she said.

“Not in the least.” Toledo got up and shifted a chair from the nearby conference table to his side of the desk. “Please join us, my dear. Delegado Costa, Agent Gonçalves, this is my wife, Patricia.”

She flashed them a smile and sat down. The cops resumed their seats.

“I came into town for lunch and had time for a cup of coffee,” she said. “But I don’t want to interrupt anything. If you’re busy, I’ll just stroll down to the Grand.”

“Not at all,” Toledo said. “You’re welcome here. Isn’t she, gentlemen?”

“By all means,” Hector said. “We’d be grateful for your contribution.”

“Then I’ll have that coffee,” she said.

“Coming right up.” Toledo filled a cup from the thermos flask on his desk. She took it, reached for the sugar and served herself two spoonfuls.

“I suppose Hugo has told you,” she said, “about how horrified we are by what’s happened.”

Same word her husband used
, Hector thought.
Horrified
. “Yes,” he said. “He has.”

She took a sip, studying the two cops over the rim of her cup. “Omar hated having those Indians there,” she said.

“Not that he was alone,” Toledo said. “Truth to tell, that reservation has always been a thorn in our sides. We’re productive people. We grow crops. We raise cattle. We contribute to the wealth of the nation. The more land we’ve got, the more the nation benefits. More food means lower prices. Our success generates tax income, makes the wheels of commerce go around. Commerce generates jobs. Now, you take the Indians. What do they produce? Nothing! They were sitting on land we could have turned productive. And worse, it was costing taxpayer money to keep them there. After all, who do you think pays the salaries of people like Jade Calmon? People like us, that’s who.”

It was a politician’s speech, obviously prepared in advance. Toledo was warming to his theme. His face was getting red. But Patricia was no wallflower. As soon as he paused for breath, she stepped in.

“The Awana were going to have to join the twenty-first century sooner or later. That’s all we ever wanted them to do: join the twenty-first century. Rooting them out never crossed our minds. And when Omar brought it up, we laughed at him. We never expected him to go out and do it.”

“How come you’re so sure he did?” Gonçalves asked.

“He kept going on and on about it. Not just to us. To everyone.”

“Who’s everyone?”

“Everyone. Frade, Lisboa, Cunha, Bonetti, Doctor Pinto. Ask them, they’ll tell you.”

“What makes you sure the Indian knew who to blame?” Hector asked.

She turned to her husband. “You didn’t tell them?”

“I was about to when you arrived.” She turned back to the cops. “We had it from Father Castori,” she said. “And
he
had it from the Indian’s own mouth.”

“When was this?”

“Just after that FUNAI agent brought him to town,” Hugo said.

“Jade doesn’t speak the Indian’s language,” Patricia said. “She had to use the padre to translate for her.”

Hugo Toledo leaned forward in his chair and stared directly into Hector’s eyes, the very picture of sincerity. “Look, Delegado Costa, do you want my advice about all of this?”

“Please.”

“It’s this: We’re public servants, you and I. We have to think about what’s best for the town, we can’t get caught up in the details, we have to look at the larger picture.” The mayor was a hand-waver. He illustrated what he was saying by pointing first at Hector, then at himself and then extending his arms and as if to embrace
the larger picture
. “The man who poisoned the tribe has been punished. The man who murdered him has been punished. The people who lynched the Indian are good citizens. They might have gone overboard by taking the law into their own hands, but they did what they thought was right. Public sympathy is on their side. You won’t find anyone who’ll be willing to identify them or to testify against them. Attempting to do so will be
a complete waste of energy. And even if you could find out who they are, which you won’t, to punish them would be a travesty of justice.”

“What if the Indian didn’t do it?”

The mayor expelled an exasperated sigh. “I’ve told you what Father Castori said. Go and speak to him, if you don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t say I didn’t believe you.”

“No, but you seem to harbor serious doubts. I’ve told you why we think the Indian was guilty. Now, please, tell me why you think he wasn’t. Do you have some kind of forensic proof?”

“We think we do.”

“The Indian was found, drunk, next to a corpse. He was covered in blood. The murder weapon, they tell me, was pried from his hand. You think you can explain all of that away?”

Hector stood up. Gonçalves took his cue and did the same.

“It would be premature,” Hector said, “to go into details about that at the moment. Thank you, Senhor
Prefeito
, for your time. And for yours, Senhora. You’ve both been most helpful.”

They hadn’t, of course. But it served his purpose to let them believe they had.

M
AURA VEILED MOUNTING DISTASTE
for her luncheon companions with a smile and pushed the remaining fish on her plate under a leaf of lettuce. Amanda’s menu had billed it as
pacu
, but it looked suspiciously like piranha. Or maybe
pacu
and piranha were the same thing. She didn’t know and didn’t want to ask.

All her questions up to now had been about the vicissitudes of living on one of Brazil’s last frontiers and how the women coped with them. They coped, in fact, extremely well. They were rich. They had servants. They traveled. They had spacious houses and air conditioning, drank imported beverages, and ate imported foods. Theirs was anything but a hardscrabble existence. And it was boring as hell. It wouldn’t make for a decent story.

She was about to ask her first important question of the afternoon, and had just turned to Patricia Toledo to do it, when she felt the vibration of her phone.

She excused herself and took it from the hip pocket of her jeans. It was Nataniel, calling from Belem.

“We got the results,” the bureau chief said. “Congratulations.”

“I’m on to something?”

“You sure as hell are. There’s enough mercury in just one of those little bottles to kill a whale. You should get the IBAMA onto it right away.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“I’m having lunch with some ladies. I’m afraid I can’t get into it right now.”

“You think he’s taking bribes?”

“Yes.”

“Happens all the time. Want some advice from an old warhorse?”

“Always.”

“Talk to him anyway.”

“You’re suggesting I go to the fox—”

She stopped before she gave the game away. The women were staring at her, paying close attention to every word she said. Nataniel, sharp as a tack, picked up on it straightaway.

“And complain about somebody stealing the chickens? I am indeed.”

“Why?”

“Politics. The IBAMA big shots in Brasilia are jealous of their turf. An issue like this? It’s theirs. You’ve got to play it through channels. Any other way is going to get their noses out of joint.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It is. But that’s the way it works. First you complain to him, then you complain to his superiors. That way, if he fails to solve the problem, they get a chance to distance themselves from whatever he might have been up to, and they can be seen to have taken corrective measures as soon as they learned about it. Believe me, if you do it any other way, they’re going to be pissed off. And getting them pissed off will get a certain publisher pissed off and …”

“He’ll fall on me from a great height.”

“He will.”

“All right, Nataniel. I’ll take your advice.”

“You’ll find I’m right. I’m looking forward to reading your stuff.”

She thanked him, hung up, and turned back to Patricia. “I’m sorry about that,” she said. “So, Patricia, you were saying that you ladies were all appalled by what Omar Torres did to that tribe, but …”

“But what?” Patricia asked.

“Are you sure he did it?”

“Everyone in this town is,” Patricia said. “Everyone who
is
anyone heard him threatening to do it at one time or another. Isn’t that so, ladies?”

The other two women nodded.

“I heard him say it myself,” Rita said.

“Me, too,” Maria said. “Many times. And the Indian knew it, too.”

“The Indian knew who was responsible?”

“That’s right. He told Father Castori that Torres did it.”

“And how did the Indian discover that?”

“He didn’t say. But it doesn’t matter, does it? I mean, the important thing is that he knew, and he revenged himself upon Torres because of it.”

“Last night,” Maura said, “I had a chat with one of the federal cops. They seem to think the Indian was innocent.”

“I heard that not two hours ago from one of those same federal cops,” Patricia said. “And it’s a ridiculous assertion. The savage was lying right next to Omar’s body, dead drunk. He had a knife in his hand. He was covered with Omar’s blood. Who else could it have been?”

“It’s not as complicated as those Federal Policemen are trying to make it out,” Rita chimed in. “It’s all simple and straightforward. Omar poisoned the tribe, and the Indian killed him in revenge. That’s it. End of story.”

“There’s also the lynching,” Maura said.

“That,” Patricia said, “was unfortunate.”

“Very,” Maria agreed.

“And so unnecessary,” Rita said. “The sort of thing that could give this town a bad name. I hope that when you write up that part of the story, you won’t tar the whole town with the same brush, go blaming all of us for the actions of a few.”

“Of course not,” Maura said. “By the way, were any of you there when it happened?”

All three women shook their heads.

“But I heard that our delegado, Fernando Borges, tried to stop it,” Patricia said. “Unfortunately, he was overwhelmed.”

“And
I’m
told that Osvaldo, the owner of this hotel, also tried to stop it,” Maura said.

“I heard that as well,” Maria said. “But you have to take into account that he gets carried away about Indians. I think his mother was one. Or his grandmother. Or both. Can we please talk about something else? Some of your past stories, for example. Anything that was syndicated? Anything I might have read? Cesar and I get all the papers from Belem.”

There was nothing Maura liked to talk about more than her past successes. But this time, she resisted the temptation. First she wanted to drop her bombshell.

“Just one more question,” she said. “Fish are dying in the Sapoqui River. Did any of you hear anything about that?”

The ladies shook their heads.

“How did
you
hear about it?” Maria asked.

“A fishing guide told me.”

“Lots of fish?” Patricia asked.

“Thousands.”

“Probably an exaggeration.”

“No,” Maura said. “It isn’t. I went there to have a look.”

“What in the world could be causing that?” Rita said.

“I asked myself the same question, so I took some samples of the water and sent them to Belem to be analyzed.”

A silence fell, but whether it was caused by guilt, surprise,
or a lack of knowledge, Maura couldn’t tell. There was nothing to be read in their faces.

“I suspect,” she went on, in the hope of provoking response, “that it might be mercury.”

The faces continued to be blank.

A few more seconds went by before Maria said, “Why mercury?”

“It’s used to extract gold,” Maura said. “It shouldn’t be, but it is.”

“There’s no gold mining around here,” Maria said with conviction.

“There is if those samples come back positive.”

“And when is that likely to be?”

“I’m not sure. A couple of days, perhaps.” Maura could lie like a trooper if she had to.

H
ECTOR AND
G
ONÇALVES HAD
crossed paths with IBAMA representatives before. As a rule, they’d found them to be crusaders: men and women deeply concerned with Brazil’s flora and fauna. Their mission often led to them being grouped together with their non-governmental counterparts—organizations like Greenpeace. But unlike those other “tree huggers” and “greenies,” the IBAMA had real power behind it, not just the power to move public opinion, but the power to engage the forces of law enforcement within Brazil’s federal government.

Raul Nonato, however, didn’t fit the mold. He wore no beard, no shorts, no sandals; his skin was pale, not browned by exposure to the sun. His linen trousers were freshly pressed, there wasn’t a scratch on his polished boots, his wristwatch was a stainless steel Rolex, and he was using cologne Hector had previously smelled exclusively on politicians—a sure sign it was expensive.

He received them in his living room, the home of the much-vaunted sixty-inch television set. “My office is in back,” he said. “But we’ll be more comfortable here. Make yourselves at home.” He pointed to a couple of plush armchairs.

“Never thought of taking an office in town?” Hector asked, sinking into the soft fabric.

“I prefer working from home,” Nonato said, taking a seat on the couch. “Besides, it saves the agency money.”

“Nice TV,” Gonçalves said.

Nonato smiled, gratified by the admiration. “A gift from one of my rich uncles. A kinder person never lived. How about that Indian, eh? Slaughtering a white man like that? And then the lynching. This town hasn’t seen that kind of excitement since I got here.”