The Ways of Evil Men (24 page)

“How long ago was that?”

“A little over two years.”

“Like it?”

“Oh, it’s not so bad once you get used to it. So what can I do for you?”

“You’re an outsider,” Hector said, drawing him in, “and not involved in any of the recent events, so we thought you might see them from a different angle.”

“Well,” Nonato said, “I don’t know about that. I mean, it’s pretty straightforward, isn’t it? From what I hear, Omar Torres was running around town, telling folks that the Indians had to go and—”

“Who told you that?”

“José Frade,” Nonato said promptly.

“How come you remember so well?”

“Because it was only this morning. Frade was in town to stock up on a few things. We met on the street and got to talking. The whole story came out.”

“What whole story?”

“Same one you must have heard.”

“We’ve heard
a
story. But we’d like to hear it the way Frade told it to you.”

“He said Torres was always going on and on and on about what he called ‘the Indian problem,’ and if the government didn’t do something about it soon, he would.”

“And by ‘the Indian problem’ he meant?”

“Getting them off the reservation. Opening up the land to more productive uses. And you know what? I can’t say I
disagree with him. As long as it could have been done legally, of course, and without the Indians getting hurt.”

“I’m a bit surprised to hear you say that,” Hector said.

“You are? Why?”

“Doesn’t it conflict with the IBAMA’s brief?”

Nonato waved a finger. “Not at all! Don’t confuse us with the FUNAI.
They’re
the ones who are supposed to be looking out for the Indians. We don’t do people; we do environment, and if you think we stand in the way of progress, you’re laboring under a misconception. The IBAMA is all for development, it just has to be
sustainable
development. But don’t get me started on that. I’ll talk your ears off.”

“Okay. So you were saying …”

“Torres poisoned the Awana, and the last man standing, the one they lynched, found out about it—”

“How?”

“I don’t know, but he told Father C that he did.”

“Castori?”

“Yeah, Castori.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Same source. José Frade. And then you heard about where they found them, right? Torres’s neck all slashed to hell with a machete? The state the Indian was in? The bloody knife right next to him?”

“Yes, we heard all of that.”

“So that’s it. You know what I know.”

“Okay then,” Hector said. “Thanks. I think that about covers it. By the way, just out of curiosity, what keeps you busy around here?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your duties. What does an IBAMA agent do all day?”

“We patrol. We make sure nobody’s breaking any environmental laws.”

“Ever catch anybody?”

Nonato grinned. “Not yet. My predecessor did a damned good job of cleaning up the place, got rid of the illegal loggers and all, didn’t leave me hardly anything to do.”

“Do you know Paulo Cunha?”

“Sure. Everybody knows Paulo Cunha. Why?”

“We’re told he sends a lot of hardwood to Belem.”

“He does.”

“And you issue him transport permits.”

“I do. Why wouldn’t I? It’s all legal.”

“Where does he get the wood?”

Nonato shrugged. “Some he buys from his neighbors; some he cuts on his own land.” He glanced at the clock on top of his monster TV set. “Hey, you guys want to see São Paulo play Palmeiras? It’s starting in about five minutes, and the picture on this thing puts you right there on the field.”

A
FTER STRIKING OUT WHEN
she mentioned the gold, Maura made a final attempt to elicit a useful response by bringing up the name of Welinton Mendes.

But there, too, her luncheon companions disappointed her. No one, they told her, gave credence to anything old Welinton ever said. (Maria:
one nugget, querida, hardly constitutes a strike
). They also dismissed the disappearance of the prospector, preferring to believe he’d suffered some accident (Rita, taking a stab at humor:
the old drunk probably fell into the Jagunami and drifted out to sea
).

The luncheon ended with kisses and hugs all around—and the three interviewees all got up and left at the same time.

“Why the frown?” Amanda said when she came to clear the dishes from the table. “From over there, it looked like you all got along.”

“We did,” Maura said. “They all invited me to tea.”

“So I repeat, why the frown?”

“Because I didn’t learn a damned thing. And I shudder at the thought of having tea. They’re not my kind of people.”

“I agree they’re not your kind of people. But what were you hoping to learn?”

Maura liked Amanda—and instinctively trusted her. With Jade gone, she needed at least one ally. “If you’ve got a minute,” she said, “I’ll tell you.”

“I’m off to the supermarket. I need some stuff to prepare dinner. But if you want to tag along …”

“Sure.”

They were almost there by the time Maura finished her story. She concluded it by sharing the test results.

“But nobody knows about that except for you,” she said, “so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it to yourself.”

“I will,” Amanda said. “I promise. So the old coot was right after all?”

“He was.”

Maura paused on the wooden sidewalk under the supermarket’s awning. The street, at that time of day, was virtually deserted, but she didn’t expect that to be the case inside. Better to finish their conversation out there in the heat, with only stray dogs and flies as witnesses.

“You think someone killed him?” Amanda asked. “To take over his strike for themselves?”

“That would be my guess. Ana’s, too.”

Amanda brushed away a stray fly. “Isn’t it about time you clued in the cops?

“Not yet,” Maura said. She explained her reasons, told her she’d already confessed her suspicions to Gonçalves.

“Not good enough,” Amanda insisted. “You’ve got to speak to the Chief Inspector himself.”

“And I will. But not yet. Let’s go inside, shall we? Get out of this heat?”

Before she could turn around and go through the door, Amanda put a hand on her arm. “It could change the focus of their whole investigation. You know that, don’t you?”

“Well, duh! Of course, I do.”

“And if Welinton’s strike is on the reservation—”

“Which it probably is, it could well have been the reason for murdering the tribe. Yes, I know that too. So I’m not going to let any grass grow under my feet. As soon as I get some photographs—”

Maura stopped talking when a young woman carrying a baby on one arm and lugging a shopping bag with the other exited the supermarket’s front door. She greeted Amanda, and acknowledged Maura with a little smile, but was too heavily-laden to stop and chat.

Amanda lowered her voice and said, “Photographs? You’re not planning on going back there?”

“I am.”

“That’s crazy! If those people, whoever they are, killed Welinton, what’s to prevent them from killing you?”

“I’ll be careful. Besides, I’m not going alone. I’m going to bring Nonato, the IBAMA agent.”

Amanda raised her eyes to heaven and snorted. “Nonato? That guy is useless. He knows no more about the rainforest than you do. No, Maura, my advice is to tell the federal cops and to tell them now.”

“Stop insisting, Amanda. I
can’t
. Don’t you see? If I do, Silva will freeze me out.”

“You don’t know that.”

“He did it before. If he does it again, that would be the end of my scoop. I’m not going to take that chance.”

Amanda heaved a sigh. “I can see your point, but—”

“It’s not going to take long. I’m going to talk to Nonato this afternoon.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

“Why?”

“Because I heard the feds discussing their plans. Nonato was on their list to be interviewed. You might run into them there. And if they haven’t gone yet, it will be worse. He’s a blabbermouth, that one. He’d tell them straight off what you’re up to.”

Two scruffy kids with similar features, the eldest about nine and clutching a five-Real note, the other perhaps a year
younger, passed them and went inside. They were talking about something their mother had said. Both women ignored them.

“Tomorrow, then. And when he and I get back, and I’ve got my pictures, I’ll talk to Silva. Can you help me find a new guide?”

“What’s wrong with Fred?”

“He got skittish. He doesn’t want to go back, thinks it’s too dangerous.”

“He’s right. If someone really is mining gold—”

“As a fishing guide, he’s right. As a journalist, I see it from another angle.”

Amanda sighed. “And there isn’t a damned thing I can say that’s going to change your mind, is there?”

“Not a thing.”

“Then I’ll think about the problem of the guide, but first let’s get out of this heat.”

Ten steps beyond the front door, Amanda stopped short. “Sonia Frade,” she said.

“What?”

“Sonia Frade. That’s her, over there.”

She lifted her chin, indicating a slim woman in a shapeless dress. Sonia was pushing a shopping cart, putting one foot in front of another like an automaton. Maura was struck by her eyes. They were brown, downcast and sad.

“Introduce me?” she said.

“Sure. Come on.”

Just then, a tall man came around the far corner of the aisle and approached Sonia from behind. Again, Amanda stopped short.

“Her husband,” she said. “He’s pissed off about something.”

Maura studied the scowl on José Frade’s face and shrugged. “So what? Should we care?”

“You wouldn’t ask if you knew the man. When he’s like that, folks around here stay out of his way.”

Frade reached out, grabbed his wife’s arm and squeezed it—hard. Sonia’s face contorted. She took in a breath. Maura opened her mouth to say something.

“Don’t,” Amanda said in a low voice. “You’ll make it worse.”

“What’s the
matter
with him?”

“He’s a sick bastard, that’s what! He treats her like that all the time.”

Frade spotted them whispering to each other. He moved toward them without loosening his grip. His wife, still pushing the cart, was forced to stumble along beside him. She didn’t once look up.

“Come on,” Amanda said.

She turned her back and beat a hasty retreat. After a moment’s hesitation, Maura followed her around the corner into another aisle.

“Was he coming to talk to us?”

“He never has anything to say to me, and I doubt he even knows who you are. I think they’re just on their way out.”

“He wasn’t even embarrassed,” Maura said, fuming.

“He never is,” Amanda said.

“I’m going to tell the federal cops about that guy.”

Amanda put a hand on her arm. “Seems to me,” she said, “that we already had that conversation. Your telling them isn’t likely to do any good—and it could do Sonia a lot of harm. If they come after him, sooner or later, he’s going to go after her.”

“He can’t just be allowed to go on like that!”

Inadvertently, Maura had raised her voice. Amanda made a placating gesture and put a finger to her lips. “Keep it down,” she said. “He’ll hear you.”

“Maybe he should.”

Amanda shook her head. “He definitely shouldn’t. I used to feel the same way, but I kept turning it over and over in my head, and I came to the conclusion that it’s best to just stay out of it.”

“If it was me,” Maura said, “I’d kill him.”

“If it was you,” Amanda said, “you probably would. But it’s Sonia—and there’s no way she’s going to do that.”

W
HEN THEY DROPPED BY
to speak to the lawyer, Renato Kassab, Gonçalves and Hector were told he was “in conference” at the
delegacia
.

“Two birds with one stone?” Gonçalves suggested. The next person on their list was the delegado, Fernando Borges.

“Why not?” Hector said.

Some conference. They found the delegado and the lawyer drinking coffee and smoking cigars.

“Drop in to say goodbye?” Borges asked, taking his feet off his desk and pushing himself to his feet.

“We’re not going anywhere,” Gonçalves said. “Not yet. Not until we get some answers about what really happened around here.”

“What really happened, young man,” the lawyer said, “is that Torres rooted out the tribe, and the one man he didn’t kill killed him. That’s it. End of story. No one in this town will tell you any different.”

“You’re right about that,” Hector said. “No one in this town will.”

“But?”

“Despite all the stories we’re being told, there are a number of things that don’t add up.”

The lawyer removed his glasses and started polishing them on his necktie. He was probably the only man in town who consistently wore a suit. “Such as?” he said.

“Such as,” Hector replied, “when we got here, nobody
was talking about Omar Torres threatening the Indians or Amati being aware of it. Now, all of a sudden, it appears as if everyone is.”

“Perhaps you were talking to the wrong people,” Kassab said.

Hector turned to Borges. “How about you, Delegado? Did Torres say anything of that nature to you?”

“Well, er, no, not to me personally.”

“And you,
Doutor
Kassab?”

“No. But I have no reason to disbelieve what I’ve been told.” The lawyer didn’t say,
Why should you?
But that’s what his tone-of-voice implied.

“What about the case against the Indian?” Gonçalves asked.

Kassab returned his glasses to his nose and looked at him. “What about it?”

“You realize, don’t you, that the only person who claims to have heard him threaten Torres was Father Castori?”

“It’s my understanding, Agent, uhh …”

“Gonçalves.”

“Agent Gonçalves, that the FUNAI woman was there as well.”

“She was,” Gonçalves said, “and she didn’t hear the Indian say any such thing.”

Kassab looked at him as he might look at a hostile witness—and phrased his next question accordingly: “Ah, but isn’t it true, Agent Gonçalves, that her knowledge of the language is imperfect?”