The Ways of Evil Men (18 page)

“Except what?” Frade asked.

“I’m afraid that any objective analysis would come down on her side, not mine. It would be putting my competence into question for no purpose whatsoever.”

“So if you were to do it,” Cunha said, “you’d want to be well-paid for it.”

“And maybe it wouldn’t do us a damned bit of good anyway,” Bonetti said.

“Right on both counts,” Doctor Pinto said. He drained his glass and got up to pour himself more whiskey.

“Before that damned FUNAI woman started pulling strings, we had everything tied up in a neat little package,” Frade said. “The Indians were gone. And any investigation into what happened to them was stalled.”

“Yes,” Toledo agreed. “And even after she managed to get the attention of Federal Police Headquarters, we were blessed by another stroke of luck.”

“Which was?” Cunha said.

“Omar’s murder.”

“Luck? You call that luck?”

Toledo laughed aloud. “Oh, come on, Paulo. No crocodile tears. No one in this room was any great friend of Omar’s. Can you honestly say you’re sorry he’s dead?”

Cunha waved his hand as if swatting at a pesky fly. “Of course not. But I still don’t see how you can call it luck.”

“Think about it. Who’s to say it wasn’t Omar, acting alone, who eliminated that tribe?”

“Now,
that
would be convenient,” Lisboa said.

“Wouldn’t it?”

“And maybe even true,” Bonetti said.

“Exactly,” Cunha said. “Who’s to say it isn’t?”

“No one,” Toledo said. “And whether he did, or he didn’t, doesn’t matter a damn. Whoever killed off that damned tribe did us all a favor. And Omar did us another favor, by getting his ass killed, thereby providing us with a perfect scapegoat.”

“Who might not even be a scapegoat,” Cunha said, “because he might well have done it.”

“Precisely. So that’s the first story we have to tell. We’re going to say that every one of us, at one time or another, heard Torres say he was going to do away with those Indians.”

“Good,” Cunha said. “But then how would the Indian have found that out? How are we going to prove that?”

Toledo turned to the priest. “Padre, you’re on.”

Father Castori licked his lips. “If someone who spoke his language were to say that he heard the Indian threaten Omar’s life, wouldn’t that be enough?”

“Hell, yes,” Cunha said. “Are you telling me that you—”

Toledo didn’t let him finish. “Father Castori and I,” he said, “had a little chat several hours ago. He has recalled that while he was translating the Indian’s words for the Calmon woman there were a few things he neglected to impart.”

“Like the Indian being convinced that Torres killed his people?”

“Exactly.”

“Come on, Hugo, the FUNAI bitch will never buy that, and neither will the federal cops.”

“The padre here assures me that Jade doesn’t speak enough Awana to contest it. As to the federal cops, so what? They might not believe it, but what can they do? They have no
proof
, and if we stand together they’ll never get any.”

“Makes sense,” Bonetti said, “So what’s next?”

“What’s next,” Toledo said, “is that we brief our wives
about this. You know how women like to talk. They’ll get the story around town faster than we can.”

“Excellent idea,” Cunha said. “Let’s do it.”

Toledo looked at Lisboa. “Roberto?”

“I’m in,” Lisboa said.

“José?”

“Hell, yes. You were right, Hugo. It
was
worthwhile driving out here.”

“Then I think, Doctor, that we might be able to make use of your medical expertise after all. I’d like you to write a report that contests that of the young medical examiner from São Paulo.”

“I’m willing,” the doctor said.

“For the right price, of course,” Toledo said.

“Of course. What do you intend to do with it?”

“Muddy the waters. Our position, as the most prominent citizens of this town, will be that Silva and his people are chasing ghosts.”

“And that the longer they stay,” Cunha said, “the longer it’s going to take for the people in Brasilia to get the money you’ve promised them for getting the reservation declassified.”

“Correct. We’ll give Silva a week or so before we drop a few words to the right people.”

“What kind of words?” Frade wanted to know.

“Words suggesting Silva is pursuing an absurd hypothesis and is obstructing our plans of a mutually-lucrative outcome.”

“He must have friends too,” Lisboa said cautiously.

“He probably does,” Toledo said, “but in Brasilia, money always trumps pure friendship.”

The priest cleared his throat. “Speaking of money,” he said. “I’d like to discuss my fiscal participation in all of this.”

Toledo turned to him with a smile. “And we will, Father. You’re a key figure in the whole equation. Now, let’s go over our version of events in detail. Only then will we all be able to sing to the Chief Inspector in harmony.”

“H
AVE YOU
,
OR HAS
anyone else in your crew, come up with any proof that white men were behind the genocide?” Maura asked.

Rather than meet her eyes, Gonçalves stared at his drink. “I’m sorry, Maura, but—”

“But your Chief Inspector bla, bla, bla. Don’t repeat yourself, Haraldo, it’s boring.”

They were alone in the bar. Most of the lights were out, and the front door was locked. Maura was grilling him, and Gonçalves was feeling uncomfortable.

“Is that why you got me down here?” he said. “Just to interrogate me? Just so you could get a scoop for your scandal sheet?”

She bristled. “It’s not a scandal sheet. It’s one of the most respected newspapers in the country.”

“Whatever,” he said and stood up.

“Sit down, Haraldo. You know you want to.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do.” She extended a hand. He took it and sat down again.

“As long as you stop with the questions.”

She smiled—and ignored his plea. “You, and by you I mean the Federal Police—”

“Maura,
please
.”

“—think the killers were after one of two things: land they could add to their
fazendas—
”

“Enough, Maura! You’re—”

“—or hardwoods they could steal, is that right?”

Gonçalves leaned back in his chair, suddenly cagey. “Who said anything about hardwoods?”

“Where were you all day while your buddies were out at the Awana village?”

He avoided her eyes. He was a pretty good liar, but for some strange reason he was having a problem when it came to Maura. “I can’t tell you,” he said.

“Maybe not,” she said. “But you know what? I’ve got a pretty good idea.” And then, before he could get a word in, “You guys come up with any proof that somebody else might have killed that
fazendeiro
? Someone other than the Indian, I mean.”

He released her hand. She withdrew it into her lap.

“Stop it, Maura. Stop it right now. I’m not kidding. If you don’t lay off with the questions, I’m going to bed.”

She was losing him, and she knew it. She decided to take a chance. “How about this? How about we exchange information? How about I tell you something that’s going to set your investigation off in an entirely new direction?”

“What makes you think you could?”

“I know some things you don’t.”

“Now you’ve got me curious.”

“Good.” She put her hand back on the table. He didn’t take it.

“But I’m still not going to tell you anything.”

She curled her fingers. “Damn it, Haraldo—”

“You’re cursing at the wrong guy. If you’ve got something to contribute, and you’re only willing to give it up if we clue you in, you should go and negotiate with the Chief Inspector.”

“And get him out of bed? You think he’d appreciate that?”

“If you’re in possession of any information that would contribute to the solving of this case, he certainly would.”

“Now you’re sounding like a cop again.”

“I
am
a cop.”

“In a couple of days’ time, you people are going to be sorry you didn’t play ball,” she said.

“I guess we’ll have to take that risk.”

He reached for her hand, and she let him take it.

“What’s on your schedule for tomorrow?” she asked.

“That’s confidential.”

“I was asking because I’m following an independent line of inquiry, and I don’t want you people stepping on my toes any more than you want me stepping on yours.”

Gonçalves squeezed her hand. She didn’t squeeze back.

“I thought I might look up that fellow Cunha,” she said.

If anyone was involved in stealing hardwood, the most likely candidate was the man who had a business trading in the stuff. She wasn’t particularly interested in Cunha any more than the town’s other movers and shakers, but by mentioning him, she’d hoped to provoke a response. And she did.

“Not a good idea. Not tomorrow.”

“Right. Okay, that’s clear enough. How about if I were to talk to the delegado. What’s his name?”

“Borges. That would be okay.”

“And the town’s medical examiner?”

“If you want to waste your time.”

“And the mayor?”

“The mayor is one of the big landowners. You might want to leave all of those guys for later in the week.”

“
Want
,” she said, “is not the operative word. Okay, that’s it.”

“You’re going to bed?” He sounded disappointed.

“I’m not. What I meant was, that’s enough business for one night. Let’s get down to the more important stuff. Have you got a girlfriend back in São Paulo?”

“H
IS NAME IS
F
RED
Vaz,” Amanda said. “He’s in the restaurant.”

After her late night with Gonçalves and far too little sleep, Maura was back at the Grand. She glanced at her watch. It wasn’t yet 7:45
A
.
M
.

“Yeah,” Amanda said. “Early. He must need the money. He gets two hundred a day during the busy season.”

“And this isn’t the busy season?”

“No. It’s not.”

“Offer him a hundred?”

“I didn’t tell you that.”

“Thanks,” Maura said. “Any of those cops come down for breakfast yet?”

Amanda shook her head. “You’re the first.”

“Good.”

Maura had hopes of finishing her conversation with the fishing guide before Silva or anyone on his team showed up. But that was easier said than done. Before she’d had a chance to ask a single question, even before she’d gotten herself seated, Fred Vaz was off and running. He was, it soon became evident, a man in love with the sound of his own voice.

According to him, the denizens of Azevedo’s rivers were the smartest, biggest, hardest-fighting, meanest, hungriest, and tastiest fish in all of Brazil. But you couldn’t just expect to stroll over to a riverbank, get into a boat, or drop a lure into the Jagunami and catch them. Not without an experienced guide, you couldn’t. No, you needed a man like him. A
man with years and years of experience. A man who’d show you where all the best places were and—

Maura waved a finger. “I don’t want to know about the best places,” she said. “I want to know about the worst.”

“Huh?”

“And I’m willing to pay well for your expertise. But you’ve got to be honest with me.”

“Well … sure. Whatever you say.”

“Have you noticed any dead fish in the rivers around here?”

He looked away. “There are … always dead fish in the rivers,” he said. “That’s what they do. They hatch, they live, they die.”

“I’m talking about something other than the natural life cycle of fish. But you already knew that, didn’t you?”

“I—”

“Of course, I could be barking up the wrong tree.”

“Uh …”

“Let me give it to you straight, Fred. If you don’t know of a river or stream where fish are dying on a massive scale, I’ll pay you two hundred Reais right now, and we’ll call it a day. The two hundred will more than compensate you for coming here to talk to me this morning, but two hundred is all you’re going to get.”

“But … uh … if by any chance, I should happen to know about a place like that? A place with a lot of dead fish?”

“Then I want you to take me there.”

“You want to fish in a place that’s full of dead fish?”

“I don’t want to fish. I want you to guide me there. I want to see the dead fish. I want to take samples of the water, and I want you to bring me back here. You do that, even if it only takes half a day, and I’ll pay you an additional five hundred Reais.”

“Five hundred Reais? And I also get the other two hundred?”

“That’s what the word
additional
means, Fred. You get the two hundred, and you get the five hundred, and that’s seven hundred in total. How about it?”

“Hmm.”

“Why are you making that noise?”

“I’m thinking.”

“What’s to think about? There
is
such a place. I don’t know where it is, but from what you’ve already said, I know it exists. And I know there are other fishing guides. And I know it’s the off season, so …”

“Don’t be hasty, Senhora. I’m not saying I won’t do it. Not yet.”

“It’s Senhorita. And what’s with the
not yet
?”

He looked pained. “To show you those dead fish we’d have to go into the Indian reservation. That’s where they are.”

“So what?”

“I’m not supposed to go in there. Nobody is, not without permission from the FUNAI. If I did, I could lose my license.”

“Why would they take away your license? It’s not like there are any Indians left.”

“It doesn’t matter. Rules are rules.”

“What if I could get permission?”

“Then there’d be no problem. But you can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because the FUNAI agent is a real hard ass.”

“That hard ass is my best friend.”

“Oh.”

“How far inside the reservation?”

“Just a couple of kilometers. The spot is a tributary of the Jagunami.”

“And the Jagunami is the border between private land-holdings and the reservation, right?”

“Mostly. Except for the property that used to be owned by Enrique Azevedo.”