Requiem for a Killer (24 page)

“Is Silvinho around?” Dornelas asked the
hostess.

“Who wants to speak to him?” the woman
replied challengingly.

“Inspector Joaquim Dornelas.”

Definitely a being from another planet, she
must have thought, as, spinning swiftly on her heels, she turned
her back on Dornelas and went off in the direction of the kitchen
as if she were on the catwalk, her hair rippling in the wind.

While they waited outside in the blazing sun
Dornelas began to feel pangs of hunger brought on by the aroma
emanating from the dishes the waiters were serving the tables.

A typical Brazilian-style fish stew, still
bubbling in its clay bowl, went past them at the same time a man
with grey hair came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a white
towel that he dropped on the counter as he approached them.

“Silvio Freitas,” said the man, extending
his arm to the inspector.

“It’s a pleasure, Mr. Freitas,” replied
Dornelas, shaking his hand. “This is Solano. He works with me.”

They shook hands and the restaurateur led
them to a table in the back, away from the customers.

“How can I help you, Inspector?” asked
Silvio as soon as they sat down.

Seeing no reason to beat around the bush,
Dornelas went straight to the point.

“Did you hear that we found a drug dealer’s
body in Palmyra Bay last week?”

“Of course. So then he really was a drug
dealer!” Silvio exclaimed.

“A big one.”

A waiter approached bringing them menus but
Silvio stopped him.

“Let’s have something that’s not on the menu
today,” he said. “Do you gentlemen like octopus?”

They both nodded.

“Excellent. We just received some fresh
octopi this morning. May I offer them to you à
provençal
style? They’re delicious.”

Certain that the offer had been made with
the intention of acquiring the policemen’s good will, as so many
restaurants in the region did, Dornelas immediately
interjected:

“On the condition that we pay our bill.”

Silvio Freitas was taken by surprise and
eyed the inspector for a long minute with a mixture of admiration
and wariness. He couldn’t remember the last time a police inspector
had set foot in his restaurant. Not on the job, anyways. A siren
started wailing in his head.

“Alright.” Silvio gave instructions to the
waiter who wrote down the order and disappeared. He went on: “The
body found in the bay... wasn’t it you who took it out?”

“Yes. His name was José Aristodemo dos Anjos
and he dealt marijuana, cocaine and crack with some fishermen
around here. Does that name ring a bell for you?”

“Nothing.”

“And what about White Powder Joe?” shot back
the inspector, looking for a reaction from Silvio, who in turn
feigned indifference. “From what we’ve discovered so far, the drugs
entered the city after passing through the restaurants along the
coast – we call them distribution points. White Powder Joe was who
managed these points. From there he’d distribute the drugs to other
restaurants, and to other places around the city.

“Why do you believe the restaurants would be
involved in something like that?”

“To serve their clients. That’s your
business.”

Silvio laughed nervously.

“Hold on, Inspector. Are you insinuating
that I sell drugs to my clients or that I distribute them around
the city?”

Dornelas decided to remain silent. His reply
was the look on his face: direct and with no subterfuge.

“I see,” Silvio said deliberately. “So
you’re here because you think my restaurant is one of these
distribution points!”

“That’s right.”

“Do you have any proof?”

“No, but you’re going to help me out
there.”

The restaurateur threw his head back and let
out a burst of laughter.

“And why would I do that?”

“Because if I find the proof without your
help you’re going to find yourself in a world of pain and
misery.”

“How so?”

“We live in a small town, Mr. Freitas. This
is not Rio de Janeiro, much less São Paulo. I can make a call from
this cell phone” – Dornelas put his phone on the table – “and ask
Judge Souza Botelho for a search warrant to go through every corner
of this restaurant with a fine tooth comb. I can have the warrant
here before we finish lunch. And if we find anything – and I’m
betting we will – I’ll put you behind bars charged with drug
trafficking, and close this fine establishment indefinitely.”

Dornelas hated having to play the
hard-assed, son-of-a-bitch cop, but at this point in the
investigation it was the only way to go. Deep down he knew that if
he didn’t get what he wanted by squeezing the restaurateur he ran
the risk of the case loosing the headlines in the media and then
the whole thing would quickly go by the board.

“But there’s another way we can do this. You
can invite me right now to visit your kitchen, a right, as you
know, that I and all your customers here have by law. If you deny
me this simple right I’ll be forced to assume that my suspicions
are well-founded and that you have something to hide. And then
we’re back to the cell phone, the search warrant and the rest of
it.”

The waiter came up to them and asked about
drinks. Dornelas ordered sparkling water, as did Solano. Silvio
Freitas, with his eyes fixed on Dornelas, said nothing and the
waiter went away.

“But before you decide which way you want to
go,” resumed Dornelas, “I want you to understand that I’m not here
to hurt you or your restaurant. On the contrary. This restaurant is
a city landmark... Although I believe you’ve drifted away from your
original purpose, which is to offer quality food in a singular
location to Palmyra’s tourists and residents.”

Dornelas put his hands together on the table
and closed with:

“If you are involved in any way with drug
trafficking, I suggest you stop right now. This case will be turned
over to the Federal Police and I’m sure they’re not going to come
here to have a friendly chat with you over lunch. My investigation
is focused on finding out who killed White Powder Joe and another
person.”

“Marina Rivera,” Silvio let out, to
Dornelas’ surprise.

“You knew her?”

“No, but it’s in all the papers. The funeral
is today at five in the afternoon, right?”

The waiter came back with the drinks,
pouring them for the inspector and the detective.

“Bring me a dark beer,” said Silvio.

The waiter wrote down the order and headed
to the kitchen.

“If I have to talk I might as well do it
with something cold to wet my whistle.”

During the hour and a half of conversation,
in between forkfuls of little pieces of octopus, light as a
feather, Dornelas had his suspicions confirmed, including how White
Powder Joe distributed the narcotics in the city.

“How do you manage to keep your employees
from discovering the packages in the bottom of the fish
containers?” asked Dornelas.

“I receive and check the products myself,
always alone and in the cold storage room in the back. My quality
control,” said Silvio with a nervous laugh. “Used to check, I
should say.”

“Did you make the payments yourself?”

“Always, as soon as I finished checking and
putting the drugs away in a locked cupboard in the freezer. They
last longer if they’re frozen, you know,” he said somewhat
embarrassed. “The payments were always made in cash at the same
time we paid for the cargo. I’m the only one who handles money
around here. That way my staff had no idea I was over-paying.”

‘
A cottage industry, but a hell of a
well-oiled one’
, thought Dornelas.

“Has anyone contacted you since White Powder
Joe’s death looking to take over the business?” asked Solano, who
until then had been merely an attentive listener.

“Nobody,” replied Silvio.

“Not surprising,” said Dornelas, “the case
is still hot news in the media. When it cools down someone will
come looking for you.”

“And what do I do when that happens?”

“Tell them the truth, that you’re out of the
business, that the cops showed up here and threatened you. But
first I suggest you get rid of everything you have as soon as
possible and settle up with whoever,” Dornelas advised him before
adding, “If I ever hear you’re still in business…well, just
remember the Federal Police.”

“Don’t worry, Inspector.”

“This octopus is really delicious.”

After coffee and no dessert, Dornelas paid
the very expensive check and hitched a lift back to town with
Solano on a boat with a group of tourists.

Chapter 17

D
ornelas jumped off
the boat and started walking very slowly along the pier. To Solano,
who watched him closely, it looked as if his boss was looking for
ants underneath the wooden floorboards. Very boring. And that’s
how, deep in thought, in an underground world all his own, the
inspector walked along the dirt street, through the Historical
Center and on to the new part of the city. The sight of the police
station building brought him back to earth.

He recalled the old case of a man who began
sending him anonymous letters, one every day, for thirty days. The
letters were crudely written. But in each one the writer revealed,
intentionally or not, a clue to the crime he had committed: the
brutal murder of his own girlfriend. In other words, his psyche
betrayed him and he ended up getting captured by the police.

In Dornelas’ mind the guy was motivated
simply by a desire to be caught.

The inspector was well aware that it was
common for first time killers to regret what they’d done. When you
cross that line there’s no going back; the criminal is separated
from the flock and becomes a disfigured species, a freak of
nature.

He opened the door to the precinct, feeling
puzzled. Not really sure what had caused him to remember this
specific case, he called a meeting of his team as soon as he went
through the reception area.

Solano, Lotufo, Caparrós and Peixoto, his
second in command who had just returned from his maternity leave,
sat around the table. Dornelas apologized to him straight off.

“I couldn’t make it to the hospital,” he
said, shaking his lieutenant’s hand. “But while your son was being
born White Powder Joe was dying in the canal. Life and death at the
same time, eh? It got crazy around here.”

“Don’t worry about it, sir. And thanks for
the flowers. My wife loved them.”

Dornelas was pleased that Marilda had done a
good job. Whatever it was the receptionist had chosen and written
on the note had gone over well. He would thank her later and that
would be the end of it.

“I wasn’t able to come sooner because the
baby had that skin thing,” added Peixoto.

“Jaundice?” completed Dornelas.

“That’s it. He had to stay under a
light.”

“Phototherapy.”

And before Peixoto could turn it into a long
story, Dornelas sat down and phoned Marilda to bring coffee and
water for everybody. As soon as they were settled the inspector
spread his hands on the table and said:

“Well boys, for those of you who aren’t
familiar with the case, now would be the time to catch up.”

Along with the hot coffee and cold water
Dornelas went over each and every step of the investigation so far;
every doubt, every statement taken, every unanswered question,
every nook and cranny looked into. But when he was finished, the
expression on his subordinates’ faces showed they still didn’t
understand why he had called the meeting in the first place.

“I want you all at the funeral today, in
plainclothes, merely as observers. I don’t want anyone carrying a
gun. We’ll be spread around the place and circulate with hidden
radios – but no bullshitting among yourselves. Watch the people’s
faces, their expressions and bearing, see if we come across anybody
acting suspicious. I have a feeling the killer’s going to mix in
with the crowd purely for the morbid pleasure of savoring the
result of his work for the last time. I know it’s like looking for
a flea in a bull’s tail, but I don’t think we can pass up the
chance without giving it a shot.”

Dornelas took a sip of his coffee and went
on:

“We have to keep in mind that it’s possible
the two cases have no connection to each other, although I believe
they’re both intimately linked. The impression I have is that
Marina Rivera was very well liked in the city, especially in poor
neighborhoods, and I believe this is going to help us get
information about her killer. That’s why I’m suggesting we work
backwards this time; let’s first go after who killed Marina. It may
well lead us to White Powder Joe’s murderer, given that we’ve
already clarified a lot of the details surrounding his death. Any
questions?”

The detectives looked around at each other.
Nobody answered.

“Great. If anybody needs to go home to
change, go ahead. I’m going to the hospital to accompany the body
to the cemetery. It would be good if you all did too. Okay?”

In unison they all agreed. Dornelas finished
his water, got up and addressed Peixoto.

“Meanwhile, I want you to stay here and keep
an eye on things at the precinct,” is what he said while thinking
‘this way he won’t get in the way’
.

“Copy that, sir.”

One by one they got up as Dornelas added, “I
don’t have to tell you that I don’t want anyone,” and he turned
pointedly to his lieutenant, “absolutely no one, saying one word to
the press. Are we understood?”

Nodding his head, Peixoto cringed like a dog
with his tail between his legs. Dornelas went to his office while
each of the others went his own way.

*

It was four-thirty when the inspector got to
the hospital.