Two Graves (41 page)

“That’s cool. Meanwhile, I’ve got a friend who I’m sure would be willing to wear a wire and expose those bastards. He’s a professional actor, and he just loves stuff like this. I’ll set it up. Maybe you’re right, maybe the cops can’t act on it—but it sure as hell will get their attention. If we let the DA hear it,
he
can get the court order.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, listen, I like Jack. I’d like to help him. But I’m no knight in shining armor—this is for me, too. Getting rid of those lousy salesmen will give me a crack at more clients, maybe even get me my own dealership.” He smiled. “But you need to find out about where your father was at the time of the robbery and call me. I’ll bet you anything there’s a way to prove he wasn’t there.”

P
ENELOPE WAXMAN SAT, QUITE PRIMLY, ON THE UNCOMFORTABLE
straight-backed chair in the waiting room of the Polícia Militar station in Alsdorf, Brazil. It was a large room, painted yellow, with windows open to a pleasant breeze, a picture of the president on one wall, and—as in most of the official spaces she’d seen in Brazil—a crucifix hanging on another. A low wooden rail and gate bisected the room, separating the waiting area from the workers in the police station, busily filling out forms or typing on computer terminals. Occasionally a member of the police force, dressed in a blue shirt and red beret, would cross the room and disappear through a doorway.

Mrs. Waxman sighed and moved restlessly in her chair. She’d been living in Brazil for two years now, in a nice two-bedroom apartment in Brasilia—her husband was a textile exporter—but she had never grown used to the glacial pace at which official business was conducted. She’d been waiting over half an hour and so far hadn’t yet even had the opportunity to file a report. The only way to speed it up in this country seemed to be by flashing a wad of money, but she had her pride and wasn’t going to resort to that. She checked her watch: almost three
PM
. What on earth was taking so long? There was only one other person in the waiting room—the loud one.

It was really her husband’s fault. He’d heard of this city, Blumenau, in the southern state of Santa Catarina, that was a near-perfect replica of an old Bavarian town. He’d dragged her down from Brasilia for a long weekend vacation. And she had to admit, Blumenau was a remarkable place. It
did
look exactly like a German city, plopped down, in all places, amid the rain forests and mountains of Brazil: it
had beer halls, shops painted in festive colors, half-timbered buildings of white plaster and dark wood, ancient-looking gothic structures whose massive slate roofs—dotted with two or sometimes three layers of dormer windows—were as large as the façades below. And most of the townspeople were blond, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked. In the streets, more German was spoken than Portuguese. Mr. Waxman, who was very proud of his own German heritage, was entranced.

But that was when the troubles began. Her husband hadn’t had the foresight to reserve a hotel room in advance, and they arrived to find themselves in the middle of some gigantic German cultural festival. All the hotels were booked, and so the Waxmans were forced to find lodgings in the adjoining town of Alsdorf: a much smaller, much cheaper version of Blumenau, trying to capitalize on its neighbor’s charms but, it seemed, without really succeeding. Its residents were generally poorer, less European in appearance, much closer to the indigenous population. And unlike Blumenau, Alsdorf seemed to have more than its share of crime. Just that morning, their traveler’s checks had been stolen right out of the hotel room. Imagine, stealing traveler’s checks! And so her husband was now over in Blumenau, trying to get them replaced, while she was here in the Alsdorf police station, waiting to file a report on the theft.

Her thoughts were interrupted—yet again—by the other individual in the waiting area. He was once more launching into a long litany of complaints to the hapless woman behind the nearby desk. Mrs. Waxman gave him a sidelong, irritated glance. He was wearing a tropical shirt, bright and gaudy, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that would have been more at home on the head of a riverboat gambler. His linen pants were white, shapeless, and massively wrinkled. Given his pallid, even sickly, complexion, he was clearly a tourist—in short, the typical Ugly American, speaking English, the louder the better, assuming that everyone around should jump to their feet and do his bidding. He had fastened onto the woman in the office who spoke the best English.

“It’s taking so
long
,” he said in a whining, hectoring tone. “
Why
is it taking so long?”

“As soon as the officer in charge of processing forms can see you, he will,” the woman replied. “If you had your passport, sir, it would go faster—”

“I
explained
that to you already. My passport was stolen. Along with my wallet, my money, my credit cards, and everything else that was in my pocket.” He fell into a kind of lethargic, but still vocal, brooding. “My God. It’s like something out of Kafka. I’ll probably never get out of here. I’ll wither and die, right in this very station—a victim of terminal bureaucracy.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” the woman said with almost saintly patience. “All of the officers are otherwise engaged. It is a busy day.”

“I’ll just
bet
it’s a busy day,” the man said. “I’ll bet you anything petty thievery is the number one business in Alsdorf. I knew I should have stayed in Rio.”

A member of the Polícia Militar emerged from a room in the back of the station and walked through the office, making his way across the waiting area.

The tourist leapt from his chair. “You! Hey, you!”

The police officer completely ignored him and disappeared out the front door.

He turned back to the secretary. “What is he, deaf?”

“He is busy on a case, sir,” the woman said.

“Of course. Probably another pickpocketing. No doubt the guy who got me is out robbing more Americans.”

The woman shook her head. “No. No pickpocketing.”

“So what, then? What’s so important that they can’t see me? I’d like to know!”

The woman behind the desk did not respond to this. And rightly so, Mrs. Waxman thought. She had a good idea to give this obnoxious man a piece of her mind.

Now the tourist was peering out the front door again, looking in the direction the officer had gone. “Maybe it’s not too late to catch up with him,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ll stop him, tell him my problem. He’d have to help me then.”

The secretary shook her head. “He is much too busy.”

“Too busy? Right, too busy drinking coffee and eating doughnuts!”

The woman, provoked at last, said rather crisply: “He is investigating murders.”

Mrs. Waxman sat up in her chair.

“Murders?” the obnoxious tourist repeated. “What murders?”

But the secretary had clearly said more than she intended to. She merely shook her head again.

The tourist sat back in his chair, rolling his eyes. “Some local bar fight, no doubt. Meanwhile, I’m sitting in here, stripped of my identity in a foreign country. My
God
.” A beat. “You said murders. More than one?”

The woman simply nodded.

“What, you got a serial killer on the loose or something?”

The woman gave away nothing beyond a firming of her lips. Suddenly the problem of the traveler’s checks didn’t seem so important to Mrs. Waxman. Murders? Maybe she should forget about the complaint, find her husband, and get back to Brasilia as soon as possible.

While she was considering this, an idea seemed to strike the obnoxious man. He sat up and fished around in the pocket of his shapeless linen pants, pulling out a wad of Brazilian reals. Then he leaned toward the low gate, in the direction of the secretary.

“Here,” he said in a stage whisper that was still fully audible to Mrs. Waxman. “The pickpocket didn’t get these. Give twenty reals to that officer in charge of, whatever, of forms processing. Maybe that will grease the wheels of progress.”

The other office workers looked over at this. “I cannot do that, sir,” the woman said quickly, frowning.

“Not enough, eh? Okay, I can play that game.” The man pawed through some more of the crumpled bills, pulled out another. “Here. Fifty reals. Give that to him.”

The woman shook her head again, more emphatically. “No bribes.”

“No bribes? Who are you kidding? This is Brazil, right? I wasn’t born yesterday, lady.”

“There is no bribery of police in Alsdorf, sir,” the woman told him in a firm, public voice, not without a tinge of pride. “The colonel doesn’t permit it.”

“Colonel?” the tourist asked, in a tone of deepest skepticism. “What colonel?”

“Colonel Souza.”

“I don’t believe it,” the tourist replied. “What—are you looking for
more
reals? Thinking of splitting it with the officer yourself, are you?” He scoffed. “That’s looking out for number one, all right.”

“Sir, put your money
away
.” The secretary finally seemed to have reached the limit of her patience. “Look—I will let you wait in the outer office. If I permit that, will you agree to wait in silence until your turn is called?”

The tourist looked at her suspiciously. “Will I be seen more quickly?”

“It is possible.”

The man shrugged. “All right. Lead the way.”

He stood up, and the secretary led him through the gate, past the worktables, and into an open doorway in the rear. A blissful silence reigned. Mrs. Waxman finally rose and, not even bothering to tell anyone, scurried out the door, looking for a cab to take her and her husband as quickly as possible out of the town of Alsdorf.

The tourist in the flowered shirt and shapeless linen trousers waited until the secretary had pointed him to a chair. Once her footsteps had receded, he quietly moved to the door, grasped its knob, and gently pushed it until it was almost closed. And then he turned and surveyed the outer office. It had a single table, surrounded by four chairs. Three of the walls were lined with filing cabinets. As he let his eye run along their length, the tourist smiled faintly.

A series of local deaths. A police chief who could not be bribed. This was proving to be promising indeed.

“Excellent,” the man said in a dulcet southern accent far different from the one he had employed in the waiting room. “Most excellent.”

O
N BLUMENAU’S VILA GERMÂNICA, THE FESTIVE AND
brightly painted heart of German Village in the center of town, tourists could find a profusion of beer halls, beer gardens, and taverns. Many were jolly establishments, full of carousing patrons and faux-German wenches in gaudy costumes balancing numerous one-liter steins in their hands as they wound between the tables. But one or two of the drinking establishments were quieter, catering primarily to the locals; while still of remarkably authentic Bavarian architecture and interior design, they were darker inside, without the frantically convivial atmosphere of their neighbors.

One such place was the Hofgarten. Inside, it was low-ceilinged, with thick hand-hewn beams running just above the heads of the evening’s patrons. Framed prints of German castles decorated the walls, and the daily menu was listed on chalkboards. Bavarian Brezen came free with each dinner order. A long bar ran around two sides of a central island, but many of the patrons seemed to prefer the deep wooden booths that lined the tavern’s walls.

In one of the booths, a man sat reading a local paper. He was short and barrel-chested, with powerful arms and a head that seemed ever so slightly too small for his body. His face was clean-shaven, with hair slicked back by brilliantine, and although his features were Brazilian, not German, they were nevertheless fine, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He was drinking a stein of beer and smoking a short, slender cheroot.

He glanced up to see that a man had slipped into the booth, across from him. The movement had been so quick and silent, the
stranger was already sitting comfortably by the time the smoker noticed him.

“
Boa tarde
,” the stranger said.