Leighton Gage - Every Bitter Thing

“If it’s true, it’s no environment for a kid.”

“Wait. There’s more. The new husband has two kids, and they’re both bigger and stronger than Jan is. So while their father is beating up on his mother, the kids are beating up on Marnix’s son. Marnix, who goes up there four times a year to spend time with his kid, gets the whole story. Jan wants to move out and come down to Brazil with his father. The ex-wife, who’s got more important things in her life than her kid, agrees to let him go. So Marnix goes over to the consulate and gets all the paperwork: a Brazilian passport for Jan and the authorization for him to travel without his mother. Then, just when he thinks the whole thing is settled, a done deal, the ex-wife tells him she wants money.”

“She what?”

“She tries to hold Marnix up for money. Tells him he can have the kid, but he’ll have to give her fifty thousand dollars.”

“She wanted to sell him his own kid?”

“Uh-huh. And Kloppers said he would have paid it. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t.”

“And?”

“And she told him to get it from his parents, who she thought were well off.”

“And?”

“And Marnix knew they weren’t as well off as all that.”

“So he kidnapped the kid?”

“He did. Took him straight to Miami International and got on the first flight to Brazil. The only thing available was business class, so he maxed out his credit card and bought that.”

“You talk to the kid? Alone?”

“Samantha did. He backs up his old man’s story. Says he doesn’t want to go back to the States, no way. He loves his grandparents, they love him, and he’s having a ball. Here’s the clincher, though, the thing that makes me think Marnix is really telling the truth.”

“What?”

“I called Mara Carta and got her to run a check. There’s no complaint against Kloppers. He thought there was, but there isn’t. So I started thinking why not.”

“Because the mother doesn’t really care about getting her son back; she’s still hoping to hold Kloppers up for all or part of that fifty grand.”

“That’s my guess.”

“If there’s no complaint, we’re not under any obligation to do anything.”

“I told him that. And I told him to keep away from anybody who isn’t from Holambra until we get this thing sorted out.”

“He know anything that throws light on the case?”

“Not a thing. They didn’t pay attention to anyone else on the plane. And they were scared until they got off the ground. Once they were in the air, though, the adrenaline rush wore off. They were both exhausted and slept like babies until breakfast time.”

Fifteen minutes after hanging up with Arnaldo, Silva got another call from his friend in Miami.

“You are so lucky to have my brilliant expertise at your disposal,” Willis said.

“I have never thought otherwise, Harvey. What have you got for me?”

“Luca Taglia is an old friend of mine. With a name like that, I keep telling him, he should be a capo for the mafia. Actually, he works intelligence for the Boston PD. He not only ran Clancy’s records, he sent a couple of guys over to the address you fed me, the one from Clancy’s visa application.”

“Uh-oh. Sounds like I owe somebody another lunch.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I sent Luca two tickets to a Red Sox game. You’re gonna buy me two for the Hurricanes.”

“Gladly.”

“Okay, here’s the dope on Clancy. First of all, the priest bit checks out. The address you fed me is a soup kitchen for winos. Clancy lives in a little room at the rear, puts in long days doing God’s work. His neighbors say he’s a really good guy. The records say he’s never had a brush with the law. The diocese says he’s been doing his current work for three years. His credit cards say that when he got to Brazil, he spent a night in a hotel in Sao Paulo. Then he moved on from there and spent another night in a hotel in Palmas, wherever the hell that is.”

“Up north. Capital of the state of Tocantins.”

“Whatever. Then he went to Miracema, again wherever the hell that is, and spent another night. While he was in this Miracema place, he used the same credit card to take money from an ATM. He did it three times, took the maximum he could get every time.”

“And then?”

“And then nothing. That’s it.”

“Strange.”

“Taglia thought so too. So he decided to dig a little deeper. He went over for a personal conversation with the people at the diocese. They refused to talk.”

“Refused?”

“Refused. It’s their right.”

“How about Clancy’s family?”

“They don’t want to talk about him either.”

“They don’t want to talk about their own son?”

“Taglia sent two of his best men over there. The Clancys serve tea. Tea, mind you, not coffee. Mom and Dad are from the old country. They have shamrocks and leprechauns all over the place. Dad’s wearing a ring from the Ancient Order of Hibernians.”

“The what?”

“Skip it. It has no significance to the case, only a bit of local color. Mom’s got a crucifix around her neck. There’s a portrait of the Virgin Mary on one wall, a portrait of the Pope on another-”

“All right, all right, I get the picture.”

“Okay. So their son Dennis, they tell Taglia’s boys, is the youngest of four. The cops tell them they know their son is in Brazil, and they want to know what he’s doing down there. Ma and Pa Clancy look at each other. Then Pa Clancy says, ‘We don’t want to talk about it.’ Just like that. ‘Whaddya mean?’ Taglia’s boys say. ‘Whaddya mean you don’t want to talk about it?’ ‘Just that,’ Pa Clancy says. ‘We don’t want to talk about it.’ And that was it.”

“That was it?”

“Yup. They kept dishing up the tea, but they refused to say anything more about Dennis.”

Silva scratched his head. He couldn’t think of anything to say other than “Huh.”

“Huh is right,” Willis said. “You get any information on Dennis, you let me know, okay? Because now I’m curious.”

“All right, how about this then?” Fabio Pessoa snapped, making an adjustment to his sketch.

Pessoa, the Federal Police’s forensic artist, and Rocha, the opera buff from the motel, were seated side by side at a battered wooden table. The table was in a conference room adjoining Hector’s office.

“Hmmm,” Rocha said, studying the screen on Pessoa’s notebook.

“Hmmm, what?” Pessoa said testily. He was running out of patience with this guy.

“Hmmm, maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe. Can I go now?”

“No, you can’t. If that ”-he pointed to the screen-“doesn’t look like Eudoxia, we’re gonna keep at this until we got a face that does.”

Rocha shook his head. “Waste of time. I go to a family reunion, I keep my wife next to me all the time.”

“And that’s relevant to what we’re doing here because?”

“She’s like, ‘You remember Cousin Carlos, don’t you?’ She’s like, ‘Hello, Carolina,’ saying ‘Carolina’ so I’ll get it. She has to feed me clues all the time so I won’t embarrass her. I have no memory for faces.”

“You know what? You’re absolutely right.”

Behind them, the door opened. Both of them turned their heads.

“Any progress?” Silva said.

Pessoa shook his head. “The guy’s hopeless,” he said.

“Hopeless is you,” Rocha said.

“Hopeless is unacceptable,” Silva said. “I need a likeness.” He turned to Pessoa. “What else can you suggest?”

“Photos. We’re going to look at photos.”

“No, we’re not,” Rocha said. “You can’t make me. I’m sick of this whole business. I want to go home.”