Leighton Gage - Every Bitter Thing

“Zanon is a straight arrow. He’s not going to do anything illegal.”

Arnaldo sighed. “And legal takes time.”

“Always and in all circumstances. Unfortunately.”

“And you can’t push him any harder?”

“No. We’ll just have to wait for his call.”

“What do we do in the meantime?”

“Why don’t we go have a chat with that delegado, Bittencourt?”

“Call him first?”

“Not on your life,” Silva said. “Let’s go in there with a show of force. Round up Hector and Babyface.”

Sergio Bittencourt was biting into a croissant when the four men barged into his office. One of them he already knew. It was that federal cop, Hector Costa.

Of the others, one was a kid who looked to be in his early twenties, one was a tall man in his fifties who moved with the grace of a cat, and the last was a man of about the same age wearing a gray suit. The latter had black eyes that closely resembled Costa’s.

“Chief Inspector Silva would like a word with you,” Hector said.

Bittencourt stood up, brushed flakes of pastry from his white shirt, and stuck out his jaw.

“I’ve got a question for you, Delegado,” the man in the gray suit said. “How much money did you take from Senhora Arriaga?”

“Did she say that? Did she say I took money from her? She’s full of shit.”

“Ah, so you fed her the information out of the goodness of your heart, did you?”

“Fed her what information? I didn’t feed her anything. What the fuck are you talking about?”

“She wanted to know who was responsible for killing her son, correct?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Just answer the question, Delegado. Did you, or did you not, tell Aline Arriaga that Joao Girotti raped and killed her son?”

“I did not.”

“You’re lying. She offered to pay for the information. You wanted the money. You gave her a name, you gave her Girotti.”

“That’s a load of crap.”

“Why Girotti, specifically? Did his name just pop into your head? Or did you have something against him?”

“If she says that, it’s no more than her word against mine. And who is she? A nobody, that’s who! The word of a nobody against the word of a delegado? Don’t make me laugh. Get the hell out of here. This conversation is over.”

“Your response,” Silva said, “told us everything we came here to find out. We’ll be talking again before long.”

“Is that some kind of threat?”

“Yes, Delegado, it is.”

They were in the delegacia’s parking lot when Hector got a call from Horacio La Selva, the undercover agent he’d put in the cell with Sacca. La Selva sounded agitated. Hector made a gesture for the other cops to gather around him.

“Some idiot,” La Selva said, “forgot to tell the guards I was a cop.”

“That idiot would be me,” Hector said. “I told Carillo to keep it to himself, figured it would be safer that way. Safer for you, not Sacca. What’s the problem?”

“The problem, Senhor,” La Selva said, changing his tune, “is that Sacca got sprung yesterday afternoon at five. But me?

I had to spend another night in jail.”

“Damn! Is the delegado there now?”

“He just arrived, had some problem with his kid at school.”

“Put him on.”

There was the sound of the phone being handed over, then, “Carillo.”

“What’s this about Sacca being released?” Hector said.

“What we agreed,” Carillo said. “Silva sent a lawyer.”

“No,” Hector said. “He didn’t.”

“Well, somebody did. And he had all the right paperwork, so we had to spring Sacca.”

“Tell me about this lawyer. Did he give you a name?”

“He didn’t have to. I already knew the bastard. It was Fonseca.”

“Dudu? You’re telling me Dudu Fonseca was the man who got Sacca out of there?”

“That’s what I’m telling you. Hey, weren’t you guys supposed to have a man stationed out in front?”

“We were, and we do.”

“Then he’s fucking blind, because Fonseca and Sacca must have walked right by him. There’s only one way out of here.”

“Well,” Silva said when Hector related the details of the conversation, “that clinches that. Julio Arriaga is our man.”

“Has to be. Aline Arriaga is the only person I told.”

“And then there’s Fonseca.”

“Fonseca? What’s with that?” Goncalves wanted to know.

“Aline consulted him when her son was arrested,” Hector said. “And then he got Joao Girotti out of jail.”

“That shyster isn’t cheap,” Goncalves said.

Silva looked at his watch and made a quick calculation.

“Sacca has been out for almost eighteen hours. Three to one he’s dead already.”

“No bet,” Arnaldo said.

Silva turned to Hector. “Do we have his home address?”

“We do,” Hector said.

Silva turned to Goncalves. “Call in the team we have standing by. Tell them to meet you there. If Sacca is still alive, put a protective cordon around him.”

“How tight?”

“Loose enough not to discourage Arriaga. The last thing we want to do is scare him off.”

“And if Sacca’s already dead?”

“Call Hector at the office. He’ll contact us. We’ll meet at the murder scene.”

Silva turned to Hector.

“Check Aline’s bank accounts. See if she’s made any substantial withdrawals. Check the airline records to see if she might have been in Brasilia around the time of Juan Rivas’s murder.”

“You think she’s an accomplice?”

“Juan Rivas was a cautious man, concerned with his possessions, concerned with security. I’m still curious as to why he opened the door to his killer. If he looked through the peephole and saw a woman, that might have been all it took. He might not have regarded her as a threat.”

“Whereas if he’d seen Julio out there…”

“Exactly.”

“Surveillance on Aline?”

“Immediately. Around the clock.”

“Phone taps?”

“Home, office, and cell-and if she uses a pay phone, even once, initiate coverage on that as well. My guess is she’ll be smart enough to use prepaid cell phones, but maybe not.”

“I’ll get right on it. Where are you and Arnaldo going to be?”

“First,” Silva said, “we’re going to find out what the hell happened in Santo Andre.”

“And then?”

“We’re going to have a talk with Dudu Fonseca.”

The man on duty in Santo Andre was right where he was supposed to be, directly across the street from the jail. He was Pedro Sanches, on the job since eight that morning and as reliable as they come.

“Morning, Sanches.”

“Morning, Chief Inspector.”

“You see La Selva on the way out?”

“Sure did. He practically bit my head off. He was not happy.”

“So I heard. He tell you Sacca has been sprung?”

“He did. But I got no orders to leave, so here I am.”

“Good man. Who was on duty last night at five?”

“New kid, name of Mendes.”

“You have his home number?”

“I do.”

“He live near here?”

“Matter of fact, he does.”

Silva groaned inwardly. “Merda,” he said. “Get him over here.”

Mendes showed up ten minutes later.

He had a sunny smile on his face and a pristine band of gold on the third finger of his left hand. For Silva, the unblemished ring clinched it.

“All right, Mendes, save us both some time. How long were you away from your post?”

The smile faded; Mendes looked at his shoes. “Not long,” he said. “Not long at all.”

“How long?”

“From a little before five to almost six yesterday evening.”

“Jesus Christ!”

“My wife and I are newlyweds, Chief Inspector. You’re a married man, right? You know how it is.”