inquiry, only by a stroke of luck: a string of call girls serving a group of prominent politicians made for even juicier news. The pack of journalists that had been hounding Silva went off to sniff and bark elsewhere. Fortunately, the gentlemen of the board of inquiry were no friends of Nelson Sampaio. Freed from the necessity of pillorying someone whom the director disliked, they closed their sessions without issuing a reprimand.
The relationship between Silva and his boss suffered, but both were practical men. It helped, too, that the Chief inspector had never had any illusions about his boss in the first place, so there was nothing for him to be disappointed about. In time, scar tissue formed over Silva’s wounds.
But not Irene’s.
“You have to catch her, Mario.”
In the year and a half that followed, she’d say it at least once a week. Irene didn’t believe that her husband’s honor could be vindicated until Claudia Andrade was behind bars, or dead.
From time to time, Silva would take out the photo he carried in his wallet. The image, lifted from her driver’s license application, showed Claudia smiling at the camera, a picture of innocence, displaying not a trace of the dark soul that nestled within.
He’d stared at that photo so often, showed it to so many people, that he could have made a sketch of her from memory, accurate down to the little mole on her left cheek.
But that was all he had, a photo and bitter memories. Of the woman herself, there hadn’t been a single trace. She seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“ C LAUDIA A NDRADE,” Arnaldo repeated, still staring at the empty screen. “You think it’s her?”
“Maybe not,” Silva said, “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part. We still have a score to settle between us.”
“And me,” Arnaldo said. “I’ll never forget waking up on that table of hers.”
Claudia had nearly succeeded in making Arnaldo Nunes her final victim prior to disappearing.
Hector said, “I have to ask myself how many women like Claudia this country could produce in a generation.”
“Damned few,” Silva said. “Maybe only one, but let’s not get our hopes up. Not just yet.” He turned to Arnaldo. “When can we expect some answers from those Internet people?”
“Got the list right here,” Arnaldo said, pulling a paper from his pocket. On it were the E-mail addresses obtained by the Dutch police, typewritten and in alphabetical order. Each was followed by a handwritten annotation.
Silva started reading at the top, running his finger down as he went.
On the eighth line his finger stopped.
He raised both eyebrows.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
A T A quarter past seven that evening, the telephone in Silva’s office rang. Camila, his secretary, was long gone. Ditto Hector, probably already sleeping in Silva’s apartment. Silva was in the washroom at the end of the hall. Arnaldo picked up the receiver.
“ Pronto .”
“Mario Silva?” a no-nonsense female voice said.
“Not here,” Arnaldo said. “Who wants him?”
“This is Deputado Malan’s office.”
“Wow,” he said, “a talking office. Do you have brother and sister offices? Are your parents buildings?”
There was a short pause while she digested the attempt at humor.
“Who’s this?” Now she sounded bitchy.
“Nunes. I work with Silva.”
“Nunes,” she said, as if she was making a note of it. “Inspector Nunes?”
“Agente Nunes.”
“Ah. Agente Nunes.”
An office, particularly the all-important Deputado Malan’s office, didn’t have to be polite to a mere agente, and when next she spoke, she wasn’t.
“Get in touch with the chief inspector,” she snapped, “and tell him he’s to be here tomorrow morning at ten. Suite four-forty-one, Congressional Office Building,” the woman said, and hung up.
No sense of humor at all.
SILVA WAS ten minutes late.
Malan’s secretary had a sharp chin and a long nose, and she wore no wedding ring. She
The relationship between Silva and his boss suffered, but both were practical men. It helped, too, that the Chief inspector had never had any illusions about his boss in the first place, so there was nothing for him to be disappointed about. In time, scar tissue formed over Silva’s wounds.
But not Irene’s.
“You have to catch her, Mario.”
In the year and a half that followed, she’d say it at least once a week. Irene didn’t believe that her husband’s honor could be vindicated until Claudia Andrade was behind bars, or dead.
From time to time, Silva would take out the photo he carried in his wallet. The image, lifted from her driver’s license application, showed Claudia smiling at the camera, a picture of innocence, displaying not a trace of the dark soul that nestled within.
He’d stared at that photo so often, showed it to so many people, that he could have made a sketch of her from memory, accurate down to the little mole on her left cheek.
But that was all he had, a photo and bitter memories. Of the woman herself, there hadn’t been a single trace. She seemed to have vanished into thin air.
“ C LAUDIA A NDRADE,” Arnaldo repeated, still staring at the empty screen. “You think it’s her?”
“Maybe not,” Silva said, “Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my part. We still have a score to settle between us.”
“And me,” Arnaldo said. “I’ll never forget waking up on that table of hers.”
Claudia had nearly succeeded in making Arnaldo Nunes her final victim prior to disappearing.
Hector said, “I have to ask myself how many women like Claudia this country could produce in a generation.”
“Damned few,” Silva said. “Maybe only one, but let’s not get our hopes up. Not just yet.” He turned to Arnaldo. “When can we expect some answers from those Internet people?”
“Got the list right here,” Arnaldo said, pulling a paper from his pocket. On it were the E-mail addresses obtained by the Dutch police, typewritten and in alphabetical order. Each was followed by a handwritten annotation.
Silva started reading at the top, running his finger down as he went.
On the eighth line his finger stopped.
He raised both eyebrows.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
A T A quarter past seven that evening, the telephone in Silva’s office rang. Camila, his secretary, was long gone. Ditto Hector, probably already sleeping in Silva’s apartment. Silva was in the washroom at the end of the hall. Arnaldo picked up the receiver.
“ Pronto .”
“Mario Silva?” a no-nonsense female voice said.
“Not here,” Arnaldo said. “Who wants him?”
“This is Deputado Malan’s office.”
“Wow,” he said, “a talking office. Do you have brother and sister offices? Are your parents buildings?”
There was a short pause while she digested the attempt at humor.
“Who’s this?” Now she sounded bitchy.
“Nunes. I work with Silva.”
“Nunes,” she said, as if she was making a note of it. “Inspector Nunes?”
“Agente Nunes.”
“Ah. Agente Nunes.”
An office, particularly the all-important Deputado Malan’s office, didn’t have to be polite to a mere agente, and when next she spoke, she wasn’t.
“Get in touch with the chief inspector,” she snapped, “and tell him he’s to be here tomorrow morning at ten. Suite four-forty-one, Congressional Office Building,” the woman said, and hung up.
No sense of humor at all.
SILVA WAS ten minutes late.
Malan’s secretary had a sharp chin and a long nose, and she wore no wedding ring. She
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