Dying Gasp by Leighton Gage Page A

beach. A woman had come along and started talking to them. She told them she was a talent scout. Our Andrea is a pretty girl. So is Marta Malan. The woman offered them jobs as models. They thought it was a godsend. Literally, as if it was a sign from God that He was blessing their relationship.”
    Arnaldo looked at each of Andrea’s parents in turn. They didn’t give any more credence to that story than he did. He wondered if the girls had always been that naïve, or if they’d simply grasped at a straw.
    “I suppose Marta must have lied about her age,” Otávio said.
    “If the woman ever asked,” Arnaldo said, “which I’ll bet she didn’t.”
    “Andrea said I wasn’t to worry,” Raquel said. “Imagine that. What was she thinking? How could I not worry?”
    “I don’t suppose she said where they were going?” Arnaldo said.
    “Oh, but she did,” Raquel de Castro said. “She said they were going to Manaus.”
    Merda, Arnaldo thought.
    But he didn’t say it.

Chapter Twelve
    RECIFE/BRASILIA/MANAUS
    A RNALDO N UNES ARRIVED AT RECIFE’S delegacia central at 11:55 the following morning. The corporal on the reception desk was a slim fellow with a wispy beard who looked more like a clerk than a cop. Before Arnaldo had a chance to say anything, the corporal asked, “You that federal guy, Nunes?”
    “Do I look that much like a cop?”
    “Frankly, yeah,” the corporal said. He picked up the phone. “You’re expected. Have a seat over there.”
    Two minutes later, a tough-looking brunette with a shoulder bag came into the reception area and stuck out a hand.
    “Vilma Santos,” she said. “I’m your lunch date.”
    Vilma had dark brown eyes and used little makeup. She had broad shoulders and stood erect. Her grip was as strong as a man’s.
    “Come on,” she said. “My car is out front.”
    When they were seated in her beat-up Fiat, she said, “I’m a delegada. You call me Vilma. I’ll call you Arnaldo. You know Olinda? You like pitu ?”
    As a delegada, Vilma was a senior cop. Olinda was the ancient colonial city bordering on modern Recife. Pitu , a freshwater crayfish, was a specialty of the region.
    “Yes and yes,” Arnaldo said. “We gonna meet the chief?”
    “Nope,” she said. “I’m all you get. You work with Silva?”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “Cool. I wish I did.”
    “How come I don’t get to see Venantius?”
    “You’re not important enough.”
    “Huh?”
    “You’re just an agente, so you get me.”
    Arnaldo looked her up and down. “I’m not complaining,” he said.
    The drive to Olinda took twenty minutes. It was a city long past its prime, many of the historic buildings in near ruin. Century-old palm trees and stately churches spoke of former grandeur. She took him to a restaurant fronting the sea. They chose the terrace, shaded by an awning.
    “Actually,” she said, “you’re better off with me than you’d be with the chief.”
    “I told you, I’m not complaining.”
    She leaned closer. Arnaldo could smell her perfume, something citric, like sweet lime juice laced with orange blossoms. “You know who Norberto Venantius’s big brother is?” she asked.
    “The mayor?”
    “Bingo. Norberto doesn’t know shit about law enforcement. He went from running the family’s sugar mill to chief of police in one easy step. The mayor figures to move on soon. He’s gonna be the governor, and Norberto’s gonna be the candidate for his old job. He’ll win.”
    “Like that, is it?”
    “Yeah, it’s like that. The old families still run this town. But don’t be hurt that he won’t see you. The chief doesn’t spend time with anyone who knows anything at all about police work. They’re liable to embarrass him by asking him questions about which he knows less than nothing.”
    “Like catching felons?”
    “Exactly. And he’s too pompous to want to be embarrassed. Something else too: he hates dealing with anybody who isn’t important.”
    “Like me?”
    “Like you.” She