Dying Gasp by Leighton Gage Page B

looked him up and down. “But I’m not complaining.” She flashed him a grin. “I see you wear a wedding ring. You play around on the side?”
    “No,” Arnaldo said.
    “Good for you,” she said.
    They drank beer with the pitu, peeling them as they went. During the meal, she rehashed the situation, then added, “It’s a political hot potato. The mayor is big buddies with Deputado Malan.”
    “Yeah, I heard. So what’s your conclusion? What happened to the girls?”
    “At first, I assumed they were runaways.”
    “But you don’t any more?”
    “No.”
    The waiter intervened, bringing them little bowls of warm water, slices of fresh lime floating on top, and linen napkins with which to clean their hands. When he’d gone away, Arnaldo asked, “What made you change your mind?”
    “A girl who calls her parents within a few hours of leaving home, you think a girl like that’s going to let a couple of months go by before she calls again?”
    “I guess not. Coffee?”
    “Yes, please.”
    Arnaldo signaled the waiter. He arrived with two cups and left with the plate of pitu shells.
    “Something happened to her in Manaus,” Vilma said, “or on her way to Manaus, or maybe some sicko killed her right here in Recife and hid her body.”
    Arnaldo took a sip of his coffee. It was first-rate, and he said so, then added, “And you figure whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well?”
    “Marta’s father is a drunk and a womanizer. Her mother is just a drunk. They’ve got money and influence, but they’re not happy people. It must have been a relief for Marta to get away. But she and Andrea were more than just good friends. They’d stick together. Whatever happened to Andrea happened to Marta as well. I’d bet on it.”
    Arnaldo was itching to tell Vilma what he knew, but he didn’t.
    “So I guess you asked the cops in Manaus to keep an eye out for her,” he said.
    She sat back in her chair and expelled air through her mouth. “You know Manaus?”
    Arnaldo nodded. “Unfortunately,” he said.
    They exchanged a look.
    “The cops are worse than the town itself,” she said.
    “Nothing’s worse than the town itself,” Arnaldo said.
    “The cops are worse,” she repeated. “They’re lazy and crooked, and every request we make for help falls into a black hole. We never got answers. I told Norberto I wanted to go up there and have a look around.”
    “You must love your job.”
    “It’s my substitute for not being able to find a good man.” Arnaldo didn’t want to go there.
    “And what did Venantius say?” he asked.
    “He said he wasn’t going to send me off on vacation, that he had better things to do with his budget.”
    “Vacation? I guess he’s never been to Manaus.”
    “I guess not. Anyway, I don’t think it had anything to do with the money. I think he did it to get off the hook. If Marta and Andrea are in Manaus, they’re out of our jurisdiction. That means it’s no longer Norberto’s problem.”
    “Yeah, but it’s still mine. You figure the next step is for someone to go to Manaus?”
    “That’s what I figure.”
    “Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said.
    “UH-OH,” MARIO Silva said when Arnaldo told him.
    Being young, female and without protection was bad anywhere in Brazil, worse in the major cities, much worse the farther north and west you got. And no major city in the country was further north and west than Manaus.
    “How about sending Babyface?” Arnaldo said.
    The more than seventeen hundred kilometers of copper wire, microwave links and electrical disturbances between Recife and Brasilia made for a very bad connection, but didn’t conceal the note of hope in his voice.
    “Babyface is in Rio,” Silva said. “He won’t be back until the day after tomorrow.”
    “Oh,” Arnaldo said, hope fading. “Hector then?”
    “Hector’s still recovering from jet lag.”
    Arnaldo, desperate, appealed to friendship.
    “Come on, Mario. You know how much I hate