Da Silva’s jaw tightened. “That’s not polite,” he said quietly.
“It wasn’t meant to be.” The man took his attention from his paper long enough to lean forward and crush out his cigarette in an ashtray on the desk, although the floor bore evidence of having been used for that purpose more frequently. He looked up. “You still here? Look, copper, you want anything, you come back with a warrant and maybe you get it. Otherwise, it’s been nice seeing you, and good-bye.” He leaned back in his chair and raised the paper again.
He did not get to read very far in the article that had interested him, however, because before he could locate his place he felt himself being lifted from the chair by his collar, and then pulled close to the hardest and ugliest face he had seen in a long time. A large hand shifted from his collar to the front of his shirt, bunching it and twisting.
“Let’s start from where I walked in the door,” Da Silva said evenly. “Where’s Valadares?”
“Hey, you’re choking me!”
Da Silva tightened his grip. “Where’s Valadares?”
A hand came up to try and claw the shirt front free; it was slapped down hard. The man shook his hand to ease the pain and coughed. Da Silva twisted tighter.
“Well?”
“All right, all right!” The pressure eased a bit. The man swallowed. “Lousy cops!”
“This isn’t ‘cops’; this is me! Where’s Valadares?”
“I don’t know! Cops! Christ! He said he’d be here this morning but he ain’t shown so far. But he ought to be here soon.” He tried to wriggle his head to free his collar more, but without success. “Hey, did you hear? You’re choking me!”
“When did you see him last?”
“Damn it, ease up, will you?”
Da Silva’s almost Indian features hardened further. “I don’t have all day. When did you see him last?”
“Let go and I’ll talk!” Da Silva released the man and shoved him back into the chair. The man yanked his stained necktie free and rubbed his neck. He stared at Da Silva resentfully, but if he thought of saying anything about his treatment, he changed his mind. “Yesterday,” he said sullenly.
“What time yesterday?”
“Maybe ten-thirty; maybe eleven. Around there. Morning, I know that.”
“Did he say anything about leaving town?”
Despite his discomfort the man looked surprised. “No. You guys got nothing on him. Why should he leave town?”
“That’s what I want to know from you.” Da Silva leaned one haunch against the edge of the desk, relaxing a bit. He brought out a cigarette, lit it, and tossed the spent match on the floor to join the other debris. For a long time he studied the sullen man sitting massaging his neck. “What’s your name?”
There was a second’s hesitation and then, wearily, as if from long practice, answering the question to other police officers, the man said, “Pasmado. Pedro Lins Pasmado.”
“What’s your record?”
“I’m clean—” One look at the rocklike face looking down at him, and he cleared his throat a bit self-consciously. Besides, what difference did it make? He was clean at the moment. “Six years in São José dos Campos.”
“You mean, the last time.”
“That’s right, the last time.”
“What for?”
The man looked down at his hands in his lap and mumbled something.
“Speak up!”
“Rape.”
“Is that your connection with Valadares? A recruiter? What happened? Some girl object?”
Pasmado remained silent. Da Silva changed the direction of his questioning. “Where were you last night?”
Pasmado looked surprised. “Me? I’m clean with the cops. You think I’d be sitting here like a duck on a rock if I wasn’t?”
“That’s not what I asked you. I asked you where you were last night!”
“Last night? Nowhere. I mean,” he said hastily, seeing Da Silva’s eyes narrow, “I was with a gang. We ate at the Churrascaria Gaucho, the one in Laranjeiras. Then we went to one of them’s place and just sat around, you know, having a beer. You can ask them; you can even ask them at the restaurant. They know me.”
“I’ll believe you until I have reason not to,” Da Silva said, mainly because he couldn’t visualize the character before him having gone to Paraíso to kill anyone. Murder wasn’t his bit; that took more courage than rape. He paused, considering the man before him. Under that inscrutable and incomprehensible stare, Pasmado began to fidget. Then, when it was the last thing he had been expecting, he heard the ugly pock-marked detective leaning against the desk say slowly, quietly, “Valadares was killed last night.”
For a moment the information didn’t register; when it did Pasmado’s first reaction was resentment that the miserable cop had asked him where Valadares was when he knew all the time. This feeling was quickly replaced by anger.
“You cops couldn’t get anything on him legally, so you wiped him out! Nobody else would have any reason to!”
Da Silva disregarded the comment; it was too close to his own theory for comfort. “He was killed in a small town called Paraíso. In Piauí state. You know it?”
“What?” Pasmado shook his head; there was a touch of relief in his voice when he spoke, because, after all, Valadares owed him money, and when the cop had first spoken, he had thought the money gone forever. “You got the wrong man. Like I said, Joaquim was here, yesterday morning, right in this office.”
Da Silva continued to hold the man in his unwavering stare.
“Joaquim Saldanha Valadares. Age about forty. Neat dresser. Small mustache. Lived at the Miracopa Palace, apartment 614. Height, about five ten; weight about one-seventy.” Pasmado was staring at him, unbelieving. “Shot once in the chest and once in the head. Found near an old road by a lake in Paraíso, in the state of Piauí. This morning about eleven-thirty.” He thought a moment. “He also had a small mole back of one knee — I forget which one.”
Pasmado had gone pale. “But — it’s impossible! He was here yesterday, I tell you! Why would he have gone to Paraíso at a moment’s notice?”
Da Silva felt a touch of relief. After all, other than a description of the man that would also have fit thousands of others, all they really had to identify the man were some business and social cards, and as he himself had pointed out, anyone could have cards printed.
“It’s not impossible at all,” he said evenly. “It’s less than a three-hour flight. Did Valadares have a house up there?”
“I don’t know,” Pasmado said slowly. “But I’m sure he had no plans to go there. I would have known. And he was going to meet me here this morning.”
“Except he went to Paraíso.” Da Silva allowed his voice to show his doubt. “And you claim you don’t know why.”
Pasmado looked hurt. “I don’t claim; I don’t know! It just don’t make sense.”
Which is my line, Da Silva thought. “All right. Exactly what time did you see him yesterday?”
“I told you. Ten-thirty, or eleven. Closer to eleven, I think.” Pasmado screwed up his face in an effort to properly remember. “He said he was going to get himself a haircut — he had it trimmed every week. Me, I’m lucky I get to see a barber once every couple months. Then he said he was going to get some lunch. He didn’t say what he was going to be doing in the afternoon, but he definitely said he’d meet me here this morning. Here.” He pointed to the floor to eliminate any doubt.
“About what?”
“Business,” Pasmado said, and clamped his jaw shut.
Da Silva didn’t press it. “Where did he usually have lunch?”
Pasmado shrugged; this was safe ground. “Lots of places. If he wasn’t staying downtown for any reason, he usually ate at the Miracopa so he could go up to his apartment and grab a nap later. Or if he was with other people, he usually ate there. He liked it by the pool. Of course sometimes he ate other places, too, like Mario’s, or, if he wanted Italian, Sorrento’s in Leme—”