Two Graves

“He didn’t,” Corrie said, flaring up. “I’m sure, damn it!”

“Right, okay, I believe you.”

Another silence.

“Maybe we could set a trap,” Corrie said.

“I was just thinking along those lines myself.” Foote finished his coffee, signaled the waitress over again, and pointed to the cup. “You know, maybe we could do more than just clear your dad’s name. Maybe we could bring down the whole rotten operation in the process.”

“How?”

Foote thought a moment. “We bring in a phony buyer. Wired up. Make sure Ricco himself handles the sale. Then we take the evidence to the police, get the place investigated. Once that happens, the cops will be a lot more receptive to the idea that your dad was framed.”

Corrie thought back to her courses at John Jay. “A wire? Without a court order, I don’t think that’s admissible. The cops couldn’t even act on it.”

“What about your dad’s alibi, then? Where was he when the bank was robbed?”

Corrie colored. “I never asked him about it. It didn’t seem… right.”

“He probably thinks he has a weak alibi, otherwise he wouldn’t have run. But he may be mistaken in that. If his cell phone was on, that could track his location. Maybe someone saw him, saw his car. He may have used his credit card around the time of the robbery. Or maybe he was online with his computer at home. These days, there are a million ways to pinpoint someone’s location at a particular moment. Jack might have an ironclad alibi and not even know it.”

Corrie thought this over. It made sense.

“Is there any way to get hold of your father?” Foote asked.

“No. I have to go to where he is personally.”

“I’ve got a car. We could go together.”

Corrie looked at Foote. He was an earnest enough young man. But she didn’t want to reveal her father’s location to anyone—not even him. “Thanks, but I don’t feel comfortable with that. I’ll take tomorrow off from work and go see him. Then I’ll give you a call.”

“That’s cool. Meanwhile, I’ve got a friend who I’m sure would be willing to wear a wire and expose those bastards. He’s a professional actor, and he just loves stuff like this. I’ll set it up. Maybe you’re right, maybe the cops can’t act on it—but it sure as hell will get their attention. If we let the DA hear it, he can get the court order.”

“Thank you.”

“Hey, listen, I like Jack. I’d like to help him. But I’m no knight in shining armor—this is for me, too. Getting rid of those lousy salesmen will give me a crack at more clients, maybe even get me my own dealership.” He smiled. “But you need to find out about where your father was at the time of the robbery and call me. I’ll bet you anything there’s a way to prove he wasn’t there.”

50

PENELOPE WAXMAN SAT, QUITE PRIMLY, ON THE UNCOMFORTABLE straight-backed chair in the waiting room of the Polícia Militar station in Alsdorf, Brazil. It was a large room, painted yellow, with windows open to a pleasant breeze, a picture of the president on one wall, and—as in most of the official spaces she’d seen in Brazil—a crucifix hanging on another. A low wooden rail and gate bisected the room, separating the waiting area from the workers in the police station, busily filling out forms or typing on computer terminals. Occasionally a member of the police force, dressed in a blue shirt and red beret, would cross the room and disappear through a doorway.

Mrs. Waxman sighed and moved restlessly in her chair. She’d been living in Brazil for two years now, in a nice two-bedroom apartment in Brasilia—her husband was a textile exporter—but she had never grown used to the glacial pace at which official business was conducted. She’d been waiting over half an hour and so far hadn’t yet even had the opportunity to file a report. The only way to speed it up in this country seemed to be by flashing a wad of money, but she had her pride and wasn’t going to resort to that. She checked her watch: almost three PM. What on earth was taking so long? There was only one other person in the waiting room—the loud one.

It was really her husband’s fault. He’d heard of this city, Blumenau, in the southern state of Santa Catarina, that was a near-perfect replica of an old Bavarian town. He’d dragged her down from Brasilia for a long weekend vacation. And she had to admit, Blumenau was a remarkable place. It did look exactly like a German city, plopped down, in all places, amid the rain forests and mountains of Brazil: it had beer halls, shops painted in festive colors, half-timbered buildings of white plaster and dark wood, ancient-looking gothic structures whose massive slate roofs—dotted with two or sometimes three layers of dormer windows—were as large as the façades below. And most of the townspeople were blond, blue-eyed, and pink-cheeked. In the streets, more German was spoken than Portuguese. Mr. Waxman, who was very proud of his own German heritage, was entranced.

But that was when the troubles began. Her husband hadn’t had the foresight to reserve a hotel room in advance, and they arrived to find themselves in the middle of some gigantic German cultural festival. All the hotels were booked, and so the Waxmans were forced to find lodgings in the adjoining town of Alsdorf: a much smaller, much cheaper version of Blumenau, trying to capitalize on its neighbor’s charms but, it seemed, without really succeeding. Its residents were generally poorer, less European in appearance, much closer to the indigenous population. And unlike Blumenau, Alsdorf seemed to have more than its share of crime. Just that morning, their traveler’s checks had been stolen right out of the hotel room. Imagine, stealing traveler’s checks! And so her husband was now over in Blumenau, trying to get them replaced, while she was here in the Alsdorf police station, waiting to file a report on the theft.

Her thoughts were interrupted—yet again—by the other individual in the waiting area. He was once more launching into a long litany of complaints to the hapless woman behind the nearby desk. Mrs. Waxman gave him a sidelong, irritated glance. He was wearing a tropical shirt, bright and gaudy, and a wide-brimmed straw hat that would have been more at home on the head of a riverboat gambler. His linen pants were white, shapeless, and massively wrinkled. Given his pallid, even sickly, complexion, he was clearly a tourist—in short, the typical Ugly American, speaking English, the louder the better, assuming that everyone around should jump to their feet and do his bidding. He had fastened onto the woman in the office who spoke the best English.

“It’s taking so long,” he said in a whining, hectoring tone. “Why is it taking so long?”

“As soon as the officer in charge of processing forms can see you, he will,” the woman replied. “If you had your passport, sir, it would go faster—”

“I explained that to you already. My passport was stolen. Along with my wallet, my money, my credit cards, and everything else that was in my pocket.” He fell into a kind of lethargic, but still vocal, brooding. “My God. It’s like something out of Kafka. I’ll probably never get out of here. I’ll wither and die, right in this very station—a victim of terminal bureaucracy.”

“I am very sorry, sir,” the woman said with almost saintly patience. “All of the officers are otherwise engaged. It is a busy day.”

“I’ll just bet it’s a busy day,” the man said. “I’ll bet you anything petty thievery is the number one business in Alsdorf. I knew I should have stayed in Rio.”

A member of the Polícia Militar emerged from a room in the back of the station and walked through the office, making his way across the waiting area.

The tourist leapt from his chair. “You! Hey, you!”

The police officer completely ignored him and disappeared out the front door.