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  Harley asks Hamilton if he has any idea what happened, and he relates the same account that Otto has heard from the doormen that morning. To remove any doubt, he says he heard the explanation from one of the leaders of the drug trade. The VW van was stuck in the jam and there was a delivery to be made. He saw the guy go by with a heavily armed group and asked if the lane would be clear soon. That was when he heard the story, though hurriedly and without details. The cop who jacked up the bribe and led the fake ambush was a corporal well known in Rocinha, one Vito Florada, a.k.a. Mindinho, with a record that would be the envy of the most perverse killer. He ran a militia famous for violence in a favela in the West Zone. Rocinha being virtually a sideline for Mindinho. He made a lot more money through his militia, extorting merchants. Rocinha interested him only for the contacts it provided.

  They continue the conversation in order to enjoy the scenery and reduce the impression of a professional call, but they already have what they came for.

  Otto’s phone vibrates and he descends to a lower level to answer privately. The name Francisca shows on the screen.

  “I can’t take it anymore. I’ve had it. You should see Rafa. It hurts. I don’t want to stay here any longer. No one can live like this. She doesn’t want to go to the theater, or go out to play, she says she’s not going back to school. I’m going to sell this apartment even though I know this isn’t the right time to do it. Who’s going to buy a place in the middle of a cross fire? Last year it was one faction against another that was trying to invade Rocinha. Shooting everywhere, we were crawling around inside our home. I’ll sell for whatever they pay, Otto. I’ll take what I can get and leave. I confess that if I could I’d leave Rio. That’s what I wanted. But there’s my job, Rafaela, I can’t do just anything that comes into my head. The thing to do is look for a place that’s calmer, an area with no favela, without gun battles. A decent place to live and raise my daughter.”

  Otto says she shouldn’t make any hasty decisions, that the violent episodes are isolated events, that she and Rafa are right to feel bad, but it won’t be long before things return to normal. Francisca doesn’t like her boyfriend’s paternal tone and thinks he underestimates her intelligence and the gravity of what happened, because he doesn’t want to admit that the police have failed in Rio and that the work to which he dedicates himself no longer makes sense.

  “You should be here with me if you’re trying to be useful. Don’t give me that idiocy that you’re doing your duty and thinking about the overall good. You’re thinking about yourself. For a change.”

  Otto returns heavier than when he descended. He isn’t dazzled by the sea, the mountains, the blue sky dotted with hang gliders. He refuses another glass of beer and says goodbye to Hamilton. The two cops descend via the main artery of the community, dodging the dozens of scooters and mototaxis.

  Harley notices his change of mood: “What’s eating you?”

  “Francisca’s not okay. She wants to leave the area, sell the apartment right now, when prices are bottoming out, when everybody’s doing the same thing. She’s willing to get rid of the property for a pittance. At least that’s what she says. I don’t know if it’s just drama, or blackmail for me to feel guilty and give up the job and come home. She’s hysterical.”

  “Not without cause, Otto. You really should go home, stay with her and Rafa. Let me . . .”

  Otto doesn’t reply but looks at Harley the way he looks at Harley when he’s deeply irritated.

  They continue in silence down the hillside. Harley is convinced it’s worthwhile to butt in where they’re not invited, despite the risks. He shares with Otto repugnance for what is happening in both police forces, military and civil. He agrees about the need to act, even if it’s the last thing they do before being demoted to desk duty or resigning.

  “Either we change this shit or everything’s going to hell.”

  “You’re right, my man, those machines of death will grind us up and destroy everything we think we are until nothing’s left—not memory, not desire.”

  * * *

  They decide to carry out a clandestine investigation in parallel with the Internal Affairs investigation, in which they have no confidence. If they obtain proof, they will give it to a serious and respected journalist, Harley’s former boyfriend, and the scandal of police corruption, putting children’s lives at risk in the heart of touristic Rio de Janeiro, affecting the international image of the city, will lead to a transformation of some kind. Maybe not. Other scandals have exploded without producing changes. In any case, it would be a step. Probably enough for the two friends to postpone leaving the force. They like so much what they do that they can’t imagine themselves in a different profession. And the dream of a police force deserving of the work is worth the trouble.

  “At least as homage to the dear departed Elton,” says Harley.

  “At least as homage to the old man,” murmurs Otto.

  “Next step?”

  “To get the most information possible about Mindinho.”

  “I know that, Otto. The question is how to go about getting the maximum possible information on Corporal Vito Florada of the Military Police on a sunny Saturday at three in the afternoon.”

  “Torturra.”

  “Who’s Torturra?”

  “What do you mean, Who’s Torturra? The congressman. Torturra.”

  “ngelo Torturra?”

  “Is there another member of the Chamber of Deputies with that surname?”

  “I can just imagine what Francisca goes through with you. You’re not easy to put up with. I had no idea you were on such good terms with the congressman that you could interrupt his family’s privacy on a weekend. I’d be embarrassed if I were you. However much he might have given me the okay to call him, I’d be super embarrassed.”

  “I’m not going to feel the slightest embarrassment.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m not going to look for the guy.”

  “No?”

  “Negative.”

  “Otto, didn’t you just say the next step would be to go to the congressman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then how can you say you’re not going to look for the man?”

  “I’m not. You are.”

  “You’re crazy, Otto. I’m not going, period.”

  “While you’re at his house, I’ll find out who’s heading up the team that handled the crime scene investigation this morning. I want to find out if there’s anything fishy about the story. It’s too perfect. Everything fits together too well.”

  “You’re right about that. I have the same feeling. Something’s wrong when everything fits together so neatly. The challenge is to find out what’s missing, what was left out that we didn’t notice.”

  “Or what’s left over, the residual, the excess. In this case, I would bet on excess, Harley. There are too many things fitting together and fitting together too easily and too quickly.”

  “The incident itself was excessive, Otto. You’re right. I get the feeling there’s something there.”

  “True. Excessive. Rifle fire among children and gardens in the city’s international five-star hotel on a sunny Saturday, in the morning.”

  “Another detail, Otto. It may be nothing, I know, but hey, we’re brainstorming, right? Nelson, my ex, taught me a lot about how the media works. The Sunday edition is the most important and the most read. And it goes to press the day before.”

  “Every edition goes to press the day before.”

  “The Sunday edition goes to press at noon on Saturday because it starts being distributed Saturday afternoon. Either it was one hell of a coincidence, or whoever planned the spectacle did it just right to achieve the greatest repercussion possible.”

  “You think it has to do with politics?”

  “Doesn’t seem like it. No.”

  “In any case, the increase in the bribe doesn’t explain everything.”

  “It did contribute, Otto, but it certain
ly doesn’t encompass the whole truth.”

  * * *

  At five o’clock, Harley is sitting in the office of ngelo Torturra’s apartment, a space packed with books and documents, in the São Francisco district of Niterói, separated from Rio de Janeiro by the ocean and linked by a bridge that even today bears the name of a general-president, decades after the end of the military dictatorship.

  “That’s Brazil, inspector, that’s our country. It treats the crimes of the dictatorship with euphemisms and kid gloves. They torture, kill, whatever, and the democratic governments, once the dictatorship falls, turn a blind eye and wink at the audience. The elites always end up understanding one another. It’s the people who get fucked.”

  Harley thanks the congressman for his courtesy. After all, to be received on a Saturday in his home is a courtesy. Torturra praises Otto, to whom he is grateful for having helped him in some investigations conducted by the Parliamentary Committee of Inquiry, for which he had written the report. They had ended with the indictment of over two hundred militia members—active and retired police organized like local mafias.

  “Any request of Otto’s is my command.”

  Harley explains the reason for the visit. They talk about the episode that morning in São Conrado. He addresses his partner’s absence: they have divided the tasks because of the need to follow the forensics team’s work first-hand, and that is Otto’s forte. Harley would like access to the findings of Corporal Vito Florada’s investigation. He knows the materials are public and can be researched in the archives of Rio’s Legislative Assembly and in the electronic data bank, but there’s no time or personnel available to invest in such a large-scale effort. Harely is cut short by the congressman. ngelo Torturra can’t resist the opportunity to talk about the PCI. He of course remembers Vito, a.k.a. Mindinho. He quickly opens a file on his laptop and shares every detail of the investigation with his visitor.

  * * *

  Ten o’clock Saturday night. Otto and Harley evaluate what they have collected, sitting side by side on the sand of a deserted beach in the moonlight and in the metallic illumination of the São Conrado oceanfront. Nothing unusual in the forensic report. A lot of data from the visit to Torturra.

  Complaining of back pains, Otto lies down, resting his head on Harley’s backpack. The key seems to lie in the odd contacts of Mindinho. Intimate contacts with individuals quite distant from Rocinha and the poverty-stricken West Zone. There is something beyond traffickers and militias. Characters not identified by Torturra’s investigation, which ran into legal barriers imposed by the Justice Ministry. The congressman isn’t sure, but he believes that a powerful firm of attorneys acted indirectly, protecting Vito and, above all, his network of relationships. He doesn’t know what that means, nor did he have any way to demonstrate the judicial relevance of expanding the investigation to include those contacts of Vito’s. Because, in fact, nothing indicated that those persons had any connections to any crimes. The congressman had no choice but to suspend the investigations.

  After listening in silence to Harley’s account, Otto admits he is exhausted and lost. Ready to throw in the towel. He doesn’t know who could be the target, what is at stake, or how to go forward. But his partner has an idea. It’s Harley’s turn to inject adrenaline and change the mood.

  “The congressman said one thing that struck me. He went into a long exposition, interesting but interminable, and I wasn’t able to follow his reasoning, there were so many names, the crimes, the ins and outs of the investigation—until he mentioned the Global Golf Club.”

  Otto perks up.

  Harley continues: “Mindinho frequents the Global Golf Club.”

  “How can that be?”

  Harley doesn’t answer.

  “Impossible. There has to be some mistake. Are you sure? Is Torturra sure? That place is a bunker for aristocrats. Know how much you pay to be a member? One million dollars. The guy pays that fortune to prove he’s a millionaire, but that’s not enough. The members have to approve each new candidate. A secret vote, campaign, the whole shebang. It’s a monarchy, man.”

  “Plutocracy.”

  “He’s not a member. He can’t be. If he frequents the place it’s because he has a friend there, the backing of someone very powerful. But why? A very odd friendship.”

  “If we could identify the friend, we’d be halfway there. Could you maybe take advantage of a bright Sunday and visit the club? If Mindinho is a regular visitor and if there’s some connection between today’s events and those weird contacts, he’s not going to waste the Sunday. Tomorrow’s going to be sunny. You could go there with Francisca and Rafa, very innocently.”

  “Impossible. Nobody gets in there.” Otto leaps up.

  Harley, startled, does the same. Standing, looking at the sea, he continues: “There’s only one way. Do you remember Fábio?”

  The next two hours are dedicated to planning for the following day.

  * * *

  Sunday, August 21, eight a.m. Harley’s cell phone rings.

  “Guess where I am. A cop’s life has its charms. Does it or doesn’t it? How wonderful. Guess.”

  “A cop’s life, Otto, is shit. At six this morning I was in the vicinity of the bastard’s mansion. Corporal Vito Florada lives in a mansion. No exaggeration. A horror, aesthetically beneath contempt. I’ve never seen anything so tacky. It looks like some motel on Avenida Brasil. The guy doesn’t even go to the trouble of disguising his wealth. I spent hours with my ass in this junky little car I bought with my laughable salary, without a bite to eat, without coffee, and on high alert because the guy has his hired gunmen. It’s true, he goes everywhere with bodyguards. If he goes to São Conrado, I doubt the cops enter the club with him. I bet they’re going to follow him to the entrance and from there go to Rocinha and drink, extort traffickers, whatever.”

  * * *

  Nine twenty. Otto’s phone rings. The name Harley appears on the screen.

  “On the way. I really think they’re headed for São Conrado.”

  * * *

  Nine thirty-five. Another call from Harley.

  “Copy that. You can get ready.”

  “I’ve been ready for hours.”

  “You like it.”

  “I love it.”

  * * *

  Nine fifty-five. Harley calls Otto again.

  “Target entering the club. No problem at the reception area. They raised the barrier immediately. He’s known there. He must actually frequent the place. He went in driving his own car, alone. The gunmen stayed in the backup car and went away, in the expected direction. Stolen plates on both cars. Now it’s up to you.”

  Otto makes the long-awaited signal to Fábio. He’s hardly slept at all, anticipating this moment.

  “You know what to do. Once a champ, always a champ,” Fábio proclaims loudly for all near the ramp to hear. It’s a kind of homage to his old companion of so many cases. Otto smiles proudly, adjusts his belt, rechecks the equipment. In the past, he flew by himself or took someone. It’s the first time he will be taken. Fábio makes his living guiding tourists from Pedra Bonita, at the peak of São Conrado, to the beach, with the possibility of longer flights depending on the weather and the price negotiated for the ride. He has been to Corcovado, flown over Rodrigo de Freitas Lake, the routes vary. This morning he will make a flight for the sake of friendship. Though short, the route will demand precision.

  Fábio runs to the end of the ramp, pulling vigorously on the glider’s structure, and hurls himself into emptiness, dragging Otto as passenger. The hang glider dips and rises, the ocean open before it, Tijuca Forest to the left, Gávea Rock to the right. (Otto would dedicate the following weeks to describing to Rafa the sensation of that leap. He would quickly give up repeating it all to Francisca and Harley, who are less tolerant of repetition.)

  Obeying Otto’s instructions, Fábio maintains sufficient height so that the flight over the golf course goes unnoticed. Several hang gliders are circulating in th
e area, and it is not difficult to blend into the landscape. The camera is efficient. Otto has studied Mindinho’s features on the Internet and has no trouble locating him. Otto focuses on the group the corporal seems to interact easily with. He soon moves away with an older man. For the next fifteen minutes he converses and walks, slowly. Mindinho says goodbye. There is no possibility that the militiaman has come to the club to play golf or drink with friends. Otto records the images in high resolution, including the face of Vito Florada’s principal interlocutor. With regret, Otto tells Fábio that he’s ready to descend.

  Harley waits for them, sipping coconut water on the patch of beach designated for landing. Fábio receives Otto’s gratitude in the form of a hearty embrace and the promise of a feijoada. Harley photographs the leave-taking, posts it on his Instagram account, and sends it to the two friends. They help Fábio fold the glider, forming a long tube, and carry it to the small headquarters of professional flyers in the square next to the sand.

  They leave the pilot, extending their effusive compliments, and sit at a kiosk at the edge of the beach that specializes in Bahian food. It’s eleven thirty, early for that spicy lunch. Harley opens his laptop. At his request, a friend at the federal police sent him, half an hour earlier, a pen drive with the list of members of the golf club. A stroke of pure luck, without which there are no conquests in love, gambling, and literature: The feds had done a survey of clubs for the elite when suspicions arose about the influx into Rio of large amounts of dirty money from various sources. Nothing was found at the Global Golf Club, but the data bank was still there and it was recent. “It must be good for something,” the federal investigator told Harley in confidence, wishing him success.

  Otto is anxious. He takes over the keyboard and issues the command to open the folder, whose title is explicit: GGC. He selects the images file and navigates to the album of photos. He turns his camera to exhibit mode and selects the close-up of Mindinho’s interlocutor. The powerful zoom permits a clear display of the calm countenance. The man is elderly but healthy, almost athletic, corpulent, tall, and nice looking. The screens on the computer and camera allow a comparison. In short order, the individual is identified. The man is a major player in the real estate sector. There are no charges sullying his record. What now?