Every Bitter Thing by Leighton Gage

notice him at the arrival gate, but I did. When he wasn’t fawning on one of his betters, he kept trying to stick his head into the shots so he could get on camera. When we got to the VIP lounge, away from the reporters, he button-holed me. Told me you people were going to crack this case in short order. Have you? Have you cracked the case?”
    Silva looked at Pereira.
    â€œWhat?” the Venezuelan said, shifting suspicious eyes from one to the other.
    â€œNo, Senhor,” Pereira said at last. “We haven’t yet cracked the case.”
    â€œWell, what are you doing hanging around here? Get out and solve it. Leave me and my friend alone. We have grieving to do. Christ, I wish I was in Caracas where the cops know their jobs.”
    Pereira flushed and opened his mouth for a sharp retort, but Silva surreptitiously stepped on his foot. “We’re finished here, Senhor,” he said. “But before we move along …” Tomás Garcia, with the mien of a dog fearing a blow, took a step away from Rivas and lowered his head between his shoulders. “… I’d like to offer you my heartfelt sympathy on the death of your son.”
    â€œThank you,” Rivas said stiffly, then turned his back on the four cops and led Garcia off toward the bedrooms.

    â€œH OW THE fuck do you do it?” Pereira whispered, when the door closed behind them.
    â€œDo what?” Silva asked.
    â€œKeep your patience with a blowhard like that.”
    â€œWe get a lot of practice,” Arnaldo said.
    â€œReminds me of that filho da puta, your boss.”
    â€œLike I said. Practice.”
    â€œAll right, Mario,” Pereira said, “I still think you’re wrong, but I’m gonna go along for the ride. What do you expect me to do while you’re checking that database of yours?”
    â€œTalk to the other doormen. Find out when Rivas came home for the last time. Find out if he was alone. Find out if he had any visitors. Continue looking for the murder weapon. Believe me, Walter, you have nothing to lose by playing it this way. You might even uncover something that will strengthen your case against Garcia.”
    â€œOr absolve him completely,” Arnaldo said.
    Pereira stuck out his jaw. “Somebody teach a course in ballbusting at that federal police academy of yours, Nunes?”
    â€œYou’re looking at him,” Arnaldo said, exuding false modesty.
    â€œGustavo Fernandez,” Silva said, thinking aloud, “is a Cuban exile, probably an American citizen now. Either way, he would have needed a visa, which means we’ll have a record of his address in Miami. I can get a friend, an American cop, to do a background check.”
    â€œFor all the good that’s going to do,” Pereira said.
    â€œStop being so damned negative, Walter. We may just come up with something.”
    â€œWhen pigs fly,” Pereira said.

Chapter Seven
    A NOTHER DAY, ANOTHER MURDER . It was very early in the morning. The sun was just coming up. Pereira was standing near the body, making notes, when a young patrolman touched him on the shoulder.
    â€œA telephone call, Senhor, patched through on the radio.”
    â€œWho is it?”
    â€œChief Inspector Silva, Federal Police.”
    Pereira went to his car and grabbed the microphone. “It’s not a good time, Mario. I’m busy.”
    There was a crash of static, then Silva’s voice. “This will only take a minute. Can you hear me okay?”
    â€œI can. So can half the cops in Brasília.”
    â€œI’m aware of that. You recall your remark about airborne pigs?”
    Pereira thought for a moment, and then said, “Yeah. What about it?”
    â€œI’ve found others in the database.”
    â€œOthers? As in more than one?”
    â€œFour. All with the same characteristics.”
    â€œFour? Jesus Christ! Where are you?”
    â€œIn my office.”
    â€œI’ll come to