“Where is she?”
“She’s been down in Porto Alegre the last two weeks, doing fieldwork for her PhD.”
“But she was here when the Warren girls were?” I asked.
“For part of their time with us. Give her a call. She’ll remember them.”
“Do you have her number?” I asked.
“I do,” she said, pulling out her phone. “It’s best to try her in the evenings. She’s been putting in long…” The orphanage director stopped, looked up at us. “If the girls have been ransomed and returned, why are you here?”
We exchanged glances, knowing it was all going to come out soon, if it hadn’t already.
“Because the girls’ real last name isn’t Warren,” Tavia said. “It’s Wise, as in WE, Wise Enterprises.”
Now Lopes seemed completely confused. “Okay?”
“You don’t know the company? WE? Big construction projects?”
She squinted. “I guess.”
“The girls’ father, Andrew Wise, the founder of WE, was grabbed during the ransom exchange. A group called Favela Justice has claimed responsibility and they plan to put him on trial and tape it.”
Lopes pondered that. “You mean like vigilantes?”
“Kind of,” I said. “They’ve accused him of gouging the government during the construction of World Cup and Olympic projects and impoverishing the slum dwellers.”
That annoyed her. “Slum dwellers? Mr. Morgan, they prefer the term favela people. This group…what did you call it?”
“Favela Justice,” Tavia said.
“Well, I don’t know who they are, but I’m inclined to believe their charges.”
“Why?”
“Government contractors overcharging and paying off politicians in Brazil? It’s been a constant story since, I don’t know, the beginning of Brazil.”
I glanced at Tavia, who shrugged, said, “That’s true.”
Lopes fought a yawn.
“We should go, then,” Tavia said. “And you should sleep, Mariana. We appreciate the help.”
“Have I been of any?” she asked, getting up wearily.
“Some,” I said.
“Well, as I said, call Amelia,” Lopes said. “She knows more about the girls than I do.”
Chapter 55
THE ELEVEN O’CLOCK news in Brazil and the cable news shows were dominated by Favela Justice and the plight of Andrew Wise. Several broadcasts featured aerial images of various World Cup and Olympic venues that Wise Enterprises had helped build, including the athletes’ village in Barra da Tijuca.
“The charges are price gouging and financial oppression by a man who benefited greatly from the construction boom,” one newscaster brayed. “What’s next in this strange story? Stay tuned as it unfolds.”
“Enough,” Tavia said, and she shut off the television.
I handed her a glass of excellent Argentine Malbec. “Here you go. Decompression, stage one.”
Her cell phone rang. She sighed, looked at it. “Amelia Lopes, finally.”
Like her adoptive mother, Amelia spoke excellent English, and Tavia put her on speaker.
“Yes, of course I remember the Warren girls,” Amelia said. “Very sharp and very—how do you say?—sympathetic.”
When we told her the girls’ real surname, she figured it out fast. “They are the daughters of this guy who’s all over the television news right now?”
“The same,” Tavia said.
“They told me they came from a privileged background, but I had no idea they were…”
I asked, “Was there anyone at the orphanage who was particularly close to them, someone they possibly confided in?”
“You mean someone they might have told about their real identities?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I thought I was close to them, or as close as you can get to people you’ve known for a week, but they never mentioned having a different last name,” Amelia said. “I think I’d remember that.”
“I’m sure you would,” I said. “Your mother says you’re doing fieldwork.”
“Almost got it wrapped up. Another two or three weeks and I’ll be ready to start writing.”
“And what are you studying?”
She paused, yawned, said, “I’m sorry, it’s been a long day. I’m pursuing a doctorate in socioeconomics, focusing on one town in southern Brazil for my dissertation. How are the girls?”
“They’re both going to be fine,” Tavia said.
“Would you tell them hello from me if you see them?” Amelia asked.
“We certainly will,” I said. “And we appreciate the call back.”
“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
“If you think of anything, you’ll give us a call?” Tavia asked.
“I can do that,” Lopes’s daughter said. “Thank you.”
The line went dead. We returned to our Malbec, and my hand found Tavia’s. Her hands were beautiful. Her fingers were long, slender, and expressive. She used her hands when she talked, like they were speaking another language.
My thumb rubbed her palm. “You calm me down, you know. Even when things get crazy, having you near calms me down.”