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own expenses, he couldn’t expect them to afford the cost of one or two boats, a guide, perhaps security guards and whatever camping and other gear they would need. But first, he needed to talk to Fernando Azevedo. There was a permitting process enforced by the Brazilian wildlife authorities. He couldn’t afford to be caught without one for fear of being expelled from the country, which would abruptly halt his current research for which he was properly permitted.
    Duncan’s next move was to call Maggie Cross to see if she would host a meeting at her place.

13
    “Manuela, Manuela,” Jose Silva shouted as he stepped into the front door of his house and moved quickly to the kitchen where he expected to find her. She wasn’t there. In fact, she wasn’t in the house. The Fiat Strada was gone from the backyard where they parked it, behind the gray concrete block wall that surrounded the rear of the property. Disappointed, he grabbed a bottle of Skol from the refrigerator, popped the cap with a rusty bottle opener, and took a long, satisfying gulp. He thought his wife might have gone for groceries, but he was still excited from the day’s activities and wanted to tell her everything.
    When Manuela returned, Jose was working on this third Skol. She disapproved of Jose’s drinking, and as soon as he heard her slam the door of the Fiat, he grabbed the two empties, chugged the remainder of the third, dropped the bottles into the kitchen trash can and disappeared into the living room just as his wife pushed through the back door.
    “Manuela, Manuela,” he shouted again, moving into the kitchen. As she put the groceries away, he told her about his day and how uncomfortable he became the longer he was near Raul Barbosa ’s body.
    ‘He was just bones,” he said, “like I told you before. They took a lot of pictures and put Raul into a body bag. Man, those cops drive fast boats.”
    Manuela eyed him suspiciously. She could smell alcohol. He saw this in her eyes; it wasn’t the first time, and he instinctively backed away.
    “You’ve been drinking. Already? It’s not even five o’clock. You know how I don’t like that. And yet you continue to do it.”
    “I’m sorry, but I was so excited,” he said, moving toward her and putting his arm around her shoulder.
    “Did the cops say how he died?”
    “Well,” Jose smiled knowingly. “Inspector Dias told me that Raul didn’t die of natural causes. He said he needed to call some experts into the case.”
    Manuela nodded and said, “He didn’t pay you, did he?”
    “He gave me his card,” Silva said, pulling it from his shirt pocket and holding it out. “He told me if I ever got into trouble with the police to call him. He said he would help me out for helping him out. You know, I scratched his back, and now he’ll scratch mine.”
    “Hmmph. When would you be in trouble with the police?” she said, skeptically.
    “Well, it can’t hurt. And who knows, we could get a ticket or something with the car or get into an accident. It can’t hurt to have a friend in the police department.”
    “He’s not your friend,” Manuela said scornfully. “You think everybody who talks to you is your friend, and they aren’t.”
    Silva looked away, tucked the card into his wallet for safekeeping and gave her a peck on the forehead.
    “Sweetness, you are here to keep me down to earth.”

14
    Howard Duncan called the group together at Maggie Cross’ stylish rental. Attending were Cody Boyd, Stephanie Rankin, Carlos Johnson, Alison Peeples, George Hamel and Cross. Cross served smoked salmon on crackers and red table wine. Boyd and Johnson flew to the hors d’oeuvres like vultures, accounting for half of the salmon by the time the meeting got under way. Rankin and Peeples shared observations about Boyd’s and Johnson’s behavior. Rankin told Peeples that Hamel was Cross’ puppy. Peeples looked at her quizzically.
    “That’s not entirely fair,” she said. “You know he