A Vine in the Blood (20 page)

“No hurry,” Fuentes said, “He isn’t going anywhere.”

T
HEY WERE
heading toward their car when Arnaldo came to a sudden stop.

“Look,” he said.

Gaspar, the black man who’d been Miranda’s bodyguard, was standing next to one of the trucks, talking to a firefighter.

Money changed hands.

The federal cops changed direction.

“Gaspar, isn’t it?” Silva said when they came within earshot.

“Yeah,” the black man said, “that’s right. Gaspar.”

No broad grin this time. He looked angry as hell.

“I gotta get back to it,” the fireman said and hurried off.

“I suppose you told him you were a reporter,” Silva said.

“None of your damned business.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That some filho da puta put a bomb under the boss’s apartment and blew him, and his wife, and his two kids, and some friends of mine all to hell.”

“How come you weren’t in there with them?” Arnaldo said.

“Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” Gaspar said, “but it was my night off. You know how old those kids were?”

“We know,” Silva said.

“Come on,” Arnaldo said, “give us some help here. Who did it?”

Gaspar exploded. “You think I know? You think I don’t
want
to know? What kind of a sick fuck does something like this? What kind of a callous bastard kills kids so they can get at their old man? You and me, cop, we’re asking ourselves the same questions.”

“You sound as pissed off as I am,” Arnaldo said. “You got any kids?”

“I got two. Girls. Just like the boss had.”

“Did you know,” Silva said, “that your boss called us and scheduled a meeting?”

“I knew,” Gaspar said. “There’s a roster. Your names were on it.”

“Any idea what he wanted to talk to us about?”

“No,” Gaspar said. “It was none of my business. My business was to keep him safe, that’s all.” He turned to Arnaldo. “And spare me any wise-ass remarks. I already told you. It was my night off.”

“It’s gonna surprise you to learn that I wasn’t gonna make any wise-ass remarks,” Arnaldo said. “Who might know what he wanted to talk to us about?”

“Nobody. The boss didn’t blab his business to anybody.”

“Speaking of business,” Silva said, “what’s likely to happen to Miranda’s operation now that he’s dead?”

“Even if I knew, you think I’d tell a federal cop? I will tell you one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“The guy who did this is dead meat. And it won’t matter a damn if you’re the first ones to catch up with him. People can always be got to—wherever they are, jail or anywhere else.”

“A comforting thought,” Arnaldo said.

“Maybe not for you,” Gaspar said, “but it sure as hell is for me.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

“K
ILLING
M
IRANDA IS ONE
thing,” Fiorello Rosa said. “He was a cold-blooded murderer. But his two little girls? That, Chief Inspector, is way out of line. Whoever did it should rot in hell.”

“I agree,” Silva said.

“His wife, now, that’s another matter. She was an adult. She had a choice. She must have known what kind of a man her husband was.”

“Did your wife know about you?”

“Ex-wife. Yes, she did. She told everyone she didn’t, but she did. Before I took my first customer, I told her what I was planning to do. Share the benefit, I said, but be aware there’s a risk—and you’ll be sharing that as well.”

“And she accepted that?”

“She said she did. But the truth is Carolina is a person incapable of sharing. I clung to some illusions to the contrary before I was arrested, but she disabused me of them in short order. I wasn’t in jail for twenty-four hours before she’d emptied our joint bank accounts. Less than a week after that, she filed for divorce. Fortunately, I’d lived with her long enough to … well, never mind. Enough about her. Have you given any thought to my proposition?”

“I have.”

“And?”

“And we’ll discuss it if you’re granted a parole.”

“
When
I’m granted a parole.”

“You’re that confident?”

“Oh, yes, Chief Inspector, I am. I’m extremely confident.”

“Because?”

“Because, with a few exceptions, like yourself, this country has the best justice system money can buy.”

“I’m all too aware of that. But haven’t you been telling everyone you’re broke?”

“I have, haven’t I?” Rosa sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find the money somewhere.”

“I think,” Silva said, “you’re likely to have more luck than we did when looking for the same money.”

Rosa responded with a smile.

“Why did you want to talk to me?” Silva said.

“To share my knowledge of Ketamine.”

“Ketawhat?”

“Ketamine. The substance found in the syringe. Didn’t you read the lab report?”

“I’ve been busy. What’s Ketamine? I’ve never heard of it.”

“There’s no reason why you should have. But
I
, before being totally reformed by this excellent penal system of ours, made it my business to familiarize myself with drugs that might have been of use to me in my former profession. Ketamine was one of them.”

“You have my full attention, Professor.”

“Ketamine was developed by Parke-Davis back in the early sixties. Initially, it was employed as an anesthetic by American medics during the Vietnam War. Small doses of it will make you high, medium doses will knock you out, large doses will kill you.”

“Did you ever use it?” Silva asked.

“No. I wrote it off as too dangerous. Psychotomimetic effects have been observed in its use.”

“
What
kind of effects?” Arnaldo said.

“Psychotomimetic. Delusions, hallucinations, the reactions we’ve come to expect from opiates.”

“How easy is it to get, this Ketamine?”

“Very. In the days before my total transformation into an honest citizen, I could have acquired the drug with no difficulty whatsoever. Ketamine is still widely used in veterinary medicine. A single visit to my local unethical veterinarian would have provided me with enough to treat a dozen unwilling patients. I think it’s unlikely that the situation has changed very much over the course of the last seven years.”

“Interesting,” Silva said, “but I don’t see how knowing any of this is going to be of help. As you say, any veterinarian who’d provided the stuff to Juraci’s kidnappers would, by definition, be unethical—and unlikely to come forward. Where else would one get Ketamine, if not from a veterinarian?”

“From narcotics dealers. The street name is Special K.”

“We can hardly expect any of those people to come forward either. Other sources?”

“Pharmacies. I imagine a number of them would stock it to serve veterinarians in their area.”

“Maybe. Other thoughts?”

“On Ketamine? No.”

“Something else then?”

“It’s occurred to me that the gang you’re after is probably quite small.”

“On what do you base that supposition?”

“I’ve been reading Senhora Carta’s summaries. You’re not getting any tips. Your informers aren’t feeding you a thing. There are no rumors on the street.”

“So? Connect the dots.”

“The larger the gang, the more likely it is that
someone
will talk. You never add just one member to a gang. You add that person’s lover, family and friends as well. People like to be in the know. They like to gossip. Not only for gossip’s sake, but also to
prove
they’re in the know. But nobody’s gossiping, are they?”

“No. So your conclusion—”

“
Preliminary
conclusion.”

“—
preliminary
conclusion is that we should be looking for a person or persons with ties to a veterinarian—”

“—or a pharmacist, or a drug-dealer.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Arnaldo said. “Didn’t Babyface—”

“Who’s Babyface?” Rosa said.

“Haraldo Gonçalves,” Silva said, “one of our agents. We call him Babyface.”

“But never to his baby face,” Arnaldo said.

“I know where Arnaldo’s going,” Silva said. “Tarso Mello.”

Rosa looked perplexed. “And he is?”

“I guess Mara hasn’t written up that one yet. Mello is Cintia Tadesco’s current agent.”

“Cintia the top-model? Cintia the girlfriend of the Artist?”

“That Cintia. When Gonçalves interviewed Mello, Mello told him he was gay, and that he lives with a partner.”

“So?”

“The partner is a vet tech.”

“If I was a judge,” Rosa said, “and you appealed to me for a search warrant based upon that coincidence, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

“But if you were a federal cop, would you follow it up?”

“I certainly would.”

“You mentioned a small gang. How small?”

“I can’t see the job being done with less than two: one to start the car’s engine while the other smashes the kitchen door; one to dispatch the maids while the other subdues Juraci. Yes, I think they could do it with two.”

“Or three,” Arnaldo said. “Mello, his partner the vet tech, and that bitch, Cintia Tadesco.”

“I take it,” Rosa said with a smile, “that you have met the beautiful Senhorita Tadesco—and been less than enchanted.”

“You take it right,” Arnaldo said.

“Tell me this, Professor,” Silva said, “do you think Juraci is still alive?”

“I’d virtually guarantee it.”

“Why?”

“Proof of life. Until they get their hands on the ransom, they could be asked to provide it at any time.”

“And
after
they get their hands on the ransom?”

“At that point, Chief Inspector, the situation will change radically.”

“I share your opinion, but I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

“The murder of the maids clearly demonstrates the ruthlessness of the people responsible. The choice of such a high-profile target illustrates their audacity and resolve. They won’t want to risk recognition. They won’t want to leave loose ends. Juraci Santos
is
a loose end. The conclusion, therefore, is inescapable.”

“They’re going to kill her.”

“Yes, Chief Inspector, they’re going to kill her.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

O
N THE STREET IN
front of the Artist’s building, media people had settled in for the duration.

Canopies now afforded protection from inclement weather; tents and chairs had been set up; the smell of cigarettes and coffee was in the air; high wooden platforms supported longlensed cameras.

Silva, as before, ignored the questions that assailed him from every side. This time, many were in English. The international press had arrived in force.

Upstairs, roiling grey clouds hung mere meters above the Artist’s windows. Rain was beginning to sprinkle on the panes.

Cintia was curled up on an L-shaped divan, a fashion magazine on her lap. She raised her eyes and gave the two cops a blank stare. Then she went back to the article she was reading. The Artist was more cordial.

“How about those keys?” he said. “Did they fit?”

“They did,” Silva said. “Still no idea how they wound up in that drawer?”

The Artist shook his head.

Cintia turned a page “You don’t have to be a rocket scientist,” she said, without looking up, “to figure that out.”

“You have a theory?”

Now, she did look up. But it was with the air of someone being put upon.

“When Tico empties his pockets,” she said, “everything goes on the dresser. His wallet, small change, everything. A maid picked the keys and put them in a drawer. End of mystery.”

“Why would they do that?”

“Why are you wasting your time on a set of keys?”

“Because it could be important. Please answer the question.”

For a moment, he didn’t think she would. Then she said, “Tico’s maids are too lazy to put things where they belong. When they tidy up, they just shove things out of sight.”

The Artist looked shamefaced. “I didn’t grow up with maids, so I don’t know how to handle them. That’s what Cintia says.”

“And it’s true,” she said, closing the magazine and tossing it aside. “But now they’ve got
me
to deal with. And they’ll either get with the program, or be looking for new jobs.”

“Tell me this,” Silva said. “Has anyone other than yourselves, or your servants, had access to that drawer?”

“You think we invite people to come and inspect the contents of our drawers? You think—” She broke off in midsentence and blinked as if something had just occurred to her.

“Senhorita Tadesco?” Silva prompted.

She shook her head.

“Nothing,” she said.

“The drawer in which you found the keys, what do you use it for?”

“Underwear.”

“Tico’s or yours?”

“Mine. And the answer is no.”

She was back to her usual unsympathetic self.

Silva frowned.

“The answer to
what
is no?”

“You may
not
look in my drawer. I hate the idea of people pawing through my things, particularly my underwear.”

“I had no intention of asking,” Silva said.

“No?”

“No. When we spoke on the phone Tico mentioned a party you held on Saturday evening.”