A Vine in the Blood (24 page)

“Uh oh what?”

“She’s back.”

Behind him, Gonçalves heard the front door shut. A woman hurried in and set a course for a door marked
office
.

“Vitória,” the girl said, her tone of voice changing from playful to serious, “this gentleman is from the Federal Police.”

Vitória Pitanguy changed tack and approached them. To Gonçalves, who was somewhat knowledgeable about such things, her spicy perfume smelled expensive.

“Federal Police?” she said.

“It’s about this book.” Gonçalves tapped it with his finger. “I need to borrow it.”

“I can’t give it to you,” she said.

“Why not?”

“We’re required, by law, to maintain it here at all times. We could get a visit from a
fiscal
, or we could be fined.”

“It’s a federal investigation. We need it. Why don’t you just let me give you a receipt?”

“Because we also need it to enter new shipments and purchases. What do you want it for?”

“To track your sales of Ketamine.”

“That’s not much of an answer, Agent …”

“Gonçalves. No, it isn’t. But it’s the only answer you’re going to get.”

“I assure you, you’re not going to find any irregularities in that book. Every new shipment that comes in I enter myself. I always check the sales in the book against the stock and the prescription records. And we never sell Ketamine without a prescription.”

Gonçalves, in spite of his frustration, was impressed. Vitória Pitanguy was every bit the efficient manager Doctor Polo had described.

“If I have to,” he said, “I’ll get a warrant.”

“Why don’t I just copy it for you?”

“Can you do that?”

“Sure. There’s a copier in the back. And a little espresso machine as well. Would you like one while you wait?”

Chapter Thirty

“I
T’S TINY,
” M
ARA SAID,
“no bigger than a five-yearold’s thumbnail.”

She’d found a tracking device that fit Silva’s specifications, small and powerful, and she’d called a meeting to tell them about it.

Arnaldo raised a hand. “Is that your description or someone else’s?”

Mara raised an eyebrow. “Someone else’s. What of it?”

“Would I be correct in assuming she’s a female?”

“Is that relevant?”

“And that she has a five-year-old daughter?”

“Arnaldo Nunes,” she said, “the sexist detective. May I go on?”

“Granddaughter?”

“Mario, please tell Senhor Nunes to shut up.”

“Shut up, Arnaldo. Go on, Mara.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, “the device is a prototype.”

“In other words,” Silva said, “they only have the one.”

“Correct.”

“How long would it take to get a second one made?”

“Three weeks.”

“Damn. What are the chances of it breaking down on the job? How reliable is it?”

“I’d better let Lefkowitz tell you about that. He called Brasilia and talked to her.”

“Did I hear you say
her
?” Arnaldo said.

“Get him in here,” Silva said.

Minutes later, Lefkowitz joined them.

“Well?” Silva said. “What do you think?”

“I’m sold on it. Mind you, the lady I spoke with is hardly objective. She talks about it like it’s her baby. If she was here with us right now, she’d be opening her purse to show us a picture of the little darling.”

“I rest my case,” Arnaldo said.

“As I recall, Senhor Nunes,” Mara said, frostily, “Mario told you to shut up.”

“What’s going on?” Lefkowitz said, looking back and forth between Mara and Arnaldo.

“They do it all the time,” Gonçalves said.

“And you should ignore them,” Silva said. “Keep talking.”

“There’s a base station that comes with it. The read-out is along the lines of a GPS receiver. As a matter of fact, it
is
a GPS receiver—adapted specifically for the purpose. It’s mapped for the entire country and accurate to a radius of two meters. The device itself is shockproof. You can drop it out of an airplane, and it’ll keep working. It’s waterproof. You can implant it under skin. If Juraci had been wearing one when she was kidnapped, we’d know exactly—”

Lefkowitz stopped short when Germaine, one of Mara’s people, opened the door.

“New email from the kidnappers,” she said.

“Let’s hear it,” Silva said.

“The answer to the proof-of-life question is a blue Volkswagen Beetle.”

The answer was correct. The question the Artist had asked during the press conference was
What present did I give my
mother when I signed my first contract with the Spartans?

“Continue,” Silva said.

“Put the diamonds in a brown leather case. Tie a white string to the handle. There are to be two couriers, not one. Instruct them to go to the Rodoviaria Tietê, arriving no later than 10:15 tomorrow morning.”

Arnaldo snorted in frustration. The Rodoviaria Tietê was the largest bus station in all of Latin America. At 10:15 in the morning it would be a busy place, crowded with pickpockets and thieves as well as honest citizens.

“Tell them to stand near the public telephones to the right of the ticket windows. At 10:30, precisely, one of them will ring. They are to answer it. The couriers are not to be placed under surveillance. They are not to carry cell phones. Follow these instructions exactly, or Juraci Santos will be killed.”

Germaine finished reading and looked up. Mara thanked her, and she left. Silva turned to Lefkowitz.

“Will that tracking device work in the Metro?”

The Metro, São Paulo’s underground railway system, ran directly under the bus terminal.

“No,” Lefkowitz said, “it won’t.”

“Why not? Cell phones do.”

“Cell phones get their signal from an antenna strung through the tunnels. The device works via satellite.”

Silva rubbed his chin. “Not good. They could instruct the couriers to get on a train, leave the diamonds under a seat and get off.”

“They could,” Hector agreed. “But they’d have to bring them above ground sooner or later. And when they do, we’ll be on to them. Why two people?”

“Why indeed?” Silva said.

“The note doesn’t specifically exclude the use of cops as couriers,” Gonçalves said.

“No, it doesn’t,” Silva said. “Which is why those two couriers are going to be you and Hector.”

T
HE FOLLOWING
morning, the two federal cops were in the appointed place at the appointed time. It was Hector who took the call.

A distorted voice said, “Listen closely. I’m not going to say it twice. Go to the Metro platform, direction Jabaquara. Wait there until train number 391 comes along. Go into the third car, middle door. There’ll be a paper stuck behind the first seat on the left. Repeat your instructions.”

“Direction Jabaquara. Train 391. Third car. Middle door. Paper behind the first seat on the left.”

The caller hung up.

“Let’s go,” Hector said and set off, threading his way through the crowd.

“Man or woman?” Gonçalves said, hurrying to catch up.

“Could have been either one. You know those devices they sell in joke shops? Change your voice? Fool your friends? One of those.”

“Where to?”

“The Metro.”

“Well, there’s a surprise—not. You notice the way people are looking at me?”

“They’re not looking at you. They’re looking at the handcuffs and the case.”

The attaché case containing the diamonds was shackled to Gonçalves’s wrist.

“Maybe I should open my coat,” he said, “and show my gun.”

“You do,” Hector said, “and somebody will try to steal it.”

T
HE METRO
stank of axle grease, unwashed bodies and ozone. They had to wait for almost twenty minutes before Train 391 came along. When it did, it was carrying seven passengers in the third car. Two of them were tough-looking young men, one black, one white, seated side-by-side.

“Right where the goddamned paper is supposed to be,” Gonçalves whispered.

“Don’t sit,” Hector said. “Brace yourself against the door.”

When the train was rolling again, Hector leaned over and addressed the black guy.

“Excuse me,” he said, “but my friend and I were seated in those seats a while back. We think we might have lost a paper. Mind if we have a look?”

“What’s with the case and the handcuffs?” the man asked.

“They don’t concern you”—Gonçalves opened his coat—“but this might.”

“Hey, no need to get nasty. I was just asking. You want to have a look, have a look. Me and my friend, we’ll go sit over there.”

He stuck an elbow into the ribs of the white guy. They both got up, but kept looking back as they moved off.

“So much for trying to be polite,” Gonçalves said.

Hector was already looking at the note he’d fished out from behind the seat.

“Exit the train at Praça da Sé station,” he read. “Follow the instructions taped under the bench, next to the candy machine, at the right-hand extremity of the platform.”

“It’s a goddamned scavenger hunt,” Gonçalves grumbled.

The next note told them to board a taxi with the license plate TBD32F. It would pick them up in front of the north exit.

And it did.

The driver handed Hector an envelope, and then pulled off into traffic. Hector broke the seal, read the note, and handed it to Gonçalves.

Don’t bother to question the driver. He knows nothing. The
next cab bears the license plate TVR25J.

They questioned the driver anyway. His story was that a kid had come up to him with five hundred Reais and an envelope. He was told where to wait until two men came looking for him. He’d know they were the right men because one would be carrying a brown leather case with a white string tied to the handle. He was to hand them the envelope and then take them to KM post 28 on the BR116. That’s all he knew.

The BR116 was the major artery leading to the neighboring State of Paraná. At KM 28, the second cab was waiting.

It was an unseasonably warm day. Gonçalves took off his jacket, mopped his brow with his handkerchief and approached the driver.

“You have a note for us?”

“No note. You have a case with a white string tied to the handle?”

Gonçalves held it up. “Where are we going?”

The driver eyed the handcuffs. They must have come as a surprise to him. “The
Caverna do Diabo
,” he said.

It was a cave complex, locally famous, and a popular destination for school trips.

“That’s got to be at least two hours away,” Gonçalves said.

“Closer to three. Get in.”

Gonçalves turned to Hector. “Can they track us that far?”

“They can track us across the whole country,” Hector said. “Do what the man says.”

“Not before he gets his air-conditioning working.”

The driver shook his head. “Not gonna happen. It’s busted.”

“What?”

“You deaf? The air-conditioning. It’s busted.”

“Screw this guy,” Gonçalves said. “Let’s get another cab.”

“Screw you,” the driver said. “It’s not my fault if I can’t afford to fix it.”

“We’ve got no choice,” Hector said, “We’ve got to follow the instructions to the letter.”

“So stop wasting my time,” the driver said. “and get in the fucking cab.”

Chapter Thirty-One

T
HE ROUTE TO THE
Caverna do Diabo passed kilometer after kilometer of banana plantations—and not a single bar, shop, or restaurant where they could buy something to drink. The driver was prepared for that. He’d brought a bottle of mineral water, and from time to time, he’d open the cap and help himself to a swig. He made a great point of smacking his lips when he did it. And he didn’t offer the bottle to Hector or Gonçalves. When the two federal cops arrived, they were parched and irritable.

“Wait for us here,” Hector told the driver.

“It’s gonna cost you,” the driver said.

“Cost us? What do you mean
cost us
?”

Hector’s throat was so dry it came out as a croak.

“I got paid to bring you here. I didn’t get paid to bring you back.”

“So how much do you want to bring us back?”

“You aren’t gonna find another taxi out here.”

“How much?”