A Vine in the Blood (27 page)

“I know it very well. We confiscated both of them. But you could have done all you did, and bought all you bought, and still have a bundle left over.”

“Goodness, no, Chief Inspector. You have no idea how expensive luxuries are. But then, I wouldn’t expect you to, given your well-known incorruptibility. I admire you. I truly do.”

“You’re convinced you’re going to get out of here, aren’t you?”

“I am. And I shall go and sin no more. I’m reformed.”

“I daresay that, even after you’ve paid those people off, you’ll
still
have enough not to have to work ever again.”

With a gesture, Rosa dismissed the thought. “I’d work even if all of my needs were provided for. Most prisoners vegetate. Many retired people do the same. But I abhor idleness. That’s why I’d like to work with you.”

“Not for the money? You don’t need it, is that it?”

“Money is always nice. But it’s the intellectual challenge that appeals to me. What brings you back this time?”

“The ransom has been paid.”

“Has it now? How did they arrange for delivery?”

“Carrier pigeons,” Silva said and went on to explain.

When he was done, Rosa pushed back from the table and applauded slowly. “Bravo,” he said. “A
tour de force
. I seem to have seriously underestimated the intelligence of those people.”

“Put your thinking cap on, Professor. I really need your help.”

“And I really want to give it, believe me I do. Here’s one thought: they would have known, even before they started, that this would be the high-profile kidnapping of the year, perhaps of the decade.”

“Yes. Go on.”

“They would have anticipated that Juraci’s face would make the front page of every newspaper in the country; they would have expected her kidnapping to be the lead story in every newscast. She’d be transformed from someone that almost no one recognized into someone that virtually everyone recognized. And it would have occurred within a matter of hours.”

“Which leads you to postulate … what?”

“It would have been inadvisable to take her far from the scene of her abduction. This neighborhood of Juraci’s, Granja Viana?”

“What about it?”

“What’s it like?”

“It’s not the country, but it’s not the city either. Semi-rural, the occasional horse farm, that sort of thing.”

“Then that’s where she is. They’re holding her in Granja Viana, or somewhere close to it. Think about it. Every hour, every minute that she was in transit would have augmented their risk. It wouldn’t matter if she was well concealed. It wouldn’t matter if she was sedated. Traffic accidents, documentation blitzes from the
Policia Rodoviaria
, things like that, can always interfere with the best laid plans. They would have wanted to get her into a place of security as quickly as possible. That place is unlikely to be one that’s recently rented or acquired. That attracts too much attention. People get curious about their new neighbors. It’s likely to be a place that the kidnappers have been visiting for some time, a place where they’ve achieved invisibility through familiarity. It would be best, too, if the place had some land around it, a garden, or a field, where they can bury her once they’re finished with her.”

“Makes sense. Other thoughts?”

“I assume your estimable Mara Carta is already looking into the bird angle?”

“She is. But she’s come up blank. Breeders, she tells us, sell them for between forty and sixty Reais each. Even at the lower price, sixty birds would have cost twenty-four hundred, a major purchase in that business. No breeder she’s spoken to, and she’s spoken to a lot of them, recalls making a sale of that magnitude. Ever. We’re extending our area of inquiry, but our current hypothesis is that the kidnappers have been doing their own breeding.”

“I’m not talking about
acquiring
the birds. The kidnappers would have expected you to try to track the birds back to their source. They would have done everything they could to prevent you from doing so.”

“What
are
you talking about then?”

“Alternative profiles for the people who came up with the idea of using carrier pigeons.”

“Such as?”

“An ex-convict, for example. Such birds are used in places like this, you know.”

“We know,” Arnaldo said.

“Or someone who might have read about carrier pigeons in a newspaper, or seen a documentary on television.”

“Which would lead us nowhere.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How so?”

“Turn it around. Mara and her people can, quite quickly, do a media search. If they discover that there
hasn’t
been a television program or an article in a consumer publication in the course of the last six months, what would that suggest?”

“That the kidnappers didn’t get their information from one of those sources.”

“Exactly. If the people who used those carrier pigeons didn’t get the idea from a prison experience, or by talking to ex-convicts, or from the media, where
did
they get the idea from? That could narrow the search considerably. Maybe, just maybe, this brilliant idea of theirs, the idea to use carrier pigeons, wasn’t so brilliant after all.”

Silva stroked his chin. “My gut feeling,” he said, “is that they wouldn’t make a mistake that elementary. It’s likely the brilliance remains.”

“Perhaps. But my core argument stands. If I were you, I’d be looking for people who keep, or know someone who keeps, carrier pigeons, who had access to a key that would get them into Juraci Santos’s house, and who have a hideout in or near Granja Viana.”

“You make it sound simple, Professor.”

“I’m not saying it’s simple. But when you get to the end of it, you’ll find someone there who fulfills all three of those characteristics. I guarantee it.”

Chapter Thirty-Six

O
NE OF THE PRIME
requisites in Nelson Sampaio’s former profession, corporate law, was obfuscation. Sampaio was an expert at it, and he quickly recognized it in others.

He was recognizing it right now, seventeen minutes into the briefing he’d requested on the Santos case.

“Let’s cut right through the crap,” he said, looking around the table. “You people don’t know where the birds came from, you don’t know where they went, the diamonds are gone, and you’ve got no line on where Juraci Santos might be. You’ve got zip.”

“I think that’s a fair summary, Director,” Silva said.

The director snorted. “What about that postman? You interrogate him?”

“We did. It led nowhere.”

Sampaio referred to his notes, raised his head to lock eyes with Silva.

“You think Jordan Talafero had anything to do with it?”

“We did once. Not anymore.”

“That bicheiro? Captain Miranda?”

“No.”

“Cintia Tadesco?”

“It’s possible.”

Sampaio made some check marks on the yellow legal pad in front of him. The tip of his pencil slid further down the page.

“And that ex-agent of hers, whatshisname?”

“Tarso Mello.”

“Yeah, him.”

“Also a possible suspect.”

“You interview Juraci’s former servants? The ones she had before the two who got shot?”

“We did,” Mara said. “We went back two years. We’re satisfied they’re all clean.”

“How about professional enemies? People like Joãozinho Preto? The Artist broke his leg. That must have pissed him off.”

“Joãozinho’s mother is Italian. She got him a passport, and he bought himself a villa in Tuscany. He’s been living there for six months.”

More check marks.

“And that other striker? Whatshisname? The guy who’s convinced himself he’s as good as the Artist is?”

“Romário de Barros?”

“Yeah, him. If the Artist is out of the picture, he’s the logical replacement, right?”

“Right.”

Sampaio drew a circle around something. Then he put a big asterisk right next to it.

“Well there you go. That gives him a motive. Without the Artist,
bingo
, Romário is the star of the Cup.”

“The Argentineans have got Dieguito Falabella,” Arnaldo said. “Dieguito can run circles around Romário de Barros.”

Sampaio refused to be sidetracked.

“You didn’t talk to him, did you?”

“We didn’t think it was necessary,” Mara said.

Sampaio turned on her. “Why the hell not?”

Mara stood her ground. “Every year at this time, Romário earns a bundle doing a football clinic for rich kids. He was in Campos do Jordão, doing just that, on the night of the kidnapping. He’s got more than a hundred witnesses to prove it.”

“He could have hired someone else to do it. Talk to him anyway.”

Mara nodded and made a note.

Sampaio turned back to Silva.

“Did you consult with Godofredo?”

“No.”

“Why not? As I recall, I instructed you to do so.”

“You did, Director, but I haven’t had the time.”

Sampaio stabbed his pencil in Silva’s direction.

“But you had plenty of time to talk to that felon, Rosa, right?”

“We talked to him, yes.”

Sampaio dropped his pencil and held out his hands, palms upward.

“And?”

Silva told him about Rosa’s conclusions.

Sampaio shook his head. “Rosa’s all wet. You’re wasting your time with that guy.”

“I don’t think so, Director.”

“But I do. And the last time I heard, I’m running this shop.” He picked up his pencil. “Let’s go over this again step by step.” He reversed the pencil and tapped the eraser three times on the table. “Answer me yes or no. Lefkowitz thinks the kidnappers had a key to Juraci’s house, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And you’re inclined to agree with him?”

“Yes.”

“Three sets of keys were found in the house?”

“Yes.”

“Both the locksmith and the Artist confirm that Juraci ordered four?”

“Yes.”

“The fourth set was with the Artist and his girlfriend.”

“Yes.”

“But it seems to have gone missing for a while and then mysteriously turned up?”

“Not so mysteriously. The Artist—”

The director waved his pencil. “All right. All right. Strike the word mysteriously. The fourth set went missing and later turned up. Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

Sampaio leaned forward, a sign he was coming to the end of his peroration.

“And it’s obvious the Artist wouldn’t kidnap his own mother.”

“Yes.”

“And, therefore,” Sampaio said, with a smile of triumph, “his girlfriend, Cintia Tadesco must be involved.”

“No.”

“No?” Sampaio’s smiled faded. “What do you mean no? I just took you through it step by step. It’s as plain as the nose on your face. She’s in it up to her neck.”

“Not necessarily. Not if there was a fifth set of keys.”

Sampaio tossed down his pencil in a sign of frustration.

“A
fifth
set? Who said anything about a fifth set?”

“I’m introducing a supposition.”

“Introducing a supposition, my ass! You’re groping. Groping in the dark. How big is Granja Viana?”

“Big. It stretches over two municipalities.”

“So there’s no way you could search every house, right? I mean, it would take you weeks.”

“It would.”

“And by that time, Juraci Santos is going to be either free or dead. Same thing applies to investigating carrier pigeons. By the time you finish investigating every enthusiast, every club member, every dealer in birds, she’ll be free or dead.”

“I’m sorry, Director, but that really is all we have to go on at the moment.”

“Meanwhile, the Minister has his teeth in one side of my ass and the President in the other. What are you smiling at?”

“The metaphor, Director. Only the metaphor.”

“If Captain Miranda found someone making inquiries about diamonds, how come you can’t?”

“We’re trying, Director. We have men on the street asking questions; we’ve been in contact with all of our confidential informants.”

“Why don’t you talk to your snitches?”

“Confidential informants, Director, are what we call snitches.”

“I know that, I know that,” Sampaio said, recovering quickly from the
faux pas
. “What I meant was, why don’t you talk to them instead of just being in contact with them?”

It made no sense. Nobody bought it, and Sampaio could see nobody bought it. He went on hurriedly.

“So what now?”

“Now,” Silva said, “we’re hoping for a break.”

“A
break
? What kind of break?”

“On the diamonds. We’ve circulated details of the weights, quality and cuts to law enforcement nationwide. We’ve asked them to get in touch with dealers and jewelers in their area.”

“You think they’ll do it?”

“All of them have their own problems to deal with, and most of them are understaffed. But, in this case, I think the response is likely to be better than usual.”

“Why?”

“They know the Artist won’t be doing his best unless we find his mother. And everyone in this country wants to see the Artist doing his best.”

“And you really think people are going to buy into the idea that finding the diamonds will help to find
her
?”

“I do.”

“I don’t. If this situation wasn’t so serious,” Sampaio said, “I’d laugh you right out of this conference room.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

I
F, IN THE SUMMER
of 1939, anyone in Salerno had suggested to Francesco Romanelli that he might emigrate to Brazil, he would have laughed them out of his shop.

Francesco had a prosperous jewelry business. He counted some of the leading families of Sicily among his customers. He had a strapping son of nineteen, Marcello, offspring of his union with Maria of Blessed Memory. He had a handsome new wife, Clara, eighteen years his junior, who tolerated his marital attentions and infidelities with equal stoicism. And for the first time he could remember, maybe for the first time ever, the trains all over Italy were running on time. Six years later, Marcello was dead, killed in that insanity in North Africa. Francesco’s business was in ruins. The country was an economic basket case, and
Il Duce
, the man who’d made the trains run on time, had been strung up on a lamppost in Milan.