A Vine in the Blood (31 page)

“Hatch them and train them,” Edson said. “No doubt.”

Hector walked in, shaking his head. “The telephone at Arns’s shop has been disconnected.”

Gonçalves was next. He still had his phone in his hand. “Vitória Pitanguy resigned,” he said. “As of yesterday, she no longer works at the pharmacy.”

“Uh oh,” Arnaldo said.

“Tell me, Senhor Campos,” Silva said, “do Arns and Pitanguy live together?”

“Yes.”

“Here in Granja Viana?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Just up the street.”

Chapter Forty-One

V
ITÓRIA
P
ITANGUY WAS SORTING
shoes. As he entered the bedroom, wiping dirt from his hands, Samuel Arns frowned at the open suitcase on the bed.

“We agreed you were going to buy new stuff.”

“That was your idea,” she said, “not mine. I’m fond of my shoes. Did you finish?”

“I finished.”

“Then let’s go finish
her
.”

She tossed a pair of patent-leather pumps into the suitcase, opened a drawer and took out a pistol.

“That’s the same gun,” he said.

“What makes you think so?”

“Pink grips.”

“It’s not the only Taurus with pink grips.”

“Is it the same gun, or isn’t it?”

“It’s the same.”

“Goddamn it, Vitória! You promised to get rid of it.”

“And I will. Just as soon as I use it.”

“You’re always going on about how we have to be cautious, and then you go and do something like this. If the cops catch us with that pistol, it’ll be all over.”

“They’re not gonna catch us. And in less than five minutes it
is
going to be over. I’ll wipe it clean, throw it in the hole along with Juraci, and that will be the end of it. All
you
have to do is shovel in the dirt and plant the rose bushes. Get off my back. It’s a great day. Don’t ruin it.”

“I don’t like it when you lie to me.”

“Let’s not fight. Let’s just bury her and tidy up around here. Come on.”

“Wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Get your hood.”

“My
hood
?” She laughed. “Why bother? Dead people don’t talk.”

Chapter Forty-Two

J
URACI HEARD FOOTSTEPS, TWO
sets, hurrying down the stairs. It was the hurrying that frightened her. They’d never done that before.

The hair rose on the back of her neck. She stretched her chain to the limit and wedged herself into one corner of her cell.

But when the door swung open, a wave of relief swept over her. The people standing there weren’t wearing hoods, or blue overalls, or gloves. And she
knew
them: Samuel Arns, the locksmith, and Vitória Pitanguy, the woman who managed the pharmacy next door to his shop.

“Thank God,” she said.

But then she saw the pistol in Vitória’s hand and the expression in Vitória’s eyes.

“You’re the ones?” she said

She couldn’t believe it.

Vitória tossed a key onto the floor at her feet.

“Open the padlock,” she said. “And take off the chain.”

“You’re the ones who kidnapped me?”

“We’re the ones. Shut up and open the lock.”

“You’re going to release me?”

“Do it.”

“I won’t. I won’t do it.”

“You will, or Samuel here will kick you in the face. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”

“That’s right,” he said.

Juraci looked from one to the other—and picked up the key.

“Where are you taking me?” she said as the chain slipped from her ankle.

“I told you to shut up. Kneel and face the wall.”

Juraci remembered the moments before they’d rendered her unconscious, remembered the gunshots.
Kneel.
The significance of the word came to her in a rush. A hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.

“Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this? My son—”

“Get on your knees. Now.”

“No. Don’t do this.”

“Then stand there and watch it coming.” Vitória lifted the pistol and aimed it at her forehead. “Look right here, right in the fucking muzzle.”

The doorbell rang.

Juraci opened her mouth to scream, but then, suddenly, the muzzle of the pistol was in her mouth, the metal rattling against her teeth.

“Don’t,” Samuel said, lowering his voice. “Whoever it is will hear the shot.”

“Duh,” she said. And then, to Juraci: “Not a sound out of you, bitch. You hear me? Not a goddamned sound.”

“Are we going to answer the door?”

“Answer the door? Are you crazy? Just be quiet. They’ll go away.”

A
ND THEY
might have, if there hadn’t been two vehicles in the driveway, one of which fit the description of the vehicle used to transport the pigeons—a white Volkswagen van.

Silva hit the bell button for a second time, and sent Gonçalves to check out the back yard. Less than a minute later, he was back.

“You’d better have a look,” he said.

“Stay here,” Silva said to the other two. “Keep ringing.”

He took off in the wake of the younger cop.

“Over there,” Gonçalves said as they entered the back yard. “Beyond the roses.”

The trench, two meters long and about half a meter wide, was freshly dug, the pile of soil still damp. Next to it were a dozen rose bushes, their roots wrapped in burlap.

“Damn!” Silva said. “Let’s get inside that house.”

T
HE DOORBELL
rang for a fourth time. Then a fifth. Vitória, always high strung, was like a steel wire ready to snap.

“Go up there,” she said, “and look through the peephole. Find out who the insistent bastard is.”

“What if it’s the cops?”

“The cops? Are you insane? Why should the cops suspect us?”

“I just—”

“It’s probably some goddamned salesman, or somebody collecting for some charity.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it must be. A salesman.” Arns sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

“Stop talking and get up there.”

“T
HEY DUG
a grave,” Silva said, rejoining his companions. “It’s still empty. We have to get inside. There are French doors around back. They look pretty flimsy.”

“Let’s hope so,” Arnaldo said, “because we’re not gonna get in this way. Look at that door. Solid
peroba
. We’d need a ram.”

Gonçalves, whose ear had been pressed to the wood, held up a hand. Someone was coming. Silently, the other cops moved into positions where they couldn’t be seen through the peephole.

The door was opened by a big man in a dirty T-shirt.

“Samuel Arns?” Gonçalves asked.

“Who are you?”

“Are you Samuel Arns?”

“Yeah. I’m Samuel Arns. Who are you?”

Gonçalves put a hand inside his coat as if he was groping for his ID. What he brought out was his Glock.

“Step back, Senhor,” he said. “And keep quiet.”

Arns opened his mouth as if to shout. Gonçalves raised the pistol and brought it to within ten centimeters of his face.

“Quiet, I said.”

Arns closed his mouth.

Silva and Arnaldo stepped into his field of vision. Arns’s eyes darted from one to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What is this?” he said.

“I think you know what this is, Senhor Arns,” Silva said. “But just in case you don’t …”

He took out his warrant card and held it in front of Arns’s face.

Arns tried to bluff it out.

“I didn’t do anything,” he said. “What do you want?”

“What’s the hole for?”

“What hole?”

“In the back yard.”

“I’m planting roses.”

“More than a meter deep? Step aside. We’re coming in.”

“You got a search warrant?”

“No. But we’re coming in anyway.”

Arnaldo insinuated himself into the doorway. Arns was big, but Arnaldo was bigger, and Arns stepped aside. All four cops entered the house.

Hector was the last man through the door. “Hey,” Arns said, when he saw him. “I know you.”

Hector didn’t respond.

“Where’s Juraci Santos?” Silva said.

“I don’t—”

“If she’s here, dead or alive, we’re going to find her. Why don’t you save us both some trouble and just tell me?”

Arns crumbled.

“It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill those maids. Vitória did. Vitória Pitanguy. She’s the one. The whole thing was her idea. I never—”

“Shut up. You’ll have time later to tell us your side of the story. For now, you just answer questions. Where’s Senhora Santos?”

“Downstairs. In the cellar.”

“Alive?”

“She was when I came upstairs, I swear to God she was. But she’s with Vitória, and Vitória has a gun.”

T
HEY TOOK
Samuel to the top of the stairs and told him what to say:

“Vitória, they’re federal cops, four of them. They’re in the house.”

“We’re covering Senhor Arns with guns,” Silva said, “and we won’t hesitate to use them on you. Drop your weapon and come out. Now.”

They heard Vitória emit a string of curses, heard the clatter of something hitting the floor.

Arnaldo and Silva peeked around either side of the doorway. A moment later, Vitória came into view, her hands in the air.

“You stupid bastard,” she screamed. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”

Arns knew it was meant for him.

“They found the grave you made me dig,” he shouted. “They were going to come in anyway.”

“
I
made you dig? So now it’s
my
fault? You lying bastard! You’re as guilty as I am.”

“That’s enough,” Silva said. “Shut up, both of you. Arnaldo, cuff Samuel. Vitória, keep your hands in the air and don’t move. Senhora Santos?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. You’re safe now. You can come out.”

“I can?”

“Yes.”

“Got both of the bastards, did you?”

Silva had expected tears of relief, maybe hysteria, but Juraci didn’t sound that way at all. She sounded angry.

“Both,” Silva said.

“Good.”

Juraci stepped out of her cell and into Silva’s line-of-sight. She was holding a little pink-gripped Taurus.

And, without uttering another word, she extended her arm and fired two shots into Vitória Pitanguy’s back.

Chapter Forty-Three