Blood of the Wicked (18 page)

Chapter Thirty

Silva held the telephone away from his ear. “‘Stick around for a few days while we catch the bad guys,’ was the way she put it.”

“
Ave Maria
,” the director said. “That’s all we need. That woman is . . .” His voice trailed off. He apparently couldn’t think of an adequate definition for Vicenza Pelosi. “She’ll make us look like the Curbstone Cops,” he finished lamely.

“Keystone Cops.”

“Whatever.”

“She didn’t seem to like Muniz or Ferraz all that much,” Silva said.

“Well, she wouldn’t, would she? Her father was a union organizer or some such, and they killed him for it.”

“She said her first report would be on the
Jornal de Noticias
at eight.”

“Merda! I’m going to have to brief the minister. You got any
good
news?”

“Not yet.”

Silva’s boss grunted and did what he usually did when he was displeased. He hung up.

“You heard?” Silva asked his nephew.

Hector nodded. “He wasn’t exactly whispering.”

Arnaldo walked into the suite and caught Hector’s last remark. “Who wasn’t whispering?” he said.

“The director,” Silva said glumly. “He just found out that Vicenza Pelosi is in town.”

“No kidding? She’s hot stuff.” Arnaldo saw the expression on Silva’s face and wiped the grin off his own.

Hector walked over to the little refrigerator and opened the door. “Who wants a beer?”

Silva shook his head. Arnaldo raised a hand.

“Glass?”

“Hell, no,” he said to Hector. Then, turning to Silva: “I found Edson Souza’s mother.”

Silva had been studying the dust on his shoes. He looked up sharply. “And?” he said.

“And I could be wrong, but I think she knows where he is.”

“Hector, give me one of those beers,” Silva said.

“But she’s not going to tell us. Thanks.”

The last word was for Hector. Arnaldo popped the tab on the can.

“Why the hell not?” Silva said.

“Because she’s got other kids, younger ones, and she’s scared of Ferraz.”

“She said that?”

Arnaldo took a swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said. “She didn’t say it, but she is. The woman she worked for was a real bitch. She fired her for bringing a cop to the house.”

“
Fired
her?”

Arnaldo nodded. “Right in front of me. I had a taxi waiting. I gave Marly—that’s her name—a lift home. We talked. She told me Edson was earning money, but he wouldn’t tell her how. Sometimes he’d sleep at her place. Mostly he didn’t. She didn’t say it, but I got the impression that he didn’t like to see his mother being fucked by different people. She and the kids—there are three of them, two girls and a boy— all live in one room and sleep in the same bed, if you can call it a bed. Every now and then, she said, Edson would bring her a bag of groceries, sometimes presents for the little ones. One time, he even brought a television set.”

“Stolen, probably.”

“Marly says no. Says it was in a box with a guarantee and all. Says the kid swore he wasn’t a thief.”

“And she believes him?”

“Yeah. She does. Says he never lies to her.”

Arnaldo gulped down the remainder of his beer, bent the can, and tossed it into a wastebasket. It landed with a clatter. “I’ve been giving it some thought,” he said. “I’ve got a sister in Riberão. She works in one of those homes for battered women.”

“So?”

“So, maybe she could take Marly and the kids. Ferraz’d never find them there. Once she’s safe, maybe she’ll open up.”

“Worth a try,” Silva said.

Arnaldo pulled out his address book and picked up the phone.

VICENZA PELOSI appeared, as promised, on the eight o’clock news and she spared no one.

She used the shot of Ferraz waving his arms and excoriated him for trying to deny to the public their “constitutionally guaranteed” right to the truth. She berated Orlando Muniz Senior for raising a private army of thugs and for threatening “physical violence to defend his property” instead of “availing himself of the recourse provided by law.” She accused Luiz Pillar and Roberto Pereira of “demagoguery” and a “lack of respect for private property.” She denounced Wilson Cunha, the local judge, for not implementing the appropriation of uncultivated land as “clearly prescribed in the Constitution of this country.” She castigated the police— “both State and Federal”—for their lack of progress in solv- ing the “brutal assassinations” of Dom Felipe Antunes, the journalist Diana Poli, and the landowner Orlando Muniz Junior. She took the President of the Republic and the Minister of Justice to task for not having taken preventive measures to defuse the “land wars that lie at the heart of all of the problems.”

And she did it all in only three minutes and twenty seconds.

ABOUT A quarter of an hour after the broadcast ended there was a knock on the door of Silva’s suite. Arnaldo opened it, and his jaw dropped.

It was Vicenza Pelosi.

She was fresh from the shower. Her long hair was tied up in a bun and held in place by oriental chopsticks. She came in smelling of freshly applied perfume, sat down without being asked, flashed her radiant smile, and ignored the fact that her host wasn’t smiling back.

“I guess you didn’t do that broadcast live,” Silva said.

“No,” she said. “Tape. Sit down, Chief Inspector. I have news.”

Silva sat.

“Want a beer, Senhorita Pelosi?” Arnaldo said, recovering from his surprise.

“Or maybe a guaraná?” That was Hector.

Arnaldo was beaming. Hector was straightening his tie.

“A beer would be nice,” Vicenza said.

Arnaldo and Hector bumped into each other on the way to the refrigerator.

“Muniz called me,” she said to Silva.

“Did he?” Silva tried to sound uninterested. He didn’t think it fooled her.

“Thanks,” she said to Hector when he placed a beer on the coffee table in front of her. Arnaldo got a smile and a nod when he put a glass next to it. She opened the beer, poured it, and took a ladylike sip before she continued.

“Muniz,” she said, “is offering a reward, a big one, for anyone who comes to him with information about who killed his son.”

“How big is big?”

“A hundred thousand reais.”

Silva sat back in his chair and frowned. “That’s going to be a problem,” he said.

“Yes, I know,” she said.

A hundred thousand reais was more money than a landless man could earn in twenty years of working the soil. People would come forward for sure. Most of them would be telling lies that Orlando Muniz would be all too happy to believe.

“Muniz had it all worked out,” she said. “He wanted to do it through me.”

“Through you?”

“People trust me. He thought people would be more likely to come forward if I was the intermediary.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I refused, but it didn’t stop him. He had a backup. Says I can use the story on the midnight news if I choose to.” She took another sip and seemed not to wet her lips. “He’s asked me to come up to his suite and tape an interview.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go, of course. It’s news, isn’t it?”

“People are going to get killed, Vicenza. As soon as he gets information he finds credible, he’ll turn loose his capangas
.
”

“I suspect he will. That’s why I thought you should know.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him you wouldn’t do it?”

“Because it wouldn’t change anything. He’d go to another network.”

“Who’s his backup? Who’s going to be the intermediary?”

“A priest. Some guy called Gaspar Farias. He gets to tithe ten percent for the new church. The informer will clear ninety thousand.”

“Jesus Christ,” Silva said, “Doesn’t that priest realize what he’s doing?”

“Apparently not,” she said. She put the glass down on the table and stood. So did Hector and Arnaldo. Silva didn’t move.

“Sit down,” he said.

“I have an interview to do.”

“Please.”

She sank back into her seat.

“I need your help,” he said.

She picked up her glass and waited.

“There’s a young man I have to get in touch with,” Silva said. “He’s gone into hiding. I want you to broadcast an appeal for him to turn himself in.”

“Why?”

“I think he may know something about the death of the bishop.”

“What?”

“I have no idea.”

“Meaning that you really don’t know, or that you won’t tell me?

“I really don’t know.”

“Tell me more.”

“Not now. It’s a long story.”

She put the glass back on the table.

“What do I get out of it?”

“A story, of course.”

“What’s this kid’s name?”

“Edson Souza. He’s a street kid.”

“How did you—”

“I can’t tell you anything else. Not yet.”

“But you will?”

“Yes.”

“And to me, exclusively.”

“Yes.”

She picked up her beer. This time, she drank off half the glass and left a mustache of foam on her upper lip. She took a paper handkerchief out of her purse and used it like a napkin.

“You’ve got a deal,” she said.

“I TOLD you she was hot,” Arnaldo said after he closed the door behind her.

Silva grunted.

Arnaldo pretended not to notice.

“Why didn’t you tell her the rest of it,
chefe
? About Ferraz and all?”

“First of all,” Silva said, “because I can’t prove it. Second, because she’d start digging, and if Ferraz thinks she’s digging, he’ll kill her just like he killed Diana.”

Arnaldo thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “You want another beer?” he asked.

Silva shook his head.

“You, Hector?”

Hector nodded. Arnaldo went to the refrigerator, fetched two cans, and handed one to Hector. “You made up your mind, then? You’re sure Ferraz killed Diana?”

Silva nodded.

Hector took a long draught, wiped his mouth and said, “So how do we nab him?”

“We start by finding that kid,” Silva said.

“You think Ferraz had anything to do with what happened to the bishop?” Hector asked.

“Do you?”

Hector thought about it. “No,” he said at last. “How about the murder of Muniz’s kid? You believe Pillar when he says he didn’t have anything to do with that?”

“Actually, I do,” Silva said. “He’s been doing his thing for years without killing anyone. Why should he start now?”

“Maybe because nobody ever nailed one of his people to a tree.”

“Maybe. But they’ve done things just as bad. Don’t forget, they’ve killed more than fifteen hundred of his compadres
.
”

“But if it wasn’t the league . . .”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t the league. I said I didn’t think it was Pillar.”

“Oh. So maybe that local guy, Pereira, and a few of his friends?”

“That would be my guess.”

Hector tossed his empty beer can into the wastebasket. “So that gives us suspects for Diana and Muniz, but we’re still no closer to the guy who killed the bishop.”

“No, we’re not.”

“You think old man Muniz will try to kill Pillar?”

“He might, if he finds him, but Pillar’s a wily old fox. My guess is that he’ll make himself scarce.”

“How about those people on Muniz’s property?”

“That worries me more. There are women and kids there.”

“So what’s our next step?”

Silva looked at his watch.

“Too late for tonight, but first thing in the morning we’re going to have a chat with that priest, Father Gaspar. I want to know what that telephone call from the bishop was all about.”

Chapter Thirty-one

“You again,” he said, “Who’s he?”

“I’m a chief inspector in the Federal Police,” Silva answered for himself. “Who the hell are you?”

“We don’t hold with profanity around here.”

“And I don’t hold with being kept waiting. Open the goddamned door.”

For a moment, Euclides looked like he was going to slam it in Silva’s face, but he didn’t.

“I asked you who you are,” Silva said, stepping over the threshold.

“Euclides Garcia. I work for Father Gaspar.”

“Show me some ID.”

“I haven’t got any.”

“You’re required to have a national identity card.”

“I mean I don’t have it on me. I live here,” Euclides said, defensively.

“Tell your boss we’re waiting for him. Then go get it.”

“Told you,” Hector said, when Euclides had scurried off.

“Cheeky son of a bitch,” Silva said. “What’s that smell?”

“Lilac cologne,” Hector said. “The good father drenches himself in the stuff.”

FATHER GASPAR leaned over his desk to offer Hector a moist hand.

“Nice to see you again, Delegado
.
”

He looked curiously at Silva.

Hector performed the introductions. The priest pronounced himself equally pleased to meet Silva and indicated the two cane chairs.

“Coffee?” he asked, resuming his seat.

“Thank you, no.”

Hector had warned his uncle about Father Gaspar’s coffee. Before they had a chance to initiate the questioning, Euclides returned with his identity card. He held it out to Silva, who passed it to Hector. Hector examined it, made a note of the number, and handed it back.

“Is there anything wrong?” Gaspar asked, puzzled.

“No,” Silva said, deliberately addressing the master and ignoring the man. “He reminded me of someone, that’s all. Apparently, I was mistaken.”

“And to what do I owe the pleasure this time?” the priest asked when his servant had gone.

“That reward Muniz is offering,” Silva said. “The hundred thousand reais?”

“Yes?”

“I’m told you’ve agreed to act as intermediary.

“Yes, Chief Inspector
,
that’s right.”

“Not a good idea.”

The priest frowned. “Why not?”

“It’s far too much money, Father. It’s going to encourage people to lie. We want answers, too, but they have to be the right answers.”

Gaspar started shaking his head.

Silva ignored it. “Muniz doesn’t want justice, Padre, he wants revenge. He doesn’t want the people who killed his son arrested. He wants them dead.”

“Are you implying that he’d take the law into his own hands?”

“I am.”

“Nonsense,” Father Gaspar said.

“What makes you so certain?”

“Because we spoke about it. I enjoined him to put aside his bitterness. He assured me that he would. Orlando Muniz isn’t after vengeance, only after justice. ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ That’s Romans, chapter twelve.”

Silva was not in the mood for another scripture lesson. “Justice, hell. The man wants blood.”

Father Gaspar held up his hand, signifying that he didn’t buy into Silva’s theory. “I pride myself on being a good judge of men,” he said. “I’d be the first to admit that there’ve been rumors about him, but I’m convinced they’re calumnies. Personally, I consider Orlando Muniz an exemplary Christian. He was a major contributor to the new church.”

“That doesn’t—”

Father Gaspar didn’t let Silva finish. “And now, Senhor Muniz is offering the church ten thousand reais. All I have to do in return is perform a simple service. I’d be derelict in my duty if I didn’t accede to his request.”

“Listen to me, Father—”

“No, Chief Inspector
,
you listen to me. I have another reason to take issue with what you say. It obviously hasn’t occurred to you that anyone bearing false witness would be violating the ninth commandment. That’s a mortal sin. A perjurer puts his very soul in peril.”

“Father—”

“I see we’re unlikely to agree. Why don’t we just drop the subject?”

“You’re wrong.”

“And you, of course, are entitled to your opinion.”

Silence fell. Silva broke it first. “There’s another matter: Have you heard of a young man, a street kid, named Edson Souza?”

“Edson Souza? No. Why?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. But I can tell you this: He placed a call to Dom Felipe. Immediately after they’d spoken, Dom Felipe placed a call to you.”

“When was this?”

Silva looked at his nephew. Hector took out his notebook and read off the date and time.

Father Gaspar wrinkled his brow, checked his desk calendar and shook his head.

“If you could, perhaps, give me some inkling of the subject matter. . . .”

“I can’t.”

“Well, then . . .” Father Gaspar lifted his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “Do you have any reason to believe that . . . what was that young man’s name again?”

“Edson Souza.”

“That Edson Souza’s telephone call to the bishop and the bishop’s call to me are related?”

“I don’t. But it’s a possibility, and I’m exploring all the possibilities.”

“Hmm. Sorry I can’t help you.

Father Gaspar folded his hands over his ample belly and leaned back in his chair.

“During our first conversation,” Hector said, changing tack, “you suggested that a priest might have been responsible for the bishop’s murder.”

“Yes.”

“Father Francisco, the bishop’s secretary, has another theory.”

“Which is?”

“It might have been a landowner.”

“A landowner?” Gaspar unclasped his hands and leaned forward. “
A landowner?
Why in the world would he say a thing like that?”

“Do you remember the last sermon Dom Felipe delivered in your old church?”

Gaspar nodded.

“‘The Blood of the Wicked,’ he called it. It concerned the murder of Azevedo, the league activist. He asked people to come forward. Not unlike what Orlando Muniz is doing, don’t you agree?”

“No, Father, I don’t agree. The bishop, to my knowledge, didn’t mention money.”

“Well, that’s true. He didn’t.”

“I gather you disagree with Father Francisco.”

“I most certainly do. The landowners of Cascatas are pillars of the community. None of them would stoop to violence.

“There’s just one thing wrong with that argument, Father.”

“What’s that, Chief Inspector
?
”

“Judging by what happened to Azevedo, one of them already did.”

WHEN FATHER Gaspar returned from escorting his guests to the door, Euclides was waiting for him.

“I don’t like those guys,” he said.

“But then, there aren’t really many people that you
do
like, are there?” the priest said, sinking into his chair.

“I like you.”

“Yes, my boy, I know you do. And I like you. You were, I suppose, up to your usual bad habits while those policemen were here?”

“If you mean was I listening at the door, then, yeah, I was.”

“Good. So I don’t have to explain. This Edson Souza? Who might he be?”

“He might be anybody. They’ve all got street names. I had one, too, remember?”

“Of course, I remember. But that’s all behind you now. Let’s see what the colonel can tell us.”

He checked his watch.

“He should be in his office by now.”

FERRAZ
was
in his office, and probably alone because he immediately took Gaspar’s call. They exchanged pleasantries, then Father Gaspar asked, “Why do you suppose, Colonel, that the Federal Police are looking for a
menino de
rua
named Edson Souza?”

“Who says they are?”

“Mario Silva does. He and that young delegado
,
Costa I think his name is, just paid me a visit.”

“Yeah, Costa. He’s Silva’s nephew. Why do
you
care if they’re looking for Pipoca?”

“Who?”

“Edson Souza. That’s his street name. Pipoca. Why do you care?”

“Well . . . I thought I might be able to help.”

“Take my advice, Father. Stay out of it. Let the Federal Police solve their own problems.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. No business of mine, after all.”

“That’s the attitude. Anything else I can do for you?”

“No. Nothing else. Thank you, Colonel.”

“My pleasure.”

Father Gaspar put the telephone back on its cradle and looked at Euclides. “It seems,” he said, “as if the colonel knows the young man in question.”

“He does, huh?”

“Yes, my boy, and so do we. It turns out that Edson Souza is the young man we know as Pipoca.”

“Pipoca! Well, that explains a lot.”

“It does, doesn’t it? Something more: the colonel didn’t actually say so, but he gave me the distinct impression that he’s looking for him as well.”

Euclides smiled. “Good,” he said.

“Indeed. Let’s hope he finds him before Silva does.”