Blood of the Wicked (9 page)

“I don’t give a damn what he thinks. He can’t prove a thing.”

“Proof? You think he needs proof?”

“That’s the law.”

“He’s the kind that picks and chooses his laws, just like you do. You mentioned Ferraz—”

“The best cop money can buy. If he was an elevator operator, you’d have to bribe him to let you off on the right floor.”

“Very funny. But this isn’t a joke. The two of them, old man Muniz
and
Ferraz, are going to come after your people, and I won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

“Maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

“Are you crazy?”

“No, Chief Inspector
,
I’m not crazy at all. Think about it. Right now, this town is full of reporters. They didn’t come for us, they came for the bishop, but I intend to use them. What the league needs, more than anything else, is publicity for our cause. If Muniz and Ferraz crack a few heads—”

“They’ll do more than crack a few heads. They’ll kill people. Back off, Pillar. This whole thing isn’t worth spilling blood for.”

“No? Then why did
they
? You mentioned Aurelio Azevedo. He was my friend, Chief Inspector. They nailed him to a tree. They shot his wife, Teresa. They even killed Paulo and Marcela, their two kids. Paulo was fourteen. Marcela was only nine.”

“A tragedy, I admit that, but—”

“Not only a tragedy. A travesty. A travesty of justice. You think we don’t know who did it? You think we don’t . . . ah, why am I wasting my breath. What’s the use of talking to you? You can’t help.”

Luiz Pillar lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. The face of it was scratched, and it had a cheap plastic band. “Look, I’m busy. If you want to continue this conversation you’ll find me at our encampment, out on the Fazenda Boa Vista
.
”

He left without offering either one of them a hand.

Chapter Thirteen

“Diana? Are you there?”

Lori’s voice.
Diana breathed a sigh of relief.

“What’s going on?”

Lori had her mouth against the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. There was an edge to her voice.

“Coming,” Diana said, making an effort to keep her own voice cheerful and nonchalant. Hurriedly, she closed the file she’d been working on, exited the word-processing program, and switched the computer off.

“Diana?”

Lori kicked the door. Hard.

Diana slipped off the chain and tried to relieve her partner of one of the brown paper bags, but Lori brushed by her, hurried into the kitchen, and set both of them on the counter. She kept her back turned to Diana.

“Are you alone in here?” she said.

“Of course I’m alone.”

Lori spun around and eyed Diana suspiciously. “Then why the chain?”

“You’re jealous?” Diana said.

“Have I reason to be?”

“No, Lori, you don’t. The door was on the chain because I . . . I didn’t want anyone to walk in on me while I was working.”

It was the truth, but even to her it sounded like a feeble excuse.

“Including me?” Lori said. When Diana didn’t reply to that, she continued, “Because I thought no one else except you and I have keys to this apartment.” Lori turned her back again and started taking groceries from the bags, setting them on the counter with just a bit more force than was necessary. “So what are you hiding?” she said.

“I’m not hiding anything,” Diana said. “I’m just being careful. Here, let me help you.”

Diana picked up a six-pack of yogurt and put it into the fridge. Lori opened the door to one of the cabinets and stood poised with a can of chickpeas in her hand. She was a short woman and had raised herself on the tips of her toes. Now, without putting the can away, she sank back onto her heels.

“Why careful?” she said.

“I can’t tell you.”

“You-can’t-tell-me?” Lori doled out the words one by one.

“Not because I don’t want to,” Diana said, hastily. “It’s because I promised someone I’d—”

“Hold it right there! You promised someone you were going to keep secrets from
me
?”

“It’s for your own good, darling. Be a sweetheart and hand me that package of butter.”

Lori handed her partner the butter and leaned her derriere against the sink. She crossed her arms and watched Diana put the package into the compartment at the top of the refrigerator door.

Diana glanced at her. “What?” she said.

“You don’t trust me.” It was an accusation, not a question.

Diana closed the door to the fridge and breathed out in exasperation. “Of course I trust you.”

“Then tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because . . . because it’s dangerous. If a certain party gets wind of it before it’s published, God knows what he’ll do.”

“Who is he?”

Diana shook her head.

“Have it your own way,” Lori said.

She turned her back, went into their bedroom and slammed the door. Diana heard the key turn in the lock. She sighed to herself, returned to her office and rebooted her computer. Lori would come around. Eventually. But until Diana had her work in print she wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep, and not just because she’d be spending all of those nights on the couch.

Her biggest threat came from the kids themselves. Those kids were used to selling their bodies, which aside from being humiliating, was often more painful than selling information. If it occurred to one of them that Ferraz would pay him for what he knew, the kid would betray her in an instant. And whatever most of those kids were, they weren’t stupid. At least one of them was bound to figure it out before long. That’s why she and Anton had agreed that it was safest not to tell Lori anything. If Ferraz came for her, the less Lori knew, the better.

Up until that moment, the moment she resumed her seat, Diana had taken only minimal precautions. She hadn’t typed up the interview transcripts at the office. She hadn’t left any record of what she was working on in the computer there. She’d been careful on the telephone. She’d even made sure Lori hadn’t caught her working at home. Until now.

The risk hung over her head, and it was a deadly risk, but it was worth it. This was going to be
the
series of her journalistic life. She didn’t want to rush it into print. She wanted more color, more human interest, more juicy details. That’s what sold newspapers. That’s what won prizes for journalism. That’s what could catapult her into the big time.

And once Lori read her work, then she’d understand, and all would be forgiven. Lori could be temperamental at times, but Diana had grown confident about the depth of their love. It was a far cry from their first few months together, when Diana was always asking herself how a blonde goddess with fashion sense could be interested in a square-shouldered woman with no waist.

She glanced at her watch. The bank was open late. She could just make it.

She transferred everything she was working on, transcripts and all, onto a CD, put the CD into a large envelope, added the memory sticks from the camera and the copies of the audiotapes. Then she typed out a short note, put it into a smaller envelope, and added stamps.

She went to the door of their bedroom and tapped lightly. “Lori?”

No response.

“Lori, I’m going out. Just for a little while. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Still no response.

Diana gave it up, picked up her knapsack, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. Down in the garage she fired up the Honda Valkyrie, her favorite bike. Her business at the bank took no more than ten minutes. She mailed the letter to Anton Brouwer on her way home.

Chapter Fourteen

They were back at the hotel, and Silva was nursing a cold beer, when his cell phone, the one for which only the director had the number, started to ring. He fished it out of his breast pocket.

“Good evening, Director.”

“Silva?”

It wasn’t the director.

“Who is this?”

“Orlando Muniz. One of your superiors should have talked to you about me. Did he?”

“Yes. How did you get this number, Senhor Muniz?”

“Never mind that. I’ve arrived. I’m in suite nine hundred at the Excelsior. Where are you?”

“In my room. The same hotel.”

“Good. Come up.”

“Right now?”

“Something wrong with your ears?”

“I assumed you’d be staying at your son’s place.”

“It’s not his place. It’s
my
place, and it has two broken doors. I’ll move out there when they’re fixed. Suite nine hundred. Make it quick. I’m waiting.” Muniz hung up.

“And good afternoon to you, too, Senhor Muniz,” Silva said. Then, to Hector, “How about another beer?”

* * *

“Senhor Muniz?” Silva said.

“Who wants him?” the bodyguard said.

“Costa and Silva, Federal Police.”

“Took your own sweet time getting here,” a voice grumbled from inside the suite, and then, giving an order, “Let ’em in, Jair.”

Jair stepped aside. After they walked past him he stuck his head into the corridor, looked left and right, and then locked the door behind them.

Muniz’s suite was a good deal larger than Silva’s, but it was on the top floor of the hotel, just under the roof, so the air-conditioning wasn’t equal to the task of cooling the place. It was uncomfortably hot. If Muniz had shown him a bit more courtesy, Silva might have told him that the hotel had other, cooler, alternatives.

But Muniz hadn’t and Silva didn’t.

Muniz had another visitor and, by the look of things, he’d already been in the suite for some time. Both men were stripped down to their shirtsleeves, had opened their collars, and had circles of sweat under their arms. There was a full ashtray on the coffee table. The same table held a number of empty glasses, an ice bucket, and a bottle of Logan’s Twelve Year Old. The bucket was transparent. It only had a few slivers of ice in the bottom and about a centimeter of water. A strong smell of tobacco was in the air and enough haze to make Silva’s eyes burn.

Muniz stood. He was a short, swarthy man, with a wart to the left of his nose. Earlier in the day, Silva had received photos of his son. There was no physical resemblance.

The other man also stood. Muniz introduced him. “Judge Wilson Cunha.”

The judge offered his hand, first to Silva and then to Hector. He was short and his erect posture and protruding chest reminded Silva of a pigeon. His hair, moist from perspiration and immaculately coifed, was somewhat long for a man of his age and station. It hung slightly over his ears.

The other two men in the room, the fellow who’d opened the door, and another who could have been his younger brother, apparently didn’t rate introductions.

Muniz wiped his forehead on his sleeve, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the chairs surrounding a dining table. “Put two of those”—he pointed to a spot on the opposite side of the coffee table—“right there.”

The men with the flinty eyes did what he’d told them to do and then retreated to opposite corners of the room.

“Sit down,” Muniz said, making it sound more like a command than a courtesy. He sank back into his seat on the couch.

Cunha adjusted his armchair to form a united front. He was obviously going to be on Muniz’s side, whatever it was.

Silva expected to be offered a drink. It didn’t happen.

“You find my boy?” Muniz began without preamble. In Brazil, where manners dictate that virtually every conversation open with some kind of chitchat, it was a clear discourtesy.

“Not yet, senhor
,”
Hector said.

“I was talking to your boss, not you,” Muniz said, sharply. “What about the note?”

“No prints,” Silva said. “Written with a ballpoint pen in block letters.”

“Get it. I want to see it.”

Silva shook his head. “I sent it to Brasilia for analysis. Maybe there are fingerprints. We may learn something of interest from the ink or the paper, but I doubt it. We may be able to confirm the identity of the writer if we catch him, but then again—”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe. That’s all you’ve got? What’s the matter with you people? How many of those agitators have you questioned?”

“League members, you mean?”

“Who else would I mean? Do you know what happened last night?”

“The occupation of your son’s, sorry,
your
fazenda
?
”

“So you’re not completely uninformed? Good for you. You think that threat was bullshit, or is my boy really dead?”

“They made no demands. I’d expect the worst.”

Judge Cunha nodded sagely, as if he’d already made the same point. Then he reached over, used his fingers to extract some of the remaining ice from the bucket, put it into his mouth, and cracked it with his teeth.

“Why haven’t you arrested some of the bastards?” Muniz went on.

“As Judge Cunha here will undoubtedly be able to tell you, there’s the issue of proof—”

“Proof?” Muniz exploded. “Those maggots are crawling all over my fazenda
.
Do you think it’s a coincidence? Haul the bastards in on a trespassing charge. I’ll be happy to question them myself.”

Silva’s jaw tightened, but he kept a close rein on his temper. “It’s possible we may be dealing with two unrelated issues,” he said.

“It’s possible that the blessed Virgin Mary had two balls and a cock,” Muniz said, “but I doubt it.”

The judge looked shocked. But then he reached out, tentatively touched Silva just above his kneecap and cleared his throat. “You have to understand, Chief Inspector, that my friend Senhor Muniz is justifiably upset. He’s worried about his son, as any father would be, and he’s outraged that those . . . people had the effrontery to invade his property.”

He paused, and appeared to be waiting for Silva to respond. When Silva didn’t, the judge continued. “Before you arrived, we were discussing Senhor Muniz’s legal recourses with respect to the occupation. The situation seems very clear to me.”

“Does it? I’m told that Senhor Muniz’s son wasn’t using that land.”

“What the hell has that got to do with it?” Muniz snapped.

“The law states,” Silva said, “that the government can appropriate uncultivated land by paying a fair price for it. The law further states that the government can grant land thus appropriated to landless farmers. If you, Judge, would entertain an act of appropriation, I’m sure the league people could be convinced to leave the property until the case is settled.”

It was Muniz’s turn to look shocked. “Are you insane? Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Before Silva could answer Judge Cunha intervened. “Do you own any land, Chief Inspector? I’m not talking about a piece of property with a house on it, or a little
chacara.
I’m talking about
real
land, a fazenda.”

“No.”

“No. I didn’t think so.” The judge looked at Muniz and gave a faint nod, as if he’d just scored a point. “Then we could hardly expect you to understand, could we?” he said to Silva.

Muniz stood. The interview was over. “We’ll solve it our own way,” he said. “The way we always have. We don’t need your help anymore. Go home.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Silva said. “I wasn’t sent here because of your son, and I have my orders.”

“We’ll see about your orders. Get out.”

“MERDA,” THE director said twenty minutes later, and he said it loud enough to cause Silva to move the cell phone away from his ear. “I told you to treat him with kid gloves. What am I going to tell the minister? Get on a plane and get out of there. Muniz won’t stay for more than a day or two. You can go back just as soon as he’s gone.”

“You’re the boss, but . . .”

“But what?”

“It’s pretty obvious what Muniz is up to. He’s got a local judge in his pocket, and I have no doubt he’s got more than the two capangas I saw in his suite. He’ll have brought them in from one of his other fazendas
,
or from Paraguay. This town is already packed with people from the national press. If Muniz gets his way there’s going to be a slaughter, and when there is, the journalists are going to spread it all over the media.”

The director reflected for a moment, considering the consequences.

“I’ll have the minister talk to him,” he finally said.

“As you wish. But if you do, and if Muniz ignores him and goes ahead with his plans, the minister won’t have any deniability. He might not thank you for that.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the telephone. Finally, the director said, “Well, then, get that State Police Colonel Whatshisname to stop it.”

“With respect, Director, Colonel Ferraz will do what Judge Cunha tells him to do, and the judge will do what Muniz tells
him
to do. Ferraz, by the way, has a large landholding of his own.”

“A cop with a fazenda
?
”

“Yes, Director, a cop with a fazenda
,
and that should give all of us an idea about what kind of a cop he is, don’t you think? Anyway, he’s got no sympathy for the league. If they need his protection, the odds are that he’ll be somewhere else. He might even be the person they’ll be needing protection from.”

“Can’t you get that judge to do something?”

“No. But I’m sure Muniz can. I’m also sure that, if he does, we’re not going to like it.”

“So what do we do?”

“I’ll try to defuse the situation. Meanwhile, I’ll keep trying to find out what happened to the bishop and to Muniz’s son. It’s possible the two events are connected.”

“Connected? How?”

“I’m not sure, and I could be wrong. I just have a hunch.”

“What’s your next step?”

“I still want to go to Presidente Vargas and talk to the bishop’s secretary.”

“That again? We’ve been through that already. You want to leave Cascatas? At a time like this? Not on your life.”

The director seemed unaware that he’d just undergone a complete reversal of position.

“Just for the day,” Silva said. “I—”

“Out of the question,” the director said. “Not on your life. You stay right where you are. Send that nephew of yours.”