Perfect Hatred (9 page)

Before he could flag down a taxi, Silva’s cell phone rang. “I told you to stay away from Orestes Saldana.” Braulio
Serpa squawked.
“Ah, yes, now that you mention it, I do recall you saying
something of that nature.”
In the face of Silva’s equanimity, Serpa lowered his
voice—but didn’t moderate his tone.
“You do, do you? Well, let me tell you this. The old bastard
didn’t like your attitude one damned bit. He called my boss
to bitch about you.”
“Governor Abbas?”
“Who else? Those two guys are as thick as thieves.” Silva saw a taxi approaching and raised a hand to flag it
down.
“Some would say that’s an apt comparison, Braulio.” “What?”
“Thieves.”
“Goddamn it, Silva, you know what I mean. You gotta
stop this shit. You’re doing the same goddamned thing this
time that you did the last time.”
The taxi pulled over and stopped.
“Which is?”
“Sticking your nose into places where it doesn’t belong.
This isn’t Brasilia. This is Paraná. Around here, you gotta be
more circumspect.”
Silva got into the back seat of the cab and slammed the
door.
“Circumspect?”
“Cooperate with people, not antagonize them.” Silva signaled to continue driving in the same direction.
The man behind the wheel responded with a thumbs-up and
pulled away from the curb.

“Is that the reason for your call?” Silva asked. “To advise me to be more circumspect?”
“No,” Serpa said, “it isn’t. The reason is because he wants to talk to you.”
“Who?”
“Abbas.”
“Why?”
“He wants a progress report.”
“I don’t report to the governor of Paraná, Braulio. I report to the Director of the Federal Police.”
“Not in this case, you don’t. In this case, you’re gonna have to make an exception.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because you’re going to be told to do it. Abbas called Pontes, and Pontes will be calling Sampaio.”
Sergio Pontes, the Minister of Justice, was Sampaio’s boss—and Sampaio was Silva’s.
Silva cursed under his breath, but Serpa must have heard him. His tone turned cheerful.
“Your appointment is for nine sharp tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.”

“At my age,” Orestes Saldana’s mother said, “one retires at night with the awareness that one may not wake up in the morning. One accepts there not being anyone left, who remembers the world one lived in as a little girl. One accustoms oneself to one’s infirmities. But one can never quite get used to being stabbed in the back by one’s own son.”

Ariana Saldana and Arnaldo were seated on the terrace of her penthouse, an extensive affair with a distant view of the Oscar Niemeyer Museum. Her maid had served them coffee and then parked herself on a sofa beyond the sliding glass doors leading to the living room. Ostensibly occupied with her knitting, it was likely the maid had chosen the spot because it was an ideal position from which to keep an attentive eye on her ninety-three-year-old mistress.

I doubt you can.”
It had been a long time since anyone had called Arnaldo
Nunes a young man.
“Children,” she said, “are supposed to be a solace, but the
truth of the matter is my two boys never caused me anything
but grief.”
Arnaldo arrested the movement of his cup. “
Two?
It was
my understanding Orestes was your only child.”
“He wasn’t. His twin brother, whom we never named, was
stillborn, strangled by his umbilical cord. I used to joke with
Plínio that his father had put it there so he could absorb all my attention. My son is a despicable human being. Diogo was the one who put you in touch with me. Did he tell you
the story?”
Arnaldo returned his willow-patterned cup, an exquisite
piece in delicate porcelain, to its matching saucer. “Not in detail, Senhora, but he touched on the essentials.” “If it hadn’t been for Plínio,” she said, “I’d still be sitting
in that institution—or dead. Probably dead. I didn’t thrive
behind bars. I felt like a caged bird.”
The comparison, Arnaldo thought, was apt. Like a bird,
her bones were frail, her movements swift and constant. “Before Orestes committed me,” she continued, “I owned
a parrot. I thought of that creature as a member of our family, thought of him as being happy in his cage. But my time
under lock and key changed that. After I was released, I took
him into the rainforest and let him go. I’ll never own a bird
again.”
“In all the time you were locked up,” Arnaldo said, “the
only help you got was from Plínio?”
“From Stella too. Stella’s a dear girl.”
“Did you appeal to your other grandson, Lúcio?” “I did, but the pusillanimous little weasel wouldn’t lift a
finger. Not a finger. He was afraid of offending his father, and
in one sense, he’s just like him.”
“What sense?”
“The only thing he’s capable of loving is money. But at
least Orestes has balls. Lúcio, that emasculated little turd,
has none.”
The foul language came as a surprise. She saw his reaction,
and a smile creased her lips.
“Sometimes,” she said, “in striving for what Flaubert called
le mot juste,
one cannot escape vulgarity.”
“And why would one want to?” Arnaldo said.
“A bit of a vulgarian yourself, are you?”
“More than a bit,” he admitted.
“Mind you,” she said, “Lúcio, for all his faults, is still my
grandson. The last thing I want to do is hurt him.” “Last thing, maybe, but it’s still on your list, right?” She gave a delighted laugh. “I like you, Agent Nunes.
Thank you for coming to see me. I appreciate your efforts.” “
De nada
, Senhora.”
“I mean it. My grandson was one of the finest human
beings I’ve ever known. I don’t say that because he was my
grandson, or even because he was so good to me. I say it
because he
was
. Julio Cataldo, may he rot in hell, did more
than hurt me, and Stella, and a number of other people who
knew and loved Plínio. He also did Paraná a tremendous
disservice. In fact, he did all of Brazil a disservice. Plínio
had everything it would have taken to go all the way, to
go beyond the governorship, to become President of the
Republic. And, if he’d succeeded, he would have made the
best President of the Republic of all those I’ve experienced
in my long lifetime.”
She sat back in her chair and took a deep breath. “My
grandson’s death, Agent Nunes, has tired me of life. I’d like
to see Stella take office before I go. And then I’m done. I
have no other reason for living.”
“Not even to see the person or persons responsible for
Plínio’s murder brought to justice?”
“That person was Julio Cataldo. And Julio Cataldo is
dead.”
“He’s dead. But suppose he didn’t act alone. Suppose
someone recruited him.”
“You think that’s what happened?”
“I think it’s possible. And so does my boss.”
“What evidence, if any, do you have to support that theory?” “No hard evidence at all. But. . . .”
“But what?”
“You know about Nestor?”
“Nestor Cambria? Plínio’s friend? The one who shot
Cataldo, the one who’s in the hospital?”
“He’s not there anymore, Senhora. Someone went into his
room and murdered him.”
“
Murdered
him?”
“Rendered him unconscious by striking him with something heavy, and smothered him to death with a pillow.” Her pale skin turned even paler, and she put a hand over
her mouth, as if she was about to be sick. “Oh, my God,” she
said. “The poor, poor man. And such a nice man, too!” “He
was
a nice man, Senhora, and a good friend of mine.” “How’s his wife taking it?”
“Badly, I expect. I haven’t seen her yet, but they were crazy
about each other.”
“You’ll get the man who did it, won’t you?”
“Man or woman, Senhora.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect a woman?” Stella Saldana was on their list of possibles, but Arnaldo
didn’t feel it was the time to mention it—or the person to
mention it to. “No,” he said, “no particular reason.” “Do you think the two murders might be linked? Plínio’s
and Nestor’s?”
“It’s conceivable.”
“In what way?”
A clear possibility existed that Nestor was involved in a
conspiracy to kill Plínio, and that someone had killed him
to keep it quiet, but Arnaldo wasn’t about to talk about that
either.
“Sorry,” he said. “It wouldn’t be right for me to speculate
about that.”
“I understand. You’re supposed to keep an open mind, so
you don’t want to talk to me about any suspicions you might
have. But I’ve probably heard the same rumor you have.” “Which rumor is that
, Senhora
?”
“That Abbas had something to do with my grandson’s
murder. I give no credence to it. I don’t think Abbas would
be that stupid. Wouldn’t he have foreseen that Stella would
step-up in Plínio’s place? Surely, he would. And then,
wouldn’t he have killed her as well? No, I think you can
exclude Abbas from your list of suspects.”
Ariana Saldana wasn’t only bright, she also didn’t mince
words.
Arnaldo took the decision not to mince his either: “This
is a stretch, Senhora, but I’m going to ask it anyway: Do you
think we should be looking at your son?”
“You’re suggesting Orestes killed my grandson to forestall
a threat to his business?”
“Not suggesting, Senhora. Just asking if you think it might
be possible.”
“I think not. Orestes has assets that go far beyond his construction company. The bankruptcy of that company would
hurt him, but it would hardly ruin him, no matter what he says.” “How about your other grandson, Lúcio? With Plínio
dead, he stands to inherit it all.”
She shook her head.
“Not Lúcio. He wouldn’t have the courage.”
Arnaldo rubbed his chin. “Not even to commission the job?” “If he managed to convince himself it couldn’t be traced
back to him . . . well, yes, he
might
do it. Certainly, he’d have
no moral reservations. He hasn’t
got
any morals, that one.” “Any other ideas?”
Her answer was a long time in coming. “No,” she finally
said.

Lúcio Saldana’s office was in a modern high-rise sheathed in mirrored glass. The spacious lobby soared for two stories. The ceiling was peppered with tiny spotlights, and the floor was of a creamy, white marble. Upstairs, the elevator opened to reveal carpets of thick burgundy.

Arnaldo’s initial impression was of success, luxury, expense, but that impression shifted the minute he entered Lúcio’s suite.
The waiting room was empty. A two-tone chime, rather than a receptionist, greeted his arrival. The coffee table was strewn with magazines, but none were recent, all had seen hard use, and some were even lacking covers.
On a desk, next to a computer, was an appointment book. He flipped through the pages and discovered that most of them were blank. When he moved the mouse, the computer came to life—on a game of solitaire.
Two doors opened off the waiting room. Arnaldo heard footsteps approaching the closest one and moved away from the desk, just before it opened
“Whatever you’re selling,” the woman said, taking in his cheap suit and scuffed shoes, “we don’t want any.”
She was a blonde, and a pretty one, but with a minor flaw in her well-groomed façade: she’d neglected to completely close the zipper on the side of her skirt. Arnaldo had the distinct impression he’d interrupted something—and she wasn’t pleased about it.
“Please, don’t turn me away,” he said. “I need the business. I’ve got a wife and fourteen children to support.”
“Fourteen?” she said. “How come I don’t believe you?”
“Then how about this,” he said. “I’m a federal cop, and I want to see your boss.”
She didn’t believe that either. “Maybe,” she said, “you might want to think about getting out of here before I call security.”
“And maybe you might want to look at this,” he said, holding up his warrant card.
She came closer and squinted at it. “Oh,” she said.
“But I admit,” he said, “I lied about the fourteen children. Is your boss in there?” He pointed at the door behind her.
Her response was oblique. “I don’t care if you
are
a federal cop,” she said. “You can’t just barge in here without an appointment and disrupt our schedule.”
“I just did. Call him right now, or I’ll get out my brass knuckles.”
She heaved a sigh, went back through the door, and slammed it behind her.
Two minutes later she was back. This time, her zipper was properly closed, She saw Arnaldo looking at it, avoided his eyes, and stepped aside.
“Down there,” she said. “The door at the end.”
Two other doors, one to the left, and one to the right, were closed. The corridor she’d ushered him into was no more than four meters long.
A toilet and a small storage closet
, Arnaldo thought.
There was nothing small, though, about Lúcio Saldana’s office. There were windows on two sides, and the view from both was impressive: in one direction, urban sprawl backed up by distant mountains, in the other, the river. Off to one side was an informal seating area with a couple of armchairs and a couch.
Saldana was standing behind his desk with his necktie askew. He was a weasel of a man with distrustful eyes and a sunken chest that even his expensive suit couldn’t conceal. He looked nothing at all like his handsome sibling.
“Saldana,” he said, forcing a smile, and belatedly extending a hand.
Arnaldo took it. It was moist, and Saldana’s grip was weak. “The name’s Nunes,” he said, “I’m an agent with the Federal Police. But your receptionist has probably told you that already.”
“She has,” Saldana said. “What’s this all about?”
He indicated one of the chairs in front of his desk.
“Your brother’s death.”
Arnaldo sat down and crossed his legs. Lúcio resumed his seat. “I was told,” he said, “that we wouldn’t be bothered about that anymore.”
“We?”
“My father and I.”
“Told by whom?”
“Governor Abbas. Why are you here?”
“I’m here, Senhor Saldana, because the Minister of Justice told the Director of the Federal Police to send my boss and me to Curitiba to investigate your brother’s death.”
“So investigate. But that’s no reason to come and bother me with it. Governor Abbas told my father specifically—”
“We wouldn’t be here at all if it wasn’t for your friend Governor Abbas. He’s the one who called the Minister of Justice in the first place.”
Lúcio made a dismissive gesture. “The governor isn’t
my
friend; he’s my father’s friend.”
“Despite the fact your brother accused him of being a crook? Despite the fact your sister-in-law is running against him?”
“The governor knows what my father thought about my brother, and he knows what he thinks about Stella.”
“Which is?”
“He hated Plínio, and he’s got no use for her.”
“Hated his own son?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Enough to kill him?”
“Certainly not.”
“And how about you?”
“What about me?”
“Did you hate your brother?”
“What kind of a question is that?”
“A simple one. Did you hate your brother?”
“No, I didn’t hate my brother. We had our differences, I admit, but hate is too strong a word. I didn’t hate him, I didn’t even dislike him.”
“Did you associate with him? Visit him? Talk to him?”
“No.”
“Why not? If you didn’t dislike him?”
Lúcio gave an exasperated sigh. “Plínio and my father were . . . estranged. I couldn’t have it both ways. I had to choose between them. I chose my father.”
“Are you telling me that neither one would have accepted you having a relationship with the other?”
“That’s what I’m telling you.”
“Why not?”
“My father thought Plínio was an ingrate who’d bitten the hand that fed him. Plínio thought my father had no social conscience, that he’d mistreated my grandmother and that he was supporting a crook.”
“Governor Abbas?”
“Yes, Governor Abbas.”
“And what did
you
think?”
“I told you. I supported my father.”
“Out of conviction? Or because you’re dependent upon him?”
Lúcio frowned. “I find your question offensive in the extreme.”
“Too bad. How about you put your offense aside and answer it?”
“My father prizes loyalty above all things. I feel it’s my duty to please him. Venality plays no part in our relationship.”
“And you had no part whatsoever in having your brother killed?”
Lúcio placed three fingers on his breast. “I? You must be joking.”
“No, Senhor Saldana, I’m not joking. The first thing we do when we set out to solve any case is to look for a motive. And you had one: with Plínio’s death, you became your father’s sole heir.”
“What you’re suggesting is outrageous.”
“Is it?”
“It is! Now, I suggest you leave.”
Arnaldo had said his piece, received the denial he expected and didn’t think he was about to get anything more out of the interview.
So he took Saldana’s suggestion. And left.