“I’m sure.”
Jardin selected a single glass, delicately cut and looking like it cost a bundle, and resumed his seat.
“Where were we?” he said, pouring the amber liquid.
“You tired of her company.”
“Ah yes.” He took a sip. “I did.”
“Why?”
Jardin thought for a moment. “Gossip is one thing,” he said. “I’m not averse to a little of it myself, but spewing venom is another. I never heard her say a good word about anyone. So I drew the obvious conclusion: she wasn’t saying good words about me either.”
“How about her future mother-in-law?”
“Juraci? I don’t recall Cintia saying anything at all about Juraci. It would have been naïve to do so, and naïve is one thing Cintia is not. Everyone is well aware that the relationship between the Artist and his mother is a close one. If Cintia had expressed a negative opinion about her, there are scads of people who would have rushed off to make sure the Artist heard about it.”
“How about the Artist’s father? I don’t recall hearing anything about him. Ever.”
“You never will. Although I’ve been told there’s a claimant every now and then.”
“A claimant?”
“Juraci was … how shall I put this? Let’s just say that, in her youth, she was quite profligate with her charms. She’s never been quite sure who the Artist’s father is. That’s not what she gives out, but I assure you it’s true. Now, however, now that her talented son has come to fame and fortune, many of the men who’ve passed through Juraci’s life earnestly desire to be admitted back into it.”
“How does she handle it?”
“Denies them, one and all; claims that the Artist’s real father was a stonemason killed in a construction accident when his son was very young.”
“And that’s what most people believe?”
“That’s what virtually everyone believes. Fofocas has investigated her story in some detail. They’ve been unable to disprove it.”
Gonçalves’s familiarity with Fofocas stemmed from the fact that it kept turning up in the bathrooms, or next to the beds, of many of the women he slept with. None of them ever admitted to purchasing it. One of their girlfriends, they’d say, must have left it behind, by mistake.
“How come you don’t buy into the stonemason story?”
Jardin smiled. “Unlike you,” he said, “Juraci Santos is fond of sherry. We’ve had a few tipples together and have, how shall I put this? Shared confidences.”
“Tell me more.”
“No, dear boy, I won’t, not without a good deal more sherry. Do you like erotic sketches?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Erotic sketches. Do you like them? I have a rather impressive collection.”
“No. I can’t say I’m much of a fan. You said you had two reasons for thinking Cintia a bitch. One of them was personal experience. And the other?”
“The opinion of the Artist’s mother.”
“Well, that’s certainly relevant. Why don’t you tell me about that?”
“Hmm,” Jardin said. “There are limits even to my indiscretion, but I see no harm in telling you this much: Juraci Santos employed a private detective to check up on Cintia Tadesco’s background. Unlike her son, Juraci is actually quite a perceptive woman, all too aware of the Artist’s shortcomings. She never accepted that a bombshell like La Tadesco could possibly be interested in anything other than her son’s money and fame. At the very least, she thought, Cintia must be cheating on him. Mother’s instinct, she’d tell me.”
“Who is this private detective she hired?”
“She told me, but I don’t recall his name.”
“Do you know if he discovered anything of note?”
“No.”
Jardin picked up the sherry bottle.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Correct. I don’t know. But, knowing Cintia, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he did.”
Jardin topped up his glass.
“Did Juraci tell her son she’d hired a private detective?”
Jardin took a sip of his sherry and breathed out a contented sigh.
“She didn’t,” he said. “She said the Artist would be furious if he found out.”
“Unless, of course, the detective came up with something.”
“True. And she was hopeful he would. At least, she was the last time I spoke to her.”
“How long ago was that?”
“In the course of her last visit. Three weeks ago today. Which brings me back to Fofocas. Do you ever read it, by the way?”
“No. Do you?”
“Of course I do, dear boy. After all, my name is in it more often than not.”
“What has Fofocas got to do with anything?”
“This: despite what you might think about the editorial content of the publication, they have some highly competent journalists there, always digging, digging and sifting through the dirt. Their readers like being exposed to a glittering world of which they can never hope to become a part, but they like the scandals of that world even more. The divorces, the love affairs, the drug problems, the health problems, the suicide attempts, those are the things that give impetus to circulation. It would dribble away to naught if they only printed snapshots of society parties, or interviews with air-headed show business people. Those are just the icing on the gossip cake. If there’s something to find on Cintia, I daresay Fofocas will come up with it. The detective might not, but I assure you that Fofocas will—again, if there’s anything to find. I told that to Juraci, told her she could have saved her money. But she said she couldn’t wait. She wanted to nip the relationship in the bud, break it up before it got any more serious. The Artist was already talking about marrying the woman.”
“Speaking of the ladies and gentlemen of the press, were you the one who tipped off Radio Mundo about the fact that the Artist’s mother had gone missing?”
“My dear boy, why would I ever do anything like that?”
“Maybe because they give you free publicity from time to time, and you felt obligated to return the favor?”
Jardin smiled. “It must be fascinating to be a policeman, always solving riddles. You have a talent for it, I can tell. I’ll bet your superiors are proud of you.”
“How about you answer my question?”
“And how about we adjourn to my place? I have a most excellent cook and a superb wine cellar. We could make an evening of it, just the two of us.”
Chapter Nine
IT WAS GILDA’S NIGHT to cook. Garlic, sautéing in butter, perfumed the hallway between the elevator and their front door. In the kitchen, where Hector’s fiancée was deftly wielding a chef’s knife, colorful mounds of diced vegetables lined the counter.
The youngest of São Paulo’s female assistant medical examiners blew a few strands of silky, black hair out of her eyes, offered a cheek to be kissed and kept on dicing.
“It’s a curry,” she said. “Killer hot. You’re going to love it.”
He came up behind her, put his arm around her waist and nuzzled her ear.
“This,” he said, “is what I love. As far as your cooking is concerned….”
“Finish that sentence,” she said, waving the knife, “and you starve. Your uncle arrive?”
He released her, picked up the drink that was waiting for him and put it to his lips. It had become their daily ritual, a glass of wine in the kitchen.
“He did,” Hector said, after taking a sip.
“Why didn’t you bring him home for dinner?”
“He went to see the Artist.”
Gilda rinsed her hands in the sink and dried them with a paper towel.
“Bastards,” she said.
Hector didn’t ask her who she was talking about. The most maligned people in the country that day were the ones who’d abducted Juraci Santos.
“I went out to her house and had a look around.” He filled her in on
his conversation with Lefkowitz and shared the tech’s theories.
“He’s good, isn’t he, that Lefkowitz?” she said when he was done.
“Damned good,” he said.
“He talked me into extracting the bullets before I came home.”
“So that was his idea? I thought you offered.”
“I probably would have left it until tomorrow, if he hadn’t asked. They were twenty-twos. We sent them to Brasilia.” She picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. “I heard the sisters were found holding hands.”
“That’s right.”
“And I heard the bastards killed a little dog.”
“They did.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“What kept you?”
“A meeting. My uncle, Arnaldo, Babyface and Mara.”
“The usual suspects. Has she managed to get her hooks into him yet?”
“Mara? Into Babyface? She must be ten years older than he is.”
“Not Babyface, silly. Your uncle.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gilda added a masala to the pan. The aroma of the spices began to overpower the smell of garlic.
“Come on, darling,” she said, “you know what I’m talking about.”
“I certainly do not.”
“You don’t know that Mara Carta is sweet on your uncle?”
“What? No!”
“She is. Every woman in your office knows it. Even I know it, and I don’t work in your office.”
“So how come I don’t know it?”
“Because you’re a male and dense.”
“My uncle would never—”
“I didn’t say he would. I’m just saying Mara is sweet on him.”
“He loves my Aunt Irene, and she loves him.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I don’t doubt Mara loves him as well. You come right down to it, he’s pretty lovable. And she’s divorced.”
“With two kids.”
“And your uncle has no kids, and he loves kids.”
Gilda added the diced vegetables to the pan. Hector drained his wine, got up and poured himself another glass.
“Take it easy with that,” she said.
“You want more?”
“With dinner.”
“Beer goes better with curry.”
“The hell it does. Ask any Indian.”
“Indians aren’t supposed to drink.”
“That depends on the Indian. They’re not all Hindus and Muslims, and they’re not all devout.”
He sat down again, took another sip.
“How long,” he said, “do you think this has been going on?”
“Indians drinking wine?”
“Cut it out, Gilda.”
“Mara being sweet on Mario? I have no idea.”
“When did you first notice?”
“At last year’s Christmas party. Mara had a few too many. She made it obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“No, and I don’t think it was obvious to your uncle either. He’s kind of dense that way.”
“Dense? Mario Silva is the sharpest criminal investigator in this country.”
“Uh huh. But Mara isn’t a criminal. Tell me this: today, during your meeting, did she sit next to him at the table?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Did she touch him?”
“Touch him how?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. On his arm, maybe? Leaned up against him perhaps?”
“She might have.”
“Might have, huh? More than once?”
“Gilda, this is silly. That’s the way Mara is. She’s kind of touchy-feely. It doesn’t really mean anything.”
“Uh huh. When was the last time she touched you?”
Hector thought about it for a moment.
“I don’t think she ever has,” he said.
“Did she hover over him, serve him coffee?”
“She … gave him a hot towel to clean his face when he got in from the airport, and she had a sandwich waiting.”
“I rest my case.”
“Case? There is no case! Mara is sadly mistaken if she thinks she can get anywhere with my uncle. He’s not interested in any woman except his wife.”
She grinned. “That’s part of his appeal. He’s a challenge.”
“Gilda, this is no laughing matter. You know the state Irene is in. She’s fragile.”
“I know the state she’s in. I know she’s fragile. I also know she drinks herself insensible every night. I know she’s not capable of having a conversation with anyone after six o’clock in the evening, and that your uncle is never home before six.”
“She never got over their son’s death. She can’t help herself. You know that.”
“Hector, with all due respect to your aunt, her son died twenty years ago.”
“So?”
“So maybe Mara thinks Mario has put up with Irene’s dipsomania long enough, that the mourning should come to an end, that your uncle deserves a better life from here on in. Maybe she thinks she can give it to him.”
“That’s for him to decide, not her.”
“Do you think they even make love anymore? Mario and Irene?”
“I have no idea, and I’d never ask.”
“Maybe you should tell him Mara is interested, draw his attention to it, see how he reacts.”
“No way,” Hector said, “I know exactly how he’d react. He’d reject the idea out of hand.”
“But if you—”
“No, Gilda. No and no. There is no way I’m going to get involved in this.”
“And there, ladies and gentlemen, is another outstanding example of the difference between men and women. Get some plates, Hector, and set the table.”
Chapter Ten
“FINALLY,” SILVA SAID. “HERE we go at last. Turn that windbag off.”
“Gladly,” Arnaldo said.
It was nine AM, and for the last five minutes, they’d been sitting in their stationary automobile, suffering the insufferable: a radio interview with Gonzalo Bufa, the Argentinean coach. Bufa had been giving a detailed analysis of why he thought the Brazilian team was overrated.
“The man’s full of crap,” Arnaldo said. “We shoulda stuck with the traffic report.”
“Damned traffic reports are useless,” Silva said.
“So’s Bufa, thank God.”
After an interval of almost fifteen minutes, the beer truck in front of them had started rolling again. All around them, people were turning on the motors they’d shut off when traffic on the marginal, the belt road around the city, had come to a standstill. From overhead, came the constant drone of helicopters, the favored form of transport for the city’s wealthy elite, and the only reliable way to get anywhere in São Paulo on a weekday morning between seven and ten.
“How about this?” Arnaldo said. “How about Juraci went to Cintia and hit her with a Break up with my son or else? And then—”
“Cintia, intent on making her fortune out of the Artist despite his mother’s objection, kills Juraci and makes it look like a kidnapping? From gold digging to murder in one easy step? No, Arnaldo, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either, not really, but I still wouldn’t be surprised if Cintia was involved in one way or another. Maybe for a chunk of the five million. Don’t forget, she had access to a key, and up to now, we don’t know of anyone else who did. How about we go back and lean on her a little?”
“Maybe later. Let’s do some more digging first.”
Silva glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Damn! I’d better call Pedro and tell him we’ll be late.”
Before he could, his cell phone burst into life. The ID came up as private. Silva, averse to the practice, took the call with some reluctance.
“Silva.”
“Chief Inspector, it’s me, Tico.”
Silva’s objections vanished. Tico, of course, had to confine himself to telephones free of call
er IDs. If he didn’t, his contact numbers would soon become common knowledge—and he’d be deluged by calls from fans.
“Good morning, Senhor Santos.”
“Tico.”
“What can I do for you, Tico?”
“You know those keys you asked about?”
“Yes?”
“Cintia found them.”
“Where?”
“In a drawer, in the bedroom.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yeah. I don’t like to go out. There’s a gang of reporters at the front door. More, even, than last night.”
“We’ll need those keys, Tico. I’ll send someone over to pick them up.”
“Okay.”
“One thing puzzles me. You’ve been in training with the team in Curitiba, right?”
“Right.”
“But your mother only got those keys last Thursday, and you said she delivered them to you personally.”
“She did. When I came for the party.”
“Party? You broke training for a party?”
There was a long pause. When Tico finally spoke, he sounded sheepish.
“Cintia got this big perfume contract. She wanted to celebrate, said it wouldn’t be the same without me, so I went to talk to Dumbo about it.”
“And he agreed.”
“No. He …”
“He what?”
“He got mad. He said some things about Cintia that I didn’t like.”
“And you told Cintia?”
Silence.
“Tico?”
“Yeah. I told her.”
“And she convinced you to come to São Paulo, despite Dumbo’s objections?”
“It wasn’t like she had to convince me. I wanted to come.”
“When was the party?”
“Saturday night. It was no big deal. I didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, and I was in São Paulo for less than forty-eight hours. I came up on Saturday morning and went back to Curitiba on Sunday morning. And the team doesn’t practice on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings.”
“Why didn’t you tell us about coming to São Paulo when last we spoke?”
“I didn’t think it was important.”
“Listen to me, Tico. At this stage, there’s no way of knowing
what’s important and what isn’t. You have to tell me everything, you understand?”
A Vine in the Blood Page 6
