“Talafero is taking centavo bets?”
“He is, which opens it up to kids and pensioners and people living in favelas.”
“Just like the animal game.”
“Which is why Miranda doesn’t like it. And, since the whole country is football crazy, folks are flocking to Talafero and his football action.”
“And away from Miranda and his animals.”
“Exactly.”
“Stupid,” Arnaldo said. “Miranda isn’t going to take it lying down.”
“But Talafero didn’t get where he is today by being stupid,”
Silva said.
“You think he’s worked out a plan for neutralizing Miranda?”
“I think it’s likely. But let’s not get sidetracked. Our primary objective is to recover Juraci Santos and to see that the people who murdered her maids get what’s coming to them. Miranda and Talafero only merit investigative time if they can contribute to that objective. We’re not going to waste more energy on Talafero until we’ve explored a few other avenues.”
“How about Miranda?”
“We’ll talk to him. But what Pedro just said makes sense.His samba school is unlikely to be as important to him as Talafero seems to think it is or, at least, told us it was. With all of his other businesses absorbing his attention, I don’t think it’s likely he’d set out to kidnap Juraci if it was only for the money.”
“If you don’t think he’s involved in the kidnapping,” Pedro said, “why do you want to talk to him at all?”
“Because a man in his position would have more underworld connections than anyone. He’ll be plugged in. People will tell him things. He’ll know where to go to get answers.”
“So?”
“So I’m going to ask for his help in bringing the Artist’s mother home alive.”
“I see two things wrong with that,” Pedro said.
“Tell me,” Silva said.
“Miranda is a selfish bastard. He’s not likely to help without getting something in return.”
“That’s one. What’s the other?”
“We have no reason to believe Juraci Santos is alive at all.”
Chapter Fifteen
JURACI AWOKE TO A splitting headache, her body drenched in sweat, her heart beating wildly in her chest, the nightmare fresh in her mind.
Except it wasn’t a nightmare. A man wearing a hood had broken down her door, had pinned her to her bed, had stuck a hypodermic needle in her arm. Now she was … she was … where the hell was she?
The place reminded her of nothing so much as a windowless prison cell. Except for the door: no bars, solid wood. The walls smelled of fresh cement. On one of them, held in place by a single nail driven into the concrete, was a typewritten piece of paper. She stared at it until the letters came into focus:
The Rules
Do not talk to us. We will not answer you.
Do not shout, or scream. No one will hear you.
This is about money. You are being held for ransom. When your son pays us, you’ll be released unharmed.
When you stretch out on the floor, your hands will come within twenty centimeters of the door. This will enable you to reach your food trays and exchange used buckets for clean ones.
The bucket is your toilet. After use, put it against the wall to the right of the door. It will be removed and exchanged for a clean one. We will do this when we bring you food.
You will be fed three times a day. We will knock. You will sit on the bed. We will open the door wide enough to put the tray on the floor. Only after the door has closed again may you stretch out and drag the tray toward you. After eating, put the tray back in the same place you got it from.
If you violate any rule, you will spend the next twentyfour hours without food or water.
AFTER SHE’D READ THE seventh rule, she’d curled herself into a ball and wept.
Hours later, it seemed, they’d given her food for the first time. It consisted of a ham and cheese sandwich and a bottle of water.
There’d been no eating utensils, no cup, or glass. The bread, at least, had been fresh.
While she’d been unconscious, they’d changed her clothes, taken off her urine-stained nightgown and dressed her in a track suit. It pinched at the waist, in the armpits, in the crotch. They could have abused her when she was naked, but they hadn’t.
Maybe, she thought, because I still stink of piss.
She’d wanted to use some of the water to clean herself, but she was so thirsty, and there was so little of it, that she’d drunk it all.
There was a chain around her ankle, loosely fastened with a small padlock. Another padlock linked the chain to an eye bolt set into the wall. The loop around her ankle was beginning to chafe her skin.
Her cell was square, the walls about four meters apart. In the middle of the ceiling, a bare bulb hung from a wire. What they’d referred to as a bed was, in reality, no more than a mattress on the floor, no frame, no spring, no sheets. The air was warm and stale. The only source of fresh air was a single aluminum vent set into the top of the door.
There was no radio, no television, but they’d left her a stack of old magazines. She was grateful for that.
Her captors were two, one tall and broad-shouldered, one of less than average height and girth for a man, but average on both counts if the captor was a woman. Their outfits were identical: blue coveralls, a hood made of blue cloth, black tennis shoes and vinyl gloves.
They rotated, first one, then the other, never coming into her cell together, never speaking.
Except once.
That time, they had come in together. The big one had handed her a newspaper, and told her how to hold it, while the smaller one took a photograph.
That incident happened shortly after she awoke. The flash had made her headache worse. They’d taken the newspaper with them when they’d left.
Were they people she knew?
The thought disturbed her.
Something else disturbed her, too.
Back in her bedroom, before the big oaf put the needle in her arm, she’d heard two sharp reports.
In the favela of her childhood, such sounds were everyday events, background noise, like birdsong in the countryside, or surf on a beach. She’d heard them many hundreds of times.
Gunshots.
Chapter Sixteen
IRENE ASKED HIM WHEN he’d be coming home.
“We talked about that yesterday,” Silva said, and then regretted it. It would pain her to know she’d been so drunk she couldn’t remember.
“I … I miss you,” she said, in a small voice, slurring her speech. He took it for what it was—a drunken attempt to apologize.
“And I miss you, Irene. Now, let me talk to Maria de Lourdes.”
Silva no longer felt comfortable about leaving his wife alone, not since the day, almost three months ago, when he’d come home to find her in a stupor on the kitchen floor. She’d hit a corner of the table on the way down, and the gash had bled profusely. He thought, at first, that she’d been shot, there was so much blood on the tiles.
He’d promptly hired Maria de Lourdes Krups, their former cleaning woman, as Irene’s full-time companion.
Despite her somewhat Teutonic surname, Maria de Lourdes was a mulata from Paraná, fiercely loyal to Silva and infinitely patient with his alcoholic wife. The loyalty stemmed from a favor he’d done her once, an affair linked to her only son, like Silva’s, now dead.
“Senhor?” Maria de Lourdes said.
“I should have called earlier, shouldn’t I?”
“I’m sure you’ve been busy, Senhor.”
“It’s early in the day for her to be that far along. Has she had any more than usual?”
“No, Senhor. Sometimes it’s just….”
“I understand. Call me on my cell phone when she’s gone to bed.”
“Sí, Senhor.”
Silva hung up. Mara stopped typing on her laptop. Arnaldo put down his pencil.
“How is she?” Arnaldo said.
“The usual. Hasn’t had a fall, though, for almost a month.” “Because Maria de Lourdes follows her around like a mother hen.”
“Maybe. She’s a jewel, that woman.”
“Why don’t you just cut her off?” Mara asked. “Stop buying it for her. Don’t give her any money.”
“Doesn’t work,” Silva said. “You can’t force a cure on an alcoholic. They have to want to get cured.”
“Irene doesn’t want to get cured?”
“Not yet.” Silva changed the subject. “That call you took while I was talking to her? Was it about the keys? The ones you picked up at the Artist’s place?”
“It was. They fit. No useful prints other than those of Cintia and the Artist.”
“And Cintia Tadesco’s skin?”
“Perfect. The bitch.”
“Bitch is right,” Arnaldo said. “I do so hope she’s mixed up in this. If she is, I want to be the one to cuff her.”
“Get in line, Nunes,” Mara said. “Ladies first.”
“What was in the syringe?” Silva asked.
“We don’t know,” Mara said. “Not yet.”
“Hurry the lab along.”
“I’m on it.”
“Ballistics?”
“The bullets that killed both maids were fired from the same weapon.”
“Surprise, surprise,” Arnaldo said, and would have said more, but just then, they heard footsteps approaching in the corridor, a woman’s high heels, moving fast. They all looked at the door.
Celeste, one of the Mara’s people, bustled into the room. She was clearly excited.
“A tip,” she said. “There’s a warehouse in Bom Retiro—”
“That neighborhood is nothing but warehouses.”
“Let her talk, Nunes,” Mara snapped. “Go on, Celeste.”
“This particular warehouse has been abandoned for ages. Then, yesterday, at about seven in the morning, a truck pulled up in front. Two men got out, unloaded a packing crate, and carried it inside.”
“Big crate?”
“Big enough to contain a human being. The truck drove off. The men stayed. They’ve been there ever since.”
“Who called it in?”
“A neighbor, a widow lady, name of …”—Celeste consulted the paper she was holding—“Garcia.”
“Who took the call?”
“Marlene. She says Garcia sounds like an old biddy, a selfappointed watchdog of the neighborhood.”
“Nothing terribly suspicious in what you’ve told us up to know,” Silva said. “There must have been more, something that prompted the Garcia woman to pick up her phone”
“There was,” Celeste said.
“What?”
“She heard a woman scream.”
LESS THAN an hour later, a hostage rescue team headed by Gloria Sarmento had taken up positions around the warehouse. Gloria, dressed in gray coveralls, wearing a headset, and carrying an H&K MP-5, was peeking out through a gap in Senhora Garcia’s curtains. From the old lady’s living room, she had a clear view of the warehouse’s front door.
Hector was on Senhora Garcia’s roof with three of Gloria’s snipers. Gloria’s number two, Raul Franco, and three other members of the team, were on a parallel street, covering the rear exit.
Silva studied the lady who’d called in the tip. She looked like a friendly grandmother, appeared to be about eighty, had watery eyes and thick eyeglasses.
“It was more than one scream,” she said. “It was a whole lot of shrieking. I called right away, but your answering system put me on hold for almost fifteen minutes.” She stuck an accusing finger in Silva’s face. “That screeching, Chief Inspector, was almost an hour and a half ago. It sounded like they were torturing the poor woman. God knows what they’ve done to her by now.”
“We’re short-staffed, Senhora Garcia. Sometimes it creates problems.”
“If you ask me, the law enforcement in this country is getting worse and worse. You can say what you like about the dictatorship, but if you called the police in those days, they showed up right away.”
“Really?” Arnaldo said. “Did you have occasion to call them often?”
“What are you?” she snorted. “A goddamned pinko?”
“Tell us about the packing crate,” Silva said.
“It was wood,” she said, “and plenty big enough for a person.”
“Painted?”
“No, and nothing written on it either. What are you standing around talking to me for? Why don’t you just go in there, grab those bastards and kick the shit out of them?”
“Will you be my grandma?” Arnaldo said.
“How would you like my cane shoved up your ass?”
“What do you remember about the men who were carrying the box?” Silva said.
“Did I tell you they were men?”
“You told the lady who took your call.”
“They were men. I’m just keeping you on your toes.”
“How were they dressed?”
“The shorter one was wearing a coverall like Superwoman’s over there, except hers is gray and his was blue.”
“Who are you calling Superwoman?” Gloria said, fingering the trigger on her machine pistol and looking as if she’d like to use it. She’d been in the room with Senhora Garcia longer than any of the others.
Senhora Garcia ignored her question.
“I couldn’t see his face very well,” she said. “My eyes aren’t what they used to be, and by the time I’d fetched my binoculars from the windowsill upstairs he’d gone inside.”
“And the other man? What was he wearing?”
“Slacks and a blue shirt. Short sleeves.”
“You haven’t seen either one of them since they went in there?”
“Did I say that? Did I say I hadn’t seen either one of them since they went in there?”
Silva sighed.
“No, Senhora Garcia, you didn’t.”
“You’re damned right, I didn’t. The one with the blue shirt has been out of there three times. The first time was just after he went in. He was away for about ten minutes and came back with a box of bottled water, Minalba, the one with the red label, the one without gas. The second time, he went down to the padaria on the corner. He came back carrying a paper bag.”
Senhora Garcia’s vision might not have been quite as sharp as she would have liked, but it wasn’t all that bad either. And there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with her memory.
“What about the third time?” Silva asked.
“He came back with a couple of plastic bags, looked like they were from the supermarket around the corner on Rua Francesco Bellini.”
“Did you see either one of them with a gun?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What do you think, Gloria?” Silva said, turning to the head of the hostage rescue team.
“We checked with the power company,” she said. “They haven’t got electricity in there. If anyone comes out, we pounce on him. If not, we wait until five in the morning and go in with night-vision scopes.”
“You’re the expert,” Silva said, “but I really hate the idea of waiting that long.”
“Hate it, but you’re going to do it, eh?” Senhora Garcia said. “Bunch of goddamned pussies.”
IN THE end, they didn’t have to wait at all. Fifteen minutes after adopting Gloria’s strategy, the man in the blue shirt walked out the front door of the building.
Her people grabbed him as soon as he’d rounded the corner. Minutes later, he was shackled to a metal table in the RV that the team was using as a mobile command post.
Silva kicked off the interrogation: “What’s your name?”
“Tulio Santiago, Senhor.”
Santiago was scared, short, and hunger thin. His brown eyes, big behind steel-rimmed glasses, kept oscillating from the MP5 in Gloria’s hands to the Glock on Arnaldo’s belt.
“Who else is in that warehouse, Tulio?”
The prisoner squirmed. “Just my companheiro Elvis, Senhor.”
“Elvis, is it? Elvis what?”
“Pinheiro, Senhor.”
“You weren’t armed. Is Elvis?”
“Armed, Senhor?”
“Is he carrying a gun? Or a knife?”
“Oh, no, Senhor. We never carry those kinds of things.”
“If you don’t carry weapons, Tulio, how do you control your victims?”
“Victims, Senhor?”
“Stop beating around the goddamned bush, Tulio. The game is up. Someone heard her scream. So save us the trouble of roughing you up. Tell us what we’ll find in there when we break down the door.”
Santiago hung his head and sighed. He was ready to cooperate.
“Did you torture her?”
Santiago’s head snapped up.
“Torture her? Of course not. What kind of people do you think we are?”
“If you didn’t torture her, why did she scream?”
“They all scream, Senhor. That’s just the way they are. We try to keep them quiet, but it doesn’t always work.”
“Keep them quiet? Really? And what do you do to keep them quiet?”
“We give them nuts, Senhor, and sometimes a piece of fruit.”
THE HOSTAGE in the warehouse wasn’t the Artist’s mother. She was a Lear’s macaw.
One of Gloria’s men put in a call to the IBAMA, the Brazilian environmental agency. A no-nonsense female wearing a bush shirt and sporting a nose stud showed up about half an hour later. She introduced herself as Doutora Kipman.
“Physician?” Hector asked.
“Biologist,” she said. “Who’s Silva?”
“That would be me.”
She stuck out a hand. “Congratulations, Chief Inspector. You did a great job today. We’ve been after these two characters for quite some time.”
“What’s going to happen to them?”
“You caught them em flagrante.” She rubbed her chapped hands together in glee. “They’re gonna get at least five years, maybe even seven.”
“Five years? For smuggling birds?”
Kipman bristled. “The Lear’s macaw is the second rarest macaw in the world. Do you know how many of these birds survive in the wild, Chief Inspector?”
A Vine in the Blood Page 10
