“It’s called the Clinica Polo. It’s in Granja Viana.”
ONLY LATER, when he was on his way, did it occur to Gonçalves that the name Polo sounded familiar. And it wasn’t because of the explorer. No, something else, but he couldn’t call it to mind.
Two women and a bird were in the vet’s waiting room. One of the women was the receptionist, the other, a client. The client smiled and said hello. The cockatoo on her shoulder lifted its crest and said hello as well.
The receptionist stared at him suspiciously.
“I don’t see an animal,” she said. “What are you selling?”
She was a woman with steel-rimmed glasses, grey hair tied back in a bun and pictures of her grandchildren on her desk, a type impervious to Gonçalves’s charm. Her nametag identified her as Calestra Polo.
“I’m not selling anything,” Gonçalves said, “and I haven’t got an animal. I’m here to speak to Edson Campos.”
“Ah,” she said, “so you’re the one who called. Well, sorry, you’ll have to wait.”
She didn’t sound sorry at all. She said it, in fact, with a considerable degree of satisfaction.
“I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Too bad. Doctor needs him.”
“So do I,” Gonçalves said, flashing his badge.
She wasn’t impressed. “You,” she said, “are not paying his salary. My son, the doctor, is. Take a seat.”
“I—”
“A seat.”
She picked up her pen and opened a ledger. As far as Calestra Polo was concerned, the conversation was over.
Gonçalves didn’t like her attitude. “How about I cite you for obstruction?” he said.
Behind her glasses, Calestra Polo drew her eyes into a squint.
“And how about,” she said, “if I arrange to have my other son, the lawyer, ask his wife, the public prosecutor, to bring you up before my husband, the judge, on a charge of abuse of authority?”
Gonçalves suddenly remembered where he’d heard the name Polo. Judge Nemías Polo was reputed to be one of the nastiest bastards ever to sit on a Brazilian bench. And no friend of the police.
Gonçalves gritted his teeth—and took a seat.
“THERE’S A new e-mail from the kidnappers,” Mara said, barging into Hector’s office with nary a knock. “It just came in.”
Arnaldo and Hector broke off their conversation. Silva, about to call Irene, put down the receiver.
“Where is it?”
“Being forwarded. But the gist is that they want to schedule the payoff for tomorrow morning,” Mara said.
“We’ll need a proof-of-life question,” Silva said. “Get the Artist to formulate one.”
“The usual drill? Something only he and his mother would know?”
“The Artist is a delightful man, but his brilliance is confined to football pitches. If we leave it to him, he’ll come up with something too easy to guess. Help him with it.”
“Will do.”
“And don’t tell him about that email until the press conference is over. We don’t want him inadvertently blabbing payoff information to the press.”
“I’ll call him now.”
Silva held up a hand. “Call the technical people first. We’ll need a tracking device for the diamonds, something small, so it’s hard to find, and powerful, so it will work over a considerable distance.”
“Small and powerful,” Mara said. “Got it.”
THE WOMAN with the cockatoo was gone. So were the man with the cat who came in after her, and the kid with a toysized Yorkshire terrier who came in after him. The reception area was now empty, except for Gonçalves.
The vet’s mother, after an absence of almost five minutes, came back through the door that led to the consulting rooms and beckoned to him.
“Doctor will see you now,” she said.
“I don’t want to see the Doctor,” Gonçalves said. “I just want to see Edson Campos.”
“Then you should have gone to his home. Instead, you chose to come here. That makes it Doctor’s business as much as it does Edson’s.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Gonçalves said.
“He’s waiting,” she said.
Gonçalves stood up and marched in, ready for a fight.
He didn’t get one.
Doctor Polo was a soft-spoken fellow with unruly hair and friendly eyes. The first words out of his mouth were an apology, but he waited until his mother closed the door before he offered it.
“She thinks she’s helping me,” he said. “I’m a good vet, really I am, but a lot of people visit me once, and never come back. I’m convinced it’s because of her.”
“Why don’t you fire her?”
“Fire her? Ha! My brother would sue me, and my father would send me to jail.”
“Protective of her, are they?”
“Protective?” Polo smiled, but it was a rueful smile. “It has nothing to do with protective. They don’t want her in their hair any more than I want her in mine. If she was out of here, she’d split her time between my brother’s law offices and dad’s chambers. There’s no way either one of them would take that lying down. But enough of my troubles. You want to see Edson, right?”
“Right. Also—”
The vet didn’t let him finish. “I’ll call him in a minute. Chat with me for a while first. I know her. She’s out there waiting for me. She’s going to grill me, and I’ll need some kind of a story to tell. By the way, I’d offer you coffee, but I’d have to ask her to bring it.”
“For God’s sake, don’t.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figured. You were saying?”
“There’s something else you might be able to help me with.”
“Shoot.”
“We’re investigating the kidnapping of Juraci Santos, the Artist’s mother.”
“I sure hope you catch those bastards.”
“We’re doing our best. Now, what I’m going to tell you next is confidential. It mustn’t be spread around.”
“You can count on my discretion. What is it?”
“When they took Juraci, her abductors gave her an injection to knock her out.”
“And?”
“What they used was Ketamine.”
“Ketamine? They used Ketamine on a human being? Are you sure?”
“We found a syringe in her bedroom. It wasn’t entirely empty. We had the contents analyzed.”
“Jesus. I hope those kidnapperes knew what they were doing. Too much and they could have killed her.”
“Do you use it?”
“Every vet does.”
“Where do you get it?”
“We order it online.”
“Only online?”
“Sometimes we get it from the pharmacy on the corner. They overcharge like hell, but they stock it on the off-chance that one of the neighborhood vets will need the stuff on short notice. Why do you want to speak to Edson? Surely you don’t think he had anything to do with the kidnapping?”
“We certainly don’t want to jump to any conclusions, but …”
“What?”
“He has access to Ketamine, and he has a connection to Juraci Santos, so we have to check it out.”
“What kind of connection?”
“Edson’s partner is a talent agent.”
“Tarso Mello. Their dogs are my patients. So what?”
“Tarso represents Cintia Tadesco.”
“And Cintia is the Artist’s girlfriend. You call that a connection?”
“A distant one, but … yes.”
“My father’s brother is a deputado who knows the President of the Republic. Does that mean I’m connected to the President? I don’t think so.”
“I see your point. Try to see mine. Ketamine isn’t an everyday substance—”
“I beg to differ. It is in my world.”
“Which is why we’re looking at someone from your world who might have had a connection to Juraci Santos, no matter how remote.”
“Sure of that, are you?”
“Absolutely sure. He’s been working here for three years. Everybody likes him. He’s kind to people and kind to the animals he treats. He even gets along with my mother. He’d never get involved in anything illegal. Never.”
“A sterling reference, nice to hear …”
“But you’re not convinced. Okay, listen to this: I’m very careful with all of my drugs, but that stuff, Ketamine? I’m even more careful with that. You can use it to get high. Did you know that?”
“I know that. They call it Special K.”
“Right. So I keep my Ketamine under lock and key. It’s a controlled substance, and I’m obligated to do it, but even if it wasn’t, I’d do it anyway. I never give the key to anyone. I have it with me right now.” Doctor Polo took a key ring out of his pocket, separated one of the keys and held it up. “This is it. This is the one.”
“You’ll pardon me, Doctor Polo—”
“Please call me Laerte.”
“—Laerte, but keys can be duplicated, locks picked. Mind you, I’m not accusing Edson of any of those things, but …”
“It isn’t just the lock and key. For controlled substances, I keep a diary of purchase and use. Every time a shipment comes in, I write it down. Personally. Every time I use some of it, I write it down. Personally. I can account for every drop of every controlled substance that’s gone through this clinic.”
“Can I see the diary?”
“Certainly.”
The vet was still holding his keys in his hand. He used one to open a drawer in his desk. Taking out a notebook, he flipped through the pages.
“Here it is,” he said. “Ketamine. Have a look.”
He put the notebook on the desk between them, turned it so that Gonçalves could read, and pushed it closer.
Unlike many doctors who treat people, Polo had a fine and very legible hand. Gonçalves ran his finger down the column with the dates. The records for the drug went back more than four years.
“How long did you say Edson has been here?”
“Three years.”
Gonçalves turned the pages. Each entry was in the same handwriting. Nothing was crossed out or obliterated. Nothing appeared to have been altered. He turned to the last page and checked the final listing.
“It says here,” he said, “you have seven vials on hand.”
“And I do.”
“Would you do me a favor and check?”
The vet stood up, went to a grey cabinet standing in the corner of his office and used his key to open it.
“Here,” he said. “Count them yourself.”
Gonçalves did. There were seven. He took one out and examined it.
“Would this be enough to put a human being to sleep?”
“I’m a vet, remember? Not an anesthetist. But I can tell you this: there’s enough Ketamine in that vial to knock out ten medium-sized dogs. If I used it all in one syringe, it would do for a horse.”
“Thank you, Doc—Laerte. I appreciate your cooperation. Could I see Edson now?”
“Certainly. Stay here. I’ll send him in. Then I’ll go try to satisfy my mother’s curiosity.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
GONÇALVES HAD NO PRECONCEIVED notion of what Mello’s partner might look like, but he certainly didn’t expect what he got.
Edson Campos was a hollow-chested slip of a man with thinning brown hair and a wart on his chin. In a suit and tie, he might have looked at home in a bank; in his light-brown scrubs, he looked like someone trying, unsuccessfully, to look as if he belonged in a veterinary clinic.
Gonçalves introduced himself.
Edson’s reaction was immediate.
“Gonçalves? My partner told me about you. You’re the one who went to his office and harassed him.”
“Harassed him? He told you I harassed him?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, I did’t.”
“He said you did.”
“And I’m saying I did’t. Could I see your identity card, please?”
“I can’t imagine why he’d tell me you did, if you—”
“The card, please.”
Edson searched his wallet, located the card and handed it over.
Gonçalves made a note of Edson’s RG—his national registration number—and checked his date of birth. The vet tech was thirty-three, but appeared to be older. He also appeared to be nervous.
“I have sixteen cages to clean before I go home,” he said.
“This shouldn’t take long,” Gonçalves said. “Are you familiar with the drug Ketamine?”
“Why are you asking me?”
Gonçalves considered telling him to stop beating around the bush and to answer the question. But then it occurred to him he’d probably get more cooperation if he told him about the syringe. So he did.
Edson folded his arms protectively across his hollow chest.
“It seems to us,” Gonçalves went on, “that someone who elected to use Ketamine is likely to be someone familiar with veterinary medicine.”
“And you think that might be me?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You think I stole Ketamine from Doctor Polo?”
“No, I don’t. There’s nothing missing from Doctor Polo’s stock; I checked that already. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The source of the drug isn’t the key issue here.”
“What’s the key issue?”
“The knowledge of Ketamine: what it is, and how it works.”
“I know what it is, and I know how it works. I’m a vet tech, for Christ’s sake. But if you think I had anything to do with the abduction of that woman, you’re barking up the wrong tree. I’m no kidnapper.”
“No?”
“No. First you persecute my partner and now you’re persecuting me. What is it with you people?”
“Do you know Juraci Santos?”
“Yeah. I know her. Her poodle, Twiggy, is one of our patients.”
“Not any more.”
“What?”
“Twiggy is dead. The kidnappers killed her.”
Edson looked shocked.
“Killed her? Killed Twiggy? Why? She was the sweetest little thing. And she wouldn’t have posed a threat to anyone.”
“We don’t really know why they killed her. But they did.”
“How … how did they do it?”
“Broke her back, apparently.”
Edson closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. For a moment, Gonçalves thought he might cry.
“Jesus,” he said. “Poor Twiggy.”
Gonçalves paused for a few seconds, then said, “Could we get back to the Ketamine?”
“Oh. Yes. Sure. The Ketamine. Well, what you’re suggesting …”
“Yes?”
“It’s just ridiculous. I’d be scared to use that stuff on a human being.”
“You would?”
“Anybody would. Anybody who isn’t a doctor. Ketamine is an anesthetic. You give someone too much of an anesthetic, and it’ll kill them.”
“How much is too much?”
“For a person? I have no idea. Ask me about a dog. Or a cat. You don’t believe me, do you?”
“Let’s move on.”
“Move on to what?”
“The secondary issue: sourcing. Suppose you couldn’t steal the stuff from a clinic, and you needed to get your hands on some Ketamine, how would you go about it?”
“I wouldn’t. I just wouldn’t.”
“Not you. Some other guy. A kidnapper.”
Edson uncrossed his arms, rubbed his chin, gave some thought to the question. “He might try a disco.”
“A disco?”
“Yeah. Drug dealers hang out in discos. So do drug users. Ketamine isn’t only used by vets. It’s a recreational drug. They call it Special K.”
“How come you know that?”
“Everybody knows that.”
“No, Senhor Campos, not everyone knows that. As a matter of fact, there are many, many people who don’t know that. But you don’t seem to be one of them. So think hard. How did you come to know about a recreational drug called Special K?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Try hard. It might be important.”
After a while, Edson said, “It was at the Maksoud Hotel, just after a presentation put on by one of the pharmaceutical companies. There was this guy I was sitting next to. He struck up a conversation. We went out and had coffee together. He told me.”
“How did the subject come up?”
“Look, I never saw this guy before, or since. I don’t even remember his name. I didn’t like the way he talked about animals. Hell, I didn’t even like him. I thought he was a slimeball.”
“I ask you again: how did the subject come up?”
“He was dealing, okay? He wanted to buy Ketamine. He said he could offload anything I could supply, said he’d pay a good price for it. But I wasn’t interested, and I told him so, and that was the end of that.”
“Where else might a kidnapper get his hands on some Ketamine?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. Give me some help here. Think!”
“If he was a certain kind of vet tech, he might go to a pharmacy.”
“What do you mean by a certain kind?”
“Some of the guys, not me, pick up extra money by doing operations.”
“What kind of operations?”
“Spaying, neutering, removing growths, stuff like that. After a few years in the business, after seeing those kinds of operations a few hundred times, they get to thinking there’s nothing to it.”
“So they offer to do it cheaper.”
“That’s right.”
“And they need Ketamine.”
“Uh huh. And pharmacists, well, hell, you know how pharmacists are. If they know you, and they think you have a good reason …
Edson left the rest of what he might have said hanging in the air.
But he didn’t have to spell it out. Gonçalves knew what he was suggesting. Brazil’s National Health Service suffered from a shortage of doctors. It could take weeks to get an appointment. Private doctors were too expensive for many people, so they turned to pharmacists to prescribe. The pharmacist who insisted on being shown a doctor’s prescription for every drug he sold was soon a pharmacist without a clientele.
A Vine in the Blood Page 17
