Hector took a long draught, wiped his mouth and said, “So how do we nab him?”
“We start by finding that kid,” Silva said.
“You think Ferraz had anything to do with what happened to the bishop?” Hector asked.
“Do you?”
Hector thought about it. “No,” he said at last. “How about the murder of Muniz’s kid? You believe Pillar when he says he didn’t have anything to do with that?”
“Actually, I do,” Silva said. “He’s been doing his thing for years without killing anyone. Why should he start now?”
“Maybe because nobody ever nailed one of his people to a tree.”
“Maybe. But they’ve done things just as bad. Don’t forget, they’ve killed more than fifteen hundred of his compadres. ”
“But if it wasn’t the league . . .”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t the league. I said I didn’t think it was Pillar.”
“Oh. So maybe that local guy, Pereira, and a few of his friends?”
“That would be my guess.”
Hector tossed his empty beer can into the wastebasket. “So that gives us suspects for Diana and Muniz, but we’re still no closer to the guy who killed the bishop.”
“No, we’re not.”
“You think old man Muniz will try to kill Pillar?”
“He might, if he finds him, but Pillar’s a wily old fox. My guess is that he’ll make himself scarce.”
“How about those people on Muniz’s property?”
“That worries me more. There are women and kids there.”
“So what’s our next step?”
Silva looked at his watch.
“Too late for tonight, but first thing in the morning we’re going to have a chat with that priest, Father Gaspar. I want to know what that telephone call from the bishop was all about.”
Chapter Thirty-one
EUCLIDES, GASPAR’S MANSERVANT, WAS as welcoming as he’d been during Hector’s previous visit.
“You again,” he said, “Who’s he?”
“I’m a chief inspector in the Federal Police,” Silva answered for himself. “Who the hell are you?”
“We don’t hold with profanity around here.”
“And I don’t hold with being kept waiting. Open the goddamned door.”
For a moment, Euclides looked like he was going to slam it in Silva’s face, but he didn’t.
“I asked you who you are,” Silva said, stepping over the threshold.
“Euclides Garcia. I work for Father Gaspar.”
“Show me some ID.”
“I haven’t got any.”
“You’re required to have a national identity card.”
“I mean I don’t have it on me. I live here,” Euclides said, defensively.
“Tell your boss we’re waiting for him. Then go get it.”
“Told you,” Hector said, when Euclides had scurried off.
“Cheeky son of a bitch,” Silva said. “What’s that smell?”
“Lilac cologne,” Hector said. “The good father drenches himself in the stuff.”
FATHER GASPAR leaned over his desk to offer Hector a moist hand.
“Nice to see you again, Delegado.”
He looked curiously at Silva.
Hector performed the introductions. The priest pronounced himself equally pleased to meet Silva and indicated the two cane chairs.
“Coffee?” he asked, resuming his seat.
“Thank you, no.”
Hector had warned his uncle about Father Gaspar’s coffee. Before they had a chance to initiate the questioning, Euclides returned with his identity card. He held it out to Silva, who passed it to Hector. Hector examined it, made a note of the number, and handed it back.
“Is there anything wrong?” Gaspar asked, puzzled.
“No,” Silva said, deliberately addressing the master and ignoring the man. “He reminded me of someone, that’s all. Apparently, I was mistaken.”
“And to what do I owe the pleasure this time?” the priest asked when his servant had gone.
“That reward Muniz is offering,” Silva said. “The hundred thousand reais?”
“Yes?”
“I’m told you’ve agreed to act as intermediary.
“Yes, Chief Inspector, that’s right.”
“Not a good idea.”
The priest frowned. “Why not?”
“It’s far too much money, Father. It’s going to encourage people to lie. We want answers, too, but they have to be the right answers.”
Gaspar started shaking his head.
Silva ignored it. “Muniz doesn’t want justice, Padre, he wants revenge. He doesn’t want the people who killed his son arrested. He wants them dead.”
“Are you implying that he’d take the law into his own hands?”
“I am.”
“Nonsense,” Father Gaspar said.
“What makes you so certain?”
“Because we spoke about it. I enjoined him to put aside his bitterness. He assured me that he would. Orlando Muniz isn’t after vengeance, only after justice. ‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.’ That’s Romans, chapter twelve.”
Silva was not in the mood for another scripture lesson. “Justice, hell. The man wants blood.”
Father Gaspar held up his hand, signifying that he didn’t buy into Silva’s theory. “I pride myself on being a good judge of men,” he said. “I’d be the first to admit that there’ve been rumors about him, but I’m convinced they’re calumnies. Personally, I consider Orlando Muniz an exemplary Christian. He was a major contributor to the new church.”
“That doesn’t—”
Father Gaspar didn’t let Silva finish. “And now, Senhor Muniz is offering the church ten thousand reais. All I have to do in return is perform a simple service. I’d be derelict in my duty if I didn’t accede to his request.”
“Listen to me, Father—”
“No, Chief Inspector, you listen to me. I have another reason to take issue with what you say. It obviously hasn’t occurred to you that anyone bearing false witness would be violating the ninth commandment. That’s a mortal sin. A perjurer puts his very soul in peril.”
“Father—”
“I see we’re unlikely to agree. Why don’t we just drop the subject?”
“You’re wrong.”
“And you, of course, are entitled to your opinion.”
Silence fell. Silva broke it first. “There’s another matter: Have you heard of a young man, a street kid, named Edson Souza?”
“Edson Souza? No. Why?”
“I’m not at liberty to say. But I can tell you this: He placed a call to Dom Felipe. Immediately after they’d spoken, Dom Felipe placed a call to you.”
“When was this?”
Silva looked at his nephew. Hector took out his notebook and read off the date and time.
Father Gaspar wrinkled his brow, checked his desk calendar and shook his head.
“If you could, perhaps, give me some inkling of the subject matter. . . .”
“I can’t.”
“Well, then . . .” Father Gaspar lifted his palms in a gesture of helplessness. “Do you have any reason to believe that . . . what was that young man’s name again?”
“Edson Souza.”
“That Edson Souza’s telephone call to the bishop and the bishop’s call to me are related?”
“I don’t. But it’s a possibility, and I’m exploring all the possibilities.”
“Hmm. Sorry I can’t help you.
Father Gaspar folded his hands over his ample belly and leaned back in his chair.
“During our first conversation,” Hector said, changing tack, “you suggested that a priest might have been responsible for the bishop’s murder.”
“Yes.”
“Father Francisco, the bishop’s secretary, has another theory.”
“Which is?”
“It might have been a landowner.”
“A landowner?” Gaspar unclaspe
d his hands and leaned forward. “A landowner? Why in the world would he say a thing like that?”
“Do you remember the last sermon Dom Felipe delivered in your old church?”
Gaspar nodded.
“‘The Blood of the Wicked,’ he called it. It concerned the murder of Azevedo, the league activist. He asked people to come forward. Not unlike what Orlando Muniz is doing, don’t you agree?”
“No, Father, I don’t agree. The bishop, to my knowledge, didn’t mention money.”
“Well, that’s true. He didn’t.”
“I gather you disagree with Father Francisco.”
“I most certainly do. The landowners of Cascatas are pillars of the community. None of them would stoop to violence.
“There’s just one thing wrong with that argument, Father.”
“What’s that, Chief Inspector?”
“Judging by what happened to Azevedo, one of them already did.”
WHEN FATHER Gaspar returned from escorting his guests to the door, Euclides was waiting for him.
“I don’t like those guys,” he said.
“But then, there aren’t really many people that you do like, are there?” the priest said, sinking into his chair.
“I like you.”
“Yes, my boy, I know you do. And I like you. You were, I suppose, up to your usual bad habits while those policemen were here?”
“If you mean was I listening at the door, then, yeah, I was.”
“Good. So I don’t have to explain. This Edson Souza? Who might he be?”
“He might be anybody. They’ve all got street names. I had one, too, remember?”
“Of course, I remember. But that’s all behind you now. Let’s see what the colonel can tell us.”
He checked his watch.
“He should be in his office by now.”
FERRAZ was in his office, and probably alone because he immediately took Gaspar’s call. They exchanged pleasantries, then Father Gaspar asked, “Why do you suppose, Colonel, that the Federal Police are looking for a menino de rua named Edson Souza?”
“Who says they are?”
“Mario Silva does. He and that young delegado, Costa I think his name is, just paid me a visit.”
“Yeah, Costa. He’s Silva’s nephew. Why do you care if they’re looking for Pipoca?”
“Who?”
“Edson Souza. That’s his street name. Pipoca. Why do you care?”
“Well . . . I thought I might be able to help.”
“Take my advice, Father. Stay out of it. Let the Federal Police solve their own problems.
“Yes. Yes, I suppose you’re right. No business of mine, after all.”
“That’s the attitude. Anything else I can do for you?”
“No. Nothing else. Thank you, Colonel.”
“My pleasure.”
Father Gaspar put the telephone back on its cradle and looked at Euclides. “It seems,” he said, “as if the colonel knows the young man in question.”
“He does, huh?”
“Yes, my boy, and so do we. It turns out that Edson Souza is the young man we know as Pipoca.”
“Pipoca! Well, that explains a lot.”
“It does, doesn’t it? Something more: the colonel didn’t actually say so, but he gave me the distinct impression that he’s looking for him as well.”
Euclides smiled. “Good,” he said.
“Indeed. Let’s hope he finds him before Silva does.”
Chapter Thirty-two
SILVA COULD HEAR THE telephone ringing while he was still in the corridor. It stopped before he could get his key into the lock, then started again when he was closing the door to the suite.
“Finally,” his caller said. “I must have called ten times.”
Vicenza Pelosi.
“I should have asked you for the number of your cell phone,” she said. “Hang on. Let me make a note of it right now.”
And why shouldn’t I give it to her? Silva thought, thinking of the director’s admonition to keep the number confidential. Everybody else seems to have it.
“Okay, go ahead,” she said.
He rattled off the digits, could hear her fumbling as she wrote them down. She was outside somewhere. There were traffic noises in the background.
“Good news,” she said when the fumbling stopped. “The kid called.”
Silva’s hand tightened on the phone. “Edson Souza?”
“He wants to meet.”
“Thanks, Vicenza. I’ll take it from here. Where and when?”
“I’m not going to tell you.”
“What?”
Vicenza started talking fast. “I know we’ve got a deal, and I know you gave me his name, but he doesn’t want anyone else. Just me. Says he’s scared but he’s willing to talk.”
“Vicenza, for God’s sake, it’s dangerous to be anywhere near that kid.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”
“Vicenza—”
“No time to talk now, Chief Inspector. I’m almost there. I’ll drop by your suite when I get back to the hotel.”
“Vicenza, please listen—”
But she didn’t. She hung up.
MAJOR OSMANI Palmas told the technician to rewind the tape and play it back. Then he told him to rewind it again, and picked up the telephone.
Ferraz answered on the first ring.
“The monitoring of the phone in Silva’s suite paid off, Colonel,” Palmas said without preamble. “Listen to this.”
He put the handset next to the speaker and nodded to the technician.
When the playback ended, Palmas put the telephone back to his ear. “How about that?” he said.
“Where’s she meeting the kid?”
“We don’t know.”
“Where is she now?”
“We don’t know that either. Not at the hotel, that’s for sure. You heard those traffic noises? She’s on the street somewhere.”
“She’s staying at the same place Silva is, right?”
“Uh-huh. The Excelsior.”
“Throw a cordon around it. Snatch her when she comes back. Don’t let her get anywhere near those federal cops.”
“And then?”
“And then bring her to the tobacco shed.”
EDSON HAD told Vicenza to be on the northeast corner of Republic Square at four o’clock. Someone would come, pick her up, and take her to him.
In her blonde wig, dark glasses, and floppy hat she felt like a character out of a spy movie. Even disguised beyond recognition, she was still getting admiring glances from males.
Five minutes after the appointed hour, a battered Volkswagen taxi stopped directly in front of her. She waved him off, but the driver wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ignoring the horns and catcalls from the traffic behind him, he climbed out and opened the door on the passenger side.
“I don’t want a taxi,” she said.
“You’ll want this one, Senhorita Pelosi.”
The driver was well above average height, with hair that had once been blond and intelligent brown eyes.
“I’m here to take you to Edson.”
He didn’t sound like any taxi driver she’d ever met. His elegant Portuguese bore a trace of a foreign accent.
“So who are you?” she asked, as they pulled away from the curb.
“I’ll have to ask you to turn off your cell phone,” he said. “It’s been said they can be used to trace one’s location.”
No. Definitely not a taxi driver.
She took her phone out of her purse, switched it off, and leaned over to show him the blank screen. He reminded her of someone she’d seen somewhere before but she couldn’t recall where or when.
And then she remembered. “Weren’t you at the league encampment on the Muniz fazenda? Weren’t you feeding a little girl with rickets?”
He glanced at her in the rearview mirror.
“I think you have me confused with someone else,” he said. “We’re going to follo
w a roundabout route. It will take some time to get where we’re going. In the meantime, we’re not supposed to talk.”
“Who says so? Who says we’re not supposed to talk?”
He didn’t respond.
They drove into the countryside. He stopped at the top of a hill where there was a view for kilometers in every direction. He must have been pleased with what he saw, or didn’t see, because he gave a grunt of satisfaction, made a U-turn, and started back toward the city. Less than two kilometers later he came to a sudden stop and put the car into reverse. He’d missed the turnoff. It was a dirt road—not much more than a track, really—and almost obscured by vegetation. There was a sign, barely legible white paint on a wooden board: SEM SAIDA, it said. Dead end.
They drove through a little forest with tree trunks no thicker than her arm, and emerged into tobacco fields where leaves from the plants brushed both sides of the car as they passed. The track ended at a cylindrical structure, a standpipe or silo, with riveted metal walls and a domed roof. The driver stopped, got out, and opened her door.
“Edson will be along directly,” he said, speaking for the first time in many minutes.
None of the tobacco plants in the neighboring fields were taller than knee-high. There was no trace of another human being.
“You’ll be taking me back?” she asked, nervous now at the isolation.
He nodded. “But I can’t stay here. This yellow car is too visible.” He returned to the taxi and drove back the way he’d come, the wheels throwing up red dust. She watched the retreating vehicle until it vanished into the trees.
Behind her, someone cleared his throat.
Her heart skipped a beat. She put her hand to her breast and spun around.
“Don’t be afraid,” the young man said. He must have been hiding behind the tall metal cylinder.
Chapter Thirty-three
“THEY RAN THE ID from that guy who lives with the priest,” Arnaldo said, handing Silva the printout of an email he’d picked up at the hotel’s reception desk.
“Euclides Garcia?” Silva asked, reaching for it.
“Yeah, him.”
They were in Silva’s suite, waiting for news from Vicenza. “And?” Hector asked while Silva read.
“One minor charge for assault,” Arnaldo said. “It happened during his army days.”
Blood of the Wicked Page 21
