Perfect Hatred

by Leighton Gage

  Once again, Mariano’s telephone started to ring. Once again, he ignored it.

  “Public health, public education and public safety,” Arnaldo said. And then, pointing at the telephone, “You’re a popular guy.”

  “Goes with the job,” Mariano said. “That’s right, health, education and safety. Plínio’s battle to get his grandmother released wound up teaching him a good deal about the health care system. Over the next decade, he became a recognized expert on it. Towards the end, he was the guy they always turned to when they were looking for a chairman to head-up a committee on the subject. Stella, working as a lawyer for the teacher’s union, became their specialist on education, and Nestor, working with the police, made it his business to learn everything there was to know on the subject of law-enforcement.”

  “So they turned themselves into a kind of self-contained panel of experts.”

  “Uh-huh. And on the day Plínio won the nomination, Stella and Nestor quit their jobs and signed on to help elect him governor. Stella was to have been State Secretary of Education and Nestor was going to be the State Secretary of Public Safety.”

  “So what happens now? Now that Plínio and Nestor are dead?”

  “Stella will win. Odds are, her sister will become State Secretary of Education. With Nestor dead, I have no idea who’ll become the State Secretary for Public Safety, but of one thing I can assure you: Braulio Serpa will be out on his ear the day Stella takes office.”

  “I think he knows that already.”

  “I’m sure he does, the venal bastard.”

  “Any other appointments you know of?”

  “Just one: the governor’s Chief of Staff.”

  “Who’s that going to be?”

  “That,” the Professor smiled, “is going to be me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “SO YOU’RE MARIO SILVA, are you?” Orestes Saldana said. The wiry little man with the sour face was looking at Silva like a housewife might look at a cockroach she’d found in her sugar bowl. “I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Really?” Silva said. “From whom?”

  “Orlando Muniz.”

  Two peas in a pod, Silva thought, arrogant, rich bastards who think they’re above the law. Whatever Muniz had told Saldana, one thing was certain: it wasn’t flattering.

  “I’m a busy man,” Saldana snapped, confirming Silva’s conviction, “What do you want?”

  “I’m investigating the murder of your son.”

  “What about it?”

  “Forgive me, Senhor Saldana, but you sound …”

  “What?”

  “How shall I put this? Dismissive? Uninterested?”

  “I am uninterested.”

  Silva’s life as a cop had brought him into contact with a lot of callous people, but this was too much, even for him.

  “This is your son we’re talking about.”

  “Only in a biological sense,” Saldana said. “In every other respect, he was no son of mine. We didn’t have a single cordial conversation in the last thirteen years of his life.”

  “Thirteen years?”

  “You heard me. So, as far as I’m concerned, he’s no deader today than he was back in law school.”

  “But—”

  “If you’re about to start spouting sentimental crap,” Saldana said, “save your breath. What do you expect from me? Crocodile tears? I’m not that kind of man. If a son isn’t loyal, he’s no damned good. Plínio wasn’t loyal. In my book, that’s worse than having no son at all.”

  Silva, who missed his dead son every day of his life, was appalled. “Is loyalty the sole criterion? Doesn’t love come into the equation?”

  Saldana moved a hand in front of his face, as if he was waving away a pesky mosquito.

  “Not into my equation, it doesn’t. This business is my life’s work. When Plínio was a kid, it put a roof over his head, food on his plate, clothes on his back. But what did he do as soon as he got into the state legislature? He tried to bite the hand that fed him, that’s what!”

  “I don’t understand what you mean by—”

  “Seventy-one percent of my construction company’s billings,” Saldana cut in, “derive from contracts with the State of Paraná. Seventy-one percent. And a good deal of the rest comes to me because my company works for the state. First thing Plínio did when he got elected was to propose a system of sealed bids. Sealed bids! No room to maneuver! Lowest bid gets the job! It was all I could do to stave it off.”

  “But you did?”

  “I did, but it wasn’t cheap. And now his whore of a widow is telling everyone she’s going to introduce sealed bids by gubernatorial decree as soon as she gets elected. Bitch!”

  “Business concerns aside—”

  “Business concerns aside? Business concerns aside? Jesus Christ, would you say that if it was your business?”

  “There is a question of justice—”

  “Justice? Justice has been done. The guy who shot Plínio is dead.”

  “The man who pulled the trigger is dead, but the person who enlisted him—”

  “Who’s to say anyone enlisted him? Who’s to say Cataldo wasn’t just a fanatic with an axe to grind?”

  “He might have been, but—”

  “But you prefer to cook up a conspiracy theory? Cataldo as Oswald and Plínio as Kennedy, is that it?”

  “In this case, a conspiracy is possible, even likely.”

  “I. Don’t. Care.” Saldana leaned forward and punched his desk with his forefinger as he enunciated each word. “I don’t care about Plínio, and I don’t care who killed him, and I don’t care why he was killed. I’m not interested in any of it.”

  Silva’s patience with the man was exhausted. He switched to provocation. “You’re not interested” he asked, “even if the person who had him murdered was your surviving son?”

  “What?”

  “Not even if the man who paid to have Plínio killed was Lúcio?”

  Saldana snorted. “That’s absolute crap!”

  “Is it? The law precluded you from disinheriting either one of your sons. Plínio would have come into a great deal of money upon your death. Now, all that money is going to Lúcio. That’s a pretty good motive for murder, don’t you think?”

  “What I think,” Orestes Saldana said, narrowing his eyes, “is it’s high time you left. This interview is over.”

  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?”

&nbs
p; “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.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “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.

  “Yes, Senhora,” Arnaldo said, “I can imagine.”

  “Permit me to differ with you, young man,” she said, “but 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 suspec
ts.”

  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.

  Chapter Sixteen

  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.”