“Had you ever met Julio Cataldo?”
“No.”
“Do you recall your husband mentioning his name?”
“No.”
“If someone put him up to it, do you think that person might have been governor Abbas?”
“I doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because Abbas isn’t stupid. If things had run their course, Plínio might have lost. But as soon as he was gone, Abbas didn’t stand a chance. The simpler people, the people who swing elections in this state, are convinced he was behind my husband’s murder. The backlash has been tremendous—and entirely predictable. All the polls agree. I’m going to win this one by a landslide.”
“And you’re certain the Governor would have foreseen that?”
“If he hadn’t, Chief Inspector, Madalena Torres would have. You’ve heard about Madalena?”
“We have. And we’ll be having a chat with her. Can you think of anyone else we should be talking to? Looking at?”
She shook her head. “It would be a cliché to say my husband had no enemies. Nor would it be true. But I can’t think of a single one who hated him enough to kill him. I’m sorry. I’m not being of much help.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Senhora Saldana. We appreciate your taking the time to talk to us. I’d like to ask you about another killing, if I may, that of Nestor Cambria.”
“Poor Nestor,” she said.
Silva sensed a subtle shift in her demeanor, a sadness that hadn’t been there a second before. He looked at her closely. She met his gaze without flinching.
“Have you any reason to doubt Nestor’s loyalty to your husband?”
She shook her head.
“None. There was no one more loyal, no closer friend. Nestor would have done anything for Plínio.”
“It’s my understanding you visited Nestor in the hospital shortly before his death.”
“That’s correct.”
“And, at a given point, you asked the other members of your entourage to leave, so you could spend time with him alone.”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re well-informed, Chief Inspector.”
Not quite a compliment, he thought, more of a cautious observation.
“Can you tell us why you did that? Tell us what you discussed?”
“No,” she said.
He frowned. “No?”
“Nestor and I were friends, close friends, for a long time. We shared many things that are no one else’s business. Our conversation was a confidential one. I’m not going to talk to you about it.”
Silva let the silence stretch out, but to no avail. She seemed comfortable with it.
So he changed tack. “Nestor’s wife, Bruna, told us that, in the days before his death, her husband seemed deeply concerned about something.”
Stella’s face remained expressionless, but he spotted a slight tic at the corner of her right eye. There was something she wasn’t telling him.
“Concerned?” she said. “About what?”
“He wouldn’t talk to her about it.”
“So it’s a mystery.”
“It’s a mystery. But I have to ask myself if his concern might have had something to do with your conversation.”
“Ask yourself, Chief Inspector, but don’t ask me. I’ve already told you our conversation was confidential. Stop probing. I’m not going to talk about it.”
“When I spoke with Senhora Cataldo, she also told me something was preoccupying her husband.”
Stella gave a ladylike little snort. “The man was planning a murder. That’s enough to preoccupy anyone, don’t you think?”
“I do. But I still found it curious that both women were going through the same experience at the same time. How about your husband?”
“What about him?”
“In the days before his death, did you note any change in his mood?”
“No.”
“Did you sense what Bruna sensed about Nestor? That something might have been preoccupying him?”
“No.”
Her answer to both questions was quick and definitive. Too quick. Too definitive.
Silva didn’t believe her.
Chapter Twenty-One
AFTER THEIR INTERVIEWS WITH the governor and the probable governor-to-be were concluded, the two federal cops reverted to working separately.
“He loved me,” Eva Telles said, when she and Silva were seated in her living room. “I could never have afforded this place if he didn’t.”
The quantum leap from the emotional to the material seemed to reinforce Jaco’s opinion that the woman was no intellectual powerhouse.
Her physical attributes, however, were another story. Eva was in her mid-twenties, with huge brown eyes and thick, lustrous hair. She wore it loose, some spilling over her ample bosom, more cascading down her back.
They were in her apartment on the fifteenth floor of the St. Moritz, an establishment with more marble in the foyer than in many a Greek temple and with elevators gleaming with varnished wood and polished brass.
There were, however, no doormen, nor any of the other amenities the wealthier families of Curitiba took for granted.
But, then, the St. Moritz had no pretension of being a family building. It had been designed as, and was, a stack of love nests in which wealthy gentlemen could lodge their mistresses.
Doormen could gossip, and concierges as well. The St. Moritz didn’t have them, because discretion was prized over convenience. Common social areas were eschewed, because they might lead to embarrassing encounters with other gentlemen. And recreational facilities were superfluous, because the recreational activities taking place in the St. Moritz were confined to the building’s bedrooms—and, occasionally, its dining room tables and living room floors.
Eva began their conversation by establishing her credentials.
First, she brought Silva to the window to admire the view that “Plínio used to love,” an impressive vista of park and river.
Then she crossed the room to show him “Plínio’s favorite picture of the two of us together.” It was a color photograph that had been blown up, almost to the size of a poster, and it occupied a place of honor on the wall above the couch.
Finally, she invited him to sit down in “Plínio’s favorite chair,” a throne-like affair that looked, and felt, as if it had been upholstered in genuine chamois leather.
“Plínio was going to tell Stella about us just after the election,” she said as she took a seat opposite him. “With the new law, you can get a divorce in forty-eight hours.”
“Yes,” Silva said, “I read about that. So you two were intending to marry?”
She sniffed, nodded, and delicately dabbed at the corner of one eye with her lace handkerchief (black to match her dress). The absence of tears was, perhaps, the reason she was able to do so without smudging her mascara.
“I was going to have my own office,” she said, “right there in the governor’s mansion. Plínio said I could decorate it however I liked. And he’d give me a social secretary, and a car, with a driver. The governor’s wife has a lot of duties, you know.”
“I know.”
“But we were going to Europe first. On a honeymoon. No one knew Plínio over there. We’d be able to wander the streets all by ourselves, without that Nestor always tagging along and invading our privacy. We were going to London, and to Rome, and to Venice, and … and then it all turned to shit. I hate her!”
The outburst gave Silva a glimpse of the real woman behind the innocent eyes. “Stella?” he said.
“Of course, Stella,” she said. “Stella the Bitch. You’re trying to find out who’s behind Plínio’s murder? Well, look no further. It’s Stella the Bitch. She’s the one. She’s the one for sure.”
“That’s a serious charge, Senhorita Telles.”
He might as well not have spoken. She was intent on having her say.
“Things were going so well,” she said. “So well. But she must
have found out about us. So she had him killed, and now she’s going to be the governor, and she has everything, and I’ve got nothing. It’s so … so unfair.”
A tear appeared at last. And her mascara did smear when she dabbed at it.
“Do you have any facts to support your allegation?” Silva asked.
“What?”
“Do you have any proof that what you say is true?”
“No, I don’t have any proof. I just know it. Anyway, that’s what you cops are supposed be doing, isn’t it? Finding proof?”
She blew her nose. Silva waited her out. It wasn’t long before she began to speak again.
“Scratch his eyes out, okay, I could understand that. Or go after his money? Any wife would do that. But have him killed? That was just so … over the top.”
“How about Plínio?”
“What about him?”
“How did he think Stella would react if she found out?”
“When she found out, you mean.”
“I beg your pardon. When she found out.”
“He used to joke about it, tell me not to worry, tell me he was bigger and stronger than she was, and, besides, he had Nestor to protect him.”
“Did you know,” Silva said, “that there was a rumor going about that Plínio was about to end his affair with you?”
“Affair? Affair? Where do you get off calling it an affair!”
“Sorry, I meant to say relationship.”
“And you heard he was planning on ending it?” She leaned forward in her chair. If she’d had claws, they would have been out. “Who’s filling your head with that shit? Stella the Bitch?”
“No,” he said.
“Who then?”
“I’m sorry. I can’t tell you.”
“Why not?”
The way she said it brought the word wheedling to mind.
“We keep our sources confidential,” Silva said.
She pouted. “Can’t you at least tell me if it was a man or a woman?”
Silva saw no harm in that—and he wanted her cooperation. “A male,” he said.
“Well,” she said, “whoever he is, he’s full of it!”
“He also said you made no secret of your relationship with Plínio.”
“You think I should have kept my mouth shut? As if it was something to be ashamed of? As if it was some kind of dirty little secret? As if I was just some slut he was fucking? I loved him. And he loved me. And that’s the truth.”
The truth? Silva didn’t think so. No governor, no matter how besotted, would have wanted a woman like Eva Telles as his first lady. Not if he didn’t want to become a laughing stock, not if he wanted to be reelected.
The question confronting him now was whether Eva knew Plínio had lied to her.
And what she might be capable of doing to him if she did.
Chapter Twenty-Two
ARNALDO CAST HIS EYES around Madalena Torres’s living room. It was strewn with boxes and suitcases.
“Packing?” he said.
“How can you tell?” she said.
“I’m a detective.”
“And flippant.”
“That too. Leaving town?”
“Wow, amazing powers of detection!”
“True. And, at the moment, I detect sarcasm.”
“Like I said, amazing powers. What can I do for you, Agent Nunes?”
“Do I get coffee before we start?”
“No, you don’t. As of today, my sojourn in Curitiba is at an end. I’m a meticulous planner, and I used up the last bit of coffee this morning. But I erred with the guaraná. I’ve still got four cans.”
“Errare humanum est,” Arnaldo said.
“Literate, too,” she said. “You want the guaraná or not?”
“I want.”
“Self service. Ice in the freezer, glasses in the cupboard to the right of the sink, cans in the fridge. Help yourself and bring one for me.”
“Where do you want me?” he said when he got back.
“On the couch,” she said.
“Am I to take that as innuendo?”
She looked him up and down. “Not yet,” she said, after a short pause. “We’ve hardly met.”
“There’s a suitcase on the couch.”
“And I’ve finished packing it. Close it, please, and put it next to the front door before you sit down.”
“Right.”
“But, before you do, get a couple of coasters to put under those glasses.”
“And the coasters are where?”
She pointed. “Over there, on the shelf.”
When he was seated, and sipping from his guaraná, Arnaldo looked around him and said, “I take it this place was rented furnished?”
“You take it correctly. And they’re holding back a fat deposit against damages, which I’m personally responsible for, so don’t you dare put that glass down anywhere else but on that coaster.”
She picked up her own glass and took a tiny sip.
“When are you leaving?” he asked.
“Seven o’clock flight,” she said, “so we’ve got plenty of time.” She perched on the arm of a chair and crossed her legs to display several kilometers of thigh. “You married? Or is the wedding ring just for show?”
“Not for show. Two kids.”
“Me too,” she said, looking at him over the rim of her glass. “They’re in São Paulo with my mother.”
“Two kids,” he said, “but no ring.”
“It’s all over,” she said, “but the shouting.”
“Shouting?”
“Uh-huh. He shouts a lot. I’ve got the money. The lazy bastard wants half of it, but he’s not gonna get it.”
“São Paulo’s home?”
She nodded. “When I’m not working somewhere else.”
“Home for me too,” Arnaldo said, “although I’m currently in durance vile.”
“Brasilia?” she asked.
“Brasilia,” he confirmed.
“Doesn’t get much viler than that,” she said. “All those damned politicians.”
“Wait a minute,” he said. “You work with politicians.”
“Familiarity breeds contempt,” she said. “But it’s a living.”
“A good living, from what I hear.”
“For people who’re good at it. I’m good at it.”
“I trust your departure has something to do with the fact that your job with the Governor just dried up?”
“Wow! Staggering insight! In the tradition of the great Sherlock Holmes.”
“I confess,” Arnaldo said, with false modesty, “to being the envy of many of the less gifted in my profession. So what’s next for Madalena Torres?”
She took another tiny sip and put down her glass. The level hadn’t lowered significantly since he’d given it to her.
“I’ve got a couple of irons in the fire,” she said. “I won’t starve. Meantime, I’m going to spend some time in Ilhabela with my kids.”
Arnaldo put down his own glass. He’d drained it.
“Nice place, Ilhabela. How did you get into this business?”
She shrugged. “I used to work in advertising as an account planner, developed communication strategies for soap, and toothpaste, and margarine. We got the account of a politician running for senator. He lost, but I got a good inside look, and I thought I could do better than my agency had done. I started with small-town municipal elections. I built up a track record of getting people elected. Word got around.” She held out both hands, palms upward. “And here I am.”
“Is Abbas’s defeat going to be a major setback for you?”
“Nope. Every politician in this country knows God himself couldn’t win an election against Stella. Against Plínio, we had a chance, but from the time Cataldo put that bullet in his head, the election became a foregone conclusion.”
“You really think Abbas could have won against Plínio?”
“I really do. And I daresay I know more about it than you do.
”
“So you still had some moves up your sleeve?”
“Maybe.”
“And you were just waiting for the right time to spring them?”
“Maybe.”
“And one had to do with a young lady by the name of Eva Telles?”
“Did it?”
“The way I hear it, there was some kind of a deal between Abbas and Saldana. If Saldana didn’t talk about Abbas’s mistress, Abbas wouldn’t talk about Saldana’s mistress.”
“And, at your age, you still believe in fairy tales?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means politicians’ promises mean nothing. Whether it’s true or not, the consensus has always been that Abbas is a crook.”
“Are you telling me it’s not true?”
“No, I’m not telling you that. You’re not listening. Pay attention and you might learn something.”
“Okay. Go on.”
“The electorate in this country is convinced all politicians steal. It’s expected. But not all politicians deliver on their campaign promises—and Abbas always delivered. That fact, bolstered by the fact he spread around a lot of what he was said to have stolen, made him a viable candidate for re-election.”
“Ah. I see.”
“You get it?”
“I’m beginning to. But wasn’t the girlfriend issue a standoff? If Abbas divulged the existence of Eva, wouldn’t Saldana have turned right around and started talking about Abbas’s mistress?”
“Of course. But Abbas wasn’t selling righteousness. The people who supported him knew what they were getting, or at least, they thought they did.”
“Which was?”
“A crook whose campaign promises they could believe.”
“And Plínio?”
“The people who supported him didn’t know what they were getting. Many would have been disillusioned, even pissed off, to discover their golden idol had feet of clay. And they’d start asking themselves to what degree his campaign promises could be believed. So, in the balance, if the mistress issue came up—”
“And you planned to make sure it did.”
“Plínio would have lost many more votes than Abbas.”
“Jesus Christ! What a dirty business.”
“Isn’t it? And don’t tell me it comes as a complete surprise. You’re a master detective, aren’t you? You live in Brasilia, don’t you?”
Perfect Hatred Page 13
