“I told you to shut up. Stand up, take three steps toward me and face the bed.”
As soon as he’d turned his back, one of them, he couldn’t see which, grabbed his wrists and shackled them.
“Now turn around and start walking.”
Not a robbery then, Zanon thought. A kidnapping.
At the door of the bedroom, he looked back and gave his wife and children a reassuring nod.
“It will be all right,” he said, “you’ll see.”
He badly wanted to believe it. But he couldn’t—not quite.
Iara made a valiant attempt to smile at him—and failed.
They marched him out the front door, across the road and onto the beach.
Out of the darkness, a figure emerged, a man without a hood.
It was Orlando Muniz.
And it was only then that Zanon Parma realized what fate awaited him.
MUNIZ WAS ecstatic, but cautious. The prosecutor was a much bigger man—and, no doubt, desperate. “Is he cuffed?” he asked Careca.
“He is, Senhor.”
“Make him kneel.”
Careca pressed a heavy hand on Zanon’s shoulder. The prosecutor lost his balance and fell to one side. Aldo bent over and righted him.
“Boa noite, Senhor Public Prosecutor,” Muniz said gleefully. “How does it feel, eh? How does it feel now the roles are reversed?”
“What do you want, Muniz?” Zanon’s voice was dull. Muniz was sure he already knew exactly what he wanted, but he told him anyway.
“Your life,” he replied with a grin.
Parma nodded, as if he’d known the answer before he’d asked the question.
“And you want me to beg for it? So you can refuse? Forget it! I know what kind of a man you are, Muniz. You’re going to kill me whatever I say. So fuck you.”
Muniz frowned in disappointment. This was wrong, not at all as he’d imagined it. Whenever he’d played out this scene in his head, Parma had been begging for his life, not treating him as if he was something the prosecutor had picked up on the sole of his shoe. Where was his two-hundred thousand dollars worth of satisfaction?
But then he had a thought.
“Call Reiner on the radio,” he ordered. “Tell him to bring the bastard’s wife and children.”
And that did the trick.
“Leave my wife and children out of this,” Parma said. “You want me to beg? I’ll beg. I’ll do any goddamned thing you want, as long as you leave them alone.”
Muniz leaned in close, studied Parma’s eyes in the dim light.
Yes! The man was starting to cry. This, now, was more like it!
“Your wife is going to get bullets in both of her kneecaps,” he said, slowly and distinctly, relishing every word for the exquisite pain he knew he was causing, “and I’m going to bring your daughters up close so they can see it happen. They’ll get the same treatment before I kill them. Then, and only then, it’s going to be your turn.”
Parma pitched forward on the sand, laying his head at Muniz’s feet. If the prosecutor hadn’t been cuffed, he would have been gripping his tormenter by the ankles.
“For God’s sake, Muniz, they’re innocent! They never did anything to you.”
Muniz’s smile became an outright laugh.
“Innocent?” he said. “I don’t give a damn about innocent. All I care about is making you suffer.” He turned to Careca. “Call Reiner.”
“No,” Careca said.
Muniz’s good humor vanished. He turned on the bigger man.
“What? What did you say?”
“We had this conversation once before, Senhor. My position is still the same.”
“Three-hundred thousand,” Muniz said. “Three-hundred thousand United States dollars.”
Three-hundred thousand dollars was a trifle, a bagatelle, a miniscule part of his vast fortune. But it was a considerable sum for a man like Careca, and Muniz, accustomed to buying men the way he bought objects, was certain the killer would be unable to resist.
But he was wrong.
“Not for four,” Careca said, “not for six, not for any amount. I’m not negotiating with you. I’m telling you no.”
Muniz was more than humiliated, he was flabbergasted. Everyone had their price. Everyone. But he was in a hurry, and he didn’t want to argue with the idiot, so he appealed to Aldo.
“How about you, eh? Three-hundred thousand American dollars?”
“No,” Aldo said.
Parma, with an effort, raised his head and looked first at Aldo, then at Careca.
“Thank you,” he said, with relief. “Thank you both.”
Muniz kicked sand at him.
“You keep the fuck out of it! Don’t you get it, you stupid bastard? They’re helping me kill you.”
Parma blinked the sand away and met Muniz’s eyes. “But they’re not helping you kill my wife and daughters. And that, you degenerate, sadistic bastard, merits my thanks.”
Muniz saw red. Frustration overpowered reason. He struck the prosecutor in the face with the barrel of his pistol, then reversed it, and using the grip like the head of a club, hit him again and again, taking out his anger not just with Parma, but with the whole damned lot of them.
He might well have finished the job right there, by beating Parma’s head to a bloody pulp, if Careca hadn’t reached out and grabbed his wrist.
“What the hell are you doing?” Muniz said. “Take your hands off me.”
“We didn’t sign on, Senhor, to watch you beat him, or to harm his wife, or his children. We signed on to help you kill him. And that’s all. Shoot him now and end it.”
“No.”
“Yes,” Careca said. “Do it now. Or I will.”
“The hell you will,” Muniz said. “I paid for him. He’s mine, and I’m going to get my money’s worth. He worked the slide on his pistol and chambered a round. “Every last centavo’s worth.”
He brought the muzzle of his silencer within a few centimeters of Parma’s knee and fired, then destroyed the other kneecap in the same fashion, then shot him in the genitals. He was smiling while he did it, but when there was no reaction from his victim, the smile faded.
“He didn’t feel a thing, Senhor,” Careca said. “You knocked him unconscious before you shot him.”
Muniz stared at the pistol in his hand, as if he was surprised to find it there. He looked down at Parma. It was true. The prosecutor had suffered no pain.
“We’ll wait,” he said. “We’ll wait until he wakes up.”
“No, Senhor, we will not,” Careca said. “We’ll leave now. It’s finished.”
“It’s not. He’s not dead.”
Careca pointed his pistol at Parma’s forehead and fired a single shot.
“He is now,” he said.
Careca’s weapon had no noise suppressor. Up at the house, Reiner must have heard the report. The radio on Careca’s belt burst into life.
“That’s it?” came Reiner’s voice.
Careca pushed the talk button. “That’s it,” he said.
“I’m on my way,” Reiner said.
Careca turned to Muniz. “We’re leaving now, Senhor Muniz,” he said, “so take your disgusting psychotic ass over to the goddamned boat and get on board.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“THAT WAITRESS,” ARNALDO SAID, as she sashayed away from their table to fill their order for a third round of afterdinner drinks, “has the soul of a china cabinet.”
After his second post-prandial whiskey Arnaldo was apt to turn philosophical. But this time, although he’d obviously designed the remark to be intriguingly enigmatic, it didn’t engender the desired response.
Silva’s mind was occupied with their next move, so instead of asking his sidekick why he thought the waitress had the soul of a china cabinet, he said, “I think we should question Jamil Al-Fulan.”
Arnaldo willingly switched gears.
“Jamil Al-Fulan? That guy Jaco called a hatemonger? The one Bruna was af
raid of?”
“Him.”
“We know, for sure, that he threatened to kill Nestor. You think he might also be connected to the bombing case?”
“Maybe.”
Arnaldo stirred the ice in his glass with a forefinger. “So you want to go to Ciudad del Este?”
Silva nodded. “We’ve pretty much run out of people to question here in Curitiba.”
“Plus the fact,” Arnaldo said, “that Hector told you he’s going there, and you want to get back into that bombing case.”
“It makes sense, doesn’t it? Team up, so we can cover more ground.”
“You’re the boss. You want me to get the concierge to book us a flight?”
Silva nodded. “For tomorrow morning. They’ll be staying on the Brazilian side of the river, at the Hotel das Cataratas. Book us into the same place.”
“For how long?”
“Three nights. We’ll extend it if we have to. Meanwhile, I’ll call Jaco and get him to set up a meeting with that friend of his, Ismail Khouri.”
“You gonna tell Serpa we’re leaving town?”
“I’d better.”
“Are you going to tell him why?”
“No. Just that we’re going south on a lead—and we’ll contact him when we return.”
IT WAS almost three in the morning when Orlando Muniz got back to São Paulo, but he was still furious. He tossed his keys on the coffee table, picked up the telephone and called the Colonel to complain.
To his surprise, the Colonel answered immediately. What was more, he sounded alert.
“I don’t discuss business by telephone,” he said. “Meet me in the same place as last time.”
“When?”
“Noon.”
“I’ll be there,” Muniz said.
ONCE AGAIN, the Colonel was sipping beer. He was at the same table, and wearing the same black leather jacket. This time, though, there was but one glass.
Muniz took a seat and opened his mouth to speak, but the Colonel spoke first.
“I’m cancelling our arrangement,” he said.
Muniz was taken aback. “You’re what?”
“You heard me, Senhor Muniz. I won’t repeat myself. You got half of what you wanted. You’ll have to be content with that.”
Muniz leaned across the table. “I didn’t get half of what I wanted. I got nowhere near half. I wanted the filho da puta to beg for his life—and he didn’t. I stipulated I wanted to kill him myself—and I didn’t get the chance. Careca fired the kill shot. Did he tell you that?”
The Colonel nodded. “He did.”
“Did he also tell you that Parma wouldn’t crawl, wouldn’t grovel? That it was only when I told your guys to bring his wife and kids down to the beach that I got any reaction out of him at all? And then fucking Careca ruined it by saying he wouldn’t do it. Did he tell you that?”
“He did.”
“And did he also tell you that Parma thanked him? Actually thanked him for leaving his wife and daughters out of it?”
“He told me the whole story. He even told me that Parma told you to go fuck yourself. And you know what? I sympathize with that sentiment. You, Senhor Muniz, go too far.”
“What the hell do you mean, I go too far?”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, Senhor Muniz. I’m not one of your employees, and I don’t like it.”
Muniz repeated the question, but in a softer voice and without the epithet.
“You don’t think trying to bribe my men so you can torture and kill a perfectly innocent woman and her children is going too far?”
“What is it with you? You and your men are all professional killers. Why should you care?”
“I care, Senhor Muniz, because I have principles, which you clearly do not.”
The Colonel picked up his glass and took a sip of beer.
Muniz extended a forefinger, would have pointed it at the Colonel’s face, then realized whom he was talking to and stabbed it onto the table instead. “You accepted a deal whereby I was supposed to fire the kill shot. Then one of your men did it. And you defend him? Where’s the principle in that?”
“Careca was the tactical commander. As such, he had responsibility for the safety of his men. In his judgment, staying on that beach any longer could have led to discovery, which, in turn, could have put those men into jeopardy. He didn’t knock Parma unconscious. You did. And to wait for him to recover consciousness would have been foolhardy. He instructed you to fire the kill shot. He even insisted. Isn’t that true?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But nothing. You, Senhor Muniz, are a psychopath with the morals of a feral cat. I want nothing more to do with you. The price we agreed upon was four hundred thousand dollars for both men. You paid half in advance. That will cover my fee for Parma. In addition, we incurred expenses of about five thousand Reais, but that amount of money is trivial, and in the interest of severing our relationship as quickly as possible, I’m going to forget about it.”
“Not so fast. I—”
“Senhor Muniz, do you have any idea, any idea at all, who you’re dealing with? We do not like you. So stop pushing your luck. Get up from that chair, right now, and get out of my sight.”
MUNIZ, FUMING, stormed out of Leo’s Bar and returned to his flat. He was in the hallway, fishing for his keys, when he heard the telephone ring. He managed to unlock the door, and pick up the handset before the caller hung up.
“Muniz,” he said, treating it like a business call. The vast majority of all his calls could be so classified. Muniz had few friends, but as it turned out, this was one of them.
“Congratulations,” Orestes Saldana said.
“You heard?”
“I did. It was on the radio. I look forward to hearing the details sometime.”
“It was nowhere as good as I thought it was going to be. Did you call me just for that? To congratulate me?”
“No. I called about the other one. You asked me to keep tabs on him, remember?”
“Of course, I remember.”
“He left town this morning.”
“Damn!”
“But not for Brasilia.”
“Where then?”
“Foz do Iguaçu.”
“Foz do Iguaçu? Why that’s—”
“Perfect. I know. I thought you’d be pleased.”
“How long is he staying?”
“Three days.”
“Do you know where?”
“The Hotel das Cataratas.”
“Good. Good. You’re a real friend. Listen, I’m going to need some … people. I’ve had a … misunderstanding with my former associates.”
After a short pause, Saldana said, “You’ll be flying to your place in Argentina?”
“Tomorrow.”
“How many do you need?”
“Three should do it.”
“You’ll have room on your aircraft?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop off in Medianeira. I’ll have them waiting for you.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
THERE IS A PLACE, on the border between Brazil and Argentina, where the Iguaçu River plunges over a highland plateau.
On the Brazilian side, within a huge national park, stands the Hotel das Cataratas.
Pink with white trim, and built in the Portuguese colonial style, the building is a fifteen-minute stroll from the mightiest of Iguaçu’s 275 waterfalls, a U-shaped, 82-meter-high, 700-meter-long chasm called A Garganta do Diabo, the Devil’s Throat.
Almost half of the river’s water tumbles over it; a cloud of mist sometimes rises above it, and the roar that emanates from it can often be heard within the rooms of the hotel.
That day, the river was high from the rains, and the wind was blowing toward them, carrying with it a thunder so constant, and so loud, that Hector’s voice was proving difficult to hear.
Arnaldo got up from his seat on the couch to close the window; Danusa gave him a thankful nod, but Silva, sitting c
loser, and hanging on his nephew’s every word, seemed oblivious to the reduction in noise.
“… what the news reader said was sketchy,” Hector was saying, “so I called Mara and asked her to contact the cops on Ilhabela for more details. She wasn’t able to get back to me before we took off.”
“So you only got the full story when you landed?”
“Correct.”
“Who found him?”
“Some kids,” Danusa said, “on their way to have an early-morning swim.”
“They don’t get many murders on the island,” Hector continued. “The police chief himself turned out for it. He knew Zanon by sight, saw how it went down, realized he was out of his depth, and called in reinforcements.”
“From where?”
“São Paulo. And when Janus Prado heard who the victim was, he assigned himself as lead investigator.”
“Good,” Silva said. “Nobody better.”
“He took a full forensics team. Mara’s liaising with him and will call whenever there’s anything new to report.”
“So what do we know up to now?”
“They shot Zanon four times, once in each knee, once in the groin, once in the head. The wounds to his knees and groin looked to be from one weapon, the wound to his head from another.”
“What about Iara? Was she in the house when they took him?”
“Yes.”
Silva grimaced. “The children?”
“Also.”
“Are they all okay?”
“Physically, yes.”
“Thank God. Do they know?”
“There was no keeping it from Iara. She heard the shot.”
“Didn’t you just say there’d been four shots?”
“Yes, but she only heard one. Another reason why Janus suspects two weapons were used. He figures one had a silencer.”
Silva’s compassion for Zanon’s wife and children was layered with a cold anger. He gave in to the anger. It was more productive.
“What’s Iara’s story?”
“Two men woke them from a sound sleep. Then a third man brought in their two kids. All three wore hoods.”
“So there’s no chance she can identify any of them?”
Hector shook his head. “But we’re not entirely clueless. Iara’s observant. One had some pretty unique tattoos, and she can describe them. He also had a high, squeaky voice that sounded, she said, very strange coming from a guy as big as he was. Another one had blond hair on the back of his hands, so probably ditto on his head.”
Perfect Hatred Page 15
