Blood of the Wicked cims-1

by Leighton Gage

  "Of course. You knew him?"

  "Not personally, no, but I knew the bishop. He was misguided, but he was a well-meaning man, true to his convictions. I can't say I liked him, but I certainly didn't hate him, and neither did anyone else in my organization. That's not the case with Muniz. We all hate his guts. He's an exploiter of the worst kind."

  "You just told me you didn't know him."

  "Personally, I said. I'm basing my opinion on things I've heard."

  "Heard from whom?"

  "People who worked for him. Other people who knew him."

  "You think he's dead?"

  Pillar shrugged. "Dead or alive, I had nothing to do with it. His father won't believe that, of course. The old bastard will probably come after me next."

  Silva took in a breath and let it out slowly. Before he uttered his next words, he already knew they'd be wasted but he said them anyway. "There's no end to this. Whenever you kill one of them, they're going to come right back and kill one of you. You know that, don't you?"

  "I know more than that, Chief Inspector. I know that when one of them is murdered they go out and kill fifty or even a hundred of us. They've killed more than fifteen hundred of us in the last ten years."

  "Yes, I know."

  "But we're still going to win."

  "What makes you so sure?"

  "Because we have the numbers on our side. There are less than fifty thousand of them. There are almost five million of us out there." He pointed at the window as if all of them were just outside the hotel. "Five million landless workers. We've got them outnumbered by a margin of more than one hundred to one. We can't lose."

  "There are laws in this country, Pillar-"

  "Laws?" Pillar snorted. "We occupy unused farmland to force the government to do their duty and expropriate it. Is that a crime?"

  "In fact, it is. It's called trespassing."

  "Trespassing. And that serious offense, that major crime, merits the attention of the Federal Police?"

  "Spare me your sarcasm. How long have you been in Cascatas?"

  "What you're really asking is: Was I here before the disappearance of young Muniz?"

  "Yes."

  "When did he disappear?"

  "Sometime during the night before last."

  "Then the answer to your question is yes. Yes, I was here in Cascatas."

  "Sleeping here at the hotel?"

  "Yes."

  "And last night? Did you sleep here last night?" Silva asked, already knowing the answer.

  Pillar didn't hesitate. "No," he said.

  "Then where did you sleep?"

  "I didn't sleep at all. I've been up all night."

  "Doing what?"

  "Helping my brothers from the league to cut through Muniz's fence and occupy a part of his fazenda."

  "A part of his-"

  "Less than ten percent of his holding. Land he's never used, but the greedy bastard doesn't want to part with any of it. We're going to stay where we are until our demands are negotiated."

  "That's senseless.

  "You're referring to the new law, I presume, the one that blocks appropriation in the case of occupation?"

  "I am."

  "The government hasn't been enforcing that one. Not since the new president was elected. He can't come right out and say it, but he's on our side."

  "In his heart he may support you, but in practice, he won't. He has to enforce the law. You're pushing him too far."

  "I don't think so. I think time will prove me right."

  "My God, Pillar, do you have any idea who you're dealing with? Old man Muniz is one of the most powerful men in this country. You think he's going to think it's a coincidence that his son disappears one day and that you occupy his fazenda the next?"

  "I don't give a damn what he thinks. He can't prove a thing."

  "Proof? You think he needs proof?"

  "That's the law."

  "He's the kind that picks and chooses his laws, just like you do. You mentioned Ferraz-"

  "The best cop money can buy. If he was an elevator operator, you'd have to bribe him to let you off on the right floor."

  "Very funny. But this isn't a joke. The two of them, old man Muniz and Ferraz, are going to come after your people, and I won't be able to do a thing about it."

  "Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

  "Are you crazy?"

  "No, Chief Inspector, I'm not crazy at all. Think about it. Right now, this town is full of reporters. They didn't come for us, they came for the bishop, but I intend to use them. What the league needs, more than anything else, is publicity for our cause. If Muniz and Ferraz crack a few heads-"

  "They'll do more than crack a few heads. They'll kill people. Back off, Pillar. This whole thing isn't worth spilling blood for."

  "No? Then why did they? You mentioned Aurelio Azevedo. He was my friend, Chief Inspector. They nailed him to a tree. They shot his wife, Teresa. They even killed Paulo and Marcela, their two kids. Paulo was fourteen. Marcela was only nine."

  "A tragedy, I admit that, but-"

  "Not only a tragedy. A travesty. A travesty of justice. You think we don't know who did it? You think we don't… ah, why am I wasting my breath. What's the use of talking to you? You can't help."

  Luiz Pillar lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. The face of it was scratched, and it had a cheap plastic band. "Look, I'm busy. If you want to continue this conversation you'll find me at our encampment, out on the Fazenda Boa Vista."

  He left without offering either one of them a hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Diana's heart gave A leap when she heard the sound of a key in the lock. A moment later someone forced the front door against the chain.

  "Diana? Are you there?"

  Lori's voice. Diana breathed a sigh of relief.

  "What's going on?"

  Lori had her mouth against the narrow opening between the door and the jamb. There was an edge to her voice.

  "Coming," Diana said, making an effort to keep her own voice cheerful and nonchalant. Hurriedly, she closed the file she'd been working on, exited the word-processing program, and switched the computer off.

  "Diana?"

  Lori kicked the door. Hard.

  Diana slipped off the chain and tried to relieve her partner of one of the brown paper bags, but Lori brushed by her, hurried into the kitchen, and set both of them on the counter. She kept her back turned to Diana.

  "Are you alone in here?" she said.

  "Of course I'm alone."

  Lori spun around and eyed Diana suspiciously. "Then why the chain?"

  "You're jealous?" Diana said.

  "Have I reason to be?"

  "No, Lori, you don't. The door was on the chain because I… I didn't want anyone to walk in on me while I was working."

  It was the truth, but even to her it sounded like a feeble excuse.

  "Including me?" Lori said. When Diana didn't reply to that, she continued, "Because I thought no one else except you and I have keys to this apartment." Lori turned her back again and started taking groceries from the bags, setting them on the counter with just a bit more force than was necessary. "So what are you hiding?" she said.

  "I'm not hiding anything," Diana said. "I'm just being careful. Here, let me help you."

  Diana picked up a six-pack of yogurt and put it into the fridge. Lori opened the door to one of the cabinets and stood poised with a can of chickpeas in her hand. She was a short woman and had raised herself on the tips of her toes. Now, without putting the can away, she sank back onto her heels.

  "Why careful?" she said.

  "I can't tell you."

  "You-can't-tell-me?" Lori doled out the words one by one.

  "Not because I don't want to," Diana said, hastily. "It's because I promised someone I'd-"

  "Hold it right there! You promised someone you were going to keep secrets from me?"

  "It's for your own good, darling. Be a sweetheart and hand me that pac
kage of butter."

  Lori handed her partner the butter and leaned her derriere against the sink. She crossed her arms and watched Diana put the package into the compartment at the top of the refrigerator door.

  Diana glanced at her. "What?" she said.

  "You don't trust me." It was an accusation, not a question.

  Diana closed the door to the fridge and breathed out in exasperation. "Of course I trust you."

  "Then tell me."

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because… because it's dangerous. If a certain party gets wind of it before it's published, God knows what he'll do."

  "Who is he?"

  Diana shook her head.

  "Have it your own way," Lori said.

  She turned her back, went into their bedroom and slammed the door. Diana heard the key turn in the lock. She sighed to herself, returned to her office and rebooted her computer. Lori would come around. Eventually. But until Diana had her work in print she wasn't going to get a good night's sleep, and not just because she'd be spending all of those nights on the couch.

  Her biggest threat came from the kids themselves. Those kids were used to selling their bodies, which aside from being humiliating, was often more painful than selling information. If it occurred to one of them that Ferraz would pay him for what he knew, the kid would betray her in an instant. And whatever most of those kids were, they weren't stupid. At least one of them was bound to figure it out before long. That's why she and Anton had agreed that it was safest not to tell Lori anything. If Ferraz came for her, the less Lori knew, the better.

  Up until that moment, the moment she resumed her seat, Diana had taken only minimal precautions. She hadn't typed up the interview transcripts at the office. She hadn't left any record of what she was working on in the computer there. She'd been careful on the telephone. She'd even made sure Lori hadn't caught her working at home. Until now.

  The risk hung over her head, and it was a deadly risk, but it was worth it. This was going to be the series of her journalistic life. She didn't want to rush it into print. She wanted more color, more human interest, more juicy details. That's what sold newspapers. That's what won prizes for journalism. That's what could catapult her into the big time.

  And once Lori read her work, then she'd understand, and all would be forgiven. Lori could be temperamental at times, but Diana had grown confident about the depth of their love. It was a far cry from their first few months together, when Diana was always asking herself how a blonde goddess with fashion sense could be interested in a square-shouldered woman with no waist.

  She glanced at her watch. The bank was open late. She could just make it.

  She transferred everything she was working on, transcripts and all, onto a CD, put the CD into a large envelope, added the memory sticks from the camera and the copies of the audiotapes. Then she typed out a short note, put it into a smaller envelope, and added stamps.

  She went to the door of their bedroom and tapped lightly. "Lori?"

  No response.

  "Lori, I'm going out. Just for a little while. I'll be back for dinner."

  Still no response.

  Diana gave it up, picked up her knapsack, and left the apartment, locking the door behind her. Down in the garage she fired up the Honda Valkyrie, her favorite bike. Her business at the bank took no more than ten minutes. She mailed the letter to Anton Brouwer on her way home.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Silva and Hector Dedicated the day following their conversation with Luiz Pillar to the procedural ritual. They visited the murder site, spoke with the medical examiner, and interviewed the members of the bishop's reception committee. Nothing brought them closer to a solution.

  They were back at the hotel, and Silva was nursing a cold beer, when his cell phone, the one for which only the director had the number, started to ring. He fished it out of his breast pocket.

  "Good evening, Director."

  "Silva?"

  It wasn't the director.

  "Who is this?"

  "Orlando Muniz. One of your superiors should have talked to you about me. Did he?"

  "Yes. How did you get this number, Senhor Muniz?"

  "Never mind that. I've arrived. I'm in suite nine hundred at the Excelsior. Where are you?"

  "In my room. The same hotel."

  "Good. Come up."

  "Right now?"

  "Something wrong with your ears?"

  "I assumed you'd be staying at your son's place."

  "It's not his place. It's my place, and it has two broken doors. I'll move out there when they're fixed. Suite nine hundred. Make it quick. I'm waiting." Muniz hung up.

  "And good afternoon to you, too, Senhor Muniz," Silva said. Then, to Hector, "How about another beer?"

  Thirty minutes later, a flinty-eyed man wearing an empty shoulder holster answered the door of Suite 900. A pistol, a Glock. 40 just like the one Silva was wearing under his jacket, was in his right hand, pointing at the floor.

  "Senhor Muniz?" Silva said.

  "Who wants him?" the bodyguard said.

  "Costa and Silva, Federal Police."

  "Took your own sweet time getting here," a voice grumbled from inside the suite, and then, giving an order, "Let 'em in, Jair."

  Jair stepped aside. After they walked past him he stuck his head into the corridor, looked left and right, and then locked the door behind them.

  Muniz's suite was a good deal larger than Silva's, but it was on the top floor of the hotel, just under the roof, so the airconditioning wasn't equal to the task of cooling the place. It was uncomfortably hot. If Muniz had shown him a bit more courtesy, Silva might have told him that the hotel had other, cooler, alternatives.

  But Muniz hadn't and Silva didn't.

  Muniz had another visitor and, by the look of things, he'd already been in the suite for some time. Both men were stripped down to their shirtsleeves, had opened their collars, and had circles of sweat under their arms. There was a full ashtray on the coffee table. The same table held a number of empty glasses, an ice bucket, and a bottle of Logan's Twelve Year Old. The bucket was transparent. It only had a few slivers of ice in the bottom and about a centimeter of water. A strong smell of tobacco was in the air and enough haze to make Silva's eyes burn.

  Muniz stood. He was a short, swarthy man, with a wart to the left of his nose. Earlier in the day, Silva had received photos of his son. There was no physical resemblance.

  The other man also stood. Muniz introduced him. "Judge Wilson Cunha."

  The judge offered his hand, first to Silva and then to Hector. He was short and his erect posture and protruding chest reminded Silva of a pigeon. His hair, moist from perspiration and immaculately coifed, was somewhat long for a man of his age and station. It hung slightly over his ears.

  The other two men in the room, the fellow who'd opened the door, and another who could have been his younger brother, apparently didn't rate introductions.

  Muniz wiped his forehead on his sleeve, snapped his fingers, and pointed to the chairs surrounding a dining table. "Put two of those"-he pointed to a spot on the opposite side of the coffee table-"right there."

  The men with the flinty eyes did what he'd told them to do and then retreated to opposite corners of the room.

  "Sit down," Muniz said, making it sound more like a command than a courtesy. He sank back into his seat on the couch.

  Cunha adjusted his armchair to form a united front. He was obviously going to be on Muniz's side, whatever it was.

  Silva expected to be offered a drink. It didn't happen.

  "You find my boy?" Muniz began without preamble. In Brazil, where manners dictate that virtually every conversation open with some kind of chitchat, it was a clear discourtesy.

  "Not yet, senhor," Hector said.

  "I was talking to your boss, not you," Muniz said, sharply. "What about the note?"

  "No prints," Silva said. "Written with a ballpoint pen in block letters."

&n
bsp; "Get it. I want to see it."

  Silva shook his head. "I sent it to Brasilia for analysis. Maybe there are fingerprints. We may learn something of interest from the ink or the paper, but I doubt it. We may be able to confirm the identity of the writer if we catch him, but then again-"

  "Maybe, maybe, maybe. That's all you've got? What's the matter with you people? How many of those agitators have you questioned?"

  "League members, you mean?"

  "Who else would I mean? Do you know what happened last night?"

  "The occupation of your son's, sorry, your fazenda?"

  "So you're not completely uninformed? Good for you. You think that threat was bullshit, or is my boy really dead?"

  "They made no demands. I'd expect the worst."

  Judge Cunha nodded sagely, as if he'd already made the same point. Then he reached over, used his fingers to extract some of the remaining ice from the bucket, put it into his mouth, and cracked it with his teeth.

  "Why haven't you arrested some of the bastards?" Muniz went on.

  "As Judge Cunha here will undoubtedly be able to tell you, there's the issue of proof-"

  "Proof?" Muniz exploded. "Those maggots are crawling all over my fazenda. Do you think it's a coincidence? Haul the bastards in on a trespassing charge. I'll be happy to question them myself."

  Silva's jaw tightened, but he kept a close rein on his temper. "It's possible we may be dealing with two unrelated issues," he said.

  "It's possible that the blessed Virgin Mary had two balls and a cock," Muniz said, "but I doubt it."

  The judge looked shocked. But then he reached out, tentatively touched Silva just above his kneecap and cleared his throat. "You have to understand, Chief Inspector, that my friend Senhor Muniz is justifiably upset. He's worried about his son, as any father would be, and he's outraged that those… people had the effrontery to invade his property."

  He paused, and appeared to be waiting for Silva to respond. When Silva didn't, the judge continued. "Before you arrived, we were discussing Senhor Muniz's legal recourses with respect to the occupation. The situation seems very clear to me."

  "Does it? I'm told that Senhor Muniz's son wasn't using that land."