"No proof?" Ferraz laughed out loud. A couple of the other cops turned toward him. "No proof?" he repeated. "What do you think that is?" He pointed toward the corpse. "How much more proof you think the old man needs?"
Silva brushed past the colonel and went to talk to the man wearing the latex gloves, a Nisei with rimless glasses and a purple birthmark on his forehead.
"Ishikawa," the man said, rising to his feet. "Medical examiner. You?"
"Costa," Silva pointed at Hector, "and Silva," he stuck a thumb into his own chest. "Federal Police. Any conclusions?"
"He was alive when they buried him," the doctor said. He stuck the thermometer he was holding into a breast pocket, pulled out a pencil, and made a note. "He tried to free his ankles and wrists. Cut himself up pretty badly. The marks on his forehead came from battering his head repeatedly against the lid. Maybe he was trying to knock himself out."
Silva looked down at the body. The younger Muniz's pants were pulled down over his thighs. The thermometer the medical examiner had been using was obviously rectal.
"Cause of death?"
"Asphyxiation," Ishikawa said, "unless something else turns up in the autopsy."
The doctor was friendly and more forthcoming than Silva would have expected. Silva was used to dealing with the bigcity medical examiners, men and women who were unwilling to hazard a guess about a cause of death, much less commit themselves, until they'd completed an autopsy.
Ferraz came up to stand at Silva's shoulder. "His eyes were open when we dug him up," he said. "The doc here closed them for him. He musta been shit scared."
Doctor Ishikawa winced at Ferraz's tone and lowered his eyes so he wouldn't have to look at him.
"You want to take him now?" he said.
"Hell, no," Ferraz said. "His old man's on the way. He'll want to have a look."
He glanced at the road leading toward the main gate of the fazenda and squinted. Silva followed his gaze. There were three vehicles down there, coming fast, trailing red dust.
"That's probably him now."
Silva took Hector by the arm. "Let's go," he said.
"You mean you're not going to stick around for the old man?" Ferraz asked, incredulously.
"We're going down to see what the league people have to say."
Silva turned to go and then, remembering, he turned back to face Ferraz.
"I've been asked to look into the murder of Senhorita Poli as well."
"So?"
"So I'd like to know why she gave you an authorization to go through her safe-deposit box and what you were looking for."
"Confidential matter between her and me."
"Confidential?"
"Confidential. And she must have made some kind of a mistake, because it was empty."
Silva stared at him. Ferraz wasn't intimidated. As if to prove it he said, "By the way, my boys have been all over the crime scene. The guy who cut their throats was lefthanded, just like Major Palmas here. And the blonde was raped, but there was no DNA, nothing under their fingernails, no strange pubic hairs, no semen. No prints, either. Too bad, huh?"
Silva didn't trust himself to speak. He turned on his heel and started back to where they'd left their car. Behind him, Ferraz and Palmas shared a laugh.
Hector followed his uncle down the slope. A moment later they passed the dead man's father, hurrying upward. The two bodyguards from the hotel were hot on Muniz's heels.
One of the bodyguards stopped to talk, but the other two men brushed by without a word. The old man's anxious eyes were fixed on the crown of the hill.
"Is it him?" the bodyguard asked Silva.
"Yeah. It's him."
"Then God help them."
"Help who?" Silva said, but the man was already scrambling to catch up to his boss.
"Let's get down to the encampment," he said, "before they do."
Another two minutes brought them onto the flat. All three of Muniz's vehicles were pulled up next to Hector's rental car. A driver sat behind the wheel of a black Mercedes. The others were vans and they were packed with armed men.
Chapter Twenty-five
One thing Silva could have anticipated, but hadn't, was the presence of the press in the league's encampment.
A pod of them surrounded Luiz Pillar. All were men, except for one very attractive brunette.
"That's all we need," Silva said when he spotted her.
"Wow," Hector said, "That's-"
"Yeah. Vicenza Pelosi." Vicenza was an ex-model turned investigative journalist. If the stories about her were true, she'd gotten her break into journalism by having an affair with the president of the network, but that was ancient history. These days, it was said, she tended to avoid entanglements with men, and had a low opinion of most of them. Her father had been a shop steward in the metalworker's union, mysteriously shot down one night by a person, or persons, never identified. She'd been twelve years old when they'd buried him. By the time she was fourteen, she'd blossomed into a black-haired, olive-skinned beauty with pouting bee-stung lips, an hourglass figure, and intriguing green eyes. She entered a modeling contest and won it. The prize was a contract, and within six months she'd appeared on the cover of half a dozen magazines. The camera loved her, and in another sense, so did the photographers and art directors upon whom her work depended. By eighteen, she'd bedded dozens and her photos had appeared in publications all over the world.
But Vicenza was much more than a pretty face. Early on, she'd realized that the career of a model, no matter how successful, was short. She started bringing books to her photo shoots, reading them while they were setting up the lights or when the other models were being made up. They were the kind of books most photographers and art directors had never read, much less any of the other girls. Marx, Spengler, Engels, Sartre, Camus-she read them all, and kept going back to the bookshops to buy more. While the other girls' closets were stuffed with shoes and dresses, Vicenza's were stacked with paperbacks. While the other girls spent their evenings in nightclubs and trendy restaurants, Vicenza took to staying at home, reading, and going to bed alone, by preference.
She couldn't discuss her books with any of the people she worked with, so she started studying at night. By the time she was twenty-three she'd earned a degree in social sciences from the University of Rio de Janeiro. At twenty-six, she was doing local coverage for the Rede Mundo affiliate in Sao Paulo. At twenty-eight she went national. And now, at thirty-three, she had her own show, could choose what she wanted to report on, and was a major force in shaping Brazilian public opinion. Everybody in government, from the President of the Republic on down, was leery of getting on her bad side.
"I think she spotted me," Silva said.
"I think she did too. You ever meet her? In person, I mean.
Silva nodded. "In another age, she would have been locked up for being a communist. She and Pillar must see eye to eye. He probably invited her."
"She's beautiful."
"She is that. She's also abrasive as hell."
"Introduce me."
Silva nodded. "Okay," he said, "but don't say I didn't warn you.
Vicenza came walking toward them, trailing a cameraman and a guy with a microphone boom.
"Ah, Chief Inspector Silva. I heard you were in Cascatas."
"Is the camera running, Vicenza?"
She answered him with a smile and another question.
"Are you here to help with the breakup of this encampment?"
Silva just stood and smiled. She repeated the question with exactly the same result. Their activity attracted the attention of other journalists. Some of them started walking toward them like cautious wolves inspecting new prey. Silva didn't recognize any of them but there was a good chance that some of them would recognize him. He turned his back.
"Okay," Vicenza said, walking around Silva so that she could face him. "Take a break, guys." The cameraman took the camera from his shoulder and slipped on a lens cap. The soundman lowered his microphone boom. Then the two of the
m wandered off in the direction of a blue truck with the Rede Mundo logotype.
The other journalists watched them for a moment, then gravitated back to Pillar.
Vicenza fished a cigarette out of her shoulder bag and lit it. She didn't seem miffed by Silva's unwillingness to play.
"Shall we try again?" she said. "Off the record?"
Hector cleared his throat.
"Who's this?" She flashed her long eyelashes.
"Hector Costa, a delegado from the Sao Paulo office."
Hector smiled and took a step forward.
"Ah. And your nephew, if I'm not mistaken."
Hector winced.
"Well informed," Silva said, "as usual."
Vicenza redirected her attention to Silva.
"What brought you to Cascatas in the first place, Chief Inspector? Dom Felipe? The Poli woman? Young Muniz's kidnapping?"
"All of the above. What can you tell me about Muniz?"
"Who's the reporter here?" She had a slightly crooked incisor. The small defect served to enhance her smile.
"Help us out, Vicenza. I'll reciprocate."
She cocked her head and thought about it. "Okay. Who do you want to know about? The father or the son?"
"The son."
"Nasty bastard, just as mean and greedy as his father. Thought the league was out to get him, and with good reason. They say he murdered a man by the name of Aurelio-"
"I know about that."
"So he was paranoid. Always locked himself in at night and had a half a dozen capangas guarding the house. He's got a manager who lives here on the property, name of Santos. They were supposed to meet for a late breakfast."
"Where?"
"At the casa grande, Muniz's house. Santos showed up on time, but Muniz wasn't there. Neither were any of his bodyguards. The cook and the maid were, but they don't sleep in the house. They've got their own little cottage just on the other side of that hill. They arrived to find the front door and the door to his bedroom smashed and no sign of their boss."
"What time was that?"
"A little after eight."
"Aside from the broken doors, and the fact that Muniz missed his appointment, was there anything else that induced them to suspect foul play?"
Vicenza smiled. "Foul play? Foul play? Do cops really talk like that?"
"I'm a cop and that's the way I talk. Answer my question."
Vicenza's smile vanished.
"Please."
The smile came back.
"That's better, Chief Inspector. Be nice. Muniz's car and van were still in the garage. Both are blindados, teflon in the doors, windows two centimeters thick and bulletproof. He never traveled in anything else."
"Was he married?"
She immediately caught the past tense. "Why do you say `was'?"
"I'll tell you in a moment. Was he married?"
She nodded. "And he's got two kids. They spend most of their time in Rio. The wife is a socialite. A spoiled bitch, addicted to dinner parties laced with caviar, champagne, and foie Bras. If she spends more than a week living on the fazenda she gets claustrophobic."
"Claustrophobic? How big is this place?"
"About half the size of Denmark."
"No kidding?"
"No kidding."
"Jesus. How about their kids?"
"She keeps them with her. Says they can't get a decent education in Cascatas. She's got them in the American School in Rio."
"Muniz's paranoia-the fact that he surrounded himself with hired guns-was that because he feared reprisal for Azevedo?"
"Not only that. He had another reason."
"Which was?"
"This isn't the first time the league has made a grab for some of his property. They tried it about fourteen months ago. Muniz got the State Police to help him evict them. A couple of people were killed, including a seven-year-old girl. The league blames him for that, too."
"I remember reading about the girl. She caught a stray bullet."
"That's what Colonel Ferraz says. The league people tell a different story. They claim Muniz shot her on purpose, just to make a point."
"Why didn't the league people bring charges?"
"They tried, but the local judge is a friend of the Munizes,' some crook by the name of Wilson Cunha. He threw them out of court."
"The Azevedo thing, was that before or after?"
"Before and after. Azevedo was the guy who led the invasion of the property, and he was the guy who tried to press charges for the murder of the little girl. Junior started getting threats. That's when he started locking his doors and, some say, laying plans to make an example of Azevedo."
"What's your best guess about who's responsible for Junior's disappearance?"
"For heaven's sake, Chief Inspector. He disappears one night, and they invade his fazenda the next. What do you need? A road map? It had to be the league. Who else? Your turn now, and I hope it's good."
"Oh, it is, Vicenza, it is."
Silva looked around and leaned closer. Her perfume had a faint lemony scent. "It's not a kidnapping anymore. Muniz is dead. They found his body, on a hill, about two kilometers down that road. His old man just arrived and he's already up there."
She threw her cigarette to the ground and crushed it under one of her black pumps. She'd only taken one puff on it, the one to get it lit.
"A pleasure doing business with you, Chief Inspector. We'll catch up later." Then, with a sideways glance at the competition, she started strolling toward the blue truck as if she was disengaging herself from a fruitless conversation.
Chapter Twenty-six
Arnaldo didn't think It would be a good idea to take a rental car into a favela, so he took it back to the hotel and left it in the garage under the building. Then he found a place under the shadow of a jacaranda tree and looked up and down the dusty, deserted street. There was no sign of a taxi. He was thinking about going back inside and asking them to call one when a white-haired lady, trailing a poodle of the same color, came out of a neighboring apartment building. While the dog sniffed at Arnaldo's crotch, and they both tried to ignore it, the lady directed him to the nearest taxi stand.
It turned out to be a three-minute walk away, on a parallel street called the Rua Tiradentes, and consisted of a telephone box bolted to a lamppost. A yellow Volkswagen Beetle with both doors open was parked along the curb. The passenger's seat, the one next to the driver, had been removed to facilitate access.
"We're going to a favela called Consolacao," Arnaldo said, folding his considerable bulk into the back and slamming the door on the passenger's side.
The driver, who'd been fanning himself with a magazine while leafing through another, turned around and stared at him. He was a black man with a day's growth of white beard and a bald head. "No, we're not," he said. "Not me. Those people will slit your throat for a few reais."
Arnaldo took out his badge and flashed it. "Consolacao," he said, "or the nearest police station."
"Merda," the driver said, but he slammed his door, started the engine, and pushed down the flag.
"Isn't this thing air conditioned?" Arnaldo asked.
"No," the driver said. "Why don't I bring you over to the cab stand near the bus station? You can get an especial with air conditioning and the whole bit. You'll be a lot more comfortable."
"Forget it. Get moving."
"No charge. I'll take you for free."
"Get moving, I said. Now, listen up. When we get there you're going to help me find a woman-"
"Look, senhor, if all you want is a whore I can-"
"Shut up and drive. I was talking."
What passed for the favela's main street was an unpaved alleyway lined with shacks built of scrap lumber. Every now and then a narrower alleyway branched off to the left or to the right. There was no room for the driver to maneuver, no way for him to avoid the water-filled potholes, any one of which might have been deep enough to engulf one of his wheels. He bounced ahead slowly, cursing under
his breath.
"Stop next to that woman," Arnaldo said. "We'll try her first."
The woman in question was carrying a blue plastic washtub on her head and picking her way through the garbage that lined the street. The windows in the back of the cab didn't open, so Arnaldo had to lean over the driver's left shoulder to talk to her.
"Senhora?"
She stopped and gave him a wide, curious smile.
"I'm looking for a woman who has a son named Edson Souza."
"Sorry," she said, "I don't know her." And then, almost as an afterthought, "Senhor?"
Arnaldo leaned forward hopefully.
"If I were you, I wouldn't go driving around this neighborhood."
"You see?" the taxi driver said as they pulled away. "Now you heard it from somebody else, and she lives here, for Christ's sake. Let's get out of here."
"Keep going."
They came next to a group of five youths standing in a circle.
"Stop here."
"Senhor, for the love of-"
"Stop, I said."
The driver stopped and looked down, writing something on a clipboard, avoiding the five pairs of eyes.
The youngest kid was about thirteen, the oldest maybe seventeen. They were all dressed in clothes that looked several sizes too big for them, and they all had shaved heads. Arnaldo was reminded of the school of barracudas he'd once seen while scuba diving. He'd been about thirty meters down, on the wreck of the old Principe de Asturias, just off the north coast of Ilha Bela. The damned fish had looked at him then just like the kids were looking at him now, as if they were deciding whether it would be safe to flash in and take a bite.
"What?" the oldest kid said.
No greeting, no smile, just the single word. Arnaldo asked the same question he'd asked of the woman with the washtub.
"What's it worth to you?" the kid asked.
"Five reais."
"Go fuck yourself."
"Ten."
"Let's see the ten."
Arnaldo fished out his wallet. Probably a mistake, he thought. The wallet was fat with the money he'd taken from the ATM. He held it low, so that the kids couldn't see into it, and took out a ten-real note.
The kid stuck out his hand.
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