A vine in the blood cims-5

by Leighton Gage

  “She’s not a pharmacist. Her boss is the pharmacist. She just manages the place. Doctor Polo thinks the world of her. I’ve always thought she was a bitch.”

  Goncalves smacked his forehead.

  “What?” Silva said.

  “When we were looking at that list you put up on the wall, studying the description? And it wouldn’t come to me? Well, it just did! She’s the one I was trying to remember. I met her in the pharmacy. She came in using this perfume that smelled like berries, berries and… something else.

  “Bergamot,” Campos said.

  Silva looked at him. “What?”

  “Bergamot. That perfume I was talking about. Promesse. It smells like bergamot and berries. Vitoria drenches herself in it, calls it her signature scent.”

  “She’s got a boyfriend,” Goncalves said. “The girl in her shop said she has a boyfriend.”

  Edson nodded. “Samuel Arns, the locksmith. His shop is next door.”

  “Damn,” Hector said.

  Silva turned to his nephew. “I don’t believe this. You met her too? When you were talking to Arns?”

  “She dropped by his shop when I was interviewing him. We weren’t introduced. But the perfume? I remember that.”

  “How come you didn’t mention it before?” Arnaldo said.

  “Why should I? Lots of women wear perfume. It wasn’t until Campos here mentioned bergamot that-”

  “Wait a minute. You know what bergamot is?”

  “Sure. It’s a citrus fruit, like an orange.”

  “And you happen to know that because?”

  “They use it to flavor tea. Earl Grey tea. Gilda drinks the stuff.”

  Arnaldo might have said more, but Silva put a hand on his arm. “It’s all coming together,” he said. “Vitoria is Arns’s girlfriend, and Arns makes the keys for Juraci.” He turned to Hector. “Have you got the telephone number of his shop?”

  Hector nodded and tapped the pocket over his notebook.

  “And you, Haraldo,” Silva said. “Have you got one for the pharmacy where Vitoria works?”

  “ Si, Senhor.”

  “Call both places, make sure both of them are on the job.”

  “And if they are?” Hector said.

  Silva waved his hand vaguely. “Think of something that doesn’t make you sound like cops and hang up.”

  Goncalves and Hector went out to where they could get better signals for their cell phones.

  “She used me,” Edson said. “She used me to get information about carrier pigeons.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  Edson thought for a moment.

  “Six months ago, maybe seven.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “I was talking to one of her girls about my pigeons. She butted in. Next thing I know she’s asking me all sorts of questions. She even asked if she could come over and look at my birds.”

  “And you agreed?”

  “Sure.”

  “You didn’t find this sudden interest of hers a bit strange?”

  “Carrier pigeons are my hobby. I’m crazy about them. So, no, I didn’t find it strange at all. Not then.”

  “But you did later?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, after her visit, and after all our talk, and after lending her three books on the subject, she just dropped it.”

  “Dropped it?”

  “One week she couldn’t talk to me enough about carrier pigeons. The next week, when I went into the pharmacy and asked her if she’d bought any birds, she told me she’d gone cold on the idea, that she was no longer interested.”

  “All this was six months ago?”

  “At least.”

  “And four or five months would be sufficient to train pigeons?”

  “Hatch them and train them,” Edson said. “No doubt.”

  Hector walked in, shaking his head. “The telephone at Arns’s shop has been disconnected.”

  Goncalves was next. He still had his phone in his hand. “Vitoria Pitanguy resigned,” he said. “As of yesterday, she no longer works at the pharmacy.”

  “Uh oh,” Arnaldo said.

  “Tell me, Senhor Campos,” Silva said, “do Arns and Pitanguy live together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here in Granja Viana?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “Just up the street.”

  Chapter Forty-One

  Vitoria Pitanguy was sorting shoes. As he entered the bedroom, wiping dirt from his hands, Samuel Arns frowned at the open suitcase on the bed.

  “We agreed you were going to buy new stuff.”

  “That was your idea,” she said, “not mine. I’m fond of my shoes. Did you finish?”

  “I finished.”

  “Then let’s go finish her.”

  She tossed a pair of patent-leather pumps into the suitcase, opened a drawer and took out a pistol.

  “That’s the same gun,” he said.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Pink grips.”

  “It’s not the only Taurus with pink grips.”

  “Is it the same gun, or isn’t it?”

  “It’s the same.”

  “Goddamn it, Vitoria! You promised to get rid of it.”

  “And I will. Just as soon as I use it.”

  “You’re always going on about how we have to be cautious, and then you go and do something like this. If the cops catch us with that pistol, it’ll be all over.”

  “They’re not gonna catch us. And in less than five minutes it is going to be over. I’ll wipe it clean, throw it in the hole along with Juraci, and that will be the end of it. All you have to do is shovel in the dirt and plant the rose bushes. Get off my back. It’s a great day. Don’t ruin it.”

  “I don’t like it when you lie to me.”

  “Let’s not fight. Let’s just bury her and tidy up around here. Come on.”

  “Wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “Get your hood.”

  “My hood?” She laughed. “Why bother? Dead people don’t talk.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Juraci heard footsteps, two sets, hurrying down the stairs. It was the hurrying that frightened her. They’d never done that before.

  The hair rose on the back of her neck. She stretched her chain to the limit and wedged herself into one corner of her cell.

  But when the door swung open, a wave of relief swept over her. The people standing there weren’t wearing hoods, or blue overalls, or gloves. And she knew them: Samuel Arns, the locksmith, and Vitoria Pitanguy, the woman who managed the pharmacy next door to his shop.

  “Thank God,” she said.

  But then she saw the pistol in Vitoria’s hand and the expression in Vitoria’s eyes.

  “You’re the ones?” she said

  She couldn’t believe it.

  Vitoria tossed a key onto the floor at her feet.

  “Open the padlock,” she said. “And take off the chain.”

  “You’re the ones who kidnapped me?”

  “We’re the ones. Shut up and open the lock.”

  “You’re going to release me?”

  “Do it.”

  “I won’t. I won’t do it.”

  “You will, or Samuel here will kick you in the face. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”

  “That’s right,” he said.

  Juraci looked from one to the other-and picked up the key.

  “Where are you taking me?” she said as the chain slipped from her ankle.

  “I told you to shut up. Kneel and face the wall.”

  Juraci remembered the moments before they’d rendered her unconscious, remembered the gunshots. Kneel. The significance of the word came to her in a rush. A hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.

  “Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this? My son-”

  “Get on your knees. Now.”

  “No. Don’t do
this.”

  “Then stand there and watch it coming.” Vitoria lifted the pistol and aimed it at her forehead. “Look right here, right in the fucking muzzle.”

  The doorbell rang.

  Juraci opened her mouth to scream, but then, suddenly, the muzzle of the pistol was in her mouth, the metal rattling against her teeth.

  “Don’t,” Samuel said, lowering his voice. “Whoever it is will hear the shot.”

  “Duh,” she said. And then, to Juraci: “Not a sound out of you, bitch. You hear me? Not a goddamned sound.”

  “Are we going to answer the door?”

  “Answer the door? Are you crazy? Just be quiet. They’ll go away.”

  And they might have, if there hadn’t been two vehicles in the driveway, one of which fit the description of the vehicle used to transport the pigeons-a white Volkswagen van.

  Silva hit the bell button for a second time, and sent Goncalves to check out the back yard. Less than a minute later, he was back.

  “You’d better have a look,” he said.

  “Stay here,” Silva said to the other two. “Keep ringing.”

  He took off in the wake of the younger cop.

  “Over there,” Goncalves said as they entered the back yard. “Beyond the roses.”

  The trench, two meters long and about half a meter wide, was freshly dug, the pile of soil still damp. Next to it were a dozen rose bushes, their roots wrapped in burlap.

  “Damn!” Silva said. “Let’s get inside that house.”

  The doorbell rang for a fourth time. Then a fifth. Vitoria, always high strung, was like a steel wire ready to snap.

  “Go up there,” she said, “and look through the peephole. Find out who the insistent bastard is.”

  “What if it’s the cops?”

  “The cops? Are you insane? Why should the cops suspect us?”

  “I just-”

  “It’s probably some goddamned salesman, or somebody collecting for some charity.”

  “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it must be. A salesman.” Arns sounded like he was trying to convince himself.

  “Stop talking and get up there.”

  “They dug a grave,” Silva said, rejoining his companions. “It’s still empty. We have to get inside. There are French doors around back. They look pretty flimsy.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Arnaldo said, “because we’re not gonna get in this way. Look at that door. Solid peroba. We’d need a ram.”

  Goncalves, whose ear had been pressed to the wood, held up a hand. Someone was coming. Silently, the other cops moved into positions where they couldn’t be seen through the peephole.

  The door was opened by a big man in a dirty T-shirt.

  “Samuel Arns?” Goncalves asked.

  “Who are you?”

  “Are you Samuel Arns?”

  “Yeah. I’m Samuel Arns. Who are you?”

  Goncalves put a hand inside his coat as if he was groping for his ID. What he brought out was his Glock.

  “Step back, Senhor,” he said. “And keep quiet.”

  Arns opened his mouth as if to shout. Goncalves raised the pistol and brought it to within ten centimeters of his face.

  “Quiet, I said.”

  Arns closed his mouth.

  Silva and Arnaldo stepped into his field of vision. Arns’s eyes darted from one to the other. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. “What is this?” he said.

  “I think you know what this is, Senhor Arns,” Silva said. “But just in case you don’t…”

  He took out his warrant card and held it in front of Arns’s face.

  Arns tried to bluff it out.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said. “What do you want?”

  “What’s the hole for?”

  “What hole?”

  “In the back yard.”

  “I’m planting roses.”

  “More than a meter deep? Step aside. We’re coming in.”

  “You got a search warrant?”

  “No. But we’re coming in anyway.”

  Arnaldo insinuated himself into the doorway. Arns was big, but Arnaldo was bigger, and Arns stepped aside. All four cops entered the house.

  Hector was the last man through the door. “Hey,” Arns said, when he saw him. “I know you.”

  Hector didn’t respond.

  “Where’s Juraci Santos?” Silva said.

  “I don’t-”

  “If she’s here, dead or alive, we’re going to find her. Why don’t you save us both some trouble and just tell me?”

  Arns crumbled.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t kill those maids. Vitoria did. Vitoria Pitanguy. She’s the one. The whole thing was her idea. I never-”

  “Shut up. You’ll have time later to tell us your side of the story. For now, you just answer questions. Where’s Senhora Santos?”

  “Downstairs. In the cellar.”

  “Alive?”

  “She was when I came upstairs, I swear to God she was. But she’s with Vitoria, and Vitoria has a gun.”

  T HEY TOOK Samuel to the top of the stairs and told him what to say:

  “Vitoria, they’re federal cops, four of them. They’re in the house.”

  “We’re covering Senhor Arns with guns,” Silva said, “and we won’t hesitate to use them on you. Drop your weapon and come out. Now.”

  They heard Vitoria emit a string of curses, heard the clatter of something hitting the floor.

  Arnaldo and Silva peeked around either side of the doorway. A moment later, Vitoria came into view, her hands in the air.

  “You stupid bastard,” she screamed. “You stupid, stupid bastard.”

  Arns knew it was meant for him.

  “They found the grave you made me dig,” he shouted. “They were going to come in anyway.”

  “ I made you dig? So now it’s my fault? You lying bastard! You’re as guilty as I am.”

  “That’s enough,” Silva said. “Shut up, both of you. Arnaldo, cuff Samuel. Vitoria, keep your hands in the air and don’t move. Senhora Santos?”

  “I’m here.”

  “I’m Chief Inspector Silva of the Federal Police. You’re safe now. You can come out.”

  “I can?”

  “Yes.”

  “Got both of the bastards, did you?”

  Silva had expected tears of relief, maybe hysteria, but Juraci didn’t sound that way at all. She sounded angry.

  “Both,” Silva said.

  “Good.”

  Juraci stepped out of her cell and into Silva’s line-of-sight. She was holding a little pink-gripped Taurus.

  And, without uttering another word, she extended her arm and fired two shots into Vitoria Pitanguy’s back.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  On the day following the rescue of Juraci Santos, the Cidade de Sao Paulo published a feature article entitled The Man Who Solved the Case.

  The content was drawn, almost exclusively, from a press release issued by the Federal Police’s publicity office. Two phrases of that release were even used verbatim: deft and indepth management of the case and intuitive crime-solving skills. The press office also provided a professionally executed photographic portrait of the hero in question-Nelson Sampaio.

  The circulation of the newspaper, that day, reached an alltime high. Pundits accredited the spectacular newsstand sales to the high degree of interest in the case.

  Arnaldo Nunes accredited them to purchases made by Sampaio himself.

  Silva wasn’t surprised that the Director had snatched the credit; he was surprised when Sampaio summoned him to demand a detailed accounting of every aspect of the case. Sampaio loathed detail.

  “I’ve been invited,” the Director said, “to dine with the Minister of Justice. Telling him stuff he can read in a newspaper isn’t going to cut it. I need some tidbits to go with the coffee and dessert.” He picked up his Mont Blanc ballpoint. “Start talking.”

  “Samuel Arns signed a full confession,” Silva said. />
  Sampaio started scratching away, taking notes.

  “He did, did he?” he said, without looking up. “When?”

  “Less than an hour ago.”

  “Good. That’s good. Hold it back from the press until tomorrow morning. What about his accomplice, that Pitanguy woman? Is she talking?”

  “No, but it doesn’t matter. We recovered the weapon she used to kill the maids. Her fingerprints are all over it. Arns’s prints aren’t-and he says Vitoria did it. We don’t need any more than that.”

  “What if she says he did it?”

  “Before Juraci used the pistol, there were two bullets missing from the magazine. In her home, on the day of the kidnapping, she heard two shots just before Arns injected her with the Ketamine. She’ll testify to that.”

  “Good. Too bad there’s no death penalty in this country.”

  “True.”

  “But let’s look at the bright side. That Pitanguy bitch will get thirty years at least.”

  “Not that long, I’m afraid.”

  “No? Why not?”

  “Her lawyer is Dudu Fonseca.”

  Sampaio tossed down his pen in disgust.

  “Fonseca? That shyster? What’s with that? Pitanguy worked in a pharmacy. She’s nothing more than a glorified shop girl. Where does she get the money to hire a heavyweight like Fonseca?”

  “Juraci shot her twice in the spine. She’s paralyzed from the waist down; she’ll never walk again.”

  “So?”

  “So Vitoria’s bringing a civil suit against Juraci. She and Fonseca are discussing how they’re going to split the proceeds. He wants half; she’s offering him a third.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Silva didn’t reply.

  “Are you listening in on conversations between Vitoria Pitanguy and her lawyer?”

  “That would be illegal, Director, a violation of attorney/client privilege.”

  “It sure as hell would. But it’s a juicy story. I’m gonna use it.”

  “If you go public with that information-”

  Sampaio picked up his pen. “I’m not going public with it. I’m going to talk about it at a dinner, that’s all.”

  “Still, if it gets out-”

  Sampaio waved a dismissive hand. “It’s not going to get out. And, even if it does, can they prove you’re bugging them? No, they can’t.”