A Vine in the Blood

by Leighton Gage

  “Did she wave? Acknowledge your presence?”

  “Wave? No way. Those days are long gone. All she did was lower her voice.”

  “Tell me more about this postman.”

  “What’s to tell?”

  “Was he your regular guy?”

  “That’s the thing,” Angela said. “He wasn’t.”

  “A substitute?”

  She shook her head. “Not that either.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “They always deliver to us first. I checked the box before I came inside. There was nothing there. But, later in the day, there was.”

  “This postman, had either one of you ever seen him before?”

  Rodolfo and Angela looked at each other, and then back at Hector. Both of them shook their heads.

  “If you saw him again,” Hector said, “would you recognize him?”

  “I think I would,” Angela said. “I’ve got a good memory for faces. Rodolfo is useless.”

  “Hey,” Rodolfo said.

  “You are. You know you are. It’s downright embarrassing sometimes.”

  “I can’t help it if I’m not a goddamned social butterfly.”

  “You could at least make an effort.”

  Hector picked up his spoon and tapped it on his cup.

  Ding, ding, ding.

  “Senhor Sá,” he said, when he had their attention, “it’s my understanding you heard a disturbance early this morning.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Tell me about that.”

  “There was this bang next door. It woke me up.”

  “You’re sure it came from next door?”

  “I’m sure. Adolph sleeps in our room. He went ballistic, and that’s the direction he was barking in.”

  “So you got out of bed to have a look.”

  “I did. I looked out the window—”

  “Bedroom window?”

  “No. You can’t see much from our bedroom. I went down the hall to my office.”

  “Can you see her kitchen door from the office window?”

  “No.”

  “What about her front gate? Can you see that?”

  “Yes. And the road in front.”

  “Did you turn on a light?”

  “In the office?”

  “Yes, in the office.”

  “I did. I’m in the middle of a project. I have papers stacked up all over the floor. I didn’t want to step on them.”

  “What did you see from the window?”

  “A car driving away. He floored it. The tires squealed. He kicked up a lot of gravel.”

  “And that didn’t make you suspicious?”

  Rodolfo shook his head. “I figured him for one of her noisy friends, and I figured him for drunk.”

  “And you decided not to complain to the security people?”

  “No point. By that time, he was gone.”

  “You keep saying he and him. Are you sure the driver was a man?”

  “No. It could have been a woman. Truth is, I have no idea.”

  “How many people were in the car?”

  “I couldn’t say. It was too dark.”

  “What did you do next?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, okay, not nothing. I turned off the light and went back to bed.”

  Chapter Six

  SILVA’S FLIGHT LANDED LATE in the afternoon. It took the best part of another hour for him to get to the Federal Police’s field office. Lunch, he’d told them when he called from the airport, hadn’t been in the cards, so Mara Carta, Hector’s Chief of Intelligence, took the initiative and had a sandwich and a soft drink waiting for him when he arrived. They updated him while he ate.

  Arnaldo began by reporting on his visit to the Argentinean Club.

  “You think it’s enough to satisfy Sampaio,” he asked when he was done, “or are we going to have to waste more time on his stupid theory?”

  “It’ll be enough,” Silva said between bites, “provided Mara composes a report making it sound like an intensive investigation of the entire Argentinean community.”

  “But unfortunately unproductive,” Mara said. “Leave it to me. I always wanted to write a novel.”

  “Hold back a day or two,” Silva said, after swallowing a mouthful, “otherwise he’s unlikely to believe we’ve done everything you’re going to invent and put in there.” He turned to Hector. “What did you learn at the crime scene?”

  Hector shared Lefkowitz’s theories.

  “That Lefkowitz,” Arnaldo said, “may well be the only good thing ever to come out of Manaus.”

  Arnaldo wasn’t fond of the Amazonian city of Manaus. He hated to go there, even on the shortest of assignments, considered it a filthy and degenerate hell hole. And everyone around the table, as it happened, agreed with him. Even Mara, who usually didn’t agree with Arnaldo about anything.

  “He only worked there for two years,” Hector said. “Long enough to inflict great suffering upon him, but not long enough to ruin him.”

  Silva blotted his lips and wiped his hands on a paper napkin. “And you, Mara? What have you got for us?”

  “Nothing substantial,” she said, “just alleged sightings. Juraci’s in Porto Alegre. She’s in Rio. She’s in Belo Horizonte. She’s all over the map. We’ve got twelve people working the national tip line, and they’re overloaded. The average waittime is bordering on fifteen minutes, which is an all-time record. It seems like everybody in the country wants to help. They all love the Artist.”

  “Joãozinho Preto doesn’t,” Arnaldo said.

  Mara leaned forward, her shoulder brushing Silva’s. “Who’s Joãozinho Preto?”

  All the men looked at her.

  “You’re being serious?” Gonçalves said. “You never heard of Joãozinho Preto?”

  “If I had,” she said, “I wouldn’t have wasted everybody’s time by asking.”

  “Until the Artist kicked him in the shin,” Silva said, “Joãozinho was the best striker Palmeiras ever had.”

  “Heart and soul of the team,” Gonçalves said. “A photographer from the Jornal da Tarde captured the moment it happened. Most horrible football photo I ever saw. Tico’s shoe is against Joãozinho’s shin, right at the height of his kick. From the point of impact on down, Joãozinho’s leg is off at a right angle to the rest of it. His career was over just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It was an accident, but still …”

  “The team’s chance to win last year’s national championship, the only one they’ve had in the last ten years, went right out the window when that happened,” Arnaldo said. “Every single Palmeirense wanted to kill the Artist, and they are neither few nor noted for their passivity.”

  “The break never healed properly,” Gonçalves said. “It was the end of Joãozinho’s career, and he was only what? Twenty-seven?”

  “Twenty-eight,” Hector said. “But I never heard him say a word against the Artist. Not then and not since.”

  “Let’s talk to him anyway,” Silva said. “It can’t hurt. Any more from the kidnappers?”

  “Maybe,” Mara said.

  “Why maybe?”

  “They’re communicating through the Artist’s website.”

  “I know. So?”

  “So, before the news broke, the Artist was getting about a hundred emails a day. At the moment it’s more than five thousand an hour, mostly expressions of sympathy. The kid who administrates the site is overwhelmed. I assigned a couple of people to help him. They’re overwhelmed too.”

  “Put more people on it.”

  “I don’t have more people.”

  “Can’t you sort electronically?”

  “We have no parameters. They didn’t use the subject line when they first made contact. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to use the same email address twice. And, if they run true to form, they’ll log on through a wireless connection.”

  “And it’s unlikely to be the same one
they used last time.”

  “Correct.”

  “So you have to read every incoming email?”

  “We do. It’s a nightmare.”

  “Damn. How about the media? Who broadcast the story first?”

  “Radio Mundo.”

  “Where did they get it? Sampaio wants to know.”

  “They won’t tell us.”

  “Why not? What difference does it make?”

  “According to them, their source insists on confidentiality.”

  “Probably just means she’s some blabbermouth who feeds them information all the time,” Arnaldo said, “and they want to make sure she keeps on doing it.”

  “She?” Mara bristled. “Why do you assume it’s a she?”

  “Uh oh,” Gonçalves said. “Here we go again.”

  “You know any male blabbermouths?” Arnaldo said.

  “I know one. He’s a Neanderthal by the name of Arnaldo Nunes.”

  The sniping between Mara and Arnaldo was a regular feature of their meetings. Silva didn’t think either one of them took it seriously. He generally ignored it.

  “What’s the Artist’s reaction to all of this?” he said.

  “He wants to pay,” Mara said.

  “Five million in diamonds? Just like that?”

  “Five million dollars in diamonds. Not Reais, dollars. He doesn’t even want to negotiate the amount. He’s terrified, Mario. Terrified they might hurt her.”

  “For him,” Gonçalves said, “five million dollars is peanuts. The Artist is loaded.”

  “I think even the Artist would miss five million dollars,” Silva said. “Are his telephones being monitored?”

  “His apartment,” Mara said, “plus his mobile phone, his girlfriend’s apartment, his house in Guarujá, his house in Campos do Jordão, his condo in Rio and his agent’s office, home and mobile.”

  “How about the civil police? Have they brought anything to the party?”

  Mara shuffled through the pile in front of her and handed him a folder. Silva perused it, and after a moment, looked up.

  “Says here,” he said, “that Juraci had an appointment scheduled with her hairdresser for 10:00 this morning.”

  “Jacques Jardin, no less,” Mara said.

  “Why ‘no less’? Is this Jardin some kind of a big deal?”

  “Yes, Mario, he’s a really big deal. I wouldn’t be able to get an appointment with him even if I could afford it.”

  “I fail to see,” Gonçalves said, “how an appointment with a hairdresser could be of any significance.”

  “I wouldn’t expect you to. You’re a male.”

  “So?”

  “You guys know about football players. We girls know about hairdressers. The person who wrote that report is a woman. If she was sexist pig like Nunes here—”

  “Hey,” Arnaldo said.

  “—Juraci’s appointment probably wouldn’t even have been mentioned.”

  “And?” Gonçalves said.

  “And we might have missed out on a possible lead. One of the great secrets of the sisterhood is this: we confide in our hairdressers, sometimes more than in anyone else we know. I think it might have something to do with their fingers massaging our scalps.”

  “Mmmm,” Gonçalves said. “Sexy.”

  “Not at all,” Mara said. “Most of the really good ones are gay.”

  “Who’s spoken to the Artist?” Silva said.

  “Only the civil cops.”

  “Where is he?”

  “At his apartment.”

  “Call him. Ask if Arnaldo and I can come over.”

  “Now?”

  “Now. We’ll need his address.”

  Mara nodded and went out. Silva turned to Gonçalves. “See if that fellow Jardin is at his salon. If he is, go over there and talk to him. Put him through records first, though, just in case we have something on him.”

  “You think a high-society hairdresser has a rap sheet?”

  “You never know. Bring your cell phone.”

  “I always do,” Gonçalves said. He stood up and took his suit jacket off the back of his chair.

  “That leaves me,” Hector said.

  “You,” Silva said, “go home and be nice to Gilda.”

  “And tomorrow morning?”

  “Tomorrow morning, first thing, you go out to Granja Viana and have a chat with that locksmith.”

  Chapter Seven

  “JESUS,” ARNALDO SAID, “LOOK at that.”

  The street ahead, from curb to curb, was packed with media vans, reporters, and a horde of anxious fans.

  “Back out,” Silva said. “We’ll park at the shopping center.”

  They weren’t the only ones with that idea. The lot behind the Ibirapuera Shopping Center was nearly full, but they managed to snag one of the few remaining slots. They locked the car and set out for the Artist’s apartment on foot.

  “I read in Veja that a one-bedroom goes for over a million,” Arnaldo said as they rounded the corner and came within sight of the building.

  “And he has five bedrooms. I read the same article.”

  “What’s an unmarried guy do with five bedrooms?”

  “One to sleep in and four to keep his money. When he moves to Madrid, four won’t be enough.”

  “Don’t remind me about Madrid,” Arnaldo said.

  Wooden barriers had been put up to hold back the crowd. When Arnaldo made a move to shove one aside, a uniformed cop blew a blast on his whistle and ran over to stop him.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?” he said.

  Silva flashed his badge. “We’ve got an appointment with the Artist.”

  Silva’s badge was gold trimmed with blue enamel, a sign of high rank. In a flash, the cop’s expression went from indignation to respect.

  “Let me help, Senhor.”

  He completed the shoving, stepped aside—and saluted.

  The salute was a tip-off to the reporters. Strobe lights flashed, only a few at first, then by the score. The people not operating cameras started shouting questions.

  Silva detested attention from the media. He forced himself not to break into a run.

  “I’ve got a new one for you,” Arnaldo said, taking the reporters in stride, as he did most things.

  “Later.”

  “You might want to reconsider that. It’s about football.”

  “About football? Okay, tell me.”

  Arnaldo waited until they’d gained sanctuary in the lobby, then:

  “This guy is sitting in the second row, center field, during the final game of the World Cup. Just below him, there’s an empty seat.”

  Silva hit the button on the elevator.

  “An empty seat? At the World Cup Final? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Of course I am. It’s a joke. Next to the empty seat is an old geezer who’s got his stuff all over it, program, beer, spare pair of eyeglasses, binoculars. A guy just above him, in the third row, figures he’s holding it for somebody. Halftime comes. Nobody shows up. By this time, everybody is looking at that empty seat and thinking how nice it would be if their girlfriends, sisters, parents, or whatever, could be there, sitting in it. Finally, the guy in the third row taps the geezer on the shoulder.

  “‘Mind if I ask you a question?’

  “The geezer turns around. ‘What?’

  “‘Did you pay for that seat?’

  “‘I did,’ the geezer says, ‘I bought it for my beloved wife of fifty-eight years.’

  “‘And?’

  “‘She died.’

  “‘Gee, I’m sorry to hear that, but, um … this is the World Cup, after all. Surely, you’ve got some relative, or maybe a friend, you could have offered it to?’

  “‘I do,’ the geezer says. ‘I’ve got a lot of relatives, and I’ve got a lot of friends, and one after the other, I offered it to every last one of them.’

  “‘And no takers?’

  “‘Nope.’

  “‘
That’s amazing.’

  “‘I thought so too,’ the geezer says. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought it was downright crazy. Can you imagine? They all decided to go to her funeral instead.’”

  SILVA WAS till chuckling when they reached Tico Santos’s front door. Somewhat to his surprise, the Artist answered the door himself.

  “Which one of you is Chief Inspector Silva?” he said.

  “I’m Silva. This is Agent Nunes.”

  “Thanks for coming,” Tico said, as if he’d issued an invitation. “The living room’s this way.” He pointed with his chin. “Follow me.”

  When Tico turned his back, Arnaldo whispered into Silva’s ear, “Football giant, my ass.”

  Tico was a head shorter than Arnaldo and probably fifty kilograms lighter.

  “They mean it figuratively,” Silva said.

  Tico heard him say something, but it was clear he hadn’t understood what it was. Without stopping, he spoke over his shoulder, answering a question Silva hadn’t asked.

  “Maybe an hour ago,” he said. “I hired a private plane to get here.”

  He didn’t bother to explain where he’d come from; he assumed Silva would know. And Silva did. Tico had been in Curitiba, in training, with the rest of the Brazilian team.

  They entered a space about the size of a small ballroom. The far wall was windows, nothing but windows, floor to ceiling. Beyond them, a thousand lights sparkled in the mansions sprinkled over the hills of Morumbi.

  The view was nothing less than spectacular.

  So was the woman who was sitting on one of the white leather couches. She didn’t bother to get up.

  “Cintia Tadesco,” the Artist said, “my fiancée. Cintia, this is Chief Inspector Silva and … sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Agent Nunes.”

  Side by side, Tico and his girlfriend were a study in contrasts. Both were in their mid-twenties, but it was there that any similarity stopped. One of Tico’s brown eyes was noticeably darker than the other. His irregularly-spaced teeth were crooked; his forehead was a little too short; his chin a little too long; his nose a little too wide.

  Cintia, on the other hand, was stunningly beautiful, taller than her boyfriend, taller than most men, with a figure that would stop traffic on Avenida Paulista at rush hour. The word statuesque popped into Silva’s mind. He recalled some things his wife, Irene, an inveterate consumer of gossip magazines, had told him about Cintia.