“I understand. I did tell you everything … except for that.”
“I want you to think long and hard about how those keys got from your pocket to a drawer in the bedroom.”
“I already did. I thought about it, and I got no idea.”
“Are you going to be there tomorrow?”
“I’m not going anywhere until you get me my mother back.”
“Good. Agent Nunes and I will be paying you another visit. I’ll call before we come.”
After Silva hung up, he called Mara and asked her to send one of her people to pick up the keys.
“Is Cintia Tadesco with him?” Mara asked.
“Probably. She was last night. Why?”
“I’ll go myself. I want to see her skin.”
“Her skin?”
“I can’t believe anybody has skin that perfect. I think all her photos must be retouched. Is she nice?”
“No,” Silva said.
ONCE AGAIN, Hector’s trip to Granja Viana was against the flow of traffic. Forty minutes was all it took from his home in Pacaembu to the strip mall where Samuel Arns had his shop.
Arns’s place of business was tiny, dwarfed by a pharmacy on the left and a veterinary clinic on the right. Gold letters on the glass window informed passers-by that he dealt in hardware and alarm systems as well as keys and locks.
When Hector entered, a two-tone chime heralded his arrival.
“Samuel Arns?”
“Mmmm,” the man behind the counter said. Hector took it to be an acknowldgment, but the locksmith, concentrating on his work, didn’t look up. He was putting the finishing touches on a key for an elderly gentleman wearing jeans and a T-shirt.
The bright brass of the blank was almost invisible between fingers thick as dinner candles, but Arns’s dexterity belied his size. The file removing burrs from the metal moved back and forth, like a bow in the hand of a virtuoso.
The chime sounded again. A woman with a haughty expression and too much makeup came in. She was carrying a miniature dachshund in her arms.
Hector smiled at the woman. She didn’t smile back. He looked at the dachshund. The dachshund snarled. Hector tried to remember something he’d once heard about dogs resembling their owners, but it escaped him.
Arns put the original, and the key he’d been making, into a small envelope.
The elderly gentleman laboriously counted out the exact change.
The woman started tapping her foot.
“Who’s next?” Arns said when the elderly gentleman left.
“I’m in a hurry,” the woman said inserting herself between Hector and the counter.
“That may well be, Senhora,” Arns said, “but are you next?”
Hector liked him for that. But he’d just as soon not have anyone else in the shop while he was questioning the locksmith.
“Attend to the Senhora first,” he said. “I’ll wait.”
The woman didn’t thank him, didn’t even look at him, simply slapped down a key on the glass counter.
Arns picked it up. “How many?” he said.
“One.”
While Arns cut the key, the woman looked at the ceiling, the floor, and all around the little shop. Everywhere except at Arns and Hector. The dachshund, however, followed the locksmith’s every move with its bulbous eyes.
When Arns was done, he slipped both keys into one of the little envelopes and put the envelope down on the counter. The woman extended a hand holding a banknote.
“On the counter, Senhora,” Arns said. “Remember last time?”
She snorted, as if he’d said something offensive, and slapped down the bill. He counted out her change and put it next to the envelope. She swept up both and made her exit, nose in the air.
On her way out, she passed another woman, coming in.
“You recognize her?” Arns said when the door closed again.
“Who?” Hector said.
“The woman who just left.”
“No,” Hector said.
“That was Maria Luchesi,” the newcomer said.
Arns nodded. “The first soprano of the São Paulo Opera Company. She thought you did. Recognize her, I mean.”
“She thinks everyone does,” the woman added.
“The dog’s name is Gunther,” the locksmith said. “It’s a good thing you didn’t try to pet him.”
“That’s why you asked her to put the money on the counter?”
“That’s why. He almost got me the last time.”
“He’s a nasty little thing,” the woman said.
Arns went to the register, rang up the diva’s purchase and put her money in the cash drawer. Then he turned back to Hector.
“What can I do for you?”
“Why don’t you attend to this lady first?”
The newcomer wore a white coat. It made her look like a doctor, or maybe a lab technician. She smelled of berries and spice.
“I’m not a customer,” she said. “I just dropped by for a chat with Samuel. You go ahead.”
Hector would have preferred to question Arns on his own, but he could hardly tell her to leave. He bit the bullet by showing his badge.
When she saw the flash of gold metal, the woman took in a sharp breath. Cops sometimes had that effect on people, particularly on people who enjoyed a juicy bit of gossip.
One of those, Hector thought—and turned his back in an attempt to exclude her from the conversation.
“Delegado Costa, Federal Police. I’m assuming you’re Samuel Arns?”
The locksmith looked over Hector’s shoulder and exchanged a quick glance with the woman. Hector could practically feel her eyes burning into his back.
“I am,” Arns said. “What do the Federal Police want with me?”
“It’s our understanding you recently changed some locks for Senhora Juraci Santos. Is that right?”
“I did, Delegado. I do it all the time. She’s a regular customer, changes locks every time she changes servants.”
“And that’s often?”
“Fortunately for me, it is.”
“This particular job was on Thursday of last week.”
“I remember.”
“How many sets of keys did you make?”
“Four. It’s always four.”
“This time as well?”
“This time, every time.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am. Senhora Santos always buys the best. The locks on all her external doors are Medecos. They’re imported, virtually pickproof, but they’re expensive, and I don’t sell a lot of them. They come with two keys. If you want to make extras, you need special blanks. I stock them just for her.”
“Suppose someone wanted to make another copy of one of those keys. Suppose you weren’t here, and they needed the copy in a hurry. How could they go about it?”
“They’d go into town.”
“Where in town?”
“Their best bet would be one of the big locksmiths on Avenida São João. Those guys keep blanks for every conceivable type of lock, Medecos included. Why are you asking?”
“We think the kidnappers used a key to get into Senhora Santos’s house.”
“But …” It was the woman again, speaking from behind Hector’s back.
Hector turned to face her. “But what?”
“I read in the paper they’d smashed the door to her house.”
“They did.”
“Then why did you want to know how many keys Samuel made?”
“Yeah,” Samuel said. “Why? You think maybe they got in some other way? You think they used a key?”
“Maybe.”
The locksmith shook his head. “Sounds crazy to me. If that’s what they did, why would they go to the trouble of smashing the door?”
“He knows something,” the woman said, pointing at Hector. “Something that wasn’t in the papers. Is that right, Delegado?”
“It’s just a theory we’re working on.”
“B
ut what would make you think—”
“Please, Senhora. With all due respect, I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m here to ask them of this gentleman.”
She reddened. “Yes, yes, of course,” she said. “Sorry.”
Hector turned back to the locksmith. “Any idea why she always asked for four sets of keys?”
“One for her, one for the servants, one for her son and one extra.”
“And anyone who had one of those keys could have had it duplicated?”
“Yes, they could. There are certain keys that you can’t duplicate, and other ones you aren’t supposed to duplicate, but Medecos don’t fall into either category. The only problem in duplicating a Medeco is to get your hands on a Medeco blank.”
Hector thought about it. Lefkowitz had found three sets of keys in Juraci’s house. One had been in her office. That must have been the extra set. One was in the purse of one of the maids. That would be the servants’ set. One was in Juraci’s purse. Her set. That left the set that had been made for her son. He sure as hell wouldn’t kidnap his mother. But who was to say that someone hadn’t used Tico’s set? Or copied it?
Perhaps a line of inquiry into Madeco blanks might lead to something. If they couldn’t come up with anything else, they could always try that.
“Who do you get the blanks from?” he said.
“The importer.”
“There’s only one?”
“Only one. That’s how they manage to keep the prices as high as they do.”
“Can you give me the name and address of those people?”
“Sure.”
Samuel Arns went into the back. The woman, visibly chastised, didn’t say a word while he was gone. A minute or so later the locksmith came back with a piece of paper. He held it out to Hector.
“It’s a reliable firm,” he said. “One of the oldest.”
Hector took the paper and glanced at it. Arns had printed out an address and telephone number in a clear, legible hand. The importer was in São Paulo. That, at least, was a break. Hector couldn’t think of anything else to ask the locksmith, so he bid him and the red-faced woman a good day, went out to his car and called-in a report to his uncle.
Chapter Eleven
PEDRO CATALDO LOOKED TO be five kilograms heavier than the last time they’d seen him, maybe more. The extra weight was straining the buttons on his shirt.
“Jesus, Pedro,” Arnaldo said, eyeing his gut, “you—”
“—need an exercise bicycle. Yeah, I know. How are you guys?”
“More important,” Silva said, “How are you? You deserve a medal for putting yourself through all this.”
“Forget the medal. I’d settle for a day on the beach, or even a walk in the park. Maybe it’s some kind of poetic justice. I’ve sent away a lot of people in my time. Now, I’m getting a taste of my own medicine.”
“Poetic justice, my ass,” Arnaldo said. “They deserved it. You don’t.”
Cataldo flashed him a sad smile. “There’s that,” he said. “Coffee?”
“No sugar,” Silva said.
“I remember. I remember yours, too, Arnaldo. Lots of sugar, lots of milk, right?”
“Right.”
Cataldo, busying himself with the cups, pointed with his chin.
“You guys take those chairs. I’ll sit on the bed.”
Pedro Cataldo was forty-two years old, a federal judge condemned to death by the people he was trying to bring to justice. In over a year, he’d left the office—where he worked, slept and ate—only twice, both times because it was strictly necessary, both times wearing a bulletproof vest, and both times riding in an armored car accompanied by armed guards.
In the course of the previous eighteen months, he’d condemned 114 people to a total of 919 years and six months of prison. He had, in addition, confiscated twelve fazendas totaling 12,832 hectares, three mansions, one valued at almost six million Reais, three apartments, three houses, dozens of vehicles and three aircraft, all bought with money generated by organized crime.
To protect his wife and three daughters, Cataldo had moved them to a secret location. His food was prepared under strict controls. The head of his seven-man security detail was Nirvaldo Evora, hand-picked by Silva, incorruptible, and currently standing on the other side of a steel door only Cataldo could open.
The price on Pedro’s head was a million US dollars, up from three-quarters of a million three months ago and half a million six months before that. The people who wanted him dead kept upping the ante, trying to make killing him more attractive.
“How the hell do you stand it?” Silva asked after taking a sip.
“You don’t like my coffee?”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
Cataldo abandoned his attempt at humor.
“Forcing me to live like this,” he said, “is backfiring on the bastards. I’ve got nothing to do but work, so I work day and night. I get up early, I go to bed late, and I’m bringing them down like never before. It’s driving them nuts.”
“So I’ve heard,” Silva said, “but it must be hard.”
“It’s hard,” Cataldo admitted, “but it’s my choice.
Somebody’s got to do it. I only wish more of my colleagues thought the way I do.”
“As do we, Pedro, as do we.”
“What brings you? I don’t suppose it’s purely social.”
“I need information.”
“You came to the right place. These days, I got information coming out of my ears.”
Silva set down his cup. “So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard that you’re not sharing much of it.”
“With good reason. Last time I did, some stupid bastard said the wrong thing to the wrong people. The source got whacked, and all my other sources dried up. It took me months to get back to square one.”
“I heard that, too.”
“But I make exceptions. I’ll make an exception for you, because I know you can keep your mouth shut.” He pointed to the pot. “More coffee?”
Silva shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“What, specifically, do you want to know?”
“I’d like you to speculate on who might have abducted Juraci Santos. Have you heard any rumors? Anything at all?”
“Ah, you’re handling that one, are you? Well, look, I don’t want to bitch and moan, but I will tell you this: one of the few pleasures I have in here is watching football on television. I can’t tell you how much I was looking forward to the Cup, looking forward to seeing us kick Argentinean ass. And then some filhos da puta go out and kidnap the Artist’s mother. I hope to hell the day will come when they’ll appear before me. I’ll put the bastards away for the rest of their lives.”
“Amen, Pedro. But we’ve got to catch them first.”
“I’ll put the word out, see what I can pick up. I’ll call you if I hear anything. Keep me posted on your progress, okay?”
“Gladly. Nothing for us at the moment?”
Cataldo rubbed his chin.
“Maybe one thing worth following up,” he said. “What do you know about Jordan Talafero?”
Silva shrugged. “Not much. He owns the Spartans. He just sold the Artist to Real Madrid for a bundle of money. He’s a big shot in the administration of some samba school. That’s about it.”
“That’s almost enough. You touched on the three critical issues, but you didn’t link them. So let me do it for you. First of all, Talafero doesn’t own the Spartans. He’s the president of the club, which means he makes most of the business decisions, but he’s only a minor stockholder.”
“So?” Arnaldo said.
Cataldo looked at him. “So he isn’t as rich as a lot of people think he is.”
“Okay,” Silva said, “go on.”
“Second, yes, he did sell the Artist to the Spaniards, which is pissing a lot of people off, but the question nobody seems to be asking is this: why did he choose to do it now? The Artist has been playing with the Spartans si
nce the beginning of his career. Talafero could have sold him two years ago, even three years ago, for the same price he sold him for last week. But he didn’t. He sold him now.”
“And your conclusion is?”
Cataldo drained his cup and set it aside before he replied.
“He needs money. And he needs money because of that samba school. It’s called Silver Carnations, and it’s Talafero’s baby, his passion. They’ve won first prize for the last three years running, and it’s all because of Talafero.”
“Or, rather, because of Talafero’s money.”
“Correct. You can’t make money with a samba school, you can only spend it, but in glory and fame they pay off, big time. Talafero never got the glory and fame out of the Spartans. His players did, but not him. Lots of people in this town don’t even know who he is. But, with Silver Carnations, it’s different. He’s the man. He made them, and if he takes his money away, it will break them. That appeals to him as no football team ever did. He has an ego the size of Spartan stadium.”
“Spell it out, Pedro. Where are you going with this?”
Cataldo responded with a question of his own: “Until the day before yesterday, what were the odds of Argentina beating us?”
“Virtually nil.”
“Correct. So, if you laid down a bet for the Argentineans to win, and took the odds against that on the day before yesterday, and Argentina did win, you—”
“—would stand to earn a considerable amount of money.”
“Right again. And who, of all people, would best know what might unbalance the Artist and skew the results?”
“Jordan Talafero.”
“I rest my case.”
Silva stood up.
“Leaving so soon?” Cataldo said.
“We’ll be back. Right now I have an overwhelming desire to have a chat with Jordan Talafero.”
Chapter Twelve
WHEN SILVA’S GRANDFATHER WAS a lad and football was a game played almost exclusively by the English, the Tietê River was a pellucid stream on the outskirts of São Paulo. As a child, Silva had heard stories from the old man about transparent waters where people went to fish and boat and bathe.
On one stretch, so straight it appeared to be a canal dug by the hand of man, a rowing club had sprung up. At the time, no man could consider himself educated unless he was steeped in Greek and Roman lore, and the founders of the club were all so steeped.
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