“I have no idea.”
“Then let me tell you. There aren’t more than eight hundred of them, eight hundred in the wild and maybe another fifty in captivity. That’s it. There are no more. That one preening itself over there represents more than one-tenth of one percent of the entire species.”
Silva looked at the blue bird with new respect. “Is that so?” he said.
“That’s so,” she said. “And God knows whether it would have survived the journey to wherever they were sending it to. They pack them in boxes, tape their beaks shut so they can’t squawk, tie their feet together so they can’t move. Jail is too good for those two bastards. They should get a taste of their own medicine.”
Kipman looked angry enough to tape their mouths and tie their legs herself.
“How much money are those things worth?” Silva asked.
“We have strict legislation against keeping them in captivity, even stricter legislation against their export. No permit has ever been issued. I’d estimate they would have realized at least twenty-thousand Reais for this one.”
“Twenty thousand Reais? For a parrot?”
“You think that’s a lot? There’s one collector in Singapore who’d pay double that if they could get the bird to him. Poor thing. Look at her. She’s so nervous.”
“How can you tell?”
“She’s picking at her breast feathers.”
Chapter Seventeen
“CRAP,” SAMPAIO SAID. “I already told the minister about that warehouse.”
“Told him what, Director?”
Silva was holding the telephone several centimeters from his ear. Sampaio wasn’t quite shouting, but it was close.
“I assured him it was just a matter of hours until we had the Artist’s mother back. What do I tell him now?”
“Perhaps, Director, it was a little premature to have assured the minister—”
“If I want your advice on how to do my job, Chief Inspector, I’ll ask for it. You have no idea what kind of pressure I’m under. What’s Godofredo’s take on this?”
“I haven’t spoken to Godofredo yet.”
“Call him. Call him right away. You should have involved him long before now.”
Godofredo Boceta was the Federal Police’s profiler, an academic blowhard hired by Sampaio himself. Silva was never averse to asking for expert advice from people he respected, but Boceta was a man for whom he had no respect at all. The profiler had never been of help in the solving of any case.
“I’ll call him as soon as I get back to the office,” he lied.
“Where are you calling from?”
“A car. We’re on our way to see Fiorello Rosa.”
“Rosa? What the hell do you want to talk to Rosa for? Rosa has been in jail for five years!”
“Seven.”
“Seven, then. What can you possibly expect from him?”
“He re-wrote the book on kidnapping. He’s the best that ever there was. He might have some ideas about how this one went down.”
“Even if he does, why should he talk to you?”
“Because he has a parole hearing coming up.”
“How do you know that?”
“I received a letter. I’ve been asked to testify.”
“Don’t waste your time with Rosa. It’s not going to get you anywhere. Godofredo is the guy you have to talk to. How about that network of snitches Pedro Cataldo’s got?”
“He’s working it, but there’s no word on the street.”
“And that bicheiro, Miranda?”
“I’ll speak to him before the day is out.”
FIORELLO ROSA, PhD and master kidnapper, was a most uncommon felon. He’d been a professor of criminology and had published seven books on the subject. His work had earned him high praise in the academic community, some notoriety in law-enforcement circles, and far too little money.
So, sometime in the late nineties, Rosa set his mind to bettering himself—and chose kidnapping as the most lucrative and least violent way of achieving his objective. At the time of his arrest, he’d been abducting people for almost six years and hadn’t once, in all that time, missed a single university lecture because of it.
Throughout his criminal career Rosa selected his victims based upon their ability to pay, a strategy he considered wise at the time, but one which, when he was brought to justice, added to his troubles. Rosa’s furious and resentful ex-victims used all of their influence to make sure the judge threw the book at him. The judge, eager to please the power elite, did just that. The miscreant was sentenced to fourteen years.
To Rosa, the severe sentence came as a most disagreeable surprise. He’d never committed murder or mayhem on his victims. Indeed, he’d never touched a hair of their heads. He’d expected to get away with a sentence of no more than eight, which might have put him out in four.
The prison where Rosa was being held was in Guarulhos, not far from the international airport of that name. After Silva hung up with Sampaio, he and Arnaldo chatted about Rosa’s arrest.
“Refresh my memory,” Arnaldo said. “I took the kids to the beach for a few weeks. When I got back, you had the whole thing wrapped up.”
“Luck,” Silva said, and told the story.
The last of Rosa’s victims had been a wealthy advertising man, a partner in a successful agency. Rosa’s gang had kept him in captivity for almost three months while the terms of his release were being negotiated. As day followed day, with few developments to break the monotony, one of Rosa’s henchmen had gotten sloppy. Against all instructions, he’d left the prisoner alone and gone down to the local padaria for a coffee and a cachaça.
The place where the gang had been holding their victim was a semi-detached house, rented specifically for the purpose. It wasn’t soundproof and, if the guard had followed his instructions, there was no reason why it should have been. But when the captive heard movement next door, he called out to his guard and, getting no response, raised his voice and hazarded a cry for help. Before long, he managed to attract the attention of a student living in the adjoining garret.
When the guard got back from his recreational excursion, he found Silva and his men waiting for him. The guard, in exchange for leniency, fingered Rosa as the mastermind.
The abduction of the ad man had been the last in a series that Silva, as a professional, admired for meticulous planning and execution. It had taken place in broad daylight at what was, ostensibly, a police roadblock. False cops, cars and uniforms correct in every detail, were checking licenses and registrations of vehicles. They’d established their trap between the home and the office of their victim.
In the subsequent interviews, it appeared everyone noticed the strange accent of the cop who was doing all the talking, but such was the power of his uniform that no one questioned his authority.
The false cops had gone through the motions of attending to almost a hundred other vehicles by the time the man they were after pulled up to the checkpoint. They left him fidgeting and looking at his watch for a full five minutes. His impatience kept building, and building, and when his turn came, he rolled down the three centimeter thick bulletproofed window without a squeak of protest.
It was all over in a heartbeat. No one died; no one was shot; no one was manhandled. Rosa’s thugs simply bundled their victim into a vehicle and took off with him. They left his driver shackled to the car’s steering wheel with two pairs of handcuffs.
The getaway car was indistinguishable from any other police cruiser in the city. As soon as they were around the corner, they stopped to remove their license plate, revealing another already in place. Then they drove four kilometers to a garage, where they switched the police car for a van. Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at the hideout.
The little room was ready and waiting, with a television and a stack of books. On a tray sat a bottle of the ad man’s favorite whisky, a bucket of ice, and a cut-crystal glass of the kind he liked to do his drinking from.
Rosa had
done his research well. He knew their victim was an alcoholic. He didn’t want to put his life in danger by exposing him to withdrawal symptoms—and he even provided him with the proper pills for his hypertension and type 2 diabetes.
The “cops” he’d hired, the only members of the gang who might be recognized, were immediately flown to Argentina, the place they’d come from. They embarked, by private plane, less than an hour after the commission of the crime. None were apprehended.
“CHIEF INSPECTOR Mario Silva,” Rosa said, when they led him in. “What an agreeable surprise.”
“Hello, Professor. You seem happy to see me.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I’m not stupid, Chief Inspector. We aren’t exactly friends.
We haven’t seen each other in seven years, and when they told me you were coming, I could only think of one reason for your visit. You want something.”
“I do indeed.”
“As do I. You’re aware that I’m coming up for a parole hearing?”
“I’ve been invited to testify.”
“So my attorney told me. And this gentleman is?”
“My colleague, Agent Arnaldo Nunes.”
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Nunes. I’d offer you a hand, but …” Rosa held up his shackled wrists.
“I think we can dispense with those,” Silva said, and nodded to the guard.
The guard removed Rosa’s handcuffs and left without a word.
“Sit down, Professor.”
Rosa rubbed the red marks on his wrists and shook hands with both Arnaldo and Silva before taking a seat.
“It’s the Artist’s mother, isn’t it?” he said.
“Yes,” Silva said, “it is.”
“Just before the game with Argentina, too. Rather unpatriotic, don’t you think?”
“That’s exactly what I think.”
Silva dropped a sheaf of papers on the table. Rosa looked at it, but he didn’t extend a hand to pick it up.
“What’s this?” he said.
“Copies of all our reports, everything we’ve done up to now.”
Rosa raised his eyes to Silva’s, then lowered them again to study the height of the stack.
“Not very much, by the look of it.”
“It’s early days yet. I’d like you to look at this material as a professor of criminology, but also in the light of your … more recent experience.”
“With the objective of uncovering something you might have missed?”
“And anything else that might help us to apprehend the people who did it.”’
“Such as?”
“Profiles of the kind of people we might be dealing with.”
Rosa gave a slow, deliberate nod and leaned back in his chair. “You recognize, of course, that I can make no guarantee other than to try my best?”
“Yes.”
The kidnapper narrowed his eyes. “If I undertake this, can I count on your help in getting me out of this place?”
Silva, expecting the question, had the answer ready.
“You can.”
Rosa’s expression didn’t change. “Even if my contribution, in the end, doesn’t help you in any substantial way?”
“As long as I’m convinced you tried your best.”
“Good,” Rosa said, picking up the papers and removing a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Then we have a deal. Let me peruse all of this. I might have some questions for you.”
Arnaldo and Silva sat in silence while Rosa read. The file was very short, and the reading didn’t take long. When he finished, Silva said, “Any initial impressions?”
“The people behind it definitely had someone on the inside.”
Silva nodded. “I concur, but I’d like to hear why you think so.”
Rosa looked at Silva over his glasses. “Who’s this fellow Lefkowitz?”
“Our chief forensics technician. A Paulista, who was working with the local police in Manaus. We discovered him, concluded that his talent was wasted up there and hired him.”
“Manaus.” Rosa shuddered. “Why would any self-respecting individual abandon São Paulo for Manaus?”
“His wife is a biologist. She thought working in the Amazon would be paradise.”
“I’ll bet that didn’t last long.”
“It didn’t. Once they discovered what Manaus is really about, they were desperate to get out.”
Rosa snorted in agreement. “Of course they were. Your gain, I’d say. He seems a perceptive person, this Lefkowitz.”
“He is.”
Rosa tapped the file with a forefinger.
“I agree with him. The kidnappers had a key. Smashing the door was a mere ruse to conceal that fact. If you don’t have a key, there are easier and quieter ways to get into a locked house, ways that don’t entail making anywhere near as much noise.”
“Indeed. Anything else?”
Rosa removed his reading glasses, folded them, and put them back into his breast pocket.
“Another salient point is the killing of the maids,” he said. “Why would they do that if not to reduce the danger of recognition? It occurs to me that Senhora Santos’s maids might have known and recognized the kidnappers. And I’m strengthened in that belief by a feeling that the people who committed this crime weren’t professionals.”
Silva leaned back and crossed his arms. “Why?”
“True professionals always carefully consider what they’re getting into. They don’t embark on a project unless they’re reasonably sure of being able to escape unscathed. That said, they always retain their fear of being apprehended. They set limits for themselves, avoid unnecessary risk, plan for the worst-case scenario.”
“That’s what you did.”
Rosa grinned. “Except at the last,” he said, “when I chose the wrong man to do a simple job.” The grin vanished. “But I wasn’t speaking as a kidnapper. I was speaking from the point of view of a criminologist. I studied hundreds, probably thousands, of cases before I was arrested. I’ve continued my research here in prison.”
“You’re an expert, Professor. That’s why I’m here. Explain to me, exactly, why you’re convinced these people weren’t professionals.”
Rosa shook his head. “I didn’t say I was convinced, Chief Inspector. I said I had a feeling. Criminology isn’t an exact science.”
“Noted. Go on.”
“Murder bears a much heavier penalty than kidnapping. Professionals would have been aware that, with proper planning, murder would have been superfluous. And it certainly wouldn’t have been desirable. So they wouldn’t have done it. These perpetrators, on the other hand, either didn’t plan properly, or got rattled and forgot what they’d planned, or allowed one, or both, of the maids to get a glimpse of someone they knew. Or perhaps they’d already decided upon murder before they entered the house, or simply killed out of impulse. I can’t see any other possibilities. Any one, or any combination of them, would mark the abductors as amateurs.”
Silva rubbed his chin. “Interesting. Anything else?”
“The diamonds.”
“What about the diamonds?”
“They’ve obviously been requested for some specific purpose. But what purpose?”
“Portability. Large denominations would be difficult to negotiate. Five million dollars in small bills, even hundreds, would make quite a bundle.”
“Perhaps. But think about it. If I’m right, and they’re amateurs known to Juraci, or someone in her circle, it follows that they live here, that they have a life here.”
“And?”
“And, if they want to stay here, they’d wind up selling those diamonds here. The risk of them being traced through the people who buy them, it seems to me, offsets the convenience of portability.”
“Also interesting.”
“Does Juraci have any medical condition that might require special treatment or special drugs?”
“No.”
“But you have
inquired?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s a dead end. You won’t be able to trace her through physicians or drug purchases.” Rosa closed his eyes and rubbed them. “I really have to get a new prescription for those reading glasses,” he said.
“Any further questions?” Silva said.
“Not at the moment. You’ll send me updates as your investigation progresses?”
“By email. From Mara Carta. She’s our intelligence officer here in São Paulo—”
“And collates the various reports into a unified whole. I know how it works, and I well remember the charming Senhora Carta. Tell me, Chief Inspector, did you ever think we might someday work together?”
“Not in my wildest dreams.”
“Well, think about it now. I’ll be seeking employment when I get out of here. The university is unlikely to have me back.”
“You’re asking for a job?”
“You think that’s absurd?”
Silva rubbed his chin. Rosa had been one of the best criminologists in the country—and one of the best criminals. He had a profound knowledge of both sides of the fence.
“What do you propose to do for us?” he said.
“What I will attempt to do for you now. Profiling. Criminal profiling.”
Arnaldo and Silva looked at each other.
“What?” Rosa said, looking from one to the other.
“We already have a profiler,” Silva said.
“No, you don’t,” Rosa said. “You have that incompetent ass, Godofredo Boceta.”
“Professor,” Arnaldo said, “I like your style.”
Chapter Eighteen
LEO MARQUES’S PARENTS HAD named him well. There was, indeed, something leonine about him. His massive head, with its thick mane of gray hair, seemed set directly upon his broad shoulders. He glided around his desk with feline grace, shook Gonçalves’s hand and gave him an appraising up-anddown look.
“Do you mind me asking how old you are?”
“Thirty-four,” Gonçalves said.
“Really?” Marques’s voice conveyed disappointment. “You don’t look it.” He turned around and walked back to his chair.
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