“What happened to the baby?” Hector asked. “Did Juraci have it?”
Lyra was about to take another sip of his cachaça. He took the glass away from his lips and smiled. “You mean you still don’t get it?” he said.
Comprehension dawned for both cops at the same moment. “Are you telling us the baby was Tico?” Hector said.
Lyra nodded. “You think he looks like me?”
“Frankly?” Hector said. “No.”
Lyra sighed. “No,” he said. “Me neither. Caralho, that boy’s even uglier than I am. But now it’s all these years later, and here’s Juraci giving out that the kid’s father died in an accident, and here’s Rafael—”
“Who’s Rafael?”
“Rafael Souza, the boyfriend she had at school. And here’s Rafael, not stepping up to claim he’s the kid’s old man. And nobody else either. So I figured—”
“Why do you think Rafael didn’t put in a claim to be the father?”
“Probably because he doesn’t think he is. Rafael’s father had a good business, an oficina mechanica. He was well-off, and he didn’t want his son marrying some slut. When Juraci got pregnant, he checked around and discovered a few things.”
“Like what?”
“Juraci was screwing a whole bunch of other guys. At least three, probably more. If any of them knew then what they know now, it would have been different. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be the father of the best striker in the world, right? But back then, nobody wanted to be the husband of a slut, and nobody wanted to assume responsibility for somebody else’s baby. All of them bowed out.”
“And you?”
“Nobody ever found out about me, thank God. Like I said, her parents would have killed me. Well, as to the rest of it—hey, you want another drink?”
“No, thanks,” Hector said.
Lyra turned to Gonçalves. “You?”
Gonçalves shook his head. “I’m driving,” he said.
“Yeah, okay, where were we?”
“How did it all end?” Hector asked. “What happened to your wife? Your in-laws?”
“My wife died last year. Cancer. She was only forty-one. We never had any more kids. She was scared to death of getting pregnant again. Her parents are dead too, killed in one of those bus crashes on the BR116 when they were going to Paraná to visit her brother. I hadn’t seen Juraci in years. Graça wouldn’t have her in the house, said she couldn’t forgive her for what she did to their folks, getting pregnant and all.”
“But Graça got pregnant herself.”
“Right. But she snagged a husband out of it, and Juraci didn’t, so that made Graça the passionate wife who just couldn’t wait for the wedding, and her sister was the slut. You want to hear the truth?”
“Tell us.”
“Graça and Juraci never really got along. I figure it was just an excuse to keep her out of the house.”
“I think I see where this is going,” Hector said.
“Where what’s going?”
“What the argument was about.”
“Well,” Lyra said, defensively. “Wouldn’t you do the same thing? I mean, here’s the kid sitting on a pile of money. And it could be my kid. I couldn’t approach him directly. Why should he believe me? But if Juraci admitted she was fucking me, and the kid would agree to take a blood test, hell, to me it was like playing the lottery. You know your chances of winning are pretty slim, but you play anyway, right?”
“Uh huh.”
“It wasn’t hard to find out where she lived, but it was hell to get there. I took a bus to Cotia, got off on the way, and walked to her place. Musta been a good ten kilometers.”
“You didn’t try to call her first?”
“She’s unlisted.”
“So you just showed up on her doorstep and asked to see her?”
“And was she surprised! She was nice enough at first, thought I’d just dropped by for old time’s sake, but when I told her what I wanted, she started treating me like shit. Where were you when I needed you? Stuff like that.”
“She refused to even consider the blood test thing?”
“She did.”
“And it made you angry?”
“Sure it did. Hey, you’re not suggesting that I had anything to do with this kidnapping, are you? Just because of a thing like that?”
“Did you, José? Did you have anything to do with it?”
“Hell, no. I wasn’t happy about her attitude, but I gotta admit she was right. I didn’t step up when she was accused of being the family whore. I didn’t go out of my way to stay in touch. I haven’t even seen her in what? Twenty years? And, besides, she’s getting long in the tooth. Maybe she’ll be looking for some company in a few years. I could always try again, right? Hey, you sure you don’t want some more cachaça?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
AT NINE IN THE evening, Silva was sitting at Hector’s desk, re-reading Mara’s most recent summary of the team’s activities, when the author put in an appearance.
“That guy, Miranda?” she said. “The bicheiro?”
Silva put down the folder and looked up expectantly.
“What about him, Mara?”
“He’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you.”
Silva looked at his watch.
“What are you doing here at this hour?”
“Waiting for you to take me to dinner.” She smiled, but Silva didn’t think she meant it as a joke. “Line five.”
Silva picked up the receiver and pushed the appropriate button.
“Silva.”
Miranda began without preamble. “Just one question,” he said. “Did the kidnappers tell you they wanted to be paid in diamonds?”
Silva stiffened.
“Where did you get that information?” he said.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Miranda said. “Get this: Somebody’s checking out the market in illegal gemstones. They want to know how they can best convert diamonds into cash. And they want to know details about the most marketable stones, their size and quality.”
“Names, Miranda. I need names.”
“I don’t have any. Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“By tomorrow morning.”
“And when you get this information, are you going to share it?”
“It depends. I do something for you, maybe you can do something for me. Tit for tat. Let’s talk about it.”
“When and where?”
“Noon. My office.”
Silva thought about it, concluded he had nothing to lose. “There will be two of us, myself and Arnaldo Nunes.”
“Nunes, huh? That the gorilla who was with you last time?”
“I’ll be sure to tell him you said that.”
Miranda laughed. “And I’ll tell my boys you’re coming. Gaspar, particularly. He’s got a thing for your buddy Nunes.”
Miranda hung up. Silva took out his notebook and looked up the Artist’s unlisted number. When he called, Cintia Tadesco picked up the phone.
“Tico’s sleeping,” she said. “I have no intention of waking him up.”
“A question for you, then.”
“What?”
“The kidnapper’s demand that payment be made in diamonds …”
“Yes?”
“Who have you told about it?”
“Me? Nobody.”
“And the Artist?”
“You guys asked to keep it quiet. That’s what we did.”
“You’re sure you didn’t confide in anyone else?”
She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then, more sharply: “I don’t like repeating myself. What’s this about?”
“Captain Miranda called me. He knows about the diamonds.”
“That bicheiro? What’s he got to do with it?”
“He’s helping us with our inquiries.”
“Helping you with your inquiries? Oh, please. You trying to sound like you’re Scotland Yard?”
Silva,
with an effort, managed to keep his temper.
“We’re meeting tomorrow. He hopes to have more information by then. Meantime, please continue to keep quiet about the diamonds.”
“It’s gonna get out anyway. The kid who runs the website knows, which means his father, Tico’s agent, knows, which means a lot of other people know, because a bigger-mouthed filho da puta was never born. And then there are all the cops that know.”
“I don’t think—”
“The cops would let it slip? Ha! Don’t make me laugh. From what I hear, cops are cheap. You buy them a meal, or a drink, and they spill their guts. Oh, hey, sorry, it didn’t occur to me until just now that you’re a cop.”
“Are you trying to be offensive, Senhorita Tadesco?”
“I’d say I’m succeeding. Wouldn’t you?”
She hung up.
Silva slammed down the phone.
“Bitch,” he said.
“Who?” Mara said, coming in from the corridor.
“Cintia Tadesco.”
“Why were you talking to her?”
Silva told her.
“Sounds like that visit you two made to Miranda paid off,” Mara said.
“He called Arnaldo a gorilla.”
“Maybe he’s not such a bad guy after all,” Mara said. “How about that dinner?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
SILVA WAS STAYING AT the Sorrento, a small hotel within walking distance of Hector’s office. When his cell phone rang just before seven the following morning, he was sound asleep. He groped for it and put it to his ear.
“Silva.”
“I’m at Miranda’s place,” Hector said. “His home, not his office. I sent a car to pick you up.”
“What happened?”
“Turn on the television.”
“Which channel?” Silva said, reaching for the remote.
“Take your pick,” Hector said. “It’s on all of them.”
The coverage of the explosion, and the fire that followed, was being carried live. Silva watched the images while he dressed. He was knotting his tie when the reception desk called to tell him his car was waiting.
He arrived to find Arnaldo, Hector and Gonçalves surrounding the man in charge of quelling the blaze, a fire captain named Godoy.
“So that’s all I can tell you,” Godoy was saying, “but we should have some answers soon.”
Silva was introduced, shook hands with the captain, and squinted upward into the morning light.
“Miranda lived in the penthouse,” Hector said.
The building had been eight stories tall. Now it was seven.
“Bomb?” Silva asked.
Godoy shrugged.
“Give me another explanation then.”
“It’s like I just told these guys, I don’t want to speculate. I’ve got an examiner up there now. Go have some coffee. Come back in half an hour.”
The cops went to a nearby padaria and took their cups to a table.
“Miranda was there when it happened,” Hector said.
“That’s confirmed, is it?” Silva asked.
“He got home at around ten-thirty last night. He never left.”
“That based on surveillance tapes?”
Hector nodded. “Time-coded. Security is, if anything, even tighter than at his office.”
Silva drained his coffee. “Run me through it.”
“To start with, Miranda’s elevator goes directly to his penthouse.”
“Went directly to his penthouse,” Arnaldo said. “That elevator doesn’t go anywhere anymore.”
“Went, then,” Hector said. “The point is, no stops along the way. You could get on, or off, either from the garage or the penthouse, no other options.”
“Stairwell?” Silva asked.
“Sealed with a grate and rigged with an alarm. The grate is on the floor below, steel, hinged, triple-locked and set into a steel frame. The frame is embedded in the wall. Godoy’s examiner couldn’t open the locks, so she had to cut her way through it.”
“She? A woman?”
“Either that, or a guy with long hair, a high voice and breasts,” Arnaldo said.
Silva ignored him.
“Only the one elevator?”
“There are two others,” Hector said, “social and service, running upwards from the garage, but programmed not to go any further than the floor below Miranda’s. And to make damned sure they didn’t, steel girders were welded across the shafts.”
“He’d be good and stuck, wouldn’t he, if there was a power failure.”
“He had a generator in his apartment.”
“Big enough to power the elevator?”
“So I’m told.”
“Security cameras?”
“The building runs one on every entrance, including the garage. Miranda had two more of his own, one in the stairwell, one in the elevator.”
“The recorders for those two?”
“Upstairs, in the apartment.”
Silva glanced upward at the smoldering ruin.
“So they’re toast?” he said.
“They’re toast,” Hector confirmed.
“Guards?”
“Two in the apartment, one in the garage. The guy in the garage survived.”
“Other fatalities?”
“Miranda’s wife and two kids.”
Silva narrowed his eyes. “Kids? There were kids?”
“Third wife. Eight and six, both girls.”
Nothing affected Silva so much as the murder of children.
“You figure this is business related?” Hector said, breaking a short silence. “Some rival trying to take over Miranda’s bank?”
“Maybe,” Silva said. “But …”
Arnaldo caught his meaning and shook his head. “A job like this,” he said, “takes time to set up, lots more time than just a few hours. Besides, who knew Miranda was going to talk to us?”
“Cintia Tadesco,” Silva said. “Cintia Tadesco knew Miranda was going to talk to us.”
“She couldn’t have done it on her own. She would have needed help.”
“Five million dollars buys a lot of help. How about access to the garage from the outside?”
“Two sets of gates, on tracks, motor controlled. You go down the ramp and honk your horn. They check you out on the TV camera and open the first gate. Then they close it behind you before they open the second.”
“Who’s ‘they’?”
The doormen in the lobby.”
“Is that the only switch?”
“It is.”
“Can both gates be opened at once?”
Gonçalves shook his head.
“Do they issue remote controls to the residents?”
“No, and they don’t open the gates to anyone but them—or people they authorize—in person.”
“Other entrances?”
“The social entrance faces the street. The service entrance faces a parking lot in the rear. Access to the lot is via a driveway that runs along the side of the building.”
“The tapes?”
“I looked at the ones of the front door and the service entrance. I haven’t had time yet for the garage.”
“Anything suspicious?”
“Not yet. The images are lousy. The recorders are VHS devices, older than my grandmother. They run on a twentyfour hour loop. I shut the system down as soon as I got here, but by then it was hours after the explosion.”
Silva glanced at his watch. “It’s time. Let’s go back and hear what that fire examiner has to say.”
ELISABETH CORREIA had a smudged face and looked to be in her mid-thirties. Her heavy yellow coat was two sizes too big. When she took off her helmet, spiky black hair protruded in all directions.
“A bomb,” she said. “Almost certainly.”
“What kind?” Silva asked.
“I can’t tell you without chemical analysis. You want a guess?”
“Please.”
“Ammonium nitrate and fuel
oil, or maybe kerosene.”
“A fertilizer bomb?”
“Yes. The fruitcake’s weapon of choice. They’re bulky, but they’re oh-so-easy to make. The detonator would have been the most sophisticated part of the package. If I’m lucky, I’ll find some trace of it.”
“In that mess? Seriously?”
“Seriously. Something else: they used an accelerant, probably gasoline. Liters and liters of the stuff. They poured it all over the place.”
“Did you find the children?”
“Yes.”
“Were they—”
She put up a hand, as if to fend him off. “Please, Chief Inspector,” she said. “I’m a mother, and I’m very close to losing it, and if I talk about what I just saw, I will lose it. That wouldn’t do either one of us any good, now would it?”
“I understand.”
“Do you?” She was looking up at the building.
“Believe me, I do. I once had a son.”
She met his eyes. He could see, now, that she had tears in hers.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Commiseration or apology, Silva wasn’t sure which.
“Any idea how they got the bomb into the penthouse?” he asked.
“They didn’t get it into the penthouse.”
“How so?”
“The bomb was under the penthouse. It was set off in the master bedroom of the apartment below.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
THE DOORMAN ON DUTY at the time of the explosion was in his fifties. He was still in a state of shock.
His relief man, recently arrived on the scene, was much younger, probably well under thirty. He was smiling, talkative and seemed to be enjoying all the excitement.
Silva positioned them side-by-side on a couch in the lobby.
“Who lived on the floor below the penthouse?”
“Atilio Nabuco, Senhor,” the younger man said.
“Married?”
“Married, Senhor.”
“Children?”
“Two.”
“Boys? Girls?”
“One of each.”
“Ages?”
The younger man shrugged and looked at the older one.
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