A Vine in the Blood

by Leighton Gage

  “Vanessa was eighteen last week,” the older one said.

  “And you know that because …”

  “She was excited about getting her driver’s license. She kept talking about it.”

  “How about the boy?”

  “You think he’s dead, Senhor?” the younger man asked.

  “If he was in his parents’ apartment at the time of the explosion, he is. How old?”

  “Older.”

  “Twenty-one,” the older man said. “Lito was twenty-one. A nice kid. Always polite.”

  “My understanding,” Silva said, “is that you don’t open the garage gates to people you don’t know, people who aren’t residents of the building.”

  “Correct, Senhor,” the younger man said.

  “What happens if there’s a delivery of some kind, furniture or some such?”

  Silva looked from one to the other. The older man seemed to tune out, stared at the wall, let his younger colleague answer the question. “It has to be brought upstairs in the freight elevator, but before that happens, a resident has to okay it. Nobody’s allowed in the garage otherwise.”

  “There’s a TV camera down there, right?”

  “There is, Senhor.”

  “Where?”

  “To the left of the ramp.”

  Silva was concentrating, now, on the younger man. “Does it capture the faces of the drivers?”

  “Yes.”

  “But only when they come in?”

  “Correct, Senhor.”

  “How do people signal when they want to leave?”

  “It’s not necessary, Senhor. There are sensors. On the way out, the gates open automatically.”

  “Do you keep a log of comings and goings in the garage?”

  “Yes, Senhor.”

  “Bring it, please.”

  The older doorman seemed to snap out of his reverie. He got up, went into a room opening off the back of the reception desk and came back carrying a ledger. Resuming his seat on the couch, he made a gesture for Silva to sit down next to him. Then he opened the book and laid it across Silva’s knees.

  “Here, Senhor, you see?” he said, leaning in, putting the tip of one of his index fingers on the book. “The times are on this side, and, here”—his finger moved to the right of the page—“the numbers of the apartments. Senhor Nabuco lives in Apartment 7.”

  Silva raised a critical eyebrow.

  “Times and apartment numbers? That’s all? You don’t identify the vehicles?”

  “We used to have a camera that recorded them. But then the camera broke down, and we never had need of the recordings, so the owners decided not to replace it.”

  “No 7A or 7B?”

  “This is a luxury building, Senhor. Only one apartment to a floor.”

  THE VIDEOTAPE was time-coded. The times corresponded closely to notations in the log. That made it possible to fastforward between entries and quickly locate all of the comings and goings associated with Apartment 7.

  They watched Nabuco leave for work, his wife leave and return with shopping bags, his son and daughter leaving and returning with books, and at 7:14, exactly, Nabuco returning home at the wheel of a white Volkswagen mini-van. It wasn’t the same vehicle he’d left in that morning.

  Silva froze the tape. Nabuco, his eyes wide with fear, was looking directly at the camera.

  “Look at that,” the older doorman said. “What a goddamned idiot.”

  “Idiot is right,” his colleague agreed.

  “Who?” Silva said.

  “Antonio. The four to midnight man.”

  “And the supervisor’s nephew,” the older man added heatedly, “or he would have gotten his ass fired a long time ago. Look at Senhor Nabuco. Anyone can see he’s scared out of his wits.”

  “Call this Antonio fellow and get him over here,” Silva said. “Now.”

  “HOW THE fuck was I supposed to know there was anything wrong? What am I, a mind reader?”

  “Just look at him,” the older doorman said, pointing at the image frozen on the screen. “Look at Senhor Nabuco’s face. It’s obvious he’s frightened to death. How you could have missed it is a mystery to both of us.”

  “The two of you ganging up on me again, huh? As usual? Assholes!”

  “Asshole yourself,” the older man said.

  “Shut up,” Silva said. “Both of you. Look at it again.”

  He hit the rewind, then the play button. On the front seat next to Nabuco, seated well back, face in deep shadow, was a man. Or maybe a woman. It was impossible to tell.

  Silva froze the image in approximately the same place he’d frozen it half a dozen times before.

  “No good to keep playing it,” Antonio said. “I already told you. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  “Brought that little TV of yours along, didn’t you?” The older man said. “Watching it, weren’t you?”

  “No,” Antonio said, but he flushed.

  “You’ve been told not to do that,” his other colleague told Antonio. “And now look what happened.”

  “Easy for you to talk,” Antonio said. “You weren’t here. If you were, the same thing could have happened to you.”

  “Never. I’m like Cristiano here. I take my job seriously, I do.”

  “That’s enough!” Silva said. “You recall what time the van left?”

  “It didn’t leave,” Antonio said. “Not when I was here, it didn’t.”

  “About three in the morning,” the older doorman said.

  “And you didn’t find that strange?”

  He shrugged. “Not particularly. Folks come and go at all hours.”

  “When the van reached street level, could you see who was driving?”

  “No.”

  “Was it a man or a woman?”

  “I couldn’t even see that. It was too dark and, besides, it turned right. It didn’t pass in front of the building.”

  “Let’s have a look at it,” Silva said.

  He put the tape on fast-forward. When the van appeared again, the time code read 03:19. Silva froze the image. They all leaned in for a closer look.

  An indistinguishable shape sat behind the wheel. On the screen it was no more than a featureless blob.

  “Have you ever seen Senhor Nabuco driving this van?” Silva said.

  All three men shook their heads.

  “People here don’t drive vans,” the older man said. “They drive BMWs and Mercs, stuff like that. I remember thinking a van was funny.”

  “Funny, but you were too lazy to get off your fat ass and have a closer look, weren’t you?” Antonio said.

  “Don’t try spreading the blame for your incompetence to me, you fuck.”

  Silva’s phone rang. He left them sniping at each other and stepped into the lobby to answer it.

  “Chief Inspector Silva?”

  He didn’t recognize the voice.

  “I’m Silva.”

  “Chief Inspector, this is Warden Fuentes.”

  Fuentes ran the penitentiary where Fiorello Rosa, the ace kidnapper, had been incarcerated for six of the last seven years.

  “Rosa wants to talk to you, wants to know if it could be this afternoon.”

  “Even sooner,” Silva said.

  “No hurry,” Fuentes said, “He isn’t going anywhere.”

  THEY WERE heading toward their car when Arnaldo came to a sudden stop.

  “Look,” he said.

  Gaspar, the black man who’d been Miranda’s bodyguard, was standing next to one of the trucks, talking to a firefighter.

  Money changed hands.

  The federal cops changed direction.

  “Gaspar, isn’t it?” Silva said when they came within earshot.

  “Yeah,” the black man said, “that’s right. Gaspar.”

  No broad grin this time. He looked angry as hell.

  “I gotta get back to it,” the fireman said and hurried off.

  “I suppose you told him you were a reporter,” Silva
said.

  “None of your damned business.”

  “What did he tell you?”

  “That some filho da puta put a bomb under the boss’s apartment and blew him, and his wife, and his two kids, and some friends of mine all to hell.”

  “How come you weren’t in there with them?” Arnaldo said.

  “Not that it’s any of your fucking business,” Gaspar said, “but it was my night off. You know how old those kids were?”

  “We know,” Silva said.

  “Come on,” Arnaldo said, “give us some help here. Who did it?”

  Gaspar exploded. “You think I know? You think I don’t want to know? What kind of a sick fuck does something like this? What kind of a callous bastard kills kids so they can get at their old man? You and me, cop, we’re asking ourselves the same questions.”

  “You sound as pissed off as I am,” Arnaldo said. “You got any kids?”

  “I got two. Girls. Just like the boss had.”

  “Did you know,” Silva said, “that your boss called us and scheduled a meeting?”

  “I knew,” Gaspar said. “There’s a roster. Your names were on it.”

  “Any idea what he wanted to talk to us about?”

  “No,” Gaspar said. “It was none of my business. My business was to keep him safe, that’s all.” He turned to Arnaldo. “And spare me any wise-ass remarks. I already told you. It was my night off.”

  “It’s gonna surprise you to learn that I wasn’t gonna make any wise-ass remarks,” Arnaldo said. “Who might know what he wanted to talk to us about?”

  “Nobody. The boss didn’t blab his business to anybody.”

  “Speaking of business,” Silva said, “what’s likely to happen to Miranda’s operation now that he’s dead?”

  “Even if I knew, you think I’d tell a federal cop? I will tell you one thing, though.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The guy who did this is dead meat. And it won’t matter a damn if you’re the first ones to catch up with him. People can always be got to—wherever they are, jail or anywhere else.”

  “A comforting thought,” Arnaldo said.

  “Maybe not for you,” Gaspar said, “but it sure as hell is for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “KILLING MIRANDA IS ONE thing,” Fiorello Rosa said. “He was a cold-blooded murderer. But his two little girls? That, Chief Inspector, is way out of line. Whoever did it should rot in hell.”

  “I agree,” Silva said.

  “His wife, now, that’s another matter. She was an adult. She had a choice. She must have known what kind of a man her husband was.”

  “Did your wife know about you?”

  “Ex-wife. Yes, she did. She told everyone she didn’t, but she did. Before I took my first customer, I told her what I was planning to do. Share the benefit, I said, but be aware there’s a risk—and you’ll be sharing that as well.”

  “And she accepted that?”

  “She said she did. But the truth is Carolina is a person incapable of sharing. I clung to some illusions to the contrary before I was arrested, but she disabused me of them in short order. I wasn’t in jail for twenty-four hours before she’d emptied our joint bank accounts. Less than a week after that, she filed for divorce. Fortunately, I’d lived with her long enough to … well, never mind. Enough about her. Have you given any thought to my proposition?”

  “I have.”

  “And?”

  “And we’ll discuss it if you’re granted a parole.”

  “When I’m granted a parole.”

  “You’re that confident?”

  “Oh, yes, Chief Inspector, I am. I’m extremely confident.”

  “Because?”

  “Because, with a few exceptions, like yourself, this country has the best justice system money can buy.”

  “I’m all too aware of that. But haven’t you been telling everyone you’re broke?”

  “I have, haven’t I?” Rosa sighed. “Well, I suppose I’ll just have to find the money somewhere.”

  “I think,” Silva said, “you’re likely to have more luck than we did when looking for the same money.”

  Rosa responded with a smile.

  “Why did you want to talk to me?” Silva said.

  “To share my knowledge of Ketamine.”

  “Ketawhat?”

  “Ketamine. The substance found in the syringe. Didn’t you read the lab report?”

  “I’ve been busy. What’s Ketamine? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “There’s no reason why you should have. But I, before being totally reformed by this excellent penal system of ours, made it my business to familiarize myself with drugs that might have been of use to me in my former profession. Ketamine was one of them.”

  “You have my full attention, Professor.”

  “Ketamine was developed by Parke-Davis back in the early sixties. Initially, it was employed as an anesthetic by American medics during the Vietnam War. Small doses of it will make you high, medium doses will knock you out, large doses will kill you.”

  “Did you ever use it?” Silva asked.

  “No. I wrote it off as too dangerous. Psychotomimetic effects have been observed in its use.”

  “What kind of effects?” Arnaldo said.

  “Psychotomimetic. Delusions, hallucinations, the reactions we’ve come to expect from opiates.”

  “How easy is it to get, this Ketamine?”

  “Very. In the days before my total transformation into an honest citizen, I could have acquired the drug with no difficulty whatsoever. Ketamine is still widely used in veterinary medicine. A single visit to my local unethical veterinarian would have provided me with enough to treat a dozen unwilling patients. I think it’s unlikely that the situation has changed very much over the course of the last seven years.”

  “Interesting,” Silva said, “but I don’t see how knowing any of this is going to be of help. As you say, any veterinarian who’d provided the stuff to Juraci’s kidnappers would, by definition, be unethical—and unlikely to come forward. Where else would one get Ketamine, if not from a veterinarian?”

  “From narcotics dealers. The street name is Special K.”

  “We can hardly expect any of those people to come forward either. Other sources?”

  “Pharmacies. I imagine a number of them would stock it to serve veterinarians in their area.”

  “Maybe. Other thoughts?”

  “On Ketamine? No.”

  “Something else then?”

  “It’s occurred to me that the gang you’re after is probably quite small.”

  “On what do you base that supposition?”

  “I’ve been reading Senhora Carta’s summaries. You’re not getting any tips. Your informers aren’t feeding you a thing. There are no rumors on the street.”

  “So? Connect the dots.”

  “The larger the gang, the more likely it is that someone will talk. You never add just one member to a gang. You add that person’s lover, family and friends as well. People like to be in the know. They like to gossip. Not only for gossip’s sake, but also to prove they’re in the know. But nobody’s gossiping, are they?”

  “No. So your conclusion—”

  “Preliminary conclusion.”

  “—preliminary conclusion is that we should be looking for a person or persons with ties to a veterinarian—”

  “—or a pharmacist, or a drug-dealer.”

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Arnaldo said. “Didn’t Babyface—”

  “Who’s Babyface?” Rosa said.

  “Haraldo Gonçalves,” Silva said, “one of our agents. We call him Babyface.”

  “But never to his baby face,” Arnaldo said.

  “I know where Arnaldo’s going,” Silva said. “Tarso Mello.”

  Rosa looked perplexed. “And he is?”

  “I guess Mara hasn’t written up that one yet. Mello is Cintia Tadesco’s current agent.”

  “Cintia the top-model? C
intia the girlfriend of the Artist?”

  “That Cintia. When Gonçalves interviewed Mello, Mello told him he was gay, and that he lives with a partner.”

  “So?”

  “The partner is a vet tech.”

  “If I was a judge,” Rosa said, “and you appealed to me for a search warrant based upon that coincidence, I wouldn’t give it to you.”

  “But if you were a federal cop, would you follow it up?”

  “I certainly would.”

  “You mentioned a small gang. How small?”

  “I can’t see the job being done with less than two: one to start the car’s engine while the other smashes the kitchen door; one to dispatch the maids while the other subdues Juraci. Yes, I think they could do it with two.”

  “Or three,” Arnaldo said. “Mello, his partner the vet tech, and that bitch, Cintia Tadesco.”

  “I take it,” Rosa said with a smile, “that you have met the beautiful Senhorita Tadesco—and been less than enchanted.”

  “You take it right,” Arnaldo said.

  “Tell me this, Professor,” Silva said, “do you think Juraci is still alive?”

  “I’d virtually guarantee it.”

  “Why?”

  “Proof of life. Until they get their hands on the ransom, they could be asked to provide it at any time.”

  “And after they get their hands on the ransom?”

  “At that point, Chief Inspector, the situation will change radically.”

  “I share your opinion, but I’d like to hear your reasoning.”

  “The murder of the maids clearly demonstrates the ruthlessness of the people responsible. The choice of such a high-profile target illustrates their audacity and resolve. They won’t want to risk recognition. They won’t want to leave loose ends. Juraci Santos is a loose end. The conclusion, therefore, is inescapable.”

  “They’re going to kill her.”

  “Yes, Chief Inspector, they’re going to kill her.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  ON THE STREET IN front of the Artist’s building, media people had settled in for the duration.

  Canopies now afforded protection from inclement weather; tents and chairs had been set up; the smell of cigarettes and coffee was in the air; high wooden platforms supported longlensed cameras.

  Silva, as before, ignored the questions that assailed him from every side. This time, many were in English. The international press had arrived in force.