“—was involved in the kidnapping. Did you hear about what happened to Juraci Santos’s maids?”
“I saw it on TV. The kidnappers killed them, right?”
“Yes, the kidnappers killed them. They killed them because the maids could identify them. And they’ll do the same to you if they get the chance.”
“Jesus Christ.”
Tancredo Candido burst into a fit of coughing—and reached for the last of Fortunato’s cigarettes.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“CINTIA?” GONÇALVES SAID. “Disguised? Wearing a wig?”
“Not Cintia,” Silva said.
“Why not? She’s in show business. She must know all about makeup and that sort of thing. She’s—”
“—almost as tall as you are. Read what’s up there on the board.” Silva looked around the table. “Any other suggestions?”
The task force was assembled, once again, in a conference room at the São Paulo field office. Silva had chalked the salient points of the caseiro’s description onto the blackboard. They team went back to staring at them.
Female.
Brown, curly hair.
Average height.
Age +/- 35.
Good figure.
Unremarkable eye color.
Smells good. (Perfume?)
Abrasive attitude.
“There’s something …” Gonçalves scratched his head. “… something that rings a bell …”
The others looked at him expectantly.
“But it just won’t come to me,” he said.
After a while, Mara said, “I must have talked to two dozen pigeon fanciers. Up to now, I haven’t come across a single female.”
“Good point,” Silva said. “Call them back. Ask them if they know any women who share their passion.”
“Not passion,” Arnaldo said. “She didn’t show any interest in the birds. She was just using them.”
“Arnaldo’s right,” Silva said. “Call them anyway, but mention that.”
Mara started to get up. Silva raised a hand.
“Something else,” he said. “This might be a long shot, but ask them if they’ve ever heard of a fellow by the name of Edson Campos.”
“WOMEN WHO fancy carrier pigeons,” Mara said, when she returned to the room, “are like women attracted to Arnaldo Nunes.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Arnaldo said.
“Rare,” she said. “Very rare. But I got solid hits on Edson Campos. In the pigeon world, Senhor Mello’s partner is very well known indeed.”
Silva leaned forward in his chair.
“Familiar with Ketamine,” he said, “lives in Granja Viana and keeps pigeons. Maybe we’re finally getting somewhere.”
“And maybe not,” Gonçalves said. “I talked to Campos. He’s a wimp. I don’t think he has it in him to get involved in something like this unless …”
“Unless what?”
“Unless Mello talked him into it. That guy’s a slimeball. I wouldn’t put anything past him.”
“If Mello and Campos are in on it,” Silva said, “that would probably exclude Cintia Tadesco.”
“Don’t tell me that,” Arnaldo said. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“Think about it, Arnaldo. She had a falling out with Mello, told us she was going to fire him.”
“So what?”
“If they were partners in crime, I doubt she’d run the risk of alienating him. Not now. Not until things have cooled off.”
“Yeah, I suppose you’re right,” Arnaldo said, grudgingly.
“The world is full of disappointments,” Mara said.
“What was the falling out about?” Gonçalves asked.
“Cintia wouldn’t tell us.”
“When we were talking to her,” Arnaldo said, “she got this far-away look in her eyes, as if she’d just put two and two together. Then, a little later, she said she was going to fire him.”
Silva turned to Mara. “Have you got a home address for Campos and Mello?”
“I do.”
“Get a search warrant,” he said.
“REMEMBER ME?” Gonçalves said.
“Of course I remember you,” Tarso Mello said, blinking out of bloodshot eyes. “What do you want?”
Mello was unshaven and uncombed, dressed in a faded T-shirt and jeans, barefoot and reeking of whiskey. To Silva, he didn’t look in the least like the dapper talent agent Gonçalves had described.
“These are colleagues of mine,” Gonçalves said, making the introductions, “Chief Inspector Silva, Delegado Costa and Agent Nunes. And this is a search warrant for the premises.”
He held it out.
Mello made no attempt to take it.
“What do you need a search warrant for?”
“You can read it if you like.”
Mello brushed it aside.
“I’m shitfaced. I don’t want to read anything, and I don’t care if you search my place or not.”
Up to that point, Silva had been harboring suspicions about the man’s involvement. Now, he relaxed the hand that had been hovering over his pistol. His gut was telling him that Mello wasn’t one of the people they were after.
Mello followed the cops into his living room.
“You people want a drink?”
“No,” Silva said, answering for all.
“But you won’t mind if I have one, will you?”
Mello’s speech was slurred. He picked up a bottle and emptied it into a glass, spilling some of the whiskey onto his hand and even more onto the floor.
“I suggest you go easy on that stuff,” Silva said.
Mello licked his hand, and then rubbed it on his pants.
“Am I under arrest?”
“Not yet.”
“Not yet, huh? Sounds ominous. But since I’m not under arrest, not yet, I figure I can drink as much as I want in my own house.” He took a gulp of the Scotch. “What are you looking for?”
“Not what, who. Juraci Santos.”
“And you think you’re going to find her here? Ha!”
“Where’s Edson?”
Mello, for the first time, showed a degree of concern.
“What do you want Edson for? Edson didn’t do anything. You leave Edson alone.”
“No need to get upset, Senhor Mello.”
“People in authority make him nervous. He had a difficult childhood, spent some time in an orphanage.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Silva said, “but we have to talk to him. Where is he?”
“He’s out in back, messing around with his pigeons.”
“I’ll go get him,” Gonçalves said.
“No. No, you won’t,” Mello said, protectively. “If anybody has to get him, I will.”
“Then I’ll go with you,” Silva said.
UNDER ARNALDO’S watchful eye, the two suspects were left to cool their heels in the living room. The other three cops busied themselves with a thorough search of the premises. Silva didn’t really expect to find anything, but decided to be thorough since they were there anyway.
The contents of a chest of drawers in the master bedroom gave Hector pause. He summoned his uncle to have a look.
“Have Babyface keep an eye on Campos,” Silva said. “Tell Arnaldo to bring Mello in here.”
MELLO HAD dispensed with the glass and taken to drinking directly from a bottle. It was a new bottle, and the level was already down by a quarter. He brought it with him into the bedroom.
“Nice house you’ve got, Senhor Mello,” Silva said. “Been here long?”
Mello stifled a hiccup. “I bought it when Cintia became my client, mortgaged myself right up to my ass. Now”—he stifled another hiccup—“I’ll have to sell it.”
“Yes. She told us you two had a tiff.”
“A tiff? Is that what she called it, a tiff?”
“I’m paraphrasing.”
Mello’s anger seemed to have suppressed his hiccups. “It wasn’t a tiff. It was an all-ou
t argument, and it wouldn’t have happened if it hadn’t have been for you people. You don’t care how many lives you fuck up, do you? As long as you nail the guilty, whatever you do to innocent people like me doesn’t matter a damn.”
“That’s not true, Senhor Mello. If we’ve caused you a problem, and you had nothing to do with the crime we’re investigating, I’m truly sorry.”
Mello took another swig from his bottle. “It’s too goddamned late for sorry.”
“Your argument with Cintia had something to do with your collection over there, didn’t it?”
“My collection is none of your business.”
“I didn’t say it was. Nevertheless …”
Mello sighed.
“If I tell you, will you get the hell out of here?”
“We’ll get out of here after we’ve had a chat with Senhor Campos,” Silva said, “but you can speed our departure by cooperating.”
Mello, still clutching the bottle, went over to the chest of drawers, opened one of them and removed a flimsy pair of lace panties.
“La Perla,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I bought them on the Corso Monte Napoleone in Milan.”
Tears spilled out of both eyes and started to roll down his cheeks.
“Senhor Mello—”
“Shut up for a moment, won’t you? Can’t you see I’m drunk? I’m trying to tell you. Just be patient.” He sank down on the bed. “Where was I?”
“The Corso Monte Napoleone in Milan.”
“No. Cintia. I was talking about Cintia. She’s a collector herself, shares my passion.”
“She knows you collect women’s lingerie?”
“Of course she damned well knows it! Why do you think she reacted the way she did? But she’s got it wrong! All wrong!”
“None of that stuff is Cintia’s?”
“Not a stitch of it. Not a goddamned stitch! I’d never steal a piece from someone else. It would be dirty. Even if you washed it over and over, it would be dirty. I only wear new things, things I buy myself.”
“Some of that lingerie looks pretty small,” Hector said. “It might fit Edson, but not you.”
“You leave Edson out of this! He had nothing to do with anything. It must have been one of Cintia’s goddamned maids that stole that piece.”
“But she blamed you.”
“She blamed me because you”—he shot an accusing finger at Silva—“went up there and started asking her about where she found the set of keys to Juraci’s house, and she told you they were in a drawer with her lingerie.”
“I don’t see how that could possibly—”
“She’s missing a Chantelle Chantilly Culotte Thong. They only make it in fuchsia. But I don’t have it. I don’t own a damned thing in fuchsia. I hate fuchsia! Go ahead. Look through all the drawers. See if you can find anything in fuchsia.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Senhor Mello. Just finish the story.”
“She saw me coming out of her bedroom during the party. A day later, she discovered the thong was missing. Your questions caused her to connect the two events and come to an absolutely erroneous conclusion.”
“And that conclusion was that you stole a pair of her panties.”
“What have I been telling you? And, as God is my witness, it’s not true! I went in there to use the bathroom. I went there because the guest bathroom was occupied. I never went anywhere near her drawers. I never opened one. I never took the piece. I told her that. But did she believe me? No, she didn’t believe me; she fired me, that’s what she did. And it’s your fault.”
Mello took another hefty swig of his whiskey. Silva signaled to Arnaldo and Hector. They left Mello where he was and went into the living room to question Campos.
“How is he?” Campos said.
“Drunk,” Silva said.
“He hasn’t slept since yesterday. It’s just so … unfair. Cintia Tadesco is a perfect bitch.”
“Tell us about your pigeons,” Silva said.
“My pigeons? Why?”
“Carrier pigeons were used to deliver the ransom for the Artist’s mother.”
“And you think I had something to do with it?”
“Did you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then you’ll have no objection to answering my questions. Why don’t you sit down.”
Campos shook his head. “I’d prefer to stay on my feet. What, exactly, do you want to know?”
“How many pigeons have you got? Do you keep them anywhere other than here? How long have you been doing it? Who else do you know who keeps carrier pigeons?”
Four questions. Campos counted off the replies by extending the fingers on his right hand.. “Nineteen. Only here. Ever since I was thirteen years old. Lots of people.” He dropped the hand to his side. “What else?”
“Senhor Campos, you’re obviously an intelligent man, and you don’t strike me as the criminal type. You know our objective here. Why don’t you make an effort to be more cooperative?”
“Why should I? You—”
“You should,” Silva said evenly, “because you’ll have us out of your hair a lot faster if you do.”
“Nothing would please me more.”
“So think. How can you help us?”
Campos reflected.
“The best way,” he said, “would be if you let me ask you some questions. Then something might occur to me.”
“Go ahead.”
“How many birds were involved?”
Silva turned to Hector. “Remind me. How many?”
“Sixty,” Hector said.
Campos didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “Sixty? Sixty birds?”
“That’s what I said.”
“That’s a lot. Nobody I know has sixty birds. It’s complete overkill.”
“They had a lot of diamonds to transport.”
“Diamonds?”
“Juraci Santos’s ransom was in diamonds. Five million American dollars worth.”
Campos whistled. “Five million dollars. That’s more than ten million Reais.”
“Considerably more.”
“Where were the birds released?”
“About two hundred and eighty kilometers from São Paulo, a spot near Caverna do Diabo.”
“Who did the releasing?”
“We did,” Silva said.
“You did? You? The Federal Police?”
“The Artist decided to pay. We assisted him. We didn’t know they’d be using pigeons until we got there. We had to follow their instructions and dispatch the diamonds. If we hadn’t, they would have killed Juraci Santos.”
“How were the diamonds attached to the birds?”
“Little carrier bags made especially for the purpose. Instructions were waiting on how to affix them.”
Campos stroked his chin. “And once it was done …“
“The birds flew away, and we lost them.”
“You simply let them fly away? You didn’t try to follow them?”
“We managed to plant a tracking device, but we only had one, and a bird of prey brought down the pigeon carrying it.”
“So you have no idea where the diamonds wound up?”
“In fact, Senhor Campos, we do.”
“Where?”
“At a sitio near Riberão Preto. The owner rents the place, but hardly ever visits. A caseiro works there. He was paid to feed and care for the birds, but he knows nothing. He wasn’t involved in the plot.”
“Chief Inspector, are you aware of the fact that those birds have to be conditioned from the time they start moving around on their own?”
“We know that, yes.”
“That’s why nobody buys or sells fully-grown carrier pigeons. It would make no sense. Once they were released, they’d just fly home to wherever they were raised.”
“So we’ve been told.”
Campos started pacing back and forth. “The birds would have to be at least three months old before they could fly the d
istance you’re describing. It would be nothing for a fullygrown bird, but it’s a long way for a young one.”
“Conclusion?”
Campos ran a hand through his hair. “This thing must have been planned months in advance.” He stopped pacing and turned and looked at Silva. “You mean to tell me that the people who supplied the birds didn’t go back, at least once, to make sure they were being properly conditioned by this caseiro? And, if the caseiro wasn’t involved in the plot, someone else would have had to have made the pickup, right?”
“Someone did. She’s—”
“She?”
“It was a woman.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“We’re sure.”
Silva took him through it, step by step. He told him about the jeweler, told him about Tancredo Candido, told him how the woman had threatened Tancredo with grave bodily harm if he didn’t follow instructions. By the time he’d finished, Edson Campos had come over to their side and entered into the spirit of the chase.
“So you’ve got a description of this woman?” he said. “You know what she looks like?”
“We have a description, but it’s a sketchy one.”
“Don’t you people normally do an artist’s rendition in a case like this?”
“We’re trying. We’re not being very successful. The witness doesn’t have a good memory for faces.”
“Tell me your sketchy description.”
“About thirty-five years of age, of average height, with curly, brown hair, a somewhat abrasive attitude, a foul mouth and what the cut-out described as a nice ass.”
“Brown eyes?”
“Why? Does the description suggest someone to you?”
“You may think this is a weird question, but was she wearing Promesse?”
“What?”
“Promesse, from Cacharel. It’s a perfume, a springtime scent, more for teenagers than for a woman of her age. But that’s beside the point. The question is was she wearing perfume?”
“As a matter of fact,” Silva said, “she was.”
“Holy Crap.”
“Holy Crap what?”
“Holy Crap,” Edson Campos said, “I know who you’re looking for.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
THE KIDNAPPER WAS TOO anxious to eat, too excited to watch television, too agitated, even, to sit down. He put all of his nervous energy into digging the grave. From the time his partner left until he heard the sound of her car crunching gravel in the driveway, all he’d done was dig.
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