“Not yet?”
“I swear.”
Arnaldo caught on. “I don’t work with Colonel Ferraz,” he said.
Her mouth opened in surprise.
“I’m from the Federal Police. Help me. We’ll protect him.”
She started picking at one of her broken nails.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said.
“Yeah, you do. We’re talking about Edson. We’re talking about your son. If Ferraz gets to him first, he’ll kill him.”
With a brusque movement she ripped off part of the nail. Her finger started to bleed. She stared at it, as if she’d had no part in causing the injury. The expression on her face didn’t change.
“Help me,” Arnaldo said. “Help him.”
“I’ll do what I promised,” she said. “You go back and tell the colonel that. Tell him I’ll come and tell him where Edson is. I’ll tell him just as soon as I know.”
“I doubt it,” Arnaldo said. “I’ll bet you’re worried about all of your children, not just the little ones.”
He’d struck a nerve. Impulsively, she reached out a hand and clutched him by the wrist. “No,” she said. “A bargain’s a bargain. I’ll keep up my side. Please. Tell him that. Tell him to leave my babies alone.”
“Marly?”
It was Dona Marcia.
Both of them looked up. The woman came forward and held out some banknotes.
“For today,” she said, “and for last Friday. I won’t be needing you anymore.”
“Does this have anything to do with me?” Arnaldo said.
“No, Agente, it has to do with Marly, and frankly it’s none of your business. Now, if the two of you are quite finished. . . .”
“We’re not,” he said bluntly.
“Then you can continue your conversation elsewhere. I want you both out of my home.”
Arnaldo waited while Marly fetched her things, a purse and a shopping bag, and watched while Dona Marcia made a minute inspection of the contents of both to make sure that Marly hadn’t helped herself to any of the family silver.
The taxi driver was where Arnaldo had left him, listening to a cassette tape of musica sertaneja and tapping his fingers on the dashboard. He didn’t seem surprised to have acquired another passenger.
“Where to now?” he said cheerfully, shifting the meter from the waiting position to the basic rate for daytime travel.
His broad smile disappeared when Arnaldo told him to go back to the favela.
Chapter Twenty-nine
THEY ARRIVED IN A caravan, four vehicles in all.
Muniz led the way in his black Mercedes. His capangas were right behind it. Ferraz’s black-and-white police sedan brought up the rear.
Muniz leapt to the ground and advanced on Pillar even before his car had come to a complete stop. A long-barreled .44 magnum revolver dangled from a holster on his right hip. He was carrying a 12-gauge pump-action shotgun.
The men he had with him grabbed their weapons, piled out of both vans, and formed a semi-circle behind him.
Hector reached under his jacket and wrapped his fingers around the grip of his Glock.
Muniz was so furious, and so intent on getting to Pillar, that he didn’t even notice.
But one of his gunmen did, and tensed.
Silva addressed his nephew, speaking softly so that no one else could hear. “Don’t draw that pistol. We’re outgunned. Put your hands where that capanga can see them.”
“He wouldn’t dare—”
“He would. And then his friends will kill those reporters, Pillar, and me. Muniz will claim the league started it, and Ferraz will back him up. Do it.”
Hector took his hand out from under his coat, but the capanga didn’t take his eyes off him.
Muniz came to a stop, three meters from the group surrounding Pillar.
The journalists scurried back out of the way. A few of the league members did too, but only a few.
Pillar raised his hands to shoulder height.
Muniz pumped a round into the chamber of his shotgun.
“I’m sorry about your son,” Pillar said, his voice even. “It’s a heavy burden for any father.”
“Don’t give me that, you hypocritical, lying bastard. You made the biggest mistake of your life when you decided to tangle with me.”
There was a screech of brakes. Vicenza and her crew piled out of their van, leaving the doors open and the engine running. The red light on the front of the camera was already blinking.
“No pictures,” Ferraz said, extending his arms as if he was directing traffic.
Vicenza lifted her microphone, caught her breath and said, “You’re looking at Colonel Ferraz of the São Paulo State Police, a man who evidently thinks he’s still living in a dictatorship. Over his shoulder, and holding a shotgun, is Orlando Muniz.”
The cameraman pushed a button, and the barrel of the zoom lens started to rotate, tightening the angle on Muniz.
“A few moments ago,” Vicenza continued, “Senhor Muniz told us he’s convinced that the Landless Workers’ League is responsible for the death of his son. It appears he’s decided to take the law into his own hands.”
Pillar saw his chance. He raised his voice and started to talk, almost as if they’d rehearsed it. “The Landless Worker’s League categorically denies any complicity in the death of Orlando Muniz Junior. None of us are armed. None of us want trouble.”
“Well, you’ve got it anyway.” It was Ferraz, his face crimson. “You’re trespassing on private property. The owner of this fazenda, Senhor Muniz here, has the right to evict you. I authorize him to use force.”
“Sorry, Colonel, you can’t do that—”
“The hell I can’t.”
“—because we’ve got a restraining order,” Pillar finished calmly. “We’ve petitioned the court. They’ve agreed to consider our case.”
“Petitioned the—”
Muniz cut Ferraz off. “What court?” he said.
“A federal court and a federal judge,” Father Angelo Monteiro said, stepping out of the crowd around Pillar. He held a smoking cigarette in his right hand and a document in the left.
Muniz lowered the shotgun, snatched the paper from the old priest, and stared at it. “Son of a bitch,” he said, his eyes bulging as he absorbed the significance of what he was reading.
“No,” Father Angelo said, “he isn’t. That particular judge happens to be an honest man, unlike a certain local magistrate you have on your payroll.”
Muniz ignored the priest and turned to Ferraz. “Can they do this?”
Ferraz opened his mouth, thought better of whatever he had planned to say and shut it again.
“May I see that?” Vicenza Pelosi took the paper from Muniz’s unresisting hand and held it toward the camera. The cameraman adjusted his focus.
Muniz realized what was happening, snatched the paper back, and tore it to shreds.
“I got it,” the cameraman said to Vicenza. “Sharp, but short. We’ll have to freeze it.”
Muniz started advancing toward him.
The cameraman stepped backward, zoomed out, refocused.
“Keep rolling, Beto,” Vicenza said.
“Rolling,” the cameraman confirmed, stopping when Muniz did.
Muniz, trembling with rage, spun around. He raised his shotgun and aimed it at the ground in front of Pillar. He shouted an epithet, but no one heard it. The blast of the weapon overpowered his voice. The hail of buckshot threw up a cloud of dust. Before it had settled, and while the report was still ringing in everyone’s ears, he turned on his heel and walked back to his car.
Chapter Thirty
“SHE SAID SHE’S GOING to do what?” the director said, his voice loud and shrill.
Silva held the telephone away from his ear. “‘Stick around for a few days while we catch the bad guys,’ was the way she put it.”
“Ave Maria,” the director said. “That’s all we need. That woman is . . .” His
voice trailed off. He apparently couldn’t think of an adequate definition for Vicenza Pelosi. “She’ll make us look like the Curbstone Cops,” he finished lamely.
“Keystone Cops.”
“Whatever.”
“She didn’t seem to like Muniz or Ferraz all that much,” Silva said.
“Well, she wouldn’t, would she? Her father was a union organizer or some such, and they killed him for it.”
“She said her first report would be on the Jornal de Noticias at eight.”
“Merda! I’m going to have to brief the minister. You got any good news?”
“Not yet.”
Silva’s boss grunted and did what he usually did when he was displeased. He hung up.
“You heard?” Silva asked his nephew.
Hector nodded. “He wasn’t exactly whispering.”
Arnaldo walked into the suite and caught Hector’s last remark. “Who wasn’t whispering?” he said.
“The director,” Silva said glumly. “He just found out that Vicenza Pelosi is in town.”
“No kidding? She’s hot stuff.” Arnaldo saw the expression on Silva’s face and wiped the grin off his own.
Hector walked over to the little refrigerator and opened the door. “Who wants a beer?”
Silva shook his head. Arnaldo raised a hand.
“Glass?”
“Hell, no,” he said to Hector. Then, turning to Silva: “I found Edson Souza’s mother.”
Silva had been studying the dust on his shoes. He looked up sharply. “And?” he said.
“And I could be wrong, but I think she knows where he is.”
“Hector, give me one of those beers,” Silva said.
“But she’s not going to tell us. Thanks.”
The last word was for Hector. Arnaldo popped the tab on the can.
“Why the hell not?” Silva said.
“Because she’s got other kids, younger ones, and she’s scared of Ferraz.”
“She said that?”
Arnaldo took a swig of his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “No,” he said. “She didn’t say it, but she is. The woman she worked for was a real bitch. She fired her for bringing a cop to the house.”
“Fired her?”
Arnaldo nodded. “Right in front of me. I had a taxi waiting. I gave Marly—that’s her name—a lift home. We talked. She told me Edson was earning money, but he wouldn’t tell her how. Sometimes he’d sleep at her place. Mostly he didn’t. She didn’t say it, but I got the impression that he didn’t like to see his mother being fucked by different people. She and the kids—there are three of them, two girls and a boy— all live in one room and sleep in the same bed, if you can call it a bed. Every now and then, she said, Edson would bring her a bag of groceries, sometimes presents for the little ones. One time, he even brought a television set.”
“Stolen, probably.”
“Marly says no. Says it was in a box with a guarantee and all. Says the kid swore he wasn’t a thief.”
“And she believes him?”
“Yeah. She does. Says he never lies to her.”
Arnaldo gulped down the remainder of his beer, bent the can, and tossed it into a wastebasket. It landed with a clatter. “I’ve been giving it some thought,” he said. “I’ve got a sister in Riberão. She works in one of those homes for battered women.”
“So?”
“So, maybe she could take Marly and the kids. Ferraz’d never find them there. Once she’s safe, maybe she’ll open up.”
“Worth a try,” Silva said.
Arnaldo pulled out his address book and picked up the phone.
VICENZA PELOSI appeared, as promised, on the eight o’clock news and she spared no one.
She used the shot of Ferraz waving his arms and excoriated him for trying to deny to the public their “constitutionally guaranteed” right to the truth. She berated Orlando Muniz Senior for raising a private army of thugs and for threatening “physical violence to defend his property” instead of “availing himself of the recourse provided by law.” She accused Luiz Pillar and Roberto Pereira of “demagoguery” and a “lack of respect for private property.” She denounced Wilson Cunha, the local judge, for not implementing the appropriation of uncultivated land as “clearly prescribed in the Constitution of this country.” She castigated the police— “both State and Federal”—for their lack of progress in solv- ing the “brutal assassinations” of Dom Felipe Antunes, the journalist Diana Poli, and the landowner Orlando Muniz Junior. She took the President of the Republic and the Minister of Justice to task for not having taken preventive measures to defuse the “land wars that lie at the heart of all of the problems.”
And she did it all in only three minutes and twenty seconds.
ABOUT A quarter of an hour after the broadcast ended there was a knock on the door of Silva’s suite. Arnaldo opened it, and his jaw dropped.
It was Vicenza Pelosi.
She was fresh from the shower. Her long hair was tied up in a bun and held in place by oriental chopsticks. She came in smelling of freshly applied perfume, sat down without being asked, flashed her radiant smile, and ignored the fact that her host wasn’t smiling back.
“I guess you didn’t do that broadcast live,” Silva said.
“No,” she said. “Tape. Sit down, Chief Inspector. I have news.”
Silva sat.
“Want a beer, Senhorita Pelosi?” Arnaldo said, recovering from his surprise.
“Or maybe a guaraná?” That was Hector.
Arnaldo was beaming. Hector was straightening his tie.
“A beer would be nice,” Vicenza said.
Arnaldo and Hector bumped into each other on the way to the refrigerator.
“Muniz called me,” she said to Silva.
“Did he?” Silva tried to sound uninterested. He didn’t think it fooled her.
“Thanks,” she said to Hector when he placed a beer on the coffee table in front of her. Arnaldo got a smile and a nod when he put a glass next to it. She opened the beer, poured it, and took a ladylike sip before she continued.
“Muniz,” she said, “is offering a reward, a big one, for anyone who comes to him with information about who killed his son.”
“How big is big?”
“A hundred thousand reais.”
Silva sat back in his chair and frowned. “That’s going to be a problem,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she said.
A hundred thousand reais was more money than a landless man could earn in twenty years of working the soil. People would come forward for sure. Most of them would be telling lies that Orlando Muniz would be all too happy to believe.
“Muniz had it all worked out,” she said. “He wanted to do it through me.”
“Through you?”
“People trust me. He thought people would be more likely to come forward if I was the intermediary.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I refused, but it didn’t stop him. He had a backup. Says I can use the story on the midnight news if I choose to.” She took another sip and seemed not to wet her lips. “He’s asked me to come up to his suite and tape an interview.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Go, of course. It’s news, isn’t it?”
“People are going to get killed, Vicenza. As soon as he gets information he finds credible, he’ll turn loose his capangas. ”
“I suspect he will. That’s why I thought you should know.”
“Why didn’t you just tell him you wouldn’t do it?”
“Because it wouldn’t change anything. He’d go to another network.”
“Who’s his backup? Who’s going to be the intermediary?”
“A priest. Some guy called Gaspar Farias. He gets to tithe ten percent for the new church. The informer will clear ninety thousand.”
“Jesus Christ,” Silva said, “Doesn’t that priest realize what he’s doing?”
“Apparently not,” she said. She put
the glass down on the table and stood. So did Hector and Arnaldo. Silva didn’t move.
“Sit down,” he said.
“I have an interview to do.”
“Please.”
She sank back into her seat.
“I need your help,” he said.
She picked up her glass and waited.
“There’s a young man I have to get in touch with,” Silva said. “He’s gone into hiding. I want you to broadcast an appeal for him to turn himself in.”
“Why?”
“I think he may know something about the death of the bishop.”
“What?”
“I have no idea.”
“Meaning that you really don’t know, or that you won’t tell me?
“I really don’t know.”
“Tell me more.”
“Not now. It’s a long story.”
She put the glass back on the table.
“What do I get out of it?”
“A story, of course.”
“What’s this kid’s name?”
“Edson Souza. He’s a street kid.”
“How did you—”
“I can’t tell you anything else. Not yet.”
“But you will?”
“Yes.”
“And to me, exclusively.”
“Yes.”
She picked up her beer. This time, she drank off half the glass and left a mustache of foam on her upper lip. She took a paper handkerchief out of her purse and used it like a napkin.
“You’ve got a deal,” she said.
“I TOLD you she was hot,” Arnaldo said after he closed the door behind her.
Silva grunted.
Arnaldo pretended not to notice.
“Why didn’t you tell her the rest of it, chefe? About Ferraz and all?”
“First of all,” Silva said, “because I can’t prove it. Second, because she’d start digging, and if Ferraz thinks she’s digging, he’ll kill her just like he killed Diana.”
Arnaldo thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “You want another beer?” he asked.
Silva shook his head.
“You, Hector?”
Hector nodded. Arnaldo went to the refrigerator, fetched two cans, and handed one to Hector. “You made up your mind, then? You’re sure Ferraz killed Diana?”
Silva nodded.
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