“Call Arnaldo,” he said. “We’re all going up to see Muniz.”
LESS THAN TEN minutes later, Arnaldo was pounding his meaty fist against the door of suite 900.
There was no reply.
He pounded again.
A chambermaid came out of a linen closet at the end of the hall.
“Bom dia, senhores. Are you looking for Senhor Muniz?”
“We are,” Silva said.
“He checked out.”
“Checked out? Where’s he gone?”
“I don’t know, senhor. All I know is he didn’t leave a tip.”
THE CLERK at the front desk, the one who had Indian blood, was more helpful:
“He moved out to his fazenda, senhores. Said something about repairs being completed.”
Hector and Silva went for coffee while Arnaldo fetched the car.
THEY ARRIVED to a beehive of activity. Dr. Ishikawa was squatting next to the body of a young girl. Two state cops were wandering around gathering up cartridge casings and putting them into plastic evidence bags. Father Brouwer, surrounded by a small group of adults of both sexes, was talking to an adolescent male. Ferraz was nowhere in sight.
Arnaldo and Hector each chose one of the cops. Silva walked over to Ishikawa.
“Doctor.”
Ishikawa looked up and rose to his feet.
“How many?” Silva said.
“Ten. Six men. Two women. Two girls, one twelve, one nine. Three of them were from the same family, a father, a mother, and their daughter. She was the nine-year-old.”
“Nine years old? Nine? That one had to be an accident.”
“No. They cut her throat.”
“Cut her—”
“Her father was the leader.”
“Pereira? Roberto Pereira?”
“Yes. Him.”
“Killed the whole family?”
“Not quite. The Pereiras also had a son. Fourteen. That boy over there, the one talking to the priest.”
THE STATE policemen were no help. Ferraz had come and gone, and they didn’t expect him back. The senior man was Menezes, the fat sergeant they’d met on the day Junior’s body had been discovered, the one with the lisp.
“You woulda thought they’d have posted guards.”
Posted came out like pothded, guards with a long sibilant “s.”
“Could anybody identify the shooters?” Silva asked.
“Nah. They were all wearing hoods. Nobody has a clue.”
Father Brouwer joined them just in time to hear the sergeant’s response. “No clue? What do you mean ‘no clue,’ you fat fool? It was Muniz and those capangas of his. It had to be. Who else would have a motive?”
The sergeant didn’t like the “fat fool” remark one bit. “Who the hell’s talking to you?” he said. And then, to Silva, “Colonel thinks Muniz would never be that stupid. He’s the first person everybody would suspect, right?”
“And so your colonel’s conclusion is that Muniz wouldn’t do it, just because everybody would suspect that he did?” Father Brouwer interjected.
“Colonel talked to him,” the sergeant said, still addressing Silva. “He’s got an alibi. Witnesses.”
“What? Who?”
“I don’t have to talk to you, Padre. Get lost.”
“But you do have to talk to me,” Silva said. “Answer the priest’s questions.”
The sergeant tried to stare him down, and lost. “Muniz was sleeping when it happened,” he said, truculently. “He was in his bedroom. His bodyguards were at the door and all around the house. They’re his witnesses.”
“And the witnesses didn’t hear any shooting down here? For the love of God—”
“Leave it to me, Father,” Silva said. Then, to the sergeant, “It’s less than a kilometer from here to the house.”
“So?”
“And you’re saying nobody heard a thing?”
“Uh-huh.”
The sergeant looked from one to the other, not offering anything more. Silva turned on his heel and started walking toward their car. Arnaldo, Hector, and Father Brouwer tagged along behind. Silva didn’t object when the priest climbed into the back seat.
“The house, right?” Arnaldo asked, starting the engine.
“Right,” Silva said and turned around to address Brouwer. “I saw you talking to the boy.”
Brouwer nodded. “He saw it all. He was in a nearby field, talking with his girlfriend. She’s dead. Twelve years old. He blames himself for not holding her down. A stray bullet took her.”
“What did he see?”
“As that fat idiot back there just told you, the men were hooded. They arrived in a van. No markings. No license plate. They had flashlights; cut into the tents with machetes; were obviously looking for Pereira and his family. When they found them, they cut the little girl’s throat.”
“Did you see her body?”
“Yes.”
“Did the wound look like the one that killed Diana Poli?”
The priest reflected for a moment. “As a matter of fact, it did. It looked exactly like that.”
“All right. Go on.”
“Then they killed his mother with a shotgun. The father was last. They did it with a pistol. His kneecaps, his stomach, his head.” As Brouwer described Pereira’s wounds, he illustrated by pointing to the appropriate parts of his own anatomy. “They wanted him to suffer.”
“And the boy saw it all?”
“Everything. After they killed his family, the man who’d cut his sister’s throat leaned over and did something with his father’s hand.”
“Did what with his father’s hand?”
“The boy has no idea. He just saw one of them bend over with something shiny. Later he looked, but there was nothing there and no wound.”
“I’ll want to talk to him.”
“I was sure you would. I doubt he has anything useful to add.”
“The voices? Anyone have an accent? A speech defect?”
“No. I asked.”
“Clothing?”
“It was too dark. The hoods looked like they were made of jute. You know, like coffee sacks.”
Arnaldo rolled to a stop in front of the fazenda’s main house. The new door was still unpainted. Two capangas, cradling shotguns, were seated in chairs on the veranda. Both stood when Silva got out of the car.
“Here to see the boss?” one asked. It was the one who’d stopped to speak to them on the hillside.
“Yes,” Silva said. “Tell him.”
The capanga turned and knocked. The door opened a crack. Words were exchanged. The door shut again. “They’re letting him know you’re here,” the capanga said.
Thirty seconds later Silva heard the chain being slipped.
Inside, a man with a thick neck and biceps the size of Hector’s thighs led them through the house and into the living room. Despite the heat outside, there was a roaring fire in the fireplace. Air conditioning kept the temperature so low that Muniz was actually wearing a sweater.
Their host didn’t offer a hand or a smile. “You’re not welcome here, priest,” he said to Father Brouwer. “Go get your people off my property.”
Silva opened his mouth to speak, but the priest beat him to it. “You’ve sown the wind, you fool, and now you’re going to reap the whirlwind.”
“You dare to threaten me? Get out!”
“It’s not a threat, you bastard, it’s a prom—”
“Shut up, Father,” Silva said.
The priest turned furious eyes on Silva. Silva ignored him.
“Did you have anything to do with what happened down there?” Silva pointed in the direction of the encampment.
“No,” Muniz said. “but I’m not sorry it happened.”
“Two little girls died, Senhor Muniz. One of them was only nine.”
“What’s that got to do with me? Their damned fool parents shouldn’t have brought them here in the first place. It was their fault, not mine.”
�
��The other little girl was twelve.”
“Why don’t you get out of here, too, Silva? And take these other assholes with you.”
Arnaldo grunted, but he didn’t move. Hector took a step forward, but Silva closed a hand around his arm.
“All right, Senhor Muniz. You’re within your rights. Let’s go, senhores.”
“That’s it?” Brouwer sputtered. “You’re just going to leave?”
“That’s right, Padre. We’re just going to leave. And so are you. Come on.”
Silva released his nephew, took Brouwer’s elbow, and turned him toward the door. The priest looked back over his shoulder and shot a vengeful glance in Muniz’s direction.
But he went.
FERRAZ HAD left the matter of disposing of the two bodies until after his murderous visit to the league encampment.
Vicenza wound up in a culvert. They left the driver in his cab, his empty wallet beside him, as if another robbery had ended in murder.
It was almost 7:00 in the morning when the colonel got home. He’d still had to respond to the voice mail messages left while he’d been “asleep,” change into a fresh uniform, and put in an appearance at the encampment. He’d called his media spokeswoman, explained how he wanted to spin it, told her to work up a statement, and picked it up on way.
It was past 10:00 when he was finally able to put his head on a pillow, so he was not at all pleased when his telephone rang at quarter to 11:00.
After the clear instructions he’d left with his secretary, no one at the office would have dared to disturb him. It had to be one of those pain-in-the-ass federal cops. But it wasn’t. It was Orlando Muniz, and he, unlike the colonel, was in a very good mood.
“Hello, Colonel. How are you this morning?”
Ferraz swallowed his bile. “Just fine, Senhor Muniz. You?”
“I’m calling to commend you for a job of law enforcement well done.”
“Uhh, what job is that?”
“The way you handled those trespassers.”
“Sorry, Senhor Muniz. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, Colonel, of course you don’t.”
There was a significant moment of silence. Then Muniz said, “I’ve just had some visitors. Those federal policemen that you’re getting to know so well—”
“Fucking assholes.”
“Yes. And someone else, too. That radical priest.”
“The young one or the old bastard?”
“The younger one.”
“Brouwer?”
“That’s him. Brouwer. He threatened me, Colonel. I think it would behoove us both to keep a sharp eye on the son of a bitch.”
Behoove? What kind of a word is that?
“I’ve known Brouwer for a long time, Senhor Muniz. A very long time. He’s got guts, but he’s harmless. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
“No? So much the better for him, then. If he tries anything with me, I’ll kill him. You sound tired. A busy night?”
“I had a stomach bug that kept me up.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Really.”
“You’ve got to be careful with stomach bugs, Colonel. They can be dangerous. I’ve heard they can even kill people.”
Muniz was still laughing when he hung up.
Chapter Thirty-seven
A KID BY THE NAME of Bento Alves, the son of a tractor salesman, found Vicenza’s body.
Ferraz called Silva to tell him about it. “He stuffed her in a culvert that runs under the road to Miracema,” the colonel said in a matter-of-fact voice.
“What makes you so sure the murderer was a ‘he’?”
“I’m getting to that. She could have been there forever, or at least until the rains came and they started looking for the blockage. As it is, we got lucky. The kid’s dog was attracted by the smell, went in there to sniff around and, when the dog wouldn’t come out, the kid went in after him. It’s a real mess, the corpse is. Scared the shit out of the kid.”
“When was this?”
“A little after four.”
Silva looked at his watch. “That was more than three hours ago. And you’re only telling me now?”
“That’s right. I’m only telling you now. It’s really none of your fucking business, and I’m only doing it out of professional courtesy. You want to hear the story, or not?”
“Cause of death?” Silva asked. He was damned if he was going to give Ferraz the satisfaction of provoking him into losing his temper.
There was a pause. Ferraz was taking his time in the telling, relishing every second of it. Silva heard the clink of ice cubes on the other end of the line, then the satisfied smack of the colonel’s lips.
“Somebody cut her throat,” he said at last. “Just like those two dykes.”
“And just like Pereira’s nine-year-old daughter.”
“Yeah. Funny you should mention that. Ironic, huh?”
Silva was surprised to hear Ferraz use the word, surprised that he even knew what it meant. “What do you mean by ‘ironic’?”
“We found a knife next to the body. Ishikawa says it’s probably the murder weapon, and guess whose fingerprints are all over it?”
YOUNG BENTO Alves, the lad who’d discovered Vicenza’s corpse, was good-looking and, for an eleven-year-old, eloquent, so he got to tell his story on the eight o’clock news. Even his dog, Snoopy, had a few seconds of fame and dutifully contributed a bark.
Then it was Ferraz’s turn. Preliminary examination, he said, suggested that the victim had been raped. He related the discovery of the knife and revealed that Roberto Pereira’s fingerprints had been found on the handle. He concluded that Pereira had committed a sexual assault on the reporter, then murdered her to conceal his crime. When he’d finished speaking, a solemn-faced news anchor headlined the next story, some kind of political flap in Brasilia, and promised to be right back after the commercial break.
Silva picked up his cell phone and waited for it to ring, which it did, seconds later. “Well, that’s one down, no thanks to you or your people,” the director said, getting stuck into it immediately.
“He didn’t do it,” Silva said.
“What?”
“Roberto Pereira didn’t kill Vicenza Pelosi.”
“What makes you so damned sure?”
“For one thing, Pereira’s nine-year-old daughter was killed in precisely the same way. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, just like Vicenza’s. It’s like a signature. The same person killed them both.”
There was a stunned silence from Brasilia. Silva waited it out. Finally, the director said, “Maybe he did his own daughter to protect her from being raped.”
“No, Director. He didn’t.
“All right. All right. So if Pereira didn’t kill Vicenza, who did?”
“I’m working on that, Director.”
“Not fast enough to suit me. Remember that goddamned Nazi? That whatshisname? The one they call the ‘law-and-order deputado’?”
“Domingos Logullo?”
“Domingos Logullo,” Silva heard the director snap his fingers. “That’s him. He brought the whole business up not two hours ago in the Chamber of Deputies. Now it’s a game of political futebol and the opposing team is scoring points off of us like crazy.” The director was in rare form. He went on for another five minutes, made the usual blustering noises, and terminated the conversation as abruptly as ever by slamming down the receiver.
Silva stuck his forefinger into his ear, massaged the lobe, and swore that he wouldn’t take another telephone call that night. But he reversed himself, some three hours later, when Hector told him it was Luis Pillar, calling from Brasilia.
“I just heard Ferraz is telling people Roberto Pereira killed Vicenza Pelosi. That’s a bucket of shit.”
“I’m inclined to agree with you.”
That brought Pillar up short. After a moment of silence he said, “You are?”
“I am.”
“Why?”
&nb
sp; “I don’t want to talk on this line. Call me back on my cell phone.”
“Okay. Give me the number.”
Silva did. Pillar called back immediately.
“I’m not used to having cops agree with me,” he said.
“Well, this one does. Why are you so sure your friend Pereira didn’t do it?”
Pillar paused, thinking about it, then said, “Look, Roberto wasn’t an angel, okay? Maybe he did some bad things in his life—”
“Like killing Muniz’s son?”
Another pause.
“Maybe. I’m not sure, but maybe. I talked to him before I left for Brasilia. He didn’t actually admit to it, but . . .”
“But what?”
“Well, frankly, I didn’t give him a chance to. When he touched on the subject, I told him I really didn’t want to know.”
“So you think he did?”
“No, I think he might have, but I know for a fact that he wouldn’t have raped and killed Vicenza Pelosi. He was a good family man, loved his wife, had two kids he adored. Not in a million years would he do a thing like that. And besides . . .”
“Besides what?”
“Vicenza Pelosi was one of the few friends we’ve got. He liked her. We all did. What do you know that I don’t?”
“One more question. Who, other than Orlando Muniz, would have an interest in raiding your encampment?”
“Nobody. There’s no doubt in my mind that the murdering bastard is responsible for the massacre. Him and his goddamned capangas.”
“I don’t think so.”
“What? Why?”
“I’m going to tell you why, but I want you to keep it confidential. Will you do that?”
“You have my word. Anyone who really knows me will tell you it’s good.”
“All right, then, listen: Rolando Pereira, Roberto’s son, witnessed the murder of his father. I interviewed the boy. He saw one of the murderers grab Roberto’s wrist and do something with his hand. It’s my belief that what he saw was someone imprinting Roberto’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”
“Jesus Christ. Can you prove it?”
“No, I can’t prove it. Now, think about it. What advantage would Muniz derive from murdering Vicenza Pelosi and going to all that trouble to blame the murder on Roberto Pereira?”
“Maybe to discredit him?”
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