Buried Strangers

by Leighton Gage

  The family’s coffee plantations had been sold when the boy was still an infant. They’d brought in millions at the time, but it took his father less than twenty years to drink and gamble most of it away. By the time the young man achieved his majority, the only thing remaining of a once-great fortune was the house.

  It was, therefore, no surprise that the great-grandson of the builder had been mightily pleased when his father took a tumble down the main staircase one evening and wound up at the bottom with a broken neck. There were those who said he might have been given a push, but after a zealous beginning to a short investigation, the delegado in charge took a sudden disinterest in the case and bought himself a new car.

  The building was imposing, with a mansard roof and a smaller building, originally the servant’s quarters, at the rear. What had once been a vast front lawn had been reduced by half to make a parking lot. At first, this had disturbed the neighbors who felt that it took away from the residential nature of the street, but the new owner had been able to pacify them by planting shrubs against the cast-iron fence and having Eiffel’s masterpiece lined with sheet metal painted in the same black as the gate itself. From the street, the only indication that anything other than a mansion occupied the two-acre lot was a discreet bronze plaque to the left of the entrance. Above it was a small aperture and, beyond that, a television camera. Twenty-four hours a day, a security guard monitored the images and appeared, unbidden, when any-one stopped their car in front of the gate.

  Yoshiro Tanaka rolled down his window, identified him-self to the guard, and was admitted to the grounds. Before he’d even parked his car, a woman was waiting for him at the front door. She led him through a warren of corridors and showed him into a room that overlooked a rose garden.

  The man he’d come to see was dressed entirely in white: white suit, shirt, tie, socks, and even (Tanaka noted as the man crossed the room to shake his hand) white shoes. His outfit made him look like a high priest of Candomblé with only one false note: babalorixás, or pais de santo as they were sometimes called, were invariably black or mulatto. This man was Caucasian with blond hair turning white and light-blue eyes behind gold-rimmed spectacles. His lips were pursed in an expression of what might have been disapproval and his head seemed too large for his thin neck.

  Coffee was offered.

  Tanaka accepted.

  A silver service was brought.

  The host poured.

  “Excellent coffee,” Tanaka observed after he’d savored his first sip.

  “Export quality, Delegado. I buy it at the port, in Santos. There’s a little shop among the warehouses. Do you know it?”

  “Regretfully, no.”

  Tanaka ran his fingertips along the polished surface of the desk that separated them. “Impressive place,” he said, look-ing around, taking in the deep-blue carpeting, the marble fireplace, the little ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, the bookcases of solid jacaranda.

  “Thank you,” his host said.

  Strict observance of Brazilian protocol would have dictated that pleasantries continue, at least for another few minutes, but the man in white couldn’t contain himself. Tanaka’s call, his request for an urgent meeting, his unwillingness to dis-cuss the subject of that meeting over the telephone, had made him too curious.

  He had to ask.

  “How can I help you, Delegado?”

  Tanaka put down his cup, a delicate affair in the willow pattern.

  “It’s not so much a question of you helping me, as it is of me helping you. Let me see, how shall I begin?”

  The host slid forward in his chair, undoubtedly wishing the cop would get to the point. And then the cop did. With unsettling suddenness.

  “I’m carrying out an investigation concerning the disap-pearance of the Lisboa family: a stonemason, his wife, and their two adolescent daughters.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  Tanaka continued as if he hadn’t heard the interjection.

  “They lived in Jardim Tonato, a favela, and were ostensibly moving to a fazenda in the interior of the state. They never got there. In fact, there is no such fazenda. Their furniture, furniture that should have been transported to their new home, was sold to a shop.”

  “Sold?”

  It came out as a croak.

  “Sold,” Tanaka repeated. “The seller accepted a check and deposited it in his personal account. He told the buyer that he’d acquired the furniture as an investment, acquired it from one of those trucks that sells merchandise along the highways. That would make it untraceable, of course.”

  While Tanaka was delivering this information, the man in white swallowed twice. Each time, his prominent Adam’s apple bounced up and down on his thin neck. Tanaka paused for a few seconds and then drove in the final nail: “The seller’s name is Roberto Ribeiro.”

  Tanaka’s host reached for his coffee, but before he could grasp it his hand began to tremble. In an attempt to conceal his original intention, he began to tap his fingers on the desk.

  “You know this Ribeiro, do you not?” Tanaka said.

  Silence.

  “He told me he works for you,” the cop insisted.

  More silence.

  “He also claims he knows nothing about the Lisboa family. I don’t believe him. Shall I tell you why?”

  The man in white was looking at him like a cobra looks at a mongoose.

  “It’s because Ribeiro flaunts a medallion from Flamengo,” Tanaka said, “and the man who took the Lisboa family away also wore just such a medallion. It’s rare here in São Paulo to find a man who demonstrates his support for Flamengo like that. Coincidence, do you think? Or is he the same man?”

  “I deny any—”

  Tanaka cut him off. “Don’t waste your breath. You’ve got yourself a nice little racket going,” he said. “A man could live well off the proceeds, couldn’t he?”

  His host blinked. It took him less than another second to recognize where Tanaka was going.

  “Very well indeed,” he said. “And not that man alone. Others could benefit as well. Others have.”

  The cop smiled. “I can see we understand each other,” he said, lifting the delicate cup from its saucer. “I have my sus-picions, of course, but I can honestly claim to be ignorant of what you’re up to here. I didn’t press Ribeiro for a complete confession, and I don’t intend to, as long as we come to . . . an arrangement. Your business need not necessarily be my business. I’m sure you’d prefer I keep it that way.”

  “I would.”

  “Good.” Tanaka drained the coffee and picked up his brief-case. “I have here,” he continued, “the recordings of the inter-rogation of Ribeiro, the only recordings of that interrogation. If you look at the video, you’ll note that I was the only one present.” He slid two tapes across the desk, one a VHS video, the other an audiocassette. “They’re for sale. The release of Ribeiro, my silence, and my promise not to pursue the inves-tigation, are included in the package. It will cost you one hun-dred thousand American dollars. The price is not negotiable.”

  “And if I refuse?”

  Tanaka lifted his eyebrows, feigning surprise.

  “Refuse? I suggest you take a moment to consider the con-sequences.”

  “One hundred thousand dollars is a great deal of money.”

  “Yes, it is. Nonnegotiable.”

  When his host failed to respond, Tanaka stood, crossed to the mantelpiece, admired the ormolu clock, and idly picked up a photo in a silver frame. It showed his host as a much younger man, arm in arm with an older gentleman. They were standing on the lawn in front of the building, the part that had later been transformed into a parking lot.

  “Your father?” he asked.

  “No.”

  When no further information appeared to be forthcom-ing, Tanaka put the photo down. “Well?” he said. “Do we have an arrangement?”

  In lieu of an answer, the man in white gathered the tapes and put them into the top drawer o
f his desk. Tanaka smiled and returned to his seat.

  “When will Ribeiro be released?”

  “This very afternoon,” Tanaka said. “Now, before I leave, I must caution you. The federal police are also involved in this investigation. They’ve become very curious about a cer-tain clandestine cemetery in the Serra de Cantareira, a cemetery about which I’m sure you know nothing.”

  “Absolutely nothing.”

  “No. That’s what I thought. Well, there’s nothing to pre-vent them from stumbling across Ribeiro, just like I did. That being the case, it might be best if he . . . disappeared.”

  “I understand.”

  “As to the payment, I’ll give you three business days to get it together. I want cash, and I want American dollars. Once I’ve received the money, there’ll be no need for either of us to see the other ever again.”

  “Nothing would please me more,” the man in white said.

  HE WAITED until the guard watching the front gate assured him that Tanaka was gone. Then he summoned Claudia Andrade. She entered the room frowning. She was almost always frowning, and her frown deepened when he told her about the policeman’s visit.

  “Are we going to pay him?” she asked when he’d finished.

  “We are. To gain time. It’s only a hundred thousand dol-lars, after all. A trifle.”

  “And take his advice? About Ribeiro?”

  “Certainly not.”

  She walked to the window, turning her back to him, con-cealing her expression. When she spoke again, her posture hadn’t altered, but her tone of voice had.

  “I most emphatically disagree. The man’s an idiot. He had strict instructions to destroy that furniture. Instead, he sold it, and for the sake of a few reais he’s put us in jeopardy. We should get rid of him immediately.”

  “Perhaps you didn’t hear me. I said no.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he continues to be useful.”

  “Useful?” She snorted. “He’s dangerous, that’s what he is. If that cop wasn’t venal, where would we be then? Tell me that.”

  “Ah, but the cop is venal, which means there’s no serious harm done.”

  “No? What makes you think we’ve seen the last of him? I’ve heard blackmailers always come back for another bite of the apple.”

  “They do. And that’s the problem we should be concen-trating our energies on, not Ribeiro. What’s the name of that police official we have on the payroll?”

  “Soares. Lieutenant Soares. Why?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “IT’S ANOTHER ONE OF those crummy undercover jobs, isn’t it?” Babyface Gonçalves said, looking back and forth between Hector Costa and the device on the table in front of him.

  They were in the conference room of the federal police field office in São Paulo. The device was one of the latest-generation speakerphones. It looked like a little, gray pyramid.

  Gonçalves was one of the principal participants in the conversation that was taking place, Hector a mere bystander.

  “It is,” Silva said, his voice emanating from the instrument.

  “What are you guys gonna do when my face catches up with my age, huh?” Gonçalves said.

  Agent Heraldo “Babyface” Gonçalves was going on thirty-five, but he looked to be in his early twenties, hence the nickname.

  “Plastic surgery.” Now it was Arnaldo’s voice. “We figure you’ll be able to go on forever.”

  “You read the report?” Silva asked, addressing Gonçalves, ignoring the exchange.

  “Boceta’s? About cults? Yeah. You told me to read it, and I read it.”

  “Good. Now, pay attention. The rest is confidential. You know Cavalcante, the minister of tourism?”

  “We’ve got a minister of tourism? What the hell for?”

  “Shut up and listen.”

  Silva related his conversation with Sampaio and Cavalcante.

  “What’s with him?” Gonçalves said when Silva finished. “Sticking his nose into an investigation like that? He’s the minister of tourism, for Christ’s sake, not the minister of justice.”

  “Thank you for your trenchant observation,” Silva said. “The answer to your question is exactly what I want you to find out. We have two hypotheses at the moment: the first is that the minister is being absolutely straightforward when he says his concern is tourism—”

  “Sounds like bullshit to me.”

  “The second is that he’s protecting someone.”

  “Who?”

  “His daughter.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s a Wiccan.”

  “What the hell is a Wiccan?”

  “A witch.”

  “Huh?”

  “A witch. You know, black cats, broomsticks, magic potions.” “You’re putting me on, right?”

  “I’m not.”

  “And how did you—”

  “Tarcisio Mello.”

  “Ah. Him. And you think—”

  “I don’t think anything. I know the girl’s a Wiccan. I know her father is aware of it. I suspect he believes that she and her coven—”

  “Coven?”

  “A group of witches, generally thirteen in number.”

  “Where are you getting this stuff?”

  “The Internet. Now, as I was saying, I suspect that Cavalcante believes his daughter and her coven might be murdering people for ritual purposes.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I have no opinion one way or another. I’m not even sure Boceta’s right about a cult being responsible for the deaths. But we have to check it out. And that’s where you come in. The girl’s a contemporary of yours. She’s twenty-six and—”

  “She’s not. She’s not a contemporary. I’m almost thirty-five.”

  “And she works as a disc jockey in a club by the name of Banana Banana. You know it?”

  “Everybody knows Banana Banana.”

  “Wrong,” Arnaldo said. “I don’t.”

  “Because you’re a fucking dinosaur,” Gonçalves said.

  “And neither do I,” Silva said.

  “Probably because you live in Brasilia, Senhor,” Gonçalves said, without missing a beat. “It’s the place to see and be seen in this town. They say the decor alone cost a million reais. They’ve got a sound system with speakers even bigger than my dick.”

  “Tweeters?” Arnaldo said.

  Gonçalves continued, undeterred: “The bouncers are all Neanderthal types with low foreheads like Arnaldo Nunes. Unlike him, they’re smart enough to separate glitterati from riffraff, maybe because they’re riffraff themselves, again like Nunes.”

  “But you,” Silva said, “being a handsome and person-able young man, should have no trouble getting past those bouncers and turning your considerable charms onto the minister’s daughter.”

  “What if she’s got a boyfriend?”

  “She hasn’t. Tarcisio checked. She’s unattached and lives alone.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “You don’t think being a witch might be an impediment to forming relationships?”

  “Not if she’s hot.”

  “That’s the trouble with kids,” Arnaldo said. “Their dicks speak louder than their brains, even when the dicks have tiny, little voices.”

  “Hey,” Gonçalves said, “at your age I wouldn’t have expected you to remember. I’ll bet your dick hasn’t talked to you for forty years.”

  “The girl’s name,” Silva said, “is Randi Calvacante.”

  “Randi? What kind of a name is that?”

  “Short for Miranda.”

  “Okay. Suppose I get in there and make her acquaintance. Then what?”

  “Before you even approach her, you do what I did. You get on the Internet and learn all about Wicca. Then you strike up an acquaintance, find a way to steer the conversation around to religion and express an interest. If she bites, you get her to introduce you to her coreligi
onists, find out if there are any grounds for us to be concerned.”

  “In other words, I’m supposed to find out if these . . .”

  “Wiccans.”

  “ . . . these Wiccans are mass murderers?”

  “Exactly.”

  “What if they are? What if they come after me?”

  “You want to wear a wire?”

  “Hell, no. What if she finds it?”

  “How would she find it? What do you have in mind?”

  “You want me to get close to her don’t you?”

  “See?” Arnaldo said. “What did I tell you? Kid’s already thinking about how he can get her into her pants, and he hasn’t even met her yet.”

  “It’s purely professional,” Gonçalves sniffed. “How else do you expect me to extract . . . uh, confidential information? How about expenses?”

  “What about them?” Silva said.

  “The girl’s the daughter of a minister, right? So she must be accustomed to the good things in life. I might have to buy her champagne, treat her to dinner in a fancy restaurant, that kind of stuff.”

  “Shower her with presents,” Arnaldo said, “take her on a cruise.”

  “No jewelry, no cruises,” Silva said. “I’ll be going through your expense reports with a magnifying glass. You’d better be able to justify every damned item.”

  “I look forward to the opportunity,” Gonçalves said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “LIEUTENANT SOARES,” SERGEANT BLESSA said, approaching his side of the service window, “How’s that CD player? Still working okay?”

  “Working fine,” Soares said.

  “And what can I do for you this time?”

  Soares rested his briefcase on the counter and regarded Blessa through vertical bars evocative of a theater’s box office.

  “You can start,” he said, “by letting me in there.”

  Sergeant Blessa slipped him a clipboard. Soares signed in, picked up his briefcase, and walked over to the steel door. There was a rattling of keys and the door swung open, squeaking on hinges long devoid of oil. Blessa motioned Soares inside and locked the door behind him.

  Directly ahead, a long, dimly lit corridor stretched into darkness. There were parallel corridors to the right and left. Lining them, up to ceiling height, were metal cupboards. Each cupboard bore a number, a heavy steel hasp, and a pad-lock. The two men were standing in the evidence locker, sit-uated in the basement of the delegacia central, headquarters of São Paulo’s policia civil.