Silva visualized the scene. It turned his stomach.
“Where are your children now?” he asked.
“With my sister in Florianopolis.”
“Has she sought counseling for them?”
“They’re seeing a psychologist.”
“A psychologist will help, but what they need most is their mother.”
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, but the police won’t let me leave Curitiba, and I couldn’t keep them here. The other children at school, the people on the street, the telephone calls.…” She threw up her hands.
Silva took out his notepad. “Give me the contact information for your sister in Florianopolis.”
She did, spelling out the street address, looking at his hand as he wrote.
“You can leave as soon as we’re finished,” Silva said. “Should further questions arise, I’ll contact you there.”
She leaned forward. Silva thought she was going to grasp his hand, but she grasped the coffee pot instead. Her nails, he noticed, were bitten to the quick.
“Thank you,” she said. “Are you a father yourself?”
“I was, Senhora. My son died of leukemia a number of years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She hadn’t been expecting either sympathy, or confidences, from a policeman. It seemed to shake her equilibrium even more than it had been shaken already. She bit her lip and said, “More coffee?”
He shook his head.
She leaned back, not taking coffee for herself either.
“It’s my understanding,” Silva said, “that your husband was a supporter of Senhor Saldana’s.”
“You see? That’s another thing that doesn’t make any sense. Julio used to call Plínio the only honest politician in the State. An exaggeration, I know, but that’s what he used to say.”
As she warmed to him, the tendons in her neck, steel wires under her pale skin, began to relax. Silva took his time phrasing the next question.
“Did he know Plínio personally?”
She nodded. “He did. Not well, but he’d met him.”
“Did Julio often support political candidates?”
“No, but he was a great one for causes. I mentioned the abolition of firearms. He also fought for the preservation of the rainforest, recycling, the rights of our native peoples, transparency in government, saving the whales, all sorts of things.”
“Some people,” Silva suggested, “turn to violence in defense of their beliefs.”
She shook her head. “Not him. Never him. Ask anyone who knew him. I know you’re going to find this hard to believe after what he’s done, but he was a peaceful man. Before this, I never saw him raise a hand against anyone.”
“It’s also my understanding you were in need of money. I don’t mean to pry, but I have to ask.”
“We were in need of money. I still am. Julio had life insurance, but the insurance company has no intention of paying me anything. They’re making a case it was suicide. They don’t pay out in cases of suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“That’s what they’re calling it. They’re saying that Julio couldn’t have possibly believed he’d be able to commit murder in the presence of an armed bodyguard and come out of it alive, that his intention was to die in the attempt. I can’t fight it. I don’t have any money in the bank, and no lawyer will take the case without money up front.”
Silva had once intended to be a lawyer, but being a cop had brought about a shift in his values. These days, with a few noteworthy exceptions, he couldn’t stomach people who’d chosen the legal profession. His expression showed it.
“If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, “how did you get into difficulty in the first place?”
She shook her head. “I don’t mind,” she said. “In fact, I’m glad you asked.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “Why?”
“Because I’m trying to explain to you what Julio was all about, and there’s no better illustration of the kind of man he was.”
“Go on.”
“He quit his job almost a year ago because he disagreed with the way his company was cheating the government out of taxes. Can you imagine? At least half of the companies in this country cheat the government out of taxes, but my husband, the crusader, thought it was wrong. So he resigned because of it. He even blew the whistle to the authorities.”
Silva shook his head at the naïveté of the man. He was quite sure he knew the answer to his next question, but he asked it anyway.
“What happened then?”
“The company paid off the tax officials, and a judge, and that was the end of it. For the company, that is, not for us. Julio made no secret of what he’d done. After that, what kind of a chance do you think he had of getting a new job?”
“Not a good one.”
“How about none at all? We went through all of our savings, we took another mortgage on the house, and I even borrowed money from my parents. But you know what?”
“What?”
“Right up until the last, Julio remained convinced he’d done the right thing. He kept saying he’d only want to work for a company that would respect what he did.”
She snorted.
“I sense,” Silva said, “that you found his attitude … how shall I put this … excessively idealistic.”
“That, Chief Inspector, is an understatement. We had … words about it. I told him to think of his children.”
“And he said?”
“That he was thinking of his children. That he wanted them to inherit a better Brazil. And to get there, we’d have to make sacrifices, we’d have to put egotism aside and work for the common good.”
Silva was beginning to form the image of a prissy, better-than-thou do-gooder. He didn’t think he would have liked Julio Cataldo. But his wife was right about one thing: her late husband didn’t fit the profile of a killer.
“Can you see a man like that picking up a gun and shooting someone?” she said, echoing his thought. “Particularly someone he respected and wanted to see elected?”
Silva rubbed his chin. “No,” he said, “I can’t. And yet it’s incontestable that he did.”
“Yes,” she said. “It is. But why? That’s what I want to know.”
Jessica looked, for a moment, as if she was about to burst into tears. But then she took a deep breath—and the moment passed.
“During those last days of his life,” Silva said, “how was his state of mind?”
She took a pensive sip of her coffee. “That’s another curious thing,” she said, after replacing the cup in its saucer. “For about a month he’d been brooding, having dark thoughts, sometimes sleeping too much, other times not at all. Then, a week or so before the mortgage payment was due, he came home radiant. He’d been out all day, looking for work, and I thought he’d found a job, that’s how happy he was. But he said no. It was just that he’d dropped by Plínio’s campaign headquarters on the way home. And he’d been able to talk to the candidate himself.”
“And that, in itself, caused him to become … radiant.”
“It did.”
“And you?”
“I told him he should be worrying less about elections and more about feeding his family. He said he never ceased to think about feeding his family, and I should show more faith. He quoted the twenty-third Psalm.”
“ ‘The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want?’ That one?”
“Yes, that one. I told him I’d love to believe it, but that the Lord hadn’t done much for us recently. Then he said something strange.”
“What did he say, Senhora?”
“He said, ‘Just wait.’ ”
Silva raised an eyebrow. “Just wait?”
“That was it. Just wait. It was all I could get out of him. And then, at breakfast, on the day he died, he said something even more enigmatic.”
“Which was?”
“He reached across the table, took my hand and said, ‘Jessica, this is going
to be a tough day, but don’t let it shake your faith.’ ”
“What did he mean by a tough day?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you ask him?”
“Of course I did. He wouldn’t say.”
“How long was this after his visit to Plínio’s campaign headquarters?”
“About a week. I remember because the mortgage was due the next day.”
“So he made this reference to a tough day. And what happened next?”
“He went out, shot Plínio Saldana and got himself killed.”
Chapter Thirteen
DIOGO MARIANO LOOKED TO be in his mid-to-late forties. Arnaldo had been expecting someone older—and said so.
“I was the youngest professor they had,” Mariano explained, “twelve years older than the men, only nine years older than Stella.”
Arnaldo was surprised. “Stella was the eldest?”
Mariano smiled. “She doesn’t look it, does she?”
Arnaldo shrugged. “I couldn’t say. I never met the lady myself, only seen her in photographs.”
“Well, take my word for it, she doesn’t.” Mariano leaned back in his chair, getting comfortable. “Plínio, now, he was the opposite. He always looked older. I think it had something to do with his demeanor. A serious guy, he was, even back then. Not Stella. It was rare to see her without a smile. She used to light up my classroom every time she came in.” He smiled a rueful smile. “I wasn’t married then, and I had a crush on her. But we’ve got strict policies here. We’re not allowed to date our students.”
Arnaldo smiled back. “Odds are, you would have had a better chance than he did.”
Mariano shook his head. “Not likely.”
“No? Being their professor and all? Besides, three years can seem like another generation when a woman is that young.”
“True. But it never seemed to make a difference to Stella. She was crazy about him.”
“Different graduating classes?”
Again, Mariano shook his head. “Stella came late to law school. First, she tried nursing.”
A wind jostled the leaves outside the window. Shadows danced across the professor’s desk. He frowned, as if he found it distracting, and stood to adjust the blinds.
“The key to understanding them,” he said, resuming his seat, “is to get a grip on what made them tick. They cared about people. They wanted to make a difference. They used that phrase all the time. Make a difference.”
“As lawyers? They wanted to make a difference as lawyers? No offense, but …”
Mariano raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Arnaldo backpedalled. “Wouldn’t Stella have had a better shot at helping people if she’d remained a nurse?”
“If she’d been suited for it, I daresay she would have. But human suffering was something she couldn’t deal with on a one-on-one basis. She hated seeing people in pain. She hated seeing people die.”
“From nursing to law is still one hell of a jump. It’s not … uh … a profession I associate with altruism. Would it be fair to say most of your students are in it for the money?”
“Yes. But those three were different. They concluded, early on, that the host of problems this country faces could be distilled into three major areas of concern.” The professor counted them off on his fingers: “Public health, public education, and public safety.”
“And they thought the best way to tackle those problems was through the law?”
“They did. And if money came into their calculations at all, which I really don’t think it did, there would have been only one reason for it: a conviction they could use money to do good.”
“So it’s not a fairy tale. Kids like that actually exist in law schools?”
Mariano took the question seriously. “They’re not as rare as you might think. But kids as talented and intelligent as those three are rare. Unfortunately, few are able to keep their early values intact.”
“They sell out?”
“Your question, Agent Nunes, betrays your age. We no longer live in idealistic times. Kids don’t use that phrase anymore.”
“So maybe they call it something different, but it’s what they do? They sell out?”
Mariano sighed. “The best and the brightest, the ones that started out with an ideal of service, fall, all too often, into a trap. It’s like this, you see: because they are the best and the brightest, they get the best offers. And they often wind up taking jobs at the big corporate firms, the ones that pay big salaries. They tell each other that they’re only going to do it for a little while, long enough to put a bit of money in the bank.”
“But?”
“They generally get derailed.”
Outside, in the corridor, someone knocked.
“Come,” Mariano said.
A pretty brunette in her early twenties opened his office door and paused on the threshold.
“Sorry,” she said, looking back-and-forth between the professor and Arnaldo. “Am I early?”
Mariano glanced at his watch.
“A little,” he said. “Give me another ten minutes.”
“Sure,” she said.
She was juggling an armful of books, and it took her a couple of seconds to back out and close the door again.
“Where were we?” Mariano said when she was gone.
“The best and the brightest generally get derailed,” Arnaldo prompted. “By what?”
Mariano shrugged. “Fancy cars, a summer house, a taste for the things money can buy.”
“But not those three? They didn’t get derailed?”
“No. They continued to view success as being defined by service to the community, not the accumulation of wealth.”
“Good for them.”
“You and I agree about that, but not everyone does. One day, about halfway through Plínio’s third semester, I got a visit from his father.”
“Orestes Saldana?”
“Yes. He sat there, where you’re sitting right now, and called his son a—and this is a direct quote—‘bleeding heart liberal with his head up his ass.’ He went on to accuse me of being—and, again, this is a quote—‘responsible for letting the damned fool lose his way.’ ”
“Whoa! And how did you answer that?”
“I suggested he should have been proud of his son, not angry at him.”
“But he wouldn’t have it?”
“No, and I wasn’t surprised. I’d heard all about Orestes Saldana long before he appeared in my office. He and Plínio were polar opposites. Orestes is a man of no compassion, a man who, forgive the vulgarity, doesn’t give a shit about other human beings. He doesn’t like, or respect, anyone who isn’t as stinking rich as he is. There wasn’t a chance in hell I could make him understand, so I didn’t even try. I just sat there, staring at him, until he ran out of steam.”
“And then?”
“He concluded by saying he was going to teach us both a lesson—and stormed out.”
“Did he follow up on the threat?”
“He did. He tried to get me fired.”
“Which, obviously, didn’t work.”
“Not even when he tried to bribe the board by offering them a grant. And then he cut his son off from the paternal money flow.”
“So how did Plínio manage to finish his education?”
“His grandmother stepped in.”
“Maternal grandmother?”
Mariano waved a finger of dissent. “Paternal, Ariana Saldana. Ariana hates her son as much as she loved her grandson, which was a lot. She gave Plínio the money he needed.”
“It must have pissed the old man off.”
“Oh, it did. And Orestes Saldana is the wrong man to piss off. He hired a flock of lawyers, paid off a judge, had his mother declared mentally incompetent and institutionalized her.”
“Not nice.”
“No, Agent Nunes. Not nice. And a complete and total fabrication. The old lady was as sharp as a tack, still is. Fortunately for
her, and for Plínio, she’d already given him the money he needed in one lump sum. By the time the judgment came down, and Orestes assumed control of her bank accounts, Plínio’s education was assured.”
“I’d like to talk to the old lady. Have you got a number for her?”
“Sure.”
The telephone on Mariano’s desk rang, but he ignored it while he looked up the number and made a note of it. After a while, the telephone stopped ringing, but then, just before he handed Arnaldo the paper, it started up again.
“You want to take that?” Arnaldo asked.
The professor shook his head. “It’ll go to voice mail. So, where were we?”
“You were saying Plínio’s education was assured.”
“Right,” Mariano gathered his thoughts and continued, “As soon as Plínio had his diploma, and was admitted to the bar, he managed to have Ariana released into his custody. Then he appealed the judgment.”
“Did he win?”
“He won. The case came up in front of an honest judge. Ariana got most of her money back, and Plínio went on to marry Stella.”
“Who, by that time, had graduated as well?”
“Yes. Her sister, Joana, was a teacher, and she told her their union needed a lawyer, so Stella volunteered.”
“And Nestor became a cop.”
“Exactly. First with the Civil Police here in Paraná, then, later, with you fellows.”
“And Plínio?”
“He was the one with the most charisma. They chose him to be the guy they’d put up as their political face. While still in law school, he ran for the presidency of the student body—and won. As soon as they graduated, they started working to get him elected to the State legislature. And he won there as well.”
“That quickly?”
“It wasn’t quick. It took four years. I skipped a few details for the sake of brevity. From that time on, they never wavered. In the course of the next ten years, they always kept their eyes on their three goals, the three ways they wanted to make a difference. Remember them?”
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