A Vine in the Blood (17 page)

B
ACK AT
the office, Mara was waiting for them. “That Sá woman knew more than she let on.”

“Sá woman?” Arnaldo said.

“Juraci’s neighbor.”

“Didn’t she already tell all to Hector?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“She didn’t want to appear nosy.”

“So you… ?”

“Played nosy myself.”

“Watcha mean,
played
?”

“Shut up, Nunes. You want to hear this or not?”

“We want,” Silva said. “Ignore him.”

“I got her to gossiping.”

“Kindred spirits,” Arnaldo said.

“One more remark like that, Nunes—”

“Let her talk, Arnaldo,” Silva said. “Go on, Mara.”

“After her husband left,” Mara said, “Angela went to an open window and stood behind the curtain.”

“To eavesdrop on the conversation?”

“Uh huh.”

“And then?”

“She heard Juraci call the postman José.”

“A name? You got a name?”

“I did.”

“Excellent.”

“It would be,” Arnaldo said. “if the guy’s name was Nicodemos or Lemuel. But José? José has got to be the most common name in this country.”

“For once,” she said, “you’re right. Statistically, it is. There are one hundred and twenty six postmen in the greater metropolitan area with the name José. But I’m going to find us
our
José.”

“How?”

“I had one of my girls go through the post office’s personnel records. She brought me photographs and home addresses of every damned one of the hundred and twenty-six.”

“Which you’re going to show to Senhora Sá?” Silva said.

“Correct.”

“Good. What else are you working on?”

“A girl’s best friend.”

“That would be me,” Arnaldo said.

“That would be the diamonds, Nunes. The words
friend
and
nightmare
are not synonyms. On the off-chance they try to sell the stones here in Brazil, I’m getting detailed specifications on the ones the Artist bought.”

“He bought them already?”

“He did, and I’ve got a diamond expert going over them as we speak. We’ll circulate the results to every registered jeweler in the country. If we get lucky, we’ll be on those guys like flies on a big smelly pile of Arnaldo Nuneses.”

“That,” Arnaldo said, “was uncalled for.”

Mara smiled. “I thought you’d like it if I talked dirty.”

Chapter Twenty

W
HEN
T
ARSO
M
ELLO MADE
a minute adjustment to his Hermés necktie, one of his French cuffs slid back to reveal a gold Rolex. That, Gonçalves suspected, was what the adjustment was designed to do—allow him to display his expensive watch.

“As I told you on the telephone,” Mello said haughtily, “I never discuss my clients’ personal lives with anyone.”

“And as I told
you
,” Gonçalves said, “I find that commendable. But, in this specific instance, I’m going to have to insist on your cooperation. What you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”

“I don’t propose to tell you anything,” Mello said.

Gonçalves leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “How would you like to have your taxes audited?”

Mello blinked. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, but didn’t seem to have much behind them. It took a moment for him to grasp the significance of the non sequitur.

“Are you blackmailing me?” he said.

“Not at all. I asked you a simple question. How would you like to have your taxes audited? Gone over, in fact, with a fine-tooth comb? You think I can’t get a court order to access your bank accounts? Think again.”

“This is preposterous!”

Gonçalves shrugged. “The choice is yours. You either talk to me about Cintia Tadesco, or I’m out of here. But I won’t be gone for long, and when I come back, it will be with accountants from the
receita federal
.”

Mello took in a deep breath and looked out the window, as if something outside had captured his attention. Not likely, as Mello’s office was on the twenty-third floor of a highrise on Avenida Paulista. All the buildings on his block were skyscrapers, and his view didn’t extend any further than the other side of the street.

“What do you want to know?” he asked, sullenly.

“There’s a rumor going around that you have a personal relationship with Cintia Tadesco. True or false?”

“Define
personal relationship
,” he said.

“That the two of you are lovers.”

Mello met Gonçalves’s eyes, broke into a broad grin, and then into an outright laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Gonçalves said.

“What’s funny, Agent Gonçalves, is that you couldn’t be more misinformed.”

“Couldn’t I?”

“I’m gay, Agent Gonçalves, gay and out of the closet since my mother died.”

“My condolences.”

“Condolences? Are you a homophobe?” Mello said it with a straight face, tried to make Gonçalves believe his question was a serious one.

Leo Marques had been right. Mello was a very bad actor.

“When did she pass away?” Gonçalves said.

“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was at the end of last year.”

“You live alone?”

Mello looked petulant. The interview had taken on overtones of an interrogation. “I live with my partner.”

“Where?”

“Granja Viana.”

Gonçalves gave Mello his best suspicious stare. Marques would have been impressed.

“Juraci Santos lives in Granja Viana,” he said.

“A lot of people live in Granja Viana. What’s your point?”

“It wasn’t a point. It was an observation. What’s your partner’s name?”

Mello’s eyes got big. Outrage, maybe. Or fear?

“Edson Campos. Leave him out of it.”

“Why should I?”

“He has nothing to do with my work or my clients. He doesn’t know Cintia. He isn’t even involved in the entertainment industry.”

Mello’s voice had turned shrill. Gonçalves decided it was outrage.

“No?”

“No. He’s a veterinary technician.”

“Tell me more about Senhorita Tadesco.”

Taking the spotlight off his partner had an immediate calming effect. Mello seemed to relax.

“What do you want to know?”

“Do you like her?”

“Do I
what
?”

“Like her. Not as a client. As a person.”

“What’s that got to do with—”

“Just answer the question, Senhor Mello.”

“Like her? Actually, I do.”

“The way I hear it, most people hate her.”

“I’m not most people. I find her candor and singlemindedness refreshing. I don’t hate her a bit, and she knows I don’t. She wouldn’t continue to retain me if I did.”

“How’s her relationship with her prospective mother-in-law?”

“Cintia doesn’t discuss her personal life with me.”

“Never?”

“Never!”

“You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you, Senhor Mello? I don’t like lies.”

“I’m not lying, and I resent the implication that I am.”

“You don’t recall Cintia saying
anything
to you about Juraci Santos?”

“No.”

“How important to Cintia is her relationship with Tico Santos?”

“Very important. She loves him.”

“How can you possibly be sure?”

“What?”

“If, as you’ve just alleged, Cintia doesn’t discuss her personal life with you, how can you be sure she loves Tico?”

“It’s … it’s been in the newspapers, in the magazines.”

“And you believe everything you read in the magazines?”

“I … I …”

Mello’s gape reminded Gonçalves of a fish. Gonçalves disliked fish.

“H
E WAS
nervous as hell.” Gonçalves was on the street again, calling Silva to report. “I think he’s hiding something, and the dumb bastard isn’t good at it.”

“So you don’t think Mello is particularly intelligent?”

“Hell, no. He’s a dumb fuck. You think it’s true? That part about his being gay?”

“I think it must be. He’d know how easy it would be to check. He even encouraged you to do so.”

“Yeah, that’s true I guess.”

“And if he’s nervous, it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s hiding something. Let’s put Mello on the back burner for a minute. Remember that postman?”

“The one Juraci’s neighbors saw her talking to?”

“Correct. The Sá woman has identified him from a photo. Come back to the office. You and Hector are going to pay a visit to the gentleman.”

Chapter Twenty-One

T
HE POSTMAN’S NAME WAS
José Afonso Lyra. He lived in Penha, a lower-middle class neighborhood in the northern suburbs. The narrow, one-way streets were unpaved, the signposts few, and Hector and Gonçalves had to stop several times for directions. The sun had set by the time they arrived.

The Lyra manse turned out to be a tiny, free-standing house, located on an equally tiny lot and constructed of unpainted concrete blocks. A dim glow shone through the shutters. The front door was ajar. From within, they could hear the audio of
Radio Mundo’s
third soap opera of the night.

Hector took a picture out of his pocket, a copy lifted from Lyra’s personnel records.

“This is him.”

Gonçalves brought the photo close to his face and studied it in the light of a street lamp. “Scrawny little runt like that isn’t going to give us any trouble.”

“No? I ran into a fellow once who was even smaller and scrawnier. He had a shotgun. He killed three cops before they brought him down.”

Gonçalves handed the photo back and loosened the Glock in his holster. He kept one hand on the grip, as he followed Hector up the concrete path.

There was no doorbell. Hector balled a fist and rapped on the wood.

“Senhor Lyra?”

There was a rustling from inside, and a skinny scarecrow of a man holding a drinking glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other appeared in the opening. His personnel records from the post office had given his age as forty-two, but he looked older. His only garment was a ragged pair of shorts. Gonçalves took his hand off the butt of his gun.

“Who are you guys?” the scarecrow said.

“Federal cops,” Hector said. “Are you José Lyra?”

“Yeah, I’m him.” Lyra frowned. “What do you want with me?”

“We want to talk to you about the argument you had with Juraci Santos,” Hector said.

“Ah, crap. What did she tell you? That I was blackmailing her, or some such shit?”

“She didn’t tell us anything,” Hector said. “She’s been kidnapped.”

“Really?” Lyra said raising his eyebrows.

He was either the last person in Brazil who didn’t know what had happened to the Artist’s mother, or he was lying.

“You don’t watch the news?” Gonçalves said. “Read the papers?”

“I get home too late for the news, and I get all the reading I want from addresses on envelopes. So she got her ass kidnapped, did she? Hell, I wouldn’t wish that on anybody, not even that selfish bitch.”

“Why do you call her that?”

“Because she is. Come on in. Have a drink. I’ll tell you all about it.”

All Lyra had to offer was cachaça, but the cachaça was out of a jug, and it was amber-colored. A jug meant domestically produced; amber that it was aged. Both cops accepted a glass, sipped, made appreciative noises.

“Yeah,” Lyra said, “smooth, isn’t it? Made on a
fazenda
near Riberão Preto. A friend of mine brings it to me whenever he’s in town. Okay, you asked about Juraci? Well, here it is: she was my sister-in-law.”

“Wait a minute,” Hector said. “Did I hear you right? Did you say sister-in-law?”

Lyra settled back in his chair, as if the story was going to be a long one.

“My first wife’s name was Graça,” he said, “and she was Juraci’s sister. She’d just turned fifteen when she got pregnant. I was six months older. Our parents said we had to get married. We were just kids, used to doing what we were told, so we did. We moved in with my parents. I left school and got a job.”

“And Juraci?”

“Juraci was a year younger than Graça, only fourteen, but she was a woman already, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh huh.”

“She had this long brown hair that hung all the way down to the crack in her ass. I was in love with that hair. Hell, I was in love with
her
.”

“How about your wife?”

“I was in love with her, too. For a while. But then we lost the kid, and it hurt her, and she didn’t want to screw anymore. Meanwhile, here’s Juraci, giving me the eye every time we go around to her parents’ place for Sunday dinner. I could see she was keen. I heard she’d had a couple of boyfriends, wasn’t a virgin or anything like that, so I went around one day and tried my luck. Her mother and father both worked, but she was still going to school. I knew she got home around three. I told my boss I was sick and went over there.”

Lyra took a final drag on his cigarette, extinguished it, and took a sip of his cachaça.

“And then?” Gonçalves prompted.

“It was like she was expecting me. We fucked right there in the front room, her bending over one end of the couch, me standing behind her, looking through a crack in the curtain to make sure nobody walked in on us.”

“So you became your sister-in-law’s lover?”