A Vine in the Blood (30 page)

“You leave Edson out of this! He had nothing to do with anything. It must have been one of Cintia’s goddamned maids that stole that piece.”

“But she blamed you.”

“She blamed me because you”—he shot an accusing finger at Silva—“went up there and started asking her about where she found the set of keys to Juraci’s house, and she told you they were in a drawer with her lingerie.”

“I don’t see how that could possibly—”

“She’s missing a Chantelle Chantilly Culotte Thong. They only make it in fuchsia. But I don’t have it. I don’t own a damned thing in fuchsia. I hate fuchsia! Go ahead. Look through all the drawers. See if you can find anything in fuchsia.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Senhor Mello. Just finish the story.”

“She saw me coming out of her bedroom during the party. A day later, she discovered the thong was missing. Your questions caused her to connect the two events and come to an absolutely erroneous conclusion.”

“And that conclusion was that you stole a pair of her panties.”

“What have I been telling you? And, as God is my witness, it’s not true! I went in there to use the bathroom. I went there because the guest bathroom was occupied. I never went anywhere near her drawers. I never opened one. I never took the piece. I told her that. But did she believe me? No, she didn’t believe me; she fired me, that’s what she did. And it’s your fault.”

Mello took another hefty swig of his whiskey. Silva signaled to Arnaldo and Hector. They left Mello where he was and went into the living room to question Campos.

“How is he?” Campos said.

“Drunk,” Silva said.

“He hasn’t slept since yesterday. It’s just so …
unfair
. Cintia Tadesco is a perfect bitch.”

“Tell us about your pigeons,” Silva said.

“My pigeons? Why?”

“Carrier pigeons were used to deliver the ransom for the Artist’s mother.”

“And you think I had something to do with it?”

“Did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then you’ll have no objection to answering my questions. Why don’t you sit down.”

Campos shook his head. “I’d prefer to stay on my feet. What, exactly, do you want to know?”

“How many pigeons have you got? Do you keep them anywhere other than here? How long have you been doing it? Who else do you know who keeps carrier pigeons?”

Four questions. Campos counted off the replies by extending the fingers on his right hand.. “Nineteen. Only here. Ever since I was thirteen years old. Lots of people.” He dropped the hand to his side. “What else?”

“Senhor Campos, you’re obviously an intelligent man, and you don’t strike me as the criminal type. You know our objective here. Why don’t you make an effort to be more cooperative?”

“Why should I? You—”

“You should,” Silva said evenly, “because you’ll have us out of your hair a lot faster if you do.”

“Nothing would please me more.”

“So think. How can you help us?”

Campos reflected.

“The best way,” he said, “would be if you let me ask you some questions. Then something might occur to me.”

“Go ahead.”

“How many birds were involved?”

Silva turned to Hector. “Remind me. How many?”

“Sixty,” Hector said.

Campos didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “
Sixty?
Sixty birds?”

“That’s what I said.”

“That’s a lot. Nobody I know has sixty birds. It’s complete overkill.”

“They had a lot of diamonds to transport.”

“Diamonds?”

“Juraci Santos’s ransom was in diamonds. Five million American dollars worth.”

Campos whistled. “Five million dollars. That’s more than ten million Reais.”

“Considerably more.”

“Where were the birds released?”

“About two hundred and eighty kilometers from São Paulo, a spot near Caverna do Diabo.”

“Who did the releasing?”

“We did,” Silva said.

“You did? You? The Federal Police?”

“The Artist decided to pay. We assisted him. We didn’t know they’d be using pigeons until we got there. We had to follow their instructions and dispatch the diamonds. If we hadn’t, they would have killed Juraci Santos.”

“How were the diamonds attached to the birds?”

“Little carrier bags made especially for the purpose. Instructions were waiting on how to affix them.”

Campos stroked his chin. “And once it was done …“

“The birds flew away, and we lost them.”

“You simply let them fly away? You didn’t try to follow them?”

“We managed to plant a tracking device, but we only had one, and a bird of prey brought down the pigeon carrying it.”

“So you have no idea where the diamonds wound up?”

“In fact, Senhor Campos, we do.”

“Where?”

“At a sitio near Riberão Preto. The owner rents the place, but hardly ever visits. A caseiro works there. He was paid to feed and care for the birds, but he knows nothing. He wasn’t involved in the plot.”

“Chief Inspector, are you aware of the fact that those birds have to be conditioned from the time they start moving around on their own?”

“We know that, yes.”

“That’s why nobody buys or sells fully-grown carrier pigeons. It would make no sense. Once they were released, they’d just fly home to wherever they were raised.”

“So we’ve been told.”

Campos started pacing back and forth. “The birds would have to be at least three months old before they could fly the distance you’re describing. It would be nothing for a fullygrown bird, but it’s a long way for a young one.”

“Conclusion?”

Campos ran a hand through his hair. “This thing must have been planned months in advance.” He stopped pacing and turned and looked at Silva. “You mean to tell me that the people who supplied the birds didn’t go back, at least once, to make sure they were being properly conditioned by this caseiro? And, if the caseiro wasn’t involved in the plot, someone else would have had to have made the pickup, right?”

“Someone did. She’s—”

“She?”

“It was a woman.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“We’re sure.”

Silva took him through it, step by step. He told him about the jeweler, told him about Tancredo Candido, told him how the woman had threatened Tancredo with grave bodily harm if he didn’t follow instructions. By the time he’d finished, Edson Campos had come over to their side and entered into the spirit of the chase.

“So you’ve got a description of this woman?” he said. “You know what she looks like?”

“We have a description, but it’s a sketchy one.”

“Don’t you people normally do an artist’s rendition in a case like this?”

“We’re trying. We’re not being very successful. The witness doesn’t have a good memory for faces.”

“Tell me your sketchy description.”

“About thirty-five years of age, of average height, with curly, brown hair, a somewhat abrasive attitude, a foul mouth and what the cut-out described as a nice ass.”

“Brown eyes?”

“Why? Does the description suggest someone to you?”

“You may think this is a weird question, but was she wearing Promesse?”

“What?”

“Promesse, from Cacharel. It’s a perfume, a springtime scent, more for teenagers than for a woman of her age. But that’s beside the point. The question is was she wearing perfume?”

“As a matter of fact,” Silva said, “she was.”

“Holy Crap.”

“Holy Crap what?”

“Holy Crap,” Edson Campos said, “I know who you’re looking for.”

Chapter Thirty-Nine

T
HE KIDNAPPER WAS TOO
anxious to eat, too excited to watch television, too agitated, even, to sit down. He put all of his nervous energy into digging the grave. From the time his partner left until he heard the sound of her car crunching gravel in the driveway, all he’d done was dig.

But here she was, back at last. He threw the shovel aside, climbed out of the hole and circled the house at a run. She saw him coming, grinned, and held up her leather bag like it was the World Cup and she’d just brought it home.

He reached her, wrapped his arms around her, held her close.

She dropped the bag and pushed him away with the heels of her hands.

“You’re filthy,” she said.

“I can get dirtier than this,” he said, nuzzling her ear. “Want a demonstration?”

“Mmmm,” she said. “Let’s go inside. But not without this.”

She picked up the bag.

He took her hand and led her to the house. She’d shed her blouse before he’d locked the front door, was out of her panties before he’d removed his shirt.

They made frenzied love on the couch. But she didn’t linger when it was done. Still wearing her socks, and nothing else, she grabbed the bag, opened it, and turned it upside down over his naked belly.

The banknotes tumbled out, six bundles, bound together by rubber bands.

“How much?” he said.

“Thirty thousand.”

“Thirty thousand? That’s all? Thirty thousand for all six rings? The bastards cheated you.”

“Sure they did. Every one of them. And I don’t care.”

“Because that makes it all the more likely they’ll keep their mouths shut?”

“Exactly. Did you finish?”

“It’s not deep enough. I want to go down another thirty centimeters or so. When are you going to do it?”

“As soon as you’re done. I’ll need your help to carry her. That bitch is fat. I won’t be able to get her up the stairs on my own.”

“Why don’t we just walk her to the hole? You could pop her there. Then all we’d have to do is pitch her in.”

“Noise,” she said. “Suppose she starts screaming?”

“Nobody’s gonna hear her. Not out there.”

“Never can tell.”

“There you go again,” he said. “The Queen of Caution.”

“That’s me. Did you pack?”

He stepped into his pants, then shook his head. “I’ve been digging.”

“Ever since I left?”

“Ground is hard as a rock.”

“I’ll pack for both of us then.”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, “you won’t. We don’t have to leave for the airport until seven. I’ll finish digging, you pop her, and
then
we’ll pack.”

“How come?”

“Because, I’m not going to take hardly anything, and you aren’t either. The days of me being your pack animal, lugging stuff you’re never gonna wear, are over. From here on in, every place we go, you can afford to buy new clothes.”

“Goody,” she said. “Paris, here we come.”

Chapter Forty

“H
ER NAME,
” E
DSON
C
AMPOS
said, “is Vitória Pitanguy.”

“Vítória Pitanguy?” Gonçalves said. “The pharmacist?”

“She’s not a pharmacist. Her boss is the pharmacist. She just manages the place. Doctor Polo thinks the world of her. I’ve always thought she was a bitch.”

Gonçalves smacked his forehead.

“What?” Silva said.

“When we were looking at that list you put up on the wall, studying the description? And it wouldn’t come to me? Well, it just did!
She’s
the one I was trying to remember. I met her in the pharmacy. She came in using this perfume that smelled like berries, berries and … something else.

“Bergamot,” Campos said.

Silva looked at him. “What?”

“Bergamot. That perfume I was talking about. Promesse. It smells like bergamot and berries. Vitória drenches herself in it, calls it her signature scent.”

“She’s got a boyfriend,” Gonçalves said. “The girl in her shop said she has a boyfriend.”

Edson nodded. “Samuel Arns, the locksmith. His shop is next door.”

“Damn,” Hector said.

Silva turned to his nephew. “I don’t believe this. You met her too? When you were talking to Arns?”

“She dropped by his shop when I was interviewing him. We weren’t introduced. But the perfume? I remember that.”

“How come you didn’t mention it before?” Arnaldo said.

“Why should I? Lots of women wear perfume. It wasn’t until Campos here mentioned bergamot that—”

“Wait a minute. You know what bergamot is?”

“Sure. It’s a citrus fruit, like an orange.”

“And you happen to know that because?”

“They use it to flavor tea. Earl Grey tea. Gilda drinks the stuff.”

Arnaldo might have said more, but Silva put a hand on his arm. “It’s all coming together,” he said. “Vitória is Arns’s girlfriend, and Arns makes the keys for Juraci.” He turned to Hector. “Have you got the telephone number of his shop?”

Hector nodded and tapped the pocket over his notebook.

“And you, Haraldo,” Silva said. “Have you got one for the pharmacy where Vitória works?”

“
Sí
, Senhor.”

“Call both places, make sure both of them are on the job.”

“And if they are?” Hector said.

Silva waved his hand vaguely. “Think of something that doesn’t make you sound like cops and hang up.”

Gonçalves and Hector went out to where they could get better signals for their cell phones.

“She used me,” Edson said. “She used me to get information about carrier pigeons.”

“How long ago was this?”

Edson thought for a moment.

“Six months ago, maybe seven.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I was talking to one of her girls about my pigeons. She butted in. Next thing I know she’s asking me all sorts of questions. She even asked if she could come over and look at my birds.”

“And you agreed?”

“Sure.”

“You didn’t find this sudden interest of hers a bit strange?”

“Carrier pigeons are my hobby. I’m crazy about them. So, no, I didn’t find it strange at all. Not then.”

“But you did later?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

“Because, after her visit, and after all our talk, and after lending her three books on the subject, she just dropped it.”

“Dropped it?”

“One week she couldn’t talk to me enough about carrier pigeons. The next week, when I went into the pharmacy and asked her if she’d bought any birds, she told me she’d gone cold on the idea, that she was no longer interested.”

“All this was six months ago?”

“At least.”

“And four or five months would be sufficient to train pigeons?”