Vitoria Pitanguy was sorting shoes. As he entered the bedroom, wiping dirt from his hands, Samuel Arns frowned at the open suitcase on the bed.
“We agreed you were going to buy new stuff.”
“That was your idea,” she said, “not mine. I’m fond of my shoes. Did you finish?”
“I finished.”
“Then let’s go finish her.”
She tossed a pair of patent-leather pumps into the suitcase, opened a drawer and took out a pistol.
“That’s the same gun,” he said.
“What makes you think so?”
“Pink grips.”
“It’s not the only Taurus with pink grips.”
“Is it the same gun, or isn’t it?”
“It’s the same.”
“Goddamn it, Vitoria! You promised to get rid of it.”
“And I will. Just as soon as I use it.”
“You’re always going on about how we have to be cautious, and then you go and do something like this. If the cops catch us with that pistol, it’ll be all over.”
“They’re not gonna catch us. And in less than five minutes it is going to be over. I’ll wipe it clean, throw it in the hole along with Juraci, and that will be the end of it. All you have to do is shovel in the dirt and plant the rose bushes. Get off my back. It’s a great day. Don’t ruin it.”
“I don’t like it when you lie to me.”
“Let’s not fight. Let’s just bury her and tidy up around here. Come on.”
“Wait.”
“Wait for what?”
“Get your hood.”
“My hood?” She laughed. “Why bother? Dead people don’t talk.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Juraci heard footsteps, two sets, hurrying down the stairs. It was the hurrying that frightened her. They’d never done that before.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. She stretched her chain to the limit and wedged herself into one corner of her cell.
But when the door swung open, a wave of relief swept over her. The people standing there weren’t wearing hoods, or blue overalls, or gloves. And she knew them: Samuel Arns, the locksmith, and Vitoria Pitanguy, the woman who managed the pharmacy next door to his shop.
“Thank God,” she said.
But then she saw the pistol in Vitoria’s hand and the expression in Vitoria’s eyes.
“You’re the ones?” she said
She couldn’t believe it.
Vitoria tossed a key onto the floor at her feet.
“Open the padlock,” she said. “And take off the chain.”
“You’re the ones who kidnapped me?”
“We’re the ones. Shut up and open the lock.”
“You’re going to release me?”
“Do it.”
“I won’t. I won’t do it.”
“You will, or Samuel here will kick you in the face. Isn’t that right, Samuel?”
“That’s right,” he said.
Juraci looked from one to the other-and picked up the key.
“Where are you taking me?” she said as the chain slipped from her ankle.
“I told you to shut up. Kneel and face the wall.”
Juraci remembered the moments before they’d rendered her unconscious, remembered the gunshots. Kneel. The significance of the word came to her in a rush. A hand reached into her chest and squeezed her heart.
“Why?” she said. “Why are you doing this? My son-”
“Get on your knees. Now.”
“No. Don’t do this.”
“Then stand there and watch it coming.” Vitoria lifted the pistol and aimed it at her forehead. “Look right here, right in the fucking muzzle.”
The doorbell rang.
Juraci opened her mouth to scream, but then, suddenly, the muzzle of the pistol was in her mouth, the metal rattling against her teeth.
“Don’t,” Samuel said, lowering his voice. “Whoever it is will hear the shot.”
“Duh,” she said. And then, to Juraci: “Not a sound out of you, bitch. You hear me? Not a goddamned sound.”
“Are we going to answer the door?”
“Answer the door? Are you crazy? Just be quiet. They’ll go away.”
And they might have, if there hadn’t been two vehicles in the driveway, one of which fit the description of the vehicle used to transport the pigeons-a white Volkswagen van.
Silva hit the bell button for a second time, and sent Goncalves to check out the back yard. Less than a minute later, he was back.
“You’d better have a look,” he said.
“Stay here,” Silva said to the other two. “Keep ringing.”
He took off in the wake of the younger cop.
“Over there,” Goncalves said as they entered the back yard. “Beyond the roses.”
The trench, two meters long and about half a meter wide, was freshly dug, the pile of soil still damp. Next to it were a dozen rose bushes, their roots wrapped in burlap.
“Damn!” Silva said. “Let’s get inside that house.”
The doorbell rang for a fourth time. Then a fifth. Vitoria, always high strung, was like a steel wire ready to snap.
“Go up there,” she said, “and look through the peephole. Find out who the insistent bastard is.”
“What if it’s the cops?”
“The cops? Are you insane? Why should the cops suspect us?”
“I just-”
“It’s probably some goddamned salesman, or somebody collecting for some charity.”
“Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. That’s what it must be. A salesman.” Arns sounded like he was trying to convince himself.
“Stop talking and get up there.”
“They dug a grave,” Silva said, rejoining his companions. “It’s still empty. We have to get inside. There are French doors around back. They look pretty flimsy.”
“Let’s hope so,” Arnaldo said, “because we’re not gonna get in this way. Look at that door. Solid peroba. We’d need a ram.”
Goncalves, whose ear had been pressed to the wood, held up a hand. Someone was coming. Silently, the other cops moved into positions where they couldn’t be seen through the peephole.
The door was opened by a big man in a dirty T-shirt.
“Samuel Arns?” Goncalves asked.
