button.
“Good morning, Minister,” he said, morphing, in a flash, from querulous superior into solicitous subordinate. But then his smile turned to a scowl. “Yes, yes,” he said rudely, “put him on.”
A second passed. The smile returned.
Silva couldn’t hear what was being said, but the gravelly voice and the imperious tone were unmistakable. It was Pontes, all right. The director, sycophant that he was, sat listening to the minister as if he was hearing the Voice of God.
After almost a full minute’s harangue, Pontes stopped to draw breath.
Sampaio leaped into the breach. “I have to tell you, Minister,” he said, “that I’m truly shocked.” His voice, if not his expression, carried complete conviction. “I’ve just arrived at the office. This is the first I’ve heard of this.” Sampaio was a consummate liar, a fact he didn’t bother to conceal from his subordinates. “His apartment, you say?”
The minister droned on. Like Sampaio, he’d rather talk than listen.
“I’ll give it first priority,” Sampaio said when the droning stopped, “and put my best man on the case.” Sampaio didn’t mention Silva by name. He never did. “And I’ll go there personally to give impetus to the investigation. Give me an hour or two, and I’ll call you with a firsthand report.”
Sampaio seldom missed an opportunity to rub shoulders with the Great and Powerful, even if the shoulder rubbing was only via telephone.
The minister dealt out more advice, this time about ten seconds’ worth.
“Yes, Minister. Of course, Minister. Goodbye, Minister.”
Sampaio’s scowl was back before the telephone hit the cradle.
“You’ll do the grunt work, of course,” he said to Silva without missing a beat, “but I’ll be giving you my full support. You have my cell number. If you need advice, feel free to call, twenty-four seven.”
Silva let his eyes drift to the window. A cloud, harbinger of an oncoming storm, was just emerging from behind the Ministry of Culture.
“Ana has the address,” Sampaio concluded. “We’ll go separately.”
He stood and went into his private bathroom. The audience was over.
In the outer office, Ana Tavares, Sampaio’s long-suffering personal assistant, was extending a sheet of paper.
“Crime-scene address,” she said. “I called Arnaldo. He’s on his way to your office.”
“Thanks, Ana. Efficient as always.”
She ignored the compliment.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“You can ask,” she said. “I may not answer.”
“Do you always make Sampaio jump through hoops, make him talk to the minister’s secretary first? I can’t recall a single occasion-”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ana Tavares said.
Chapter Four
Lucio Costa had projected Brasilia as a city of two hundred thousand people and not a single traffic light. Brazil’s brand-new federal capital was to be a city designed around the automobile, a place where roads fed into roads, and where the flow of vehicles would never stop.
Six decades later, the population was pushing three million, there were traffic lights galore, and the city’s traffic problem was a national scandal.
“Goddamn it,” Silva said, as his car bumped over a pothole.
Arnaldo, accustomed to both the condition of Brasilia’s streets and the asperity of Silva’s complaints about them, ignored the outburst. “How come Sampaio didn’t offer us a ride?” he wanted to know.
“Steals his thunder,” Silva said, signaling a left turn and glancing in the rearview mirror.
They were in Silva’s twelve-year-old Fiat. Agente Arnaldo Nunes was Silva’s longtime sidekick. Silva had just finished telling him the little he knew about the case.
“You figure Sampaio tipped the media?” Arnaldo asked.
“Tipped them, or knew they’d been tipped,” Silva said. “No reason for him to put in an appearance otherwise.” They rounded the corner. “Look.”
“Jesus,” Arnaldo said. “So that’s why you took your time getting here.”
Two television vans were pulled up in front of the murdered man’s building. Their masts were extended, their dishes pointed at some faraway satellite.
A barrier of yellow crime-scene tape, supported by stanchions, ran in a wide arc around the front door. A crowd of reporters flocked like pigeons fighting for crumbs. Nelson Sampaio, bathed in the light of sun guns and camera strobes, stood in their midst. If Silva had arrived ten minutes earlier, those reporters would have been surrounding him.
Silva parked between the director’s BMW and a Ford sedan with a staff of Asclepius affixed to the license plate. A young cop came over to shoo them away, but Arnaldo flashed his badge, and the youngster backed off.
On their way to the front door, the two federal cops passed within a few meters of Sampaio’s impromptu press conference. They were close enough to see the expression on the director’s face, one of indignation mixed with sympathy, which even Silva had to admit was a neat trick. Sampaio was calling the reporters by name as he fielded their questions.
Arnaldo held up the tape, Silva ducked under it, and they headed for the duo stationed in front of the entrance. One was sporting a red-and-gold uniform, a high-brimmed hat, and white gloves. It reminded Silva of costumes he’d seen at a performance of The Merry Widow.
The other guy, in sharp contrast, wore a rumpled suit with a badge pinned to his lapel. For some reason, both of his shoes were untied. Silva and Arnaldo offered their warrant cards, but the guy in the suit waved them aside.
“Good morning, Senhores,” he said. “Third floor front.”
Silva nodded his thanks. The guy in the uniform did what he was there to do: he opened the door. The two cops stepped into a marble-lined foyer. As they made for the elevator, the detective behind them murmured something into his radio.
“Calling ahead,” Silva said.
“Sartorially challenged,” Arnaldo said, “but well trained. What’s with the shoes?”
“Looked new,” Silva said. “Probably hurt his feet.”
The elevator was descending, but he pushed the button anyway. The doors opened and Lucio Cavalcante, Brasilia’s chief medical examiner, stepped out. The ME was carrying an aluminum case.
“All done up there, Lucio?” Silva asked.
“What are you guys doing here?”
“Political implications,” Silva said.
“Son of a friend of The Clown, right?”
“Right. What can you tell us?”
“I just briefed Pereira. I’m busy. Get it from him.”
“When’s the autopsy?”
“Tomorrow. Or maybe the day after.”
“I don’t think so,” Silva said.
One of the ME’s eyebrows moved toward his hairline. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re going to get a call from someone. He’ll want you to finish this one before dinnertime.”
“The hell I will. Rivas waits his turn, just like everyone else.”
“Not if the guy who’s calling is the minister of justice, he doesn’t.”
“You think that’s likely?”
