the Federal Police?”
“And a wimp like that does,” Arnaldo said.
Arnaldo and Pereira watched as the body, now zipped into a black bag, was lifted onto a gurney and rolled out the door. Silva came out of the kitchen, putting his cell phone in his pocket.
“I told Sampaio,” he said. “He’s on his way.”
“And all this time he’s been talking to those reporters?” Pereira asked. “How does he do it?”
“It’s a talent,” Silva admitted.
“Filho da puta. How much are you going to tell him?”
“Mushroom treatment,” Silva said.
“Meaning?”
“We’re going to keep him in the dark and feed him shit.”
The words were no sooner out of Silva’s mouth when the door opened and The Mushroom bustled in. “Senhores,” he nodded curtly, taking in the group. Then he extended a hand to Pereira. “I don’t think we’ve met.”
Pereira took the hand. “Pereira. Civil police. I’ve heard of you, Senhor, seen you on television.”
“Have you indeed?” Sampaio preened. “Heard good things, I hope.”
Pereira looked at Arnaldo, then back at Sampaio. “Absolutely, Senhor. Nothing but good.”
Sampaio gave a perfunctory smile, as if he’d expected nothing less. Then the smile vanished.
“How long has the victim been dead?”
It seemed like a strange choice for a first question. Silva looked at Pereira.
“The medical examiner’s preliminary conclusion,” Pereira said, “puts the murder between 10:00 P.M. last night and 2:00 A.M. this morning.”
“And your people were called shortly before 7:00, correct?”
“That’s correct, Senhor.”
Sampaio scratched the nonexistent whiskers on his immaculately shaved chin and let them wait for his next comment. His body language said he was privy to important information. When he spoke, it seemed like an anticlimax.
“The father of the victim, as these gentlemen know, is a Very Important Person, Jorge Rivas, foreign minister of Venezuela.”
“Yes, Senhor, I’m aware of that.”
Sampaio stopped scratching and looked at each of them in turn.
“The president instructed our foreign minister to call Rivas personally, communicate the death of his son, and express the sympathy of the Brazilian government.”
“Thoughtful of the president,” Arnaldo said.
Sampaio paused for a moment, apparently concluded-erroneously-that Arnaldo was being sincere, and continued. “The phone call,” he said, “was placed about an hour ago.”
Pereira couldn’t contain his curiosity. “How’d you find that out?” he said. “You got a contact in the Foreign Office?”
Sampaio fixed him with a fish-eyed stare. The director had many sources of information, none of which he shared. Knowledge was power. The silence went on for so long that Pereira started to fidget. When Sampaio deigned to resume, his tone was cold enough to freeze water.
“Kindly show me the courtesy,” he said, “of not interrupting again.” Pereira’s eyes narrowed, but the director stared him down. “Our foreign minister was unable to complete the call. It seems that Senhor Rivas had already been informed of his son’s death. He is, even as we speak, approaching Brasilia. So my questions to you, gentlemen, are these: Who the hell told Rivas about the death of his son? Which one of you, or which person reporting to one of you, felt he had the right to do that? And if the informant proves to be someone unassociated with you people, how did that person find out about it?”
Arnaldo and Silva exchanged a look. “We will endeavor to discover the answer to those questions, Director,” Silva said.
“You’re goddamned right you will. And when you do, you’ll tell me first, is that understood?”
“Understood, Director.”
“What else have you got?”
“Nothing else at the moment,” Silva said.
Sampaio looked deeply into his chief inspector’s eyes. They stared at each other for a long moment, the exemplary communicator versus the master at concealment.
Sampaio blinked first. “All right,” he said, “keep me posted. I’ve got to get out to the airport. I want to be there when Jorge Rivas’s flight arrives.”
Without even a nod in Pereira’s direction, he bustled off in the direction of the elevator.
“Prick,” Pereira said when Sampaio was safely out of earshot.
“You have no idea,” Arnaldo said.
Silva glanced at his watch. “Unless he’s a gentleman of leisure, the odds on Garcia being home at this time on a weekday morning aren’t good.”
“No, but we can still toss the place, question the maid, get handwriting samples, maybe even find the murder weapon. I have Judge Carmo’s number right here.”
Pereira pulled out his cell phone.
Caio Carmo was what the cops termed a “friendly judge,” willing to issue a search warrant on the thinnest of evidence. The two federal policemen stood waiting while Pereira tried first Carmo’s home, then his chambers. Carmo, as it turned out, was in court.
Pereira left an urgent message and the cops adjourned to a nearby padaria to drink coffee and wait.
Tomas Garcia’s front door was opened by Garcia’s maid, a young woman with bad teeth and a Bahian accent. From the glazed look she gave Pereira’s ID, Silva concluded she couldn’t read. She said her name was Safira Nogueira and, when prompted, produced a dog-eared identity card.
Her employer wasn’t there, she said, hadn’t been home when she showed up for work that morning. She normally arrived at nine, left at six. Normally, too, he’d be there to greet her and to see her out.
Vargas read the warrant and explained, in layman’s language, what it gave them the right to do. She asked them to wait while she tried to reach her employer. But, as it turned out, Tomas Garcia wasn’t picking up his cell phone. Reluctantly, she admitted them.
The interior of the apartment was in sharp contrast to the one upstairs, as if the younger man was striving to appear older, while the older was clinging to vestiges of youth. The palette in Juan’s apartment had been a melange of dark reds and browns; Garcia’s place was a riot of color, the decoration contemporary and minimalist.
Pereira and Silva sat on a yellow leather couch, Safira on an upright chair, upholstered in cerulean blue, designed for aesthetics more than for comfort. The other two cops began to search the premises.
“Were you aware of the fact,” Pereira asked, kicking off the questioning, “that Tomas Garcia and Juan Rivas were lovers?”
Safira showed no surprise. “Yes,” she said. “Sometimes Senhor Juan would come down here to spend the night. Sometimes Senhor Tomas would go up there. They used to call each other, too. Sometimes five or six times a day.”
“But not recently?”
“No, Senhor. Not recently.”
Vargas came into the living room with a sheaf of papers in his gloved hand. He hadn’t been away for more than three minutes.
“From his desk,” he said. “The same handwriting as the letters.”
Pereira smiled, as if the young cop had given him a present.
“How about the club?” he said. “Or the gun?”
Vargas shook his head. “Not yet, Senhor.”
“Keep looking,” Pereira said.
Just then, there was a rattle of keys at the front door. Vargas, without being told, crept over and stationed himself behind it. Pereira rose to his feet, looked at Safira, and put a finger to his lips.
Silva, too, stood.
