like La Tadesco could possibly be interested in anything other than her son’s money and fame. At the very least, she thought, Cintia must be cheating on him. Mother’s instinct, she’d tell me.”
“Who is this private detective she hired?”
“She told me, but I don’t recall his name.”
“Do you know if he discovered anything of note?”
“No.”
Jardin picked up the sherry bottle.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“Correct. I don’t know. But, knowing Cintia, I wouldn’t be in the least surprised if he did.”
Jardin topped up his glass.
“Did Juraci tell her son she’d hired a private detective?”
Jardin took a sip of his sherry and breathed out a contented sigh.
“She didn’t,” he said. “She said the Artist would be furious if he found out.”
“Unless, of course, the detective came up with something.”
“True. And she was hopeful he would. At least, she was the last time I spoke to her.”
“How long ago was that?”
“In the course of her last visit. Three weeks ago today. Which brings me back to Fofocas. Do you ever read it, by the way?”
“No. Do you?”
“Of course I do, dear boy. After all, my name is in it more often than not.”
“What has Fofocas got to do with anything?”
“This: despite what you might think about the editorial content of the publication, they have some highly competent journalists there, always digging, digging and sifting through the dirt. Their readers like being exposed to a glittering world of which they can never hope to become a part, but they like the scandals of that world even more. The divorces, the love affairs, the drug problems, the health problems, the suicide attempts, those are the things that give impetus to circulation. It would dribble away to naught if they only printed snapshots of society parties, or interviews with air-headed show business people. Those are just the icing on the gossip cake. If there’s something to find on Cintia, I daresay Fofocas will come up with it. The detective might not, but I assure you that Fofocas will-again, if there’s anything to find. I told that to Juraci, told her she could have saved her money. But she said she couldn’t wait. She wanted to nip the relationship in the bud, break it up before it got any more serious. The Artist was already talking about marrying the woman.”
“Speaking of the ladies and gentlemen of the press, were you the one who tipped off Radio Mundo about the fact that the Artist’s mother had gone missing?”
“My dear boy, why would I ever do anything like that?”
“Maybe because they give you free publicity from time to time, and you felt obligated to return the favor?”
Jardin smiled. “It must be fascinating to be a policeman, always solving riddles. You have a talent for it, I can tell. I’ll bet your superiors are proud of you.”
“How about you answer my question?”
“And how about we adjourn to my place? I have a most excellent cook and a superb wine cellar. We could make an evening of it, just the two of us.”
Chapter Nine
It was Gilda’s night to cook. Garlic, sauteing in butter, perfumed the hallway between the elevator and their front door. In the kitchen, where Hector’s fiancee was deftly wielding a chef’s knife, colorful mounds of diced vegetables lined the counter.
The youngest of Sao Paulo’s female assistant medical examiners blew a few strands of silky, black hair out of her eyes, offered a cheek to be kissed and kept on dicing.
“It’s a curry,” she said. “Killer hot. You’re going to love it.”
He came up behind her, put his arm around her waist and nuzzled her ear.
“This,” he said, “is what I love. As far as your cooking is concerned…”
“Finish that sentence,” she said, waving the knife, “and you starve. Your uncle arrive?”
He released her, picked up the drink that was waiting for him and put it to his lips. It had become their daily ritual, a glass of wine in the kitchen.
“He did,” Hector said, after taking a sip.
“Why didn’t you bring him home for dinner?”
“He went to see the Artist.”
Gilda rinsed her hands in the sink and dried them with a paper towel.
“Bastards,” she said.
Hector didn’t ask her who she was talking about. The most maligned people in the country that day were the ones who’d abducted Juraci Santos.
“I went out to her house and had a look around.” He filled her in on his conversation with Lefkowitz and shared the tech’s theories.
“He’s good, isn’t he, that Lefkowitz?” she said when he was done.
“Damned good,” he said.
“He talked me into extracting the bullets before I came home.”
“So that was his idea? I thought you offered.”
“I probably would have left it until tomorrow, if he hadn’t asked. They were twenty-twos. We sent them to Brasilia.” She picked up her glass and took a sip of wine. “I heard the sisters were found holding hands.”
“That’s right.”
“And I heard the bastards killed a little dog.”
“They did.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall.
“What kept you?”
“A meeting. My uncle, Arnaldo, Babyface and Mara.”
“The usual suspects. Has she managed to get her hooks into him yet?”
“Mara? Into Babyface? She must be ten years older than he is.”
“Not Babyface, silly. Your uncle.”
“What are you talking about?”
Gilda added a masala to the pan. The aroma of the spices began to overpower the smell of garlic.
“Come on, darling,” she said, “you know what I’m talking about.”
“I certainly do not.”
“You don’t know that Mara Carta is sweet on your uncle?”
“What? No!”
“She is. Every woman in your office knows it. Even I know it, and I don’t work in your office.”
“So how come I don’t know it?”
“Because you’re a male and dense.”
“My uncle would never-”
“I didn’t say he would. I’m just saying Mara is sweet on him.”
“He loves my Aunt Irene, and she loves him.”
“I don’t doubt it. But I don’t doubt Mara loves him as well. You come right down to it, he’s pretty lovable. And she’s divorced.”
“With two kids.”
“And your uncle has no kids, and he loves kids.”
Gilda added the diced vegetables to the pan. Hector drained his wine, got up and poured himself another glass.
