“Take it easy with that,” she said.
“You want more?”
“With dinner.”
“Beer goes better with curry.”
“The hell it does. Ask any Indian.”
“Indians aren’t supposed to drink.”
“That depends on the Indian. They’re not all Hindus and Muslims, and they’re not all devout.”
He sat down again, took another sip.
“How long,” he said, “do you think this has been going on?”
“Indians drinking wine?”
“Cut it out, Gilda.”
“Mara being sweet on Mario? I have no idea.”
“When did you first notice?”
“At last year’s Christmas party. Mara had a few too many. She made it obvious.”
“Not to me.”
“No, and I don’t think it was obvious to your uncle either. He’s kind of dense that way.”
“Dense? Mario Silva is the sharpest criminal investigator in this country.”
“Uh huh. But Mara isn’t a criminal. Tell me this: today, during your meeting, did she sit next to him at the table?”
“Well, yes, but-”
“Did she touch him?”
“Touch him how?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. On his arm, maybe? Leaned up against him perhaps?”
“She might have.”
“Might have, huh? More than once?”
“Gilda, this is silly. That’s the way Mara is. She’s kind of touchy-feely. It doesn’t really mean anything.”
“Uh huh. When was the last time she touched you?”
Hector thought about it for a moment.
“I don’t think she ever has,” he said.
“Did she hover over him, serve him coffee?”
“She… gave him a hot towel to clean his face when he got in from the airport, and she had a sandwich waiting.”
“I rest my case.”
“Case? There is no case! Mara is sadly mistaken if she thinks she can get anywhere with my uncle. He’s not interested in any woman except his wife.”
She grinned. “That’s part of his appeal. He’s a challenge.”
“Gilda, this is no laughing matter. You know the state Irene is in. She’s fragile.”
“I know the state she’s in. I know she’s fragile. I also know she drinks herself insensible every night. I know she’s not capable of having a conversation with anyone after six o’clock in the evening, and that your uncle is never home before six.”
“She never got over their son’s death. She can’t help herself. You know that.”
“Hector, with all due respect to your aunt, her son died twenty years ago.”
“So?”
“So maybe Mara thinks Mario has put up with Irene’s dipsomania long enough, that the mourning should come to an end, that your uncle deserves a better life from here on in. Maybe she thinks she can give it to him.”
“That’s for him to decide, not her.”
“Do you think they even make love anymore? Mario and Irene?”
“I have no idea, and I’d never ask.”
“Maybe you should tell him Mara is interested, draw his attention to it, see how he reacts.”
“No way,” Hector said, “I know exactly how he’d react. He’d reject the idea out of hand.”
“But if you-”
“No, Gilda. No and no. There is no way I’m going to get involved in this.”
“And there, ladies and gentlemen, is another outstanding example of the difference between men and women. Get some plates, Hector, and set the table.”
Chapter Ten
“Finally,” Silva said. “Here we go at last. Turn that windbag off.”
“Gladly,” Arnaldo said.
It was nine AM, and for the last five minutes, they’d been sitting in their stationary automobile, suffering the insufferable: a radio interview with Gonzalo Bufa, the Argentinean coach. Bufa had been giving a detailed analysis of why he thought the Brazilian team was overrated.
“The man’s full of crap,” Arnaldo said. “We shoulda stuck with the traffic report.”
“Damned traffic reports are useless,” Silva said.
“So’s Bufa, thank God.”
After an interval of almost fifteen minutes, the beer truck in front of them had started rolling again. All around them, people were turning on the motors they’d shut off when traffic on the marginal, the belt road around the city, had come to a standstill. From overhead, came the constant drone of helicopters, the favored form of transport for the city’s wealthy elite, and the only reliable way to get anywhere in Sao Paulo on a weekday morning between seven and ten.
“How about this?” Arnaldo said. “How about Juraci went to Cintia and hit her with a Break up with my son or else? And then-”
“Cintia, intent on making her fortune out of the Artist despite his mother’s objection, kills Juraci and makes it look like a kidnapping? From gold digging to murder in one easy step? No, Arnaldo, I don’t think so.”
“I don’t either, not really, but I still wouldn’t be surprised if Cintia was involved in one way or another. Maybe for a chunk of the five million. Don’t forget, she had access to a key, and up to now, we don’t know of anyone else who did. How about we go back and lean on her a little?”
“Maybe later. Let’s do some more digging first.”
Silva glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Damn! I’d better call Pedro and tell him we’ll be late.”
Before he could, his cell phone burst into life. The ID came up as private. Silva, averse to the practice, took the call with some reluctance.
“Silva.”
“Chief Inspector, it’s me, Tico.”
Silva’s objections vanished. Tico, of course, had to confine himself to telephones free of caller IDs. If he didn’t, his contact numbers would soon become common knowledge-and he’d be deluged by calls from fans.
“Good morning, Senhor Santos.”
“Tico.”
“What can I do for you, Tico?”
“You know those keys you asked about?”
“Yes?”
“Cintia found them.”
“Where?”
“In a drawer, in the bedroom.”
“Are you at home?”
“Yeah. I don’t like to go out. There’s a gang of reporters at the front door. More, even, than last night.”
“We’ll need those keys, Tico. I’ll send someone over to pick them up.”
