no guarantee other than to try my best?”
“Yes.”
The kidnapper narrowed his eyes. “If I undertake this, can I count on your help in getting me out of this place?”
Silva, expecting the question, had the answer ready.
“You can.”
Rosa’s expression didn’t change. “Even if my contribution, in the end, doesn’t help you in any substantial way?”
“As long as I’m convinced you tried your best.”
“Good,” Rosa said, picking up the papers and removing a pair of reading glasses from his breast pocket. “Then we have a deal. Let me peruse all of this. I might have some questions for you.”
Arnaldo and Silva sat in silence while Rosa read. The file was very short, and the reading didn’t take long. When he finished, Silva said, “Any initial impressions?”
“The people behind it definitely had someone on the inside.”
Silva nodded. “I concur, but I’d like to hear why you think so.”
Rosa looked at Silva over his glasses. “Who’s this fellow Lefkowitz?”
“Our chief forensics technician. A Paulista, who was working with the local police in Manaus. We discovered him, concluded that his talent was wasted up there and hired him.”
“Manaus.” Rosa shuddered. “Why would any self-respecting individual abandon Sao Paulo for Manaus?”
“His wife is a biologist. She thought working in the Amazon would be paradise.”
“I’ll bet that didn’t last long.”
“It didn’t. Once they discovered what Manaus is really about, they were desperate to get out.”
Rosa snorted in agreement. “Of course they were. Your gain, I’d say. He seems a perceptive person, this Lefkowitz.”
“He is.”
Rosa tapped the file with a forefinger.
“I agree with him. The kidnappers had a key. Smashing the door was a mere ruse to conceal that fact. If you don’t have a key, there are easier and quieter ways to get into a locked house, ways that don’t entail making anywhere near as much noise.”
“Indeed. Anything else?”
Rosa removed his reading glasses, folded them, and put them back into his breast pocket.
“Another salient point is the killing of the maids,” he said. “Why would they do that if not to reduce the danger of recognition? It occurs to me that Senhora Santos’s maids might have known and recognized the kidnappers. And I’m strengthened in that belief by a feeling that the people who committed this crime weren’t professionals.”
Silva leaned back and crossed his arms. “Why?”
“True professionals always carefully consider what they’re getting into. They don’t embark on a project unless they’re reasonably sure of being able to escape unscathed. That said, they always retain their fear of being apprehended. They set limits for themselves, avoid unnecessary risk, plan for the worst-case scenario.”
“That’s what you did.”
Rosa grinned. “Except at the last,” he said, “when I chose the wrong man to do a simple job.” The grin vanished. “But I wasn’t speaking as a kidnapper. I was speaking from the point of view of a criminologist. I studied hundreds, probably thousands, of cases before I was arrested. I’ve continued my research here in prison.”
“You’re an expert, Professor. That’s why I’m here. Explain to me, exactly, why you’re convinced these people weren’t professionals.”
Rosa shook his head. “I didn’t say I was convinced, Chief Inspector. I said I had a feeling. Criminology isn’t an exact science.”
“Noted. Go on.”
“Murder bears a much heavier penalty than kidnapping. Professionals would have been aware that, with proper planning, murder would have been superfluous. And it certainly wouldn’t have been desirable. So they wouldn’t have done it. These perpetrators, on the other hand, either didn’t plan properly, or got rattled and forgot what they’d planned, or allowed one, or both, of the maids to get a glimpse of someone they knew. Or perhaps they’d already decided upon murder before they entered the house, or simply killed out of impulse. I can’t see any other possibilities. Any one, or any combination of them, would mark the abductors as amateurs.”
Silva rubbed his chin. “Interesting. Anything else?”
“The diamonds.”
“What about the diamonds?”
“They’ve obviously been requested for some specific purpose. But what purpose?”
“Portability. Large denominations would be difficult to negotiate. Five million dollars in small bills, even hundreds, would make quite a bundle.”
“Perhaps. But think about it. If I’m right, and they’re amateurs known to Juraci, or someone in her circle, it follows that they live here, that they have a life here.”
“And?”
“And, if they want to stay here, they’d wind up selling those diamonds here. The risk of them being traced through the people who buy them, it seems to me, offsets the convenience of portability.”
“Also interesting.”
“Does Juraci have any medical condition that might require special treatment or special drugs?”
“No.”
“But you have inquired?”
“Yes.”
“So that’s a dead end. You won’t be able to trace her through physicians or drug purchases.” Rosa closed his eyes and rubbed them. “I really have to get a new prescription for those reading glasses,” he said.
“Any further questions?” Silva said.
“Not at the moment. You’ll send me updates as your investigation progresses?”
“By email. From Mara Carta. She’s our intelligence officer here in Sao Paulo-”
“And collates the various reports into a unified whole. I know how it works, and I well remember the charming Senhora Carta. Tell me, Chief Inspector, did you ever think we might someday work together?”
“Not in my wildest dreams.”
“Well, think about it now. I’ll be seeking employment when I get out of here. The university is unlikely to have me back.”
“You’re asking for a job?”
“You think that’s absurd?”
Silva rubbed his chin. Rosa had been one of the best criminologists in the country-and one of the best criminals. He had a profound knowledge of both sides of the fence.
“What do you propose to do for us?” he said.
“What I will attempt to do for you now. Profiling. Criminal profiling.”
Arnaldo and Silva looked at each other.
“What?” Rosa said, looking from one to the other.
“We already have a profiler,” Silva said.
“No, you don’t,” Rosa said. “You have that incompetent ass, Godofredo Boceta.”
“Professor,” Arnaldo said, “I like your style.”
Chapter Eighteen
Leo Marques’s parents had named him well. There was, indeed, something leonine about him. His massive head, with its thick mane of gray hair, seemed set directly upon his broad shoulders. He glided around his desk
