“Juraci’s neighbor.”
“Didn’t she already tell all to Hector?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She didn’t want to appear nosy.”
“So you…?”
“Played nosy myself.”
“Watcha mean, played?”
“Shut up, Nunes. You want to hear this or not?”
“We want,” Silva said. “Ignore him.”
“I got her to gossiping.”
“Kindred spirits,” Arnaldo said.
“One more remark like that, Nunes-”
“Let her talk, Arnaldo,” Silva said. “Go on, Mara.”
“After her husband left,” Mara said, “Angela went to an open window and stood behind the curtain.”
“To eavesdrop on the conversation?”
“Uh huh.”
“And then?”
“She heard Juraci call the postman Jose.”
“A name? You got a name?”
“I did.”
“Excellent.”
“It would be,” Arnaldo said. “if the guy’s name was Nicodemos or Lemuel. But Jose? Jose has got to be the most common name in this country.”
“For once,” she said, “you’re right. Statistically, it is. There are one hundred and twenty six postmen in the greater metropolitan area with the name Jose. But I’m going to find us our Jose.”
“How?”
“I had one of my girls go through the post office’s personnel records. She brought me photographs and home addresses of every damned one of the hundred and twenty-six.”
“Which you’re going to show to Senhora Sa?” Silva said.
“Correct.”
“Good. What else are you working on?”
“A girl’s best friend.”
“That would be me,” Arnaldo said.
“That would be the diamonds, Nunes. The words friend and nightmare are not synonyms. On the off-chance they try to sell the stones here in Brazil, I’m getting detailed specifications on the ones the Artist bought.”
“He bought them already?”
“He did, and I’ve got a diamond expert going over them as we speak. We’ll circulate the results to every registered jeweler in the country. If we get lucky, we’ll be on those guys like flies on a big smelly pile of Arnaldo Nuneses.”
“That,” Arnaldo said, “was uncalled for.”
Mara smiled. “I thought you’d like it if I talked dirty.”
Chapter Twenty
When Tarso Mello made a minute adjustment to his Hermes necktie, one of his French cuffs slid back to reveal a gold Rolex. That, Goncalves suspected, was what the adjustment was designed to do-allow him to display his expensive watch.
“As I told you on the telephone,” Mello said haughtily, “I never discuss my clients’ personal lives with anyone.”
“And as I told you,” Goncalves said, “I find that commendable. But, in this specific instance, I’m going to have to insist on your cooperation. What you tell me will be held in the strictest confidence.”
“I don’t propose to tell you anything,” Mello said.
Goncalves leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “How would you like to have your taxes audited?”
Mello blinked. His eyes were a striking shade of blue, but didn’t seem to have much behind them. It took a moment for him to grasp the significance of the non sequitur.
“Are you blackmailing me?” he said.
“Not at all. I asked you a simple question. How would you like to have your taxes audited? Gone over, in fact, with a fine-tooth comb? You think I can’t get a court order to access your bank accounts? Think again.”
“This is preposterous!”
Goncalves shrugged. “The choice is yours. You either talk to me about Cintia Tadesco, or I’m out of here. But I won’t be gone for long, and when I come back, it will be with accountants from the receita federal.”
Mello took in a deep breath and looked out the window, as if something outside had captured his attention. Not likely, as Mello’s office was on the twenty-third floor of a highrise on Avenida Paulista. All the buildings on his block were skyscrapers, and his view didn’t extend any further than the other side of the street.
“What do you want to know?” he asked, sullenly.
“There’s a rumor going around that you have a personal relationship with Cintia Tadesco. True or false?”
“Define personal relationship,” he said.
“That the two of you are lovers.”
Mello met Goncalves’s eyes, broke into a broad grin, and then into an outright laugh.
“What’s so funny?” Goncalves said.
“What’s funny, Agent Goncalves, is that you couldn’t be more misinformed.”
“Couldn’t I?”
“I’m gay, Agent Goncalves, gay and out of the closet since my mother died.”
“My condolences.”
“Condolences? Are you a homophobe?” Mello said it with a straight face, tried to make Goncalves believe his question was a serious one.
Leo Marques had been right. Mello was a very bad actor.
“When did she pass away?” Goncalves said.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but it was at the end of last year.”
“You live alone?”
Mello looked petulant. The interview had taken on overtones of an interrogation. “I live with my partner.”
“Where?”
“Granja Viana.”
Goncalves gave Mello his best suspicious stare. Marques would have been impressed.
“Juraci Santos lives in Granja Viana,” he said.
“A lot of people live in Granja Viana. What’s your point?”
“It wasn’t a point. It was an observation. What’s your partner’s name?”
Mello’s eyes got big. Outrage, maybe. Or fear?
“Edson Campos. Leave him out of it.”
“Why should I?”
“He has nothing to do with my work or my clients. He doesn’t know Cintia. He isn’t even involved in the entertainment industry.”
Mello’s voice had turned shrill. Goncalves decided it was outrage.
